by Darcy Burke
For Erica,
flat out the most hilarious and awesome person I know.
Without you my vocabulary would be free of such bon mots as shenanigans, nitcrittery, and that other word I won’t write here that ends with balls.
Chapter One
London, September 1818
THE NUDE woman draped across the table winked. A slow smile lifted Lord Jason Lockwood’s mouth as he winked back. The Cyprian at the center of his drawing room was lovely and inviting, precisely what she ought to be in order to entice a paying customer. And though Jason wasn’t one of them, there were plenty about.
As he turned away, she pouted her dissatisfaction. How far he had come from the days of his first parties, when the demimondaines had regarded him with a measure of fear and a smattering of revulsion—at least when they looked at his scarred face. The rest of him, they’d proclaimed to a one, was superb.
He turned from the drawing room, still smiling. There was nowhere he’d rather be than at a vice party in full swing, and nothing he’d rather do than host it. His own personal pleasure would come later.
Everyone wore masks, save the courtesans he invited to please his guests. A few inclined their heads in his direction, and he returned the gesture. Come and be entertained, but preserve your identity. Such was the unwritten contract of Lockwood House parties. There were some who disdained anonymity, but they kept entirely to the gaming room.
Mask or no, Jason knew precisely who attended his parties. One didn’t gain entrance without revealing the little card emblazoned with a black L. A few young bucks attempted to sneak in now and again, but Jason’s retainers were nothing if not vigilant.
He moved through a small sitting room where couples—or even trios—gathered together in shadow, sampling each other’s wares before they decided to adjourn upstairs. Some gentlemen came to find pleasure with a demimondaine, but others brought their own female entertainment—and sometimes from their own class. It was one of the reasons secrecy was paramount.
But above all, his parties allowed people to be who they wanted to be whilst safely under the veil of concealment. It had once been the only way Jason could obtain companionship, before he’d established a reputation that had ensured women—at least of the Cyprian class—sought his favor.
The gaming room was the brightest lit in Lockwood House during a vice party. Men, and a few masked women, played at cards, dice, and billiards. The mood was lively, though it could become serious as the hour grew late and the wagers deepened.
Jason sauntered amongst the tables and began to notice something odd. Several people looked up from their cards or dice and cast a lingering glance at him as he passed. A few of them leaned close to their neighbors and exchanged words he couldn’t hear. By the time he’d made his circuit and leaned against the wall to watch the next round of vingt-et-un, he felt distinctly uneasy. The sensation rankled him—there ought to be nowhere else he felt more comfortable than his own house during a party whose attendees wholly appreciated his generosity.
What the devil was going on?
Jason left the gaming room in search of his valet. He would know what was afoot, or if he didn’t, he’d find out. He signaled a footman in the foyer. “Send Scot to my office.”
The footman nodded. Jason’s butler and Scot’s twin, North, arrived just as Jason was pouring himself a glass of whisky.
North closed the door after he entered. “My lord, I heard you were looking for Scot. May I be of assistance?” He was as stoic and unflappable as Scot—or “The Scot,” which was his original nickname—was animated and outspoken.
Jason turned toward North. “I should’ve sent for you as well, but I asked for Scot since he typically knows everything. What’s going on tonight? People are looking at me . . . strangely.” It had been years since anyone had regarded him with a sense of guarded interest or worse—fear. Or, worst of all, pity. And that was because Jason was careful to avoid Society, where he was bound to receive all of those sentiments and more.
North’s mouth twitched slightly, but not with amusement. If Jason had to guess as to his butler’s suppressed emotion—and he often did—he would say he looked uncomfortable. “I’ve heard a few rumblings. I was trying to glean more information before alerting you.”
What dastardly deed would Jason be charged with now? The more staid members of Society liked to imagine that he was an utter scoundrel with the basest of desires, and that he fulfilled the base desires of others at his sin-laden parties (that part, at least, was true), and of course, that he was as mad as King George. “Out with it.”
