The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Read online

  DEDICATION

  To everyone reading this page, thank you.

  You’ve brought me joy simply by giving this book a chance.

  Wishing you countless smiles, a sigh-worthy love, and a happily-ever-after of your own.

  ~ Viv

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By Vivienne Lorret

  An Excerpt from Chasing Jillian by Julie Brannagh

  An Excerpt from Easy Target by Kay Thomas

  An Excerpt from Dirty Thoughts by Megan Erickson

  An Excerpt from Last First Kiss by Lia Riley

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  St. James

  Winter 1822

  Lucan Montwood wanted to get drunk. Dead drunk.

  This gaming hell was the perfect place to start. Shadows from sconces writhed along the dark red walls in the same manner that rage roiled within him. It blazed inside of him like the brazier in the corner that kept the room uncomfortably warm. Exhaling into his glass, the charred, oaky essence of whiskey teased his nostrils. The tip of his tongue contracted, waiting for the familiar flavor. But it was no use.

  No amount of liquor could erase the events of this day.

  He lowered the glass down to the polished table.

  “Come, come, Montwood. You’re too slow.” Rafe Danvers clinked their glasses before tipping his own back. He whistled low in appreciation and rubbed a hand through his unruly dark hair. Then, reaching for the bottle, he poured another three fingers. “Everhart and I have an entire night planned for you. This is only the first stop.”

  Lucan’s friends sought to distract him. The three of them sat at a corner table. Across from him, Viscount Everhart absently scratched the bridge of his nose where he sported a sunburn. Having just returned from his latest expedition, even his short crop of hair was bleached ash blond by the sun. “Quite right. We plan to lose our shirts at hazard, and then we’re off to one of Lady Ramsey’s infamous parties for endless hours of debauchery.”

  “I could not ask for better friends.” Lucan held up his glass in a salute to his fellow fallen angels. At least, that was what Lady Ramsey called them, often stating that they were too handsome to be anything other than angels, but far too wicked to be allowed in heaven. In Lucan’s case, Lady Ramsey likely didn’t know how right she was. As for Everhart and Danvers, they battled their own demons. And their strength had helped Lucan through his darkest days.

  Twelve years ago, after his mother’s death, they’d offered similar methods of nurturing. Whiskey, gambling, and women. What else could a man require?

  “Justice,” said the voice that raged inside him.

  Earlier today, he thought the justice he craved had arrived. The man who’d beaten and abused both him and his mother, before ultimately killing her, had been arrested, although not for her murder. Instead, the crown had charged the Marquess of Camdonbury—Lucan’s father—with treason.

  It was a small victory for Lucan, but he’d intended to celebrate nonetheless. For treason, the marquess could not cry “privilege of the peerage.” For treason, he would hang.

  Yet when the magistrate interrogated Camdonbury for unlawfully coining ten thousand pounds, something absurd happened. The magistrate had released him. By all witness accounts, Camdonbury claimed to have evidence against his steward, Hugh Thorne. Apparently, Lucan’s father had issued a persuasive argument, because shortly thereafter, Thorne had been arrested for treason.

  “Thorne has worked at Camdonbury Place for thirty years. The man is loyal to a fault,” Lucan said, more to himself than to his friends. He knew Thorne too well to believe the rumors. “It isn’t true.”

  In fact, he’d been the only one who had watched over the marchioness when Lucan had gone away to school. For that alone, Thorne had earned his unswerving allegiance.

  If Thorne was found guilty, he would hang by week’s end. And the Marquess of Camdonbury would claim another victim.

  “Thorne is a good man. I remember how he visited you at school after . . . ” Everhart’s words trailed off into the black void that always surrounded the death of Lucan’s mother.

  In all these years, Lucan hadn’t spoken of her or how she’d suffered. Because he still carried the guilt of not being able to save her.

  At the thought, Lucan drained his glass. The liquor burned all the way down, adding fuel to the injustice churning in his stomach.

  Danvers poured another round. “To Thorne.”

  It was a somber toast, but effective. They tossed back the whiskey in one swallow, and Danvers filled the glasses once more.

  Lucan studied the way the golden light from the sconces skimmed across the whiskey’s surface, his mind elsewhere. Earlier, he’d gone to the magistrate, professing Thorne’s innocence. He’d even spoken out against his own father, the same way he’d done after his mother’s death. But as before, he was escorted out onto the street.

  Apparently, Camdonbury had anticipated Lucan’s actions. He’d warned the magistrate about the probability of this allegation ahead of time, claiming that his wayward son would find a way to rebel against being cut off from the family.

  Lucan issued a humorless laugh. “I would like to know how a disreputable marquess can utter the words ‘cut off’ and suddenly the ton takes notice as if this was the gossip du jour.”

  A short while ago, Lucan had been refused admittance to White’s after having severed all ties with the Camdonbury title. He’d been snubbed in Hyde Park. Then he’d been barred from entering the townhouse where he’d lived for years. Obviously, his landlord didn’t realize Lucan had been paying his own debts for most of his life without any familial assistance.

