Dread of The Earl (The Valiant Love Regency Romance) (A Historical Romance Book)
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DREAD OF THE EARL
THE VALIANT LOVE
REGENCY ROMANCE
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE BOOK
DEBORAH WILSON
COPYRIGHT AND ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright © 2019 by Deborah Wilson
All Rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this book in any form or by any electronic means without written permission from the author. Recording of this book is strictly prohibited. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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* * *
London
June 1819
Kent Harris, the Earl of Ganden, opened the first door he found, looked around at the empty space, and then slipped inside. He sighed as the door closed behind him. The sound of the cheering, music, and laughter faded beyond the walls.
He moved farther into the drawing room and then took a seat by the fire. Closing his eyes, he pulled in one long breath after another, trying to relax.
He’d been very close to punching a few lords in the face. Very close to picking the most annoying one of them all up and tossing him out the window.
As the thought formed vividly in his mind, it soothed him. He could almost hear the shattering glass that would cause the party to fall into silence. Sweet silence.
Hazel eyes flashed in his mind. Warm. Inviting.
Kent’s eyes shot open. His heart raced. His body responded to the promise that had been in her gaze. After two years, the woman still had that effect on him.
Harlot.
It wasn’t her real name, but it was the only one she’d ever given him. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. “Where are you?” he whispered into the room.
When there was no response, he felt every muscle in his neck stiffen. Had he been home, he might have broken a glass or two and simply listened to the echo of destruction as it rang through his mind. But he couldn’t do that here. He needed to control himself. He needed peace.
He thought of something else. Anything else.
Grass. Trees. Cool water.
He was nearly calm when the door opened and four men came in, one right after the other.
Two months ago, if anyone had asked him if he’d had friends, he’d have choked them for such a personal question and told them no. Now, he could say he had four.
He met their eyes and told himself to remain calm. “Gentlemen.”
The Duke of Astlen took a position on the wall. “I’m quite proud of you. I thought surely, Lord Hobbin would have been flying through the window after his questions.” His smile reached his brown eyes.
Hobbin had been asking the five of them about their captivity. Two years ago, they’d all been prisoners of a madman, taken because of their wealth and their titles, and chosen because few would miss them.
Kent’s anger made many men fear him.
“Hobbins was very close to discovering whether he could fly,” Kent admitted.
“But you didn’t toss him out,” the Marquess of Denhallow said as he picked up a chair and moved it to sit directly across from Kent. Taking the seat, he asked, “Why didn’t you?”
Many found it hard at first to meet Denhallow’s eyes, and not because they were a wild black but because of the scars that ran down his face. They were little more than silver lines now, but two years ago, when they’d been fresh, they’d been hideous.
Kent shrugged. “It’s not my house. I didn’t want to pay for the glass.”
The Marquess of Fawley laughed. He’d taken a position at Kent’s back. He leaned against the chair’s high back as he smiled down at Kent. “I’m surprised something as simple as that stopped you.”
“I also didn’t wish to make the party about me.” Kent met Denhallow’s eyes. “Congratulations to you and your bride.” Denhallow’s wife was with child. The party was to celebrate the news. Only a dozen or so guests had been invited, yet Kent could barely stand any of them.
Except for the four men who stood in the room. They were the only ones who knew a hint of the pain that he had suffered.
These men and the woman from his past that he had yet to find.
The Viscount of Coalwater, the last of their group, said nothing as he moved to the fireplace, but his blue gaze remained on Kent.
Kent looked around at the men. “Did you all come looking for me?”
“Yes.” Denhallow said. “There is something I want to tell you.”
Kent stared at him as apprehension began to beat into his blood.
“I don’t think you should tell him.” Astlen said from where he seemed to be sleeping on the other couch.
“Tell me what?” Kent looked at Denhallow again.
Denhallow paused and then said, “I saw Harlot.”
Kent felt a hand pull him back. It was only then that he noticed he’d moved at all. He’d shot forward in his seat, likely about to attack Denhallow, but for what reason, he wasn’t sure.
Fawley held him on one side. Coalwater, who’d likely slipped over while Kent wasn’t paying attention, held his other side.
He looked
over and saw Astlen was sitting up, likely ready to jump in if the other two failed to hold him back.
“I told you he wasn’t ready.” Astlen said. “Don’t tell him.”
