Page 1 of Seduced by a Scoundrel (Tales from the Brotherhood #1)
One
LONDON – MARCH, 1837
A t the young age of seven-and-twenty, Jeremy Wilkes was already one of the most celebrated tailors of the ton . His shop on Jermyn Street was a constant hive of activity as some of the finest gentlemen and wealthiest industrialists of London and beyond came to Jeremy for the latest in sartorial elegance.
Jeremy had his favorite clientele, though.
“It’s terribly exciting to see the growth that Cecil and Austin, that is, Lord Thurleigh and Mr. Haythorne, have brought about for The Chameleon Club,” Ellis Copeland, the Marquess of Wilmore, commented as Jeremy worked to fit the waistcoat he was constructing for the man. He had pins in his mouth and a bit of chalk in his hand, so he wasn’t able to reply before Wilmore continued with, “But, of course, that was what Uncle George wanted. The Chameleon Club and The Brotherhood are his legacy to us, to our kind.”
Wilmore grinned at Jeremy, as though he was happy to be in a place that was safe enough for two men to talk openly about things that might end with them jailed and hanged if they spoke in such a way out in the street.
Jeremy blushed at the thought of George, the previous Marquess of Wilmore. He placed the last pin from his mouth into the fabric of the waistcoat and said, “Your uncle was a great man and well ahead of his time.”
Wilmore laughed. “You have no need to tell me. I learned more about Uncle George’s unique tastes and his generosity at the party at Swanmore Glen, nearly two years ago now, than I ever thought I’d learn.”
Jeremy smiled, but he didn’t have anything to say about the now legendary summer house party. The late Marquess of Wilmore had been a rake and a rogue who had left an entire field of former lovers, some of them among the wealthiest and most highly placed men of the ton , behind. The party he’d bade the current Lord Wilmore to host in his honor was now the stuff of myth and gossip among the members of the newly formed Brotherhood.
Jeremy was not quite important enough nor close enough with the late Lord Wilmore to have been invited. At least, he had not been back then. He’d been well-respected and enjoyed the patronage of a great many of the men who had attended, however. He’d even been the late Lord Wilmore’s tailor during the last years of his life. Jeremy and the late Lord Wilmore had enjoyed countless conversations over silk and linen as Jeremy had dressed him for every possible occasion.
To be honest, Jeremy also suspected the late Lord Wilmore had had something to do with the rise of his business from a humble room attached to another shop to the splendid premises on Jermyn Street that he enjoyed now. Jeremy had known of the late Lord Wilmore’s proclivities, and while the old man had flirted shamelessly with him while Jeremy went about his work, he’d never been seduced by the older man, like many a bright-eyed and eager young man who shared his tendencies had.
Even without a more sinful connection, good fortune had begun to come Jeremy’s way after the first few additions to the late marquess’s wardrobe that he’d constructed. As someone who had been born into a tailoring family, who had learned to sew before he’d learned to walk, and who had been apprenticed to a Saville Row tailor from an early age, the inevitability of Jeremy’s future had never been in question. But it was George who had made all of Jeremy’s ambitions come to fruition at a far younger age than he might have been before finding success.
“You should join us again at The Chameleon Club,” Lord Wilmore went on as Jeremy finished marking the alterations he needed to make to the waistcoat, then moved behind the man to help him out of it. “You were there for the inaugural celebration. I remember seeing you in conversation with Detective Talboys.”
Jeremy’s face flushed so hot that he was grateful for the ability to turn away for a moment to take the waistcoat aside. He had been conversing with Det. Talboys. He’d been completely mesmerized by the man’s rough and rugged form, his easy smile, and his overtly sensual ways. Despite the fact that Talboys was a man of the law, Jeremy had felt like he was in grave danger just being in the man’s presence.
Not danger of being assaulted or harmed in any way, which was a constant worry for a man of his age and admittedly too soft appearance. No, Derrek Talboys had made him fear for his moral and emotional safety.
“There is to be another ball in a fortnight,” Wilmore continued as he stepped down from the platform where he’d been standing while Jeremy took his measurements and made his marks. “You should join us.”
