The Wrong Rake

Behind that unassuming entrance, similar to all the others on the street with its polished knocker and well-swept stairs, lurked the man Harry had come to London to find. He had confirmed that Beaumont, the wastrel who’d trifled with Amelia, spent a large portion of his time in Perdition, a gaming hell disguised as a respectable gentleman’s club. Rumor had it he owned a portion of it, too.

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides, and he drew in a deep draught of the sultry evening air, coughing at the flavor of it—good Lord, he hated the city—but forcing his fingers to relax. It wouldn’t do to enter the club clearly spoiling for a fight. Beaumont might run, the cowardly blighter, just as he’d run from Bath back to London. Or if he did own Perdition, or a part of it, he might rally the staff, presuming they were numerous and well-muscled enough, to eject Harry from the premises before he’d managed to get the fellow alone.

Although what precisely he would do once he’d brought that to pass remained to be seen. Harry’s tendency to charge in with an outline of a plan, leaving the rest to luck and inspiration, might not serve him as well in a London club as it had in the mountains of Spain. He couldn’t possibly challenge Beaumont to a duel in order to rescue his sister’s reputation, damn and blast it, no matter how convinced Amelia had seemed that Harry would do so.

But then, Amelia’s ideas of how such affairs were pursued had been formed from novels and a romantic imagination. She’d wavered between excitement at the idea of her brother involving himself—and her, by proxy—in a fog-shrouded dawn engagement, swords clashing or possibly pistols cracking, and terror lest Harry should kill his man and need to flee for the Continent, from whence he’d only recently returned.

That she did not fear whatsoever for his safety didn’t distress him; it formed his primary reason for striking dueling from his list of possible responses to the offense given.

An officer who’d fought his way through the Peninsula under Wellington and then returned for the latest campaign, ending his career by surviving Waterloo…well, he’d be lambasted as a murderer if he called any man out.

And it would be nothing but the truth.

Perdition’s door opened, a hubbub of laughter and raised voices reaching Harry even where he stood across the street in the shadow of a tree overhanging a garden wall. Three men emerged, all in evening dress, one of them lurching from side to side as if thoroughly foxed despite the relatively early hour.

Harry took the plunge at last, crossing the street and treading swiftly up the stairs before the door could close behind the group of gentlemen.

A liveried servant bowed him in with a murmur of welcome, and another stepped forward to take his hat and greatcoat. The front hall of Perdition certainly met expectations. A marble floor, gilt-framed paintings on the walls, vases on the side tables. Very much the bang-up-to-the-knocker London townhouse. Although the content of the paintings…well, daring might be the correct word.

Another fellow approached, this one in sober evening dress and with the air of a butler, and Harry tore his eyes away from several nude and nubile nymphs who appeared to be enjoying their ravishment at the hands—and other parts—of a leering Satyr.

“Good evening, sir,” the servant said. “Welcome to Perdition. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of your company before?”

“Henry Standish,” Harry said. He’d considered using a false name, but surely this Beaumont wouldn’t be paying such close attention to every man who stepped through these doors. And the old schoolfellow who’d helped him find Perdition, and Beaumont, would be put in an awkward position should the falsehood be discovered. He might be barred from Perdition once Harry had completed his business, but at least he wouldn’t be known as an accomplice to a liar. “My friend John Crawley is an occasional guest here, and he told me I could find a game of Hazard while I’m in town.”

The butler smiled, bowed, and acknowledged that Mr. Crawley had been in the house some few weeks past. “I hope you enjoy your evening, sir,” he added. “The parlor on the left will certainly provide you a game. If you wish for other entertainments, those are also available. Any attendant will be delighted to assist you.”

Other entertainments. Crawley had hinted at Perdition being a place one could find certain pleasures that might be a bit beyond the pale, and as Harry nodded at the butler and passed through the door into the left-hand parlor, he prepared himself for anything.

Or so he thought.

Because if this were the gaming parlor, with the wilder entertainment relegated to elsewhere in the house, Harry thought those hints had been excessively understated.

Gaming tables scattered throughout the room held a full complement of men laughing, brooding, or arguing, depending on their current fortunes; the scents of smoke and brandy and wine rose up headily along with a babble of voices.

And several of the seated men, enough to be immediately noticeable, had scantily clad young persons on their laps, squirming and giggling and nuzzling.

Not all of the persons were female.

Harry stopped dead in his tracks, his scalp prickling with heat and a strange, hot sensation twisting down his spine and lodging itself in his belly. Out in the open, where anyone who walked through the doors could see! Did these fools want to be brought to the dock? The occasional mutual toss-off with another fellow in private, all right, but this?

“See anything that appeals to you?” The smooth, drawling voice at his shoulder made Harry jump, flush hot, and spin about, no doubt looking an utter fool, particularly given the contrast between his carrot-orange hair and his beet-red face.

“I beg your pardon?” he demanded, coming face to face with a tall, willowy, almost absurdly elegant gentleman with fashionably cut black hair and the most supercilious peaked eyebrows Harry had ever had the misfortune to encounter.

The gentleman looked thirty years old, perhaps, five years or so Harry’s senior and probably the equivalent of as many decades more experienced with London’s sophisticated debauchery, given the glint in his eye and his air of utter indifference to the bacchanalia surrounding him. Harry knew his way about a drunken, filthy revel in a Portuguese brothel as well as any of Wellington’s men. But this…this was different.

As Harry stared down at him in irritation—because the gentleman might be tall, but Harry towered over everyone—the fellow’s wide, mobile mouth curled into a smile, and a pair of very fine dark eyes glinted with malicious amusement.

Or at least Harry interpreted it as malicious.

“You appear to be somewhat out of place, sir,” the gentleman continued—and yes, definitely malicious. What an arse. “May I assist you?”

The twist he gave the words strongly suggested he meant assisting Harry in being put in his place.

Harry might not have spent a great deal of time in society, but surely he didn’t look such a country cousin as that, did he?

“I very much doubt it,” Harry said with great hauteur—or such was his intent. It came out more of a growl.

Those eyebrows rose another fraction. “I beg your pardon. I ought to have introduced myself. Simon Beaumont, one of the proprietors of Perdition.” He went on, saying something about the entertainments available, but it was lost in the roar filling Harry’s ears.

Beaumont. This was the bounder who’d trifled with his sister. The cad who’d raised her hopes with his extraordinarily particular attentions, squired her about Bath for weeks, made his intentions abundantly clear—and then insulted her at a public assembly, exposing her to the laughter and whispers of the world. He’d departed Bath the very next day, posting up to London without a fucking care for what he’d done.

“He asked me if he knew me, Harry,” Amelia had sobbed, leaning her head on his shoulder as she had used to do when they were children. “Said that he couldn’t possibly be acquainted with such a quiz!”

Harry had stroked her hair, comforted her as best he could, and silently vowed to wring Beaumont’s neck when he could catch up with him.

The memory recurred with sudden, inescapable vividness, washing away all of Harry’s well-intentioned plans to use subtlety in this matter.

“You,” Harry snarled, cutting off whatever Beaumont had been babbling about. His fists clenched, and he lunged forward a step, making Beaumont startle and fall back. “You dare to—you!”