Ripe for Pleasure

by Isobel Carr

  ISOBEL CARR

  NEW YORK BOSTON

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  A Preview of Ripe for Scandal

  Copyright Page

  For Karin Tabke

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As implied in the dedication, I owe my friend Karin Tabke a huge debt of gratitude. Without Karin, this book wouldn’t exist. She’s the best non-agent a girl could have. I would also like to thank Jami Alden for being the best beta reader on the planet, and Jessica Cohen for brainstorming fantabulousness and always being available for cocktails and plotting. My San Francisco support network—Monica McCarty, Bella Andre, Carolyn Jewel, Poppy Reiffin, Veronica Wolff, Ann Mallory—as always, you ladies rock! Also, my fellow bloggers over at History Hoydens. For long-distance help and support, they’re irreplaceable. My friends, whom I’ve largely deserted over the past year, know how much their support has meant. I owe more than I can say to my sister, Siobhan, for all the dog sitting it took to keep my mastiff Clancy happy and healthy while I worked. I’d also like to thank my team of “Alexes”: my agent, Alexandra Machinist, and my editor, Alex Logan. Fantastic, insightful, supportive superheroines, both of them. A writer couldn’t ask for a better team.

  PROLOGUE

  There are three private gentlemen’s clubs on St. James’s Street in London, each with its own rules and regulations governing membership. They are filled each day with peers who can’t be bothered to attend to their duties in the House of Lords, let alone what they owe to their estates and family. Their ranks are frequently swelled by the addition of their firstborn sons, who gamble away their youth and fortunes while waiting for their fathers to die. What’s less commonly known is that there is also one secret society, whose membership spans all three: The League of Second Sons.

  Their charter reads:

  We are MPs and Diplomats, Sailors and Curates, Barristers and Explorers, Adventurers and Soldiers. Our Fathers and Brothers may rule the World, but We run it. For this Service to God, Country, and Family, We will have Our Due.

  Formed this day, 17 May 1755, All Members to Swear to Aid their Fellows in their Endeavors, Accompany them on their Quests, and Promote their Causes where they be Just.

  Addendum, 14 April 1756. Any rotter who outlives his elder brother to become heir apparent to a duke is hereby expelled.

  Addendum, 15 Sept 1768. All younger brothers to be admitted without prejudice in favor of the second.

  CHAPTER 1

  London, May 1783

  There was someone in her room.

  The floorboards creaked, the wood protesting in its shrill way. Muffled footsteps sounded across the room, the tread far too heavy to be that of her maid. Viola Whedon froze beneath the covers, holding her breath. A faint line of candlelight licked through a crack in the bed curtains. Her heartbeat surged in time with the ticking of the mantel clock, a thready, sickeningly fast vibrato.

  “It’s got to be here.” A man’s voice, thick, angry, and entirely unknown to her.

  “May’hap we missed it in the last room?” Another man, no more familiar than the first.

  Viola carefully folded the covers back, the slight rustle of feathers and linen as loud as the clatter of iron-shod hooves on cobbles to her ears. She peered carefully out, not disturbing the curtains. Two men stood by the mantel, both squat and solid. The kind of men one passed near the docks or saw emerging from the slum of Seven Dials.

  Just the sort of ruffians she’d have expected Sir Hugo to hire. They’d had such an enormous row when Sir Hugo discovered that he was to be included in the second volume of her memoir. It wouldn’t surprise her at all if he were to attempt to steal. Or perhaps one of her other former lovers had hired them? Several who had refused to buy their way out of her memoir had made threats about taking more drastic actions to prevent publication. Despite the warm May night, Viola shivered. Did they know she was here? That this was her room?

  One of the men held a candle while the other explored the mantel, clumsy fingers roughly caressing the wood. He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and spat. Viola clenched her jaw, revulsion pulsing through her. If only she were the heroine of a novel with a pistol under her pillow… If only she weren’t alone in her bed.

