Chapter 1
It is a generally accepted fact that when an Englishman is made an earl, said Englishman should be positively overwhelmed with gratitude, joy, and the exceptional rapture of Rule Britannia.
But in this particular and strange case, said Englishman happened to be John Forthryte, bastard. So, instead of beaming with joy, he looked up at his older brother, the Duke of Huntsdown, scowled at the news, and drawled, “Sod off, you tosser.”
His perfectly handsome, perfectly spoken, perfectly tempered brother’s eye twitched ever so slightly before he sighed. “John, are you drunk?”
John leaned back against the wooden back of his chair in the corner of the Maiden’s Legs Tavern. Everyone in the room was staring unabashedly over their tankards and cups of gin at John’s illustrious and out of place guest. For the duke surely was a guest in such territory.
But John? This area of London had been John’s home since before he could toddle.
He arched a challenging brow before gesturing for James to sit. “No, Your Grace. I have yet to imbibe. Would you care to?”
The blunt truth of it was that John made it a rather pointed thing to not become drunk in a tavern. Or in the East End for that matter. Perhaps such a thing was a contradiction. But in London’s hells, imbibing to the state of drunkenness could result in either, least consequentially, the rifling of one’s pockets or the permanent readjustment of one’s innards. It was true, he could drink as a fish did and not achieve silliness.
But the pure fact was, he quite liked his innards where they were rather than coiled on the scum-covered streets.
Years of navigating both ballrooms and bordellos had taught him that, in fact, to be drunk was a stupid and dangerous thing in any place.
Whilst drunkenness might provide escape, it could also provide demise in many capacities, social and physical.
Even so, he could see why his elder brother. . . Half-brother. . . Might assume he was three sheets to the wind.
“Sit, if you please,” John said after James seemed to resist the idea of lowering his princely posterior onto the rough chair beside him.
James rolled his eyes and finally eased himself into the chair with surprising confidence. In fact, despite the duke’s regal bearing and immaculate tailoring, James didn’t seem as out of place as John had assumed he would.
James leveled him with an arrogant stare. “Take the earldom, John.”
Wrinkling his nose, John replied. “I hate aristocrats.”
His brother frowned before he pointed out, “I’m an aristocrat.”
“And?” John taunted as he draped an arm over the back of his chair, fully aware of his implication.
“You don’t hate me, John,” his brother leveled. He settled to the seat with the sort of languid confidence that belonged to a king.
John arched a brow. “Don’t I?”
James shot him a withering stare.
Letting out a sigh, John confessed, “Fine. I suppose not. Not any longer. I have become used to you.”
Once. . . Once he had burned with hate for his brothers. That hate was the only thing that had kept him from a fatal slide into the darkest elements of London’s East End.
James waved to the barmaid. She was currently ogling the two gents whilst hoisting her tray above the heads of the other men.
“You’ve finally recognized my finer points,” James said brightly.
“I am not truly certain you have finer points,” John scoffed, unwilling to embrace an attitude of fraternal love. “But you’re not as loathsome as I believed most of my life. Only partially so.”
James laughed. “Well, one must begin somewhere. We’re family after all.”
John stared. Over the short time they had come to know each other, James had insisted, and more recently firmly insisted, that they were family.
Family.
The word chafed.
They were, indeed, family. By blood. But by nothing else. In fact, John had spent the entirety of his youth fixated on the injustice of being born on the wrong side of the sheets while his half-brothers had reveled and basked unaware in their privilege. John had hated them so much he’d done everything he could to wreak brutal revenge.
He’d succeeded. It had resulted in the ruination of a young woman, Emmaline Trent, who’d been forced to go abroad, and well . . . The very near and actual unfortunate misuse of Emmaline’s cousin, Miss Meredith Trent.
He’d wanted revenge badly. So very, very badly.
It had seemed worth it at the time.
Now? The bitterness of regret would sometimes creep into his thoughts in the dark, quiet hours after midnight and before dawn. For as silly a young lady as Miss Meredith was, she hadn’t deserved the unpleasantness that had befallen her.
