The Duke's Hellion (Hart and Arrow) (A Regency Romance Book)

by Julia Sinclair

  “I'm glad to hear we both agree. My goodness, I am looking forward to Ned being back in England at the turn of the year. At the very least, there is one Carrow that knows how to have a good time at a ball!”

  “Two at least, my dear. You're the other one.”

  Actually, if Tristan were being honest, he was not at all certain of Ned's disposition. Ned was coming back from a war that was growing all the more vicious as time went on, and over the last year, his brother's messages had grown darker and darker. It was past time for Ned to be home, but that was hardly an appropriate topic for a party.

  Georgiana turned a bright smile on him, and his dark thoughts faded. For a moment, the entire affair was worth it, from planning the decorations to inviting people he barely tolerated at best. It was worth it just to see her smile.

  “I certainly am a Carrow now, and as such, I feel as if I know the way you function very well. I have arranged something that I think you will like as well, Tristan.”

  He gazed at her warily. “Georgiana...”

  “Oh, don't worry about it. Here, it's coming up now.”

  Tristan turned just in time to hear the majordomo call out the next dance.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please find your partners for the Italian dance, the amarello!”

  “Georgiana!”

  It was the dance that they had chosen for their fateful pretend fight almost a year ago, and from the murmurs in the crowd, Tristan knew that he was not the only one who remembered it.

  Georgiana turned a bright and shining gaze to him.

  “You needn't if you do not wish to. But you've not danced all night, and if you like, we can have a fight in the middle of the dance floor for old time's sake.”

  Tristan sighed, but he couldn't help but hide a smile as he led her onto the dance floor. The dance started, and soon enough, they reached the section where the lady ran and the gentleman pursued. Instead of facing away from him, Georgiana threw a warm glance at him over her shoulder as he chased her, and instead of a fight, he ended the dance by giving her a warm kiss, right on the dance floor.

  “You know that I will always catch you, no matter how far you run, right, Georgiana?”

  “Tristan, darling, I am counting on it.”

  * * *

  THANK YOU for reading my book

  ><><><><><><><><><><><><

  The Duke's Hellion is Book 2 in the series.

  The next book in the new series targeted release date will be 22nd Aug.

  Meanwhile . . .

  If you have enjoyed reading it, I believe you will enjoy reading the previous book.

  I have enclosed a sneak preview of the previous book in the series.

  See below . . .

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  London,

  1795

  Somewhere in the foggy night, the clock struck three. Blythe clung tighter to the umbrella she carried rolled up in her hands. Her cousin Ned had given it to her years ago, brought back from some campaign on the Continent. It was large and elegant, if a little unwieldy for a young girl because of the hefty stone handle.

  In her gray dress and shabby brown shawl, Blythe blended into the shadows. Her brown hair and brown eyes made her unremarkable among the people who were still sporadically walking along the streets, carousers who were still on a tear, and tired women only now coming home from whatever work they could find. No one looked at her, and she returned the favor, keeping her eyes on the hired coach in front of the tall, narrow boarding house.

  If I am unlucky, he may be here until dawn. Oh, blazes, they may not hold my place until then...

  As if in response to her uneasy thoughts, a tall man in rough clothes, his face covered by a hat pulled low over his eyes, came down the stairs. Blythe tried to see if there was any way to recognize him, but he stepped quickly in the carriage and was whisked away. As much as she would have liked the man's identity, she breathed a sigh of relief when the coach pulled down the street.

  She pulled her own hat a little lower and dashed across the street. Most reputable boarding houses had policies regarding when visitors could be in and out, but this was not that type of place. She went up the stairs to the top floor, took a deep breath, and knocked gently on the door.

  "Honey? Honey, are you there? It's me."

  The door creaked open, revealing a bright blue eye and a face streaked with tears. When Honey saw that it was Blythe, she pulled her into the room rapidly.

  The room was lit with a single candle, but Blythe could see the rumpled bed, the shabby wallpaper, and the strangely sad pictures pinned up of roses, fat babies, and Society women.

  "Are you ready? Have you packed a bag? Here, I can help you get dressed," Blythe told her.

  "I don't know, Miss..."

  "I told you, just call me Blythe. There's no need to stand on ceremony. Honey, where are your things?"

  "They're in the closet, but Miss Blythe, he threatened me again."

  At that moment, Blythe would have traded every meager cent of her living to have Honey's so-called protector in front of her. No need for a judge or a constable, she would simply wring the man's neck herself.

  "What did he say?"

  Honey swallowed hard. Blythe could see dark bruises on the younger girl's shoulders, inky and insulting on her fair skin.

  "He said he would cut me if I tried to leave him, Miss Blythe. He said he could do it, and no one would care on account of I was a... a..."

  Blythe knew that time was of the essence, but she couldn't stop herself from pulling Honey into a hard hug. Blythe was twenty-two, and Honey was barely seventeen. When she was seventeen, she'd still been in the schoolroom, being taught to write beautifully, play the pianoforte, and properly address her betters. The idea of some man threatening the younger girl was enough to make her see red, and the terrible part was that she was right. As far as the world was concerned, Honey was a fallen woman, and whatever she got, she likely had coming.

