Hardcastle shook away his friend’s hand. “Not another word, Dandridge, or so help me God, I will call you out for insufferable insolence!”
The other man drew back and stiffened. He was silent for a long moment, but then he said, “I will never fight you; you know that. But I am compelled to speak on, regardless of how you choose to hear me; if you thrash me for it, then so be it. I hope you will think before you destroy that poor fellow’s life, Lawrence, my old and valued friend. I just hope that there is some angel out there who will speak in your ear. What happened to you was not right, but it was a long time ago, and you need not visit your wrath upon other poor young fools.”
• • •
It was unconscionably early, considering how late he had been out the night before, but Hardcastle was ever punctilious in the pursuit of his rightful winnings. He rapped on the door to the young man’s suite with the silver head of his elegant ebony cane.
A very correct gentleman’s gentleman answered the summons and bowed before Hardcastle, who handed him a card.
“Tell your master that I have come to settle up our account.”
The man glanced at the card and said, “Lord Fossey has left London, my lord.”
“Left? What the devil do you mean?”
“He has gone, my lord. Just this morning.”
Fury welled up in him. Filthy, despicable, dastardly cheat! Above all things, he could not abide a sniveling, sneaking, lying knave.
The man looked at the card again and said, “I believe he left you a note, sir. If you will just wait one moment?”
Hardcastle could see into the room as the valet retreated. It was a wild confusion, as though Fossey had overturned all of his possessions as he scuttled off to his mouse hole. The man came back and handed Hardcastle a note, folded over many times and with Hardcastle scrawled in execrable penmanship on the outside. “Did he—”
But it was too late; the valet had already closed the door.
Outside the hotel, Hardcastle unfolded the letter.
My lord, it read. I know this is unforgivable, but circumstances are such that I must beg for time. I will be in contact. It was signed simply, Fossey.
Hardcastle crumpled it into a ball and tossed it down on the pavement with a sharp exclamation of disgust. Time? One did not ask for time, and Fossey must know it. No, the cawker thought he could weasel out of his rightful debt. He would soon learn to his detriment that one did not put off the Earl of Hardcastle with weak excuses and whimpering lies. He would pay his rightful debt or he would feel the tip of the sword.
Hours later, with nothing more than an overnight bag strapped to his horse, Hardcastle rode out of London in the brilliant light of the spring sun. So bright a day was it that it had pierced the perpetual gloom that shrouded London. The air, as he rode on Pegasus out of the city, certainly got noticeably cleaner as one moved away from the coal fires and miasma of horse dung, rotting vegetation and ineffable smell of “Thames” that clung to the city streets and alleyways like an expensive whore’s cloud of sandalwood. The earthy scent of ploughed fields and burgeoning green vegetation freshened the May air and Hardcastle found himself breathing in deeper, filling his lungs with the purifying draught of country breezes as he hastened his gait from an easy post to a more invigorating canter.
He always forgot how much he liked riding in the country when he was caught up in the frenetic pace of London living, and he would have enjoyed the day if it were not for that insufferable pup’s reneging on their bet. That rankled and nagged at him like an aching tooth.
If there was one lesson he had learned early and hard it was that a gentleman always told the truth and stood by his bets. To renege was as bad as to cheat. A man’s measure could be taken in the value of his word; he would hand on that bit of wisdom to the youngster, who would someday thank him for the knowledge about life’s cruelty.
He rode throughout the day, Pegasus gaining enthusiasm once he shook off the lethargy that immured him in London. Fossey’s country seat was in Oxfordshire, Hardcastle thought. He had some vague idea of where and trusted to the invaluable help of innkeepers along the way. With any luck, and the light of the full moon that would rise that night, he would make it to Fossey’s country seat by morning.
Lord, but it had been an age since he had ridden so long and so hard! Eventually even Pegasus, champion that he was, grew weary. Hardcastle stopped to sup at the Lazy Bullock, a Tudor inn on the other side of High Wycombe. The evening was a lovely one, mellow and mild, and he took his meal outside looking over a verdant valley while he slaked his thirst on a respectable home brew. The landlord, astute about the value of catering to one such as Hardcastle, and yet not obsequious at all, informed him, as he refilled the earl’s tankard, that he had heard of Baron Fossey’s estate. He thought it was some twenty miles or more northwest still.
Heartened by the shortened distance but still not quite sure where he was going, Hardcastle paid his shot and asked the most likely way to an inn close to the Fossey estate. Receiving directions to an inn called the Pilgrim’s Lantern in Ainstoun, a tiny village just north of Thame, Hardcastle retrieved Pegasus, who had, like his owner, been rested and well fed, and man and beast were soon both on their way.
The sun slid behind the undulating hills; for a while, as darkness enfolded him, Hardcastle feared he would have to stop. But the moon began her ascent as he clopped through the quiet streets of Thame, and by Luna’s shimmering light he made his way over the smooth-packed road until he came to the turnoff indicated by the innkeeper. This was the way, the man had indicated, to the Pilgrim’s Lantern in Ainstoun, where they would certainly be able to direct him to Baron Fossey’s estate.
