Chapter 1

 

 

 

London, England

September 1897

 

In a private meeting place, in a former bank office behind Colosseum Terrace on Albany Street, a group of gentlemen attended a gathering. It had nothing to do whatsoever with financing, investments, or stocks—unless you counted moral bankruptcy.

They were known, unofficially, as The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park. In attendance were men of varying ages and ranks.

The membership ebbed and flowed during the past fifteen years. Some of the men went off to war, others married and moved on to a less profligate life. Part of the current group had formed a close bond in school, all the way to Cambridge University until this very today.

Presiding over this particular assembly was Christian Bamford, Duke of Allenby. Their informal organization consisted of two dukes, a baron, a Canadian businessman of the gentry class, a marquess, and a viscount.

Not just anyone was allowed within this privileged circle. First and foremost, the other members had genuinely to like the fellow, and these formidable men did not easily give their friendship, trust, or reveal their emotions.

Any peerage associates had to be firmly established landholders from another age, hundreds of years of tradition, and all the rot. Snobbish, perhaps, but one must adhere to British customs in these matters.

Exceptions were made and had to be approved by all the members. Such was the case with Brandon Knight, a wealthy businessman, and entrepreneur who had recently returned from Canada.

The last prerequisite: the foremost pursuit for one’s pleasures, especially of the carnal variety. There was time enough to settle down and see to the responsibilities of the title. Meanwhile, they would enjoy all life had to offer rich, pampered men of considerable means.

With certain restraints, of course.

Christian believed excess to be a sign of weakness; loss of control could lead to all sorts of complications and unwanted attention. They decided that they would convene once a week to keep each other in line.

During these unceremonious meetings, they shared their experiences, recommended brothels or other places of vice. There was nothing like male bluster to liven up a conversation. Besides, if you couldn’t boast of your sexual or gaming conquests with your friends, what was the point?

A servant, Phillips, moved about the round table, filling their glasses with claret or scotch. In the center was a tray of beefsteak sandwiches and slices of cheese.

Christian looked up from his newspaper at the men gathered.

Directly to his left, and slumped in his seat, was Warren Cowley, Viscount Huxley. Warren had recently come into the title and was still adjusting to it all. Warren was the least handsome of the lot, not that it mattered to Christian, but it certainly mattered to society. Though outwardly unassuming, Warren possessed a voracious sexual appetite. Since Warren was judicious, Christian tolerated his particular immoderations.

Next to him was Damon Cranston, Marquess of Brookton and heir to The Duke of Chellenham. Christian narrowed his gaze as he stared at the blond Adonis reaching for a wedge of cheese. Society often compared the sinful marquess to the fictional Dorian Gray from an Oscar Wilde book. Damon had laughed it off, but Christian wondered. His scandalous reputation was the talk of London.

Damon was his closest friend. Christian often pondered what went on behind that impenetrable shield. Christian had erected a protective wall through the years, but Damon had him beat in that regard.

Next to Damon sat Merritt Redfern, Viscount Tolwood, and heir to the Earl of Shelton. Merritt was not a full member as yet, but an apprentice, or prospect, if you will. With curly auburn hair and an abundance of freckles, he still had the fresh-faced innocence that appealed to certain older women, which was Merritt’s current personal preference. One affair had him bedding a woman of sixty. He had heartily recommended it.

Sitting next to Merritt was Asher Colborne, Baron Wenlock. Asher’s barony was the oldest in England. It dated back to the medieval age and one of the richest. Asher’s particular carnal predilection was seeking out tawdry tups in the seedy back alleys of the East End of London. Not something Christian was the least bit interested in, but, to each his own.

Christian’s family also could be traced back hundreds of years, as could Damon’s. Such long bloodlines came with responsibility, something the men were most definitely avoiding.

Another member of the group was Brandon Knight, the aforementioned businessman. He had been in Canada for several years, not by his choice. It was there he made his fortune. Though Brandon hadn’t revealed the details, Christian had the distinct impression the circumstances were grievous enough to leave deep internal scars. Brandon’s carnal tastes were much like Christian’s. Sex with strangers, move on to the next liaison.