“It seems Mr. Ethan Jagger, calling himself Mr. Ethan Locke now, was seen at St. James this past Sunday in the company of Lady Aldridge.”
Jason stared at North as if the man had sprouted another arm. His bastard half brother had emerged from obscurity to escort a wealthy widow to church? “Why?”
“No one knows, my lord. Therein lies the mystery and why people are undoubtedly looking at you more . . . curiously this evening. As you can imagine, they are wondering where he came from, how he knows Lady Aldridge, and whether you and he are actually brothers.”
Jason scowled before taking a drink of whisky. “Why do they think we’re brothers? Because he gave himself some bastardized version of my name?” Locke? Though Jason supposed that sounded better than FitzBenjamin, which would clearly indicate he was Benjamin Lockwood’s bastard. Jason would’ve credited Ethan with a sense of subtle class if he didn’t know better.
“They are saying you share similar physical characteristics.” North’s mouth took on a grim set. “But I’d say it’s the insistence of Lady Margaret Rutherford that you are indeed half brothers that has convinced people.”
Jason’s fingers clenched around the glass tumbler. “I should have guessed that old viper would have her hand in this.” Margaret was a harridan of the worst sort—a cannibalistic harpy who fed on the miseries of others by spreading rumors and gossip for no apparent reason other than to bask in her own moral, social, or financial superiority. Seven years ago she’d provoked his mother into a mental collapse from which she still hadn’t recovered. And though this gossip was ancient—a lifetime ago, people had speculated that Jason’s father had sired a bastard—it was new and exciting again with Ethan showing his face in polite society.
Not only did Jason have to deal with the reemergence of his half brother, he apparently had to square off with that vicious bitch, too. He took another sip from his glass and his eyes found the portrait of his father—their father—hanging over the mantel. Jason kept it there as a reminder not to be a self-serving prick.
Ethan didn’t have a copy of the painting. Perhaps that was why he’d turned out—if their verbal and physical brawl seven years ago was any indication—as selfish as their sire. And now that he was squiring a wealthy young widow about, Jason wondered if he’d also inherited their father’s penchant for skirt-chasing. Apparently Ethan was quite good at it too, since Lady Aldridge hadn’t been seen about town since her husband had died last spring. What had Ethan done to coax her out of her house? Dangled his “name” in front of her? Or simply employed his handsome face by smiling disarmingly? Something Jason could no longer do.
Jason glowered at North, who was well aware of the brothers’ history. “I suppose he’s trying to claim a place in Society? Maybe find a wealthy bride?” It made sense. Last time they’d met, Ethan had been a thief-taker. He seemed to do all right for himself, if his clothing was any indication. Jason had seen him now and again at pugilistic bouts over the years. Though they’d never spoken, Ethan’s fashionable attire had communicated plenty.
“Perhaps, my lord.” North’s forehead puckered only slightly. “Do you find his associati
on with Lady Aldridge suspicious because of the circumstances of her husband’s death?”
The Earl of Aldridge had been found murdered on the banks of the Thames last spring. He’d been exposed as the leader of a theft ring that preyed on houses in Mayfair and fenced the stolen items. “It’s interesting, given Ethan’s occupation as a thief-taker. I think I’ll pay a call on Lady Aldridge.”
Both of North’s eyebrows arched. “You’ll go out?”
The man rarely looked surprised, and Jason took a fleeting moment to enjoy it before answering. “It’s not as if I never leave Lockwood House.”
The eyebrows fell to their normal location, and the reserved butler’s façade was in place once more. “Of course not, my lord, but you haven’t paid a respectable call in a very long time. Do you think it wise that you visit Lady Aldridge?” North was trying to be deferential and delicate, but they both knew what he was talking about.
Jason wasn’t welcome in much of polite society because of the way he chose to live, whereas his half brother, who couldn’t know the first thing about how to comport himself, apparently was. The corrosive anger he often felt with regard to Ethan pulsed through Jason. “You’re worried I’ll scandalize her ladyship with my presence?”