  "I would care," Blythe said fiercely. "My friends that I am taking you to will care. So will everyone worth a good tinker's damn."

  Honey giggled. It was a wet sound, but Blythe thanked God for some sign of life from the sad girl.

  "I didn't think you were the swearing sort, Miss Blythe."

  "I am when the situation calls for it. Believe me, Honey. I know there is a risk, but my friends are very good. I promise, if you leave this place, we will do everything we can to protect you. If you stay here, it will be more of the same, and when it changes, it will get worse and not better."

  Honey drew a shaky breath, but she nodded. London was beautiful, bright, the jewel of the world, but for those at the bottom, it was a shining hell. Honey’s hands were ice-cold when she grasped Blythe's, but her grip was steady.

  "Yes. I'll leave with you, Miss Blythe."

  Blythe grinned, but there was no time to hesitate. Honey's protector, who she only knew as John, sent men to watch her sometimes, to make sure she was being 'good.' The best time to move Honey, to help her escape, was when John was freshly gone.

  Honey's only dress was a mauve monstrosity John had bought her, barely covering her shoulders or her arms. Blythe winced at the idea of trying to get her through the worst part of the London stews in something that revealing.

  "Here, take this." She wrapped her brown shawl around Honey's shoulders. It helped a little, and she wasn't very cold without it. "All right, have you got your bag, can you carry it? Then we're away."

  Honey and Blythe came down the stairs and out into the London night. Blythe shivered a little, but the cold would drop away once they were walking.

  "You've done this before, Miss Blythe?"

  "A few times, Honey. Don't worry, my friends are much more experienced with this kind of thing than I am."

  They ducked into doorways twice to avoid packs of reeling drunks, but the third set, a pair of men wearing naval whites, surprised them.

  "Oh, what pretty girls," one said, seizing
hold of Honey's wrist.

  "Come with us, show us the sights. We're only back in London for another day or so," the other said cheerfully.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, we can't..." stuttered Honey. She had been in London for less than eight hours before John had found her, and Blythe could see she still had the sweet country manners that bad men looked for.

  "We're expected elsewhere," Blythe said coldly, summoning up all the martial reserve she had learned from growing up in the Carrow household. "Let us pass."

  Sometimes it worked, and the men might let her go by with just a muttered curse. Tonight was not her lucky night, apparently. The sailors scowled.

  "That one ain't got any tits anyway, but this one looks warmer, don't she?" said the one holding Honey’s arm.

  Honey went silent with terror as the men started to pull her away from Blythe's side, and all of the anger that Blythe had been holding back about Honey's situation exploded.

  "You let her go this instant!' she shouted, and that was all the warning she gave before she waded in between the men, swinging her umbrella by the cloth end. The length of hardwood coupled with the stone weight at the end was a formidable weapon, and she cracked the wrist of the man holding Honey's arm, making him let go with a yowl of pain.

  The second man turned toward her, and good God, he had a knife in his hand, but Blythe was running too hot to let fear into her mind. Instead, she swept the parasol low and somehow landed a perfect shot right between the sailor's legs, making him fall to the ground with a gurgling scream.

  "Come on!" she yelled.

  One of the sailors was still on his feet, but she had gotten in two lucky blows. She didn't want to test her luck for a third, so she grabbed Honey by the wrist and started running.

  They ran for three blocks, until they could tell they weren't being pursued, and then they ducked into the deep alcove between two butchers shops. The smell of blood and offal made Blythe's stomach turn, but she needed to breathe and calm her heart down from its fast beat.

  "They always said that hitting a man there would make him angry enough to kill me," Honey panted, eyes wide.

  "If it was a man who told you that, now you know why. My cousin Ned taught me that. God love him. Tristan told him that was an inappropriate thing to teach a fourteen-year-old girl, but damned if it hasn't been handy more often than Ned ever thought it would be. Remember, if you have to do that yourself, hit as hard as you can. If you have to, grab him there, close your hand hard, and pull with all your strength."

  Between gasps for breath, Honey was watching her as if she were some kind of monster, or perhaps a miracle.

  "Are you sure you're a lady, Miss Blythe? Because, begging your pardon, I have never met a lady who talked like you."

  Blythe supposed she should have been insulted, but instead, she grinned. "I am, in fact, a very good lady most of the time, Honey. And really, Blythe is fine. Now if you've got your breath back, we need to keep going. My friends are waiting for us, and if we do not get there soon, they will worry."

  As they walked, Blythe felt that old strangeness settling over her. Back at the house off of Grosvenor Square, she would never be allowed to run or swear or fight. Here, in the dark streets less than five miles away, she had to do all of those things. Honey had come from the country after her parents died, to look for a living wage, and she had found a far darker world than Blythe had ever traversed. How many worlds could one city contain? Who was lucky enough to only live in comfort in one, ignoring the plight of the rest?

  Blythe handed her umbrella to Honey, taking the bag from the girl when Honey looked as if she were flagging.

  "We're not so very far away now," Blythe said. "They're good people. They'll give you food and a bed, and they'll talk with you and figure out what you want to do next."

  "I just don't want to see John ever again."

