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LONDON’S Wicked AFFAIR
ANABELLE BRYANT
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Teaser chapter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Anabelle Bryant
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4643-1
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4644-8
eISBN-10: 1-4201-4644-0
For my parents,
who have always reminded me
I can accomplish anything if I believe in myself
And for David and Nicholas,
who prove—every day—home is where
my heart beats strongest
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have so much gratitude for my brilliant and amazing editor, Esi Sogah, for helping me fulfill my dream of publication. Your clever insight, unfailing guidance, and gracious advice mean the world to me. Thank you for believing in my work.
Thanks to everyone at Kensington Publishing and the hardworking, dedicated staff who are truly committed to excellence in all they do.
Finally, there is no way to adequately thank all my readers. My heartfelt appreciation to anyone who has e-mailed, tweeted, commented, or connected with me on social media. Your generous support has made all the difference.
Chapter One
London, England, 1817
Matthew Strathmore, Earl of Whittingham, examined the array of puzzle pieces strewn across the mahogany table positioned near the paned glass windows of his study. A map of the world awaited his skill and attention. With a satisfied grunt, he completed another portion of the puzzle and reached for what could be Sicily as much as Sardinia, when a knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
“Milord, you have a caller.” The butler stood within the door frame without his customary salver in hand.
“Thank you, Spencer. Has the visitor presented a card?” Whittingham turned and stepped forward, his limp pronounced as he maneuvered with care.
“He did not, nor did he offer his name.”
“Then I have no time.” The earl retrieved his cane from where it rested against the desk and spared a glance, intent on progressing further with the puzzle before he focused on more purposeful matters.
“Milord?”
Spencer’s tone gave him pause and he angled toward the butler in curiosity. “Yes?”
“The gentleman requested I offer this if you refused him admittance.” The servant advanced, a suede pouch in his gloved palm.
“What the devil?” Whittingham snatched the bag from the servant’s extended hand and spilled the contents. His sharp gasp overrode the foreboding chime of the hallway clock as a wave of recognition gripped him. “Show him up at once.”
The butler walked with brisk steps toward the door.
“Hurry, Spencer, before the gentleman takes his leave.” Whittingham barely recovered his composure before the Duke of Scarsdale entered. Then a devilish smile broke loose and he embraced his friend in a hale and hearty welcome.
“Scarsdale, I can’t believe my eyes.” They moved apart, shook hands, and the ten years separating their last visit evaporated as if it never existed.
“Nor can I. You, more than anyone, know how much I despise this city.”
His reference to the turn of events that sent Lunden Beckford, third Duke of Scarsdale, as far from England as possible, charged the air with unresolved tension, but Whittingham refused to allow it to taint their visit. He was much relieved to see his old friend and harbored no ill feelings despite how society viewed Scarsdale’s unexplained voluntary exile.
For a moment, no one spoke and then Matthew reached for the pocket watch where it rested on his desktop and slipped it into the suede pouch. He offered it with a solemn exhale.
“Thank you.” The two words expressed volumes as Lunden returned the pouch to his trousers pocket.
Matthew leaned against the front of his desk and with a wag of his chin, indicated his friend take a chair. “Brandy? Or have you sworn off the poison?” He looked toward the liquor cabinet. “Last time we were together, you were drunk out of your wits.”
“Don’t look at me that way. You were equally impaired.” Lunden declined with a nod. “Besides, you didn’t expect me to sink to the bottom of a bottle and stay there for ten years, did you?” He shifted in his chair and his gaze traveled down Matthew’s left leg, then upward along the curve of the cane.
“I do all right, you know.” Matthew offered no further reassurance, and none was warranted. “So, why have you returned?”
“My solicitor transferred the ducal title and all entailments after my brother’s death, but Douglas had som
e sort of damnable clause added to the paperwork in regard to his town house. I’ve allowed the property to be leased since I abandoned London, but the tenant has created a problem and I can no longer wait for solicitors and their legalities to unravel the mess. I want to sell it and detach from this city forever.”
“No doubt you’ll be able to resolve it with your solicitor’s assistance now that you’re here.” Matthew walked to the cabinet intent on a drink. “Perhaps your brother had a specific reason for the clause. I think of him often. Douglas was a good man.”