“I’ll kill you!” Kent shouted. “I’ll break your arm off and choke you with it.”
Fawley threw his head back and laughed. “Truly? I would like to see that.”
Denhallow glared at him and then at Kent. “Perhaps Astlen is right. You’re still too angry.”
“No! Wait.” Kent closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath. Then another. “I… I’m calm.”
Harlot. He was closer to finding her than ever before. Denhallow had the answers, and he needed them.
“Where is she?” Kent asked.
Denhallow leaned back in his chair. “Before I tell you…”
Kent held back a growl. He didn’t want to wait. He’d waited long enough. He wanted answers now.
Denhallow crossed his arms. “I want you to tell me why I should tell you where she is?”
“She’s mine!” Kent said.
“What for?” Astlen asked. “To kill? To love?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Kent said. “She is mine to deal with. Not yours! Not any of yours!” If they so much as touched a hair on her head…
“Tell me your connection with her, and I might tell you.” Denhallow said. “Otherwise, you can fight me all you want, but you’ll get nothing from me.”
Kent cursed. If there existed men as stubborn as him, they were all in that very room. “I… don’t wish to share it.”
“Then I won’t share what I know.” Denhallow stood.
Kent tried to as well, but three large men— because Astlen had his throat— were holding him down. “Wait.” He cursed again. “Fine, I’ll tell you.”
Denhallow sat again. “Start from the beginning.”
The noise of the party played softly in the silence.
Kent closed his eyes, cursed again, and then said, “No interruptions. No questions. I have a right to keep some things…private.”
Denhallow nodded. “Very well. Begin.”
Kent sucked his teeth. “It was four years ago.”
∫ ∫ ∫
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* * *
Somewhere in England
August 1815
Lady Lucy Newpark jumped as the door slammed behind her. Pressing herself into the corner of the kitchen, she watched as Mr. Goody removed his domino and began to pace.
The light from the fireplace played upon his scowling face. The wind whistled outside like an approaching storm, but it could barely be heard over the raging shouts coming from the basement.
The noise had started two days ago and had barely stopped since then. Yet unfortunately, the screams fell on deaf ears.
Outside, it was far too black a night for Lucy to see if a storm actually approached. Unlike the lights of London, the country, with its wide vast spaces, left one isolated.
The home Lucy stood in was far enough away from civilization so that no one could hear the screams and shouts that shook the walls. And none of the shouts she’d heard in the last two years compared to what she’d heard this week. The newest man Mr. Goody had brought was furious.
And he had every right to be. One didn’t usually enjoy being kidnapped, she supposed.
Mr. Goody stilled, catching her attention. Then he turned his gaze upon her. “Harlot.” That was his name for her. They’d decided when she first started working for him that he would never use her name as a way to save whatever remained of her reputation.
He’d bestowed the name “Harlot” upon her, and she’d not fought it.
She rarely fought anything he said or did…unless he was trying to make advances upon her. So far, she’d managed to avoid getting too close. Thankfully, he seemed far more interested in other things.
“Prepare tea for our new guest,” Mr. Goody said. “and lace it with enough opium to bring down a horse.”
Lucy took a deep breath and tried not to show either her fear or disgust for the man before her. “Why have you taken someone else? Why do you take people at all? I don’t understand.” Mr. Goody had already taken one man two years ago, a very young lord who he currently had chained to a bed upstairs.
She’d been glad to learn he didn’t use the boy for sexual reasons. Neither did he beat him severely enough to kill him or wound him terribly.
Yet, nothing made sense to her.
“It is not for you to understand, Harlot.” he sneered. “Lord Maltsby made it clear that you were do whatever it was that I needed you to do, without question. Otherwise, he’ll beat George. Is that what you want?” He smiled at the thought. “He’ll likely beat the boy severely enough to permanently injure him.”
“No.” Her lips trembled, and tears filled her eyes. George was her nephew, the son of Lord Maltsby and Lucy’s deceased sister, Jessica.
And if there was anyone she hated more than Mr. Goody, it was Lord Maltsby. The man owned her, because he was George’s father and Lucy would do anything to protect her nephew.
George was nothing more than a bastard to Lord Maltsby. How Jessica had thought she loved him, or trusted him enough to let him know about the boy, Lucy still didn’t understand.