  "And you won't. They'll keep you safe. Just another few turns, and we'll be there..."

  Blythe was just beginning to hope that they would make it to her friends without further incident when a young man, his jacket carelessly hanging off his shoulder and his hat utterly missing, came out of one of the brightly lit buildings to one side of the walk. He looked as if he were just beginning to think of how he would find his way home when three large men came out of the shadows, two laying hold of him, and the third hissing something about demons.

  Oh, for the love of all that is good. This night has gone on long enough already. Blythe stepped forward.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  "And six, and six, and six again, the pot goes to Demon Tom."

  Thomas Martin, the Marquess of Amory, leaned forward in his chair and swept the purse containing the winnings into his pocket.

  "Well done, eh, lads?" he said with a wink. The other men at his table looked less than pleased. Two of them looked philosophical about their losses, but the third glared at him with murder in his eyes.

  "Check the dice," he said loudly. "No one gets that lucky, not three times in a row. Check the damned dice. The bastard loaded his own on the table."

  "Careful, my friend," said Thomas, a smile still on his face. "Those are dueling words, and I'm even luckier there than I am at the tables."

  The house dealer started to say something soothing, but the angry man slammed his fist down on the felt-covered table.

  "I want to see the dice!"

  The dealer handed the small carved dice over, and with a scowl, the man tossed the dice twice. The second time, they rolled up two twos and a one, and Thomas laughed.

  "Unlucky even when trying to make a point. Here, my friend, let me buy you a drink. Surely, you can't be unlucky when you are trying some Madeira sack, right?"

  The man's temper, already frayed, seemed to snap with a nearly audible sound. He thrust the table aside, standing up and reaching for Thomas, who stood up to meet him. As the man threw the first hard punch toward Thomas’ face, Thomas simply side-stepped, grabbing the man's arm and pulling in the direction he was going anyway.

  The man went sprawling, but he gathered his feet underneath him before he hit the ground. He was ready to turn around and try again when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

  "Come on, don't take on like that," said Thomas’ long-suffering best friend, Robert Gordon, the Earl of Dellfield, reasonably. "Don't give him an excuse. I've always got to be his second in duels. Tom's a good shot, and when he misses, those shots go fatal rather than wide, if you get me."

  The man may or may not have been convinced about Thomas’ prowess with pistols, but he clearly didn't like two against one odds. He snarled something foul and stalked off toward the bar, where the bartender would have to deal with him.

  Thomas grinned at his dark-haired friend, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good old Robert. Did my father send you to look after me?"

  "If your father knew you were anywhere close to Seven Dials, he would send me to shoot you. What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Having some fun, getting some of the wickedness out of my spirit before my Aunt Matilda decides it’s time to trot me past the Society girls at Almack's again. Come on, you're not going to kick about me standing you a drink, are you?"

  Robert shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Tom. Look, I came to see the sights and to throw a few dice, but I've been listening a bit. You ought to get out of here."

  Thomas bridled a little at that. "Why in the world should I?"

  "Because you have won rather a lot of money, rather fast. Your damned reputation sops up some of it, but there are plenty of people who don't like losing money, and plenty more who wouldn't mind having that cash fall into their own pockets."

  A dangerous glint came into Thomas’ eye. "Well, if they think they can take it from me, they're welcome to try."

  At twenty-nine, Thomas was tall and strong and nearly demonically fast with both pistol and rapier. With honey-blond hair and clear gray eyes, the Duke of Southerly's heir might look like an angel, but his quick temper and famous luck h
ad well-earned him the name of Demon Tom in the London stews.

  "As I said, I came to throw some dice and have a drink. I did not come to get into a brawl or to stand up at godawful o'clock in the morning at one of your duels. Please, as a favor to me."

  Thomas grinned, shrugging. "All right, my friend. I'll get the house master to fetch a hack for me, and I'll head out.”

  "Good, thank you. And be careful, please. The fog's coming up out there. Who knows what's going to come out of it?"

  Thomas was sorry to see his night at the tables come to an end prematurely, but he hadn't any intention of going home. There were other gambling hells to visit, ones that took his reputation less seriously, and there were wrestling bouts going on even farther south. No reason for the night to end yet.

  Walking out into the chilly night air, Thomas was only slightly surprised when he was grabbed. With a man grabbing either arm, and the third getting ready to strike him a great blow to the head, Thomas went limp, disrupting the balance of those holding him. The moment their grips loosened, Thomas twisted hard, sending one blundering into the man getting ready to hit him.

  He had one arm free, and that was enough to drive a hard punch into the face of the one who was still holding him, dropping him to the ground. This wouldn't have been a terrible time to return to the gambling club, or even to run, but Thomas had never liked running from a fight.

  "Come on, if you're coming," he said. Not giving either of the men in front of him time to answer, he stepped into the fray.

  One man ran off immediately, but the second tried to grapple Thomas and get him on the ground. Thomas managed to swing him hard into the iron fence, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him on the pavement.

  He was just thinking that this night wasn't going to be so much of a waste after all when he heard a thud from behind him.

  Thomas turned around just in time to see the first man he had struck tumbling down to the ground like a poleaxed steer, a thin knife clattering from his hand.