The smell should have been worse.

She’d expected something foul, air made surly by the summer heat. Just last week she’d read about the Thames, that great, roiling river that carried with it the filth of the entire city and choked its inhabitants to tears. Her rampant imagination, spurred on by countless books and newspaper articles, had conjured a city of fetid smells, each more terrible than the last. But as Miss Mary Channing opened her bedroom window and breathed in her first London morning, her nose filled with nothing more offensive than the fragrance of . . .

Flowers.

Disconcerted, she peeked out over the sill. Dawn was just breaking over the back of Grosvenor Square. The gaslights were still burning and the windows of the other houses were dark. By eight o’clock, she imagined industrious housemaids would be down on their knees, whiting their masters’ stoops. The central garden would fill with nurses and their charges, heading west toward Hyde Park.

But for now the city—and its smells—belonged solely to her.

She breathed in again. Was she dreaming? Imagining things, as she was often wont to do? She was well over two hundred miles from home, but it smelled very much like her family’s ornamental garden in Yorkshire. She didn’t remember seeing a garden last night, but then, she had arrived quite late, the gaslight shadows obscuring all but the front steps. She’d been too weary to think, so sickened by the ceaseless motion of the train that she’d not even been able to read a book, much less ponder the underpinnings of the air she breathed.

She supposed she might have missed a garden. Good heavens, she probably would have missed a funeral parade, complete with an eight-horse coach and a brass band.

After the long, tiresome journey, she’d only wanted to find a bed.

And yet now . . . at five o’clock in the morning . . . she couldn’t sleep.

Not on a mattress that felt so strange, and not in a bedroom that wasn’t her own.

Pulling her head back inside, she eyed the four-poster bed, with its rumpled covers and profusion of pretty pillows. It was a perfectly nice bed. Her sister, Eleanor, had clearly put some thought into the choice of fabrics and furniture. Most women would love such a room. And most women would love such an opportunity—two whole months in London, with shops and shows and distractions of every flavor at their fingertips.

But Mary wasn’t most women. She preferred her distractions in the form of a good book, not shopping on Regent Street. And these two looming months felt like prison, not paradise.

The scent of roses lingered in the air, and as she breathed in, her mind settled on a new hope. If there was a flower garden she might escape to—a place where she might read her books and write in her journal—perhaps it would not be so terrible?

Picking up the novel she had not been able to read on the train, Mary slipped out of the strange bedroom, her bare feet silent on the stairs. She had always been an early riser, waking before even the most industrious servants back home in Yorkshire. At home, the cook knew to leave her out a bit of breakfast—bread and cheese wrapped in a napkin—but no one here would know to do that for her yet.

Ever since she’d been a young girl, morning had been her own time, quiet hours spent curled up on a garden bench with a book in her lap, nibbling on her pocket repast, the day lightening around her. The notion that she might still keep to such a routine in a place like London gave her hope for the coming two months.

She drifted down the hallway until she found a doorway that looked promising, solid oak, with a key still in the lock. With a deep breath, she turned the key and pulled it open. She braced herself for knife-wielding brigands. Herds of ragged street urchins, hands rifling through her pockets. The sort of London dangers she’d always read about.

Instead, the scent of flowers washed over her like a lovely, welcome tide.

Oh, thank goodness.

She hadn’t been imagining things after all.

Something hopeful nudged her over the threshold of the door, then bade her to take one step, then another. In the thin light of dawn, she saw flowers in every color and fashion: bloodred rose blooms, a cascade of yellow flowers dripping down the wrought iron fence. Her fingers loosened over the cover of her book. Oh, but it would be lovely to read here. She could even hear the light patter of a fountain, beckoning her deeper.

But then she heard something else above those pleasant, tinkling notes.

An almost inhuman groan of pleasure.

With a startled gasp, she spun around. Her eyes swam through the early morning light to settle on a gentleman on the street, some ten feet or so away on the other side of the wrought iron fence. But the fact of their separation did little to relieve her anxiety, because the street light illuminated him in unfortunate, horrific clarity.