North’s features were smooth, unruffled. “I’m not worried, no, my lord. Indeed, I think you should go.”
A knock sounded on the office door. “Come,” Jason called.
Scot stepped inside. He and North were identical, apart from Scot’s slightly longer brown hair, and the extra lines around his blue eyes, which weren’t due to age—the brothers were only a few years younger than Jason’s thirty years—but to the frequency with which he laughed. Other than that, they were mirror images of a six-foot-tall, athletically built Scotsman.
Scot registered his brother’s presence and gauged—correctly that something was afoot. “You sent for me?”
“We’re discussing Jagger’s appearance in Town,” North said crisply and without inflection as if he were delivering the weather.
Scot shot Jason a look of outrage that was extremely satisfying to behold. “Bloody awful.” He crossed his arms. “What’re you going to do about it?”
Jason knew he could count on Scot to help. Blessed with an ease in forming friendships, he was particularly adept at learning things, which was why he’d summoned him in the first place. “Gather information first.”
He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “I’ll look forward to it.”
North, on the other hand, merely inclined his head slightly. It was his favorite and most often used gesture.
Scot elbowed his brother in the arm. “This’ll be fun, won’t it?”
North turned a beleaguered eye toward the man who was ten minutes his senior, but Jason knew the exasperation was an act. Mostly. “Do try to retain a modicum of propriety, will you?”
“When a situation calls for propriety, I employ it,” Scot said, straightening his livery. He tossed his brother a taunting glare before turning his attention back to Jason. “One more thing, my lord. Miss Stroud is awaiting you upstairs.”
Cora. Jason had forgotten about her in the wake of learning about Ethan. Like the other gentlemen who attended his parties, Jason sought entertainment and she was his. Though she wasn’t his mistress. His father had kept more than one, and Jason made damned sure he didn’t keep any.
“In the south blue room,” Scot added.
Since Lockwood House offered a variety of chambers for party attendees, each bedroom—save Jason’s, which was off-limits to everyone, even Jason didn’t use it on these nights—upstairs was designated with a direction and a color for identification purposes.
Jason nodded before downing the rest of his whisky and setting the empty tumbler on the sideboard. “Thank you.” He went to the door and then turned. “I nearly forgot. Keep an eye on Dilly tonight. I’d prefer he stayed downstairs. Last time he used the prop room, he broke a few things.”
Scot laughed loudly. “I remember. The man has no finesse.”
North shook his head almost imperceptibly. It was, Jason knew, an expression of humor, however small.
Jason departed the office and made his way to the massive staircase at the back of his foyer. He passed a masked couple as they made their descent. Engrossed in each other, they didn’t acknowledge him, so he walked right on past.
His mind turned to his half brother. He’d always known they would have another confrontation, and it seemed the reckoning was near. Ethan would be back with his taunts and asinine declarations. Only this time, Jason would be ready.
What did Ethan want? Gentility? Respectability? Since Jason couldn’t gain either, the thought of Ethan doing so thoroughly galled him. He was the reason Jason had been cast out, and it seemed the time might be ripe for Jason to return the favor.
ONCE AGAIN, Lady Lydia Prewitt was on a fool’s errand. Aunt Margaret was rabid to learn all she could about Mr. Locke’s sudden appearance in Society, starting with the nature of his relationship to the young and recently widowed Lady Aldridge. And since Aunt Margaret had threatened to return Lydia to her father in remote Northumberland if she failed to discover the truth, Lydia had no choice but to obey her directives.
Mr. Locke was of interest because he was the bastard brother of the notorious—and very likely mad—Lord Lockwood, who was neither seen nor desired in Society. Gleaning information about him was important to Aunt Margaret, as she firmly believed that knowledge was power. Which meant Aunt Margaret had to be the most powerful woman in London.
However, powerful wasn’t the same as liked or admired, and Lydia had decided that she preferred the latter over the former. It was a sentiment Aunt Margaret didn’t share, which had caused them to be at extreme odds of late—hence Aunt Margaret’s threats to return Lydia to the middle of nowhere, also known as “home.” Not that it was difficult to be at odds with Aunt Margaret. She was a singularly domineering and demanding person.