He’d used her as a pawn. A piece. A thing to be maneuvered. And it had worked beautifully. Until the consequences had truly taken effect and whilst he was comfortable with the pain his brother had suffered. . . He did struggle with what had happened to Emmaline and Meredith.
Then again, it wasn’t as if Meredith had been kicked into the gutter as his own mother had been. No. Quite to the contrary, Meredith Trent was quite comfortable somewhere. Far away. Alone. She hadn’t even actually been ruined. She still had her reputation even if she had bedded a man.
The barmaid sauntered up and propped a hand on her shapely hip. Grinning, she asked, “And what can I get you, my lord? John, here, is no fun. No naughtiness for him.”
John smiled tightly. “It’s Your Grace, by the bye, Moll.”
Moll tittered and tossed her curls. “Your Grace, I do beg your pardon.”
“No need, Miss Moll,” James said kindly. “I’ll have an ale.”
“And company?” she asked, her eyes wide with hope. In fact, she was so hopeful she half-slid onto his lap.
“Moll, that one’s taken,” John warned strongly. He liked James’ wife. She was one of the few women he knew with a good heart and good sense.
“Surely such an important man likes himself a bit of variety,” Moll purred, bending so her bosoms were on marvelous display.
James sat very still, hands to his sides and shook his head. “Quite the contrary, Miss Moll. I adore my wife. And while I’m happy to have a glass, that is all I care to have.”
She pouted. “If you say so, Your Grace. Such a pity it is.”
James winked. “I feel quite flattered I assure you.”
At the compliment, her face brightened and she sashayed off to the bar.
John fought back a hint of approval. Lately, James had seemed to understand that wherever he went, he had an effect on people. Once, John knew that none of his brothers had truly understood that. They’d all been powerful. Arrogant. Thoughtless.
The duke had come a long way.
James leaned forward, proceeding to rest his arms against the table. Apparently, he did not care for the fine cut of his coat on the worn surface.
“John, I want you to feel as if you belong. Which you can’t do as a commoner. . . And a. . .”
“Bastard?” John supplied jovially, though he still felt the poison deep in his gut that the condition had put him in most of his life.
“Just so,” James acknowledged with a degree of pain. “I can’t legitimize you but I can make you noble. And so I’ve had you created Earl of Mooreland.”
Belong.
It rankled. By God, it did. He had no wish to be accepted. But how the devil could he say no? He’d be insane to. Petty. Small. Foolish. Did he still wish to punish his half-brothers?
Yes. Damn it. A good part of him still did. A part he had to suppress at every turn. To his horror, he’d grown to care about his rarified siblings.
And the only true reason to be a total ponce about the earldom would be if he wished to infuriate James. It was hard to put in to words the loathing he felt for the class that had ruined his mother’s life, thusly exposing John to an underbelly of suffering and tragedy. The nobles all went about their lives as if eating off their golden plates was perfectly acceptable while most Londoners went to bed with a belly full of gin and naught else.
It had taken time to reconcile that while James might dine off golden plates, he was not the cruel man their father had been.
“I’ll take the dratted earldom,” John said finally. “For the income, mind you. And what I can do for the tenants.”
“How very egalitarian of you,” James replied, his lips twitching with amusement.
John nodded. He was astutely aware that James didn’t think he was actually egalitarian in the least.
“Your estate is in Scotland.”
“Scotland?” John roared.
“Mmmm.” James waggled his brows. “The Highlands. The Western Highlands to be exact. Will do you good, you know. Get away from the city. Take a bit of fresh air.”
John narrowed his eyes. “I am not a sheet to be hung on the line.”
“You could do with an airing.”
“This from a man who lives with his head in the ground.”
“That is not true,” James protested. “My world view has vastly stretched since our acquaintance.”
John nodded, having to agree. “You’re still a selfish ponce.”
Frowning, James asked, “Am I?”
“Oh yes.”
“And what makes you say that?” James challenged, clearly displeased.
