“Two days out from Christmas Eve, and he tosses me into the street. What sort of father does that, I ask you?” replied Harry.
“One whom you have pushed to the limits of his good humor from the day you first drew breath?” offered Monsale.
He couldn’t expect sympathy from his friends. They knew all the wicked things Harry had got up to over the years, including the ones which had escaped his father’s notice.
“I know, but this is Christmas. I didn’t think he would do it, let alone during the festive season,” said Harry.
And who is going to get all that lovely pork crackling and roast beef on Christmas Eve? Not to mention the sweet Brussels sprouts. Not me.
Being excluded from the grand family dinner was the biggest blow of them all. He could just taste the thick, rich gravy as it drowned his peas and carrots.
“It is done, and no amount of grizzling will do you any good. Come on. We have work to do,” said Monsale. He put a comforting arm around Harry’s shoulder and ushered him through a nearby door.
“Good Prince Hal!” came the cry.
Harry chuckled. If he had a penny for every time Shakespeare had been quoted at him, he wouldn’t be in this mess. As it was, he was closer to a pauper than a prince this morning, but it was still comforting to know that his friends considered him worthy of their jests.
Seated at a long, grime-covered table were three other men. Sir Stephen Moore, Augustus Trajan Jones, and The Honorable George Hawkins. None of them seemed the least fazed by Harry’s disheveled appearance.
Monsale walked over to Augustus Jones and held out his hand. “Pay up, Gus. The old man finally did it.”
Gus’s mouth opened as wide as a trout caught on a hook. “Oh well, it’s taken ten long years for me to have to pay out the bet, so I consider it money well spent.”
With a flourish, he handed over a pound note, which Monsale quickly perused before putting into his own pocket. No one remarked over the sight of a duke checking his friend’s money for any possible signs of forgery. Only a fool took a banknote on face value.
Sir Stephen Moore waved a hip flask in Harry’s direction, and Harry took it without hesitation. This morning called for the hair of the dog.
Harry dropped into the empty, dusty chair between Stephen and George, and downed a large mouthful of whisky.
“Right, now that we are all here, let’s get the inaugural meeting of the RR Coaching Company underway,” said Monsale.
“RR Coaching Company?” replied Gus.
Harry grinned. It had been his idea to call their new and barely legal endeavor after an old moniker which his father had attached to him and his friends.
“We could hardly openly call ourselves the Rogues of the Road Coaching Company,” said Monsale.
The tatty old stables and grounds of what had once been a successful coaching business would be the perfect front for their new enterprise.
Monsale nodded. “Harry?”
Harry put down the hip flask and got to his feet. He might well be the one with the least amount of money in his pocket, but this plan had been spinning around in his head for several years.
He cleared his throat. “If this was a formal company meeting, someone would be taking minutes, but I expect none of us want anything we discuss to be put in writing. Firstly, may I thank you all for investing your hard-earned blunt in this venture. I know most of us don’t have more than one or two pennies to rub together.”
He gave a quick sideways glance at Monsale. The Duke of Monsale was wealthy, but also tightfisted with his coin. His parsimonious nature was evident in the state of the premises he had secured for the group’s new venture.
“And while the current state of this place is not going to give Carlton House a run for its money, it will, however, furnish us with a front for our less reputable activities until we can get the coaching service properly established.”
While Monsale helped to provide a respectable façade to the fledgling coaching business, the rest of the group would continue to fund its development by way of their secret business dealings. Gus smuggled goods into Britain on board his yacht, the Night Wind. George helped to find new homes for items of dubious ownership. And Stephen had dealings in the murky world of revenge and personal vendettas.
He didn’t need to give voice to what they all were likely thinking. At some point in the future, a crisis would occur, and they would have to find a respectable way to earn money. But that day was not today. The RR Coaching Company was their safe retreat for the time being.
Harry dusted the front of his coat but didn’t bother making too much of an effort. There was every chance he would be sleeping on the floor of this place tonight, or in the stables.
“And what will be my contribution to the RR Coaching Company, you quietly ask yourself? Well, London society thinks it knows everything about my scandalous lifestyle, but in truth, I have only ever allowed a tiny portion of it to become public. I pride myself on being able to manage my image. So, I have decided that instead of creating scandals, I am going to get other people to pay me in order to make theirs go away.”
He was going into the dirty-deeds business.
Monsale clapped his hands. “Lord Harry Steele, the man who knows scandals better than anyone. I shall personally recommend you to all my friends who need their naughty secrets kept.”
Harry would maintain his personae of ‘society wild boy,’ while at the same time taking on clients who had got themselves into a spot of serious trouble and who would gladly pay for his expertise. Who better to keep a lid on the bubbling scandals of the ton than someone who not only understood London society, but who had seen its wicked, sinful underbelly?
His other friends joined in the applause.
Stephen patted him on the back. “Harry, you are a genius.”
Harry grinned. “Was there ever any doubt?”
