He was back.
Benedict had spent three weeks chasing down leads, trying to glean something from the idle chatter in London’s darkest and least salubrious taverns. But apart from some vague whispers about the plot to rescue Bonaparte from St. Helena, he’d learned little of value.
He’d rarely bothered with ton parties since his return from Belgium; he preferred to spend his free time in the card rooms at the Tricorn, listening to the gossip, but Alex had begged him to accompany him tonight, and he hadn’t had the heart to refuse.
Ben glanced sideways at Alexander Harland, second son of the Duke of Southwick, the man who, along with Sebastien Wolff, had been his best friend since their first days at Eton. All three of them were younger sons, the “spares” as opposed to the “heirs,” shipped off to receive a decent education without the stifling expectation of one day inheriting a title or having to take their seat in the House of Lords.
They shared a wicked sense of humor and an unquenchable thirst for adventure, and their friendship had sustained them through school and their subsequent studies at Cambridge. When they’d left university five years ago, they’d thrown themselves enthusiastically into town life, not rising until midday, drinking and flirting away the nights. They’d gleefully cultivated reputations as gamesters, reprobates, and all-around rogues.
But even London’s endless whirl of dissipation had begun to pall, and when Nelson trounced Napoleon at Trafalgar, the three of them had signed up to the Rifles, looking for adventure, naively convinced the war would all be over in a matter of months.
But their “short stint” in the Rifles had turned into three long, grueling years—years which had included any number of close shaves, hellish conditions, moments of elation and despair, hardship and loss.
Benedict shook his head. War had made men of them, had shown their previous existence to be shallow and frivolous. They’d made a pact, one evening, seated around a smoky campfire on a sodden field in Belgium, the dawn before Waterloo. A vow that when they returned—if they survived the battle ahead—they’d make their fortunes together.
Alex and Seb already had money, of course. Alex was wealthy in his own right, thanks to a generous maiden aunt who’d left him a tidy sum, and Seb was the younger son of a duke and had his own funds.
In stark contrast, Benedict’s father had left his offspring in dire straits. Benedict’s older brother, John, had inherited the title Earl of Morcott, but little else save a monstrous pile of debt, which Benedict felt honor bound to help him reduce. John had sold off everything that wasn’t entailed and had managed to retain the principle seat, Morcott Hall, and a few hundred acres, and was busy returning the estate to profitability. He was currently in town on the lookout for a wealthy wife, but Ben hadn’t caught up with him for weeks.
He’d offered John the money he’d received when he sold off his commission and left the Rifles, but John had staunchly refused. Not out of pride—he appreciated the gesture, but he insisted that Benedict invest in something to secure his own financial future.
And so Benedict had put his money in with Alex and Seb, and they’d opened the Tricorn Club, named after the three-cornered hat favored by rogues and highwaymen. They’d deemed the name both appropriate—since there were three of them in the joint enterprise—and suitably disreputable. The club, after all, would be open not just to an elite few, like White’s or Brooks’, but to any who could pay the subscription fee, honor their gambling debts, and abide by the house rules. The Tricorn was the most progressive of clubs: It welcomed lords and ladies, actresses and tradesmen, bankers and lawyers.
Conant had been correct in his initial assessment; the Tricorn was a bridge between all levels of society, the perfect place for ferreting out secrets and overhearing gossip. Drink, pretty women, and an intimate atmosphere, all encouraged men to talk. Fortunes changed hands at the turn of a card, the roll of dice, and those who owed money could often be induced to divulge valuable snippets of information in exchange for forgiveness of their debts to the house. The owners of the Tricorn held a great deal of power. The power to tear up incriminating IOUs, or, conversely, the power to call in the debts and ruin a man completely.
Ben, Alex, and Seb had slipped back into their previous roles, appearing to the world as reckless, aimless pleasure-seekers, but this time they had a purpose. As ex-soldiers, they didn’t flinch at encountering the darker elements of society, but they were also on friendly terms with all but the highest sticklers in the ton.
Benedict gave a wry smile as he glanced around the room. The disapproving matrons kept inviting him to their soirées, clutching their pearls in scandalized dismay. Most of them secretly hoped he’d show an honorable interest in their daughters. Or a dishonorable interest in them. He’d lost count of the number of married women who’d offered themselves to him over the years.
He ran his hand over his freshly shaven jaw, relishing the smoothness. His handsome face and family name had always allowed him access to the highest society. Scandalous and debt-ridden he might be, but he was still a member of one of the oldest aristocratic families in England. Still a catch.
At least, he would be, if he weren’t already married.
Benedict’s heart gave an impatient lurch. She was the real reason he’d braved Lady Langton’s ballroom. His wife. Georgiana Caversteed. Or rather, Georgiana Wylde.
He’d relived the brief moments they’d spent together in the flickering torchlight over and over, trying to make sense of it. She must have been in considerable trouble to have resorted to such a plan, but that was no excuse. He didn’t have time to become embroiled in some spoiled princess’s machinations.