  Whoever had hired them, they weren’t going to find her manuscript—not where she’d hidden it—and she wasn’t going to simply wait for them to beat its location out of her. She needed the money that the manuscript would bring. Couldn’t live without it, in fact, thanks in no small part to Sir Hugo. And she planned on living to spend that money as extravagantly as possible.

  Viola took a deep breath, the familiar scent of her perfume and hair powder and crisp, clean linen not at all comforting, and steeled herself for a mad dash across the room. She was closer to the door than they were, and she had surprise on her side, because they’d left the door wide open.

  She slid her feet over the side of the bed, eased the curtain back, and sprinted for the door. A startled oath burst from both men. Within seconds, they were pounding down the corridor after her, heels loud upon the uncarpeted floors, clearly not afraid to raise the whole house. One of them caught her hair and pulled, hard. She yanked her head free, vision blurring as she lost a chunk of hair.

  Viola swung around the corner and half fell down the stairs, bouncing off the wall at the landing and skidding down the last flight, clutching at the banister to keep from falling. Her only footman lay facedown on the floor in the entry hall.

  Viola vaulted over him. Her hands shook as she fought with the latch and wrenched the front door open. Please let there be someone on the street. Please.

  One of her pursuers grabbed hold of her nightgown; threads popped and the gossamer nettle fabric tore. Viola screamed and struck him in the face with her elbow. He went staggering back, cursing. Warm air rushed over her as she ran down the front steps, searching the street for any sign of life, for any chance of rescue.

  His cousin was a fool.

  Leonidas Vaughn ran his fingers lightly over the cold hilt of his sword as two lumbering shapes slipped over the gate and into the small garden of number twelve Chapel Street. A horse blew its breath loudly through its nose in the stable behind him. A cat slunk by and disappeared into the dark recesses of the mews.

  It was so like Charles to make a brash, frontal assault when the situation plainly called for subterfuge. For subtlety. For seduction. But nothing he’d said had changed his cousin’s mind. Charles saw only what he wanted to see: a fortune waiting to be claimed.

  It had been only a few months since they’d buried their grandfather. A bare week since they’d marveled at the cache of letters discovered among the mountains of papers at Leo’s newly inherited estate. And in the days since Leo had followed his cousin back to town, Charles had already set the wheels of the hunt in motion… just as Leo had known he would. The fevered gleam in Charles’s eyes had been all too clear as letter after letter revealed the details of the King of France’s attempt to support Bonnie Prince Charlie’s bid for the English throne.

  They’d always dismissed their grandfather’s tales of hidden treasure and tragedy as the stuff of legends, no different from the stories of Shellycoats and Kelpies Leo’s mother had told them when they were boys. But the tragedy of Charles’s family was real enough, and it seemed the treasure was, too. The small packet of treasonous letters left no other conclusion. Though the assumption that it was still waiting to be found—like a princess in a tower waiting for the first kiss of love—was questionable.

  True or not, two villains from the stews weren’t going to find it. But their intrusion would give him the opening that he needed, a chance to make the lady of the house beholden to him. And all he’d had to do to earn that opport
unity was spend a few nights lurking outside her house waiting for his cousin to strike.

  The night watchman had just turned the corner, his halloa of “all’s well” echoing back faintly. Leo smiled into the dark. Any minute hell would break loose in number twelve. All he had to do was wait. Charles’s men would deliver Mrs. Whedon directly into his hands.

  A scream rent the humid darkness, bringing every detail sharply into focus as his pulse raced to meet it. A woman in nothing but her nightclothes erupted from the house. Her hair flamed in the lamplight as though it were afire, red-gold curls tumbling down to her hips. Mrs. Whedon. With that hair, it could be no other. Not a maid or a housekeeper but the lady herself. His luck was in.

  Her eyes met his, and the night seemed to stretch. He could see terror there, a layer of anger below it, all the more intense for its impotence. Curses raced after her, low and guttural, intermixed with the sound of heavy, booted feet coming down a flight of stairs.

  Leo shot out one hand and caught a flailing wrist, hauled her around, and held her fast. A scent that was pure summer—grass on a warm day, flowers drowsing in their beds—washed over him.