Gideon Broyles, Duke of Watford, was the only remaining original member of The Rakes. The duke was more of an elder statesman of their little assemblage. He had relinquished the leadership of The Rakes to Christian eight months ago, as he had grown blasé about running it.

Gideon was rather fond of flagellation brothels that featured light birching. Again, it was not something Christian desired, but he believed whatever gave someone pleasure was their own business.

Beyond that, he would never judge his friends.

At least, he tried to hold to that belief.

Christian had grown bored of late and had spent this past week at his townhouse—alone. Reading books—of all blasted things. Before he knew it, he would be acquiring a slobbering hound dog to sit at his feet. To say he had nothing to report this week was an understatement. Glancing around the table, Christian wondered if any of the others felt as jaded as him?

“That will be all,” Christian told the servant, who bowed and left the room. “So, gentlemen, shall we begin? Have we all been careful in our various dealings this past week?”

Another vow they had taken: always use protection when it came to sex. It wouldn’t hurt to remind the club of it.

“What does it matter if we do or not?” Merritt stated, shrugging.

“You’ll never become a full member with an attitude like that, Merritt,” Christian admonished. “First off, there are diseases to avoid—and any possible children.”

Damon grunted and refilled his glass. “Yes, children. Avoid at all costs. If it does happen, however, never deny the child. Never refer to him or her as a mistake. Or a by-blow, God, I loathe that term. A child is not to be shunted about, lost in the morass of society, or tossed aside like rubbish. This child will be of your blood and deserves care and acknowledgment. At the most, love and acceptance.”

This was the Damon he had known all these years. When you least expect it, he showed compassion, understanding, and wisdom. It didn’t happen that often.

“You sound as if you know firsthand of which you speak,” Asher said.

“Me? God, no. I’m extremely cautious in my carnal dealings. My father, the duke, not so much.” Damon frowned, then sighed wearily. “There are at least three siblings of mine out there in the world, borne from three different women of various classes. I’ve tried to find them.”

The room was silent, and Damon squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as if realizing he had revealed too much.

“Carry on,” Damon said gruffly, downing his drink and pouring another. “I do not wish to discuss my father in any way.”

Then Christian would do what his friend asked. “Warren? Your latest conquests?”

“Too many to mention,” he grumbled. “I’m beginning to believe I have a true sickness.”

“When was the last time you had sex?” Damon asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Already his mood had shifted, which was typical of Damon. As changeable as London weather.

“You mean today?” Warren replied drolly.

Laughter broke out around the table but soon ceased when Warren did not join in.

“What is it, Warren?” Christian asked.

“I believe I will be extricating myself from this group—at least, for a short period. I might head to Huxley Estate. I need to rest and reflect.”

“Well, that has blasted well put a damper on the meeting,” Damon pouted.

“Leave him be, Brookton,” Gideon’s deep voice rumbled. “He can do as he pleases.”

“Is something the matter, Warren?” Christian asked.

“Everything is the matter, but I am not inclined to discuss it here. Move on.” Warren sounded weary, and Christian decided not to pursue the subject.

“I also have an announcement,” Brandon Knight interjected. “I cannot put off my plans any longer. I will be heading to Herne Bay in December.”

“Where in the deviled hell is Herne Bay? Never heard of it,” Christian asked.

“Southeast England, on the coast, Kent, specifically. I have a score to settle,” Brandon answered, his eyes glowing with a determination Christian had never seen from him before.

“Revenge,” Damon yawned. “How tedious.”

Brandon’s eyes turned chilly as ice. “You know nothing of which you speak. I have scores to settle, and I aim to see it done before the year is out. I’ve spent enough time in London.”

“Will you be returning after you have meted out your justice?” Asher asked.

“I’m not certain. I will inform you all of my plans.” Brandon’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t mock me, any of you. You don’t know the entire story.”

