What the Stubborn Viscount Desires
Lords of Happenstance
book one
by
Sandra Sookoo
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Kindle edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the author.
WHAT THE STUBBORN VISCOUNT DESIRES © 2018 by Sandra Sookoo
Published by New Independence Books
ISBN-13: 9781386692409
Contact Information:
[email protected]
[email protected]
Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com
Edited by: Victoria Miller
[email protected]
Book Cover Design by Victoria Miler
Man: Kieran | Period Images.com
Background: Barri Gothic Quarter and Bridge of Sighs in Barcelona, Catalonia | Deposit Photos.com
Male Formal Kit | Deposit Photos.com
Magician showing trick with playing cards on a dark background | Deposit Photos.com
Decorative frame | Deposit Photos.com
Interior art work by David Sookoo
Background: Beautiful colors of Napoleon Bridge at dusk with Seine river | Deposit Photos.com
Couple: Kieran and Jax | Period Images.com
Publishing History:
First Digital Edition, 2018
First Print Edition, 2018
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Dear Readers,
I’m so excited to launch a new series. Haven’t done that for three years, and it seems that I do it… every three years LOL In any event, the Lords of Happenstance series is a spin-off from my Thieves of the Ton series. You’ll see many familiar names in these upcoming books.
The first of which is Jonathan’s—Viscount Trewellain’s— story. So many of you asked, and now I’ve delivered. You’ll recognize the heroine as well, and she’s a feisty one. These unlikely lords will all find their happily ever afters throughout the series, so I hope you enjoy this first one.
As with my Thieves books, the Happenstance lords will adventure all over the world.
Bon voyage!
Sandra,
xoxo
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Dedication
To every reader who has asked me about Jonathan—Viscount Trewellain—getting his own happily ever after. I hope this story does him justice, and I hope you’re pleased with it as well.
And especially to my friend Betty Foye Mileti. You keep reading them and I’ll keep writing them.
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Acknowledgement
In the course of writing and planning a book, there is always copious amounts of research that I do. I knew I wanted to send my couple to Spain, but what they’d do once they got there was a mystery.
Enter a random Internet search for something completely unrelated.
Then I found the Roman ruins beneath Barcelona that had recently been uncovered in the last few years. And I was excited about them. My brain spun with the possibilities. After that, I also found another jewel Barcelona has: the Black Mary statue in an underground cavern.
So, I used a bit of literary license and linked the two together through a set of caverns beneath the city. Also, the convent in my story doesn’t exist in real life, but the monastery does. Barcelona is an amazing area and so very beautiful. One of these days I hope to see it for myself. Madrid too. And I’ll always remember bringing it to life through Jonathan’s eyes.
If you have the chance, take a trip. You won’t be sorry.
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Blurb
Stubborn hearts might be the last to fall, but when the hard tumble comes, it’ll last forever.
Jonathan Banshire, Viscount Trewellain, has become a bitter, sarcastic lord and against anything remotely smacking of romance. Though engaged to a woman whose hand he’d won in a game of cards years ago, he hasn’t thought of her in years. But he’s also a king’s agent, and as his duty to the Crown, he’s being sent to Spain to track down a missing peer. He goes to escape his personal life.
Miss Sophia Wickham is tired of men deciding her future. She’s on a mission to live her life on her terms, but can’t due to an ambiguous engagement to the Viscount Trewellain. Determined to gain her freedom, she sneaks onboard the ship intent to have Jonathan release her from that old promise. When he refuses in a fit of pique, she’s stuck as a stowaway, bound to the one man she can’t stand.
In Madrid, they search for not only the missing lord, but also stolen Spanish crown jewels and an ancient relic. Through crashing a glittering ball to hunting down clues to exploring the hidden catacombs and caves beneath Barcelona, the unlikely pair comes to an understanding. Vulnerable and trapped, truths are revealed as well as the fragile state of their hearts. But machinations of a madman bent on revenge could destroy a budding romance, and when the specter of death makes an appearance, Jonathan must finally decide what it is he desires the most.
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Chapter One
February 1, 1822
London, England
Jonathan Banshire, Viscount Trewellain, the third son of the Duke of Werthsbury waited at the London Docks in the chill of the mid-morning air. Today, he would leave England on yet another mission for the Crown. As a king’s agent, and in keeping with his clandestine life, no one except close personal friends knew of his impending absence. To the rest, it was assumed he continued to conduct his carefully cultivated rakish lifestyle.
By design or by necessity?
Perhaps both.
With no sign of his contact, Jonathan delved a hand into the interior pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew a letter. Even though he’d long ago committed it to memory and the paper had been creased from countless handlings, he could never stop from pulling it out in times of stress.
