Page 1 of The Scandal of the Season (Fairfax Sisters #2)

Chapter One

A brOTHEL, SOMEWHERE IN LONDON

February 1821

L ord Dominic Hugo Rotherby withdrew from his entanglement with unusual regret. It wasn’t that his fair companions were difficult to leave, all such pleasures came to an end after all, but he was to trade their peachy skin and dulcet tones for a much less agreeable task, and he wasn’t in the mood for murder.

Thoughtfully, he surveyed his sleeping companions, their limbs entwined like sirens, wondering where to hide their fee so neither had the chance to abscond with the whole. He’d been burned before, and had no desire for that curmudgeon, Johns, to be sending demands any time soon. His noble lips twitched as he recalled the last time one of Johns’s surly henchmen tried to gain admittance to his townhouse, only to be confronted by his fiercely protective household who sent him on his way with the aid of a poker and a sharp reprimand. Benson, his elderly butler, and Mrs Farleigh, his housekeeper, were still a force to be reckoned with, even in their dotage– though it didn’t stop them worrying their young master was dicing with the devil.

Suppressing a smile, he leaned low over the copper-headed beauty to graze the rise of her pale breast, before crossing the floor to slip four shillings into their discarded stockings. He liked to be generous where he could and tonight he had appreciated their company more than usual.

‘Thank you, Rotherby darling,’ her sable-haired friend murmured, before drifting back to sleep.

He nodded as he picked up his pocket watch, its tiny archaic arms glinting back in the moonlight. It was a poignant reminder and his gaze narrowed briefly before he retrieved the rest of his scattered clothing, and dressed with the same careless grace that always made his tetchy tiger grin.

Horace, the most talented and exceptionally ill-humoured member of his household staff, was just a grubby orphan when Dominic chanced upon his skill with his precious team of chestnuts. Yet in less than a few months, he was managing the entirety of his guvnor’s stable with the kind of canny acumen that made his lordship the envy of the ton. He was also the only member of his lordship’s domestic staff with courage enough to tell him exactly what he thought, precisely when he thought it, and his guvnor’s relaxed Corinthian style had long been a source of great amusement to him.

Wryly, Lord Rotherby recalled the many times he’d flown some lady’s lodging in a state of complete disarray, only for Horace to spend the greater part of the homeward journey mopping up tears of laughter. This brutal honesty, coupled with an unerring ability to know a high-stepper from a rum ’un while remaining singularly unimpressed by any amount of devilish driving, had established him most firmly in his lordship’s affections. And now he was his guvnor’s most valued member of staff, with strict instructions to revert immediately should any of his less-than-noble friends attempt to poach him– which they had, on numerous occasions.

Lord Rotherby sat down to pull on his spotless Hessian boots– his only fashionable quirk– before casting a final, rueful glance back at the most agreeable hour he’d spent all week. Perhaps, with hindsight, he should have stuck to the opera house these past few months and not compromised his usual rule that his interests should be married and bored, or widowed and free.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Exhaling softly, he made his way from the room and down the rickety backstairs of the old theatre where Augusta, Johns’s eagle-eyed wife, was keeping vigil in her usual chair. He nodded. He might enjoy the crime, but he didn’t have to court the villains.

‘I trust you enjoyed your company, m’Lor’?’ Augusta asked, her sly words rasping inside her rotten teeth.

‘Our opera girls have quite the reputation to uphold!’

Then she laughed in the way that always grated his nerves.

‘Indeed,’ he returned smoothly.

‘Their falsetto was sublime!’

‘Which is why you’ll understand that I’ve paid them directly, Augusta, so that they might nurture their talents.’

Her laughter died away as he stepped past her into London’s crisp and starry night with a faint smile. It might be hypocritical, but Augusta and Johns were the worst of their kind, and if it weren’t for their monopoly, he’d never cross their threshold at all.

Briefly he paused to fasten his great-coat and assemble his thoughts, most of which related to a growing regret at having disposed of his tiger’s services, given the bone-cold night. In fairness, Horace had been considerably unimpressed when he suggested he might walk back to Grosvenor Square.

‘Y’sure y’ain’t still in your cups, guvnor?’

It had taken all Rotherby’s efforts to assure his cantankerous tiger that he was, in fact, quite sober and, while it had elicited a monologue of fluent cursing that won even his lordship’s admiration, he had conceded in the end. And now Lord Rotherby wished he hadn’t bothered.

The night had taken an unusual turn and rather than a leisurely midnight walk, his mind was focused on more practical considerations, such as whether The Rotherby Lady , his luxury yacht, could be readied imminently for a Channel crossing. The weather wasn’t ideal, but his crew had enjoyed generous leave this year, and they were all reliable. Then there was his Grosvenor Square household to consider, and the fact that he’d fully intended to withdraw for a shooting party in the late spring. He exhaled as a myriad of seasonal commitments and half-formed plans competed for attention. Yet the night was still young, and while this whole matter was an entirely unforeseen nuisance, there was time.