  “This is not a matter to take lightly,” Everhart said, interlacing his fingers as he rested his forearms on the table. “Yours is not merely a threat to bind your accounts. Your father knows how you earn your living at the tables. By cutting you off, he’s removed your standing and even your credibility.”

  Lucan pondered this for a moment. Everhart was the son of a duke and knew how the pressures of societal scrutiny could cripple a man’s way of life.

  “Then I shall endeavor to be more charming than ever,” Lucan said with a practiced grin. Yet inside, his mind turned. His father was too cunning for today’s events to be mere happenstance. It seemed almost as if he’d planned this carefully. In one fell swoop, Camdonbury had absolved himself of any culpability of the charges against him and also made himself a martyr by having a younger son who would choose a steward over his own family. No one would question Camdonbury’s actions or blame him.

  Lucan knew his father had wanted to cut him off years ago for casting a shadow of doubt on Mother’s death. He’d only needed an excuse.

  Now Lucan was separated from the Camdonbury title but also from the way he made his
living as a gambler. Oh, he was sure that he could still find ways to gamble. Gaming hells weren’t too particular, after all. Without credibility, however, he could sit across the table from someone who sought to cheat him and not have the ability to call him out. Even worse, he could be the accused, which made his finances and future precarious. He would have to choose his opponents carefully.

  Danvers clapped his empty glass down. “Or you could simply remove yourself from town and continue your ventures elsewhere. I’ve been contemplating that very thing for a while now.”

  Since Danvers’s parents had received the cut direct, he’d spent little time in society, if one discounted gaming hells and highborn widows.

  “It is something to consider,” Lucan said, even while knowing that he could not remove himself from town. Not completely. He had obligations, especially now.

  If Hugh Thorne were to hang by week’s end, then who would watch over his daughter?

  Admittedly, Frances Thorne was only a year younger than Lucan and quite capable. He suspected that in the years since her mother’s death, she’d been watching over her father more than the other way around.

  She was no longer the same young girl who’d visited her father at Camdonbury Place and had stolen surreptitious glances at Lucan when their paths crossed. Despite his most honorable of intentions, Lucan had stolen a few as well and flirted on occasion. Yet he’d always maintained his distance. Of course, he told himself that the reason was because she was the daughter of the family steward. One did not dally with the servants or their families, after all. However, he often wondered if there was another reason, but instinct told him not to pursue the answer.

  Nonetheless, he did keep an eye out for her. The Thorne family cook was a chatty woman who was easily persuaded into conversation with the milkman. Coincidentally, that same milkman earned a few coins for his trouble when he relayed the same conversation to Lucan’s cook. Or former cook, rather, as of today. Along with his former home and former bed.

  Lucan furrowed his brow. It was selfish to think about where he would live from this day forward, when Hugh Thorne had much larger worries.

  “You require another distraction,” Everhart said to Lucan in such an austere tone that few would dare contradict him. “Let’s adjourn to the inner sanctum of the hazard room.”

  “Aye. It’s time for some sport,” Danvers agreed, leading the way.

  Lucan agreed as well, though for different reasons. He wanted to forget the look on Hugh Thorne’s face.

  The man had been in a complete state of shock when the Bow Street Runners had escorted him in shackles to the magistrate’s office that afternoon. Standing outside on the pavement, Miss Thorne had been pale with worry, twisting a lace handkerchief in her grasp. He’d never seen her look fragile until that moment. The impulse to go to her and offer comfort had been impossible to deny. He’d even bumped shoulders with someone as he was escorted through the door.

  When he stood before Frances, however, her gaze had turned hard. She’d speared him with palpable hatred, no doubt seeing him as much at fault as his father. Without a word, she expressed a vow to hate Lucan until the end of his days. In answer, he silently vowed to make amends. Such was the sum of their unspoken communication before they parted ways.

  It wasn’t until later that Lucan wondered why she’d been there alone. From what he knew, Roger Quinlin had been courting her for the past two years. As a suitor, it would have been Quinlin’s responsibility to comfort Miss Thorne and to see if anything could be done for her father.

  Yet now as Lucan entered the green-and-gold room in the center of the gaming hell, who should Lucan see but Roger Quinlin. Amidst the raucous clamor of gentlemen crowded around the long, oval felted table, the man in question shouted at his dice. Quinlin was wild-eyed, with a hank of mud brown hair drooping over his forehead, and one hand gripping the upraised lip of the table. Lucan had seen the look of desperation on enough men to recognize it in an instant.

  He wasn’t the only one who noticed either. Danvers turned his head and spoke low. “What are the odds that he bet his last shilling?”

  “I’ve seen sharks in the Indian Ocean that looked less hungry,” Everhart replied, doubtless remarking on the frenzy of men who’d wagered against the caster. The scent of blood was ripe in the air.

  Both Danvers and Everhart moved a step forward.

