by Shana Galen
in Shana Galen’s Survivors series
No Earls Allowed
Coming soon from Sourcebooks Casablanca
One
London, 1816
Neil woke and gulped in air. The acrid smell of cannon smoke burned his lungs, and the stench of burning flesh assaulted his nostrils. His hands fisted in the sheets on the bed, their softness reminding him he was not lying on a battlefield beside his dead brother but in his bed in his flat in London.
Without looking, he reached for the glass of gin on the bedside table. There was always a glass of gin on the bedside table. It wasn’t a gentleman’s drink, but here, in the dark, alone with his demons, Neil didn’t want to be a gentleman. And so he bought gin for the nights when the dreams of battle haunted him. And when he drank the bitter brew, he tried to forget he was the son of a marquess.
He sipped the gin and lit a lamp, taking solace in the fact that his hands didn’t shake. If he’d dreamed on, he likely would have woken with trembling hands and a scream echoing in his ears. For, as he’d lain beside his dead brother on that hill in Portugal, the smoke of the battlefield had coalesced around him, settling inside him. Instead of stifling him, the smoke caught the breeze and the flame of rage ignited within him. The fire built until it seared and burned, and he’d not been able to quench the heat until he rose and, with a roar, stumbled after the French soldiers the dragoons hadn’t routed. Like a berserker, he’d cut every one of them down, even as they raised hands in surrender, even as they’d begged for quarter.
Neil had expected to be reprimanded for his behavior that day—behavior unbecoming a gentleman—but Draven had pulled him aside and given him a promotion of sorts.
If one could call leading a suicide troop a promotion.
The flame of rage had long been extinguished, and in its place laid a weight like a sodden mantle, bowing his shoulders. Neil could not shed it, no matter how hard he tried. Now he rose and pulled on trousers and a linen shirt. He didn’t bother to tuck in the shirt or button it at the throat or sleeves. Instead, he padded to the window and pushed the heavy curtains open. He had a view of St. James’s Street. He liked the sight of carriages and men coming and going from gambling hells or brothels. He liked the noise and the lights spilling from the establishments. It drowned out the sounds of battle that too easily plagued him in silence.
Neil stood and stared out the window for a long time before shoving his feet into boots and shrugging on a coat. His manservant would not arrive until later in the morning, so Neil managed the cravat on his own. As for his wild hair, he combed his fingers through it, pushing the sides out of his eyes.
He had no one to inform of his departure. He lived alone, a necessity when one woke screaming five out of seven nights of the week. He took his walking stick as a precaution against drunkards, who might be stupid enough to accost him, and left for his club.
Twenty minutes later, Porter greeted him. “Mr. Wraxall,” the older distinguished man said as he opened the door. “A pleasure to see you, sir.”
Neil handed the master of the house his walking stick. “Don’t you ever sleep, Porter?”
Porter raised his brows, silver to match his hair. “Don’t you, sir?”
“Not unless I have to. I know it’s half past three. Is anyone here?”
“Mr. Beaumont is asleep in the card room.”
No doubt Rafe had retreated to the Draven Club to escape some woman. Neil might have laughed if he hadn’t come to escape his own demons. Not that the club didn’t have its ghosts. His gaze strayed to the shield hanging directly opposite the door where no one entering could miss it. It was a silver shield bisected by a thick, medieval sword with a pommel shaped like a fleur-de-lis. Under the grip, the cross-guard was ornamented with a skull. It would not have been particularly macabre except for the eighteen marks on the flanks and base. Each fleur-de-lis, nine on the dexter side and nine on the sinister side, stood for a member of the troop of Draven’s men Neil had lost during the war. Neil often felt he carried the weight of the enormous shield on his back.
“Anyone else here?” he asked the Master of the House.
“No, sir.” Porter placed the walking stick in a stand, his wooden leg thumping on the carpet. “Would you care for a drink or something to eat, sir?”
Neil wanted more gin, if only to settle his nerves, but he could have drunk himself into a stupor at his flat. He’d come here to affect civility. He’d come here because it was the closest thing to home he’d ever known. “Brandy would suit me, Porter.”
