Earl of Carlyle (The Rogue Gentlemen Series Book 2)

by Angela Conrad

  “Thank you,” Audrey said and saw the earl’s gaze move upwards to her eyes. “Sara and I are lucky to have our uncle, father’s younger brother, now Viscount Winston. He has raised us by himself, given us free control of Summer Garden and its land, and given us security. He is our only family and we both worry about him on this new voyage.”

  Earl of Carlyle flinched slightly remembering it was his father who sent the viscount off on a dangerous sea voyage just to rid himself of the responsibility of Bristol and Darlington. Suddenly, that scheme seemed sinister and underhanded.

  “You need not worry, Viscount Winston is a seasoned sailor I understand and sailing on a sound ship. Father considers him a valued friend. And don’t fret about your future for father has also promised to see you and your sister safely wed,” Carlyle said.

  “Safely wed,” Audrey repeated. “I suppose marriage is a woman’s only safety net. I wish it were otherwise.”

  “Do you?” Carlyle asked waiting for the lady to sit down before he rested in a gold-painted armchair. “You don’t want to be married? Whatever else would you do?”

  Audrey laughed and sipped her wine. “Lots of things.”

  “Like?” The earl asked studying her posture, the way her slippers lined up perfectly beside each other, the soft slope of her neckline.

  “I would do several occupations if I was not just above them by being a viscount’s daughter and below being anything too fine. Train horses, mend animals, breed the finest racing stock in the country, become a famous jockey, smoke cheroots,” Audrey laughed. “I could name more but I see you are too stunned to hear them.”

  “I cannot help you gain those goals…except for one.”

  The earl reached over, opened a delicate inlaid box, and removed two cheroots. He clipped the ends with a little scissors lit one with a candle, then the other, and handed it to her. “Here you are, Audrey. Have a cheroot.”

  He smiled and she laughed. Audrey reached out touching his fingers as she took the cheroot. Both becoming aware of the improper behavior, the way her lips must close over the space where his lips had just been.

  “A good thing Lady Whistle is upstairs with Sara going over our wardrobes. She would not approve of this,” Audrey said winking. She inhaled lightly and blew the smoke high into the room grinning. “How marvelous.”

  “Don’t breathe in too deeply, I don’t want you getting ill,” the earl warned.

  “I’m not as weak-kneed as that,” Audrey laughed. “Once Sara and I rolled our own with father’s old supply of tobacco. It was very entertaining.”

  Carlyle and Audrey began exchanging childhood stories, little events in their lives, the time they learned how to swim, the first occasion both were thrown by a horse, and when they first understood, their lives were blessed. That they were privileged.

  They moved on to a second glass of wine and another cheroot. The pair glanced often at each other. They admired appearances, gestures, and the tone of each other’s voices.

  Time got away from them and Carlyle found himself leaning forward, his elbows on his knees so he could better see her expression and smell her scent of lilacs.

  Audrey touched his sleeve once while giggling about his first attempt at climbing an apple tree.

  They both sighed deeply with disappointment when the high-pitched sound of Darlington’s voice pierced the nearby hallway.

  “Audrey! Miss Winston are you down here?”

  Heavy footfalls rounded the corner and Carlyle looked up to see Darlington stop outside the library doorway.

  “Good Grief, the room is full of smoke. Delicious aroma though. Carlyle, I can’t believe you are allowing Audrey to smoke a cheroot,” Darlington said flopping down in a nearby chair. “I will never allow my wife near tobacco, it’s unseemly.”

  “Did you say allow?” Carlyle asked partly in annoyance and partly to see how Audrey would accept this declaration.

  “Of course I did. A husband must keep a tight rein on his wife,” Darlington began.

  “Speaking of that,” Audrey interrupted. “Darlington, your control of a horse would improve if your tight grip on the rein was loosened. The poor animal cannot close its mouth.”