“Meredith and Emmaline,” John said flatly.
James blew out a breath. “Meredith and Emmaline,” he echoed.
“Have you given them even a second thought?” John sneered, allowing the old poison to simmer. It was rather hypocritical of him, he knew. Yet, there it was.
A dangerous smile tilted James’ lips.
To which John found himself shifting uncomfortably in his chair. His half-brother was not usually given to machinations. But since his recent marriage, he’d become more unpredictable.
“Emmaline and I have been corresponding, if you must know.”
John snorted. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh yes.” James shook his head with disbelief. “She’s quite a fixture in Paris. But with war brewing again, I’ve asked her to come back. I’ll make amends.”
John narrowed his eyes. Emmaline had to hate James almost as much as he did. For it was James who’d laid the final blow to her engagement. . . On her wedding day. “She’ll never come.”
James groaned. “Oh, I think she will.”
“Why?”
Leaning forward James said honestly, “To make our lives hell.”
“There is that.” John shoved a hand through his hair, wishing that there had been no unfinished consequences to his revenge. “And Meredith?”
Moll swung past and quickly distributed James’ ale, giving one last longing look before she headed back to the crowded room, raucous for drink.
Lifting the heavy, foaming tankard, James supplied, “Meredith is going to be rescued.”
John coughed. “I do beg your pardon?”
“I’m going to rescue her.” James took a long drink, not even wincing at the strong and poorly made beer. “With your help, my lord.”
John gave a tight shake of his head, turning his gaze to the crowded hall. “I don’t rescue young ladies.”
James slammed his tankard down. “This one you will.”
“Will I?” John mocked. James still liked to think he could control everyone about him. It was the curse of being a duke, John supposed.
“Yes,” James growled.
Slowly, John swung his gaze back to his half-brother. “Why?”
“Because,” James eyes glinted, hard as stone. “You’re the reason she needs to be rescued in the first place.”
John lifted a hand. “That isn’t exactly true.”
“True enough,” James countered.
John eyed his brother and wondered how the hell he could avoid this. He did not associate with young ladies, generally speaking. He loathed most of them though he knew it was not their fault for being ridiculous. “I can’t go. I’m advising Edward on the opening of our club.”
“Good God, don’t bring up that folly.”
Edward, the youngest brother. . . And poor, stupid fellow who had given Emmaline the shaft in a case of misunderstanding. A misunderstanding John had arranged. Edward now lived his life in a brandy-filled haze, hating most everyone and everything.
Truthfully, John thought the club a splendid idea. It would give the young buck something to do that would require skill.
“Edward is lost right now,” John said. “It will help him find his feet.”
“Fine. But he can find his feet without you for a few weeks,” James declared. “Now, Miss Meredith is in Scotland. And you’re going to deliver the news.”
John eyed his brother warily. “News?”
“She’s to return to London,” James said grandly. “And my wife will launch her into society. We’ll find her a grand match, give her a good dowry, and will make up for all the ill ever done to her.”
“You can’t be serious,” John exclaimed. He was all for making amends to Meredith. But she’d made her own bed in many ways. Now, he was going to have go and give her this piece of information? She hated him. She’d loathe the sight of him.
“Deadly serious, John. We truly did a wrong there.”
Yes. Yes they had. And he’d arranged it all. James had merely played into John’s plan. As expected.
Could he do it? Face the young woman he’d crushed in his pursuit of revenge?
“Where in Scotland?” John demanded, suddenly suspicious of James’ maneuverings.
“On your new estate, point of fact,” James said lightly as if it was all just a splendid coincidence and not the result of a great deal of arranging. “She’s the vicar’s niece and has been ensconced there since. . . Well, since that day.”
He groaned. A vicar’s niece. How the devil had the world turned in such a perverse way?
“She’s been rusticating for almost a year, John,” James pointed out, his voice deep with regret. “It’s time we freed her.”
Meredith was the silliest, prettiest, worst judge of character that he’d ever met. The very, very last thing she needed was freedom. Of that, John was sure.