Chapter One
No one was supposed to know who Jack Donovan was.
Ethan Darus Gray, Earl of Ashebrook, wasn’t just anyone; he had his own ways of
ferreting out his adversaries. He stood in the entrance of the Gilded Gull, his
cold glance scanning the empty room. He walked past the bar toward a rear
hallway and down the darkened corridor. He pushed open a nondescript door with
enough force to make it slam against the wall. An echoing crash sounded when
the barkeep lost his hold on the glass. Ethan found himself facing the equally
hard green stare of radical reporter Jack Donovan when he stepped inside the
back room of the gaming hall.
"Ever heard of knocking?" Jack Donovan ground out, shoving on his
Hessians. He’d obviously been lying on the leather sofa from the rumpled pillow
and clutter of magazines and papers around it.
"Yes," Ashebrook replied.
This man who managed to anger the House of Lords and most of the ton with his
inflammatory articles looked nothing like they speculated. Donovan was dressed
like many of the young rakes about town in black trousers and rumpled white
silk shirt. He had dark looks, swarthy skin and hell, he was young. Ethan hadn’t
bought the theory that the power behind the pen was one of their own writing
under those various pseudonyms Jack used. Only a man born without wealth and
title could put so much deadly contempt behind the words.
He’d once respected Donovan as a political adversary. That changed the moment
he’d discovered Jack digging into his own life. The sarcasm in Ashebrook’s
voice obviously annoyed Jack. Their equally frigid gazes held, but it revealed
what Ethan intended it to; he didn’t have to be bothered with politeness.
"This isn’t some gentleman’s club." Jack went over to pour a whiskey.
"At my home, you knock."
"Excuse me," said a female voice behind Ethan.
He felt a light touch on his shoulder and moved aside catching the alluring
scent of roses as the lady swept in. His connoisseur’s eye slid down her as she
moved across the room. Close-cropped black hair, a petite body gowned in green
silk. She was no doubt Jack’s kin. She was young, but she was certainly a
woman. The gown clung in all the right places, the straight lines and modest
cut innocently provocative. Ethan prided himself on his discriminating tastes
in all things. He was partial to tall blonds with the right social connections.
The little tease of arousal he felt when the woman passed by was promptly
ignored. She was short, had the look of a pixie, and when she leaned against
the table, he saw dimples in her cheeks.
"What does he want?" the woman muttered to Jack. She poured herself a
cup of coffee, then held the cup in her palms, eyeing him in a manner few would
dare.
"This is Ashebrook." Jack waved a hand then resumed his seat propping
his boot on a table. "I have no idea what he wants."
Ethan kept his features impassive. As one of the creme de la creme, he was not
used to being so rudely treated. In fact, there were two reactions he was used
to: intimidation and fear.
"I’d like a word with you," he told Jack, in his most chilling tones.
"I can’t be bought, if that’s what you’re after." Jack shook his
head. "I know the thing I did on Lord Laporte had half the ton trying to
find out who I was." He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "How did
you, by the way?"
"Viscount Kane," Ethan supplied.
"Vince. He told you?"
"He was assured of my ability to keep quiet." Ashebrook shrugged.
"Well, I bloody well ain’t," Jack grated. "However, you will
explain your intrusion since you are obviously here."
Ashebrook’s back stiffened at the sneer in Donovan’s voice, but he had come
this far, he was not leaving here without some answers.
"Sit down, Ashebrook," Darbee Donovan motioned him to a chair to
Jack’s left. "Coffee, brandy?"
She nodded toward the containers on the desk, calculating as she spoke. Jack
had told her Ashebrook’s name solely for the earl’s benefit; they both knew who
he was. What the bloody hell was Viscount Kane doing giving him Jack’s address?
Kane was one of Jack’s most trusted sources. Ethan declined the offer.
"Thank you, no." His gaze swept over her in a revealing manner.
Darbee could see anger and surprise. He would really have been amazed to know
the train of her thoughts. Like any good reporter she was assessing her facts.
Not in awe of the ton, she found society pages more amusing than the humorous
rags. That tendency to look down their nose at people, as Ashebrook was doing
now, rubbed her the wrong way, but he was on their territory and it was nice to
be on the other side of the fence, so to speak. Jack wouldn’t worry too much
about these types revealing his identity; they had too much to lose.
