Into The Hall Of Vice

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_afbfcfc2-581a-50d8-893d-ce7010d7368c)

Cole Hewitt eased lower on the velvet-backed bonnet chair and angled his hips a fraction to the right. Circumstances were glorious at the moment, not at all like the reality of his lacklustre existence. Especially here in a quality establishment like Lady Eliza’s House of Pleasure. Granted, Eliza was no more a lady than Cole was an earl, but the pleasure part couldn’t be truer.

And that was why brothels existed, wasn’t it? To help men ignore the harsh truisms of daily living until forced to bear the brunt of their decisions. Although harsh wasn’t the correct word. As one of the proprietors of an exclusive London gaming hell, he’d established wealth and respect at the early age of twenty-four. Along the way, he’d obtained a fine apartment, purchased several superior thoroughbreds, and honed his pistol skill to crack shot at no less than thirty paces, all within three years.

Nevertheless, outward appearance and inward turmoil were at odds every day of the week. It was as though several different personalities lived within him, all embroiled in argument.

A delicious tremor of pleasure overrode his introspective considerations. He glanced down to where a silky auburn tress traced across his thigh. Threading his fingers in the length, he brushed it away and a groan escaped upon her deliberate downward stroke.

He was a son of a bitch, bastard by-blow, born on the wrong side of the blanket and comfortable with life among the jackals, card sharks, and common folk who composed his closest kin. Still he remained balanced on the fine line between bastardry and the realm, nimbly positioned on the cutting blade of a dagger, aware of unsavoury alliances, weaknesses of the peerage, and the unexpected damage that could be done if he did not tread with care. He asked little of life, his expectations few; he had long ago abandoned the notion that the normal privileges due respectable gentlemen were within reach. Family, love, loyalty; they existed for other men.

Life was all about perception anyway, wasn’t it? People saw what they wished to see, hardly sparing the time to look closely before passing judgement; never realising things are often not how they appear.

He quirked a half-smile and settled his gaze on the eager-to-please miss below. Things were exactly how they appeared at present. Allowing his eyes to fall closed, he surrendered to sensation, annoyed with his wandering stream of idle thought. Since when had he become so jaded as to not enjoy a good bobbin’ on his nobbin? His cock twitched, demanding well-deserved attention to the ambitious activity in his lap. He let every niggling protest and doubt fade away until he shut out finer emotion. Now was not a time for introspective examination.

Lady Gemma Amberson, sister to the Duke of Kent and impatient guest, displayed her lead at the Loo table during the Bardsleys’ Friday evening card party. It was one of the few weekly gatherings her brother, Hugh, permitted without question and, although playing Loo was not high on her list of desirable social distractions, she would never eschew the opportunity to escape Stratton House. Life within suffocated her spirit. An immediate frown threatened at the thought of Rosalind, her younger sister, but she dashed it away for the sake of appearances.

Gathering the chips at the centre, she caught the notice of Lord Winton across the table, one of the five regular players in attendance. His relationship with her deceased father was older than a decade, though Winton was years younger. He was a sly scoundrel and far too handsome gentleman who often accidentally brushed his boot against her slipper or nudged her elbow as he dealt cards, the strength of his forearm pressing against her satin glove belying his claim of clumsiness.

Her brother would be overjoyed were she to accept Winton’s suit and begin a formal courtship, despite his being several years older than she. Title excused the man’s advanced experience and he was a viscount, after all. It was no secret Kent would celebrate with great relief at foisting her off to become another gentleman’s headache. Her future distracted from his primary focus of legal issues and Parliamentary concerns. She wondered at the rigorous investigation any suitor would endure in order to meet her brother’s high expectations, but consideration was all for naught. Courtships were the last thing on her mind, and if her dear brother had any inkling as to why she tortured herself by playing Loo and perpetuating congenial conversation with the assortment of guests attending each Friday, he’d likely suffer an apoplexy.

Accepting the next card in the circulating deal, she flashed a brief smile left to Lady Sophie Daventry, a skilful Loo player and kind friend seated at the next table. Though they rarely paid call to each other, their paths often crossed in social circles and Gemma considered her one of the more sensible females who frequented the Bardsleys’ ensemble. She also believed Sophie hid a personal agenda much like her own. Someone who possessed refined features, silver-blonde hair and pale-blue eyes couldn’t possibly wish to spend evenings in a stuffy salon of fifteen guests and poorly prepared rout-cakes. Catching Gemma’s perusal, Sophie returned her kind regard.

It was a guarded secret, communicated through furtive glances and clandestine whispers, that the Bardsleys’ weekly card party offered a bounteous opportunity to filter through the most current gossip, as well as provide a chance where one might introduce well-rehearsed questions in an effort to ferret out information a person hoped to uncover. Gemma clung to this societal myth and suspected Sophie did the same.

‘And there you have it.’ Winton laid his card on the table face up. ‘The Ace of Trumps.’

Two players at the table immediately tossed in their hands, unwilling to risk the loss of chips, while Lord Goddard, a fubsy elderly gentleman who complained more than contributed, debated his next move. Gemma held with confidence. Goddard eventually exchanged his card and then, disenchanted with the result, folded straight after. Winton offered her a stare that spoke more of dark secrets in bedchambers than victory at the Loo table.