He was urinating.

Through the fence.

Onto one of her sister’s rosebushes.

The book fell from Mary’s hand. In all her imaginings of what dreadful things she might encounter on the streets of London, she’d never envisioned anything like this. She ought to bolt. She ought to scream. She ought to . . . well . . . she ought to at least look away.

But as if he was made of words on a page, her eyes insisted on staying for a proper read. His eyes were closed, his mouth open in a grimace of relief. Objectively, he was a handsome mess, lean and long-limbed, a shock of disheveled blond hair peeking out from his top hat. But handsome was always matter of opinion, and this one had “villain” stamped on his skin.

As if he could hear her flailing thoughts, one eye cracked open, then the other. “Oh, ho, would you look at that, Grant? I’ve an audience, it seems.”

Somewhere down the street, another voice rang out. “Piss off!” A snigger followed. “Oh, wait, you already are.”

“Cork it, you sodding fool!” the blond villain shouted back. “Can’t you see we’re in the presence of a lady?” He grinned. “Apologies for such language, luv. Though . . . given the way you are staring, perhaps you don’t mind?” He rocked back on his heels, striking a jaunty pose even as the urine rained down. “If you come a little closer, I’d be happy to give you a better peek.”

Mary’s heart scrambled against her ribs. She might be a naive thing, fresh from the country, and she might now be regretting her presumption that it was permissible to read a book in a London garden in her bare feet, but she wasn’t so unworldly that she didn’t know this one pertinent fact: she was not—under any circumstances—coming a little closer.

Or getting a better peek.

Mortified, she wrapped her arms about her middle. “I . . . that is . . . couldn’t you manage to hold it?” she somehow choked out. There. She’d managed a phrase, and it was a properly scathing one, too. As good as any of her books’ heroines might have done.

A grin spread across his face. Much like the puddle at the base of the rosebush. “Well, luv, the thing is, I’m thinking I’d rather let you hold it.” The stream trickled to a stop, though he added a few more drips for good measure. He shook himself off and began to button his trousers. “But alas, it seems you’ve waited too long for the pleasure.” He tipped a finger to the brim of his top hat in a sort of salute. “My friend awaits. Perhaps another time?”

Mary gasped. Or rather, she squeaked.

She could manage little else.

He chuckled. “It seems I’ve got a shy little mouse on my hands. Well, squeak squeak, run along then.” He set off down the street, swaying a bit. “But I’ll leave you with a word of advice, Miss Mouse,” he tossed back over one shoulder. “You’re a right tempting sight, standing there in your unutterables. But you might want to wear shoes the next time you ogle a gentleman’s prick. Never know when you’ll need to run.”

Geoffrey Westmore—“West” to his friends, and “that damned Westmore” to his enemies—sauntered down the sidewalk, still chuckling over the brown-haired mouse of a woman he’d frightened back into her house.

West hadn’t recognized her, but then, Lord Ashington had only established his household there a few short months ago. West tended to sleep during the hours domesticated souls roamed the streets, which meant he had no idea who she was. Certainly not Lady Ashington, who was reported to be somewhat increasing. Although, could anyone be somewhat increasing?

It was really rather an all or nothing phenomenon.

This woman had most definitely not been increasing. He might still be drunk from last night’s misadventures, but he wasn’t so deep into his cups he had overlooked the lithe little form lurking beneath that virginal white cotton. Lady Ashington’s maid, most likely, given the early hour. Probably charged with filling the vases with fresh flowers before her mistress awoke. No one who could reasonably avoid it would be up at this hour.

No one except him, that was.

He had yet to find his bed.

He sidestepped a lamplighter extinguishing the gas light flames along the square, then followed the vocal trail of his good friend, Charles Grant, who was singing loud enough to wake the dead, not to mention the good citizens of Mayfair.

He found Grant standing in front of Cardwell House, pissing on an azalea bush. “Damn it, have a care where you aim,” West growled, shaking his head in disgust.

“Grant!”

But Grant was swinging into his favorite part of the chorus now, no matter that he sounded like a wounded dog. He lifted his face to howl at the now-absent moon.

