The League of Rogues

1 London in the day was a bustling city with carriages speeding along the cobblestoned streets and women selling flowers in heavily perfumed baskets while the crowds perused the shops and paid calls on friends. But as darkness fell, shadows could play tricks on the eyes of those foolish enough to walk the streets after the sun dropped beneath the horizon. And I am one of those fools. Gillian Beaumont squinted at the nearest alley, swallowing hard and holding back a scream of fear every time she thought she saw something fluttering in the mews like a bat’s wings. The coach she had taken to the Temple Bar district was already rattling away, leaving her alone. The leaves of the early fall scuttled along the ground, tangling in her skirts like brown spiders, making her jump. She gripped her gown below her knees and gave the fabric a shake, trying to loosen the dried leaves from her dark purple satin gown. Then she faced her surroundings. She stood on the street close to the Royal Courts of Justice and the entrance to Twinings tea shop. Through the heavy gloom she could see the gilded sign that read Twinings, and she could just make out the two Chinese gentlemen sculpted into the stone above the tea shop’s name. Their faces seemed fierce in the shadows, and Gillian looked away, turning her attention to the tall black form of the griffin statue that now looked more like a dragon because the shadows played tricks on her eyes. In that moment she wished she was back in her warm bed. Asleep. Asleep and dreaming of one particular man and the stolen kisses they’d shared that kept pushing into her consciousness. James Fordyce. The Earl of Pembroke was a dashing gentleman with a heart of gold and the warmest brown eyes she’d ever seen. She could still feel her hands threading through the strands of his dark hair as he kissed her in the corner of a bookshop and whispered poetry to her. He was everything she’d dreamed of but could never have. She was a servant and could be nothing more than that. A pang deep in her chest made her catch her breath, but she straightened her shoulders, shrugging off the pain, something she’d been trained to do for many years. As dangerous as a dream of James was to her equilibrium, it was a far sight safer than what she was currently engaged in—chasing after her wild, headstrong mistress, Audrey Sheridan. Audrey was this very night attempting to expose a group of scoundrels who belonged to a hellfire club known as the Unholy Sinners of Hell. Such a dreadful name for a dreadful group of gentlemen. As a lady’s maid, Gillian’s duties ought to have been limited to tasks like dressing Audrey, preparing her for the day, and coming up with new ways to style her hair. She should not be sneaking about the Strand after dark in a domino half mask and a dark purple evening gown with an impossibly low bodice, searching for a group of dangerous men who were rumored to seduce virgins and make sacrifices to the devil. “Heavens, Audrey, what have you gotten us into?” Gillian muttered to herself. She hastily examined the addresses of the buildings nearby, recalling the location from a letter Audrey had shown her earlier that morning which contained directions to the club. The letter said the club was inside a tall white building two doors down from Twinings tea shop. The door knocker was an iron gargoyle’s face sneering at all visitors. As she reached the rather unremarkable structure that supposedly housed a den of devil worshipers, Gillian studied the door. Her heart tripped a few beats as nerves threatened to freeze her in place. There was no other option than to go inside. Audrey, her wayward mistress, was also her friend, and earlier that evening she had promised Gillian she would not go to this place. Yet when Gillian had awoken and found Audrey gone, she knew where her mistress must have gone. She lied to me. No doubt out of some silly notion that she’s protecting me, but she isn’t. Gillian would have charged into the fires of hell to protect her mistress. They were the same age, only nineteen, and in another life they might have been close friends, meeting for tea at Gunter’s or going off to balls together. In another life… If she had been born an heiress to her deceased father’s estate instead of the daughter of an earl’s mistress. Her half brother, Adam, was now the Earl of Morrey, and her half sister, Caroline, didn’t even know she existed. The previous Earl of Morrey had been careful in keeping his longtime mistress, Gillian’s mother, well set up in a house in Mayfair and had even seen to Gillian’s education, but even with such aid, her future had held limited options. Gillian raised a gloved hand to the grotesque gargoyle and rapped the knocker twice loudly. Her breath held fast in her lungs, and she waited, her body shaking at the thought of the nature of the men inside. When the door finally opened, a grim-faced butler looked her up and down, before his lips curled back in a cruel smile. “A little late, but ’tis no matter. They’ve plenty of energy tonight to see to every lady.” He waved for her to enter. Gillian hesitated before taking a tentative step forward. Her skin crawled as the butler came too close when he closed the door, sealing her inside. She tried not to think about what his greeting suggested. “This way.” The butler led her down the corridor to a chamber and opened a door for her to enter. The drawing room, if indeed it could be called that, was outlandishly decorated with dark brocade furniture and red satin walls. These dubious men were certainly trying to create a sinful and