Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two

by Mary Lancaster

Even so, Adam carried a slight flicker of hope that one ten-year-old boy had been among the survivors.

  That hope extinguished as he found the list recording the twenty missing, presumed killed.

  One of them was cabin boy Christopher John Hardacre.

  The page before him blurred. Adam closed his eyes before his tears could fall and smear the ink.

  Ponsnowyth Church

  October 1804

  Adam was happy to have arrived early at the Ponsnowyth church alone. He wanted time to reflect, to pray, though it was not normally his habit. In recent times, Adam had discovered he had a lot to be thankful for – and that required someone to give thanks to.

  Now, he stood at the entrance of the church where he could see a solidly-built figure making his way across the lawn. It was Reverend Fuller in his vestments, a black Bible under his arm. He greeted Adam warmly and joked about whether or not he was a nervous groom. He assured the man he was not. There was no need to be. He was as sure of Olivia’s love as she was of his. His bride would be here soon enough.

  Over the next ten minutes, villagers arrived and he gladly accepted their best wishes. The pews were filled, apart from the one at the front.

  Adam waited at the entrance until a carriage pulled up outside the gate. That was Sir Daniel, Lady Abigail, and his wife-to-be.

  It was supposed to be bad luck to see the bride in her gown before she entered the church, and he had enough respect for some superstitions to come away from the door and make his way to the altar. But part way down, he paused.

  The new brass plaque had been mounted to the wall. It stood out starkly among the rest now dulled with age.

  To the memory of Constance Denton (1765-1784)

  and her son Christopher, lost at sea (1784-1794).

  Long after Beaufort Denton’s grandiose stone weathered away to nothing and his name was forgotten, his daughter’s and his grandson’s memory would remain bright and alive. He and Olivia would make sure of that.

  Reverend Fuller gestured him to his place at the altar. Sir Daniel and Lady Abigail walked down and took their seats just as Olivia appeared at the back of the church.

  She wore a gown of sea green silk, shot with blue, the color bringing out the warmth of her skin and shade of her hair. Around her neck was a cream cameo tied with a blue ribbon. She carried a simple bouquet of Calla lilies.

  Even if she had been dripping with jewels, Olivia could not have looked more beautiful to him than she did at this moment.

  Right now, Adam had the world. And it was enough.

  King’s Rogues Series

  Live and Let Spy

  Spyfall

  Father’s Day (A Novella)

  Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Author’s Note

  My amazing publisher, Kathryn Le Veque, told me that she’d like to see more stories with another hero bearing the Hardacre name.

  And as it so happened, I wanted to return to the beautiful Cornish coast, which was the setting of my first novel. I came back with the concept for a new series which is The King’s Rogues – set during the early years of the Napoleonic Wars, ten years before the Heart of the Corsairs series.

  If you’ve read that series, then you’ll know the hero, Kit Hardacre, knows nothing of his past. If I were to continue the Hardacre line, then I had better give him a past! And that is the origin of Adam Hardacre.

  And if you’re intrigued at what might happen when two such strong personalities meet, then I hope you enjoy the story Father’s Day in the Night of Angels Dragonblade Publishing Christmas anthology.

  While I’m introducing new friends, I thought I’d welcome back old ones, too. I can’t think of anyone better to lead these Rogues than Sir Daniel and Lady Abigail Ridgeway. They have an adventure romance of their own in Moonstone Conspiracy, one of my earlier novels.

  And my husband, Duncan, is delighted. He has been one of Lady Abigail’s most vocal advocates since her first appearance as the cynical and sharp-tongued love rival in Moonstone Obsession.

  When doing research for The King’s Rogues, I unearthed an interesting tidbit of history about one of the many ideas floated by Napoleon to invade England. One in particular which was intriguing but abandoned due to its impracticality.

  But what if it wasn’t impractical if it had been approached in a different way?

  That sparked my imagination – and sorry, I can’t tell you what it is because it will spoil the final book in The King’s Rogues series!