  Carlyle and Darlington both turned their handsome heads and stared at Audrey as if she’d just declared herself queen.

  “Are you telling me how…do you mean to instruct?” Darlington stumbled as Audrey stood and walked to the doorway.

  “I would never,” she grinned. “Why, Darlington, we all know that you’re superior in everything you do.”

  He grinned and said, “You do like to jest. I adore when you say those little jokes so seriously, you are quite amusing.”

  Carlyle noticed Audrey’s eyes cloud over as she glanced quickly at him and then away.

  “And how clever of you to always know when I am jesting,” Audrey said bowing and leaving the room.

  “She is a pretty thing but needs a sharp hand and word to keep her in line I think,” Darlington said.

  “Is that what you think?” Carlyle asked his eyes darkening.

  “It is. If I have to marry then I insist on being in total control,” Darlington said picking up Audrey’s half-empty glass of wine and finishing it with one gulp.

  “My, you do plan on having a happy home,” Carlyle said through gritted teeth.

  “Yes,” Darlington laughed. “Good of you to appreciate my side. That is how it will go. Me in control and her job only to please. I shall enjoy being married now that this opportunity has arisen. Your father has cleverly given both myself and Bristol a way to fit into society, keep our allowance, and still have our fun. It’s a marvelous plan.”

  Carlyle stared at his cousin as if he’d like to hang him high off a fencepost until the crows picked him clean but he held his tongue while his mind raced.

  PART FOUR

  Trials & Tales

  The Mistress

  I

  Samantha Ray Brussel was a talented mistress, a first-class schemer, and a glutton for punishment. During her formative years, she seemed to have a rare knack for picking the wrong gentlemen, overplaying her weak hand, and betting her entire livelihood on a shaky foundation.

  Samantha was raised by an uncaring aunt and uncle in the dilapidated back of a cobbler’s shop. Ignored, often hungry for both food and attention, Samantha practiced the art of performance. She could force an almost genuine smile onto angry lips, sit up prettily when her spine threatened to crack, and angle her neck to show the best advantage to a reasonably pretty face if there was a prize to be gained for it.

  As she sat on a small stool near the shop window lacing leather pieces into boot tassels, she became an observer of mankind. Samantha noticed the way a female customer could sway a man’s mind from going in for a simple boot repair to leaving with a pair of female’s pink half boots under his arm. She also saw meanness with one’s purse when no amount of pleading could change a decidedly thrifty heart.

  Though she tried to gauge the average workman and the titled gentleman, find their strengths and weaknesses, she could not succeed. As a young girl, Samantha thought perhaps all blonde men were generous but then a pound-pinching exception would appear and ruin her supposition.

  Next, she believed that the taller the man the kinder the heart. That idea lasted only six days before a cruel giant of a gentleman appeared in the shop and nearly strangled her uncle blue in the face for accidentally cutting the leather wrong on a pair of pricy Hessian boots.

  Whenever she thought she understood the populous of the busy London streets, an exception would pop up like ragweed around a pond. Samantha learned another more valuable lesson as she aged. That people were like grains of sand or snowflakes, simple and intricate, dull and inspiring, random and exceptional. That they could not be placed into little boxes or simple categories. Their differences were vast as raindrops.

  Samantha then decided that a young female mind needed to notice the smaller signs, listen for the deep sighs, and watch the pie
rcing looks if she was to make her own way in the world. So, Samantha began to make a list of what she called,

  Valuable Observations

  There is a very great difference between a Banbury tale and a true promise.

  That Blue Ruin stains on a gentleman’s tailcoat meant he drank more gin than had sense.

  That Cyprians might be high-class paid sinful ladies but they owned the finest fox fur muffs and tippets. More elaborate than any shop girl could buy in a lifetime.

  There is no honor in starving.

  Men rule the world.

  Clever women rule men.

  Her list of Valuable Observations grew as she aged and was often rewritten when previous thoughts had to be scratched out and replaced with newer insights.

