To Recapture a Rake: A Hephaestus Club Novella

by Christine Merrill

  To Recapture a Rake

  A Hephaestus Club Novella

  by Christine Merrill

  Copyright © 2014 by Christine Merrill

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, email the author at ChrisMerrill@christine-merrill.com

  Special Thanks:

  To Lani Diane Rich of Storywonk for a fabulous cover, to William Bruce for the Latin Translation, and to Rachel Berens-VanHeest for everything.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  An excerpt from The Tourist of Zenda

  About the author:

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Earl of Blackthorne was a rake. How could he help but be? His title stood as an overly dramatic warning. To those that had never been there, Blackthorne Tor brought to mind sharp points and dark deeds. Its master would have to be a man with equally wicked secrets.

  In truth, it was a lesser and disappointing holding where crops would not grow and sheep eked out a meager existence on the gorse between the rocks. When one was gifted with so little, one did what one could with it. On coming into the title, Vincent Wilmont sought the best advice he could find on agrarian matters, invested the profits carefully and took no risk with the principal.

  Once that was done, there was still that abominable name to live up to, and he did his best. The ton might expect Lord Edenvale to be a bit too holy for his own good, and Lord Overset to be somewhat unsteady on his feet. But a Blackthorne should stick in the side of society, living for pleasure and mocking the false morals of the majority.

  When in London, Vincent cultivated scandal as carefully as any of the crops on his property. His tastes were lavish, though they stopped a hair’s breadth from what others might call excessive. He drank often but was never inebriated. He dined well but was not a glutton. When he gambled, the stakes were high. But never so high that he suffered from the loss. And though the women he seduced were the envy of all the men in London. He had dueled but once. And of course, he had won.

  Though few truly knew him, everyone knew of the Earl of Blackthorne, and females responded accordingly. He was used to the awed whispers of young ladies when he entered a room, the hiss of warning from their mothers, like so many plump adders behind them, and the admiring glances of a certain type of older, and more interesting woman.

  What he was not used to was snickering. Or, for that matter, rolled eyes, belly laughs, exasperation, disappointment, and the sight of feminine attention turning, quite obviously, to other more interesting men.

  Today, he glared out of the carriage window at any who noticed him, daring them to respond without the usual awe.

  London accepted the dare and mocked him.

  He was become a laughing stock.

  His friend, Robert Tripp, broke off giving instruction to the driver and smiled sympathetically in his direction. “It will be all right. You will see. I have just the place for you.”

  Bob Tripp had no title and thus no expectations placed upon his behavior. It made his pity all the more annoying. “I do not need another club,” he said, tapping his stick on the floor of the carriage to demonstrate his annoyance. What he needed was to go back to Caroline Sydney and set things straight. The part of him that had once been Vincent Wilmont recommended flowers and an apology. If needed, he should go down on his knees before her, begging to know how he had wronged her. Artifice and distain could be saved for the rest of the ton. Caro deserved nothing but truth.

  But Blackthorne argued that this weak part of his character had caused the trouble in the first place. Better to take up with another, even more beautiful woman, to show that he was unhurt.

  His inner Vincent responded morosely that there was no woman more beautiful than Caro Sydney, and Blackthorne grudgingly agreed. Her figure was flawless, as was her complexion. Though she nearly matched him in height, she was not too thin. Her soft curves made holding her a delight. Her brown hair reminded him of dark honey in daylight but, turned coppery when lit by candles. But he had always thought her eyes were her best feature. They were a warm brown, and their faintly almond shape gave her expression a hint of mystery.

  Perhaps a manly show of temper was in order. He would go to her house, kick her door down and demand an explanation. His door, he reminded himself. Though he had given her the deed in a moment of passion, he was the one who had bought her the house and its contents, as well. He had paid for every stick of furniture, every gown in the boudoir and every jewel around her pretty neck. He’d paid plenty for the right to come and go as he pleased, and not to have the door slammed in his face.

  Once he was on the other side of that door again, he would overtake her with a single, passionate kiss, causing her to forget whatever problem she’d had with him, the other day. They would make love, right there in the hallway. When they were through, he would cosset and pet and pamper until she was a contented creature again and her door was as open as her heart, her arms, and God help him, her alabaster thighs.

  Things would be back to normal.

  But this afternoon, he was to be trapped in the company of men. What could they offer him, compared to a day spent with the incomparable Caro Sydney?

  Tripp noticed his distraction. “You might not need another club,” Bob announced, spoiling the beginnings of a lurid fantasy and dragging his mind back to the carriage. “But the club most certainly needs you. It shall be the talk of the day, gaining you as a member. We have been waiting for this for years.” His friend seemed to think that the reflected glory of it would go to his own credit. Perhaps he was right. If this club thought him a prize to be collected, who was he to argue? And it would be good to be viewed as a wolf amidst sheep again, instead of a castrated ram.