Whistling softly, he pulled a hip flask from the pocket of his coat and took a deep draught. Brandy was his usual defence against the cold and briefly he congratulated himself, whisky would have had only half the desired effect. Then he set off in the direction of Park Lane, the toniest of all addresses, appearing to all who might see him to be the most carefree bachelor in town.

In truth, at a heady eight-and-twenty years, he really was quite content that ambitious mothers only ever eyed him with two questions in mind: the first related entirely to their unmarried daughters and, when they’d mourned the possibility of a dazzling match long enough, the second only to themselves. He was also quite certain that the advantages of remaining a black sheep on the marriage mart far outweighed any short-lived wedded bliss. Not only was he invited to the grandest balls, the most select hunting parties and desirable of soirees, their hostesses knew far better than to ask him to do anything but enjoy himself. Indeed, he’d discovered that so long as he kept to a few basic rules, and never ever talked of love , his wild reputation ensured two more important things: firstly, a steady line of worshipful bucks trying to be him, and secondly an even longer line of seasoned ladies determined to bed him. And, while this happy adoration perpetuated his myth as a nonpareil amongst the gentleman, and an archfiend amongst the ladies, his glinting eyes and cavalier grace ensured he remained the regret of every matriarch of the ton. In short, it was safe to say that Lord Dominic Hugo Rotherby– daring gambler, devilish dueller and notorious rake– was excessively content with life, and his place in it.

Which only made this evening’s turn of events an irritation, to say the least.

He sighed as he pulled off his silk cravat, tied in a swift Georgian knot, before loosening his high shirt collar to reveal a golden throat many a young lady had eyed over her ratafia.

‘For I’ll be damned if I spend any last night trussed up like a roast bird,’ he muttered to himself, wondering if he might just as well finish the brandy.

His dawn assignation was creeping closer, and he had no desire to duel sober; he was a crack shot either way, but the consequences were far less troubling when he was fortified.

Frowning, he thought back to the point at which his evening had taken a decidedly unwelcome turn. The challenge had come over the faro table, and just when his luck had changed too. Quite why Sir George Weston had chosen that exact moment to demand satisfaction was a mystery, to say the least. The ton may have noticed Sir Weston’s pretty sister making cow eyes at him, but he couldn’t be responsible for every debutante’s flight of fancy, and the heat of his challenge was most curious for a gentleman who usually presented in sensible coats and a quiet manner.

Even if they did have history.

Lord Rotherby’s eyelids sank lower as he recalled the moment he suggested it might be Miss Weston’s fanciful nature that required a challenge, rather than his good self, and that anyone who knew him knew his rules too.

With hindsight, his suggestion that Sir Weston might guess he wouldn’t look for the attentions of a silly chit who was not only prone to fits of the vapours, but also possessed a ‘braying laugh that could wake an entire neighbourhood’ , might have been a little sharp. But the more he thought on it, the more he was convinced it wasn’t his fault the girl had a tendency towards theatricals– much less so that she’d invented an entire fanciful romance with him playing the role of chief villain. All of which had led to the ruin of the best hand of cards he’d had in a while.

Lord Rotherby sighed. It really was excessively inconvenient, especially since the season had just begun and he’d backed some real sweet runners at Cheltenham. But as any real gentleman knew, he had little choice but to see the matter through. A challenge, once issued, was a matter of honour and even if there hadn’t been several witnesses present, he’d still be duty-bound to meet sensible Sir George Weston at dawn, with his affairs fully in order.

He slowed as he reached the wide steps of Rotherby House, the grand Grosvenor Square home he’d inherited upon the passing of his parents, and turned to gaze out at the moonlit park. It was his favourite time of day, when the whole neighbourhood was quiet, and illuminated only by the handful of lanterns left to burn overnight. Tonight though, a strange and melancholic mist hung over the silhouetted silver oaks, almost as though they sensed that he might have to leave for a while.

Briefly, he considered the options that lay before him once again. He couldn’t rely on Sir Weston being a terrible shot; he’d hunted with him on a number of occasions and he could hold a pistol like any man. It was more that a Rotherby never missed.

His father’s faded face reached through his thoughts as he gazed at the shadowed park, ignoring an old twist deep inside. As a boy, he would often sleep fitfully, dreaming of the glass-eyed stags his father felled and imagining their escape instead, but the cold light of day would only ever confirm his fears. And when he grew old enough to refuse to join the hunt, his father labelled him ‘a coward, unworthy of his bloodline’ – words to which he’d grown hardened after discovering his betrayal.

His mother’s face followed, and Lord Rotherby closed his eyes, recalling the way her gentle tone had always soothed him whenever he was distressed. She’d been his one saving grace, and her untimely death the very reason he would never marry or have children or his own.

‘Do you require a nightcap, my lord?’

The large front door creaked inwards, revealing an elderly gentleman bearing a candle and a kindly smile.

