From the Viscount With Love

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  From The Viscount With Love

  A "Tales From Seldon Park" Novel

  By Bethany M. Sefchick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016

  Bethany M. Sefchick

  All rights reserved

  To my friends at the Hiller Memorial Library

  This one is for you...

  Prologue

  Late May 1820

  The night had been nothing short of a major scandal. That much was certain. For once, Frost was eternally grateful that he had not been a part of it, able to watch the events unfold from the edges of the ballroom in silence with the air of amused detachment that was his hallmark.

  He was the very last person on Earth who would have thought that his old friend Lord Nicholas Rosemont, the estimable "Bloody" Duke of Candlewood, would fall prey to the parson's mousetrap. Oh, nothing was set in stone, of course, but even after the duke's abrupt departure from Lord and Lady Framingham's gala ball last night, it was still clear to all present that the duke was utterly infatuated with Framingham 's daughter, the delightful Lady Eliza. Knowing the duke as he did, Frost was quite certain that Candlewood would brood a bit over the incident but that in short order, he would do what was previously unthinkable and wed the chit. For the first time in his life, the duke was smitten and Frost knew the man well enough to be certain that the condition was permanent. Not to mention bloody annoying.

  The forthcoming nuptials would mean that Frost was about to lose one of his best whoring and drinking partners. Neither of them was much for gambling, so nothing lost there. And, of course, he was likely to see a good deal less of his old friend than he currently did. Rot and bother.

  Ah, well, there was little to be done for it, Frost supposed. After all, Candlewood did have a dukedom to secure and he had always known he would have to marry eventually. Just as Frost himself would in order to secure his own family's viscountcy. Even though he preferred not to think about that rather unpleasant fate at the moment, especially as he was only one and thirty. The day when he would succumb to being leg shackled was a long way off indeed, at least in his mind. His mother, of course, did not share that same point of view, but that was another issue entirely.

  In all good conscience, Frost could not countenance the idea of tying himself to one woman for the rest of his natural life. That very act seemed...well...un-natural to put it bluntly. It wasn't that Frost disliked women. In fact, some would argue that he liked them a little too well. His last mistress certainly would agree with that statement. She had not been amused when she discovered that she was not the only female warming Frost's bed. Even though she had been the only one he had been keeping in rather elaborate style in their "love nest," as his friend Rayne had termed the snug little townhouse on the edge of Mayfair and the fashionable district, that Frost kept for just such purposes. In fact, the woman had been rather vocal in her opposition to his "putting his cock where it ought not to go," as she had so charmingly phrased his penchant for bed hopping, particularly in the Covent Garden district where the courtesans were plentiful.

  After all, Frost was a gentleman, and he did not dally with the innocent. Or the young. Or widows. He did have some morals after all. Despite his rather horrid reputation, Frost was of the mind that if one flouted all the rules of Society completely, then Society - and possibly civilization itself - might cease to exist. That would simply not do at all. He had sisters. And a mother, of course. And they were more important to him than anything. Even whoring. Difficult as that was for some to believe.

  Now in the dim of night as he looked around Chillton House, his family's posh London town home, Frost wondered not for the first time in recent weeks what new changes the wind would blow his way before the Season ended, and he gave himself a sharp mental shake. He did not like change. In fact, he abhorred it. Often times greatly. Change, at least in his experience, often brought unpleasantness along with it. Sometimes, the unpleasantness wasn't quite so bad. After all, Marina, his previous mistress, had been convinced to find a new protector with just a diamond bracelet and matching earbobs. That had not been so difficult to tolerate.

  But when the unpleasantness was more drastic? Such as when his father had passed when Frost was but a young lad? That event had brought one disaster after another to his family's doorstep. Even now, Frost was uncertain how his family had managed to survive those ugly, early years after the previous Viscount Chillton had departed this Earth. But survive they had, and if nothing else, Frost had learned to be leery of change.

  It was one of the reasons he had delayed marriage as long as he had, even though rationally he knew that one day soon, his carefree, halcyon days as a bachelor would come to an abrupt end. Another change. One he was not particularly looking forward to, either. Oh, he would not mind the bedsport part. After all, he excelled in that particular area of life. But everything that came with having a wife? The responsibility? The respectability? The requisite children? All of those things made him shiver in his well-polished Hessians. No, that was far too much change for his liking.

  After all, Frost's life was one of debauchery. He was not just a rake. He was a scoundrel, at least in his own eyes if not in absolute truth. In fact, at least to some degree, many of his friends and family would argue that he was completely beyond redemption. He did not see the matter in precisely that way, but to each their own, he supposed.

  In truth, Frost preferred that people viewed him as a hopeless cause. At least most of the time, anyway. It made his life far easier if no one expected much from him. Therefore, when he did do something of note - which he accomplished quite frequently, thank you very much - people were always surprised and exceedingly pleased. He liked that particular way of things. In fact, at the moment, he rather liked his life in general.