‘Good play, Lord Winton.’ She toyed with her card, unwilling to reveal the face as of yet and more than a little uncomfortable with Winton’s direct attention. She tolerated his company in respect to her father’s association only.

‘Haven’t I told you countless times to regard me as James? We join together every Friday night…’

Lady Bendolin’s sharp intake of breath caused Gemma’s eyes to flare more than Winton’s intentional inflection and pause. The other gentlemen at the table stifled their amusement.

‘To share cards and polite conversation. I would think, after weeks of routine, we’ve gained familiarity.’ Winton smiled. If ever there was a Cheshire grin, this man owned it.

‘Milord, you’ve shocked Lady Bendolin with the suggestion I address you by your Christian name.’ Hardly. ‘Perhaps this discussion is better served another time.’ She presented her card, the Queen of Hearts, and collected three more chips.

‘Exactly.’ Winton stood unexpectedly. ‘I’m for a breath of fresh air. Lady Amberson, would you spare me a moment?’

Startled, for his invitation was impetuous, Gemma gathered her winnings from the ivory damask tablecloth to deposit neatly inside her reticule. ‘Nary beyond a moment, milord. I’m on a winning streak.’

‘I will endeavour to abide by your rules if for once you will address me as James.’

‘Good heavens, he’s persistent,’ Lady Bendolin grumbled in an undertone, the older woman visibly affronted. ‘You best go with him so we can resume the game upon your return.’ She gestured in the general direction of the hallway. ‘I feel parched. Where is the footman with refreshments?’

Gemma stood and hurried around the table to accept Winton’s elbow and follow him onto the terrace towards the rear gardens. He did not pause until they’d travelled a good distance over the slates, away from the house, where any shared conversation would not be overheard. She glanced to her right, aware he’d also advanced sufficient distance so any objection would go unnoticed.

A few paces from where she’d stopped, Winton stood with his eyes on the inky sky. Outlined in moonlight, his profile depicted an attractive gentleman, but what did she truly know of his character? The extent of his past history with her father was unknown to her. Winton turned then, as if he’d caught her observation and divined her guarded scepticism.

‘Why are you here, lovely Gemma?’ His voice dropped low and silky with the question.

Did he speak in the broader sense or did he refer to their present situation? She could not know. ‘I did not give you leave to use my given name.’ She achieved a tart tone.

‘Let’s not bother with the inconvenient rules of polite society when we are here in the garden, just the two of us. His Grace isn’t present to disapprove.’

‘I don’t give a fig about my brother’s opinion.’ She took a step closer. Perhaps she could read Winton better if she looked him straight in the eye. She wasn’t afraid to do so. What could he possibly want?

‘Silly girl, of course you do. He’s a duke, the most distinguished and highest-ranking peer in England aside from the Prince Regent, and my reach does not extend to Prinny. Besides, most convenient of all, Kent is your older brother and in charge now.’

Winton chuckled in a dismissive masculine manner that caused her fingers to curl into fists. She swallowed against immediate emotion, her father gone only two years and her heart still tender from the unexpected tragedy.

‘This leads me to my original question of your faithful attendance here at this mind-numbing, stodgy little card party, when you surely possess more spirit. What motivates you to return week after week when you could be dancing at a soiree or blushing in a ballroom corner with an attentive suitor? You are a diamond of the first water, a rare bloom for some fortunate gentleman to pluck.’

Her heart pounded with a beat of panic as he stepped closer. She had no desire to be plucked. At least not at the moment, and never would it be Lord Winton who accomplished the plucking. ‘I could ask you the same.’

‘I’m flattered by your high opinion.’

She wrinkled her nose at his vainglorious misinterpretation but remained silent. Only two paces separated them now. He searched her expression and she purposely kept it bland. The stone wall at his back had an unlatched wrought-iron gate where she could escape if need be, but she doubted Winton would exercise poor judgement. By his own admission, her brother was a powerful man and she knew Winton curried his favour.

‘I wonder, lovely Gemma,’ he gentled his tone and advanced a step, ‘if His Grace would be interested to learn you attend this gathering to ferret out information concerning your father’s untimely death.’

Caught by surprise, she inhaled a sharp breath, though she recovered soon after. ‘Nonsense, and I take offence at the mention of my dear father’s passing.’ Her voice quivered with emotion.

‘Come now. You don’t believe me obtuse.’ He shook his head in the negative. ‘I’ve overheard your discreet enquiries and noticed several endearing attempts to steer conversation in an interesting, though particular, direction. I only mention it so I may be of service.’

He offered her a half-smile that brought to mind a wolf who invited the sheep to join him for dinner. Something was amiss. Had Winton watched her weekly? Every word, each suggestion? Whenever she’d grown uncomfortable with the weight of his stare, she’d assumed it was his lascivious nature and nothing more. How much did he know and could he be trusted? Desperate for any scrap of information, there could be something learned if she heard him out, but would he in turn report her activity to Kent? Above all things, her brother could never know the true reason she attended Loo like it was religion class. He’d already caged her in under the guise of protection. What horrid Fate would life become if Kent lost trust in her altogether?