Though Neil could have found it blindfolded, Porter led him up the winding staircase and into the dining room. The five round tables in the paneled wood room were empty, their white linen tablecloths bright and clean and anticipating the next diner.
Neil chose a chair near the big hearth and settled back. The silence here didn’t bother him. He could all but hear the echoes of his friends’ voices—those who had survived—raised in song or laughter. He half expected to look to the side and see Ewan Mostyn—the brawny, muscled protector of the group—bent over a meal or spot Rafe Beaumont leaning negligently against one of the walls, under a sconce.
Neil never felt alone here.
Porter returned with the brandy on a silver salver. Neil had told the man a hundred times such gestures were unnecessary, but Porter believed in standards. Neil lifted the brandy then frowned at the folded white paper that had been beneath it.
“I almost forgot, sir. This note came for you a few hours ago.”
Neil lifted it and nodded to the silver-haired Master of the House, who departed quite gracefully, considering he had but one leg. It didn’t surprise Neil that correspondence meant for him had been sent here. He was here more than anywhere else, and anyone who knew him knew that. He broke the seal and opened the paper, recognizing the hand immediately. It was from the Marquess of Kensington. It said simply:
Call on me at the town house at your earliest convenience. I have need of you.
—Kensington
Two
Lady Juliana, only remaining daughter of the Earl St. Maur, could have screamed. She’d had a more abominable morning than usual, and that was saying something.
First, she’d been called away from the Duke of Devonshire’s ball by the appearance of Robbie, one of the orphans from the Sunnybrooke Home for Boys. He’d told her she must come immediately. There was an emergency at the orphanage, and she’d made her excuses and run out, much to her father’s annoyance. It probably hadn’t helped matters that she’d taken the family coach.
Then she’d arrived at the orphanage just as the sun was rising to find that her cook was packing her bags to leave. Julia had known it would happen sooner or later; she’d simply hoped it would be later. Mrs. Nesbit had been complaining for months about the state of the kitchens, claiming she could hardly be expected to work in such conditions. Julia had agreed. The ovens smoked, the roof leaked, and the boys had stolen all the decent knives. Lately, Mrs. Nesbit had also complained the staples she stocked had been steadily disappearing as well—flour, cornmeal, potatoes, and garlic. Julia wondered if perhaps Mrs. Nesbit was cheating her and selling the stock on the sides, but she had no proof and couldn’t afford to lose the cook. She’d begged Mrs. Nesbit to give her more time to ask the orphanage’s board for money and make the repairs.
She’d thought she’d succeeded at persuading the woman, until, of course, the boys had thought it amusing to loose three tame rats in the kitchen as Mrs. Nesbit prepared breakfast. When Charlie had shown her the rats again, just to prove they were harmless, the poor cook had shrieked loud enough to wake the dead—or at least the dead tired, as Juliana thought of herself—and resigned effective immediately.
Which meant Julia had to cook the boys breakfast. One could not simply allow a dozen boys to go hungry, and she did not have the funds to buy them all pies from the hawkers’ carts. Not when each
boy ate as much as a horse.
And so, Julia had calmly collected the rats, placed them back in their straw-lined box with a bit of bread for their breakfast, and in her jewels and dancing slippers, heated oats in a large pot she could barely move. She tried not to feel sorry for herself. Even as she rolled and kneaded bread until her arms ached, she pushed memories of walks in the promenade and ices at Gunters aside. And when her once lovely copper ball gown was covered in flour and sticky pieces of dough, Juliana did not allow her thoughts to stray to all the lovely balls where she had worn the gown and danced with countless handsome and charming gentlemen.
Or at least she didn’t allow her thoughts to stray much.
But no sooner had she placed the bread in the oven than Mr. Goring, her manservant, had knocked on the open door and informed her Mr. Slag was waiting for her in the parlor.