  Over the years, Samantha knew one thing for certain. Her uncle wanted her gone immediately and her aunt resented that her sister had died so early and left her illegitimate daughter on their doorstep. No amount of pretty dancing or wide smiles could break the ice in her host’s hearts. This allowed several droplets of ice to form on Samantha’s own heart. As she reached her thirteenth birthday, something new became clear. This fact was added to her growing list of observations.

  Men liked young girls.

  Gentlemen who had ignored her for years as if she were a lamppost now gave her a fast smile or a long leer. The very tone of their voices magically changed.

  And for the first time in her lonely life, Samantha Ray Brussel felt wanted.

  Valued.

  She began to read Ackermann’s Repository of Arts to gain a sense of fashion. Those copies which were left in the back of the boot shop became her Bible. Samantha devoured them as if they were candy drops. She tried plaiting her generous head of fiery red hair. She attempted to smudge coal dust on her eyelids, smear berry juice on her wide lips, and resew her merger wardrobe into more alluring designs by cutting fabric, replacing sagging seams, and lowering necklines.

  A great surprise awaited Samantha one early afternoon when her uncle came out of the back curtained workroom and caught her flirting with one of his best gentleman customers.

  “That’s your last warnin’ come and gone,” her uncle bellowed once the customer left. “You’ll act like the hussy, just like your mother, it’s in your blood, but you won’t be doin’ it here. Pack your belongin’ and go before I give you a beatin’ to remember me by.”

  Samantha stood stunned. Not only was that the greatest amount of words her uncle had ever directed her way in her lifetime but she understood that no false flattery or ready grin could fix his mood.

  Samantha knew by her aunt’s supportive hand on her husband’s arm that they were a joined force and she could not change their minds.

  She left that day and never returned.

  With one overly loud giggle and a too loose grin, Samantha had lost her home at thirteen and a half years of age. She was left to wander the dirty streets for days trying for anything she might do just to eat.

  After four days with not so much as a piece of bread or a spoonful of oats, Samantha clumsily turned a corner, dodging a muddy puddle, and fell headlong into the arms of a baron’s youngest son.

  Bradford Milton Jensen.

  He became the building block from which Samantha would construct her future as if he were a rough block of wood wedged into the corner of an ever-shifting platform of men who favored redheaded girls.

  Bradford Milton Jensen also became the first man on a very long list of what Samantha titled My History of Protectors. A list that years later ended with the name of Lord Bristol.

  Training Ground

  II

  Pink was her color. Not the candy or frosting shade but the sky’s pale pink of sunrise. It enhanced the paleness of her white skin, helped the azure blue of her eyes to astonish, and blended perfectly with the copper highlights in her thick hair.

  Samantha was like a sea sponge. She absorbed everything around her that would enrich her life, nothing too difficult, not the knowledge of the arts and sciences but more the tricks of animal behavior every female baboon possessed.

  The male primate needed to feel superior and protective. He liked banging his chest, shouting in fury, and displaying his strength.

  The female glanced at him on occasion as if he was making an impression, she moved behind him when danger was near, and she bowed to his strength without letting him see the amusement in her eyes.

  Samantha’s first conquest, Bradford Milton Jensen was an easy study. He liked her looks, felt superior, and necessary, and she let him. He had a generous allowance from his father for a baron’s youngest son and he ran with a wild crowd of university friends. Having a young and pretty mistress was a point of pride with Bradford as if Samantha was a finely marked mare he’d purchased at Tattersall’s auction house.

  Samantha and Bradford were happy for a time, both young and excited by the pleasures of the flesh, easy living, and foolish extravagances. They were often seen in Hyde Park riding together late in the evenings or going to plays or musical shows.

  Their liaison lasted two years before the baron decided that it was time for his son to give up his loose ways and marry the daughter of a nearby landholder.

