Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2)

by Nicola Davidson

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  Be First

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  About Nicola Davidson

  RAKE TO RICHES

  The London Lords (#2)

  By Nicola Davidson

  RAKE TO RICHES is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  RAKE TO RICHES © Nicola Davidson

  First Edition January 2017

  Edited by: Mackenzie Walton

  Cover design and Formatting: Heather Boyd

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  REGENCY

  The London Lords

  To Love a Hellion (#1)

  Fallen

  Surrender to Sin (#1)

  The Devil’s Submission (#2)

  Joy to the Earl (in the anthology A Very Wicked Christmas)

  Once Upon a Promise

  TUDOR

  His Forbidden Lady

  One Forbidden Knight

  CONTEMPORARY (as Lani Hughes)

  Ladies First

  Be First

  Click here to sign up for Nicola Davidson’s exclusive mailing list and be notified of hot new regency and contemporary releases, giveaways and more!

  Dedication

  As always, for Sherilee Gray, my CP and dear friend. Thanks for being George’s #1 fan.

  Also to Louella Turner, for years of friendship and sanity-saving café outings.

  And to the cutest future hero ever: welcome to our world, Johnny.

  Chapter One

  London, December 1814

  “Darling, if you don’t leave, my husband is going to call you out. It will be dawn soon.”

  Inwardly grimacing at the reminder as much as at Francesca Kenwood’s gratingly purred tone, George Edwards turned from the library window to his hungry-eyed, copper-haired hostess. Though he was sorely tempted, it wasn’t the moment to mention said husband couldn’t shoot Westminster at ten paces. Or that he’d sworn off redheads for life.

  Men in his position rarely had the luxury of truth.

  “Callously turning me out into the cold, dark night, Chessie?” he said, forcing a grin instead. “My heart is so severely crushed there’ll be no recovering.”

  “Why don’t you want to go home?”

  George stilled, only years of practice halting a shudder at the question. There was no sly knowledge in Francesca’s eyes, no scorn or pity. Like most everyone in London, she was blissfully unaware of what went on behind the creaky door and faded drapes of Chateau Hell.

  “My dear. Because you are here, of course. Why would anyone want to leave?”

  She blushed scarlet, her bejeweled fingers fluttering in dismay. “I’m sorry, George, truly I am. But Kenwood won’t allow any guests to stay after a ball, not even Prinny himself. And Tuesday is dues day. When I must...you know...”

  A twinge of sympathy threatened. “No need to explain, pet. We do what we have to.”

  Francesca sashayed closer and licked her thin lips. “Oh, I knew you’d understand. Poor darling, suffering the same predicament as so many women nowadays: desperately attractive, not a feather to fly with, and utterly reliant on the goodwill of family and friends. Well, as soon as Kenwood has his heir, I’ll be free to live my own life. You would find me a generous lover. Very, very generous—”

  “I shall keep that in mind,” he said swiftly to hide his revulsion, lifting her hand and briefly pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Now get to bed, vixen. Not even your delicious self looks good with puffy eyes.”

  “Goodnight...Glorious George!”

  Bowing, he strode from the room before his fury and self-loathing became obvious. Fuck, he hated that scandal sheet-inflicted nickname. Glorious George, as in:

  Glorious George has Golden hair

  And jade-Green eyes loved everywhere.

  He captures hearts with a wicked Grin,

  Tempting Grand ladies straight to sin.

  Great shoulders, humor, well-dressed too,

  Alas, as a husband, not for you.

  He has no Guineas—nary a one!

  No blades of Grass nor manor to run.

  So save yourself from any bother—

  Bed our George…but marry another.

  Not that he had any inclination to marry, ever, but having his circumstances so plainly and publicly described was utterly humiliating. At least the anonymous poet had offered two mercies—the first, no verse about his murky lineage. It was equal parts crushing and infuriating that the only evidence he had of his real father, of his own history, was a small painted family portrait from 1791, saying the man’s name was Howard. Not even a bloody surname! And the second, no mention of his stepfather, Sir Malcolm Edwards, a senior magistrate better known as an ice-blooded thug and devil incarnate draped in the thin veneer of a purchased knighthood, and possibly the most hated man in England.

  Keeping a smile on his face and his shoulders back as though he didn’t have a care in the world was a daily battle. Thank God he’d attended Eton, and been miraculously gathered into a small, select circle of heirs who remained good friends to this day. Now those men were known as the London Lords, among the most powerful and wealthiest in England—Alexander Langley, Duke of Southby; his younger brother, Colonel Lord Robert Langley; William Hastings, Marquess of Standish; Thomas Reid MacLeod, Marquess of Ardmore; and lastly, his own brother-in-law, Stephen Forsyth, Earl of Westleigh.