Darbee had an entirely different advantage over the earl. She watched him take
a seat in one of the comfortable, overstuffed chairs. He was handsome; she’d
give him that. She had seen him many times in
Ashebrook owned his own gym and trainer, which his tawny skin attested to,
though not of the sporting set. Most swells were pasty and pale, the
fashionable snug trousers looking worse on their paunchy frames. Not Ashebrook;
he was muscular, his face a pure-blooded aristocrat, from his strong jaw to his
haughty nose and arched black brows, and those jet lashes made his silver eyes
all the more piercing-a detail that cropped up when one heard of the disdainful
lord-those arctic silvery eyes.
He owned businesses handled by managers and secretaries leaving him plenty of
time to see to the social obligations of the season. His every attendance at
some rout or ball was dutifully noted and reported in the social columns. He
was the kind the young bucks emulated. It was amusing after some crush to see
them sporting silver neck-cloths, or the custom made boots he had fashioned for
riding. Most young men could not carry it off.
Darbee called a halt to her mental sifting and admitted her curiosity. She
settled in to hear his reasons for seeking Jack out. All right, so she was more
than curious. He couldn’t know about the information she’d gathered on him,
could he? Vince Kane was a man they both trusted. He didn’t send lords like
this to the door every day. In fact, this was a first.
"I need some assistance," Ashebrook began, seeing that neither had
any intention of initiating conversation. They seemed content to stare at him
with matching arched brows.
"You got the wrong man then." Jack tossed back his whiskey. "I’m
into exposing your sort, Ashebrook, not helping you. Though I believe you are
good at keeping your private life private, I am not interested in digging in
your back yard, neither will I help you bury the skeletons someone else
uncovers."
"I’m aware of your work, Jack." Ethan used his first name on purpose.
"It’s not my favorite read, but neither am I disturbed by it."
"I lose sleep thinking you might be." Jack’s smile was tight.
"This is a delicate matter. I was under the impression you wrote unbiased
articles, that you exposed corrupt factory foremen and baby sellers, and what
you view as the hypocrisy of the ton. My impression was that you didn’t do
personal work-wouldn’t relish being an underling of some lord."
Jack grunted. "Do you know how many politicians try to find out who I am,
so I can dig up dirt on their opponents? I’m not a puppet. I am a reporter.
When I get to the point where I am working for money, I’ll quit."
Ethan eyed him hard. "Yet you are in possession of some damaging
information concerning me. Are you not?"
"You, and half the upper crust." Jack shrugged. "I’m not into
blackmail. Naturally, I run across a loose tongue in my business. That I hear
it doesn’t induce me to write a story on it. Your set is too afraid of scandal
for your own good."
Ethan rubbed his jaw, resenting Donovan’s blasé attitude. "I am 36 and
have waited a long time to settle down and beget heirs. I carefully chose my
future wife for her breeding, rank, and wealth. I am sure you are aware it’s
the way things are done with my sort, as you call it. The reasons it works so
well is not something I care to expound on. But suffice to say that I have, and
the announcement is forthcoming."
"I am not going to expose your dirty laundry." Jack poured another
drink. "Whoever told you that I was in possession of it, though, I’d like
to have his name."
"What made you lower your standards for Leverton?" Ashebrook wanted
to know. "That my future father-in-law had me looked into is no great
blow, however high my reputation. I am aware it is done all the time. What I
wish to know is what you may have told him?"
"I told him you were a wealthy bastard whose reputation was as pristine as
that ivory coach you ride in. I told him there was nothing to look into."
"What made Leverton able to sway you, Jack. Did he pay you well?"
"No money changed hands, but you’ll have to ask my sister, Darbee."
He nodded. "It was her call, and her case; she worked on it. I haven’t
even read the entire thing."
Darbee murmured, "Surprised? I am sure Lord Leverton would be, too, seeing
as how he detests those progressive females." She laughed. "A bit of
my morbid humor induced me to take the case. Jack wrote the final report based
on my observations."
"Why?"
"It was a one-time thing." She shrugged. "Old Leverton isn’t my
favorite person; in fact, his superior male views make it difficult for me to
like him, but Jack and I owed him a good turn."
"Is he one of your informants?"
