Praise for Minerva Spencer & S.M. LaViolette’s
THE ACADEMY OF LOVE series:
“[A] pitch perfect Regency …. Readers will be hooked.”
(THE MUSIC OF LOVE)
★Publishers Weekly STARRED REVIEW
“An offbeat story that offers unexpected twists on a familiar setup.”
(A FIGURE OF LOVE)
Kirkus
“[A] consistently entertaining read.”
(A FIGURE OF LOVE)
Kirkus
Praise for Minerva Spencer's Outcasts series:
"Minerva Spencer's writing is sophisticated and wickedly witty. Dangerous is a delight from start to finish with swashbuckling action, scorching love scenes, and a coolly arrogant hero to die for. Spencer is my new auto-buy!"
-NYT Bestselling Author Elizabeth Hoyt
"[SCANDALOUS is] A standout...Spencer's brilliant and original tale of the high seas bursts with wonderfully real protagonists, plenty of action, and passionate romance."
★Publishers Weekly STARRED REVIEW
"Fans of Amanda Quick's early historicals will find much to savor."
★Booklist STARRED REVIEW
"Sexy, witty, and fiercely entertaining."
★Kirkus STARRED REVIEW
"A remarkably resourceful heroine who can more than hold her own against any character invented by best-selling Bertrice Small, a suavely sophisticated hero with sex appeal to spare, and a cascade of lushly detailed love scenes give Spencer's dazzling debut its deliciously fun retro flavor."
★Booklist STARRED REVIEW
"Readers will love this lusty and unusual marriage of convenience story."
-NYT Bestselling Author MADELINE HUNTER
"Smart, witty, graceful, sensual, elegant and gritty all at once. It has all of the meticulous attention to detail I love in Georgette Heyer, BUT WITH SEX!"
RITA-Award Winning Author JEFFE KENNEDY
Gareth clenched his jaw; his desire for her was unfortunate but he was a man who knew how to exert self-control.
Now that he was aware of the danger she presented to his concentration he would see to it that episodes such as this one—the two of them alone, thinly clothed—did not occur again.
Tonight he would leave her at her door and then strip and vent his sexual energy on his punching bags.
They came to the entrance to the grand hall and he reached around her to open the door. She reached at the same moment and their hands met.
“Oh!” she tried to move back and found her hand held in his. She looked down and so did Gareth, perhaps even more surprised than she was. His body acted without his consent and he drew her toward him. She came toward him without hesitation, looking up at him, her unbound breasts pressing against his chest. For once, she was not smiling and her lips were parted. Her pupils had flared; a sign of desire. Gareth knew his own eyes would be just as dark. He slid a hand under the curve of her jaw, his fingers skimming the unspeakably soft skin of her slender neck and then he lowered his mouth over hers.
More books by S.M. LaViolette & Minerva Spencer
THE ACADEMY OF LOVE SERIES
The Music of Love
A Figure of Love
A Portrait of Love*
THE OUTCASTS SERIES
Dangerous
Barbarous
Scandalous
THE REBELS OF THE TON
Notorious*
THE MASQUERADERS
The Footman
The Postilion*
The Bastard*
THE SEDUCERS
Melissa and The Vicar
Joss and The Countess
Hugo and The Maiden*
VICTORIAN DECADENCE
His Harlot
His Valet
His Countess
ANTHOLOGIES:
BACHELORS OF BOND STREET
THE ARRANGEMENT
*upcoming books
CROOKED SIXPENCE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2020 Shantal M. LaViolette
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address above.
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First printing March 2020
eISBN: 978-1-951662-23-3
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
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Printed in the United States of America
For my wonderful readers
Chapter One
Kent, England
1817
Gareth Lockheart looked down at the snuffling brown and white balls of fur in some perplexity. “Do I really need so many?” he asked the Honorable Sandford Featherstone.
The puppies stirred and whimpered at the sound of his voice and the mother dog—or bitch, Gareth supposed she was called—gave him a look of reproach for waking her sleeping brood. Or flock. Or whatever one called a herd of puppies; puppies with a finer pedigree than Gareth Lockheart could claim.
Featherstone’s head bobbed up and down with an enthusiasm Gareth found exhausting. “Oh yes, this many and more if you are to hunt.”
Ah, hunting. He’d forgotten all about the supposed need for hunting. Gareth frowned at the prospect but didn’t bother arguing with the fussy, fine-boned aristocrat. After all, this was exactly the type of information he was paying Featherstone for: how to behave like a nob; how to build and furnish a house that looked as if toffs had been living in it for centuries.
Gareth had to pause for a moment in order to remind himself why he was doing this.