He’d been deliberately crass in Newgate to test her reaction. Everything about her—from her soft skin to her crisp voice—had proclaimed her a lady of quality. He’d wanted to shock her into reconsidering her plans. And yet she’d countered his raw cheekiness with a cool confidence he’d found amazingly attractive. Georgiana Caversteed was an extraordinary woman, no doubt about it. Her stubborn intelligence intrigued him almost as much as the taste of her had aroused him. But that still didn’t mean he wanted to be married to her.
The only consolation was the fact that she’d be as keen to dissolve their union as he was, once she discovered his true identity. He couldn’t wait to watch those generous lips part in shock.
“What are you smiling about?” Alex shot him a sidelong glance.
Benedict shrugged. “Women. Or rather, one woman in particular.”
Alex’s brows lifted. “I thought we were here to pick up rumors, not find you a new mistress.”
Benedict sent him an enigmatic smile.
“She’s not married, is she?” Alex asked warily. “Married mistresses are more trouble than they’re worth, believe me. Widows are infinitely more amenable. No irate husbands to deal with, for a start.” He eyed Benedict’s evening attire with a severe eye. “You should have come in uniform. No woman can resist the allure of a military man. It’s a basic law of physics. The amount of scarlet, gilt braiding, and medals on your chest is directly proportional to how attractive a girl finds you.”
Benedict shook his head in mock disapproval. “So cynical.”
His companion shrugged. “We escaped relatively unscathed from Boney, when you consider it. Not a missing limb between us. No dashing facial scars.” He nodded across the room at a seasoned old soldier surrounded by a gaggle of admiring ladies. “Look at Uxbridge over there. Lost half his leg at Waterloo, and he’s a bloody hero.”
“I got a ball in the shoulder at Salamanca,” Benedict reminded him mildly.
“And I have a sabre cut on my thigh and a blind spot in my left eye,” Alex finished. “My point is, you can’t play the ‘gallant wounded hero’ sympathy card with injuries like ours. No one knows about my loss of vision unless I tell them about it. And by the time a lady sees my scar, we’re already a long way past the sympathy stage.” He grinned wickedly and tilted his head. “I wonder if I should contrive a limp?”
Benedict snorted. “As if you need any help getting women.” Alex took after his mother, who had been a famous beauty, and his sulky good looks had females sighing and salivating over him wherever he went. “If you must know, I’m looking for one of the Caversteed girls.” He enjoyed the look of surprise that passed over his friend’s face; he should have waited until Alex had a mouthful of champagne.
Alex turned to the dance floor and unerringly picked out a girl who was dancing with the Duke of Upton. “What, the fair Juliet? She’s a beauty, I’ll give you that, but you don’t stand a chance. She’s turned down a whole raft of suitors. You’re overestimating your charms if you think she’ll have a fling with a scapegrace second son who’s part owner of a gaming hell. The mother’s after a title. A marquis, at least.”
Benedict eyed his wife’s younger sister as she swirled about the floor. The girl was undeniably beautiful, but her features seemed watered-down versions of the ones he’d found so arresting in her sibling. Her nose was too small, her eyes too doll-like, her rosebud mouth lacking the sensual generosity of Georgiana’s.
Not that he’d been thinking about the damned woman’s mouth.
Not more than once or twice a day, at any rate.
He wanted to divorce her, not sleep with her.
Actually, that wasn’t true. He wanted to do both of those things. Divorce her. And sleep with her. But only one of them was going to happen. Bedding the prickly Miss Caversteed was not in the cards, even if she was, technically, at this very moment, his wife. That way, as Shakespeare so rightly put it, lay madness.
He was going to sort out this mess, then find someone far less complicated with whom to sate his seething lust, because every one of his finely honed battle instincts told him that tangling with Georgiana Caversteed would only lead to trouble.
He scanned the edges of the room impatiently. “Not her. I was looking for the other one.”
Alex’s dark brows rose in question.
“I’ll tell you about it later.”
Benedict hadn’t yet told his two closest friends about his impromptu marriage. Miss Caversteed had honored her promise to send five hundred pounds to Seb, but Benedict had waved it off as the proceeds of a lucky run at the card tables and promptly sent it off to his brother to help with the more pressing bills on the Morcott estate. His profits from the Tricorn always went to helping John claw back what their profligate father had lost.
He’d returned to his rooms above the Tricorn determined to tell his friends everything when Alex had invited him to come out, and since there was a good chance that his unwanted wife would be present at tonight’s event, Ben had agreed. If all went well, they’d be laughing about the whole thing over a game of cards and some good French brandy before the week was out.
The only reason to stay married to a woman like Georgiana Caversteed would be to take advantage of her immense fortune, which, God knew, he needed. Her money could pay off the mountain of debt his father had left behind, save Morcott Hall, and secure the livelihood of every worker who relied on the estate to survive.
She could have been the answer to his prayers. And yet in one of the great ironies of the universe, which Benedict had come to accept as his due, he’d simultaneously married the richest woman he’d ever met and signed away his ability to get a single penny from her, all within the space of ten minutes.
