Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedications
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
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About The Author
Other books by Carole Mortimer
Regency Sinner 5
Wicked Captive
By
Carole Mortimer
USA Today Bestselling Author
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2018 Carole Mortimer
Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper Designs
Editor: Linda Ingmanson
Formatter: Matthew Mortimer
ISBN: 978-1-910597-60-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved.
DEDICATIONS
My husband, Peter
Chapter 1
September, 1815
Wessex Manor, Devon
“Have we just returned from attending a wake or a wedding?” Lord Jericho Black, the Marquis of Wessex, frowned his impatience with the three morose-looking gentlemen currently seated in his study with him.
“A wake.”
“A wedding.”
Two of those gentlemen answered at the same time with opposing opinions. The third, a dark-haired gentleman seated beside the fire, remained grimly silent.
“Not that we ain’t happy for Carlton,” Lord Jeremiah Worthington added heavily.
“No, not at all,” Lord Titus Covington, Viscount Romney, added as weightily. “God knows Maxim deserves all the happiness he has now found with Heather and young Ralph.”
“But?” Jericho prompted.
“Well, now there are only the three of us left.” Romney glanced toward the dark-haired man seated beside the fire. “Four of us,” he corrected dryly, “to ascertain which of the four remaining ladies under investigation is responsible for committing treason against the Crown.”
Jericho was well aware of that. As he was also aware that the lady he was to investigate, Lady Jocelyn Forbes, who also happened to be his ward, would any day now be returning from a visit to relatives in France.
A connection which, to outsiders, made Jocey very much a suspect in their search for the female traitor. Except Jericho believed Jocey never to have met any of her French relatives until this summer. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and afterward, her English father had refused to have anything to do with his dead wife’s French family. Possibly out of a sense of loyalty to his country, but Jericho was more inclined to believe it had been laziness and a lack of funds on Forbes’s part.
No, it was not Jocey’s tenuous French connections that Jericho found so depressing.
With Carlton’s wedding today, Jericho now knew he had no choice but to bestir himself into proving Jocey’s innocence or guilt in the matter of treason. As did Worthington and Romney.
The eight friends, known collectively as The Sinners in Society, had also long been agents for the Crown. As such, they had been chosen to investigate eight ladies, one of whom they knew had betrayed England, most recently by aiding in Napoleon’s escape from Elba earlier this year and the mayhem that had followed. Except they did not know which of those eight ladies was the guilty one.
Four of The Sinners had now not only proven their ladies’ innocence but also married them. Carlton was the most recent to have done so at this morning’s wedding.
“We are to investigate the Germaine twins,” Romney added in disgust.
“Two sillier young ladies I have yet to meet,” Worthington agreed morosely.
“So silly,” the dark-haired Romney agreed, “it is impossible to believe either one of them capable of doing anything more than getting out of bed in the morning. But only then so that they might be dressed by their maid to go on one of the shopping trips they talk of and giggle about incessantly.”
All aged five and thirty, The Sinners had little time or patience for the young debutantes who regularly appeared at the start of each new London Season. Jericho knew the Germaine twins only because they had made their debut in the same year as Jericho’s ward and were now two of Jocey’s closest friends.
But he agreed with Worthington and Romney’s assessment: the Germaine sisters certainly gave the appearance of being two of the most vacuous young ladies to have been introduced into Society in recent years. Their silliness could be a ruse, of course, merely a front so that one or both of them might hide their clandestine activities.
But that was for Romney and Worthington to decide. Jericho had his own cross to bear in that regard.
“I will offer any of you the same as I did Carlton last month.” The fourth gentleman, Dominik Sinclair, the Duke of Stonewell, rose to his imperious height of several inches over six feet. “Any of you might take my lady instead,” he explained harshly as they all looked at him questioningly.
He removed a well-worn scrap of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat, unfolding and holding it up so they could all read the name written there.
“Prudence Germaine is a pretty little thing,” the blond-haired Worthington assured hastily.
“Perhaps investigating Priscilla Germaine will not be such a hardship after all.” Dark-haired Romney nodded.
Stonewell’s mouth twisted with a derision he made no attempt to hide. “As I thought. How about you, Wessex?”
Jericho was still reeling from the shock of learning the name of the lady whom Stonewell was to investigate. “I could not, in all conscience, allow anyone else to investigate my own ward.”
Jocey was not strictly Jericho’s ward, but his father’s. But as that eccentric gentleman spent all his time in the Scottish Highlands hunting or fishing, Jericho had taken over as Jocey’s guardian three years ago, shortly before her eighteenth birthday. At that time, he had introduced her into Society and thereafter, for the main part, left her to be chaperoned by Lady Gwendoline Black, one of Jericho’s elderly relatives. Several young and worthy gentlemen had approached Jericho since Jocey’s coming out to offer for her hand in marriage, but she had steadfastly refused each and every one of those proposals. At the age of almost one and twenty, she was still very much an eligible young lady.