  I hope you enjoy The King’s Rogues.

  About the Author

  Elizabeth Ellen Carter is an award-winning historical romance writer who pens richly detailed historical romantic adventures. A former newspaper journalist, Carter ran an award-winning PR agency for 12 years. The author lives in Australia with her husband and two cats.

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  Henry’s Bride

  London Libertines, Book One

  by Emily Royal

  Dedication

  For Jasmine, who is a better person than her mother and who, with luck, on reading this, will pledge to look after me in my infirmity.

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not have seen the light of day without the support of my family and friends.

  Big thanks to my fabulous tribe, the Beta Buddies, who read the rough drafts. An extra huge hug to Sarah Painter for the writing sessions complete with tea, pizza and wine, which helped me over the final editing hurdle.

  To Violetta and all at Dragonblade, thank you for having so much faith in this book, for your invaluable feedback and the beautiful cover.

  To my high school mathematics teacher, you made me believe it’s cool for a girl to be numerate and my heroine thanks you. I’m also grateful to the Romantic Novelists’ Association who provided an early critique through their New Writers’ Scheme, and encouraged me to take writing seriously.

  And finally, to Neil, Jasmine, and Frankie – no words can express how much your encouragement means to me.

  Prologue

  With his body humming from the afterglow of pleasurable release, Henry Drayton, Marquis of Ravenwell, straightened his cravat and descended the stone steps outside the brothel entrance. Betty ran one of the more exclusive bawdy houses, catering to tastes few men could afford. Discretion was favored over publicity, and he glanced up and down the street before setting off. The sun had yet to rise, and few would be up and about this early except men like him who sought a willing female body to relieve the tedium of polite society.

  Lights flickered in the top stories of the terraced houses he passed, servants enduring the cold while donning their uniforms to embark on their duties. Tasks like setting the water to boil, laying the fireplaces so their masters and mistresses met the new day with warmth, comfort, and fresh tea, unaware of the toil that had gone into preparing their breakfast.

  The doors of a townhouse ahead opened, and the cloaked figure of a woman stepped out.

  Henry stopped in his tracks. What the devil was a servant doing using the front entrance? Or was she a doxy paying a visit to the master of the house?

  A shaft of sunlight stretched across the street, illuminating her face as if the sunrise had waited for her. Intelligent eyes the color of emeralds brought a splash of life to her otherwise drab appearance. With a furtive glance that mirrored Henry’s own, she set off at a pace too fast for a lady, but lacking the urgency of a thief.

  Her figure was discernible even beneath her cloak; a frame lacking the brittleness prized among society ladies. Her body glowed with the curves and tones of health and vitality. Henry’s own body tightened with lust, and he set off in her wake.

  Which bawdy house did she belong to? Or was she a courtesan? Currently between mistresses, Henry was looking for another. Perhaps she was in need of a protector. Not only in terms of a man’s relationship
with his mistress, but someone to warn her of the dangers of wandering about the streets of London unaccompanied.

  Maybe she courted danger on purpose.

  The woman turned into Hyde Park, and her pace slowed. She stopped at a tree and ran her palm over the bark, fingers caressing the texture as if she drew strength and joy from Mother Nature. Her eyes were closed, the light of the dawn emphasizing the contentment in her face, lips upturned in a peaceful smile as if she had come home.

  Male voices called out, and she jerked back, continuing along the path and then disappearing into the park.

  Before Henry could follow her, two men appeared. They wore the familiar garb of the Bow Street Runners and carried a body between them. Icy fingers caressed the back of Henry’s neck.

  It was a woman. Water dripped off her clothes and hair which hung lifeless, dark stains spreading across the Runners’ red waistcoats. Her face was bloated, evidence she had been in the water for several hours. Her head lay at an unnatural angle, bruises dark against her pale skin.

  Someone had broken her neck.