Why? Anything trying in his life was infinitely better than what he’d find at home in his father’s office. He kept the letter as a reminder to, among other things, never evolve into what his parent was.
He slid the missive from the battered envelope and once more read the contents that had haunted the back of his mind these past two years or so.
Late October, 1820
Jonathan,
I realize you’ve spent the last several years intent to play the rogue, bedding anything in skirts, and avoiding your responsibilities, however it is time for you to grow up. While I can ignore much of what you’ve wasted your time on because you are a third son and I have rather overlooked you over the years, I now demand that you return to Werthsbury Court for the holidays.
Squire Wickham has sent me a letter informing me that you won the hand of his daughter—Miss Sophia Wickham—in a game of faro. No skill there, for everyone knows he is a horrid player. In any event, he wants you to finalize the arrangements, not only to save face, but to put this indelicate matter behind him. Apparently, his harridan of a daughter is making his life miserable.
Quite frankly, I want matters settled. This match will be good for you, and I would like to see you set up your nursery as your brothers are in the process of doing. The girl doesn’t come with a dowry, of course, for the squire doesn’t have two farthings to his name any longer—debtor’s prison is in his future unless I take pity on him and offer him coin as a wedding
present—and if she’s anything like her sire, she’s got a frying pan face, but then, I rather doubt you’ll remain faithful to your vows once you get off an heir.
This is a matter of honor, both for our family and theirs. Do the pretty and marry the gel. Should you refuse the match, her reputation—what is left of it—will be ruined, and the men in this family are not in the habit of landing in the gossip pages for gammon like that. When you wed her, you might forget about the ridiculous need to play king’s agent and act the hero. There is undoubtedly something attached to my name you can find to occupy your time if toil for coin you must.
Oh yes, I know about your clandestine efforts on behalf of King and Country. I’m not a duke for nothing. I also strong-armed Rathesborne into confirming what I’d suspected from the cryptic notes you send before you go away.
Despite your failings, I expect you to show yourself at the court by Christmas. Bring the girl and make the official announcement. It’s time for you to rise to the challenge and embrace what is expected of you as my youngest son.
Yours respectfully,
Werthsbury
“God, what a prick.” Jonathan folded the much-abused piece of correspondence and then shoved it back into the envelope. Every time he read the letter, he experienced the same reaction. Swift anger lanced through his chest. It burned up the back of his neck and into his ears as he thrust the vellum into the pocket from whence it came.
Of course his parent couldn’t be bothered to sign the letter “Father” or with something more affectionate; that wasn’t his way. Never had been. Hell, when Jonathan recalled what his formative years were like, rarely did his father feature fondly in those memories. Mostly he’d been shipped off to schools as befitting a duke’s son, and when he’d attained his majority, he’d once more been left to his own devices, but at least by then he had his naval career and had his best friend Miles to knock about with.
And the women.
A grin curved his lips as he scanned the milling crowds. Yes, there had been women; he’d been a confirmed rake after all, but then he’d met Lavinia and all that had stopped. A phantom ache throbbed through his right leg where it had been amputated just above the knee. The grin died an early death and he fell into his customary dour glare. Thoughts concerning her as well as the events that led to both her death and the loss of his leg were for another time.
Neither could be helped, and he’d moved on.
Also by necessity.
As was the need to depart England. Especially since he’d been haphazardly placed within the same orbit as the woman mentioned in his father’s letter. Miss Sophia Wickham was the Hawkins family governess, and knowing how convoluted their association was, he couldn’t in good conscience tarry on Britain’s shore. Thank goodness for the new mission from the duke.
You cannot run from your problems, boy. Werthsbury men confront things head on and do not let anyone command our actions.
His father’s words, heard over and over again, clanged about his mind like church bells. He shook his head and shoved his father into the forgotten areas where Miss Wickham and Lavinia and all his other failures lurked. And when a man’s disappointments far outweighed his triumphs, of course he was loath to grow maudlin over them.
“Ah, Trewellain. Good to see you are prompt.”
Thank God. A legitimate reason to forget about his past. Jonathan turned about as the Duke of Rathesborne approached. “Rathesborne,” he greeted the duke with a nod. “As if I had a choice.”
The duke’s grin was as enigmatic as the man himself. Within the tight-knit circle of the king’s men, there were a few who ran teams of agents, and those men handed out assignments in conjunction with what the Prime Minister—Lord Liverpool—deemed necessary or which threats against England required more attention. “Do you not wish to travel to Spain?”
“Trust me on this, Your Grace. There is no better time for me to leave England.” After spending the holiday season with his best friend Miles, the Earl of Archewyne, as well as his family—and the damned governess—he couldn’t wait to head for sunnier climes… in both weather and temperament. He adjusted his grip on the silver, wolf-headed cane in his hand.