Stonewell nodded abruptly. “Then if you gentlemen will excuse me? I must return to London and see what further chaos my empty-headed mother-in-law has wrought upon my household in my absence.”
The three remaining gentlemen maintained a silence until the duke had left the room and was seconds later heard departing the house.
“Good God,” Worthington muttered with feeling.
“Indeed,” Romney acknowledged with a shudder.
Jericho had nothing to add to his friends’ incredulity or the pity they all now felt toward Stonewell. Not that the gentleman would appreciate the latter sentiment, but Dominik had their every sympathy nonetheless.
None of which made Jericho’s own task, proving Jocey’s innocence, any less burdensome.
Chapter 2
Jocey could barely contain her excitement as the carriage turned onto the long gravel driveway leading to Wessex Manor, the house she had considered her country
home for the past three years. The manor was a majestic and mellow-stoned mansion that stood on top of a hill and dominated the surrounding estate and countryside.
She had spent her earlier years with a widowed father who preferred to gamble his fortune away rather than spend any of it on his daughter or his estate.
After her father’s death from an excess of alcohol, she had spent several more years under the precarious guardianship of a distant relative, William Black, the Duke of Pomeroy. A man best described as eccentric by the kinder members of Society, and something far less flattering by those who were not so kind but were perhaps more truthful.
The duke’s only son, Lord Jericho Black, the Marquis of Wessex, had assumed responsibility for her guardianship just over three years ago. Despite being somewhat haughty in manner, and dark and imposing in appearance, he nevertheless treated her with a lofty kindness.
He was also, Jocey acknowledged with a wild fluttering of her heart, without a doubt the most handsome gentleman in all of England.
The marquis was exceedingly tall, standing several inches over six feet. His hair was a deep brown, and curled fashionably about his ears and nape. He had blue eyes the deep shade of sapphires, which dominated his harshly chiseled features: high cheekbones, a long and aristocratic nose, sculpted lips, and a strong and square jaw.
His tailor no doubt performed a happy little dance every time the marquis entered his establishment in the knowledge the clothes he made for this prestigious and highly regarded client would be shown to advantage by that height, wide shoulders, muscular chest, narrow waist, and long and muscled legs.
All of which led to Jocey’s conclusion the marquis was the most handsome and imposing gentleman who had ever graced Society with his presence. Certainly no other man, English or French, had ever appealed to her more.
She did not believe herself to be quite in love with the marquis as yet, but with only a little encouragement on his part, she knew that she could be.
Except she doubted any such encouragement would ever be forthcoming.
Aged five and thirty, Lord Jericho Black made his contempt for Society ladies more than obvious on the rare occasions he deigned to act as Jocey’s escort to one of the Season’s social events. Whether or not that contempt extended to ladies who were not in Society, Jocey had no knowledge. The marquis was not a gentleman who would ever discuss his private life with her, of all people. If anyone knew the intimate details of his life, it would be his close male friends, those other seven gentlemen known as The Sinners.
Jocey sat up straighter on the carriage seat as they drew nearer to the house, her excitement growing to fever pitch at the knowledge she would shortly see Jericho after an absence of many months. He had been busy with other matters while she attended the Season and then spent yet more weeks away visiting her mother’s French relatives.
Jocey had enjoyed the visit to France and meeting her mother’s family for the first time. But she was grateful nonetheless that none of those relatives had stepped forward to claim her after her father died. If they had, then her life would have taken on a very different future than the one she now enjoyed.
Most important amongst those differences was that she would never have met and spent so much time with Jericho.
“Are you glad to be home, my lamb?”
Jocey turned to smile at the elderly lady seated beside her. Lady Gwendoline Black was an unmarried and distant cousin of the Duke of Pomeroy, the marquis having taken that lady into his household at the same time he had Jocey, so that Lady Gwendoline might act as her female chaperone.
“As happy as you are to be back in England, I believe,” Jocey confirmed lightly, knowing the highly strung and timid Lady Gwendoline had not enjoyed their visit to France so soon after the hostilities had once again ceased between the two countries.
“Is the marquis to be here too, do you think?” Lady Gwendoline mused.
Jocey’s smile instantly froze on her lips. It had not occurred to her that Jericho might not be at Wessex Manor to greet her when they arrived. And perhaps it should have. She knew how busy he was, managing the Pomeroy and Wessex estates in his father’s absence, as well as his own private businesses, which often kept him in London for weeks at time.
Even so, surely Jericho would not have absented himself when Jocey had sent word ahead she would be arriving today?
“You are here!”
