How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Read online

  Did something go bump in the night at a certain Berkeley Square residence?

  —The Beau Monde Mirror

  Nate pushed open the double doors to the library. If only he didn’t have to attend any damnable ton balls or soirees. God, the idea of courting a simpering debutante like Lady Penelope Purcell was enough to turn his stomach—

  A decidedly feminine gasp and a dull thud stopped him dead in his tracks.

  What the deuce?

  Behind his father’s desk stood a raven-haired angel. A beautiful young woman wearing nothing but a pale blue shawl over a thin white night rail, and an expression of sheer terror.

  “Lord Malverne. Oh, heavens. Oh, my goodness.” The angel’s shocked, wide-eyed gaze dropped to the desk, and then, much to his amusement, he was certain she muttered something not so angelic like blast beneath her breath.

  Nate’s gaze followed hers. Blast indeed. His father’s cut crystal inkwell was on its side, and a black pool of ink was rapidly spreading across the dark red blotter, heading inexorably toward the young woman’s pristine nightgown. In the next instant, as he strode toward the desk to offer assistance, she whipped off her shawl and pressed it against the inky puddle.

  “I’m so, so sorry. What will your father think of me? I only meant to borrow a little ink. I didn’t think he’d mind.” Her words came out in a breathless rush as she began to dab furiously at the blotter. “And now I’ve ruined some of his papers. Oh, Lord, I hope they’re not too important.” She nodded at a dark splash marring the top of a document that looked a lot like a draft parliamentary bill. “What a disaster.”

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

  Copyright © 2019 by Amy Rose Bennett

  Excerpt from How to Catch an Errant Earl copyright © 2019 by Amy Rose Bennett

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9781984803931

  First Edition: August 2019

  Cover art by Aleta Rafton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Richard, the love of my life and my very own hero,

  you are the reason I write romance novels.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A heartfelt thank-you must go to my wonderful agent, Jessica Alvarez. Your insight and support have been invaluable.

  I’m also extremely grateful to Cindy Hwang at Berkley Publishing for believing in my story. And of course, I must thank my fabulous editor, Kristine Swartz, for her expertise, and all the team at Berkley who’ve worked so very hard to make my book the very best it can be.

  And last but not least, I want to thank my amazing husband and two beautiful daughters for their endless love and unwavering belief in me. I wouldn’t have achieved my dream without you.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from How to Catch an Errant Earl

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Disreputable Debutantes in the making!

  A shocking scandal of epic proportions at a certain London school for “Young Ladies of Good Character” shakes the ton.

  Does your genteel daughter attend such a den of iniquity? Read on to discover ten things one should consider when choosing a reputable academy . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Mrs. Rathbone’s Academy for Young Ladies of Good Character, Knightsbridge, London

  Midnight, February 3, 1815

  Heavens. Take care, Charlie.” Sophie Brightwell winced as her friend entered her bedroom and carelessly pushed the door shut with her slippered foot. The resultant bang was decidedly too loud in the relative silence of the dormitory wing of the Hans Place town house. “You’ll wake Mrs. Rathbone for sure. If she finds out what we’re up to . . .” Sophie couldn’t suppress a shiver.

  Lady Charlotte Hastings—or Charlie to her friends—threw her a disarming smile as she deposited a large bandbox of contraband and a battered leather satchel on the end of the single bed. “Don’t worry so, darling Sophie,” she said as she untied the black satin ribbon securing the box’s lid with a flourish. “I just passed her bedchamber and she was snoring like a hold full of drunken sailors.”

  Arabella Jardine, who was perched on the edge of a bedside armchair, pushed her honey-gold curls behind her ears and then smoothed her robe over her night rail. “Aye, ’tis true, Sophie,” she agreed in her soft Scots burr. “I suspect she’s been into the sherry again.”

  Sophie pressed her lips together to suppress a small sigh. Even though she loved Charlie like a sister, the earl’s daughter didn’t have as much to lose as she did, or indeed their other two partners in crime this night—Olivia de Vere and Arabella—if they were caught flouting the young ladies’ academy’s strict rules. So while it was quite true that Mrs. Agatha Rathbone, the apparently upstanding, middle-aged headmistress of her eponymous boarding school, was fond of a tipple—or ten—on Friday evenings, and nothing short of an earthquake or a herd of rampaging elephants was likely to rouse her, Sophie was still anxious about the whole idea of a midnight gathering—especially because it was occurring in the room she shared with Olivia.

  Sophie’s pulse leapt once more as the door opened again, this time admitting her roommate, bearing a tray of mismatched china teacups.

  “Ah, perfect timing, Miss de Vere,” Charlie remarked as she lifted two dark glass bottles from the bandbox and brandished them in the air. “So what poison will you choose, my lovelies?” she asked, her topaz brown eyes dancing with merriment. “French brandy or port?”