“Glad to hear it, Trewellain.” A winter breeze ruffled the duke’s gray-streaked raven hair. He turned out of the wind and continued to address Jonathan. “The operative of your quest is Lord Basselton. He’s gone missing.”
“As in kidnapped or killed?” Jonathan straightened his spine. This was exactly what had been lacking from his life ever since he’d returned home from France with the Archewynes, and the debacle therein.
Where Miles and his wife were concerned, drama always followed. Not that it was such a bad thing, for missions and protecting England often were a messy business, but he wanted no part of the things that embroiled the earl and his wife.
He’d do his duty, and that was all. No personal caring or involvement.
The duke shrugged. “Who can say? There has been woefully scant information coming back to me on his whereabouts or status.” He rubbed his glove-covered hands together. “Basselton was last seen in Madrid, in one of the libraries there.”
“That’s odd.” Jonathan frowned. From all he could remember of the lord, Basselton wasn’t a scholarly man. In fact, he gravitated toward a rather questionable crowd. “Working on what?”
“Project Regeneration.” He held Jonathan’s gaze. His own roiled with speculation. “This would be devastating for England if the relic falls into the wrong hands.”
What the deuce was the duke asking of him? “I’m not as familiar with the project as I should be. Does Basselton have this relic?”
Rathesborne made a sound of annoyance. “Why do I bother to hand you a dossier before each mission if you never read it?” When Jonathan didn’t respond—after all, what was there to say? —the duke continued. “Project Regeneration has to do with the Chalice of Christ. The fact that this relic is either missing or not found yet is concerning.”
Shock gripped his chest and he stared harder at the other man. “You’re sending me to Spain for this foolishness?” This was what Miles spent his time doing, digging through the dust of the ages, risking his life for bits of history that may or may not have magical or supernatural properties attached. “I am not a treasure hunter.” He more preferred to fight his way through to the problems. “Ask Miles to do it. It would tie into his bit with the Lancelot Stone. This chalice is little more than legend, not fact.” That quest for the stone had almost gotten them all killed. He refused to chase fairytales. It wasn’t who he was.
“Then consider this a fantastic opportunity to grow as a person. Expand your skill set. Myths, legends, and fairytales were often rooted in truth, Trewellain.” The duke didn’t reveal anything else regarding his opinions, but he did narrow his eyes, and those hazel slits flashed, whether in annoyance or amusement, Jonathan couldn’t tell. “As for Miles’ availability, you know he goes to India on another matter—one of equal importance.”
“Right. Some gammon about a missing debutante.” He rolled his eyes.
“Yes, well, there is more to the story too, but you weren’t briefed about that.”
“No. Instead I get this bit of make believe.” He blew out a breath. “In all honesty, Your Grace, this mission isn’t a good use for my talents.” He couldn’t imagine spending time cooling his heels in musty old libraries.
“A king’s agent must be well-versed in a variety of topics and be willing to serve wherever England has need. Never say you have turned cowardly since your injury.”
Low blow, that, and no doubt the duke knew it. Jonathan cleared his throat. “I have not. I’m just as able as anyone.”
“Good to hear.” This time Rathesborne chuckled. “There have been rumors circulating through some of my European contacts that Basselton absconded with some of the lost Spanish crown jewels, and that he made it as far as Madrid before fate or malice intercepted him.”
A prickling sensation crept up t
he back of his neck, making the hair on his nape stand on end. Surreptitiously, he glanced about the immediate area, but there was no one person amidst the bustling dock who deliberately stared at him. “Forgive me for being dense, Your Grace, but am I after the jewels or the relic?” Knowing the duke, this whole mission would be a nightmare to unravel.
“If possible, both. As well as locating Basselton. The jewels are, of course, irreplaceable, but if you must make a decision and happen to uncover the relic, the chalice takes precedence.”
Jonathan grunted. “Do you truly believe a mere cup that may or may not have been used by Christ at the Last Supper has the power to…” To what? His knowledge regarding legends and lore was as lacking as his dossier reading. Or writing up mission reports.
I’m who they send in to clear a path for men like Miles. I don’t have the intellect for this gammon.
“…to give whomever drinking from it invincible power. Even the ability to heal, as some of the stories indicate.” The duke cleared his throat. “At least for a small period of time. Perhaps a few days. Then the effects wear off. It can only be used by each drinker once, and even then, if that person’s intentions in using the relic are not for their own gain. Otherwise, such god-like power will destroy from within.”
Of course it would. “But not before they can wreak havoc with a small, specialized army.” Imagine if such a relic were found and used by a strike team who then attempted to storm the houses of Parliament. Or even go after the king. Damnation. Mayhap it wasn’t as far-fetched as I first thought. Jonathan rubbed a gloved hand along his jaw. “What does it look like?”
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