CHAPTER1
LONDON, 1816
Garrick Weir, Viscount Lindsey, heir to the Duke of Dryden, had ventured to the East End with his outrage, an unwise proliferation of coin, and the determination to pay off the scheming, fortune-hunting harlot who was attempting to ensnare his madcap younger brother into matrimony. Thus far, he had managed to avoid pickpockets and other would-be criminals. He had similarly surpassed guards and slipped, unscathed, to the private room where his quarry would be found. The palms he had greased on his way here had suggested she would be within shortly.
Tallying ledgers.
Apparently, the lowborn miscreant was intelligent enough to know her arithmetic, at least—if his study of the neatly penned sums before him was to be trusted—in the case of gin being purchased versus consumed by patrons. But then, one could only suppose she also possessed enough intellect to bamboozle his idiotic sibling.
To be fair, Aidan was a stripling who thought with his cock and little else. It was entirely likely all that was required to persuade him was a set of breasts and a willing cunny.
Garrick shuddered as he thought of his brother’s appalling lack of judgment and turned a page in the ledger. Aidan had made it more than clear he did not give a farthing about preserving the Weir family name. Never mind that the Duke of Dryden was one of the oldest, most revered titles in England. Being a part of such a distinguished lineage was not sufficient for Aidan, who amused himself besmirching their good name by drinking, whoring, gambling, gadding about at bare-knuckle boxing matches, and announcing his intention to marry a lowborn title seeker.
His pronouncement at dinner the evening before had been the ultimate slap to the face for their father. The duke suffered from a weak heart, and Garrick had feared their father would expire at the table. Garrick did not fault their father for his outrage. Miss Penelope Sutton was the most unsuitable match Aidan could have found, save from a Covent Garden doxy. Mother had called for her hartshorn and retired to her apartments.
Garrick sifted a few more pages of the ledger, his ennui leading him to grudgingly admit Miss Sutton’s penmanship was tidy and concise. He appreciated neatness, even from this particularly unwanted source. Her spelling was regular. Perhaps she had received some manner of education. Not that such a matter should concern him. After this evening, he would neither see the woman nor hear from her ever again.
A sound in the hall beyond interrupted his perusal. He straightened, moving away from the desk and assuming his most intimidating pose as the door opened. She was earlier than he had expected, but it was just as well. The sooner they could settle this disagreeable matter, the better. He had a ball to attend.
The woman standing before Garrick took him by surprise. He had imagined she would be dressed in an unseemly display, breasts nearly popping from her bodice, her gown dampened to render it sheer. But instead, she wore a modest affair of an indeterminate light hue, buttoned to the throat. Her auburn hair was bound in a simple knot, a few tendrils free to frame her face.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Well, her rudeness certainly met—and surpassed—his expectations.
He bowed as if they were in a drawing room rather than a ramshackle East End gaming hell where countless despicable acts of gambling, drinking to excess, and Lord knew what else had occurred. “I am Lord Lindsey, Miss Sutton.”
She remained where she was, pinning him with a narrow, hazel-eyed stare. “Am I meant to know you?”
He tamped down a surge of irritation. Everyone knew him.
But then, she was a little no one, wasn’t she?
“You are acquainted with my brother, Lord Aidan Weir,” he elaborated grimly, for he refused to acknowledge the supposed betrothal between herself and his sibling.
The marriage was never happening, and he had lowered himself to visit this intolerable haven of iniquity to make certain of that.
A frown marred her otherwise fine features. “You are Aidan’s brother?”
Garrick grudgingly noted Miss Penelope Sutton was quite beautiful. Scarcely any wonder his scapegrace of a brother had been following her about these last few months, sniffing at her skirts.
“I am Lord Aidan’s brother, as I said,” he repeated, emphasizing his brother’s title.
The familiarity of his sibling’s name on her lips was irksome, and not just for the obvious reason.
“Lord Aidan.” She was unsmiling, her gaze studying him from head to toe in rude fashion as she remained where she was. “Yes, of course. Forgive me for forgetting he has a brother. He does not often speak of his family.”
Was that meant to be a barb? And why had the witch yet to curtsy and show the deference which was due him?
“I do not suppose he would,” Garrick commented mildly. “Do you intend to hover on the threshold all evening, or will you enter, Miss Sutton?”
He was growing weary of this game. An evening of entertainment beckoned, and he did not like the manner in which his body was reacting to this brazen chit. He was far too aware of her, his entire being acutely on edge.
Anger, he told himself. That was all it was.
She is an East End fortune hunter greedy to snatch a titled gentleman as her marital prize.
But she was a lovely one, and he could not deny it, much as that fact aggrieved him.
“Why have you come?” she asked instead of answering the question he had posed, still motionless.
He sighed. “Miss Sutton, enter the room, if you please. I hardly wish for all the world to hear my private affairs. Whilst my brother does not have a care for discretion, I do, and that is why I have sought you out this evening.”
“Has something happened to him?” She stepped over the threshold at last, the door not entirely closing at her back.
It would have to suffice.
“Your concern is almost touching, Miss Sutton.” He strode forward, eliminating the distance separating them. “But then, I suppose any title-greedy viper would be similarly worried at the prospect of losing the lord she believes she has ensnared.”
“Are you daring to insult me in my own family’s establishment, my lord?”
“I speak truth.” Curse it, was that her scent reaching him just now? She smelled like a walk in a summer’s meadow, fresh with a hint of a floral note.
East End fortune hunters were not meant to smell so luscious.
What the devil ails you? This is the woman Aidan has been chasing. And, knowing Aidan, bedding.
He disgusted himself. And yet, the woman before him possessed a certain attraction he could not deny. Not just her fine features or the vibrant warmth of her hair, but the manner in which she carried herself. He had no doubt, were she to stand in a ballroom, she would command the attention of every gentleman in the chamber.
“What truth do you speak, sir?” Her full lips compressed with disapproval.