Trees closed in the country lane like a vaulted ceiling in a caliginous cathedral, and Hardcastle had to slow his pace because of the encroaching gloom. Any sensible man, he supposed, would have stopped for the night and continued his journey on the morrow, but on this point he was not sensible. There was a bitter anger that roiled in his gut at the mere thought of being cheated, and he would not sleep; he knew that of himself. Still, he would not allow Pegasus to hurt himself out of haste, though he chafed at the delay their slower pace produced.
So he walked his mount down the thoroughfare. To pass the time he imagined the weak explanation Fossey would no doubt try to give him, seconds before the sound thrashing Hardcastle would deliver. He had thought the young man admirably collected considering that he had just lost his birthright, the Fossey baronial estate, but now he could see that the young man never intended to hand over the deed to the manor. Even then he must have been planning his flight, though how he thought it would benefit him, he could not imagine. He must know Hardcastle would pursue his rightful winnings, and that society—and yes, even the law—would support the earl.
He rode for another couple of hours, quickening his pace when he could, slowing when the trees closed in overhead. Surely the small village of Ainstoun would be somewhere close! Pegasus was weary after a daylong ride that broke the laziness of a London Season filled with little riding other than a trot down Rotten Row in the morn. But if beast was weary, man was even more tired. His back ached, his bones felt like they had been jolted from his skin, and every point of contact with the saddle chafed as though it was on fire.
He tried straightening his back, but it helped not one bit. Could it be he was getting older? Lord, but he hoped not. He would not descend into one of those sad-looking older men who still clung to their routine of going to the club and staying until dawn, becoming maudlin over a bottle of port while they reminisced about “the good old days” to any younger man who would listen. But what was he thinking? He was in his prime, barely into his thirties . . . well, his middle thirties. He could gamble and drink and wench all night long and still go riding at dawn. He had proved to be better at that sport even than his friend Byron, who became riotous and uncontrollable after a certain point, the second or third bottle of wine, while Hardcastle just became more disciplined and colder.
/> Ah, ahead there, it looked like a clearing. He leaned over Pegasus’s neck and peered into the gloom. Damned country lane was completely overgrown with trees. No doubt that was lovely and refreshing on a hot summer’s day, but in the middle of the night it was treacherous. Of course, roads were never meant to be traveled in the dark. Once he got to the clearing he could pick up the pace and get to this wretched little village. Mayhap he would bespeak a room for an hour’s nap after all and continue in morning’s light.
In anticipation, he kicked Pegasus into a more lively trot. He would do the damned deed—he was beginning to regret his impetuous nature, but he believed if a thing was to be done, it was best done immediately—and get back to London before anyone even knew he was gone. Would he tell of Fossey’s regrettable behavior? He hadn’t decided. To renege like that would get the cub tossed from all the clubs. But then, after paying his debt to Hardcastle, would he even be able to afford his club dues, especially once word had gone around town that he was beggared?
But that was not his concern. Fossey’s future was not his responsibility to fret over.
Finally he could see the clearing and a little house in the distance down the road, with a walled garden that abutted the road. Maybe he would stop and ask an early-rising maid the way to the inn. He was about to kick Pegasus into a gallop now that they were breaking out of the dimness of the wooded lane, when he heard a shout and two men leaped out of the brush into the road. Exhausted and nervous, Pegasus did the unthinkable and reared.
Hardcastle felt himself sliding, sliding, sliding out of the saddle and tumbling backward. Briefly he considered that he had not fallen from a horse since . . . actually, never.
As he hit the ground, he heard a voice call out in brutal accents, “Stand an’ deliver, mate!”
Classic Regency Romances
The Viscount’s Valentine
Viscount Blackthorne is better known as Blackheart, a notorious rogue with a reputation for seduction. Forced to flee London and a young woman’s irate father, he escapes to the wilds of Yorkshire hoping to rest, relax, and wait out the scandal. The last thing he expects to find in the country is the stunning beauty he first eyed twelve years ago, the one woman who captivated his heart and made him question his ways.
The widow Honey Hockley has given up on romance and settled into the quiet simplicity of her small Yorkshire village. Before marrying her infirmed husband, she had one sparkling night of a London Season, a night she’ll hold on to forever. But Honey’s peaceful days are shattered when a handsome and mysterious stranger comes to town, forcing her to question her decision to accept a life alone.
Upon meeting, attraction flares, and it’s only Honey’s fears and the Viscount’s reputation that keep them apart. So while Honey works to accept the possibility that life and love may yet hold some surprises for her, the Viscount works to clear his name and win over the one woman he believes can make him virtuous again.
A Rogue’s Rescue
Despite her vast wealth, Miss Ariadne Lambert, at the ripe old age of thirty-three, is a plain and aging spinster with little but a fading hope that a knight in shining armor will come to sweep her off her feet. Which makes her the perfect prey for the unscrupulous “Dapper” Dorsey, who would stop at nothing to seduce a needy and wealthy woman and then coldly fritter away her funds in the gaming halls of London. As Ariadne succumbs first to his wily charms and then to his kisses, will her need for affection rob her of her dignity—and her fortune?