  Henry hailed the runners. “What do you have there?”

  The taller man spoke. “Just another doxy, sir. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “Aren’t you concerned?”

  “Of course. It’s our job to investigate.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “Some lad told us about a body. Reckon she’s been floating in the Serpentine all night. Probably indulged on gin and fell in. You know what their sort’s like. We had three of them last month.”

  “That may be,” Henry said, “but even I can see the marks on her neck.”

  “Them type like it rough.” The man nudged his companion. “Come on, John, the sooner we deal with this brass, the sooner we can have a brew.”

  He tipped his hat at Henry. “Mind how you go, sir. London’s a dangerous place at night.”

  Henry nodded. Dangerous indeed. Yet these men dismissed the death of a whore as an inconvenience which kept them from their tea. These women were people, too.

  As was Jenny.

  Jenny.

  A prostitute like any other but for one thing; she was the mother of Henry’s child.

  If these men were to be believed, the woman in their arms hadn’t been the first body they’d discovered. If they didn’t care, perhaps Henry should look into the matter himself. He owed it to Jenny even though she’d long since died. Betty may have heard something. Only last night she’d mentioned the disappearance of one of her girls, though she rarely spoke of her fears, possessing the talent only the best woman of her sort had, revealing little of herself, concentrating only on the needs of the men she serviced.

  But he’d have to be careful. A man investigating murders in London put his life at risk. It was fortunate he had no loved ones who might be endangered by association. Perhaps, then, it was not time to find a mistress just yet.

  A pity. The intriguing creature he’d followed into the park might have provided an excellent diversion for the Season.

  Chapter One

  “Good grief, look at her!”

  “Is it me, Dom, or are debutantes getting uglier each Season?”

  Henry shifted his attention from the company—unmarried ladies whose muscles tensed at the sight of him—to his friends, Rupert and Dominic, who gestured toward a group of unattached ladies at the edge of the ballroom.

  Two sat apart from the rest. The one on the left was the Honorable Andrea Elliot. Recently betrothed to an American privateer, she lacked the air of desperation which clung to most debutantes. Henry didn’t recognize her companion.

  “A plain, plump little thing,” Dominic laughed. “That pink is hideous, and the expression on her face could curdle milk.”

  “Given her prospects, I’m not surprised she’s miserable,” Rupert said.

  She wore a discontented expression, her mouth downturned, brow creased into a frown, and body slumped forward. Her marked contrast to the ocean of elegance in the room was enough to incite curiosity, even if it rendered her unpalatable.

  Henry voiced his curiosity. “What prospects?”

  “That’s Miss Claybone, née Smith.” Rupert relished the emphasis on Smith. “Her father’s a baronet, but it’s a new title. The mother has blue blood, though French, and she’s trying to further her ambitions through her daughters.”

  “As is every mother in the room,” Henry said.

  Rupert laughed. “She’ll have difficulty getting that one off her hands. Perhaps I’ll have some sport with her. I’m rather partial to a fine set of curves.”

  As Henry watched her, she lifted her head and their eyes met. His breath caught in his throat. They were the eyes of the woman he’d followed into the park. Deep oceans of green punctuated by sparkles of gold radiated a sharp intelligence. They seemed to look right inside him and find him wanting. He shifted his legs at the surge of heat in his groin.

  “She’s not worth your notice, Rupe,” he said. “Where’s the sport in tormenting a mouse when there’s bigger game to be had?”

  Her eyes hardened and she looked away.

  “It’s all right for you, Dray,” Rupert said. “Your quarry’s in the room. I’m sure the countess awaits your pleasure. And hers.”

  Henry ran a hand through his hair—thick, black locks which women seemed to enjoy burying their hands in while he pleasured them. His gaze fell on their hosts, the Earl and Countess of Darlington. The countess caught his eye and lifted her lips into a seductive smile. Nearby stood Lady Holmestead, arm-in-arm with her husband.