Annoyed for reasons that had little to do with either of their gloriously drunken arses, West careened into him, sending Grant staggering straight into his puddle of piss.

“What was that for?” Grant cried, shaking off his shoes.

“That is my family’s bush you are pissing on.”

“Well, then consider yourself fortunate I didn’t crap on it instead.” Grant grinned. “Although speaking of bushes . . .” He craned his neck down the street, squinting against the new sun. “What was that you were saying about a lady?”

West frowned. Usually, he found his friend’s drunken antics and irreverently foul mouth amusing. A side effect, he supposed, of having survived their Harrow boarding school bullies and an ill-advised turn in the Royal British Navy together. One tended to bond over months spent on board a ship in the Crimea, commiserating about the bloody purpose of that terrible war. With a friend like Grant, you learned to enjoy your amusements where you could find them.

This, however, was not one of those times.

“She’s not interested in either of us, you stupid sod.” Whoever she was, West hoped she would learn from this little experience and make sure she was properly dressed for her next turn about the garden. He’d done her a favor, teasing her like that. Not every drunken soul she met on the street could be counted on to act the gentleman.

Grant took a reeling step backward, in the direction of Lord Ashington’s house. “I reckon I could change her mind.”

“Christ, haven’t you had enough of women tonight?” West squinted at his friend. “You’ve just spent six hours in one of the most exclusive brothels in London. You didn’t come out of that last room for three hours. I should know, given that I was forced to wait for you.”

Grant swept his top hat from his head, revealing tangled black hair in need of a barber’s shears. “Ah, yes. The fair Vivian.” He placed his hat across his chest and raised his eyes in a parody of prayer. “Lovely feet, she had.”

West snorted. He might be a bit torched himself, but it wasn’t a woman’s feet that usually interested him. Perhaps Grant was drunker than he thought. “So surely you are sated by now.” He took Grant’s arm and pointed him toward home. “Off you go then. Time to sleep, my friend. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“You’re a good chap, West.” Grant nodded, as if coming to this conclusion for the first time—though in truth, it was an oft-repeated soliloquy, usually launched from the bottom of a bottle. “The very best. You deserve better than a friend like me.”

“So you keep saying.” West grinned in spite of his annoyance. “Friends forever, eh?”

“Friends forever.” Grant pulled a rolled cigarette from his jacket pocket and waved it about. “But just in case forever ends too soon . . . before I go, do you think you could give me another light?”

West dutifully reached into his jacket pocket and produced the small silver case that contained his matches. He rarely smoked himself—not that anyone knew it, reeking of Grant’s cigarettes as he so often did. His sisters were always haranguing him about the habit, one he and Grant had picked up in Crimea. But an occasional cigarette with Grant was a welcome source of camaraderie when his demons closed in. Grant was one of the few people who understood West. They knew each other’s faults and tolerated each other’s vices. Each owed the other his very life.

One couldn’t ask for a better friend.

Unless, that was, it was a friend who remembered to carry his own matches.

Then again, he supposed he took enough swigs from the hip flask Grant always carried about to call it an even trade.

Grant lit his cigarette and took a long, enthusiastic pull, then tipped his head back, exhaling a gray stream of smoke. “Shall we meet up at White’s later this evening?”

“Of course.” West hesitated. “But we’ll have to fit two nights of carousing into one. Tomorrow night I’ve promised my sister Clare . . . something.” Something important, to do with the hospital charity she and her physician husband, Daniel, supported.

And as soon as he sobered up, he felt sure he would remember what it was, too.

“Seems to me we always fit two nights of carousing into one.” Grant laughed like a maniac. “Then again, we’ve our fulsome reputations to maintain.” He staggered on his merry way down the sidewalk, a fine trail of smoke lingering behind him.

West climbed the front steps of Cardwell House, weariness dragging him by the stones. He fumbled in his pocket for his house key, but before he could unlock the door, it swung open. Wilson, the Cardwell family butler, loomed in the doorway, an old-fashioned candlestick in one hand. “Wilson, old chap!” West leaned against the door frame. “You are up bloody early.”

