MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3

  MY WICKED EARL

  The Wickeds Book 3

  Kathleen Ayers

  Copyright © 2019 by Kathleen Ayers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Author

  Also by Kathleen Ayers

  1

  London 1830

  “Really Colin,” Viscount Lindley leaned forward, widening his mismatched eyes in mock horror. “The fact that you haven’t had a woman in nearly a year is appalling, the death of your beloved Uncle Gerald notwithstanding. Having met the man, I’m certain he wouldn’t wish you to live the life of a hermit with nothing but your scribblings to keep you company. You’ve been in London for nearly a fortnight without so much as a glance at a female.”

  “You exaggerate.” Colin Hartley shot his friend a murderous look before turning to take in the sumptuous furnishings of Hastings, Viscount Lindley’s very discreet, very exclusive club. Hastings was reserved for only the very wealthy of London, or the incredibly powerful. Viscount Lindley was both. The club was even more exclusive than Whites or Brooks.

  The paneled walls gleamed in the mellow light of the wall lamps, their glowing patina likely the result of the scrubbings of dozens of maids. Each wall was covered with portraits of past patrons and benefactors. Various dukes, earls, and such, covered every square inch, all looking appropriately disapproving. Had any of those august men been alive they would have routed Colin from their midst with a mere curl of their upper lips.

  Large comfortable chairs circled the room, in settings of two and four, so that the powerful could decide the fate of lesser beings in relative privacy. Plush Persian carpet, so thick and lush it put the fields of Ireland to shame, cushioned his worn boots. Servants dressed in blue and silver livery wandered between the wealthy gentlemen, discreet and quiet so as not to disturb their betters.

  The room was rich and decadent, much like Viscount Lindley himself.

  Nick’s lip curled. “Living in a hut—”

  “Bugger off, Nick. My uncle’s estate in Ireland was not a hut. My God, just because a person isn’t a duke, or a bloody marquess, doesn’t mean one lives in a hut.”

  “A farm then.”

  “Estervale is an estate whose tenants cultivate sheep, you snob.”

  His friend shot him a wolfish grin showing a gleaming line of teeth.

  “Had,” Colin waved his hand looking for the word, “needs not necessitated my trip to London, I would never have left Ireland.” A half-truth.

  “Needs? As in a woman?” Nick wiggled his brows lasciviously.

  “No.” Colin rolled his eyes. “Other, needs.”

  “Well then here’s to Uncle Gerald,” Viscount Lindley raised his glass. “I liked your uncle, by the way. A fine man, Gerald McBride was, despite his taking you to live on a sheep farm.”

  “Estate. My uncle was a gentleman. Please rest assured not a bit of manure ever touched me.”

  A deep chuckle bubbled up from his friend’s chest and the room quieted almost immediately. Glances and raised brows were thrown over stiffened shoulders.

  “I should hope not, after all, you are the son of the Earl of Kilmaire.”

  “Third son. Thank God. I’ve no desire to ever wear the burden of a title. Sheep farming may suit me quite well.” Another half-truth, for while there were sheep, they no longer belonged to Gerald McBride, or his nephew.

  “Indeed?”

  “Besides, I would never have been able to finish at Eton had Uncle Gerald not taken financed the remainder of my education. My parents could certainly not afford to, I believe they spent all they had sending my brothers. Uncle Gerald was a godsend.”

  Colin wished desperately that Uncle Gerald hadn’t mortgaged Estervale to the hilt. While he was grateful for his uncle’s sacrifice he was certain that the bulk of the money had gone to Runshaw Park and the Earl of Kilmaire, not Eton.

  “Yes, it is fortunate Uncle Gerald took you in. I often wonder how it is that he and your mother had such…different in opinions of you.”

  How Colin detested Nick’s habit of picking apart a person’s life, his odd eyes piercing him as he brought up the odds and ends that made up Colin’s existence.

  Colin had no wish to discuss the Mad Countess, as Nick well knew.

  “Membership here must cost a bloody fortune.” He steered the discussion away from the Countess of Kilmaire.

  “I’m certain of it, though I wouldn’t know.” Nick shrugged his large shoulders , causing the expensive and expertly tailored coat he wore to pull a bit at the seams.

  The bloody coat probably cost more than Colin’s passage to London. And that was the problem. The very rich didn’t know what it felt like to count every penny.

  Estervale, the house Colin had called home for ten years, was his home no longer. What a shock it had been to have a solicitor waiting on the front steps shortly after Colin laid his uncle to rest. The Bank of Ireland owned Estervale now. He must find an alternate means of support, one that did not involve sheep farming. For though he certainly wouldn’t admit such to Nick, Colin didn’t care a bit for sheep or the smell of wet wool.

  “Are you familiar with Lord Wently?” Colin pretended to study the amber liquid in his glass.

  “Wently? Do you have an invention to share or perhaps you’ve written a treatise on sheep farming? While he is still funding the restoration of some Grecian marbles, marbles I’m quite sure will be shown to be fakes, I’m told he has thrown his weight behind William Howell and they’ve started a publishing house. Howell is the author of those lurid novels involving murder and young innocent ladies. Arabella is quite addicted to them, I fear.”