Aldridge House loomed before Lydia. Larger than most town houses, its façade spanned at least three of her aunt’s house. A wrought iron gate separated a path leading to the door from the sidewalk.
Lydia arrived at the gate at the same time as a tall, well-dressed gentleman. She lifted her eyes to his face and stifled a gasp. A long scar cut down his left cheek marring what would have been a handsome visage. He tipped his head to the side so that his right cheek was angled toward her.
“Are you going to Aldridge House?” he asked.
“Yes.” Lydia searched her memory for his identity. She prided herself on knowing everyone, but she was certain they’d never met. Then it hit her: the scar. She did gasp then. “Are you . . . Lord Lockwood?”
His gaze narrowed slightly.
Aunt Margaret had said that Locke and Lockwood were half brothers. There was also a rumor that they shared certain physical characteristics, which only gave credence to her aunt’s declaration. Lydia studied Lockwood’s features, trying to discern a resemblance, but she’d only seen Mr. Locke across a crowded ballroom. She supposed they were nearly the same height. Maybe. And they both had very dark hair. But, brothers? She couldn’t say for sure.
The brim of his hat shaded his face from the weak afternoon sun finding its way through the mottled clouds, but she saw his right brow arch. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Lady Lydia Prewitt. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” And a boon. When Aunt Margaret heard of this, perhaps Lydia would earn a reprieve from having to hunt gossip. “Are you here to see Lady Aldridge?”
He opened the gate and held it for her. “I hope to, yes. Paying my respects.”
Lydia walked into the front courtyard and looked back at Lord Lockwood as if she could visually detect whether he was actually insane. He tipped his head up slightly, giving her a clear view of his features and she didn’t doubt for a moment that he was a scoundrel. It seemed to be written in the wide set of his mouth, the alluring coal-black lashes spiking from his eyes, and of course
that terrible scar. What was a mad scoundrel who avoided Society doing visiting Lady Aldridge?
Although Lydia had lost her taste for gossip-mongering, she couldn’t quell her genuine interest in people. Especially enigmatic people who never ventured into Society with whom she now found herself. So she made small talk. “Awful business with Lord Aldridge. Such a tragedy.”
“Mmm.”
Apparently Lord Lockwood was not inclined to chatter. He waited for Lydia’s maid to enter the courtyard and then he shut the gate. Lydia sent her maid a look and a slight nod. The maid took a position along the low iron fencing.
Lydia tried again. “Are you a friend of Lady Aldridge’s?”
“I knew her husband.” He didn’t elaborate, and since his only interaction with Society gentlemen came from the scandalous parties he hosted, Lydia wondered if Lord Aldridge had been a guest. Several well-placed gentlemen were purported to attend Lockwood House’s entertainments, which she found more than a bit hypocritical since Lord Lockwood himself was generally disdained as an utter blackguard for having them in the first place.
At the door, Lord Lockwood rapped on the wood. A scant moment later, the butler appeared. “I’m sorry, her ladyship isn’t accepting visitors,” he said.
Lydia was nothing if not persistent. Undeterred, she flashed her best smile at the butler. “If you let her know Lady Lydia Prewitt is calling, I believe she’d like to see me. I bring tidings from my aunt.”
The butler looked at her as if she were an oddity. “Her ladyship isn’t feeling well today. Perhaps another day.”
Lord Lockwood pivoted so that he partially blocked Lydia. He handed the butler his card. “Would you inform her ladyship that I’m here? I’ll wait.” His tone was firm and brooked no disagreement. Lydia imagined he was used to issuing orders.
The butler gave a single nod and then closed the door.
Lord Lockwood might be a Society outsider, but he’d elicited more results than she. Apparently his name was still worth something, and because of that she was doubly glad she’d encountered him today. Aunt Margaret would be very annoyed if Lydia came home empty-handed, but now, thanks to Lockwood, she would not.