seductive atmosphere, but rather than tasteful, it seemed crass. Yet they were clearly prepared for guests. A fire was lit, and a tea tray was on the table. “Freshly brewed,” the butler assured her. “Help yourself. When they are ready, you will be summoned.” Gillian murmured her thanks and settled herself on the couch. She reached up again to make sure the domino mask hadn’t slipped. It was still fixed securely over her features. Where was Audrey? She had left half an hour before Gillian woke, according to the other servants in the Sheridan household. Had she sought out the protective escort of Charles Humphrey as she’d said she planned to? Gillian dearly hoped so. Otherwise, Audrey was putting herself at great risk. The Earl of Lonsdale was an eminently trustworthy gentleman, but he had a wicked reputation that would allow him entry to this club. Earlier that day Gillian and Audrey had been warned by a man of their acquaintance not to seek out this hellfire club tonight. One of its members, Gerald Langley, had vowed vengeance upon Audrey—or rather, upon Lady Society, Audrey’s anonymous identity as the writer of a social column. She had destroyed his reputation. Her remarks in the Lady Society column had been accurate and honest, but the outright cut direct from all of the ton against Langley had made him desperate for revenge. Fortunately, he did not know Audrey was Lady Society; that was at least one small blessing. But Audrey and Gillian had been warned that Langley would lure Lady Society to his devil’s lair with the threat of debauching virgins against their will, among other things, and Audrey was not the sort of woman to turn back on a challenge. But they’d had a plan, one they’d made together earlier that morning. They were to reach out to a few female members of that silly hellfire club and switch places with them for a proper p*****t. Yet after the adventures of the day and the dangers Gillian had faced when a man had attacked her, a man she suspected was in league with Gerald Langley, Audrey had promised to abandon the plan of going to the club tonight. Yet when Gillian had woken from her rest, she’d found her mistress gone. Had Audrey contacted one of those women? Surely she had. Gillian stood and paced about the room, worry growing in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t like that she was alone and liked even less that she didn’t know where Audrey was. They were supposed to be here together, facing the dangers of this club side by side. She bit her lip nervously and after a moment decided to have a quick cup of tea. She hastily prepared a cup and drank it, hoping to calm her nerves. Then she set it down, hating the bitterness and wishing there had been sugar, but there hadn’t even been a pitcher of milk. Only true devils would serve tea without access to milk and sugar. Gillian was unable to ignore the stifling heat from the fire. The house around her was silent except for the occasional bark of distant male laughter from another room. Each time she heard that sound she tensed. Part of the wall suddenly detached and revealed itself to be a door. A figure in black breeches, a white shirt, and a black waistcoat emerged. He wore a domino mask that had the delicate outline of a devil’s features painted in red over the black. “Good evening, my dear,” the man purred as he held out a hand to her. His long fingers were white and strangely menacing. Gillian gulped. “My friend and I were supposed to be here together. She will be wearing a red dress. Has she arrived yet?” “Ah…” The man’s lips twitched. “The lady in the red dress. She is here, waiting for you.” The mask did little to hide the cruelty in his eyes, and she shivered. “Waiting?” Gillian wished she had even a tiny inkling of what was about to happen, but she didn’t. She was running headlong into this dark and dangerous world of devils. The man curled the fingers of his still-open hand, beckoning her. “Yes, we are about to begin the feast.” Gillian came toward him, and he reached down and took one of her gloved hands. She allowed him to lead her into darkness. James Fordyce, the Earl of Pembroke, stared at the card tables in the private gathering place of what London knew existed only in rumors. The Wicked Earls’ Club. Members could be identified by a small silver pin they wore in their cravats. Once it had been a guild of prominent and powerful men who met in secret to make deals and curry favor, but their purpose had dissolved into a more corrupt world. It was not a place of malevolence or evil, but as James considered the men around him, their eyes locked on the flipping cards, the bottles abundant on the tables and the occasional woman draped over men’s arms, breasts spilling over to please the eyes of every man in the room, there was a darkness of a kind here. The darkness that came from broken lost souls. Souls like mine. A dark figure loomed in the back of the room, and James recognized him, the leader of their club, the Earl of Coventry. Coventry gave James a small nod in silent greeting. James returned the nod and surveyed the room again. The ranks of the club had thinned in recent years, and he smiled at the thought of so many of his friends settling down with wives. Marriage to good women had a way of keeping men away from clubs like these. “Coventry looks pleased with himself,” someone muttered beside James. To his left he saw his friend Pierce Chamberlain, the Earl of Wainthorpe. “Wainthorpe, I didn’t expect to see you tonight. I thought you were among those lucky enough to be basking in marital bliss.” Wainthorpe cracked a smile, which