Viscount Ingram, whose soiled reputation from one especially salacious incident has left him exiled to the sidelines of society, marks his time as a dark and brooding man, tolerated more for his title than his merit. But even he has his standards, and when he learns of a rival’s plot to seduce and then steal from a helpless spinster, he vows to stop him.
Ingram’s noble sentiments and uncharacteristic sincerity are in for a shock, however, as he discovers that the hopelessly gullible Ariadne is in fact a clever and shrewd woman who’s got more than a silly giggle up her sleeve. As the two team up in a devilish scheme to bring about the final undoing of Dorsey, cooperation turns to admiration and then attraction, and they discover that their last chance to repair their reputations may also be their first chance at finding true love.
A Scandalous Plan
Strong-willed and intelligent, Lady Theresa is tired of spending her days listening to the gossipy village spinsters talk about the mysterious gentleman who just moved into the village. Known to be headstrong, and happily unattached, she takes it upon herself to call on the new resident and find out if the awful rumors about his family are true.
The Honourable Mr. Martindale welcomes life as a recluse. A widower, he’s made his fortune and now hopes to dedicate his time to working the land and raising his two young children—free of interference from the locals. When Lady Theresa comes marching up to his door, it’s the last thing Martindale wants, a husband hunter who thinks she can tell him how to raise his children and, worse, how he should comport himself.
Yet before long Lady Theresa has worked her way into Martindale’s quiet life and hatched an outrageous plan to win the village’s approval for both the man and his unusual children. But what she fails to see is how badly the plan could backfire, or how it could jeopardize her own place in a family she has come to cherish—and in the heart of the man she has come to love.
Reforming the Rogue
With nowhere else to go, penniless Linnet Pelham is forced to take refuge with her sister in London, only to learn that her sister’s betrothal to Lord Cairngrove is the scandal of the ton. Never one to shy away from an unpleasant situation and convinced of the couple’s devotion, Linnet is determined to see them wed, if only she can persuade Cairngrove’s brother, Nic Barton.
Nic, a notorious rogue who is all too aware of his dashing good looks, is dead set on preventing his brother’s marriage. Even as he schemes to frighten Linnet’s sister into walking away from the engagement, he sets his sights on seducing the lovely Linnet with whispered promises of lessons in love.
But Linnet has a few lessons of her own to teach, and as the two match wits and spar over their siblings’ fate, the undeniable passion growing between them might force them both to learn the meaning of true love.
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Celestine Simons was of good family, but an untimely death and a shortage of funds forces the homely spinster to take a position as governess at the estate of Lord Langlow and his wife. Never one to bemoan her change in fortune, Celestine is content to spend her days raising and overseeing their children, knowing in her heart she will never have any of her own.
Lord St. Claire Richmond, Langlow’s brother, is a rogue and seducer, content to while away his days pursuing pleasure—and driving his brother and sister-in-law mad by reducing their female staff to lovelorn fools with his flirtations. When he learns on his annual Christmas visit that the drab Celestine was hired as governess solely to thwart his dalliances, he devises a scheme to both stir her heart and spite his family’s interfering ways.
But as his game unfolds, the cunning St. Claire discovers this conquest may be more challenging than expected when the thoughtful and intelligent Celestine begins to fire an ache in his own heart. And what began as an amusement to give the plain, timid miss an innocent thrill is turning into much more, as St. Claire realizes she may be the one giving him the thrill—and teaching him in a way only a governess can that real beauty lies beneath the surface and that true love is often found where you least expect it.
Noël’s Wish
Lady Ann Beecham-Brooke, better known as Lady Ice, was once a stunning young beauty, known for her piercing violet eyes and raven hair, but long years in a loveless marriage left her cold and aloof. Intent on steering clear of the London society she was once so much a part of, she’s reluctantly forced to seek help at a nearby estate when her carriage topples into a ditch on a deserted road.
Charles Montrose, Viscount Ruston, has had a
difficult life of his own. Left widowed by his one true love and raising a daughter alone, he now travels the world, aimlessly going from place to place in a futile effort to escape the pain of his loss. When the imperious Lady Ice shows up at his door, he finds himself attracted to this beautiful and hardened woman.
Driven by his attraction to the lovely Ann but daunted by her equally powerful rebuffs, Charles must devise a way to keep her at his estate long enough to delve deeper into the reasons for her frosty temperament. As Christmas approaches and Ann begins to lower her defenses and warm to the idea that Charles just might be as good a man and father as he appears to be, she wonders if she’s found the one person who can thaw her heart.
The Earl of Hearts
When Melony Farramond’s betrothed was disfigured in a horrific fire eleven years ago, she succumbed to her fears and terminated the engagement, unable to face the prospect of a long life with a crippled monster. Now a lonely spinster, she’s overcome by regret and wishes only to see him one more time, so that they might both put the past behind them.
Lord Hartley Kentigern was badly scarred in the fire that took the lives of his father and younger brother, and the tragedy became unbearable when his fiancée broke off their engagement soon after. Sinking deeper and deeper into a morass of cynicism and bitterness and haunted by a rejection he can never excuse, he now lives a solitary life on his estate, resigned to enjoying only fleeting comforts in the arms of an occasional willing woman.
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