The butler frowned. “Pity we cannot say the same about you, Master Geoffrey.”

“Well, aren’t you full of piss and vinegar this morning?” West looked from right to left, then leaned closer. “Not me, though. I left all my piss on Ashington’s roses.”

“I see you’ve been out drinking with Mr. Grant again.” Wilson lifted the flickering candle higher, as if he was assessing the state of what had shown up—again—on the doorstep. “No visible blood I can see. An improvement over last week, at least.”

“Grant spent the evening bedding, not brawling.” West fought off a yawn. “And as we’ve long discussed, I don’t need you to wait up for me.”

“Someone must.” Wilson’s frown deepened. “Otherwise you’ll be sleeping on the steps again. The neighbors are still talking about that.” Although he was close to seventy and starting to stoop, the butler shoved a shoulder beneath West’s arm and began to steer them both toward the dark staircase, the guttering candle held out to light their way. “I’ll just get you upstairs, then wake the scullery maid and have her bring you up a pot of coffee.”

“No.” West’s boot fumbled on the first step. Not coffee. God, no. He was finally—finally—tired enough to contemplate sleep. “No need to wake anyone. I would prefer to just close my eyes for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

“Sleep away the day again, you mean?”

West gave Wilson a pitiful look as they began to climb the stairs. The old butler held West’s furtive ability to sleep in one gnarled, aging hand. With one word, the man could have the drapes in West’s bedroom drawn tight and order all household activity near his bedroom to cease. Or, he could direct an entire army of servants at Cardwell House to troop in.

Time to clean the chimney. Or beat the rug, as the man had ordered last week.

He held his pout until Wilson offered a long-suffering sigh. “As you wish. Shall I wake you later, Master Geoffrey?”

“Yes, please. Half past three, per usual, if you would.” He fought off a yawn. “I’m to meet Grant at White’s again tonight.”

“Yes, Master Geoffrey.”

West concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. “You do realize you are the only one who calls me that.”

“Master?”

“Geoffrey. Only my family still calls me by my given name.” Although Wilson surely qualified as family. He’d been butler to West’s father, Viscount Cardwell, for as long as West could remember, and had faithfully served West’s grandfather before that.

“I think I’ve earned the right to call you whatever I wish,” the butler said, beginning to puff a bit as they neared the top of the staircase. “After all, I wiped your nose and your bum when you had your nursemaid too terrified to come near you with your pranks. And I’m the one who waits up worrying for you now. Your parents have long since given up.”

“Wiped my bum?” West managed a laugh. “Wilson. I am a grown man. One day I shall be Viscount Cardwell.” He managed to lift a drunken brow. “You ought to treat me with a little more respect.”

“Yes, well, if you would act like a future viscount, I feel sure I might find it easier to remember you are a future viscount,” Wilson replied in his dry, judging manner.

That stung a bit, however well deserved. And so, as they neared the top of the long flight of stairs, West set his foot on the exact right spot on the third step from the top, pressing the heel of his shoe down hard. A long, unmistakable flatulence echoed through the otherwise silent house.

The butler jerked still.

“Wilson,” West chortled. “You might need to see a doctor about that.”

The butler heaved a sigh and began to move them upward again. “That one was fairly juvenile,” Wilson said, “even for you.”

“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun.” That West had painstakingly inserted the inflated bladder beneath the boards yesterday and then waited for the perfect opportunity to unleash its brilliance was something he was somewhat proud of at the moment.

Wilson, however, appeared unimpressed. Per usual.

They reached the top of the staircase and turned left down the dark and silent hallway. “If I might speak plainly,” Wilson huffed, “you need to find something useful to do with your waking hours. When I think of the time you waste planning and executing these ridiculous pranks . . . cavorting about all night with your friends, stumbling home reeking of smoke and perfume . . .” He made a disgusted sound. “Just imagine the good you could be doing instead.”

