Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
It was a typical spring evening
in London.
Damp, foggy and exquisitely miserable. The sort of
weather that should have made any reasonable gentleman
consider staying nicely tucked by the fire. Or better
yet, of immigrating to India with all possible speed.
Of course, English gentlemen were a rare breed.
While they might be incapable of tying their own cravat,
or removing their boots without a small legion of
servants, they would not so much as bat an eye at
braving the most formidable weather.
Earthquake, flood or monsoon, nothing was allowed to
interfere with the nightly round of entertainments.
Especially when that entertainment included a few
indulgent hours spent at Hellion’s Den.
Once a coffee shop that had catered to the various
artists spattered about the capital, the narrow,
decidedly shabby building had been purchased by Hellion
Caulfield and Lord Bidwell to create an exclusive
gambling club.
Since its opening last year it had become a favorite
gathering for the gentlemen of society.
Dandies, rakes, rogues, and a sprinkling of hardened
gamblers were stuffed into the smoky interior.
And then there was Rutherford Hawksley.
No one could claim him a frivolous dandy, nor did rake
or rogue entirely suit him.
Oh, he was handsome enough to make any woman forget to
say no. Quite often they forgot to say anything at
all. Drooling and swooning was by far the more likely
response.
Perfectly reasonable.
His features were lean and perfectly carved. He
possessed a long, aquiline nose, a broad forehead and
high cheekbones that gave a hint of exotic beauty to his
countenance. His eyes were an Indigo blue and
surrounded by a fringe of black lashes. And if he were
not blessed enough he possessed a set of dimples that
could flash with devastating results.
But while women had always and would always lust after
him, and more than a few know the pleasure of his
intimate touch, the past months had wrought a change in
the once devil-may-care Hawksley.
No longer did he tease and charm his way through
society. No longer did he shock London with his madcap
dares. No longer was there a ready smile and hint of
laughter in the astonishing blue eyes.
Instead there was a hard edge to his features and a hint
of ruthless determination about him that kept the women
casting longing glances from a safe distance and wise
gentlemen stepping out of his path.
On this evening he was attired in his familiar black
with his long raven hair pulled into a queue with a
satin ribbon. In the muted candlelight a diamond flashed
on his ear with cold beauty and the scar that ran the
length of his jaw was thrown in sharp relief.
Seated at a private table he sprawled in his seat with
elegant ease. An ease that did nothing to disguise the
air of lethal power in his lean form.
He looked precisely what he was.
Coiled danger ready to spring.
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