lightened the small scar of his temple. “I will agree to the bliss, but if you dare breathe a word to anyone…” Wainthorpe growled. James chuckled at his friend’s reaction. Wainthorpe acted rough but was one of the most softhearted men James had ever met. “Your secret is safe with me,” James promised. “What did you mean about Coventry?” Wainthorpe crossed his arms and scowled. “Every time one of us gets leg-shackled, he starts grinning from ear to ear as though he played some part in our marriage or is somehow profiting from it. Damned odd.” For a moment neither man spoke. “What brings you here tonight, Pembroke?” “Trying to drown my sorrows,” James replied sardonically, but bitterness clung to his words because they were true. Earlier that day he had met the most wonderful woman and then promptly lost her. Gillian Beaumont was a complete mystery to him, and he feared he might never see her again. “Oh Lord, come and have a drink with me and tell me all about it. As a married man, I can offer solid advice on the fairer s*x. None of it will be worth a halfpenny, though.” Wainthorpe’s teasing made James smirk again. They took two chairs at a table far enough away from the men playing cards that they could speak without being distracted by the games. A bottle of scotch sat on a silver tray with several glasses, and Wainthorpe poured them both a healthy amount of the drink. They clinked their glasses in a toast, and each took a sip. “So let’s hear about your sorrows.” James sighed. “I met a woman today at a modiste’s shop. I was with my sister, Letty, and we made the acquaintance of Miss Gillian Beaumont. You don’t happen to know her, do you?” He’d spent all evening asking everyone he knew if the name was familiar, and so far no one had given him any positive responses. “Beaumont?” Wainthorpe rolled the name over on his tongue, tasting it. “I knew a man named Beaumont, the Earl of Morrey. His son, Adam, is now carrying the title. Decent fellow. His sister is quite lovely, but her name is Caroline. Not Gillian.” “A distant cousin, perhaps?” James wondered aloud. “Perhaps.” Wainthorpe poured himself another drink. “I could put my cousins on the matter. They’re quite good at tracking ladies down.” James snorted. “Lord save anyone who tried to hide from your formidable but lovely cousins.” James hastened to add the last bit lest he upset his friend. “So the woman has you tied in knots, you say?” “Yes.” Tied in knots was the right way to put it. After stealing a few kisses in a bookshop, he could still feel her lips against his own like a phantom presence, and her sweet taste still haunted him. Had finding her been simply a matter of curiosity driven by lust, that would have been one thing, but he had a dreadful feeling that she was in grave danger. And he couldn’t bear the thought of that, not if it was in his power to protect her. Earlier that evening, he’d escorted her home after she’d received a letter at Gunter’s. When he’d let her out of the coach, she’d been attacked by a lowly coward of a man and rendered unconscious, and the letter she’d received had been stolen. When James had pressed her for details, she’d refused to share anything with him. He’d had no choice but to drop her off at the townhouse of a friend, Viscount Sheridan, and then she’d vanished. He intended to seek out Cedric Sheridan tomorrow and ask who his mysterious guest was and why she might be in danger. “Well, you can begin your quest tomorrow, eh? You don’t want to be out on the streets tonight. Gerald Langley, the one from the Lady Society column, is meeting with that hellfire club he runs. Sometimes that lot gets a bit unruly and takes to the streets. Anyone in their path can find themselves in danger. They almost killed a man a few months ago. They were ready to throw him in the Thames until the Bow Street Runners came upon the scene.” “What? That’s awful!” James remembered reading something about that Langley fellow. The man had made a wager with… James’s blood froze in his veins. Langley had made a hefty wager to anyone who would seduce a lady named Alexandra Rockford. James’s friend Ambrose Worthing had taken up the wager, but only in order to spare the lady, and he’d later confessed his involvement in the Lady Society column. That column had irreparably damaged Langley’s name. Langley had been spreading rumors around town that he would not only unmask Lady Society but do her harm as well. And today, Ambrose Worthing had given Gillian a note that had resulted in her being attacked. Surely she…can’t be Lady Society? “Where does Langley’s hellfire club meet?” James demanded, praying Wainthorpe would know. “On the Strand, or so I hear. Nasty devils. Langley likes to lure virgins to the meetings with promises of finding wealthy husbands, and well, you know…” Wainthorpe didn’t finish, but his dark scowl told James everything he needed to know. James leapt from his chair. “I’ve got to go. Thank you for the drink.” “Where are you going?” Wainthorpe stood with him, worry knitting his brows. “To stop Langley. I have a suspicion my mysterious Miss Beaumont might be Lady Society.” “What?” Wainthorpe gaped. “Do you need me to come with you?” “No, go home to Bianca. Lord knows what mess tonight will bring. I don’t want to risk your reputation, and I suspect bringing others might put me in more danger, not less.” James smiled at him. “Send word if you need me,” Wainthorpe called out as James left the club. James hailed a hackney as he rushed down the steps of the club and into the street, telling the driver to take him to the Strand. He only prayed he wouldn’t be too late.