  “Your sister has always been rather bloodthirsty.” Colin sipped at his drink trying to appear nonchalant.

  Nick’s eyes slid over him with a look meant to force Colin to give up all of his secrets. “What are you up to Hartley?”

  “I may have a proposition for Lord Wently, though I need an introduction.”

  Nick held his glass up, pretending to study the amber liquid. “I’m not acquainted with Lord Wently, although Lord Robert Cambourne is his close friend.” Nick shot him a speculative look. “But, I’m sure you knew that having spent so much time with the Cambourne family at Gray Covington. Perhaps that’s why you’ve come to London?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” Nick said. “I may be able to help.”

  The last thing Colin wanted to do was explain his reasons for seeking an introduction. In addition to picking apart a person’s life, Nick had a terrible habit of rearranging other’s lives in a manner Nick thought would suit them best. The results were often mixed.

  “I was hoping to beg an in
troduction to Lord Wently from the Marquess but I understood Lord Cambourne was not in town at the moment.”

  “Well, not presently. But, as it happens, the Marquess of Cambourne is scheduled to make an appearance at my grandfather’s ball tomorrow night, as is most of the ton. He would be delighted to see you, I’m sure. Cam’s father was quite fond of you. Lord Cambourne is a man whose opinion I trust. Much more of a father to me than my own sire. I’ve often sought his advice, when I didn’t wish my grandfather’s.”

  Before Colin could respond, a harsh whisper drew his attention. A large man, his round form barely squeezed into the poor chair on which he sat, glared at Colin and Nick, while relating something to his companion. The fleshy face burned red with outrage as the beady eyes looked over an upturned nose at Colin.

  He looks like an enraged pig.

  Mr. Pig’s companion was just the opposite, all sharp angles with a chin that looked as if it could cut through cheese. This gentleman was a bit more reserved in his perusal, only nodding in agreement with each word his friend spoke.

  “What do you think,” Colin waved his glass of whiskey towards Mr. Pig, “that we have done to offend those two? Possibly we attended Eton with their sons and our reputation as the Wickeds precedes us.”

  “Humph.” Nick regarded the men with hooded eyes. “I cannot fathom why such a ridiculous nickname has stuck so soundly over the years all because the three of us managed to encounter some old gypsy in the woods. Though, at the time I did appreciate her gracing us as such, for it was a useful tool in keeping the spoiled brats at Eton from threatening us with their fists.”

  “You mean threatening Cam and I,” Colin corrected him. “No one dared go after you.” Colin waved his hand over Nick’s large frame. “Too bloody big.” He nodded towards the men. “Probably my father owes them money. If so they will need to look elsewhere for recompense. Do you see that the large one resembles a wild boar of some sort?”

  Nick’s lips twisted into a grimace. “It’s me.” The words left his lips in a quiet hiss. “It’s always me.”

  Colin sipped his drink. “Oh yes, that. Sometimes I forget you’re the bloody Devil of Dunbar. I for one shiver in my boots every time I am in your company. You’re terrifying,” Colin pretended to tremble in fright.

  Nick stayed silent, only sipping at his whiskey.

  “Nick,” Colin apologized, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made light of such a thing.”

  “It’s of no import.”

  “I’m certain no one still thinks on the rumors. The war has been over for a very long time.”

  Accusations of theft and treason, though unproven, still cast a shadow upon the Dunbar family. Nick’s father, Phillip, had taken his own life over the false accusations, as well as that of Nick’s mother.

  “You’d be surprised. The deaths of my parents didn’t actually absolve them of the act my father was accused of. Most view it as proof of his guilt. I still find it baffling. Anyone that knew my father personally knew he was too much of a drunkard to pull off such a complex scheme.” Nick’s eyes grew hollow and cold. “Someday I will find the person who is truly guilty. Neither they nor their family will be safe from the Devil of Dunbar. The Dunbars serve the Crown.”

  It was a phrase Colin had often heard repeated while he attended Eton with Nick. ‘The Dunbar’s serve the Crown.’ His gaze fell to his friend’s large hands, the knuckles covered with scars and bruises. He’d never asked Nick how exactly the Dunbars served the Crown. Probably better off not knowing.

  “The actions of my parents,” Nick waved a hand in front of his mismatched eyes, “and these, are enough to make me a bit of a pariah. Were the ton not all afraid of Dunbar, I’m certain I would be hunted down with pitchforks and set aflame. Look at him,” Nick lifted his chin to the quivering servant who stood to the left of their chairs. “He can barely hold his tray he’s shaking so badly.”

  At Nick’s perusal, the servant paled and blinked.

  “My family is a founding member of this bloody club, so you’d think at the very least I would be waited on by someone who isn’t trembling like a virgin on her wedding night.” His friend sounded more amused than angry now and Colin relaxed.