“Save it for some snowy night by the fire,” Damon said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Brandon stood eager for a fight, but Asher grabbed his arm. “This is not the time for fisticuffs,” Asher stated firmly. “Ignore Damon. He’s not happy unless he is stirring the pot. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Brandon grunted and sat, but shot Damon a murderous look.

Christian could feel it; change was about to take hold of the men. They had lived life to the full with gambling, drinking, and women the sum total of their existence. He never thought that Warren would be the first to cede defeat, if only temporarily. The man must be exhausted. And now Brandon would be leaving?

“No one has anything to share?” Damon asked, looking around the table. “Shall I expound on my various adventures since the rest of you seem to have lost all interest in the existence of this club? I attended a particular orgy at—”

A knock sounded at the door. Phillips entered carrying a long, narrow box.

“My pardon for interrupting, Your Grace. There has been a delivery.”

“Set it here, Phillips, and leave us,” Christian said.

The man placed the box on the table in front of Christian, bowed, and departed.

“Someone sending us flowers?” Merritt stated. “A thank you for a recent dalliance? Who is it addressed to?”

Christian flicked open his small pocket knife and deftly slit the string and a corner of the brown paper wrapping. “To the Rakes of St. Regent’s Park.”

Damon rubbed his chin. “I always liked that; it has a certain symmetry to it. But how did someone know to send it here?”

“Our meeting place is hardly a secret. We have hosted card games here and even allowed an acquaintance or two to use the place for a clandestine meeting. And do not forget all the past members are aware of the location. Merritt, will you do the honors?” Christian asked.

Merritt stood, tore off the paper, tossed it aside, then lifted the top. His face went as white as a sheet. He gagged, once, twice, then staggered, turning away with his hand to his mouth.

The rest of them scrambled to their feet and had a peek. Inside the satin-lined box was a leg. A human leg sawed cleanly just below the knee.

“Fuck me,” Damon whispered.

The men exchanged shocked looks. Christian could not believe this. Why would someone send such a macabre—thing?

Merritt ceased gagging, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his mouth.

Gideon bent at the waist to inspect it closer. “There is a small tattoo on the ankle. Judging by the length and curve of the leg, this belonged to a woman.”

“Shall we call the police?” Merritt asked, his voice shaking. “There is a constable that patrols regularly along Albany Street. I can go and fetch him.”

Police. No.

Christian did not want the Metropolitan Police trudging through their lives, overturning rocks that should be best left alone.

At least—not yet.

At some point, they would not be able to avoid it. But until then—no. The incident would be splashed all over the papers; their location would become a tourist attraction as many other places connected to grisly doings or deaths. Jesus, there were informal Jack the Ripper tours in Whitechapel, attracting large crowds—no. Just no.

“I believe it best we keep it quiet for the moment. This may be nothing but a grisly, twisted prank,” Christian replied.

“A prank? A woman’s severed leg? Where is the rest of her? We may be talking of homicide!” Merritt bellowed. Warren laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

“Or the body part is from a hospital or graveyard sent for the express purpose of rattling us,” Asher replied.

Inside, Christian was shaken to his core, but he would not reveal it.

“Job well done,” Brandon murmured. “Consider me rattled.”

Christian pointed at the box. “We should hire an investigation agency to look into this—before calling on the police. Better to keep this situation in our control. For now.”

“Why keep the police out of it?” Merritt cried, still clearly upset.

“Do you wish the coppers delving into our lives? Do you want all this to make the papers? And you know it will. Those blasted reporters hang about police precincts for any sniff of scandal or gruesome doings.” Christian grimaced. “Be damned if I want my life—or any of our lives—splayed open for London’s perusement and amusement.”

“Is perusement even a word?” Gideon asked.

“What does it matter? Christian’s correct about the police,” Asher said. “But which agency should we consider?”

Christian glanced at the newspaper spread on the table, and a large advertisement caught his eye.

 

 

~THE GALWAY AGENCY~

 

The finest detectives available for all your covert watching, secret inquires, either for divorce or other matters of import, criminal or civil.

Confidential and discreet.

 

~149 Cleveland Street Appointments required~

 

 

“I believe, gentlemen,” Christian stated, “I have just the place.”