Chapter 1
Eleven months later
Alice North stood out the front of number 16 Grosvenor Street, London, and quietly swore under her breath. “How the bloody hell has it come to this?”
In her hand, she held a small card. She glanced at it, still uncertain as to whether she was doing the right thing.
Scandals managed. Secrets kept. Cash retainer required. Instalments as per contract.
16 Grosvenor Street, London
What kind of man would run a business which specialized in such matters? If the twenty-page nondisclosure agreement she had been made to sign before receiving the business card was any indication, more than likely, he was the wrong sort.
She turned, mind half made up to get back into the carriage and head home, but the thought of her sister stopped her. Alice was fast running out of options, and if she didn’t do something soon, all could be lost.
“Come on. Let’s have you,” she muttered.
She let out a long, slow breath, and considered the front of the house once more. It was an elegant, cream-fronted Georgian-period establishment. The generous width of the house afforded it five window bays and . . .
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop worrying about the architecture, and go knock on the door!”
A hurried glance around showed no one to be within hearing distance of her, but the fact that she was talking to herself had Alice fearing for her sanity.
An extremely tall, solidly built man dressed all in black answered the door, and Alice’s heart immediately sank. Had there been a death in the family? The way her luck was running this morning, it wouldn’t surprise her in the least if she had turned up at the exact same time as the undertaker.
“Yes.” He looked at Alice down the length of his nose as he spoke.
She scowled. That was not the usual way for a servant to address a visitor. The man’s demeanor bordered on rude. “I. Hmm. I came about . . . oh,” she stammered.
I knew this was a stupid idea.
The man held out a hand, clicking his fingers impatiently at her. “Do you have a card?” he snapped.
Without thinking, Alice offered him the simple white card she had been holding onto with grim determination since leaving home a short while earlier.
The butler took one look at the card and loudly sighed. “I meant your card.”
She fumbled in her reticule as heat raced to her cheeks. Where was a card case when you needed it in a hurry?
“Ah,” she said, and pulled out her calling card.
He took it, barely glanced at it, and with a disinterested wave, beckoned Alice into the house. She gritted her teeth, fighting the temptation to call him out on his impertinence. Her mother most certainly would have done so and then had words with his employer.
“Thank you,” she said.
Why am I thanking this man?
The door was closed, and without another word, the butler promptly turned on his heel and headed upstairs, abandoning Alice in the foyer.
She softly tutted to herself. “What a morning.”
Doing her best to calm her temper, Alice took in the downstairs area. It was nothing to write home about. Plain black and white checkered tiles. The walls were painted cream and unadorned. It could have been the entrance to any one of a hundred other homes in London. The resident of this house clearly didn’t care for adding any personal touches.
She waited.
The butler hadn’t even offered for her to sit somewhere.
And she waited.
I wonder what the cook has planned for luncheon today. I am famished.
She was humming a tune softly to herself when the butler finally reappeared at the top of the stairs. He made his way to her in an unhurried fashion. Alice bit back a remark about his lack of manners. Now was not the time to take the man to task.
“His lordship is ready to receive you,” he announced.
Lordship? When did things get so bad that nobles had to take up paid employment?
Upstairs, Alice was shown into a drawing room and finally offered a seat. With as much grace as her tired feet would permit, she settled into an overstuffed purple sofa. The cushions were so soft that she immediately sank into them, leaving her lying prone, staring at the ceiling.
Ruddy hell, this is ridiculous. I really shouldn’t have come here.
She waited until the butler had left the room before struggling out of her pillowed prison and getting to her feet. She gave the sofa a disapproving look then headed over to the window. The curtains were closed and the room poorly lit.
It’s eleven o’clock. Who keeps the drapes drawn at this hour?
How anyone expected to conduct business in such a strange room was beyond her.
Taking one of the deep red sashes in hand, she pulled it back and hung it over a window hook. She reached for the other curtain.
This rogue had better be worth every penny that I’ve given him. She was already regretting having bothered to wait, fearing this was not going to help her cause in the least.
“Ow! Ow! What the devil are you doing? Are you trying to kill me?”
She whirled round and her gaze fell on a dark-haired man standing a yard or so away. He had moved so silently; she hadn’t heard him enter the room and come up behind her.
His left hand was held to his face, covering his eyes. Alice suspected that the only reason he hadn’t put both hands to his face was because of the small piglet he had tucked under his right arm.
Not for the first time this morning, Alice found herself scowling at a male of the species. A man who was adorned in a yellow-and-green-floral dressing gown. This house seemed inhabited by the most peculiar of men. And pigs.
The piglet gave her a friendly snort, instantly winning the most-welcoming-member-of-the-household award.
Why is he holding a pig?
“The window. Sunlight. Woman, have you no sense of pity for a man in pain?”
“What you do mean you are in pain?” she replied, her gaze moving from the animal to its outrageously dressed owner.