“Good?” West snorted. “Now there’s a word one doesn’t often hear attached to my name.” He stumbled a bit, leaning heavily on Wilson’s stooped frame, then laughed. “Unless it is used in association with certain . . . nocturnal activities.”

As they staggered toward his bedroom door, relief swept through him at the thought of his mattress. He half-aimed, half-fell in the door’s direction, then he threw himself toward his bed, falling facedown into the feathered softness with a muffled “ooooomph”. It was tempting to just lie there and let the mattress have its way with him, but he rolled over with a groan and hopefully lifted his boot.

Wilson stood, immobile at the foot of the bed, staring down at him.

“Why are you still glowering?” West protested. “I made it home.” He tapped the eye he knew was still faintly blackened from last week’s pub brawl. “Safely, this time.” He waved his foot around but the servant made no move to help him, and the boot remained firmly in place, fitting West’s calves as tightly as any glove. “Perhaps, if you are refusing to offer a hand with my boots, you could summon my valet?”

“And wake the poor man from a sound sleep?” Wilson snorted. “I think not.” He placed the candlestick down on top of the bureau. “You terrorize him enough with your laundry, slinking about the gutters and burning holes in everything with those filthy cigarettes.” The older man lifted something up from the top of the bureau, fisted in one hand. “I want to speak plainly, for a moment.”

After a moment of squinting in the servant’s direction, West could see that Wilson was holding up the damned Victoria Cross he had been awarded by the queen last June for nothing more than stupidity and honest-to-God luck.

Grant had nearly wet himself laughing when West had received it, and West was inclined to agree with the sentiment. He needed to stop leaving that bit of frippery out on the bureau top.

Made people think he cared about it.

“What do you want with me, Wilson?” he groaned.

“You’ve been home from Crimea for nearly two years now.” Wilson waved the bronze cross about. “Returned a proper hero, the world at your feet, but it seems as if you have become one of your own jokes. Don’t you care what your family thinks of you? What the world thinks of you? What happened to the boy I knew, the interest you once showed in architectural design, when you were at university? You could do, you could be, anything you wanted.”

West closed his eyes and let his head sink back onto his pillow. “All I want is sleep,” he moaned. And if Wilson refused to help, he would sleep with his boots on, thank you very much.

It wouldn’t be the first time, and likely not the last.

“Master Geoffrey.” The voice was stern and disapproving.

But West refused to open his eyes. He was a grown man in charge of his own actions, and Wilson was supposed to be his servant. And what was this nonsense about Crimea? His year of service in the Royal Navy was scarcely more than a prank, a glorious, ill-conceived frolic he and Grant had undertaken to impress past and future lovers.

Not that he had ever spoken of it to any of them.

And he didn’t want to talk about it now.

“What, exactly, is your point, Wilson?” he muttered, wanting only to forget. It was difficult enough to sleep most days without being reminded of the war.

“You’ve not resumed your studies since you came back. Mr. Hardwick has sent his assistant around, asking when you might return to your apprenticeship. I had thought you might wish to send him a reply.”

West rolled his eyes beneath his closed lids. The mention of Phillip Hardwick, one of the city’s most prominent architects, reminded him too much of his present uselessness. He’d once imagined he might create beauty from chaos, build the sort of soaring ceilings and useful structures that Hardwick designed with such ease. But Crimea had changed all that.

West didn’t see beauty in such things anymore.

And destruction was easier to embrace.

“There is no need,” he mumbled. But his words sounded slurred and pathetic, even to his own ears. “I’m going to be a viscount, not an architect.”

“Then you might act like it, on occasion. You’ve responsibilities, Master Geoffrey. Your father is no longer a young man, and if you aren’t going to resume your education or your apprenticeship, he could use some assistance managing his affairs. You could be learning how to be this ‘viscount’ you speak of. Instead, you’re out carousing every night.”

“Right. Making myself useful.”

“Useful to whom, exactly?”

West cracked open one eye and offered the servant a cheeky grin. “Why, to the female species, of course. And I’m a heroic friend to barkeeps and brothel-goers everywhere. Now, be a good man and close those drapes. It’s getting bloody bright in here.”