  Olivia carefully placed the tray on the cherrywood bedside table then tossed her dark braid over one slender shoulder. “Wh-what do you r-recommend? I h-haven’t tried either one.” Her manner of speech was an unusual combination of the lyrical and the discordant, her tone low an
d melodious with an appealing smokiness. Yet it was her stammer that drew attention; Sophie knew it tended to emerge when Olivia was nervous or extremely fatigued.

  “My grandfather let me try a wee sherry at Christmas,” added Arabella. “But I’ve never tasted brandy or port wine.”

  “Hmm. The port is probably a little smoother for unseasoned drinkers. But I’ve heard my brother Nate say French brandy is excellent. Perhaps we should all begin with that.” Charlie turned her bright gaze on Sophie. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes.” A burst of curiosity overcoming her trepidation, Sophie leaned across the quilted counterpane to examine the jumbled contents of the box. “So, what else have you smuggled in here?”

  An enigmatic smile tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth. “Oh, this and that,” she said as she passed the bottle of brandy to Olivia to dispense. “All will be revealed after we raise our glasses—or I should say cups?—in a toast.”

  “A toast to what?” Arabella asked as she took her brimming teacup from Olivia. Beneath her gold-rimmed glasses, her pretty nose wrinkled when she sniffed at the amber liquid. “You are being altogether too mysterious, Charlie.”

  “To us, of course. And our new society.”

  Sophie arched an eyebrow. “And does this society have a name?”

  “It certainly does.” Charlie handed a teacup to Sophie and then beamed as she added, “Right, my darling girls. From this night on, we four shall henceforth be known as the Society for Enlightened Young Women, a society that will aim to provide its members with a stimulating education in all manner of worldly matters not included in this academy’s current curriculum. Such knowledge will, of course, be invaluable when each of us leaves here and is subsequently obliged to embark on a quest to secure an advantageous match during the coming Season. And as we all know how cutthroat the marriage mart can be, I, as head monitor, feel it is my incumbent duty to begin your supplementary tutelage sooner rather than later.” Her gaze touched each one of them. “If we are all in agreeance . . .”

  Olivia nodded, Arabella murmured yes, and Sophie’s brow knit into a suspicious frown. “What worldly matters in particular?” she asked.

  Charlie cast her a knowing smile. “Why, matters that all men, young and old, know about, but we, as the fairer, weaker sex, are supposed to remain ignorant of until we are wed. But by that time, I rather suspect it is too late. To my way of thinking, it would be much better to enter into marriage with one’s eyes wide open. And dare I say it, perhaps we might have a little fun along the way too?”

  “Are . . . are you referring to sexual c-congress?” whispered Olivia, her doe brown eyes widening with shock.

  “Yes, I am. Among other things. The art of flirting is also an essential skill any wise debutante should have in her arsenal, and naturally, it is a precursor to any activity of an amorous nature.” Charlie turned to Sophie and raised a quizzical brow; her eyes glowed with anticipation. “What say you, my friend? You haven’t responded yet.”

  Sophie worried at her lower lip as she considered Charlie’s proposal. Even though she hailed from Suffolk and possessed a rudimentary knowledge of “sexual congress”—as it pertained to the mating rituals of farmyard animals, at least—there was still much she did not know about the ways of the world—and the male of the species—compared to Charlie.

  Indeed, Lady Charlotte Hastings was the only one in their close-knit group who had several brothers—one of whom was a well-known rakehell. And she also had a bluestocking aunt who was purported to be a “liberal thinker” and “a woman ahead of her time.” For these reasons, Sophie didn’t doubt for a moment that Charlie possessed unique insights into the male mind and a singular knowledge of taboo topics.

  Unlike her confident, highborn friend, Sophie was not a member of the haut ton. But if Charlie was prepared to equip her with the skills and knowledge of a sophisticated debutante, she would be an avid pupil. She’d much rather possess a modicum of self-assurance attending ton social events when the Season began in earnest. Heaven forbid that she should come across as a naive and nervous bumpkin who blushed and stammered whenever an eligible gentleman asked her to dance or even cast a glance in her direction. “Your idea has some merit,” she at last conceded with a smile. “After all, forewarned is forearmed. How often will we meet?”

  “Oh, once a week I expect,” said Charlie with a wave of one elegant hand. “And only when we are certain Rathbone is as drunk as a wheelbarrow. Which always seems to be on a Friday.”

  Sophie inclined her head. “Then I agree too.”

  “Excellent.” A spark of mischief lit Charlie’s eyes. “Now, if we were male students, at this point we’d no doubt plight our troths by doing something dreadful like expectorating across the room or slicing open our palms to make a blood oath, or at the very least we’d all expel some kind of foul air from an orifice we shall not speak of.”

