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H aving carefully selected the brothel he’d use for the task at hand, Taylor waited in anticipation of Aderlay’s and Chapman’s arrival. This would not be the first time he put a man in an awkward position, but he reckoned it might be the most enjoyable.

Violetta Spillane, the high-end bawd he’d hired to run this particular establishment, showed him to the room he’d requested. It wasn’t especially large – none of the rooms were – but the exquisite four-poster bed covered in red silk sheets was impressive.

Most importantly, it was perfectly suited to an upper-class scoundrel.

A wicked grin pulled at Taylor’s lips as he studied the space. “This will serve our purpose well, my dear.”

He met Violetta’s sultry gaze – knew better than to fall for the invitation he saw there. Not because he didn’t want her. Hell, she was a beautiful woman. But he didn’t have time for her games today.

So he broke eye-contact with her and asked, “Are your girls ready?”

“They are.” Soft words. Sensually spoken. He resisted the impulse to glance at her until she said, “I’m trusting you, Taylor. Promise me this won’t go wrong.”

The worry filling her eyes did not look feigned. It called to some foolish part of him that could not deny her. Two steps and he’d reached her, his palm finding the warmth of her cheek and offering comfort. “All will be well. I assure you.”

She held his gaze for one second longer before turning away and stepping past him, leaving him as she always did when she’d gotten whatever she wanted. “In that case I’ll see to the last preparations.”

He returned downstairs to the main foyer – the part of the brothel that stood apart from the secret stairwell in the back and the hidden doors leading off to private hallways. Elements intended to keep important clients and their secrets safe. The very reason why they chose to come here. A vital feature that might be forever ruined if he wasn’t careful.

But with Croft making demands, he had no other recourse. That was how it was when the King of Portman Square called in a favor. When you owed him, there was little choice but to pay the price.

So the women who usually filled this space had been asked to remain upstairs for the evening, and a “closed” sign had been temporarily hung by the entrance.

It was just after eight by the time Aderlay’s knock sounded. He stepped through the brothel’s front door as soon as Taylor unlocked it, struggling against the weight of the man Chapman helped him maneuver.

The Marquess of Avernail groaned.

He’d lost his hat, allowing bits of reddish hair to stick out in various directions. An unkempt appearance, reminiscent of someone who’d been in a scuffle.

“Did you club him over the head?” Taylor asked, stepping in to lend support when it looked like the marquess’s legs might give out.

“More or less,” Aderlay grunted. “It was either that or shoot him.”

“At least he’s able to stand now,” Chapman said. “He was dead weight an hour ago when we had to get him into the carriage.”

“And he’s just regaining consciousness now?” Taylor reached around Chapman and slammed the door shut, then locked it.

“Nah.” Chapman shoved his shoulder beneath the marquess’s arm and widened his stance. “He’s three sheets to the wind at the moment. Had to restrain him almost at once. Aderlay held him in place while I poured a bottle of brandy down his throat.”

“A challenge, that’s for sure,” Aderlay said. “The man is built like an ox. We could have used some of your strength.”

“Whe…” Avernail slurred as he swayed forward onto his toes. “Where’s the women?”

Taylor grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him backward before he could fall on his face, using both hands to help prop him up. “We’ve got to get him upstairs.”

“Is that—” Avernail tilted sideways, and Chapman caught him. “—where they are?”

“Absolutely,” Chapman assured him.

Aderlay met Taylor’s gaze and muttered, “We promised him the prettiest whores available in London.”

“Then we’d best not disappoint,” Taylor said with a grin.

* * *

“Can we go now?” Chapman asked once they’d managed to bring Avernail to the room Violetta had readied. He’d fallen onto the bed and had not uttered a single word since.

“Witnesses will be required,” Taylor reminded him.

Aderlay groaned. “I’d rather not be a part of this.”

“Chapman and I feel the same way, I assure you, but we gave Croft our word that what happens here next will enable him to manage the marquess however he pleases.” He glanced at both men. “Are either of you willing to disappoint him?”

“Not I,” said Chapman.

Aderlay dipped his chin, his expression cross. “Me neither.”

“In that case, I’ll let Violetta know we’re ready.”

The bawd, who’d selected two girls to assist, accompanied Taylor back to the room. Chapman and Aderlay stared, their gazes devouring the three women as though they’d never encountered such tantalizing creatures before.

To be fair, Violetta and her girls, whom she introduced as Amelie and Dominique, were particularly fine specimens. No older than thirty, with long unbound hair cascading down their backs, their lush bodies barely concealed beneath gauzy chemises, they sashayed about with a very deliberate aim to entice.