  That’s when Samantha Ray Brussel realized that her world would forever be made of quicksand and that she could not count on anyone but herself. There was many a night of loud howls, soaked handkerchiefs, and fits of despair. She had an accurate aim and often threw small items at the wall as if her protector still stood there.

  Learning that her future was limited by a man’s whims caused fear to quell in her chest. It made her harden inside, her heart being replaced by a limestone hard lump of calculation. And as each gentleman was replaced by another like revolving pies on a stand, Samantha was left with only one sensation.

  Shrewdness.

  A cunning control and devious heart now beat beneath her generous breasts.

  She had skills in the bedroom that other women would never consider let alone try. She practiced those little sounds in her throat until she knew the proper pitch and duration to inspire the strongest male. Shame or embarrassment was not words in her vocabulary. She was as pliable as warm dough and she knew what her marks craved by watching the brightness in their eyes. She would fashion herself into a hot pretzel if it could give her the whip hand.

  Now, at twenty-five, she had reached the pinnacle of her career. She was the prized and only mistress of Lord Bristol. Tall and blonde, connected to important gentlemen, rich by her standards, generous, easy to please, fun and exciting to be with if she could ignore his constant argumentative nature when intoxicated, or tired, or with his cousin, Lord Darlington. Samantha had a decade’s worth of training to handle such a gentleman.

  They shared happy years, both of them until rumors began to reach her ears that her protector, Lord Bristol might be forced into marriage. She had faced this problem before with other gentlemen and Samantha knew it to be the most formidable hindrance to her livelihood.

  The Confines of marriage.

  Children.

  A jealous new bride.

  A family expecting better of their son.

  Responsibilities.

  Shedding off youthful wildness like a pony changing its coat.

  And when Samantha learned that Lord Darlington was also thrown into the marriage mix, she felt the threat deeply. If her wealthy protector, Bristol was influenced by anyone, challenged by a friend, or competitive with another male, it was his cousin, Lord Darlington.

  Those two young bucks who before ran as wild as young cubs in the forest would now try to impress that old powerful gentleman, Marquis of Sandshire if only to outdo each other.

  That left Samantha with only one course of action.

  One desperate measure.

  And shame had long ago left her wheelhouse. She had no compulsion in affecting events.

  Samantha sat at her little desk, pushing aside her other lists, Valuable Observations, Practiced Positions, and My History of
Protectors, and began a new list.

  Controlling My Destiny and Lord Bristol Too

  Find the gentleman.

  Travel as near as I can to Bristol and spy upon him.

  Study the surroundings.

  Get his attention.

  Learn the facts.

  Change his mind.

  Tempt him with something.

  Threaten if necessary.

  Keep an eye out for other rich and handsome gentlemen in the park if things go badly.

  She folded the list carefully and placed it in a place of prominence on her little French desk. Samantha always felt in control after writing things down. She needed what she liked to call a guiding force. She believed in witchery, burning incense, and drawing pentagrams with chalk on the rug-covered hardwood floors of her little house. Samantha liked to believe that she had a destiny. That some dark providence such as her dead mother was watching out for her, steering her course. She felt that force now and she breathed in deeply relishing the next phase with a mixture of excitement and dread.

  Samantha kissed her new list and grinned. She felt powerful now. After carefully packing her most alluring items of clothing, the corsets, and silk nightgowns, the stockings and silk slippers with the knee-high laced ribbons that most gentlemen seemed to adore, she moaned with pleasure.

  Yes, things were looking her way after that little setback. All a girl had to do was pull another stunt from her pocket.

  She sang a little ditty she’d heard on the back streets and she smiled.

  Be clever girlie, be smart,

  Hit the mark like a dart.

  Lean in…look prim,

  And never let him know what hit him.

  What’s Necessary

  III

  With a little trickery, a touch of bribery, and a few shared sexual favors, Samantha Ray Brussel found the location of Riverside, Marquis of Sandshire’s estate.