Julia had stared at the servant as though the man had gone mad. Sticky white hands on her hips, she’d glowered at Mr. Goring until he’d lowered his eyes. “Why on earth did you seat Mr. Slag in the parlor?” She also wanted to ask where he had been when the boys he was supposed to be watching in her absence were foisting rats on the cook, but she couldn’t afford to lose Mr. Goring too.
“There ain’t nowhere else except the dining room, and the lads is in there making a racket about wantin’ their vittles.”
Julia had heard and ignored the noise. If the boys had wanted to be fed in good time, they shouldn’t have taunted the cook with the rats. “What I meant, Mr. Goring,” she clarified, though she knew he’d understood her perfectly, “is why did you admit Mr. Slag? I told you never to admit him. Not under any circumstances.”
Goring scratched the sparse hair at the crown of his forehead. “Did you want me to close the door on him?”
“No.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, as she often spoke to Charlie, who was four. “I wanted you to say what I told you to say.”
“But, my lady, you are home.”
“Not to him!” Defeated, she removed the apron that was supposed to protect her ball gown and tossed it on the worktable. She’d deal with Mr. Slag then serve breakfast. Before leaving the kitchen, she closed the box with Matthew, Mark, and Luke and perched it under one arm. She did not want to risk the rodents escaping into the kitchen and causing more mayhem.
Order Shana Galen’s next book
in The Survivors series
No Earls Allowed
On sale March 2018
Acknowledgments
I’m so fortunate to have such a supportive group of friends and colleagues to shepherd this book toward publication. I already mentioned Sophie Jordan, who gave me the idea for this series at the RT convention in Dallas in 2015. We were sitting in our hotel room, and I told her I needed an idea for a new series, and she said, “Have you ever seen the movie The Dirty Dozen?” Honestly, I don’t know how she thinks of these things, but as soon as she said dozen, I had that little spark of an idea I know will flame into something bigger.
Joanna Mackenzie and Danielle Egan-Miller fanned the flames by helping me brainstorm and by shaping the series idea into something more tangible and sophisticated. They are two of the most savvy, intelligent, and creative women I know. I’m so proud they represent me as my agents.
Deb Werksman, my editor at Sourcebooks, molded the manuscript further with her wonderful insights and suggestions. Ewan would not be the hero he is without her guidance.
My friends Tera Lynn Childs, Lily Blackwood, Nicole Flockton, Lark Howard, Sophie Jordan, and Mary Lindsey helped brainstorm titles, as they often do, for this book. Beth Sochacki, my awesome publicist, had so many wonderful ideas for the title of the book, the series, and of equal importance, presenting it to readers. Dawn Adams and I had several conversations about the cover, and I count myself lucky to work with the most talented cover artist in the industry.
My friends Susan Knight and Sarah Rosenbarker brainstormed heroes with me, and the Shananigans gave me much-needed encouragement and support.
My husband deserves special mention for doing his best to give me extra time to work when I need it and not complaining when I had to write instead of watching The Walking Dead with him.
Finally, thanks to Gayle Cochrane, who is a friend and my biggest supporter, and who is always ready with a fabulous idea or a word of encouragement.
About the Author
Shana Galen is a three-time RITA nominee and the bestselling author of passionate Regency romps, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice award winner The Making of a Gentleman. Kirkus Reviews says of her books, “The road to happily ever after is intense, conflicted, suspenseful, and fun,” and RT Book Reviews calls her books “lighthearted yet poignant, humorous yet touching.” She taught English at the middle- and high-school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston’s inner city. Now she writes full time. She’s happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making.
Also by Shana Galen
SONS OF THE REVOLUTION
The Making of a Duchess
The Making of a Gentleman
The Rogue Pirate’s Bride
LORD AND LADY SPY
Lord and Lady Spy
True Spies
The Spy Wore Blue (novella)
Love and Let Spy
JEWELS OF THE TON
When You Give a Duke a Diamond
If You Give a Rake a Ruby
Sapphires Are an Earl’s Best Friend
COVENT GARDEN CUBS
Viscount of Vice (novella)
Earls Just Want to Have Fun
The Rogue You Know
I Kissed a Rogue
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