“Bloody hell,” Chapman muttered when Amelia climbed onto the bed. “It’s really not fair that he gets all their attention.”

“With three men also present?” Taylor snorted. “I’m glad I’m not in his position.”

They watched as the women worked to undress the marquess, ready to step in if he gave them trouble. But the opium smoke one of them breathed into his mouth ensured that Avernail never protested their efforts. Not even when Dominique turned him so she could pull off his jacket. Just a sluggish question, pacified by Violetta’s kiss and Amelie’s touch.

The rest of the marquess’s clothes were removed, bundled, and given to Taylor. Satisfied Avernail wouldn’t be interfering in Croft’s plans this evening, he left the room with his associates and prepared to keep watch in front of the door.

* * *

Lee arrived at Number 11 Bruton Place and introduced himself to the butler. “Mr. Frank Monroe, architect specializing in gardens. Lady Carver stopped by my office last week. At the time, I was too busy to accommodate her, but my schedule has since opened up.” He produced a card with the fraudulent name and job description. “If you could please let her know I am here, I’d appreciate it.”

The butler considered the card briefly, then told Lee, “I’m afraid her ladyship has gone out.”

“How unfortunate.” Lee mulled the news over. He’d have to pivot, which hopefully wouldn’t be too great a problem. He made a show of looking put-out, then brightened his expression as though he’d just had a grand idea. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where to find her?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the butler.

“Hmm… Ah well.” He turned and the door began closing. As though by afterthought, he suddenly added, “You probably ought not inform her that I was here then.”

“Why not?” Apprehension sounded. The door was reopened.

“Because of the waiting list I keep. Lady Carver was at the top, which is why I came here first, but if she can’t be reached, I’m honor bound to call on the others.” A quick smile as he doffed his hat. “I wish you a good day, sir.”

“I…um…” The butler waited until Lee had stepped back onto the pavement before quickly saying, “I believe her to be at the National Gallery. You can look for her there.”

Lee thanked the man and set off. A smile played on his lips. All he had to do now was inform Burton that they were good to go then find the lady in question.

* * *

Henry Alington, Viscount Carver, didn't hesitate when he learned that his wife and daughter, the very essence of his existence, were being held for ransom.

Come alone , the note he'd received read. Bring two hundred pounds .

The money, he'd gladly hand over. Anything to ensure Margaret’s and Annabelle’s safe return. But he wasn't fool enough to go without accompaniment.

“Have you any idea when or how they were taken?” inquired his brother, Daniel, a lieutenant who'd fought under Wellington’s command.

“None.” Having hastily gathered a few supplies – money and pistols included – they headed toward the mews. “All I know is that they left the house at two and haven't been heard from since.”

“At least the men who took them demanded a ransom.” Henry shot a quick look at Daniel, who added, “That increases your chance of getting them back alive.”

“My intention, exactly.” He'd make the exchange, then kill the bastards who'd dared to take them.

They located their horses and headed north toward the place where Margaret and Annabelle were being held. Guided by rage and worry, Henry pressed his horse onward and raced toward their destination.

It took several hours to reach the farmhouse they’d been directed toward, the horses sweating from overexertion. Henry knew they’d pressed them too hard and that they would need a long rest before making the homeward journey. It didn’t matter, as long as Margaret and Annabelle were recovered safely.

Chickens strutting about near the front of the building scattered before the approaching horses, their clucks and squawks agitating the air. Sheep grazing in a fenced-off field started to bray, and a cat resting on a spot of grass stirred as if watching to see what might happen next.

Henry swung from his mount, his feet hitting the ground with a thud.

“This doesn’t look like the sort of place a kidnapper would escape to,” Daniel remarked, accepting the reins Henry handed to him. “It’s too idyllic and looks to be doing well. Are you certain we’re in the right spot?”

“There’s no mistaking it,” Henry said, denying the smidgen of doubt he too experienced. “The building is located exactly as described in the note.”

“Hmm…” Daniel’s skepticism was clear. He glanced around, appeared ready to make an additional comment when an older man rounded the barn, a shovel slung over his shoulder.

Henry instantly drew his pistol. “Where are they?”

“Henry…” Caution tinged Daniel’s voice.

The older man, who’d frozen as soon as he’d seen them, stared at the pistol, eyes wide. “Who…who are ye seekin’?”