"Good god, no." She snorted, amused at the assumption. "This
goes way back when our father died. I doubt he remembers it, and he didn’t use
it to get us to do a bit of checking up on you. He put the word out-we got it
from a solicitor, who did not like you at all, Ashebrook." She set her cup
down. "This solicitor was ready to drag you through the mud. It was easy
enough to get him to sign mine, instead, though he never saw its contents."
"Why did you hold back on the report?"
Ethan studied her openly. Quite honestly he’d never met a woman who did not
know how to gossip or use a juicy tidbit to her advantage. Nor did he know a
reporter who was not panting for dirt. Somewhere his mind registered the fact
that he’d never met a female reporter, and doubted another existed besides the
type who did ladie’s magazines. The whole idea of female professionals outside
of the stage was a bone of contention with politicians. Ethan knew that females
had been progressing and turning out works under male names for years; it was
simply now they wanted recognition. He rather liked them looking beautiful and
feminine.
She said, "What do I care if Lord A weds Lady Q? I find it rather cold and
calculating. What I discovered, as you know, concerned your father and
stepsister, a senile recluse and a young schoolgirl. I didn’t think it relevant
enough to pass on."
"Oh, it’s relevant." Ashebrook laughed grimly. "It could damn
well destroy me. Society may seem frivolous to you, Miss Donovan, but it has
teeth."
"Yes," she said, slowly. "The worst that could happen is that
you are no longer the most influential and sought-after lord in
Her contempt was obvious. Ashebrook wondered how at odds her appearance was
with her sharp mind and cynicism. She looked younger than she was, which was 20
at the most. He wasn’t about to explain how fickle the ton was to the chit. His
father’s mistakes could certainly reflect on his own character.
"I want that information destroyed."
"It has been," she said, then raised a brow. "Tell me something,
why is it that the potential husband is not so curious about the prospective
wife, so long as she comes with a huge dowry and high rank?"
"Are you implying something?" Ashebrook snapped.
She smiled. "Just curious."
He explained, as if to a slow wit, "Lady Pamela has been on the scene for
many years. She is 22 and has an excellent reputation. What she does after
presenting the required heir is her choice given that she is discreet."
Ethan shifted in the chair. "But she is knowing enough not to engage in any
sort of scandalous behavior before the wedding."
"How sad." She clucked her tongue. "Of course, her background is
impeccable."
Ethan looked at Jack to find him laughing. It was plain he was laughing at
Ethan, because her question had put questions in his mind. He was certain of
Pamela’s reputation, of course he was. Otherwise, he would not have chosen her.
"I hate to break up the party, but I’ve got to run you both out."
Jack rose. "I have an impending appointment."
Ashebrook stood looking around the interior that made up their home. Darbee was
aware the eclectic, bohemian decor likely appalled a man of Ashebrook’s refined
taste. Thick exotic screens separated their personal area; an artist friend had
designed them to break up the warehouse look of the space.
She sighed. She and Jack had an agreement that they would take responsibility
for their work. This was hers. The earl was aware of that thick file, knew that
she had full knowledge of what lay behind his outward facade. To her mind that
put her at an advantage. She knew Jack, too, and his casually knocking back the
whiskey was a sign his temper was up. Her brother saw too much of what went on
behind the ton facade to respect any of them simply because they were titled.
He would not have taken the cold tone of the earl lightly had she not been
there.
"I have an appointment also."
Darbee collected her cloak and book, which had blank pages for notes. Ashebrook
followed her out, offended by their lack of good manners and angered by their
condescending attitude. Standing in that hallway leading to the main rooms he
assisted Darbee with her light cape and smelled that damned scent of roses
again. He found himself trying to distract that hint of awareness by listing
her flaws again. Her short hair was unfashionable; it was silky, cut to her
ears in a blunt manner. She was petite; her head came to his lower chest. Of
course, he wasn’t actually attracted, though she looked nothing like the
mannish females he’d assumed her kind to be. The general picture among the ton
of these progressive types was of sharp-tongued harpies with hard faces and
narrowed eyes.
"Thank you."
Ethan leaned against the opposite wall propping his boot sole against the
surface and watching her check the hidden pockets for a hanky. "It’s an
uncomfortable feeling having someone know all your secrets," he confessed.