He had better things to do than chase some headstrong heiress around town to demand a divorce. He wanted this marriage over and done with as quickly as possible.
And then he saw her, standing with an older woman who was probably her mother on the opposite side of the dance floor, and his pulse jolted with a rush of nervous energy, like a fencer en garde.
Her gown, a dark blue sheath embroidered at the edges with gold thread, molded to her slim curves with a subtlety that indicated the work of an extremely expensive modiste. Beneath the chandelier’s glow her hair held an unexpected hint of copper he hadn’t noticed in Newgate, and the thick mass had been swept up in some complicated knot on the top of her head.
His fingers itched to unpin it.
Her slate-grey eyes scanned the ballroom, and the expression on her face was a mixture of polite boredom and resignation. Benedict watched as she took a final sip of lemonade and grimaced at the taste. He’d wager she hated being here almost as much as he did, although for different reasons. He smiled in anticipation. Her evening was about to get a whole lot worse.
Juliet leaned closer to Georgie and raised her fan to hide her mouth, just as their mother did. “Oh, goodness. I don’t believe it! They’re here!”
Georgie tried to dredge up some interest in whoever had captured her sister’s eye. “Who are?”
“The most scandalous men in London!”
“Oh. Is Lord Byron back from the continent?”
“No, silly. The Unholy Trinity. Well, two of them at any rate. Benedict, the earl of Morcott’s brother, and Alex, the Duke of Southwick’s son. They’re the ones who’ve started that infamous gaming hell. Honestly, don’t you read any of the scandal sheets?”
“I try not to,” Georgie murmured truthfully, turning toward the refreshment table to dispose of her empty glass. Her attention usually drifted away when her sister read aloud. Juliet’s love of gossipy fashion magazines and badly written gothic horrors had produced a hilarious ability to overdramatize any event. A simple walk to church could be reinvented as an attempted kidnapping—the innocuous-looking man loitering on the corner was undoubtedly a French spy. If one listened to Juliet, child-swapping at birth, abductions, and incarceration of mad, elderly relatives were regular occurrences.
“You must have heard of them,” Juliet whispered. “The Lady’s Quarterly Gazette reported that Wylde has only just been released from the Fleet!”
“Oh,” Georgie said vaguely.
“He has a shocking reputation. Gambling. Horse races. Shooting contests.”
Georgie she found herself rather envious of the man, whoever he was. He sounded like he was having fun. Clearly he paid no heed to the disapproval of the ton. How liberating that must be.
“They’re both extremely handsome,” Juliet breathed soulfully. “Nothing compared to Simeon, of course, but still, I can quite see why everyone keeps forgiving them.”
Georgie finally glanced in the direction her sister indicated and caught her breath.
No. It couldn’t be.
The man across the room was tall, dark, handsome—and horribly familiar. Her heart skidded to a stop then began galloping as if she’d run a steeplechase. Without a horse. She narrowed her eyes and studied the man’s profile. No beard obscured his face now, but it was unmistakably the same tanned skin, the same straight nose and sharp cheekbones as her prisoner. His clean-shaven cheeks showed a hint of—not quite dimples, precisely, more like grooves—and a smooth line of jaw above a pristine cravat. Her mouth went dry.
It was merely an uncanny resemblance. The man she’d married was half the world away.
But an impeccable navy jacket accentuated the same broad shoulders she’d admired in Newgate. Tan breeches hugged the same long thighs and lean hips. His hair—still unfashionably long—was lighter now that it was clean: a mid-brown with a natural wave that curled around his ears and gave him a careless, windblown look.
There must be some mistake.
And then, as if aware of her perusal, his eyes snapped to hers, and her heart lodged in her throat. Those deep brown eyes held hers in a direct, challenging stare.
This could not be happening.
Georgie tore her gaze away and let out a shaky breath. “Who is that man?”
Juliet gave a little huff of frustration. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? That’s Benedict Wylde, Morcott’s penniless younger brother. The equally handsome man next to him is his best friend, Alex Harland. I was introduced to him last week at Caroline Brudenell’s card party.”
The leaden hand of doom crushed Georgie’s chest. The room spun.
Benedict Wylde. Ben Wylde.
Her prisoner.
Her husband.
Dual images of the man juxtaposed one another in her mind: scruffy prisoner and immaculate aristocrat.
She risked another glance, almost against her will. Benedict Wylde. The most unsuitable man in London. He was still watching her. His brows rose in silent question, and his lips curved upward in a slow, wicked smile.
Her skin went hot, then cold, as if she’d been stung by a nettle, then jumped into a freezing pond. A surge of furious indignation assailed her. The Lady’s Quarterly Gazette needed to check its facts. He hadn’t been languishing in the Fleet, he’d been rotting in bloody Newgate!
Her stomach plummeted. Had she somehow been duped by a fortune hunter? Impossible. Wylde couldn’t possibly have planned their meeting. And besides, he’d signed her contract, hadn’t he? It was watertight. Her fortune was secure.
Georgie exhaled slowly and tried to think, but her pulse refused to calm. What was he doing here? And dear God, what had she done?