Edward Hunter, Earl of Weston, leaned back in his chair and stretched, having shaken hands with his opponent, the Earl of Harrington. He was looking for relaxation, and feeling only slightly buoyed by his win.

Edward was one monkey richer after five games of piquet and feeling strangely discomfited. His friend wanted to play on, but he promised he could recoup his losses another time. Around the elegant gaming saloon at the private gentlemen’s establishment known as The Wicked Earls’ Club, various games of chance were in progress: roulette, vingt-et-un, faro, whist, and hazard. At the far end of the room, the billiards table sent a series of loud ‘click clack’ noises echoing now and then, above the general hum.

Edward fingered the small gold ‘W’ insignia on the pin anchoring his neck cloth. It was a modest emblem, but every member was required to wear his when in attendance. He had been presented with the pin eight months ago, following his induction into the club.

While the club was not in the most fashionable district, it compared favorably with White’s on the richness of its interiors. The walls were papered in either deep burgundy or hunter green tones throughout, and the lighting was low. Only the most masculine furniture—rich leathers, dark wood grains—appointed the club’s public rooms.

This was no genteel hell. Whilst exclusive, The Wicked Earls’ Club was a disreputable establishment. Edward allowed his gaze to travel over the heads of the other earls present. Some were doing their best to run through their fortunes before the year was out; others were living outrageously on the expectancy to inherit. In varying stages of disarray, these sons of gentlemen were lounging in the plush leather armchairs, swilling expensive wine as though it was ale, and engaging in good-humored ribaldry.

The lamps were turned low, apart from those above the tables, but from his discreet corner, Edward could see the flushed faces and smell the aromas of excitement and stale cologne. Beside the grand fireplace, one gentleman was playing hazard with the Earl of St. Seville, who had a large pile of promissory notes at his right hand. The man’s hair clung in damp fronds to his brow and his cheeks burned a florid tale. He was clearly being fleeced. It was not an uncommon occurrence, but for some reason Edward felt queasy and looked away. When had he become so easily affronted?

A blue haze of smoke wafted above the dark wood tables. Frederick, the Earl of Davenport, tilted his head back at that moment and added another long plume to the fog. Bright red splotches rode his cheekbones and his eyes held a wild expression that tobacco alone could not produce.

“Harrington,” he called, as that earl approached the roulette table. “Care to try your luck against the bank?”

“Who holds the bank?” Harrington asked.

“I do.”

“Then I must respectfully decline. You have the devil’s own luck, Davenport.”

Edward grinned. At least one of them was capable of exercising circumspection. Rising from his chair, he walked towards the door. An ear-splitting yelp, followed by booming laughter, caught his attention and he glanced back. Harrington had joined a lively game of hazard with the Earl of Grayson and some others. They appeared to be consoling Grayson on his losses in the time honoured manner—with ridicule and banter. Unrepentant, Edward smiled and left the room to head down the hall in the direction of the morning room. Distracted by his thoughts, he opened the door in front of him. Too late, he realized he had intruded upon a private party.

“Weston! Join us.”

He started at hearing his name, and peered into a low-lit, smoke-filled room, unable to make out the identity of the gentleman who had called out to him.

“Come on in, Weston. We have an extra.” Edward knew he should recognize the sandy-headed man who had just pulled back from his pipe, but he could not place him. The man pointed to a meagerly clothed, dark-haired woman. She smiled and invited him to join her, beckoning with her finger.

“Thank you, but no.” Edward gave an ironic bow. “If you will excuse me, I have a friend meeting me shortly.” He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him. Spotting the door he was looking for, he opened it and fairly flew down the stairs to the first floor. The whole scene upstairs struck him as distasteful, and the sudden realization confused him.

A footman appeared with a salver bearing a selection of decanters and glasses, and held open a door at the front end of the hall. Edward acknowledged the gesture. “You have perfect timing. Thank you.”

“Yes, my lord.” The servant's eyelids flickered but he gave no other sign of anything being untoward. Edward became conscious that a cloud of smoke had followed him and allowed the man a rueful nod. He sniffed his own coat jacket and smirked. His valet would likely burn it. This jacket had been a favorite; it was comfortable. But there were plenty of others to replace it.

“I will have a brandy if there is still some to be had,” he said, dismissing the footman to attend to his request. He entered the morning room and discovered it was empty. A smell of rich cherry tobacco greeted him. The corner fireplace had a small fire burning in the grate and warmed the room. The space was welcoming and would provide a pleasant respite from his earlier activity.