Ah yes, he recalled now: He was enduring all this upheaval and irritating discussion and excessive expenditure because his business partner—Declan McElroy—claimed they needed to present a civilized front if they were ever to gain credibility with the aristocracy and Gareth was more likely to be successful in such a venture. Gareth supposed the man had a point, although why he should trust Declan’s judgement on anything English was beyond him. After all, Declan despised the English and took great joy in acting more Irish than Irish, even though he’d never stepped foot on the Emerald Isle.
“And about those hunters, Mr. Lockheart.”
Gareth looked up from the sleeping puppies at the sound of Featherstone’s voice; a grating voice with its clipped consonants and condescending cadence. The smaller man was watching him closely; his expression one of concern mingled with . . . something.
While Gareth might not be good at reading people he knew what aristocrats saw when they looked at him: an upstart cit with more money and influence than such a mongrel deserved. He found such an attitude neither offensive nor amusing; just irrelevant.
The truth was tha
t the thick walls of the aristocracy had been breached by wealthy merchant princes like Gareth; the power of the peerage was leaking through that breach like water draining from a ship’s scuppers.
But the change was happening slowly and England’s ancient, landed families still wielded influence in government that was disproportionate to their numbers or wealth.
The resulting equation was simple: aristocrats needed men like Gareth as much as he needed them.
Featherstone shifted from foot to foot under Gareth’s silent regard. “My cousin has a very well-respected stud farm in Yorkshire and—” words poured out of his mouth and filled the close air of the stables like a cloud of gnats. Words, words, and more words.
Gareth began to get the flying-apart feeling that invaded him whenever he was too long in Featherstone’s company—or in the company of anyone who wasted his time with trivial matters that had already been discussed.
Controlling the unpleasant sensation required mental gymnastics and a great deal of effort on his part.
First, Gareth directed his attention away from his current situation. Next, he focused on the Goldbach Conjecture, an open mathematical problem dating from 1742, as yet unsolved. Pondering such a conundrum never failed to calm him.
Every even integer greater than two is the sum of two primes—
“Mr. Lockheart?”
Gareth forced his eyes to refocus on Featherstone’s narrow, anxious face and recall what he’d been babbling about. Horses. He’d been talking about horses.
Gareth frowned. “I’ve already told you to purchase whatever stock you think fitting, Featherstone. I have entrusted you with such decisions so that I will not be taxed by them.” And yet you are taxing me with them, he wanted to add, but didn’t.
Instead, he pivoted on the heel of his boot and strode toward the exit. He’d hoped the other man might stay behind, but he could hear his footsteps struggling to keep up.
“But Mr. Lockheart, you don’t even want to talk about your own hunters—”
“No.” The sound of their footfalls echoed through the vast and, as yet, unoccupied stables like the sharp reports of a pistol. Gareth deliberately changed the subject. “When does Hiram Beech arrive?”
“Mr. Beech will be here late in the afternoon.”
Gareth bit back the irritation he felt whenever he thought of Beech. He’d wanted Amon Henry Wilds to design Rushton Park but the famous architect refused to take a commission so far from his beloved Brighton. Gareth had not been able to lure him away even by offering triple his usual fee. A man without a price was singular in Gareth’s experience and he discovered he did not like it.
Instead of Wilds he’d chosen Beech, who was highly recommended as an architect known to favor the Indo-Saracenic style; a style which Gareth had been told was all the rage. He could not care less what style the country house was built in—he only wanted it to be built by the best. Otherwise, what was the point of all this?
To be honest, Garth had lost interest in the sprawling pile of bricks after the construction phase ended. He had no aptitude for design, décor, or furnishings and had only enjoyed the engineering aspects of the project.
Oh, he was pleased enough with the house, he supposed. Not that he spent much time in it. He’d hoped all the fuss and mess would be over last spring, when the structure had been completed. But now he’d been told he needed some sort of pleasure garden or ancient ruin or other such nonsense. It seemed Beech was the man to arrange the design and building of such things as he already knew the property, and to Gareth, employing him sounded like the least painful and time-consuming option.
They reached the steps to the front entrance—twenty of them, made of the finest breccia marble quarried and transported from the Continent, now that the War was over—and Gareth stopped and turned to Featherstone, eager to be shed of him.
“I have a great deal of work to do and will be in the library, I trust you will handle whatever arrangements need to be made for Beech.” Even to Gareth’s untutored ears his words sounded abrupt and uncivil. “I will leave you to your business,” he added to soften the rude directive.