It had been a long and tedious two weeks since Jericho and the other Sinners had attended Carlton’s wedding. Weeks during which Jericho had not heard word from any of them regarding their having rooted out and arrested the traitor to the Crown.
He barely had time to acknowledge his ward’s greeting as Jocey eagerly handed her cloak, bonnet, and gloves to his butler before she then launched herself across the cavernous hallway in a most unladylike manner and straight into her surprised guardian’s arms.
Jericho instinctively tensed at the feel of his ward’s arms clinging about his neck. Jocey’s face was nestled against his shoulders, and she pressed the soft curves of her body against his much harder ones.
Soft curves that seemed more…abundant in her blue silk gown than Jericho remembered. Her breasts were fuller and spilling over the low neckline of the gown. Her waist and hips were curvaceous rather than the rather coltish and immature lines he recalled from when he last saw her.
Which was some months ago now, he realized with a frown.
His own and the other Sinners’ attention had all been preoccupied with Napoleon’s escape from Elba, and then the battles that followed, during the majority of this past Season. Jocey had spent several more weeks at Pomeroy House in London once the Season ended before she and Lady Gwendoline left on their journey to France.
Now that he thought on it, Jericho believed it must be fully six months since he had last set eyes on his young ward.
He certainly did not remember Jocey as being quite this warm and womanly then. Or her dark hair being arranged quite so stylishly. She had always possessed those beautiful dark gray eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes, but they now seemed seductive rather than innocent, and her unblemished ivory skin glowed with a luminescent quality.
Jericho’s displeasure deepened at the realization his cock wholeheartedly approved of these changes in her, it having stirred and thickened inside his pantaloons.
But that was surely a response any gentleman would have to the abundance of warm and curvaceous female flesh now pressed so intimately against his own.
And a response Jericho believed to be entirely inappropriate in regard to his ward, let alone the woman who might have betrayed her country and the Crown.
He reached up to grasp Jocey’s wrists and pull her hands from about his neck, maintaining that tight grasp even as he set her away from him. “Where else should I be but at my own estate?” He looked down the haughty length of his nose at her.
Her cheeks flushed at the rebuke, those dark gray eyes losing their excited sparkle. “Lady Gwendoline and I had wondered if you might still be away on business.”
In truth, the disappointed expression on Jocey’s face made Jericho feel a little guilty for the sharpness of his response. But really, ward or otherwise, Jocey should not have thrown herself quite so enthusiastically into the arms of any single gentleman. Especially one almost fifteen years her senior, and, moreover, one who had never shown the slightest inclination to have her do so. Jericho did not care for being touched by anyone unless he had first given his permission. Something he had certainly not done in regard to his ward.
He might not take advantage of the many offers he received from ladies in Society, nor did he have a permanent mistress, but that did not mean he did not indulge in robust and satisfying sexual encounters when he felt so inclined. In fact, Jericho believed his sexual drive to be higher and of a more specific nature than most other gentlemen’s. Certainly rarely a week passed when he did not indulge his physical desires several times with one or another of the numerous ladies of the
demimonde. Women who were paid handsomely to cater to his requirements.
There were no members of the demimonde in Devon, of course. But even so, Jericho knew several ladies in the vicinity whom he might call upon to relieve any sexual tension that might occur during his visits here.
His own ward could never, and would never, be counted amongst their number.
Even if my cock has decided otherwise?
Jericho’s mouth thinned. He was in charge of his cock. As he was in control of the rest of his body, and that of any of the women who chose to briefly satisfy his physical needs.
He would never allow any woman to lead him around by the cock in the way his mother had his father and any other man who took her fancy. Adulterous affairs his father had turned a blind eye to because he was still in love with his unfaithful wife. To a degree, Jericho’s father had been only half alive himself in the twenty years since her death, and preferred to shut himself away in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands rather than mix in society. Jericho had been but fifteen when she died, and he had ceased to think of her as his mother long before that.
His nostrils flared. “I decided to absent myself from London rather than fend off yet another deluge of end-of-Season marriage proposals directed at my ward from hopeful young gentlemen,” he dismissed. “You really must make up your mind and show favor toward one of them soon.”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “But I am not in love with any of those gentlemen.”
His brows rose. “I have not said which gentlemen they were.”
“It does not matter who they are when I know I am not in love with anyone.”
Jericho’s mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. “I very much doubt many, if any of the ladies in Society, are in love with their husbands,” he derided. Although he knew that was not true of the recent marriages of four of his close friends. All of those were, without exception, love matches. “Provide the man with his heir and the spare, and then you might both do as you please.” It was the unwritten rule of Society marriages which Jericho’s father would have been advised to follow, despite there being no spare. Instead of which his father had waited for the scraps of affection his wife occasionally doled out to him when she was in between lovers.
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