“I’m hardly worthy of attending a ball at a prestigious club,” Jeremy replied, stepping back to help Wilmore with his jacket.
“Oh, but that is the brilliance of The Chameleon Club,” Wilmore said, full of enthusiasm. “Membership is not based upon class or wealth. In fact, the very point is to have members of all classes and professions. The only requirement is that you are a man who loves?—”
Wilmore stopped abruptly and cleared his throat as one of the young men Jeremy employed as a runner and lad of all work stepped back into the shop from the chilly morning street.
“Morning, my lord,” Artie said, touching the brim of his cap with an awkward half bow. “Lord Braintree’s suit has been delivered, sir,” he said to Jeremy.
“Lovely. Thank you, Artie,” Jeremy replied with a smile, then went on with, “Would you mind helping Timothy in the back with Mr. Naman’s order? The man was insistent on everything being done before Saturday.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Artie said, unwinding his muffler and shrugging out of his jacket as he headed into the back part of the shop, which was three times as large as the public front room where Jeremy met with and measured his clients.
Once Artie disappeared behind the curtain, Jeremy turned to Wilmore with an apologetic smile. “You’ve no need to worry, my lord,” he said. “My staff is discreet. To be honest, if what you say about The Brotherhood admitting men of all social classes and positions is true, they would all be eligible to join you.”
A slow smile spread over Wilmore’s face and he nodded. “Clever,” he said. “More than clever. That sort of solidarity is precisely the sort of thing Uncle George wanted to see from all of us. We have to stick together, you know. Times and opinions are changing, but not a one of us is out of the woods yet, regardless of our social standing.”
“Quite true, my lord,” Jeremy nodded.
Wilmore finished fastening his jacket and reached for his hat and gloves where they’d been left on the side. “Say, would you like to join me for luncheon at The Chameleon Club? My better half, Lord Fulbright, will be there,” he said.
A swell of good feeling for having a man like Lord Wilmore seek to include him warmed Jeremy. “Would that I could,” he said, “but I have an engagement with a particularly demanding client in just an hour’s time. He is not the sort of man to be put off or kept waiting.”
“Ooh! Sounds intriguing,” Lord Wilmore said with a bright smile.
“Perhaps,” Jeremy said with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. In fact, the client he needed to set out to see was one of the most prominent and fickle clients he’d ever had. Being of service to the man was as much a gamble as anything he’d ever done, because Sir John Conroy could most definitely make him or break him.
“Next time,” Wilmore said, putting on his hat and heading for the door. “And do think about joining us at The Chameleon Club and officially applying for membership in The Brotherhood. We would very much like to have you.”
“You are too kind, my lord,” Jeremy said as he walked the man to the door. “And I do believe I will take you up on the offer when I have the chance.”
They said their goodbyes, and once Wilmore was gone, Jeremy rushed back into the heart of his shop to gather the things he would need for the call he was about to pay.
“Why are you going to this Mr. Conroy instead of having him come here?” Timothy asked as Jeremy rushed around, gathering supplies as the young men who worked for him sewed away.
“Not ‘Mr.’ Conroy,” Artie corrected Timothy, “Sir John Conroy. He’s a particular friend of the Duchess of Kent.”
“And who’s she when she’s at home?” Timothy asked.
Artie sputtered and huffed incredulously. “Do you know nothing? She’s the mother of Princess Victoria, the heir to the throne. If you listen to the gossip, which I don’t generally,” Artie added, sending Jeremy a look as if he wasn’t sure whether Jeremy would approve of his staff gossiping, “the Duchess and Sir John want to set up a regency to rule in Princess Victoria’s place, should our good King William die before she comes of age.”
“Oh,” Timothy said as Jeremy shrugged into his coat and took up his tailoring bag. “And the king’s deathly ill, ain’t he?”
“Isn’t he,” Jeremy corrected the lad, even though he didn’t mind if Timothy maintained his low-born ways. He wouldn’t get far in the tailoring world if he didn’t lose his base accent and learn to speak like a gentleman, though. “I’m off,” he told the boys. “I should return by this evening.”
“Yes, Mr. Wilkes,” the two of them answered almost in unison.