  Perhaps he’d have some sport tonight after all.

  *

  “There they are, Jeanie. The worst rakes of the ton.”

  Jeanette looked away from the crowd—row upon row of bright, vibrant silks shimmering against each other, sparkling headdresses and glittering jewels—and turned her attention on her friend. Andrea Elliott looked every part the society lady, her yellow silk gown complementing her classic beauty to perfection. Pale blonde hair fashioned into soft curls and dotted with pearls, framed a face flushed a delicate shade of rose and eyes the color of cornflowers. No wonder she’d secured an offer of marriage less than a week into her first season. To Jeanette, Andrea was a jewel among society, for she possessed intelligence, independence, and wit, and had managed to attract the attention and secure the hand of the only man in society Jeanette deemed worthy of her.

  “I thought all men were rakes, Andy,” Jeanette said, “except your Mr. O’Reilly.”

  “Ah, dearest Theodore! Pity he’s not titled, but I love him regardless.”

  Jeanette sighed. “You’re unique among your class, for you care nothing for their nonsense.”

  “I find it entertaining,” Andrea said. “For example, those three are infamous debauchers, but look how the women lift their heads when they enter the room. The biggest and best catches of the day! I swear, if your mama had a butterfly net, she’d be running across the ballroom now.”

  “I doubt that, Andy. If she caught me running, she’d have an attack of the vapors.”

  Andrea giggled. “Luckily you’re of little consequence to attract their notice. And just as well. I hear most of the fallen women in London have them to thank for it. Their tastes include half the married ladies in this room…” She lowered her voice, “…and they frequent bawdy houses to relieve their more sophisticated passions.”

  “Who are they?” Jeanette said.

  “Surely you’re not interested?”

  “Of course not, but at the very least, I ought to know the names of those I should avoid.”

  Andrea lowered her voice. “The small brown-haired chap is the Honorable Dominic Hartford, eldest son of Viscount Hartford. The blonde fellow is Rupert Beaumont, Viscount Oakville.”

  “And the darker one?”

  “That, my dear, is Lord Ravenwell. He’s to inherit a dukedom from his cousin. They say he has more children than any other man in London. Quite the achievement.” />
  “Not one to be proud of. What of the mothers of his children?”

  “A man of his status can do whatever he likes, Jeanie, without making the slightest ripple in his reputation.”

  Jeanette shook her head. “Pity the women caught in the ripples.”

  The three men looked perfectly comfortable in their surroundings, an environment Jeanette found both alien and hostile. Her gaze lingered on Lord Ravenwell; tall, broad-shouldered, with a toned, athletic build accentuated by his form-fitting dark jacket and pale cream breeches, right down to his calfskin boots.

  His hair was longer than socially acceptable, brushing his shoulders in thick black waves. His features exuded breeding, the strong jaw, straight nose, and dark lashes which framed his brilliant blue eyes. His gaze met hers, and a knowing smile curled at the corner of his lush, sensual mouth. What might it be like to be claimed by those lips, to feel his breath on her skin?

  Deep longing pulsed in her stomach. How could he master her body from a single glance?

  She dropped her gaze to break the spell. It was an unjust world where men ruled the lives of others through circumstances of birth rather than merit. How could she hope to survive in it?

  “Jeanette.”

  Mama’s voice made her sit up almost instinctively.

  “Don’t forget Colonel Chambers.”

  Mama had tried to persuade Hugh Chambers, the youngest son of the Duke of Bowborough, to offer for the first dance, with thinly veiled comments about how sons of dukes should fraternize with daughters of French aristocrats, oblivious to the titters of onlookers hungry for objects of ridicule and subjects of gossip. To avoid further embarrassment, Jeanette had sought refuge among the wallflowers where man rarely ventured.

  Mama fanned herself. “Take a turn about the room. You’ll not fill your dance card chattering in the corner. And hold your stomach in. That gown is supposed to hide, not exaggerate, your curves.”