Edward hated his current circumstances. Having returned from Paris and his latest commission for the Crown, he had been met with devastating news. His brother was dead from a bullet discharged during a duel, but not a bullet fired by either duelist. And then, his father had died within a fortnight of Edward's return. He had no aspirations to take his father’s title; it was supposed to have passed to his brother. Yet now he had inherited the earldom. Earl of Weston was not a role he had been trained to handle. It had been thrust upon him. His life now was damnable. He had responsibilities he had neither wanted nor sought, and the occupation he loved—working for the Crown—had been pushed aside. He missed his brother, Robert, and wondered how things had deteriorated so much between them. They had been close most of their lives. He was slowly accepting his responsibility for the arguments over his recklessness and gambling, realizing that they created many of their problems. This should have been Robert’s club.

Leaning back, he propped his legs on an ottoman, comfortable in the brown leather chair tucked in the corner of the room. The Club had become his refuge, and he could now understand the other gentlemen’s attachment to it. After an afternoon of gambling, he was content to nurse another brandy, thankful for a darkness and the quiet the club offered in which to scan the news sheets. Edward scrutinized the date—even last week’s issue would be better than none, since he had not read it yet. It was late, so most of the members had left for evening assignations, excepting the few who were still occupied in the private rooms. He opened the paper and shook out the folds, hoping to read it without interruption. A salacious story sometimes succeeded in removing his thoughts from the pernicious life he was leading.

After a few minutes, he recognized the booming voice of his best friend, Thomas Bergen, greeting Henry, the club doorman in the entrance hall. Moments later, Bergen sauntered through the doors.

“Care for some company?” Not waiting for an answer, Bergen sat down and waved over a footman. “I think I shall catch up with you, old friend.” He nodded towards the glass in Edward’s hand. “I have had an especially profitable time at the tables, and am in the mood to relax.”

“Of course. How fortuitous! It seems that Lady Fortune was smiling at both of us this day. I picked up a monkey—playing piquet, no less.” Edward recalled the vowels he carried in his pocket. If only I could have quit when I was ahead before now, perhaps Robert would still be alive. His pain was profound.

Edward looked into his friend's face. The man was every bit his equal, and lately, his opposite. His dark eyes were usually full of laughter and promised levity. Edward, however, had rarely been in the mood for humor these past months. His mother used to remark on the two—Bergen’s and his own dark hair, both heads of the same height. They were easy to spot. Women found Bergen hard to ignore. Maybe that was the reason for his constant smiling state; or, Edward reflected, it could be his friend's affable nature, which attracted the women. No matter; as far as he was concerned, Bergen and his good disposition were not welcome—at least today.

“Of course. Do as you please.” Edward casually pulled out his cigarro case and slid it across the table to Bergen. “Have one.” He did not really want company, but it was rare when Thomas, the fifth Earl of Bergen, did not also appear at the Club at the same time Edward was there. They had been friends since childhood, and he’d been the one to give his friend the nickname of Thomas which had stuck all these years. Bergen was more of a brother to him than his own brother had been. He wondered why Robert kept invading his thoughts. A familiar sadness took root, and his attitude soured. Fool that he was, he could not go an hour without thinking of his brother. Robert was there, a shadowy presence in every waking and sleeping moment.

“What brings you here tonight, Bergen? As you might surmise from my being in this corner, I was looking for a little time alone.” Edward’s tone was brusque but he knew Thomas was given to ignoring his temper, normally responding to it with humor.

“I must be impervious to that black mood of yours, because I still enjoy your company. Perhaps a jug of vinegar would help your temperament more than the expensive brandy you are quaffing.” Bergen chuckled while swirling brandy in his own glass. “Has there been any word on Hampton? I thought I had heard he was back in Town.”

“No, none.” Edward felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he sat forward in the chair. “Where did you get your information? I find it odd that I was not also told. I left word with Colonel Whitmore, at Headquarters, to let me know as soon as he was sighted. He assured me they would let me know.”

“I heard his name mentioned at a gaming hell, earlier tonight. It is quite curious. How long has it been, Edward?” Bergen lowered his voice and studied his friend.

“It has been nine months, and I am no closer to an answer.” Edward finished his drink and poured himself another.

“I stopped at Headquarters on my way here. They may have news for you. The murder of a peer is serious business.” Bergen rolled the unlit cigarro between his lips. “Have you received any more details?”