With a huff, he pushed past her and took a hold of the drape. She sensed he was about to let it fall back and cover the window, but to her surprise, he didn’t.
He gripped the curtain tightly in his hand, then let out a tired sigh. “You obviously have never suffered from a hangover, and therefore have no understanding of the hell that one is. I shall give you the grace of your lack of knowledge, but only this one time.”
“Thank you. I think,” she replied.
Why am I thanking people who are unconscionably rude to me?
This so-called lord clearly hadn’t bothered to suffer through any sort of instruction as to how one should behave in the company of a lady. His education in that sphere was sadly lacking. Alice had a sudden inkling as to where his butler had gotten his prickly sense of self-worth from.
Patience. This is more important than your pride. Remember what is at stake.
There was an awkward moment of silence, during which time their gazes were locked in a silent battle. Alice determinedly stared the outrageously dressed hungover fool down. He was not going to get the better of her.
The task was, however, made a little easier by the wonder of his light-green eyes. They held all the promise of a lush meadow on a summer’s day. Well, except for the red rim around the edges that did him no favors.
He finally looked at the pig, softly chuckling while he gave the animal a friendly pat. Bending, he set the piglet gently on the floor and it scampered away.
“Lord Harry Steele at your service. Miss . . . what was your bloody name again?” he asked, thrusting out a hand.
“Miss Alice North,” she ground out.
Lord Harry Steele? Oh no, I’ve heard of him. He is a scandalous disgrace.
Little wonder the contract she had signed hadn’t mentioned him specifically by name—rather it had only referred to him as being the party of the first and her as the party of the second.
I am an utter fool.
Alice took a hold of his offered appendage and gave it a hard squeeze. If nothing else, this pompous ass would remember her when she was gone. She was already making plans to forget this morning.
What a pity it was him. There goes that small ray of hope. Now I will have to look for another way to deal with this mess.
Lord Steele was busily wincing over his crushed fingers and barely managed a nod in response. When Alice finally released him from her vise-like grip, he studied his hand.
“That’s a good shake you have there, Miss North. Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he said.
Alice finally saw an opening. “Actually, you are already in my black book. Your butler is unbelievably rude, and you, Lord Steele, have a good deal of my money.”
All humor disappeared from his face. Her father was big in trade and always talked about the ‘aha’ moment in contract negotiations. The point where the other party finally understood that you were deadly serious and were done with bandying words and dealing.
Money always speaks loudest.
“You have paid me a retainer?” he replied.
“Yes. And to use your uncouth language, a bloody big one. I came here today because apart from receiving your business card, I haven’t heard a thing since my footman delivered the money and the signed contract to number eighty-two Gracechurch Street three days ago.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Impatient little minx, aren’t you?”
“Say what you want, Lord Steele, but time is not something I have in abundance,” she bit back.
He winced. “Oh, no. Please don’t tell me you are pregnant.”
Alice’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open in shock. “What? How dare you. I mean, you . . .”
He waved her protests away as if asking an unmarried woman about an inconvenient pregnancy was something, he did every other day. She had a horrid feeling that it probably was.
“Good. Though if you were knocked up, I would have expected you to have dissolved into tears the second you laid eyes on me. Believe me, Miss North, I can deal with most scandals, but unwanted by-blows
are the worst. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I have had to hold a pistol to the head of a reluctant father-to-be in order to convince him of the need for a speedy wedding,” he replied.
“Lord Steele, I assure you I am not in the family way,” she replied.
“Harry. Only those trying to curry favor with my father call me Lord Steele. Not that it does them any good. I couldn’t be further from the Duke of Redditch’s purse if I tried.”
His father was a duke and yet he was handling people’s scandals for money; what sort of reprobate had she given her precious funds over to?
Harry stepped forward and took hold of Alice’s hand. He slipped the glove from her fingers, then bent and placed a soft, warm kiss on her fingertips. A shiver raced down her spine.
“I have come about my sister, Patience. I am certain I made that clear in the note I sent along with the money and paperwork,” she said, trying to maintain her focus.
When he lifted his head and their gazes met once more, he gave her a gentle smile. “My apologies. While I may appear to be a tad flippant, I can assure you that I looked into your case. The fact that you have my card with my home address on it proves that I am serious about this matter. These things often take a little time at the outset, hence my lack of communication.”
I don’t suppose you getting blind drunk had anything to do with it. What have I signed myself up for?
With a flourish, he handed her the glove. “Now, I have it on good authority that you will be at Viscount and Lady Ashton’s ball this evening, as will your darling sister, Patience,” he announced.
His words left her stunned. The decision to attend the ball had only been made late the previous evening, the formal RSVP having been sent just before Alice left home.
“How on earth did you discover our plans for tonight?” she asked.
Who is this Lord Harry Steele?
She got the merest hint of a raised eyebrow in response to her question. Alice found herself challenging her first take on him. For all his eccentric behavior, it would appear that there was a good deal more to this man than floral garments and piglets.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 2