“You know damn well,” Henry told him, his jaw going rigid with anger. He tightened his grip on the pistol, every pulse of his heartbeat drawing his breath so tight his lungs started to ache. “What have you done with my wife and daughter.”

The older man shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do,” Henry growled, his feet already crossing the ground, his free hand forming a fist that he meant to use with a vengeance.

“Henry.” Daniel’s voice warned with added firmness. “Don’t lose your head.”

Heedless of his brother’s words Henry continued toward his opponent until they stood toe to toe. “I’m going to search your barn and your house top to bottom.”

“O…of course.” The man nodded vigorously.

“And if either one of the women I seek is somewhere inside… If you’ve harmed them in any way, I’ll hang you from the rafters until you choke.”

“I swear, I’m just a…a farmer.”

“Have a care, Henry.” Again, Daniel’s words were measured. Sterner than usual. Yet the rage and fear burning through Henry was hard to ignore. It blinded him. Made him want to smash everything to pieces until he found his family.

The weight of Daniel’s hand on his shoulder pulled him back a little, just enough to stay him and make him capable of some rational thought. If only for a moment.

He blinked, studied the man before him, the genuine fear that showed on his face. The obvious confusion.

Henry took a deep breath to ground himself further, to force any lingering irrationality to retreat. Daniel was right to stop him from doing something stupid. This man didn’t look like he’d be able to harm a fly, never mind a couple of women. “What’s your name?”

“M…Mr. Walter Nevan.”

Nevan swallowed, the dread in his eyes reminding Henry that he still pointed his pistol at him. He pocketed the weapon, relaxed his shoulders, and took a step back. “I hope you can forgive me for drawing my weapon on you. My name is Henry Alington, Viscount Carver. This is my brother, Mr. Daniel Alington. We’ve come because of a ransom note.”

Mr. Nevan shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry, my lord, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Henry pulled the note from his pocket and showed it to Mr. Nevan, who squinted at the script. “These directions could not have brought us anywhere else, could they?”

Perhaps they’d missed a turn.

It took longer than it should have for Mr. Nevan to puzzle his way through the information the note provided. Henry was about to suggest reading it to him when Mr. Nevan gave his head another shake. “No. These directions do lead directly here. But I didn’t write this.”

“Do you have someone else in residence who could have done so?”

“I’ve a wife and two sons, all working full-time these days to bring in the last of the crop and prepare for the winter.” Mr. Nevan handed the note back to Henry. “None of us have ever set foot in London. I’m sorry, my lord, but I fear you may have been sent on a fruitless journey. If you’d like to conduct a search of my place, just to be sure, you’re more than welcome.”

Henry didn’t hesitate. He strode for the barn first, then made his way to the house when he failed to find what he sought. It didn’t take long for him to discover what instinct already told him. Neither his wife nor daughter were at this location.

Henry exited the house and approached the spot where Daniel waited. A quick shake of his head conveyed his findings. “I don’t know what to think or do. Does this mean Margaret and Anabelle might be safe back in London? Or that they’ve been taken somewhere else, and this was a ploy to keep me from the right trail?”

“I’ve no idea,” Daniel said, gravity pulling his features taut. “There’s no way for us to know before we return home.”

Which would not be possible until the horses were sufficiently rested and ready to make the journey. Jaw set, he told his brother darkly. “If I ever discover who was behind this, I’ll make sure they live out the rest of their days in the darkest hole Newgate has to offer.”

* * *

Devlin St. Croix, Duke of Eldridge, considered the man who’d wormed his way into his home. Duke of Bergensie, was the title the charlatan had provided Devlin’s butler. He’d since admitted to being called Benedict Ellis, though Devlin would not be surprised if this too was an alias.

However, the information he’d come to impart, proof that corruption had taken root at the core of the legal system, was certainly of interest. Because of this, Devlin was keen to hear him out, even if doing so meant excusing himself from the ball he was presently hosting.

He swirled his brandy, watched as Ellis sipped his, then gentled his movements in order to say, “You mentioned a plan to undo the judicial system’s machinations.”

Devlin had no illusions regarding Croft. He was sure the man had been party to his fair share of illegal activities. The authorities probably had every right to view him as a pest. But bending the law in order to be rid of the man was not to be borne.

It was, in his opinion, outrageous. A blight on British integrity.