  A delighted bubble of laughter escaped Arabella. “Oh, Charlie. I suspect you are quite right. But I think your original suggestion of a toast will suffice.”

  “Yes indeed,” agreed Sophie.

  Charlie’s smile widened as she moved to the center of the worn hearthrug. The firelight limned her unruly chestnut hair in gold, and in that moment, Sophie couldn’t help but think her friend bore more than a passing resemblance to a fiery Valkyrie or Artemis, the huntress—she was a determined young woman on a mission and she would not be thwarted.

  Lifting her chipped Spode china teacup, Charlie caught all of their gazes and led the toast. “Well then, without further ado, let us all raise our cups and drink to the Society for Enlightened Young Women. Long may we prosper. And may we all find happiness wherever life takes us.”

  Sophie, Olivia, and Arabella raised their cups and in unison proclaimed, “Hear, hear,” before they each took a sip of brandy. Then Olivia coughed, Arabella gasped, Sophie’s eyes watered, and Charlie laughed.

  “Oh, girls. It’s not all that bad, is it?” she asked, rubbing Olivia’s back.

  “Where did you get this . . . this fire water?” Sophie wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her flannel night rail.

  Charlie took another sip before replying. “My father’s study here in London. He won’t miss it. And even if he does, he’ll probably assume Nate took it. He’s such a devil.”

  Nate—or Nathaniel Hastings, Viscount Malverne—was Charlie’s older brother and, as the eldest son of the family, heir to the earldom of Westhampton. Sophie had met him in passing two months ago in Hyde Park while out walking with Charlie, so she could certainly attest to the fact that he was wickedly handsome—a man who could easily make females blush just by casting a sinful smile their way. Indeed, Sophie rather suspected she resembled a boiled lobster when Charlie had made the introductions.

  Of course, Charlie had warned her, Olivia, and Arabella on numerous occasions that Nate was a rogue to his very bones, and exactly the sort of man they should be wary of when they made their debuts. He seduced women regularly, without care or regard for their feelings or their ruined reputations. He was definitely not the sort of man who wished to marry anytime soon.

  But despite Charlie’s warnings, a small part of Sophie had always thrilled to the idea of capturing the attention of a man like Nate, even if it was just for a little while. What was it about wicked rakes that lured her—and perhaps other women—like a candle flame lured the hapless moth? The glint of mischief in Lord Malverne’s dark eyes had seemed to contain a promise as his gaze traveled over her that cold winter’s day: Come with me and I will show you sensual delights. Forbidden things both bright and burning. Secret things that are inherently dangerous yet irresistible. No wonder she still blushed at the memory. The heat in her cheeks had nothing to do with the brandy she sipped . . .

  The sound of Arabella calling her name pulled Sophie from her ruminations, and she approached her bed to examine the other illicit items Charlie had broug
ht with her to supplement their “education.” Aside from a jar of sugared almonds and one of barley sugar sweets, there were several leather-bound volumes, a slender silver box, and a folio, which Charlie had just pulled from the leather satchel.

  Sophie put down her cup, picked up one of the books, and then gasped. Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, volume one.

  “Charlie,” she breathed. “Where on earth did you get this? You know it’s banned, don’t you? That the author was arrested?” She once overheard two older women at the circulating library discussing it in excited whispers behind one of the standing shelves when they’d come across another not-quite-so-scandalous book entitled Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded.

  “Of course, I do,” replied Charlie. “And to answer your first question, I found it in my father’s library, along with volume two, and these . . .” She fanned a sheaf of sketches and drawings across the counterpane that put Olivia to the blush and sent Arabella into a paroxysm of laughter.

  Sophie leaned closer, and her eyebrows shot up when she saw the erotic nature of each picture. “Oh, my Lord,” she whispered, picking one up with shaking fingers as heat crawled over her face. “What, in heaven’s name, is he doing to her?”

  Charlie grinned. “That, my dear Sophie, is one of the many things you’ll become enlightened about.”

  Behind her glasses, Arabella’s gaze sharpened with interest as she picked up the ornate silver box, unfastened the clasp, and lifted the lid. “Cheroots, Charlie? Are these for us to try?”

  “If you like,” she said, taking one of the slender, quite feminine-looking cigars from the box. “My aunt Tabitha calls them cigarrillos. Her tobacconist makes them especially for her using a tobacco blend from Seville.”

  Olivia also picked up one of the cigars and gave it a small sniff. “My g-goodness. Perhaps we should call ourselves the Society for Scandalous Young Women.”

  “Well, we will only be deemed scandalous if we are caught,” Charlie remarked as she plucked a taper from the spill vase on the carved wooden mantelpiece. She dipped it in the flame of a candle and touched it to the end of her cigarrillo until the tip caught alight. Then, after inhaling a small breath, she expertly puffed out a delicate cloud of smoke. The earthy yet sweet scent of burning tobacco filled the room.