  Lucan remained apart, scrutinizing the tableau before him. At the moment, he was more concerned for Miss Thorne. Was Quinlin here to win enough money in order to marry her? It would be a noble gesture, though the notion unsettled Lucan somewhat. At five and twenty, Miss Thorne should marry, of course. However, in Lucan’s opinion, Quinlin wasn’t right for her. Obviously, the frantic man standing across the room possessed little control over his impulses. A man like that could hardly make a worthwhile husband.

  Lucan knew from his own life that dark deeds were born from a lack of control.

  “Pardon me, my lord,” a footman said, stepping into view. He bowed and presented a card on a gold-plated salver. “Your presence is requested in our private study.”

  Cautious, Lucan lifted the card. Viscount Whitelock. “And he requested Lucan Montwood?” Lucan asked. Since they had never spoken, nor did they keep the same company, he had to be certain.

  When the footman bowed once more, Lucan discreetly left the hazard room. They walked down a narrow corridor lined with doors, leading to private rooms known for their high-stakes games. One had to have a special invitation to participate.

  At the end of the hall, the footman opened a door. Silk paper embossed in gold lined the walls of the small room. The glossy surface reflected the firelight in such a way that it was almost as if he were stepping directly into the fire.

  Standing near the mantel and apparently oblivious to the roaring heat, Whitelock turned. With the light behind him, shadows grew long over the angular lines of his aristocratic face. He kept his attention on the footman until the door closed with a succinct click. Then his dark gaze shifted to Lucan.

  “I will not insult you by pretending an interest in becoming acquainted,” Whitelock said. “After your episode in the magistrate’s office, you can easily discern why I would choose to meet in private.”

  Lucan shook his head. “Not entirely. The reason for this meeting eludes me. However, I understand that a man with your spotless reputation cannot afford the taint of association with someone like me.”

  Whitelock’s mouth curved in a smug grin. “I assure you, it is more so a matter of preference and not a matter of what I can afford.”

  True enough. After a prudent marriage, the man was richer than Midas. But Lucan was in no humor to continue the mystery of Whitelock’s request or to grant patience this evening. “My friends are waiting for me. They will wonder where I have gone—”

  “Quite right. There isn’t much time, especially for Hugh Thorne.” Whitelock paused long enough to gain Lucan’s undivided attention. “Which brings me to my purpose. If you truly believe in Thorne’s innocence, then perhaps there is a way I could assist you in gaining his freedom.”

  Lucan was not easily surprised. After the life he’d led, he was always prepared for the worst, but not this. Still, an ingrained sense of doubt prevailed. He’d been taught to figure out the trick of any game he ever played. “If that is true, then why not go directly to Thorne with your assistance?”

  “I don’t know Thorne,” Whitelock said, matter-of-fact.

  “You don’t know me either.”

  “A mutual acquaintance alerted me to your plight. Instinct tells me that you would not allow an innocent to fall to his death.” The viscount straightened the seam of his glove in a bored fashion, as if a man’s life weren’t hanging in the balance. “The question is . . . do you believe in his innocence?”

  “Without a doubt.” Thorne’s innocence was the only thing Lucan was certain of at the moment. He still wasn’t sure how to read Whitelock. The man shifted in and out of appearing either a
rrogantly benevolent or arrogantly manipulative. From what Lucan knew through rumor, most people were inclined to believe the former.

  “Then our agreement will be a simple one. The evidence that Camdonbury provided to the magistrate will be”—Whitelock pursed his lips—“misplaced. Therefore, without any more than an accusation from Camdonbury, a man who’d been charged with the same crime, it is unlikely that Thorne will be sentenced to hang. Although, the crown still takes theft of currency seriously. Therefore, he will be sent to debtors’ prison for the sum of the coining offense, which I understand is ten thousand pounds.”

  Lucan nodded. He’d learned as much at the magistrate’s office.

  “Assuming that your current financial state is not entirely flush,” Whitelock continued, “I am offering to loan you the sum, to pay on Thorne’s behalf.”

  A loan of ten thousand pounds? Lucan suspected he had finally learned the rub. “To be repaid in how much time?”

  Whitelock’s grin returned. “Such an amount is not easy to come by, even when one has familial connections. I suppose a gambler with your particular skill would need—hmm—three years.”

  Three years? Lucan refused to react to the insult. He’d earned and lost ten thousand pounds on a single hand before. He certainly wouldn’t require three years.

  “And if I fall short?” Lucan asked. Even though he knew he wouldn’t fail, it was important to have their agreement laid out in concise terms.

  “Then the evidence against Hugh Thorne will resurface,” Whitelock remarked, seemingly forgetting one important fact: Thorne could not be tried again for the same crime. Then, as if reading Lucan’s mind, he added, “If you are thinking of ne bis in idem, allow me to assure you that I’m certain the magistrate’s charges against Thorne could be cleverly worded, and in the event of the reappearance of the evidence, he will be charged with treason, found guilty, and then hanged.”

  The viscount’s craftiness sent a rush of unease through Lucan. “How will you accomplish misplacing whatever documents Camdonbury supplied?”

  “That is not your concern. All I need from you is your answer.”