Yet there she was, working so that she might spare George a life of pain and torture, working for a man who lived to do just that—torture people who had done nothing wrong.
“Who is he?” Lucy asked as she moved to fetch the kettle.
Mr. Goody was a young gentleman, yet Lucy had never met anyone so cruel. “I’ve caught the Earl of Ganden.” he told her, a smile in his voice.
An earl this time.
He already had a duke and viscount in his possession. The man was clearly growing a collection of lords.
Getting a tea pot, she moved to the cabinet. “Won’t someone come looking for him? He’s an earl.” She’d said the same thing when she’d discovered the duke. The viscount didn’t speak at all, so she wasn’t entirely sure anyone missed him.
She’d been in the house in the middle of nowhere for two years now, caring for the Viscount of Coalwater and the Duke of Astlen, which she found pretty easy to do. Coalwater, who was only seventeen, was a calm gentleman who did whatever it was Mr. Goody told him to do. Astlen was the same, seeming to do anything to avoid being punished by Mr. Goody. Lucy thought he might be trying to gain the man’s trust, but she wasn’t sure.
Both lords slept and ate when instructed. Coalwater nodded his agreement with whatever outlandish comment Mr. Goody made about himself, and Astlen gave Mr. Goody the praise he sought.
So, why did Mr. Goody need another?
Mr. Goody was obsessed with the ton. He very desperately wanted to be a part of the sacred fold but blamed his mother for being rejected from the balls and parties that took place during the Season. Mr. Goody’s father was Lord Goody, but his mother had been a maid before they wed.
Lucy didn’t think Mr. Goody’s parentage had anything to do with his being blackballed from Society. He was simply a horrible man.
“I’ll worry about whether people will come looking for the earl,” Mr. Goody said. “You just make sure he’s asleep by the time I return. I’ll never find peace with all that shouting.”
He left the kitchen, and Lucy took a calming breath. Her fingers shook as she arranged everything. Dousing the tea with opium made her stomach turn, but what else was she to do? If she disobeyed…
George was only five.
“I have to do this,” she whispered as tears slid down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
With the tray in hand, she left the kitchen and walked toward the door that led to the basement. The shouts grew louder with her every step. If Mr. Goody hadn’t told her that an earl was in the basement, Lucy would have thought he was harboring a wild animal.
“Let me out of here, you coward!” the man from below shouted. His voice was deep and full of rage.
Lucy swallowed and started down the stairs. Lamps burned along the way.
She was halfway down the stairs when she finally saw him. She stilled.
Chained to the stone wall was a bear of a man. He was large, his arms and legs the size of the columns. His face was twisted with a fierce cruelty. His eyes, a green that should promise life, whispered death deep into her blood.
Blood dripped from his lip and stained his rumpled shirt. His trousers were torn. Blood marked him everywhere. How many times had Mr. Goody beat this man?
He was kneeling. More chains cuffed his ankles and throat. The dark iron links held when he jerked toward her.
Still, Lucy screamed.
“Who are you?” His voice and stare demanded an answer.
She blinked and was surprised she’d not dropped the tea when she’d shouted. Taking a breath, she moved the rest of the way down the stairs and tried to figure out how she’d manage to get this man to drink the tea.
The Viscount of Coalwater, bless his heart, was a saint. Even Astlen held the charm she’d heard whispered about while living in London. They both seemed to understand that Lucy was just as much a prisoner as they were.
The only difference between her and them was that her chains were invisible. Yet they were just as strong.
Love bound her to her duties.
She took the final step into the basement and moved to a table in the corner of the room, giving her back to Mr. Goody’s new guest. The wind whistled again, and Lucy heard dripping in the room. A storm had begun, after all, yet she’d not heard it because of Ganden’s shouting and growling.
Luckily, it was August and the night would not be cold for the earl, though she doubted he’d be comfortable in his current position.
“I asked you a question.” the earl said.
She shivered, both fearful and strangely glad for his ability to fight. She’d never had the strength. Yet here he was chained, and he was resilient where she knew others would not be.
“Harlot.” she said. Coalwater had never asked for her name.
Astlen had in that first month when he’d tried to plot his freedom. Now, the duke knew better.
“Harlot?” Ganden asked. “Is that what your mother named you?”
She turned and looked at him.
“Or perhaps…” His eyes were cold. “You earned it somehow?”