Dauntless (Gentlemen of the Order 1)

Chapter 1

Hart Street, London

Premises of the Gentlemen of the Order

“And so I said, ‘Madam, must you make that god-awful racket? Are you in desperate need of a physician, or do you wish to let the entire street hear of your pleasure?’”

Noah Ashwood almost choked on his coffee. “I thought you preferred them lively in bed.” The men’s morning banter brought relief from the stringent attitude needed when investigating criminal cases.

D’Angelo laughed as he reclined on the sofa. “Lively, yes, but not wailing like a banshee. It puts a man off his stroke.”

“If you have to concentrate on your stroke,” Sloane drawled, “you should find another bed partner.”

“Choose a woman who stimulates your mind,” Finlay Cole said, glancing over the top of his newspaper. “The poets say it makes for an enlightening experience.”

“Enlightening?” D’Angelo snorted. “I seek satisfaction, not spiritual instruction.”

Noah shook his head. He believed his friend enjoyed acting the rakish rogue. “If you cared for the woman, you would celebrate her howling.”

“Blessed saints! Are you suggesting I find a lover who stirs my emotions?” D’Angelo’s shocked expression led to fits of laughter until a loud knock on the door disturbed their revelry.

“Enter!”

Mrs Gunning marched into the drawing room. She was a large, steady woman of sixty who prided herself on running an efficient house. She focused her gaze on Noah. “There’s a lady arrived, sir. A prospective client. She said she needs to hire an agent.”

At twenty-eight, Noah wasn’t the oldest of the four men who helped victims of crimes. Nor did his lineage give him a right of entitlement. He was but the nephew of a baron. Still, they had fallen into natural roles, and Noah had no issue accepting responsibility.

“You explained there’s no fee? Gave no assurances?” Noah sat forward in the chair. “Explained we take clients on an individual basis?”

Their services could not be bought. The Gentlemen of the Order did not assist wealthy members of the ton find solutions to their petty problems. They helped the weak, the needy, those without funds or connections.

Mrs Gunning glanced at the open door before whispering, “I did, sir. The lady seemed confident you would hear her case.”

“Me?” But he had just finished a lengthy investigation into the blackmail of a bank clerk. One of his colleagues could conduct the interview. D’Angelo needed a distraction, needed to focus on something other than his troublesome lover. “Did the lady present my calling card?”

“No, sir, not exactly.” Mrs Gunning toyed with the keys on her chatelaine. “She said she needed a fearless gentleman. Dauntless, she said. I presumed she meant you, sir.”

“Dauntless?” How odd. Did the lady know of his moniker? “She used that precise word?”

“Yes, sir.”

Curse the saints!

Noah believed in omens and fate, believed one’s destiny was written. All one had to do was follow the signs. His friends had called him Dauntless since the night he’d stormed into Lady Redford’s ballroom, marched onto the dance floor and threw a punch that put his uncle on his arse. The same night he chased two knife-wielding thugs into a dark alley and brought both fiends to their knees.

“The lady practically asked for you by name,” Cole agreed, offering an arrogant grin. “That makes it your case.”

Noah huffed. “We have yet to determine the nature of her dilemma.” He turned to the housekeeper employed to put female clients at ease, to play chaperone and ensure the servants behaved. “Perhaps you should show the lady into the drawing room. Let her choose which one of us is to hear her desperate tale.” Yes. Let fate decide.

D’Angelo’s brown eyes widened. “Would you care to wager on the outcome? I’ll lay odds she’ll pick Sloane.”

“No wagers,” Noah countered. They were professional men, not dissolute rakes looking for ways to banish the boredom. “No. Show her in, Mrs Gunning.”

“Right away, sir.”

The housekeeper hurried from the room and returned seconds later with their potential client in tow.