“No, nothing as yet. I am still hoping Hampton can provide a clue; maybe he saw something. Perhaps there is a connection to his prolonged disappearance.” Edward stared into his brandy. Guilt at not being here for his brother seeped into his head, and he fought to keep his thoughts to himself. It was useless with Bergen.

“I know you feel some responsibility for Robert’s death. Edward, you know it is nonsense. You were not in Town. You had no way to know what would happen. You were not here to stop the duel. And if you had been here, who can say there would have been a different outcome?”

“Logical and perceptive as always, Thomas.” His tone was sarcastic. “The reasonable part of me knows that, but my heart will not accept it. Had I been here, I would have been Robert's second—providing I could not talk him out of such a foolish start.”

“Believe it or not, I understand.” Bergen’s voice was compassionate.

The door from the back hallway flew open, hitting the wall with a crash. Several men, most likely emerging from the private rooms, were probably heading for new pursuits. Gaudily dressed women hung on the gentlemen’s arms, displaying their wares with abandon. One woman wore a low-cut lace dress that barely covered her bosom; the other wore a bright yellow gown with black trimming which appeared to belong to someone a size or two smaller. Bright red lipstick and spots of heavy rouge drew attention to artificial faces. Perfumes of floral and fruit scents battled for distinction. Two more such women trailed behind the men, without partners. These were not the type of lady of whom his mother would approve.

One of the jades looked his way, and Edward realized too late that his brief glance had given her the wrong idea.

“My lord.” A buxom blonde, with startling, bright red lips, tottered his way, and sat on his lap. She was definitely not from his mother's circle, he thought, grinning.

“See something to amuse you, do you, handsome?” She boldly touched his face and allowed the tip of her tongue to peep between her teeth.

Edward felt her fingers slowly drifting across his cheek, coming to rest on his lips. Her seductive message was hard to mistake, particularly when she rocked her hips in a movement as old as time.

Bergen smirked, and raised his glass. “Shall I give you some privacy?”

“No!” His voice elevated, Edward shot his friend a quelling glare. “That will not be necessary.”

“What do you say I work the knots out of your shoulders, my lord?” She placed her hands on either side of his neck and rubbed deeply with her thumbs. “Hmm…is that pleasing to you, my lord?”

The woman winked at him, and smiled, showing red lip pomade carelessly smeared on her front teeth. She had obviously been employing her charms in one of the private backrooms. The thought repulsed him. “Madame, while I kindly appreciate your generous offer, I am not in the mood for any...entertainment.” He moved her off his lap, and abruptly stood her on her feet. Digging into his pocket, he grabbed a gold coin and tossed it her way. “My friend and I were having a private discussion.” He scowled, no longer amused. He had no interest in what she had to sell.

Miffed, she snatched up the coin and left, brushing off her red skirt as she rushed past him. Holding the handle of the door, she looked back.

“You could have used a good tumble, my lord,” she said, her tone acetic. A moment later, he heard Henry call for the footman to usher them to the back door. His voice was a little more forceful than his usual tone. He had been surprised they were allowed in the morning room, and was glad to hear Henry send them out the backdoor.

Bergen whistled. “Losing your touch, are you, Edward? Making the ladies angry is not going to ease your needs.” He sipped his drink and smiled.

“Have you anything important to tell me? If not, I have readied her for you.” He rustled his paper, hoping his friend would take it as a sign he wanted to be alone.

Bergen chuckled. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have business with you. You know you cannot be rid of me so easily, Weston.”

“I am all astonishment!” He did not really want his friend to leave and was glad he could not chase him off. “Damn! I am in worse shape than I thought. She did nothing for me.” He looked at his lap, now disgusted with himself. “Maybe her amusement would have been just the thing.” His body, however, told him otherwise.

“Along with the pox?” Bergen laughed, and then abruptly cleared his throat. “On a more serious note, I have a note for you.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sealed letter and handed it to Edward.

“Coventry asked me to pass it on to you while I was at Headquarters.”

Weston,

Hampton in town, and has been invited to the Bentley house party starting on Friday. Has an interest in Lady Pennywaite. Invitations for you and Bergen are waiting at your homes. The visit could prove useful to your search. Acceptance already sent on both yours and Bergen’s behalf. Make plans to attend.

Coventry

Edward wadded the note up and tossed it into the fire. “It seems I am going to a house party, my friend. I do not know the size of the affair, but it appears I need to go.”