  “Men. In my house.” Her words were clipped, laced with fury. Her hand trembled, and she balled it into a fist, twisting in an attempt to free herself.

  Leo thrust her behind him as a man in a dark coat came flying down the steps, a knife clutched in one hand. Leo drew his sword, using his left hand to hold Viola in place. It was only a dress sword, and though razor sharp, the rippled facets of the pastes covering the hilt were less than reassuring in the moment. Mrs. Whedon clutched the back of his coat, hampering him. A breath shuttered out of her, and her hand tightened, pulling him back.

  “Where is it, bitch—” The man choked off as he hit the walk and his gaze locked on Leo’s sword. He fell back a step, clearly assessing things, eyes darting about the empty street.

  Leo shifted his stance, leveling his blade. “Wake the neighbors,” he said over his shoulder.

  His coat swung free. A flash of white and gold moved past the edge of his vision. Thank God. Mrs. Whedon wasn’t famous for doing as she was told, but then what woman was? An unholy pounding resounded down the street as she beat against her neighbor’s door, marking time as the seconds ticked by.

  His cousin’s gutter rat stared him down. The man’s head sat upon his shoulders like a rock set on a stump. His jaw was heavy and his mouth hung open as though it were too small to contain his tongue. Not large enough to be a prizefighter, he had a menacing air all the same. A mad butcher’s dog on the loose, capable of violence far in excess of his size. He hefted the blade, shifted his weight. Then with almost lazy disinterest, he thrust his knife into his boot and sauntered away, whistling. He turned into the entry of the mews down the block, nothing but the sharp notes of his ditty marking his presence, until that too dissipated into the gloom.

  Leo glanced back over his shoulder. His quarry stood on her neighbor’s porch, watching him. His hand shook as the rush of confrontation left him. He lowered his sword to hide it. He couldn’t afford even the slightest sign of weakness. Not now. Not when Mrs. Whedon stood not four feet away.

  “The knocker’s off the door,” she said matter-of-factly, one pale hand clutching the torn neckline of her gown. “No help there.”

  “Finally drive one of your protectors to murder, ma’am?”

  A small smile curled the corner of her mouth as she descended the stairs, one slow, deliberate step at a time. Naked feet appeared and disappeared below her hem. Her toes gripped the ground. Her arches flexed, slim anklebones leading up to a flash of calf with every step. Her wisp of a gown slid from her grip, exposing one pale shoulder and a great deal of pale décolletage.

  A deliberate maneuver. It could be nothing else. Like all women who rose to the top of their particular trade, Mrs. Whedon was a consummate performer. She had to be. Even under circumstances such as these. Gone was the fleeing victim, replaced by a feral Venus. Leo swallowed hard, wanting to touch, to reach out and grab. To possess that startling beauty, if only for a moment.

  What man wouldn’t?

  “Possibly, my lord.” Her reply jerked his attention away from her breasts. He’d been reduced to staring like a green boy by that damn wisp of a nightgown. “There were two of them, by the way.” Her voice dropped, becoming an intimate, throaty entreaty of its own. “Intruders I mean, not protectors.”

  Leo smiled in appreciation. She’d certainly had more than two protectors. And based on that “my lord,” she clearly knew exactly who he was, though their paths had never formally crossed. Paying for a bedmate was both repugnant and utterly unnecessary when the world was brimming with willing widows and unsatisfied wives. Besides, younger son that he was, he didn’t command anywhere near the kind of fortune it took to secure a highflier like the one standing before him, even had he desired to do so.

  A rivulet of sweat slid down his spine, like the ghostly touch of a past lover. He forced himself to ignore it, shifting his attention instead to the house. Armed intruders were far safer opponents than Mrs. Whedon. Especially when she was only a thin layer of cloth away from being naked. Even in the dim light, he could clearly make out the teasing circles of her nipples and the shadow at the apex of her thighs.

  Lust grabbed disdain by the throat and shoved it down. Leo held his breath for a moment, searching for the control that seemed to have deserted him. Yes, he wanted her. And he meant to have her before all this was done. It was integral to the entire plan. But it would be on his terms, not because he allowed himself to be swept up in the drama and illusion of this not-so-chance rescue. And certainly not because he’d paid whatever price she might have in mind.