“Benjamin Lawrence’s butler has agreed to step forward with information that puts his former master’s paralysis into question.” Ellis set his glass aside and folded his fingers in his lap. “There’s also a coachman who can testify to Mr. Lawrence’s using his legs to get in and out of his carriage. Mr. Abernathy, the editor in chief of The Morning Post , is putting all of this in writing as we speak. His article will appear in tomorrow’s edition. But since Croft was of the opinion that you might be in need of it sooner to add pressure in the right places, I have procured this draft for you.”

Devlin took the papers Ellis produced and gave them a quick once-over. He looked at the man who sat before him, not the least bit surprised by the sly smile curling his lips. If Abernathy did indeed choose to print this, public outrage would follow as faith in the judicial system evaporated. Protestors would fill the streets. The climate would become ripe for civil unrest.

He dropped his gaze to the amber liquid inside his glass and frowned. This could become a political disaster. A monarchial one, too, according to what he’d just read. Consequently, it had to be stopped.

Meeting Ellis’s gleaming gaze, Devlin told him, “The Prince Regent must be given the chance to respond to these accusations.”

“I believe Croft was hoping you’d see it that way and that you would try to convince him to do what’s required.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out Croft’s motive. “Considering his efforts, I assume Croft means to obtain a royal pardon.”

Ellis inclined his head. “He wants to be restored to his rightful position.”

Devlin scoffed. This was blackmail on a whole different level. “Let’s not pretend he did nothing wrong. Whether in self-defense or not, he killed a marquess’s son.”

“A man who lied to the world so he could avoid being charged with murder.”

Undoubtedly, Benjamin Lawrence had been a crazed bastard. A point worth reminding Prinny of, if indeed he did meet with him. “I can make no promises. Avernail and Carver have the Prince Regent’s ear at the moment. They’ll—”

“You need not concern yourself about them, Duke.” Ellis crossed one leg over the other, settling farther into his seat. “Avernail is enjoying an opium induced state as we speak while Carver is chasing after his wife and daughter somewhere near Chelmsford. Relax. Both ladies are safe and sound at home, no doubt wondering where his lordship has disappeared to. Given the distance, I doubt he will return until tomorrow. After His Royal Highness’s announcement has been printed.”

Devlin stared across at Ellis as the scope of Croft’s plan became clear. He was leaving only one reasonable option available to the prince. Apologize. Condemn what had occurred. Name those involved. And promise that they would be dealt with. It was the only way for him to avoid blame from falling upon his own shoulders.

“Maybe you should take another peer with you,” Ellis suggested. “Wrengate or Moorland, for example? If you stand together on this, Prinny will surely act according to Croft’s wishes.”

Eldridge wasn’t sure Wrengate would make a good choice. Moorland was far more reasonable – easier to sway with logic – and thus a much better option. Provided Devlin could convince him to lend his support. “And if I refuse?”

Ellis pushed himself out of his chair and stood. He straightened his jacket. Sharp eyes met Devlin’s. “You’re smart enough to have already worked out the consequence of not doing so.” A short bow followed. “It’s been a pleasure, Your Grace.”

Devlin did not echo the sentiment. Hell, he’d be glad if he never encountered as much as Ellis’s shadow ever again. But the man had made a valid point. So Devlin prepared himself for the task at hand and went to find Moorland, who was waltzing with his wife when Devlin returned to the ballroom.

Devlin pulled him aside as soon as the dance had ended and lead him to a parlor where they could speak in private.

“I have to say, I didn’t like the way the proceedings in Croft’s case played out,” the duke said once Devlin had finished relaying the details of what he hoped to accomplish with his added help. “For starters, he should have been tried at the Old Bailey. Ordinarily, the process would have taken numerous weeks to complete. The way in which he was rushed to the gallows was highly suspicious. And after what you’ve just told me, there’s no doubt in my mind that what happened was wrong. That kind of corruption needs to be rooted out. It simply must not occur.”

“Does that mean you will accompany me to Carlton House?”

“Absolutely. Allow me a moment to tell my wife that I’ve urgent business to attend to.”

They set off soon after, travelling the short distance from Number 11 Saint James’s Square to Pall Mall without issue. It took no more than ten minutes for them to arrive. Another five before they faced the butler. Devlin stated their business, taking care to underscore the urgency, even though Prinny would see them solely because of their rank.

What he did not count on, however, was the butler’s response. “Unfortunately, His Royal Highness departed for Bath yesterday morning. He’s not due back for the next month.”

Devlin stared at the man. He didn’t bother asking why the hell anyone might want to visit the seaside during September.

All he knew was that the Prince Regent could not be reached in time and that the plan Croft had devised would not work.