Lord Rotherby regarded the proud retainer, who’d been his butler for as long as he could recall, with real affection. He really needed to put his domestic affairs in order as a matter of priority; they all depended on him after all.

‘No, I thank you, Benson. And shouldn’t you be abed this hour? What have I said about waiting up for me?’

His tone was short but Benson merely inclined his head, unabashed.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but I had some personal correspondence to finish.’

Rotherby nodded, though they both knew the truth.

‘I have also left a fire burning in the library, my lord, just as you like.’

‘Thank you,’ Rotherby returned in a milder tone. ‘Though you know you need only ask if you need time off, Benson. No one should be writing letters at one o’clock in the morning!’

‘Thank you, my lord. I am in need of no extra time. Will that be all, my lord?’

‘Yes… That is to say…’

The butler paused his withdrawal, as his young master frowned.

‘It is likely… highly likely that I will need to leave town tomorrow… for a few weeks. I’ll send word as soon as I can but, in the interim, I’d be grateful if you and Mrs Farleigh could oversee the closure of Rotherby House– as my mother would have wished?’

He paused to consider the damnable speed at which gossip travelled through the ton.

‘Also, it’s probably best not to mention this to anyone– at least not until I send word.’

Lord Rotherby rarely mentioned his parents, save to those long-standing members of his household who remembered them, and even then only when absolutely necessary. In truth, he was quite aware that collectively, they could claim many more memories than he, and suspected most of their enduring loyalty was out of love for his mother, who’d bewitched them all in her short, bright lifetime, rather than his father who’d done little but instil fear.

Yet their marriage had resulted in one note of hope: a quiet boy who adored his mother with all his heart until the day she and his unborn sister died, when he swore his father’s violent blood would end with him. Thankfully, his father had outlived his mother by only a few months and, by the time an eccentric aunt had filled the breach, he was quite used to being thought an orphan. She’d arrived with three trunks of books and a glaring parrot, maintaining that she would guide him only until he came of age and, true to her word, she’d left for Europe the morning of his twenty-first birthday, advising him to look for her only if he ‘made a real mess of things’.

Tonight was the first time he felt he might have come close.

‘As you wish, my lord,’ Benson said with a nod, the tiny crease between his eyes the only sign that he was at all surprised. ‘Although, might I suggest you peruse the contents of the letter that arrived ten minutes ago before making any… permanent arrangements? I’ve put it on your desk, my lord.’

Lord Rotherby frowned.

‘Thank you, Benson. That will be all.’ He nodded briskly before making his way through the grand hallway of Rotherby House in the direction of his library. Benson was discreet, but the last thing he needed was for Mrs Farleigh and the rest of his overprotective household to get wind of his impending duel. They all worried enough as it was.

Swiftly, he strode across the warm room to pick up the new missive. The lettering was clearly written in haste, and he broke open the Weston seal with a sigh of exasperation. Whatever the coxcomb said now had better not add insult to injury, for he was quite out of patience.

Lord Rotherby,

I write in haste to withdraw my challenge. At the time of issue, I had good reason to believe you’d acted dishonourably, but my sister has since assured me that your attentions were only ever courteous and noble.

In light of this new information, I find myself satisfied there has been no improper conduct, and therefore no impeachment of honour.

I trust this letter will find you in good time, and you will have no objection to considering the matter concluded.

Yours respectfully,

Sir George Weston

Lord Rotherby screwed up the letter with a gleam of contempt.

‘Infernal popinjay!’ he cursed, tossing it onto the fire.

He’d always known Weston disliked him but had never thought him a troublemaker before. Indeed, he was less than persuaded by his reference to new information and would have to be vigilant in the future. Not only did they share history, it seemed a few of his close friends thought him entirely capable of seducing a chit scarcely out of the schoolroom too. They hadn't said as much, but he had seen the doubt on their faces, which meant he must accept Weston’s apology lest they think any truth to it.

Rotherby cursed again, his eyelids lowering lazily as he watched the flames dance in the hearth. Perhaps pretty, doe-eyed Sylvia Weston really had intervened on his behalf, or perhaps one of Weston’s bourgeois friends had warned him about Rotherby’s record with a single-shot flintlock. Either way, he was sure his main consideration should be for the fact that his honour was still intact, and there were no unsightly bodies to explain away.

Fortified by the thought that the evening had taken a much more encouraging turn without him having to lift even one murderous finger, Lord Rotherby exhaled. The night was yet young, White’s was always open to its patrons, and he had a taste for drink poured by a fairer hand than his own.

Seconds later, he pulled on his great-coat and headed back out into the hallway, now lit by a lone, flickering candelabra. It was one of Benson’s traditions, left over from the time when his young master might climb out of bed because he couldn't sleep. He smiled faintly before extinguishing the flames.

Tomorrow, he would put his household in order, just in case, but right now he had one thought uppermost and that was to celebrate his reprieve the only way a notorious rake knew how.