“It would appear we are both going. The man knows everything.” Bergen grinned again. “Surely there will be card games, wagers, and ladies? This is the type of work I always enjoy. I suppose the invitations will give details of the location, but I believe the Bentley family is at their country estate. I will ride over in the morning and we can leave together, my friend.”

* * *

“Are you ready, Miss Longbottom?” the curate asked when he arrived to drive Hattie to the posting house to catch the stage.

“Bottom! Bottom!” Archie mimicked proudly. The curate’s cheeks at once turned red.

“I suppose I am as ready as I can be,” Hattie replied miserably, barely noticing her parrot’s effrontery in the midst of her own distress.

“Little Whitley Parish will miss having you here,” he replied while lifting her trunk and warily eyeing the large, exotic, green bird.

“I have never known anywhere else, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. Mrs. Bromley will take care of the flowers for the church, and will organize the sewing for the parish poor. Miss Gates will play the organ,” she prattled on as they stood in the empty entrance hall.

“Your loss will be felt acutely,” he said kindly. “For many years your family has been selfless servants to our parish.”

“No one will know I am gone, before long,” she said, dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose with her handkerchief.

She pushed her spectacles farther up her nose and looked around. The house was empty and, she reflected with a pang of sadness, ready for the next occupants. It had not been a bad life, precisely, but very, very dull. Dull suited her admirably.

“I suppose there is no use in putting it off any longer. Come, Archie.” Hattie held open the cage and the parrot obediently flew inside. She closed the front door behind her for the last time and walked out to the pony cart, feeling as though she was facing her doom.

The curate signaled the chestnut mare to move forward and she held onto Archie’s cage with one hand and her bonnet with the other, as the cart lurched forward.

Harriet Eleanor Longbottom was a spinster. There was no other way to describe herself. She had given up her bloom to be a companion to her ailing mother, who by sly hints or subtle looks had convinced Hattie that she was indispensable to her health. Look at where it had left her, Hattie thought morosely. Somehow, six and twenty years had passed and not once had she left Worcestershire.

She had been faced with two choices when her mother died, and was grateful to have been permitted any opinion on the matter, for many were not so fortunate. She could live with her aunt, who had forbidden her to bring her beloved companion, Archie, or remove to Oxfordshire to her brother’s estate and play aunt to his brood of five. There was really no choice.

Now, as she sat on the stage, crowded between two very large and disagreeable men, she was having second thoughts. One was a lecher, Hattie was convinced, for he sat as close as possible and was touching her leg on purpose! The other had never seen a bar of soap, she was certain, and her sense of smell would surely never be the same again.

It had been a very close thing to even be allowed on the stage with Archie. She had been obliged to pay an exorbitant bribe to the driver and still she had to hold the cage in her lap!

Across from her, a female of loose morals was displaying, in addition to heavily rouged cheeks, an overabundance of bosom overflowing from her scandalously low-cut scarlet gown. Hattie could not even look her in the eye, she was so ashamed as the woman flirted and exposed her ankles to the lecher.

The driver was moving at a frightful pace, and the conveyance tipped sideways around every bend in the road. Hattie prayed for all of their souls as steadfastly as she could, or sang hymns to Archie when he grew loud. He did have an unfortunate tendency to repeat words he heard or shriek when he was excited. She had never before considered she might be forced to travel on the stage with him.

When they stopped in Wolverstone for a change of horses, Hattie was most grateful for a chance to stretch her legs and breathe the fresh air. As she alighted precariously, her legs stiff, while at the same time balancing Archie’s cage on her hip, a pair of riders flew by them, splashing mud all over the passengers and causing Hattie nearly to drop her bird.

Strings of oaths and curses were bellowed at the riders by driver and passenger alike, many of them words Hattie’s pure ears had never before heard.

“Shite! Jackass!” Archie mimicked to roars of laughter. The sounds echoed around them.

“Mind your tongue!” she scolded Archie in horror, shaking her head as she did so. Her spectacles flew off and she heard the ominous sound of glass crushing.

“Drat!” she muttered, and fell to her knees to search for her faculty of sight. She was quite blind beyond five feet without them.

While the other passengers hurried inside to take advantage of the chance to refresh themselves, Hattie continued to search on the ground.

“Are you looking for these?” a deep, aristocratic voice asked. Dimly, Hattie perceived what remained of her spectacles as he held them out to her.

Something about the man's voice gave her pause and she did not want to look up at him. He was close enough that she could see his gleaming Hessians, and knew he was Quality. Suddenly self-conscious, she wanted to tidy herself before she stood up, but his hand was reaching down to assist her. His hands were large and elegant, even in his leather riding gloves, and they were strong enough to lift her lightly to her feet without apparent effort.