“Yes, he was.” Lunden touched his fingers to the suede pouch secured in his pocket.
Matthew didn’t wish to resurrect dead memories and silence descended like a heavy rock thrown into a deep puddle. “So how can I help? Do you need a place to stay?” He carried his brandy in one hand, his cane in the other, and took a seat behind the desk. “You’re welcome to live here as long as needed. I would enjoy the company.”
* * *
Lunden viewed his friend, as convivial as always, and a sliver of long-lost reminiscence pricked his conscience. He might loathe the city, but he missed companionship of friends, no matter his chosen isolation. For years he’d declined every invitation sent to his country estate until the few friends he’d possessed stopped requesting his attendance. And no fault could be found. He made it clear he wanted no part of fine society and did not still. Once the business at the bank concluded, he planned to return to Beckford Hall and exercise permanent rustication.
“I do need a place to stay. Thank you. It will be hellish trying to keep a low profile, but that’s my hope.” The Whittingham town house was situated on Cleveland Row, adjacent to Pall Mall, and not nearly as discreet as he’d prefer, but his choices were limited to one in number. “Do me a favor though and keep my presence here under wraps.”
“Done. I will place the staff on notice. The servants have no need to know your name or purpose.”
Matthew leaned back in his chair and for a fleeting moment Lunden thought he detected the beginning of a grin.
“Perhaps you would grant me a favor in return.”
His friend was an astute thinker, even as a lad. There was no way Lunden could deny him; Matthew had taken a bullet to the leg defending his honor. “Of course. Name it.”
Matthew briefly flashed a smile. “Excellent. Allow me to explain. My parents have retired to Lakeview. Father struggles with his breathing at times and the city air proves damp and dense. They’ve seen decades of Seasons and no longer desire the social obligations, most especially with Father’s health in question. To that end, they’ve asked me to find Amelia a husband.”
“Amelia.” Lunden hadn’t thought of Matthew’s sister in a number of years. He remembered her as a willful chit, more vinegar than sugar, with remarkable green eyes. The kind of eyes that distracted a man so thoroughly, the unsuspected soul never realized she’d kneed him in the groin until scorching pain shot through his lower body. He cleared his throat and said, “How very fine,” although his inner voice screamed, Good luck with that.
“To no surprise, my sister proves unwilling to cooperate. We are like oil and water, always have been, and I suspect she resists my matchmaking attempts for no other reason than to vex me. Meanwhile, Mother desires results and she worries Father will find scant peace until he sees Amelia settled.”
A shadow of unease enveloped the room and Lunden ran a hand along his jaw in an attempt to relieve the sudden tension. “What are you asking me to do?”
A second panicked question rose to mind, but he did not lend it voice. Was Matthew asking him to wed his sister? It couldn’t be true. All London thought the worst of him. No man would want a scourge for a brother-in-law.
An insufferable silence ensued until at last Matthew replied. “Help me. I’m at wit’s end. Find her a husband or facilitate the process. I need her married and out of my hair. The sooner, the better. Life is complicated enough without Amelia’s difficulties.”
“And how am I to accomplish this and likewise remain undetected? I’ve been gone for a decade and everyone in this city thinks poorly of me. Once society gets wind I’ve returned . . .” With a twinge in his chest, he recalled how polite condolences after his brother’s unexpected death became veiled inquiries into the circumstances of the accident, and then later transformed into invidious questions and blunt accusations of the vilest nature.
“I’m not asking you to escort her to a ball.” Matthew appeared to warm to the idea. “Just help her realize she’s fighting an unwinnable battle. She needs to be married, and although I’m not convinced she’s opposed to the idea, she objects to any gentleman who pays her favor. Influence her. She hung on your every word when we were children.”
“Well, we’re all grown up now. I haven’t seen her in years.” Lunden doubted he could serve any real purpose in the plan. “You’re asking me, a notorious blight suspected of murder and collusion, to somehow remain in the background and achieve a small miracle?”
Matthew grinned. “I’ve always believed you invincible.”
“Foolish notion.” Lunden shifted in his chair. “I hadn’t planned on staying in the city overlong.”
