Sebastian Thorndyke, third Earl of Bloomsbury, scourge of The Ton, and the wickedest man in London, strode into the hall of a modest townhouse on the east side of Holborn.
‘No need to announce me,’ he declared in the dark treacle voice that had been the ruin of many a young debutante persuaded to dally down dark paths in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens while her ever vigilant mama was distracted. He tossed gloves and cane at Thomas, the footman, who manfully tried to block the earl’s passage.
‘Sir, I must insist that you wait here.’
‘Insist, do you? Well, in that case …’
The earl pushed the faithful family retainer to one side and proceeded up the stairs to the first floor, Thomas tottering after him.
‘Sir, my lady is not at home. And young Master Samuel is at school in Wales where …’
‘Hate to call a man a liar, but I rather think she is,’ said Thorndyke as he flung open the door of the drawing room, startling the young woman who was sat at her writing desk. ‘Egads, sir, you are a liar! My lady is decidedly at home.’
‘Goodness, my lord, I would have thought that even you would know the difference between being at home and being at home to callers,’ said the calm and dignified young woman as she turned back to the letter she was writing. ‘Thomas, it would seem that the earl is staying and will surely be in need of some refreshment. It must be quite deleterious to one’s health to charge about London demanding audiences with people, regardless of their feelings on the matter. Maybe some tea?’ (Yeah! Suck on that, Sebastian!)
‘Enough, Miss Morland! I grow increasingly impatient—’
‘I would have it that you already are impatient. It’s certainly not a state of being that you attain to. You are a master of impatience.’
And Posy Morland, daughter of the late Mr and Mrs Morland, booksellers to the gentry, turned once more to her correspondence, though lesser men had turned their backs on Sebastian Thorndyke and lived to regret it.
Lord Thorndyke gazed on the bowed head of Miss Morland. Silky auburn tendrils of hair escaped the lace cap she wore, which he found a dreadful affectation. True she was twenty-eight and should have long been married were it not for her harridan-like ways (he’d been on the sharp edge of her tongue on more occasions that he cared to recall), but she wasn’t such a spinster that she had to take up the lace cap and the sour countenance quite yet. She was wearing a drab grey day dress, a white fichu tucked into the modest neckline, which framed the delicate lines of a neck he was of a good mind to snap. But he had other plans for Miss Morland. The shrew needed taking down a peg or two, and he was just the man to do it.
Once her letter was written and blotted, Posy Morland set aside paper and pen. A moment later Little Sophie brought in the tea tray and stood in the centre of the room, eyes wide and fearful at the sight of the earl lounging on his chair, his booted foot resting on the table as if he were supping ale at the lowliest tavern and not in polite company.
It was whispered in other drawing rooms that Thorndyke’s valet wasn’t allowed to retire for the night until he’d spent an hour blacking and polishing his master’s Hessian boots. It was also rumoured that one evening Thorndyke had dragged the poor man from his bed and beat him with his riding crop when he’d discovered a smudge on the leather.
‘Kindly remove your boots from my table. You are not in a gaming hall now,’ Posy said grandly, rising from her chair so she could take the tray from Little Sophie, who was trembling so hard it seemed entirely possible that the tray might fall from her grasp and take the Morlands’ good china with it. ‘That will be all, Sophie.’
The maid bobbed, then scurried from the room. Posy placed the tray on the table and sat on the chair opposite Thorndyke. She arranged her skirts just so, then picked up the heavy silver teapot.
‘Would you care for a cup of tea, my lord?’ Posy enquired, though she rather hoped he would decline as their precious stock of tea was sadly diminished and there weren’t the funds to replenish such luxuries. Indeed, she’d spent the morning writing to the grocer, the butcher and linen merchant, begging them to extend the Morlands’ line of credit.
‘Believe me, madam, you do not wish to know what I care for – but I will tell you nevertheless.’ Thorndyke leaned forwards, his dark eyes dancing with mischief, his smile cruel. ‘It is but a small matter of fifty guineas that I loaned to your late father. If you will discharge the debt, then I will gladly be on my way.’
He withdrew a letter from the pocket of his clawback coat, cut from superfine as black as his heart, and brandished it at Posy, who felt quite unable to breathe. She placed an unsteady hand on her breast where her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
‘Sir … my lord … I beg of you,’ she implored. ‘Our circumstances have become most unfavourable of late, but there is a small annuity settled on my brother Samuel when he comes of age. Will you show us some mercy until then?’
‘No, Miss Morland, I will not. Just as you have never shown me any mercy with your viperous tongue and your cold disregard.’ He rose to his feet, his figure lean, face haughty. ‘Fifty guineas by the end of the month or I’ll see you and your brother in debtors’ prison.’
‘You can’t!’ she gasped.
He grasped her chin with one gloved hand and raised her downcast head so Posy could see the devilish merriment that animated his chiselled features.
‘Oh, but I can and I will,’ he said softly, then straightened up, bowed low and took his leave.