Jeremy sent them a parting smile—he really was pleased with his staff, although he would need to hire another skilled tailor if things continued the way they had been—and set out to make his appointment with Sir John.
When the request to consult with Sir John Conroy about expanding his wardrobe and adding a few quality pieces for state events and such had been issued, Jeremy had been incredibly flattered. On the face of things, Sir John wasn’t any better than half the men Jeremy counted among his clientele. But the connection to the crown, though vague, was undeniable.
That was reflected in the note that had arrived at the shop first thing that morning asking Jeremy to meet with Sir John at Kensington Palace instead of at Sir John’s residence. Jeremy had been asked to attend a few members of the nobility for consultations and measurements at more than a few of the grandest houses in London, but he’d never been asked to meet with someone at a palace.
Of course, getting into the palace was more of a chore than it should have been. The Kensington Palace staff were rigid in their rules and protocols. Even though Jeremy arrived at the back and was seen in through the kitchen and servants’ hall, he had to undergo a veritable interrogation by the butler, then was shown to a remote receiving room far away from the center of the palace to wait.
Finally, a good half hour after the time appointed for him to see Sir John, he was taken to a different room deeper in the palace.
“There you are,” Conroy greeted him curtly. “We do not have much time. I am expecting…someone else.”
“Very well, sir,” Jeremy said with a gracious nod. “If you would be so kind as to instruct your man to bring the valise I arrived with to us so that I can show you the fabric samples and drawings I have brought for you.”
“What?” Conroy snapped, looking exceedingly nervous and put-out.
“I had a bag with the tools of my profession with me when I arrived,” Jeremy explained, “but it was confiscated for investigation. I do have my measuring tape, though,” he added, taking the tape from his pocket. “We can begin while my bag is located.”
“I suppose,” Conroy said. He glanced past Jeremy to the liveried footman. “Find Mr. Wilkes’s bag and bring it here at once.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman bowed, then left.
“If you would be so kind as to remove your jacket, I shall take your measurements,” Jeremy said as affably as he could.
In fact, he instantly disliked Conroy. He’d heard rumors, but seeing for himself that the man was cold, strained, and anxious was telling. He had nothing to say to the man as he flitted around him, measuring his arms, chest, waist, and other necessary parts, and Conroy didn’t seem particularly inclined to speak to him either. More than that, if the curl of Conroy’s lip every time Jeremy touched him was any indication, Conroy could sense what he was and despised him for it.
When the measurements were done and the footman still hadn’t returned, Jeremy felt incredibly awkward just standing there with the man.
“Perhaps I could go in search of my things?” he asked Conroy with forced affability.
Conroy huffed a breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “I did not bring you here to snoop around the palace,” he began.
He stopped suddenly as a flash of movement appeared just beyond the half-closed door at the other end of the room.
“Yes, go and find your things,” Conroy said, going stiff. He waved Jeremy toward the opposite door as if pretending to be casual, but if anything, he’d suddenly become more anxious.
“I shall be but a moment, sir,” Jeremy said with a nod, then turned to go.
He was eager to get away from Conroy and a bit worried that it was taking so long for the footman to return with his things.
No sooner had he crossed into the other room when he heard the sound of footsteps as someone else joined Conroy and their overly loud whisper of, “I’ve obtained the poison, sir.”
Jeremy froze only a handful of steps down the plain, narrow hallway, his heart suddenly pounding.
“Shh! You fool!” Conroy hissed, though he wasn’t any quieter than his accomplice. “I told you not to come here to see me. What kind of madman visits a palace while plotting the death of a king?”
Jeremy’s knees went momentarily weak. Everything within him urged him to run and never look back. He’d heard the rumors just as much as Timothy and Artie had, but up until that moment, he’d considered them as just that, rumors.
“I’ve been assured that it is the most lethal and fast-acting poison available,” the man with Conroy went on. “A few drops in the king’s morning coffee and he will be gone before his second swallow.”
“No!” Conroy hissed then huffed. “The point is not to kill the king all at once. That would raise suspicions. The point is to bring on his decline over a period of time so that he merely appears to be ill as usual.”
“And he is ill,” the accomplice said. “Everyone knows he’s dying.”