  As long as George remained entertaining and useful, surely they wouldn’t discard him.

  Nodding to the Kenwoods’ butler, George stepped out into the frigid winter air. His eyes watered immediately, and just for a moment he imagined a luxurious town carriage laden with hot bricks whisking him away to a lavish townhouse in Grosvenor Square.

  “God, you’re a pathetic idiot,” he muttered, yanking his expertly but much-repaired greatcoat tighter around his body to shield against the icy wind, and hurrying towards the footpath. Daydreaming was dangerous. He’d learned that the hard way.

  Luckily he didn’t often have to walk; usually a friend or acquaintance happily drove him home or shared a hackney. But he only had a few coppers in his pocket, and home was just three blocks east from here. Anyway, he would be safe enough. All the troublemakers had retired to bed—the only people around were hardworking servants fetching coal or produce, and shopkeepers minding their own business. Not to mention very few took their chances with a man both solidly built and six and a half feet tall.

  A half hour later, George staggered up the front steps of his mother and stepfather’s townhouse, otherwise known as Chateau Hell. Wi
th a bit of luck he’d be swiftly smuggled inside by the most exemplary and underpaid butler in England, in time to save his fingers, ears and nose before they snapped off and shattered on the floor.

  “Pearce,” he said, tapping softly on the door when it wasn’t swiftly opened for him. “Open up, there’s a good fellow.”

  Five minutes passed.

  “Goddamnit, Pearce, it’s bloody freezing out here. I’ll have you put out to pasture. You may think you’re London’s finest, but there are at least three...six...better!”

  The door swung open.

  “There are none better, as you well know, Mr. George,” said Pearce with an offended sniff, even at this hour immaculately attired and not a snow-white hair out of place. “Now come inside and be quick about it. You-know-who is awake already and attending to morning ablutions. If you hurry you can get to your room without him seeing. Don’t dawdle now, he’s been...quiet...so far.”

  George grimaced and nodded. Quickly tugging off his shoes, he silently made his way across the small foyer and up the wooden stairs, hardly daring to breathe until he was safely in his sparsely furnished chamber. As always, he lit several candles and set them in the corner. Twenty-five was entirely too old for such companions, but darkness had never been his friend, not as a child, not at Eton and certainly not here. Candlelight was good, daylight better, and he’d learned how to exist on very little sleep.

  Not bothering to undress, he settled on the too-small and slightly lumpy bed and closed his eyes. The Kenwoods’ ball had actually gone very well—he’d met several investment bankers, been introduced to the Russian ambassador, and even got a stern nod of approval from Liverpool when he’d commented on the uneasy state of French politics. The Prime Minister was a hard nut to crack, but his wife and countless other top ton hostesses were forever in need of amiable, impeccably groomed bachelors for dancing, dining and conversation with their sisters, daughters and guests, so he was included readily enough.

  Ha. One of the few occasions having no money, title or property was a good thing—neither the fresh-faced nor cold-eyed husband-hunters were ever angling for a wedding ring.

  Inhaling deeply, George slowly began to relax. He was rather tired; perhaps an hour or two in communion with his pillow wouldn’t go amiss.

  Until a vicious, raspy drawl shattered his peace.

  “So, you finally made it home.”

  Heart pounding, he bolted upright and stared unblinkingly at his stepfather. Exactly why his warm, fun-loving mother had chosen such an evil bastard for her second husband, and inflicted his surname on her children, was an entirely unsolvable riddle. Of course, leaving her alone with Sir Malcolm was out of the question, so for the foreseeable future they were both trapped.

  “I did,” George replied evenly, mentally berating himself for letting his guard down and not even hearing the door open. Always an unforgiveable error when this man was in the vicinity.

  “Pity. London is awash with criminals and you always seem to avoid them all.”

  “Except when I return home.”

  Sir Malcolm cocked his bald head, that soulless violet gaze nearly pinning him in place as he moved closer. “Can’t imagine what you mean by that, dear boy.”

  “Why, nothing at all, Stepfather.”

  “Then get up. There are errands to run.”

  “Perhaps later.”

  Sir Malcolm shrugged and withdrew a small drawstring leather pouch from his trouser pocket, casually letting the contents clink together. “I guess you aren’t wanting this, then. And to think I added a little extra with Christmas so close. Ah well, I’m sure the servants won’t be so ungrateful.”

  George’s jaw clenched. “Fine. Errands. Now.”

  Scrambling out of bed, he splashed some cold water on his face and fetched a fresh jacket and waistcoat from his makeshift dressing corner. After pulling his shoes back on, he strode past his stepfather and into the hallway. The bastard would be away to his chambers soon enough, then George could take the money to town and buy his mother something pretty...

