ChapterOne
January 1817
Bramshaw House
London, England
A bolt of white-hot pain tore through his left hand, and Flynn shot to his feet. “Blast!” He danced about on the spot for a minute, muttering a long string of foul curses.
Falling off a horse hurt. Taking a blow to the head at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing academy caused a certain degree of discomfort. But nothing in this world compared to the soul-deep agony of sticking a sharp sewing needle into the tender flesh of a finger. Especially when it was the little one.
“Ow, that hurts,” he muttered.
Flynn shook the injured hand. Why that should make the slightest difference, he had no idea. Then again, the laws of logic weren’t something that had ever really worked for him. Because if the world were in its right order, he shouldn’t have to repair his own clothes in the first place. And he most certainly would have more than a paltry two good shirts to his name.
He was Viscount Cadnam; one day he would be Earl Bramshaw. Flynn would bet the few shillings in his jacket pocket that, at this very minute, no other noble in London was sitting in his bedroom repairing a shirt.
No, that particular torture was his alone.
As the pain subsided into a dull throb, Flynn picked the garment up and resumed his seat. He had no choice. If he was going to make it to the party tonight, he had to repair the torn seam. No one else in Bramshaw House was going to do it. The servants were all under strict instructions as to the modicum of service they were permitted to provide him. None of the household were foolish enough to tempt incurring his father’s wrath by offering Flynn more.
Stabbing the needle back into the cream linen fabric, he consoled himself with the thought that Lady Augusta Kembal was going to be at this evening’s ball. The Duke of Mowbray’s eldest daughter was the one bright light in his cursed existence.
If I could just find a way for us to be together and then get out from under my father’s repressive regime, my life would be grand.
He had lived with that hope for many years. Prayed that as soon as he was able, he could be away from his father. But Earl Bramshaw was a man determined to make his son’s life a misery.
When he was done with his repairs, Flynn put the shirt on and finished dressing. He stopped and checked himself in the mirror. At first glance he appeared to be the same as most other men of London high society—well-turned out and privileged. It was only when he looked closer that he caught sight of the tiny repairs to his clothing. The threadbare and faded state of his unfashionable waistcoat held his gaze for a brief but disappointing moment. He could only hope it would be the same for the rest of thehaut tonthis evening. Heaven forbid anyone bothered to look down and take stock of his scruffy black boots. Leather polish could only hide so much wear and tear.
“You really do look like the Vagabond Viscount,” he whispered to his reflection.
At a recent Christmas party, Flynn had bent to pick up a dropped handkerchief, but as he lowered himself to the floor, the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping had reached his ears. The ass of his trousers had finally given way. After that embarrassing moment, the London newspapers had bestowed upon him the title of Vagabond Viscount, and of course, it had stuck. Whenever he attended a function, the whispers of his new moniker followed.
Fortunately, he was made of stronger stuff, and like the rest of his life’s trials, Flynn quickly learned not to take the taunt to heart.
Collecting his coat, he headed for the door and the staircase which led to the ground floor of Bramshaw House. He had made it most of the way to the front door when a familiar voice disturbed the night.
“Off to charm the ladies with your dashing good looks?”
Flynn stopped and slowly turned. At the top of the stairs stood his father, Earl Bramshaw, with his beloved greyhounds standing attentively either side of him.
His gaze took in the broad, solid form of the earl. Flynn’s sire was gifted with powerful shoulders and legs as thick as tree trunks. His back remained untouched by the passing years. And while he was a man who spent his life indulging in the most fiendish of pursuits, Earl Bramshaw’s health remained ruddy and strong.
The same could not, however, be said for his brindle-hued pets. Neither were in such fine fettle. One could only describe the dogs as being unhealthily overweight. An unkinder soul would simply suggest they were fat.
Did the dogs get the good roast beef tonight? I wasn’t even offered the bone. The remains of fish from two nights ago were all I had for my measly supper.
He was tempted to ask his father what the dogs had eaten this evening, but Flynn had learned long ago that any sort of defiance would cost him dearly. His gaze drifted to the earl’s sizeable right hand. It was clenched in a fist.
I have to get out of here before he decides I need a dose of his fatherly punishment.
“I am going to a ball to see some friends, my lord,” replied Flynn. He addressed his father the same as all the household servants did—with fearful respect.
“Friends. Who would count you as a friend?” sneered his father.
The gray-haired earl made his way down the stairs with the chubby animals trailing in his wake. When he reached Flynn, his father’s disapproving gaze took in his attire.
“Look at you. You are a bloody disgrace. It’s a wonder people don’t mistake you for a rag-and-bone picker. Well, you had better hurry up and land yourself a filly with a good dowry, because those clothes won’t survive another season.”