“Which is why no one will be suspicious if we cause that to happen sooner,” Conroy said. “This must be done quickly and discreetly. William must die before Victoria’s eighteenth birthday in order for a regency to be put into place. I plan to rule this country, even if I have to do it behind the Duchess’s skirts, and I will not?—”
“I beg your pardon?” a too-loud voice snapped just behind where Jeremy had crept closer to the doorway to listen in.
Of all the times for the footman to return with his things.
The effect of Jeremy’s discovery was instant.
“Who is there?” Conroy demanded, marching toward the hall. When he saw Jeremy standing there, his eyes wide and his face pale, he scowled. “What did you hear?”
“Nothing!” Jeremy insisted, backpedaling and running into the footman. “I heard nothing.”
It was a foolish thing to say. Conroy would know in an instant he’d heard everything.
Worse still, the accomplice moved into the doorway to gape at Jeremy as well.
“Who in the Devil’s name is that?” the man demanded.
He wasn’t the rough thug Jeremy would have expected to be plotting murder and the creation of a regency with Sir John at the helm. In fact, judging by the cut of the youngish man’s suit and the fineness of the fabric, he was well-off. He had dark hair and a slightly paunchy build, like he should have been fitter but indulgent living had aged him. That pegged him as a nobleman in Jeremy’s estimation. But what would a nobleman be doing fetching poison for a conspirator like Sir John Conroy?
Those thoughts passed quickly through Jeremy’s mind but not quickly enough.
“Seize him!” Conroy shouted.
For the slightest hint of a moment, no one did anything. The footman looked too stunned by the turn of events to follow Conroy’s order. The fact that the man didn’t know what was going on was Jeremy’s one hope. The footman wasn’t part of the plot and likely unused to taking orders from Conroy.
“Do not just stand there!” Conroy ordered.
The footman shook out of his stupor and looked at Jeremy.
There wasn’t time to question his actions. Jeremy felt as though his life were in danger. He snatched his bag out of the footman’s hands, then, clutching it close, he bolted down the hall.
“What are you doing, you dog?” Conroy shouted, though most likely at the footman.
Jeremy didn’t wait or turn around to find out. He ran as fast as he could, retracing his steps through the hallways and rooms of the palace that he’d been shuffled through before, desperate to get out of the palace as fast as he could. It was a bit of luck that the other servants had no idea what was going on. They jumped and dodged out of the way, startled to see a finely dressed man of slight build dashing through the halls with a valise clutched to his chest.
It wasn’t until he ducked into a small parlor with large, open French doors that he heard Conroy call out from behind him, “That man insulted me!”
Jeremy wanted to laugh. Of all the complaints Conroy could have come up with to send the servants chasing after him, an insult was by far the worst. He would have had more of a case to capture him if he’d accused Jeremy of stealing something from the palace. Whatever accusations he made, though, Conroy might run into trouble if someone questioned who the nobleman with him was and why they were meeting.
Those were only fleeting thoughts as Jeremy leapt through the French doors and out into one of the palace gardens. The chilly, March afternoon was relatively peaceful, and the gardeners barely glanced up from their work, let alone attempted to stop him.
All the same, Jeremy did not want to take any chances. He had to get away from Conroy and to someplace where he would be safe for as long as it took to figure out the gravity of what he’d overheard. He had no idea if the poisoning plot was a serious one with assistance from people in higher places or if Conroy and his dark-haired accomplice were acting on their own and toying with nefarious ideas. There was simply no way to know without going back and asking questions, which he absolutely would not do.
That did nothing to make Jeremy feel safe, however. He felt as unsafe as he ever had as he tore across Hyde Park, heading east, as fast as he could without looking suspicious enough for the Metropolitan Police officers wandering here and there to stop him. Looking like he looked and dressed as he was, they would likely stop him just to have a laugh by abusing him.
A stroke of inspiration struck Jeremy as he reached the far end of the park and spotted the row of stately homes and other buildings along Park Lane. The Chameleon Club was one of those buildings. More help than he could ever hope for was just a few more yards away.
With confidence restored, Jeremy clutched his bag tighter and hurried across the street toward The Chameleon Club. Surely he could find help there.