  Frost answered to no one. Well, save perhaps for his sisters and his mother, but only because they depended upon him for their survival - and they were his family. No getting around that. And he didn't really answer to them so much as they badgered him relentlessly about his abysmal behavior until he made a vow to change his ways that he never really had any indication of keeping. Then again, they were his family. That gave them the right to badger him all they wished. It did not mean, of course, that he had to listen.

  But a wife? Well, that sort of female would be a different animal entirely. And now Lord Candlewood was about to be saddled with one. Whether he knew it or not.

  Frost merely thanked the Heavens that he was not in his friend's position. For the duke had made a grave error, at least in Frost's opinion. Candlewood actually loved the woman he would one day soon take to wife. Loved her! Deeply. Without question. Frost had first seen the emotions hidden deep within his friend's eyes several days ago. They were not obvious to everyone, but to those like Frost who knew the duke intimately, they were plainly visible.

  No, that was something that Frost would never do. He would never love the woman he took to wife. He might lust after her, certainly, because he did so want to enjoy his time in bed with her. But he would not love her.

  In his experience, love made people blind and stupid. Love forced people into foolish choices. Like Candlewood. And Frost's mother. No, Frost had vowed long ago that love would never ensnare him, and thus far, he had managed to avoid the sticky, nasty, crippling emotion. He saw no reason for that to change, and on that point he would not relent. Even if his friends were falling into the marriage trap like so many flies in honey. No,
that would never be him. He was not so stupid and foolish.

  Oh, he had his weaknesses, certainly. All men did and Frost was not so arrogant as to think himself above that sort of thing. His love for his sisters chief among his failings in that regard. But love? No, love was not a weakness of his. Puzzles? Yes, those too. Especially ones that seemed impossible. Innocent women in distress, much like his sisters had been after the death of their father? Certainly. In fact, one might argue that was his greatest weakness. His need to play hero? Also a weakness, though he blamed that on nobody really expecting too much of him. He was a wastrel after all.

  One could also argue that his love of bedding women and excess drinking were weaknesses, though Frost could control those, even though it appeared to much of society that he could not. His love of women in his bed might be viewed as a weakness by some, but he preferred to think of that vice as one of the finer pleasures in life. Not a weakness. As for the drinking? He could take it or leave it. Most of the time, he only drank out of social dictates and not because he particularly enjoyed it. Though he could appreciate a good scotch better than most of his friends and associates.

  However love was not a particular weakness of his and never would be. Of that he was completely certain.

  Just as he was certain that he needed the comfort of a warm female body this evening.

  With a sigh, Frost rose and picked up his topcoat. On another night, he might have headed out to visit Marina at the love nest. But she was gone. And he could not bring a lady of the night here, to the home he still shared with his mother and sisters. Which meant a brothel, though he was undecided as to which one. Most likely either Lycosura or one of the newly opened houses in Covent Garden where his requirement to wear a French Letter would not be met with derision and refusal. He might be a scoundrel, but he was not stupid enough to allow himself to become disease ridden, either. Vulnerability was not a weakness of his either.

  Whistling a merry tune, he found his walking stick and headed for the door, knowing that Claxton, his butler, was likely still about. Frost was restless and randy and he needed a good fuck. All of this talk of love and marriage and commitment and weakness had left him with a need to sow some more of his wild oats. And what better way to exercise those particular demons than with the whore of his choice?

  Chapter One

  Early June 1820

  The scotch was good. But not quite that good. At least not good enough to warrant the sort of favor currently being asked of him. Lord Robert Tillsbury, the current Viscount Chillton, who was also known by his rather amusing nickname of Frost, stared down into the crystal tumbler he gripped tightly with a frown. "Lord Candlewood wishes me to do what, again, precisely?" he asked the man standing next to the darkened fireplace in his study, just to be certain he had heard him correctly. Not that a man like Harry Greer, noted Bow Street Runner and friend to Frost and many of his associates, was likely to make such an error, but still...

  "The duke wishes you to investigate a certain Miss Ianthe. She currently resides within the halls of Lycosura." Greer raised his eyebrows suggestively. "As I am certain you are well aware, my lord."

  Oh, yes, Frost was very aware of where the lovely Ianthe was currently residing, as were most of the randy men of London. And beyond, likely all the way to the Lake District. After all, it was not every day that a woman of her reported beauty became available to service any man able to pay her price. Or rather, the price Madame Desponia, Lycosura's proprietress, had put on the woman's pretty little head. In fact, beyond her reputed beauty, which few had ever actually had the pleasure to lay eyes upon due to the very pesky mask she almost always wore, very little was known about the mysterious... Well Frost couldn't bring himself to call her a whore for some odd reason, even though that was precisely what she was. Instead, he preferred to think of her as a lady, even though he had never so much as clapped eyes upon the chit, masked or not. For all he knew, she was rather beastly.