  They pulled to a stop in front of a green, wood door on Jermyn Street and Bob was out of the carriage without bothering for help, hopping to the ground, gesturing that he follow.

  Blackthorne stared at the building. It was unassuming, with no brass plate on the brick to announce what might lie inside. When the porter opened for them, the interior was not so different than any of the other clubs he had been in. The high ceilinged foyer was paneled in solid, dark wood to match the banisters of the sweeping stairways on either side. The tables and benches along the wall were heavy and, if it was possible to ascribe a gender to furniture, very male. They were sturdy and devoid of ornament, a perfect place for a blue-deviled gentleman to compose himself, while awaiting a cab to take him home. The only gilt in the space was saved for the motto carved deep into the oak lintel above the next door:

  E MELIORIBUS SODALICIIS HOC EXPULSUS SUM

  He stared at the phrase for a moment, translating in his mind. He glanced at Tripp, who passed under the archway as though there was no need of explanation. He opened the door in front of them, then turned and waved an arm in an expansive gesture of greeting. “Welcome, Lord Blackthorne, to the Hephaestus Club. You will find it not so loud as White’s, but more liberal minded than Boodles. But it is just as fashionable as either of them. We share membership with both of them, and many others besides.”

  So it
appeared. He recognized many familiar faces in the room before him from his own club, and Parliament, as well. But there seemed to be no common denominator amongst the members here. In the comfortable chairs by the fire, he saw an equal number of Whigs and Tories. Card tables were shared by graduates of Oxford and Cambridge. At the sideboard, his Grace the Duke of Lockland was pouring a brandy for Mr. Steven Massey, a man of no fortune or title, known far and wide for his inflammatory political articles in The Times. As if this random group was not enough to pique his curiosity, he glanced down and found an even greater wonder.

  At his feet, a large, brown hare chewed absently on the fringe of an expensive Persian carpet. It stared up at him as he approached, and paused as though assessing a threat. Then it took one half-hearted hop away and returned to chewing. His companion made no attempt to halt the destruction, behaving as though there was nothing unusual about a rabbit in a gentleman’s club.

  Blackthorne nudged the animal gently with the toe of his boot.

  Of a sudden, the rabbit let out a hiss, reared to its hind legs, and landed a series of jabs to the calf of his boot. Then it settled back to ruining the rug as though nothing had happened.

  Tripp laughed. “That’s Gentleman John, for you. He’s a better pugilist than half the members, even though he is only here as a guest.”

  “Pets are allowed in the common areas.” Blackthorne said, intrigued.

  “Certainly not. We’d have all manner of animals milling about, if that was so. In this space, the last thing we need is a parrot with an opinion.” Tripp stared down at the hare. “John is here for Ajax, who is a member in good standing.” He gestured to a nearby sofa, at a greyhound.

  The dog eyed the rabbit warily until he was certain that it meant no further aggression, and then burrowed so deep beneath the cushions that he was practically invisible.

  “You have a dog as a member?”

  “He has earned his place here, just as you have. There is no need to stand for admittance, no troublesome voting, and no black ball to deny you. If you meet the criteria of membership, then your acceptance is assured.”

  Blackthorne gave his friend a dark look. “It does not sound very selective.”

  “My dear sir, it is the most selective membership in London.” The response came from Lockland, who did not seem to find it odd for a duke to share a club with a dog. The peer continued. “The Gods themselves choose our fellows. When fortune spits in one’s eye, this is the place to come. And you, my dear fellow, are the talk of the town.” Lockland addressed the assembled. “Who knows his story?”

  Blackthorne winced. Was it too much to hope that he might be free of it, even for an afternoon?

  “Who in London does not?” announced Massey. “You were turned into the street by your mistress, naked as the day you were born.”

  “And seen with your wedding tackle out by a pack of nuns,” added another.

  “I do not think nuns are counted in packs,” said a third. “I think it is herds. Besides, I heard it was not nuns, but Princess Charlotte.”

  “Schools of nuns,” said yet another, “Like fish.”

  “It was not nuns at all,” Blackthorne snapped. “It was Lady Jersey.”

  There were whistles of approval from the surrounding crowd.

  Tripp silenced the crowd. “I submit that Blackthorne has more right to be here than any of us. Not only was he banned from his lover’s bed, he has been excommunicated from Almack’s.”

  This brought a polite round of applause from the assembled, and pats on the back from those standing nearest.

  “Now see here,” Blackthorne began. But there was really nothing to add, for what they were saying was perfectly true. He was not sure, even a week later, what he had done to deserve it.

  In his opinion, the day had been one of the most delightful they’d spent together. They had taken their luncheon under a tree in her garden. While she had sipped her wine, he’d read poetry to her. With passions inflamed by Byron, they had adjourned to her bedroom, where he had brought her to fulfillment not once but twice. He had loved her with his body and his words, proclaiming her the most perfect creature on earth, the only woman who could ever satisfy him.