Darbee nodded. "I certainly like keeping mine." She leaned opposite
and folded her arms. There wasn’t quite a foot between them. "Be satisfied
I had the chance to destroy you, as you so dramatically believe, and did not. I
am not likely to do so in the future. Like my brother Jack, I am un-bribable
and I like not making enemies."
His silver eyes searched her face. Yes, she was blunt, and something made him
ask, "You weren’t shocked, were you?"
"About your father? No. About your sister? I was a bit thrown. You haven’t
seen the poor girl in four years; though, I haven’t proof you saw here then,
only ordered some children’s clothing." Her eyes met his. "Your
father is not able to, nor does he remember her. Now, your mistress-she’s not
as pretty as I imagined a man so worried about appearances would chose. She’s
no Lady P and I doubt you know her background, either, but I would probably
like her were we to actually meet."
"You wouldn’t like Lady P?"
"I wouldn’t dislike her," Darbee said, tactfully.
His lips curved slightly. "But you would like my mistress?"
"I’m strange that way. I relate to someone with a thought in their head
besides fashion and gossip. Lady P is too beautiful for any woman to like
her."
He laughed a low chuckle that transformed his cold eyes and impassive face.
"She wouldn’t like you, either," Ethan murmured, that smile
lingering. "She is ever vexed by females trying to force society to
educate them like men and make them work for a living."
"Just so. I have nothing against the ones who do not wish to, but for
those of us who have no rich father or husband, some of us enjoy learning. Most
of us like to eat at least once a day."
"May I buy you dinner?" Ashebrook inquired, to his own surprise.
"La, the tongues would wag, Ashebrook. You have that pristine reputation
to consider. Can’t be seen slumming with Miss D; Lady P might get cold
feet."
"Are you attached?"
Darbee frowned and then smiled. "What a word. I am not wed, but I am not
looking."
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"A babe."
"Hardly." Darbee looked away, and then glanced back, recovering from
the shock of getting an offer to dine from Ashebrook. Avoiding looking directly
at his silver eyes, she glanced in the vicinity of his shoulder. "You
know, I have minimal interest in the ton’s doings, yet I found it interesting
learning about your life."
Ethan’s brow rose. "Must be satisfying to find flaws among the
roses."
"No, it wasn’t that. It was your aloofness, the fact that you have only
one good friend. What was his name? Wynmoor, Richard, Marquis of Glynwood. But
the same quote came up over and over; he’s a cold bastard, damned cutting and
distant. One would think with your mama dead so long and your papa quite ill,
you would forgive your stepsister for being birthed by a poor Irish woman and
form a bond with her."
"Lorie has everything a young lady of her station needs. She will have the
best when her time comes; she will be presented to society."
"With her past covered up and her dowry double that of other debs."
Darbee finished dryly. "It takes an awful lot of energy to play that game,
and what a pity she will not be able to turn to you. Were it not for Jack, I do
not know how I might ha—" Darbee waved her hand. "Never mind
that." No way was she going to expose her secrets to a man like Ashebrook.
"I assure you, Lorie will be seen to."
"And Lady P, who will be countess then, will bring her out unaware of her
real birth?"
"No. My aunt will bring her out."
"Still, you are so much older than she is. You could be a father figure;
at the least, you could help her be brave and mature enough to handle gossip
should it leak out."
He was absurdly irritated by her reference to his older age, 36 in the face of
her 19 was not that ancient by society’s standards. It struck a nerve.
He said, chillingly, "Do not concern yourself with my family, Miss
Donovan."
Darbee muttered, "I see where your reputation comes from, Ashebrook. You
have perfected that icy stare, have you not?"
Ethan pushed away from the wall. "I suppose I owe you for holding back on
Leverton?"
"Not at all." Darbee straightened, too. "You sound so very
depressed at the prospect of owing anyone anything. As my brother would say, I
am too busy to lose sleep over it."
Standing so close, Ethan reflected on what he thought he liked, but it made no
real difference. His senses were aware of her. He added to her flaws again: she
was the extreme opposite of his taste, her entire personality and the kind of
blunt speech and boldness not found in his crowd. The dimples at the edges of
her pink lips were ridiculous. She looked too young, until she opened her mouth
to speak--then there was nothing green about her. He could not imagine any
female of the ton having a conversation with him. Pamela limited their
interchanges to the weather of some on-dit concerning an acquaintance.