  White-hot agony streaked across his back, and he went rigid as a very familiar burn clawed and gouged his senses. The cane. Fuck. He’d missed it, resting innocuously against the wall outside his door. Stupid, stupid fool!

  But there was no time for regret, or any kind of emotion for that matter. Ruthlessly suppressing the pain, he spun around. One fist flew out, managing to make contact with Sir Malcolm’s shoulder. A jab to his stepfather’s jaw followed, hard enough to make the man stagger.

  “Well, well,” Sir Malcolm drawled. “The ton emperor of nothing is feisty today. But that was a mistake.”

  “Can’t see how.”

  But then he did see, as Sir Malcolm flicked the head of the cane with his thumb and a sharp blade appeared with a faint metallic hiss.

  Chills shot down George’s spine. A new addition.

  “You always were lackluster in every way,” his stepfather said slowly, rubbing his chin. “I thought regular correction might improve that, but you’re still the same worthless excrement you were as a mewling four-year-old. Worse, actually. Do you truly think those fancy clothes your mother makes, and the fancier friends you run around with, disguise anything? Everyone sees the truth, m’boy. Perhaps I should show pity and just end your sorry existence now.”

  George braced himself and, when the lunge came, neatly sidestepped the deadly blade. Except the movement caused his shoe to slip on the top stair and he stumbled, inviting his stepfather to unleash a flurry of heavy blows. With a groan of dismay he felt his legs buckle, and a moment later the sharp kiss of each stair as he tumbled backwards.

  Pain, terrible pain, but at the same time, sweet relief. Death meant freedom. Yet there was aching sadness too, at leaving his mother, Caroline, and Stephen, the Lords, not to mention regret that he wouldn’t be the one to put several bullets through Sir Malcolm Edwards’ skull.

  Then his temple slammed onto the stone floor of the foyer and the world went black.

  ~ * ~

  “Oh, Lulu dear, I forgot to tell you. We’ll be making a...er...slight detour before we go glove shopping.”

  Louisa Eleanor Donovan—Lulu to her closest friends—narrowed her gaze at Caroline Forsyth, Countess of Westleigh, from across the luxury town carriage. That airy tone, that uncharacteristic hesitancy, those innocent jade-green eyes...

  “Oh really, Caro dear? To where? And please remember your seven-month-pregnant state is no impediment to a truly diabolical vengeance. No impediment whatsoever.”

  “Such cruelty toward a delicate flower of womanhood like myself! Do you really want me to go into early labor? Do you?”

  “It’s not my carriage.”

  Caroline brightened. “Exactly. So you are quite trapped.”

  “Unless I flick the latch and hurl myself onto the street.”

  “I don’t doubt you would. But no need for that, we’re just going to visit my brother.”

  Winding her reticule sash around her wrist, Louisa reached for the door. “Fare thee well, then.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. George sent a runner! The boy said it was an emergency.”

  “Of course it is. A delayed brandy delivery is a terrible thing. So is a torn cravat. Or perhaps he’s finally been captured and strung up by the Society for the Prevention of Cuckolded Husbands?”

  “Pfft. All of London would revolt if a brandy shipment was delayed, torn cravats can ruin anyone’s day, and as for the ton husbands, let he who has never dallied with another man’s wife be first in line with rope for George.”

  “Bah,” Louisa snapped. It was always supremely irritating for an amateur chemist like herself when an opponent parried with indisputable facts.

  “Bah? That does not end an argument. Just ask Stephen.”

  “I’m equally sure Lord Westleigh has methods at his disposal to end an argument that I do not.”

  “Quite beside the point,” said Caroline, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that ac
tually complemented her guinea-gold hair.

  Louisa scowled at the sheer unfairness. When she blushed, her face took on a hue somewhere between plum and tomato that clashed terribly with her auburn locks.

  “Then what is the point?”

  “George. And your utter rejection of his, er, finer qualities.”

  She nearly laughed. If only that were true.

  It was ridiculous giving Mr. George Henry Edwards even a moment’s thought, considering he was arrogant, fickle, and the most unashamed rake in the whole blasted country. But oh, that fallen angel face. Wide jade-green eyes inviting a woman to ruin, and a roguish grin promising it would be worth it. Charm so lethally hypnotic he completely held court wherever he happened to be. Indeed, around the sun that was George, the rest of the world just tended to...fade away.

  Fortunately she didn’t wallow alone in her insanity; it was practically a ton badge of honor to be enticed and discarded by him. But for a woman who prided herself on common sense and intelligence, it had been supremely disappointing to learn she was as hen-witted as the rest of them. Perhaps even more so.

  “George’s finer qualities?” Louisa said eventually, attempting to squelch the alluring thought of his impossibly tall, broad shouldered, lean-hipped body before it could progress. “Wouldn’t he need to possess some for me to reject them?”