  Then, with no warning at all, she had run him out of the house, not even allowing him time to grab his boots.

  The news had spread like wildfire. If her object had been to render him unmarriageable, she could not have done a better job. He winced. To be so publically humiliated that it was known to his entire set was bad enough. But the laughter was even worse.

  “Welcome to the club,” Lockland exclaimed.

  “I fail to see how my recent problems qualify me for membership in any club.”

  “Perhaps you did not read the inscription above the door,” his friend Tripp said, turning to point towards the hall.

  He pondered over the Latin for only a moment. “I have been…

  “Thrown out of better places than this,” the others in the room completed, raising their glasses to him.

  Tripp continued. “Each member of this happy little group has been asked to leave or somehow rendered ineligible from another place, often in the most embarrassing circumstances imaginable. If you have been sent down from Oxford, banned from White’s or declared totally unclubbable, then this is the place for you. Our membership includes some of the best and brightest of London’s society.”

  “Since you are under two forms of interdict, you would qualify as an officer of some sort, should we have them,” Lockland said, with a slight bow.

  “Which we do not,” Tripp added. “Nor do we discuss the club in public, or any of the things that happen here. The Hephaestus is the only place in London where a man will not be upbraided for his mistakes. Anonymity is our only rule. Once you have talked to others here, you will find that your recent problem is not the most embarrassing story we might share.”

  When stated thus it was almost comforting. Blackthorne glanced at the couch. “And you said the dog is a member?”

  “Ajax is the only greyhound ever to be banned from a hare coursing club, Tripp answered. “He is deathly afraid of rabbits and an embarrassment to his species, aren’t you old fellow?”

  Ajax whined in his sleep and gave a single thump of his whip-like tail.

  “I’ve brought Gentleman John to him, hoping that we might elicit a cure,” an odd looking man in the corner announced. “So far, it has done no good. The hare bullies him shamelessly, and he permits it.”

  “Howard gets up to all sorts of strange ideas,” Massey announced. “It is why he is welcome here, and nowhere else.” He shrugged. “But who are we to judge?”

  As if to prove the truth of it, Mr. Howard had gathered up the rabbit from the floor and appeared to be speaking to it. The other members of the room ignored it, as though there was nothing the least bit strange in such behavior. Instead, they raised their glasses again, to Blackthorne.

  “We honor our new member, for I swear, we did not think it likely to see you here,” Massey announced. “It is difficult to be removed from society, when one shuns its rules so completely as you. Yet you never suffer for it.”

  Blackthorne prepared a tart retort about suffering being a relative thing. He had paid dearly for his mistakes, and there was nothing in this alleged camaraderie that required him to stand for insult.

  Then, Massey looked at him with genuine sympathy. “Now that you are here, we all hope that you have paid the last of your dues to this particular club. You are more than welcome, Blackthorne. Share a glass and we will share our stories, to prove that we are all brothers here.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The knock came at the same time it did almost every morning, and Caroline Sydney’s servant opened for the heavily veiled woman standing on the stoop. As soon as the door closed, the visitor cast off her disguise and held out her arms for a kiss.

  “Darling,” Caro held her at arm’s length, admiring her. “You grow lovelier each day.”

  “Because I
grow to look more like you,” her sister replied. “Mother and Father send their love.”

  Caro snorted. “You know they do not. I am sure they prefer to think I have died, than to acknowledge I am here.”

  Alene shrugged and tossed her head, the perfect picture of innocence. “A day may yet come when they will be only too willing to claim you as their daughter.” She still expected there to be a happy end to the story, when none was possible. “But we will never get you back in the fold if you have been foolish. Are the rumors I heard true? Did you really cast Blackthorn out into the street? Whatever could you have been thinking?”

  Caro turned away from her, towards the parlor, giving her skirts an extra swish as she did so. When had she developed this tendency to flounce? Gently bred ladies did not do so. It must have happened at some time during the last twelve months of infamy. She was behaving as though she were prone to tantrums and moods. Next, she would be wearing jewels in the day time.

  Not that there would be a next time. She had not gone to Vincent from a desire to be under a gentleman’s protection. But in the eyes of the ton, that had not mattered. To them, she was nothing more than an unattached courtesan. Offers for her favors had begun to arrive before the bed sheets had cooled.

  She had ordered her maid to burn the notes, toss the flowers and return any jewelry to its sender. She had no intention of taking another lover and making a habit of debauchery. But the mail had increased, for her aloofness made her all the more intriguing.

  And now, even her sister wondered at her motives. “Why did I send Blackthorne away? Because I could not abide him,” Caro announced. “Not a moment longer.”

  “Did he do something? Did he ask for something inappropriate?” Alene’s eyes were wide, as though she expected Caro to reveal the act so outré that she would have refused it. She almost smiled. It was hard to imagine Vincent suggesting a thing so out of bounds that she would not have at least considered it.