Featherstone nodded, his hands moving in the compulsive washing gesture Gareth found distasteful and annoying. The man was an unpleasant combination of condescending and unctuous, but Beech had recommended him. “Mr. Beech will be bringing—”
Gareth held up a hand. “Yes, you’ve already said. He will be bringing a stone-worker or sculptor or gardener or what-have-you. I will speak with both or all of them before we dine this evening.” Gareth tossed the words over his shoulder, impatient to get back to work.
He strode through the great hall and then turned right to pass through the portrait-less portrait gallery on his way to the residential wing of the house. He spent most of his time at Rushton Park in the library, which was composed of three massive rooms linked together. The size seemed excessive to Gareth but the design apparently aped an ancient library from some place Gareth had never heard of. All he’d requested of Beech was that it be well-lighted and commodious enough to contain a desk, his journal collection, and a comfortable chair. And all Gareth had required of Featherstone when the man began stuffing the house with furniture and other frippery was that the library remain free of distracting clutter.
Two footmen stood at attention outside the double doors, waiting for nothing other than his arrival. Gareth ignored the unease he felt at such excess; after all, this was what he’d wanted, a country home that was as gratuitously sized and overstaffed as one of the royal dukes’ residences. Actually, Gareth had more servants and a larger house.
Since coming down from London two days ago he’d had his correspondence delivered twice daily by couriers. The pile of letters was easily three inches tall. There would be reports from all his businesses, but most of the stack would be about the new pottery he was building in London, his most ambitious project thus far.
Gareth was only half-way through the pile when the sound of somebody clearing their throat made him look up. His butler, Jessup, stood in the doorway.
“I asked not to be disturbed.”
The towering, bone-thin man gave a slight nod, but his expression remained as fixed as a totemic carving. He was, Gareth knew, utterly unflappable. Gareth had poached him from the Duke of Remington’s household, where Jessup’s family had been employed as butlers for two hundred years. Remington could not compete with the pay Gareth offered.
“You have a visitor, Mr. Lockheart, Mrs. Serena Lombard.”
Gareth shook his head. “I am not acquainted with, nor am I expecting any such person.”
“She is here at the behest of Mr. Beech, sir, about the gardens.”
“Ah, I see.” Although he did not. He cleared his throat. “You say Beech has engaged a woman gardener?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Lombard is a woman. And a gardener,” Jessup agreed.
Sometimes—just occasionally—Gareth wondered if his butler made mock of him. He shrugged the thought away. What did he know of gardeners? For all he knew, they might all be females. Well, whoever she was and whatever she did, Gareth would find out at the appropriate time. He cut Jessup an impatient look. “Have Featherstone see to her, Jessup.”
“Mr. Featherstone has gone to the village, sir.”
Gareth stared at the man.
Jessup nodded, just as if he’d spoken. “I shall put her in the sitting room and offer her tea.”
“Yes, very good. Put her in a room with tea.” Lord knew there were enough rooms in the house—seventy-three—certainly one of them would be appropriate for accommodating unexpected female visitors.
Gareth’s eyes and attention drifted back to the neat column of figures in front of him.
“Very good, sir.”
He barely heard the butler, his mind already back on his numbers, the woman forgotten.
***
Serena eyed the generously loaded tea tray with approval and helped herself to
three different types of biscuits and the loveliest fairy cake she’d ever seen. Such delicacies were rare these days. Even when she paid a visit to the home of her dead husband’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Remington, the offerings were rather thin; the powerful duke had suffered since the War ended, forced to retrench at his six houses.
Serena examined the huge sitting room—the gaudiest specimen she’d ever sat in—and enjoyed her delicacies. The butler returned after she’d been alone for about a quarter of an hour.
“Do you have everything you need, Mrs. Lombard?” The hesitation before her name was almost imperceptible, but she noticed it all the same.
Serena cocked her head and smiled up at him. “What? Are we no longer friends, Jessup? How are you? I have not been to Keeting yet this year, but I was there at Christmas. His Grace speaks fondly of you, you know.” Keeting Hall was the country seat of the Duke of Remington.
The slightest dusting of color appeared on the butler’s high, sharp cheekbones. “And I often think of His and Her Graces as well as the rest of the family.” He looked as if he wished to say something else, but hesitated.
“His Grace does not blame you for leaving, Jessup,” she said.
Well, that was a bit of a fib. Her in-laws had been devastated by their family retainer’s desertion. But Mr. Lockheart—a man reputed to be among the ten richest in Britain—had offered a wage too high for Robert Jessup to resist.
Jessup’s lips flexed in what passed for a smile. “You are very kind, madam.”
“So, how do you find it here?” Serena glanced around the cavernous room, which evoked a seraglio with its bold fuchsia, gold, and green color scheme, opulent silk and velvet window coverings, and Egyptian-style furniture.
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