  Leo turned away from her and strode into her house, making a vague gesture for her to follow. Inside, hysterical sobs greeted him. Two maids sat at the bottom of the stairs in a sea of flannel wrappers. A much older, harassed-looking housekeeper stood over them, nightcap askew, a large kitchen knife clutched in her hand.

  One of the maids looked up and hiccupped, her face red in the candlelight. “He’s dead. We came down when we heard you scream and found Ned like-like…”

  Mrs. Whedon pushed past him, her hand perfectly steady as she shoved him aside. “Is there anyone else in the house, Nance? Did you see another man?” The sobbing girl shook her head from side to side, her hand covering her mouth.

  “Back door was open though, ma’am,” the housekeeper said.

  “Then it’s likely your other intruder has also left the premises.” All four women turned to look at him as though he’d sprung from the ground like a fairy toadstool. The little maid sucked back another hiccup.

  He picked up one of the candles and set his foot on the first tread of the staircase. “Stay here while I check the house. No, one of you had best wait out on the steps for the nightwatch.”

  The housekeeper nodded her grizzled head and turned toward the door. Leo put her, the sobbing maid, and the dazzling Mrs. Whedon firmly out of his mind as he crept up the stairs.

  The house was utterly quiet. Soft, dark room after soft, dark room greeted him. The mantels had been swept clean, pictures ripped from the walls. A clumsy attempt to be sure. The treasure had to be better hidden than that. A porcelain figurine lay smashed on the floor of what appeared to be the only occupied room—Mrs. Whedon’s, judging by the faint hint of Eau de Cologne that permeated the space.

  Leo set the candle down and sheathed his sword. The men were gone, and his cousin had never been inside the house in the first place. A personal assault wasn’t at all Charles’s style. There was no point in roaming about armed like a buccaneer on the deck of a ship.

  Her room was surprisingly simple. Plainer, in fact, than his own. It was hardly the lair of a woman famed for wanton indulgence.

  No paintings or prints adorned the walls. The curtains surrounding the bed were a deep, solid blue. No embroidery to enliven them. No trim to soften them. The bedclothes spilling from between them were no
thing but crisp, white linen. No silver brush sat atop the dressing table. No profusion of scent bottles lay scattered atop its surface. Just a few serviceable dishes and boxes, such as any woman might have for her powder and patches and pins. In fact, the only decoration appeared to be a mirror, a bit tarnished about the rim, and the smashed figurine.

  Leo crouched down and scooped up a few of the larger, opalescent shards. Two legs ending in cloven hooves. A delicate head, ears pricked. A white deer. A symbol of good fortune in Scotland. A sign to the knights of old that it was time to begin a quest. A creature straight out of legend. Something not unlike Mrs. Whedon herself.

  CHAPTER 2

  Viola yawned and poured herself another cup of tea. She fingered the hot, aching mark that ringed her wrist. In a few days, she’d be sporting a blue-black bracelet where her rescuer had manacled her wrist.

  It had been a long night, hours spent waiting for the night watchman to summon the constable and for poor Ned to be taken away. Viola shuddered and swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm tea. Her stomach protested, and she set the cup aside.

  She’d paced and drunk tea and watched with slightly horrified fascination as her rescuer stepped into the breach. He handled absolutely everything with the swift efficiency of a man who was used to giving orders, all the while giving every indication that he’d much rather be doing anything but helping her.

  There were now a handful of hulking footmen guarding the house, and the hall had been cleaned by a swarm of women who’d arrived from his own home along with the footmen. He’d sent her own maids back to bed, an act of kindness that she couldn’t easily dismiss.

  It was fascinating. He was fascinating.

  Lord Leonidas Vaughn. The Corinthian with the mismatched eyes. One blue, the other green, and both of them cold as the North Sea in February. Viola knew exactly who he was. One of the Mad Vaughns. The second son of the Duke of Lochmaben.