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a slight tremble in her voice, still too shy to make eye contact, though she could make out most of his features from under her lashes.

The tall, dark stranger inclined his head and walked into the inn with his companion who had waited nearby, watching.

Hattie squinted after them, yet could see nothing but blurry movement.

Suddenly, she felt a pinch to her bottom and squealed in outrage. She turned to see the lascivious passenger; he was evidently amused by his antics as his large belly rumbled and his multiple chins quivered with laughter.

“How dare you!” she screeched with indignation.

“How dare you! How dare you!” Archie mimicked.

The driver blew the warning horn. She had not even managed five feet past the coach. How could it already be time to leave again?

“Driver!” She raised her voice, trying to get to his attention. “This man assaulted me and I refuse to ride inside with him!”

“She must be mistaken,” the man said, feigning innocence. “Why would I want to touch her?” He sneered.

“Sorry, miss. Are there any witnesses?” the driver asked impatiently.

The other passengers shook their heads.

“Then we must be going. 'Tis your word against his.”

Hattie watched as everyone climbed into the coach.

“I refuse to ride with this man. Sir, I must insist!”

“As you wish, miss.” The guard slammed the coach door shut and hopped on the back as the driver gathered up the reins with a flick of the whip. The horses took off, splattering mud in her face. Spitting the excess earth from her mouth, she stared after the vehicle in disbelief, the distance growing rapidly as it sped away from her. What had just happened? Was there no goodness left in this world outside Little Whitley?

Hattie stood there for a full five minutes before she realized the implications of what had happened. She was stranded in a strange town without her belongings, except for a bird and her reticule.

Turning to face the inn, she picked up the cage and went inside.

The shabby inn was bustling with custom on this busy coaching road. Never before had she seen so many strangers. It smelled of smoke, sweat, and ale. She swallowed hard so she would not give in to her anger or her fright. Clearing her throat, she addressed the man she hoped to be the innkeeper since he seemed to be giving directions to the serving maids. It was her first time in such an establishment, and she had little idea how to proceed.

“Sir, could you please tell me when the next stage is due? The one I arrived on has left without me.”

“Not until tomorrow, the same time,” he grunted, looking at her with disapproval. She glanced down at herself; she had some splatters of mud, but certainly not outrageous in her blacks. Then she realized it was Archie he was staring at, an expression of considerable wariness shaping his features.

“What is your destination, miss?”

“I was to take this stage to Eynsham and my brother is to meet me there.”

“It is only another few miles. Do you ride? I have horses for hire.”

“I am afraid not,” she replied.

“The gentlemen in the parlor are heading west, I think I heard them say.”

“We are not acquainted,” she said, bristling with affront. As if a single lady could ask a gentleman she did not know for anything, she wanted to point out.

“They have probably ridden here, anyway. You could walk,” he suggested, clearly running out of patience.

She stared at the man in horror. She had spent six hours traveling in the most uncomfortable conditions, had been assaulted, and now her worldly possessions were lost.

“I must attend to the other customers. You may use the parlor, there are only the two gentlemen in there. He pointed to a door across the common room before he walked away. She watched him go, flustered and frustrated that she had no one to help her.

Hattie made her way as best she could through the blur to where she thought the parlor was. When she entered, she could not believe her eyes. Was she imagining things? She squinted.

No, there was indeed a barmaid sitting atop the knees of one of the gentlemen—and her chest was falling out of her bodice.

“I have walked into the devil’s lair!” Hattie shrieked. Imagining the worst, she covered her eyes. She could see enough to know it was the gentleman and his friend from earlier, as the only thing she dared look at was his boots.

“Bugger, she’s crazed.” The second man laughed as the barmaid tried to tidy herself.

“Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!” Archie crowed unhelpfully, sensing his mistress’s distress.

“Madam, cease your vapors at once!” one of the men commanded. “It is not at all what you think.”

“I do not want to know, you imp of Satan! I know all about gentlemen such as yourself—whoremongers and, and rogues! Reverend Hastings reminds me every Sunday.” She struggled to think of harsh enough names to call them.

“I am certain he does,” the man said dryly.

Hattie’s cheeks began to heat as she noticed the man looking her over like a piece of beefsteak. He was entirely too close for her comfort. Oh, no, he would not find her willing as the serving wench. She took Archie and ran for the door as fast as her feet would go. Five miles suddenly did not seem so far to walk.