  “Well, you are the Devil, Nick.” Colin chuckled taking the sting out of his words. The whiskey was going to his head. How long had they sat at Hastings drinking? No more than an hour. His eyes fell to the nearly empty bottle sitting on the table next to Nick’s knee. Well, possibly more than an hour.

  A mischievous grin crossed Nick’s hard features. “I should bloody well start acting the part, don’t you think? You,” he pointed to the servant, “who are those two gentlemen? I think I’d like to make their acquaintance.”

  The servant’s Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed anxiously. “The Baron of Taunton and Viscount Sistern,” his voice shook, “my lord.”

  “Well, send them a bottle of your finest brandy, won’t you? Compliments of the Devil of Dunbar.”

  “Yes – yes, my lord.” The servant’s eyes grew round as he looked at Nick.

  “And stop acting as if I’m about to turn you into a frog,” Nick commanded. “Good Lord, you appear about to faint. Like a woman whose stays are too tight. I haven’t turned anyone into a frog in ages. Mr.Hartley finds it very off-putting.”

  Colin nodded in agreement, the act of moving his head causing the room to spin a bit. “Very off-putting.”

  The servant bowed and scurried off, pausing only to look over his shoulder at the Devil of Dunbar.

  “Probably won’t come back.”

  An amused smile crossed Nick’s lips, but he said nothing. The only sign of his agitation was the drumming of his fingers against his chair arm. An ancient pitted ring on his thumb glinted dully in the room’s mellow light.

  Colin often thought that the history of Nick’s family would make for an excellent novel. His friend certainly looked the part of the Devil. He always appeared a bit menacing, as if he’d just come from a fight he’d won, and the bloodlust still ran through him. The eyes, of course, could be rather disturbing to those who first viewed them.

  Just now those eyes, one blue and one brown, watched Mr. Pig and his friend with a bland look.

  “Ah, there he goes.” Nick lifted his glass in the direction of the servant who was making his way to Lords Severn and Taunton who appeared a bit chagrined that they’d gained the notice of Viscount Lindley.

  The servant, poor man, tentatively approached the pair, bowing slightly as he presented the brandy. He murmured something in a low voice and spared a glance at Nick.

  Colin took another sip of his drink, gratified to see the flush that crept up the fat one’s neck. Dislike for Nick colored his face. And fear.

  His companion, obviously the wiser of the pair, stood, bowing deeply to Nick before averting his eyes.

  “Colin,” Nick continued in a half-whisper, “shall I go over and tap the fat one on the shoulder? Tell him Old Scratch has advised me that his time is up? That the brandy was just a beginning of the warmth he’ll soon feel?”

  Colin giggled again. He really should stop now lest he spend tomorrow in bed with his head aching. Whiskey spilled down his sleeve and he frowned. “Now see what you’ve done, Nick. I’ve so few good shirts left and now I fear this one is ruined.”

  “That’s no way to speak to the Devil,” Nick growled, loud enough so Lords Sistern and Taunton could hear. “I could make your blood curdle with a look.”

  The servant stopped as he made his way back to Nick and Colin. He nodded in their direction before hurrying away through a small door set into the paneled wall.

  “Probably heading off to pray somewhere,” Nick added sardonically, sitting back in his chair, a deep chuckle humming from his chest. “That was great fun.”

  Colin could see that it was not.

  A shadowed look hovered in Nick’s eyes, as if his friend were taking a moment of self-pity. All the money and power in the world wouldn’t make Nick acceptable to the ton
. Ever.

  Wisely, Colin stayed silent.

  “Now, where were we? Ah yes, discussing your lack of female companionship.”

  “We weren’t, you were,” Colin replied a bit defensively. Bloody hell, why couldn’t Nick just leave it alone?

  “You need a woman, Colin. It will do wonders for your ill humor. Perhaps even assist you with whatever little project you wish to discuss with Lord Wently.”

  So, they were back to Lord Wently again. “I am not in ill humor.” Colin ignored his friend’s curiosity.

  “Nonsense, of course you are. A good tumble will help ease your mind before you are welcomed into the bosom of your family. You are going to Runshaw Park, are you not?”

  Colin thought of his mother’s hate-filled visage. It was doubtful the Mad Countess had ever clasped Colin to her meager breast in welcome.

  “Possibly.” His brothers wished him to come home, had in fact been begging him since they learned of Uncle Gerald’s passing.

  Nick frowned. “Hmm. Well, I’m only looking out for your best interests. Regardless, you need a woman. Celibacy has made you all dour and thoughtful.” The big shoulders shivered in revulsion. “Christ, you’re as pale as the sheets the maids use to make my bed. Unless, it’s not a woman you need,” his friend left the words hanging in the air.

  “You’re an ass, Nick. If you weren’t so bloody big I’d call you out for that.” The whiskey sloshed out of Colin’s glass again. Good Lord he couldn’t seem to keep the glass from tipping in his hand. “Not every man is lead around by his cock, as you are.”

  “I do agree that it has caused me to make some poor choices in the past. Many poor choices. I see a lovely pair of tits and I fear I lose all control. Can’t help myself.”