Everything was polite between them; they observed all the conventions. There
was no female in his memory that did not stammer in his presence; even his
mistress knew the rules. Being vexed and intrigued at the same time was an
entirely new experience. He more or less admitted it.
"I am unused to trusting the female sex. That I must trust one I do not know
is rather grating."
Darbee laughed softly. "Give over, my Lord. You at a complete loss?
Something is out of your control. You are torn between offering me money, which
would smack of blackmail, and seducing me taking advantage of my tender
years."
"Tender, hell," Ethan murmured, close to smiling again. "You are
too knowing by half, Miss Donovan. And far too correct."
That last part made Darbee flush. "I have an appointment, Ashebrook,"
she reminded him. "I fear we must conclude this conversation."
Darbee stepped around him. He walked behind her into the main rooms. For all it
was no highbrow club the Gilded Gull wasn’t completely without appeal to jaded
gamblers. Dark green carpet complimented the wine red paper and gold gilt
mirrors on the walls; tables were set up in the room with well-padded chairs,
though private rooms were available. A long mahogany bar took up half the
length. The sea gull motif was on everything from the lamps to the glasses and
chair backs. Heavy velvet drapes kept prying eyes out and cigar smoke in
despite the wicker fans overhead. There was a full stage and a half dozen
instruments there some of the curtained alcoves were for private tryst with the
half dozen female employees. At the moment it was fairly empty except for a
cleaning woman and a portly gent, Benny, behind the bar.
"Are you positive I can’t buy you a meal? I am sure you know half dozen
discreet cafes."
"I have some work to do." Darbee shook her head. "Besides, there
isn’t any point in becoming chummy, is there?"
"No." Ethan knew that was true. When he wed Lady Pamela his life
would be twice as busy as it was now, and tongues would wag if they were seen
together. Gossip was what he was here to prevent, not start. "Adieu,
He nodded formally and departed. Ashebrook cursed while he walked toward his
coach parked a discreet distance away. He had to trust Jack Donovan, he had to
trust a 19-year-old chit with a impudent attitude. And he’d broken a hard, fast
rule that had been so easy to keep since he’d started covering his past. He’d
let himself respond impulsively.
"My Club, Stanford," he barked to the driver, and slammed the coach
door.
He’d spent too damn long, sacrificed too much, to become the man he was today.
No set of radical siblings was going to hinder the icing of the cake. Once he
wed Pamela he will have reached the summit of his success.
Inside the gaming hall Darbee let her breath out slow and loud. She closed her
eyes, thoroughly appalled at her attraction to the arrogant jackass. He was
everything she detested in his crowd. That he was the first man in many years
to prove that she could still be attracted to anyone really filled her with
self-disgust.
She drummed her fingers on the table recalling she’d forgotten her gloves and
parasol. She had a firm chat with herself, reminding her body that it would not
do to be stirred by a tall handsome man with silver eyes and a title. No. She
had another life that kept her pulled between
"’Ow ‘bout a brew, Miss Don O’van?" The barkeep plopped a mug on her
table. "Ye looks as if ye be needing sompin."
Darbee grinned and thanked him. "Something like a good swift kick to the
hind-side."
He wiped the counter and winked. "That’s one lord what’s got more to ‘em
than look, eh? Got a gym, he does, and e’ be known to ‘ave a mean right
hook."
"Yes, well." Darbee took a sip of dark beer. "He’s the top of
the heap when it comes to confidence and arrogance. I’m sure you’ll find a way
to alert Jack before another gets back there." She waved toward the back
hall.
"I know ‘ow to keeps me mouf shut, I do. ‘E just told me ‘e ‘ad urgent
business is all. I’ll not be lettin’ another get past so easily."
She doubted the earl had told Benny anything judging by the red of the man’s
face. Benny was loyal and she didn’t doubt that. He was looking out for himself
and she couldn’t fault any man in his position for being intimidated by the
likes of the earl.
"It’s all right, Benny." She sighed, knowing Ashebrook would have
plowed his way if Benny had tried to stop him. "Thanks for the
drink." She put some coins on the table and rose.
"You be careful out there, Miss Don O’van."
"I always am, Benny, thanks."