Sneak peek of The Baron and the Mistress

(The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park #2)

 

 

Prologue

 

 

 

London

Late November 1897

 

 

If there was one thing the Rakes of St. Regent’s Park understood, it was how to have a rousing good time.

Asher Colborne, Baron Wenlock, was out on the town with his fellow ‘rakes.’

He sat at a table with the remaining members of their small and private association. Over the past fifteen years, the membership ebbed and flowed. Some 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.

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 give their friendship, trust, or reveal their emotions.

The recently engaged Christian Bamford, Duke of Allenby, and former leader of the group attended tonight as a sort of farewell.

Not only was he leaving their club, but they had gathered to also say their goodbyes to Brandon Knight, who would be departing for Herne Bay in a matter of a couple of weeks.

Much had happened with the Rakes of St. Regent’s Park these past months. One could argue that their organization neared its end. At its peak, there were twenty-one members.

Recently, they were down to seven.

Now?

Their numbers were about to deplete even further. It was rather depressing when Asher thought about it. He had recently made an invitation to Oliver Wollstonecraft, grandson to Aidan Wollstonecraft, Earl of Carnstone. The twenty-seven-year-old heir to the earl had earned a bit of a notorious reputation, one that came close to his grandfather Aidan’s scandalous younger years. Oliver had said he would think it over, but that was weeks past.

Asher glanced around the table. Next to him was the elder statesman, as they called him, Gideon Broyles, Duke of Watford, one of the original founding members. About to turn forty, Gideon outpaced them all for casual liaisons. He showed no signs of slowing down nor settling down.

Warren Cowley, Viscount Huxley, was making a rare appearance, as he had been tucked away at the Bevan Sanitorium in Hertfordshire, receiving treatment for his sexual excesses. He was only in London this week to attend to business, and Asher had been shocked at the change in the man. More withdrawn than ever, he sat, nursing a scotch, barely speaking.

Next to Huxley was Damon Cranston, Marquess of Brookton, and heir to The Duke of Chellenham. Damon would be taking over as the leader of their little clique. Damon was often referred to as “Dorian Gray” by society after the fictional Oscar Wilde character. Damon’s scandalous reputation was the talk of London. But Asher had wondered through the years, just how much of it was accurate?

Merritt Redfern, Viscount Tolwood, and heir to the Earl of Shelton was not a full-blown member but part of their group as an apprentice—until he found a suitable bride.

By the end of the year, it could only be Asher, Gideon, and Damon left. Not that any of them were full-blown rakes at the moment, for Asher had the distinct impression most of the dalliances were all talk, complete fiction.

“I say, allowing your soon-to-be duchess to keep her investigative agency? Christian, you are progressive to the core,” Merritt said, raising his glass. “I salute you.”

Christian’s fiancée owned and operated a successful investigative firm, The Galway Agency, with her sister and cousin.

“Thank you. As if I could dictate to Eleanora what to do, not that I would. The Galway Agency will go on. In fact, business has been brisk. At some point, she may reduce her hours, but that will be her decision.” Christian reached for the decanter and freshened his drink. “Let’s face facts, lads. A new century yawns before us. Do you think that those of us with titles and societal standing will even factor into the shaping of the future? Our way of life is near its end.”

“Bite your tongue,” Damon scoffed. “There will always be a peerage.”

“Perhaps, but the power that our grandfathers and great-grandfathers wielded at the turn of this century? Gone forever. Good riddance, I say,” Christian replied.

“How goes the bride search, Tolwood?” Gideon asked, his tone of voice showing that he wasn’t the least bit interested in knowing. He had changed the subject because the truth of their future wasn’t something Gideon wished to discuss, let alone accept.

Asher understood completely.

Merritt sighed. “Still going. It’s blasted difficult to find someone to love and will love you in return. I may have to settle for an alliance.”

“Why marry at all?” Brandon interjected. “We’re supposed to be scandalous rakes.”

Brandon Knight was the only non-peer in the current group. Knight was a wealthy businessman of the gentry class. Gideon sponsored Knight, and they all accepted him into the club.

It was true, what Brandon said. They were supposed to be rakes. But, as Asher surmised before, he doubted many of them still embraced such an existence, or even lived it to the full. That is, if they took a moment to be honest with themselves.

They all had their various predilections when it came to carnal pleasures. Gideon? He frequented clubs that offered light birching. Damon? Orgies were his preference. Warren? Well, he had gone too far and sought treatment for his dissipations.

As for Asher? He found his pleasure in the East End, anonymous sex in the various back alleys. Oh, he was careful, as were all the rakes. He used protection. Why he sought out sex in such grubby circumstances, he could not say. Be damned if he would try and puzzle it out here.

“The way things are going,” Gideon said, his deep voice rumbling. “We will have to recruit new members.”

“Why even bother?” Christian stated. “Marriage may not be as horrible as you may think.”

“Please spare us your cloying happiness,” Damon replied in a dull voice. “Just because you found yourself caught in a marriage trap doesn’t mean the rest of us wish it. Except for Merritt.”

“And what of Althea?” Christian replied softly.

“What’s this?” Asher exclaimed. Althea Galway was Eleanora’s younger sister and partner in the investigative agency.

Damon’s cheeks flushed. An actual reaction. Now, this was interesting.

“She means nothing to me. I wouldn’t give a care if I ever saw her again.” Damon threw back the rest of his drink and refilled his glass.

He was lying, of course, and all the men in the room knew it.

“Just as well,” Christian replied. “She has said the same of you. Which proves that you both lie.”

Damon flushed further, his jaw working furiously. Christian was correct. Could something develop there? Perhaps not, knowing Damon’s stubborn and debauched nature.

“So, when are you leaving exactly, Knight?” Warren asked. It was the first time he had spoken in over an hour.

“December fifteenth,” Brandon replied.

“Out for revenge regarding past hurts, correct?” Warren threw back his drink. “Take care, do not allow it to consume your life.”

“Too late,” Brandon replied, his voice firm.

Asher downed the rest of his scotch and stood. Enough of this conversation. “Shall we partake in a game of cards? There is a private room in the rear. There is also a small buffet set up.”

“I say, I am famished,” Merritt said.

“Christian? Stay and play. You’re not under a self-imposed curfew, I trust?” Asher teased.

“Not at all. Cards it is. I hope there is roast beef available,” Christian replied, rubbing his hands together. “And duchess potatoes.”

“I made certain to order it,” Asher replied with a smile. “I ensured all your favorites are on the menu, including Charlotte russe for dessert. And as an extra surprise, Eleanora sent along apple scones.”

Christian laid his hand on Asher’s shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. “You are a true friend.”

Everyone stood and headed toward the back room.

Except for Warren.

Asher stayed behind. His friend was not well, physically or emotionally. The look of desolation on Warren’s face concerned Asher. He had worried about his friend and thought of him often these past weeks he was away.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Asher asked, his voice quiet.

“I am returning to the sanitorium. I have relapsed already. Speaking of consuming one’s life, I’m a hopeless case and should be shut away permanently.” Warren’s voice was husky and anguished.

Asher shook his head. “I am sorry, my friend. Is there anything I can do?”

“There is one thing you can do for me. Leave this group, Ash. Stop seeking out thrills in the back alleys. Find someone to love, though I am aware that is not an easy task in this cold world. This existence is pathetic and soul-destroying. Be done with it before you become an empty, rotting husk like me. Or Gideon or Brandon. Damon is more than halfway there. Take my advice and save yourself.”

Warren headed to the private room, leaving Asher shaken.

The stark warning had taken root.