  Then again, she had been well kept for several years by the late Marquess of Burfield, so she could not be that beastly. After all, the elderly Burfield had enjoyed a reputation for selecting the most beautiful things in life for his own - especially women. Not to mention that Ianthe was rumored to have spent an evening entertaining - but not bedding, alas! - the Duke of Candlewood himself. That, of course, was completely and utterly true, even though many men of the ton did not believe so, especially given The Bloody Duke's reputation for tumbling any woman he chose. But Candlewood had not bedded the chit, and Frost did not see it as his business to inform Society as a whole otherwise.

  Frost took another long drink of the scotch. No. No. Still not good enough to do what the notorious Bloody Duke was commanding. "And did he say how he wishes me to investigate this young lady? Am I to bed her? Woo her? Wed her? Is he now so enamored over the state of holy matrimony that he wishes to see all of his friends leg shackled, as he is?" Fine. Perhaps that was being a bit overly dramatic but Frost had never been noted for his subtlety.

  For his part, Greer did his best to stifle a laugh. "No, I don't believe that is it at all, my lord." Then the Runner lowered his voice when they both heard the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hallway beyond. "Frost. Listen to me. He merely wants you to discover who she truly is beneath the mask, the facial paint and scanty clothing, and rescue her if you deem it necessary and proper. The night Lord Candlewood was in her company, he became convinced that there is something more to her. She is not a common whore. She is...more. Perhaps not a lady but..." The Runner shrugged, allowing that particular thought to go unfinished. "Had the duke not been enamored of Lady Candlewood at the time, perhaps he would have investigated further. But he did not, I am afraid."

  "Hmmm." Yes, Frost knew all too well about Candlewood's odd infatuation with the former Lady Eliza Deaver and his subsequent marriage to her. An odd pairing that, but then, it was not Frost's life. If Candlewood wanted to waste his so soon with one woman for the rest of his days, that was his choice. It was not Frost's. That aside, there was still this matter before him to consider. And as Frost had, on occasion, done favors of this nature for the duke in the past, he could understand why his old friend had made the proposal.

  "And he did not say exactly how he proposed that I go about rescuing her, if I deem it necessary? Or what, precisely, I should do with her afterwards?" For a moment, Frost peered down into his glass, watching the sparkling liquid catch the light as it moved. "I mean, what does a viscount of not very good moral standing do with a woman who is a prostitute but not quite, eh?"

  Greer cleared his throat, clearly doing his best not to laugh. "That is not for me to say, my lord. All I was to do was deliver the message. And the scotch." The man's cultured tones once more made Frost wonder if there was more to the elusive Runner than met the eye. He would lay good money on the fact that there was. But that was not the dilemma facing him today. No, Frost's problem today was Ianthe.

  "Hardly a message," Frost grumbled as he drained the rest of his glass, enjoying the warmth as it spread through him. Despite the recent heat, today was a bit chilly. Blasted London rain. "More of a directive if you ask me."

  "It is not my place to make that determination, my lord." Though it was clear from the passion in his words that Greer did have a position on the matter, even though it was just as clear that he wasn't about to share it with the viscount.

  It was on the tip of Frost's tongue to deny the duke's request. After all, the season was in full swing and he had other matters to attend to, such as making certain at least two of his sisters - specifically Sarah and Dorothy - made something of an attempt to secure successful matches this year so that he was no longer responsible for them. Frost would have liked to do the same for all three, but his youngest sister, Aurelia, was only just out for a year or two and he felt that might be rushing the matter a bit too much.

  Then again, given how obstinate and downright picky all of his sisters could be, he thought that marrying any of them off before the end
of the Season - which would occur sooner rather than later - was highly unlikely. Which meant he would have yet another year worrying about their safety and happiness.

  The thought of his sisters gave Frost pause, as it usually did. His father had died long ago, passing the viscountcy to Frost when he was a mere eleven years old. Frost was old enough now to head the household well, but in those early years, it had been difficult for his mother to hold them all together, especially since the family's finances were in such a sorry state. He remembered the worried look in his mother's eyes when she wondered what would become of her and her daughters if Frost, with his then-weak lungs, did not live to see maturity or find some way to right the viscountcy. He also recalled the terrified looks in the eyes of both Sarah and Dory as they asked him one frosty winter night so very long ago if he would live long enough to produce an heir or if they would be sold to the workhouse - or worse, a brothel - if he died early, their father's debts still unpaid.

  Was that what Candlewood had seen in Ianthe? Some hint of tragedy? Some small sign that she was not a woman of the streets but rather a lady in greatly reduced circumstances? Possibly even in danger or sold into service against her will? That was exactly what the duke had seen in Frost himself so long ago, the day they became fast friends at school.

  In general, Frost did not consider himself a good man. But he did consider himself a good brother. And in that moment, he wondered if Ianthe was someone's sister. Did she have a brother out there looking for her? A family? Or was she alone in the world with no one to care for her? Or had she made a mistake and been cast out from the safety of her family rather than risk a scandal? Was that what the duke had seen, likely hiding behind her eyes, but had been unable to discern before his conscience where Lady Eliza was concerned had gotten the better of him?