“Those are my terms. Take it or leave it.” Matthew stood and took a few steps, his limp a constant reminder of the heroic deed for which he’d paid a heavy price. “Besides, if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish the task with ease and we’ll all be the better for it.”
A remembrance of those very same words echoed in his empty chest and Lunden swallowed past the lump in his throat. Matthew was one of the few friends who didn’t ostracize him after the sketchy details surrounding Douglas’s death became public. How difficult could it be to see his sister matched? He’d make quick work of marrying her off to the first bloke who proposed and then pursue his personal plans.
“Agreed.” Lunden took a deep breath and extended his hand for a firm shake.
With more agility than he’d shown earlier, Matthew rounded the desk and rifled through papers spread across the felt blotter. “My mother composed a list for me. I’m sure it will assist.”
“Brilliant. Candidates will make the matter much easier.” Lunden’s apprehension waned. Perhaps he was getting worked up for nothing.
“Not candidates.” Matthew laughed a deep rumble. “If it were that easy, I’d have undertaken the task myself. Now here it is.” He pulled a sheet of foolscap from a long drawer. “It lists the qualities Mother insists her son-in-law possess. By my guess she assumed I would marry Amelia to the first bloke who proposed and then move on.” He aired a wry smile. “What little confidence she has in me. Anyway, here it is.”
Lunden accepted the paper with trepidation. He scanned it with a flick of his eyes and then folded it to place inside the left breast pocket of his waistcoat. “Anything else?”
“Just a thought. When you consider candidates, you should avoid Lord Trent. He would not be amendable. Last month, Amelia set his crotch on fire.”
“Pardon?” Lunden’s bottom half tightened involuntarily and he shifted in his chair. Again.
Matthew’s expression wavered between humor and exasperation. “We recently attended a dinner party where I planned to pursue my mother’s objective. Through no easy manipulation I changed Amelia’s seat assignment to a position adjacent Lord Trent. Not only is he a respected peer, but he manages his estate masterfully and is rarely seen out of form. A perfect candidate.” Matthew paused for a short breath. “My sister can be charming at times and I hoped she’d become smitten with the young earl, as most other ladies fawn at Trent’s every word.
“The dinner was going well, at least I believed so, and the conversation turned to social news. I was thrilled. Surely the Fates were smiling on me. Unfortunately, Trent in a brain lapse I cannot explain to this day, commented that women won all the benefits of marriage, while men were doomed to a future of henpecking.
“Amelia sprung from her chair with such vehemence she dislodged the silver epergne at
the center of the table and it tumbled forward, dropping six burning candles into Lord Trent’s lap. Had I not reacted so swiftly and doused him with the contents of the water pitcher, the man would have no hope of propagating a future heir.”
Lunden cleared his throat. Twice.
“Needless to say, I wouldn’t bear him in mind.” Matthew turned to where his ongoing puzzle lay spread in hundreds of pieces. “It will take a unique man to appreciate Amelia’s adventurous spirit.”
“Is that how you label it?” Lunden joined him beside the table and assessed the project strewn before them. “Is there anyone else I should avoid?”
“Lords Riley and Lennox.” Matthew placed a piece into the Atlantic Ocean near the edge of the new continent. “That should be everyone.”
“Clever how you’ve foisted this task onto me because you detest it yourself.” Lunden watched as his friend fitted three more pieces in succession to form a short portion of Egypt’s border. Egypt; now there was a place far from the painful memories found in London and the foolish endeavor he’d agreed to accomplish. The puzzle offered myriad escape opportunities.
“You’ll do better at it. Amelia resists my suggestions before she considers them, simply because I’m her sibling. She gainsays me at every turn.”
“Shall I tell her that you’ve engineered this Machiavellian plot? If she’s as sharp-witted as I recall, she’ll discover the truth without difficulty.”
“I’ll leave Amelia in your capable hands. I trust you. You’re like a brother to me.”
It was a poor choice of words and the look of dismay on Matthew’s face confirmed he regretted the statement, but the sentiment was well meant and Lunden wouldn’t allow his friend remorse.
“Now show me to my rooms, before I reconsider and flee this house.” Lunden waited for no further remarks and aimed for the doorway with purposeful strides.
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