Chapter One
London, 1867
The Earl of Warren’s London townhouse stood in fashionable Grosvenor Square. The Palladian monstrosity with its imposing white columns had been in the Blake family for generations. On this particular May evening, every window blazed with light, even though dawn would break in a matter of hours.
Dylan Blake, the earl’s youngest son, paid the driver of the hired hack that had brought him and alighted from the vehicle with a jaunty step. His black velvet cloak whipped in the chill spring breeze, and the solid weight of his dress sword bumped against his thigh. He strode toward the red brick mansion, which had never felt like a home, with rebellion in his heart.
Half a dozen footmen in deep blue livery waited on the front steps, their faces impassive as they shivered in the cold. One of the young men bowed deeply and hurried to open the door, letting the festive sounds of laughter and music drift out into the night. Dylan grinned at the lad as he crossed the threshold.
The midnight supper had ended but plenty of guests remained for the dancing. His timing couldn’t have been better.
The butler, Wadsworth, lifted a disapproving brow as Dylan entered, but the old man was too well-trained to chide his employee’s son for his late arrival. “Shall I announce you, sir?”
Dylan nodded, his blood pounding with the thrill of having thwarted one of his father’s plans. Childish, he knew, to continually provoke the man, but sometimes he just couldn’t help himself.
Surrendering his cloak to one of the footmen, Dylan followed the aging butler up the grand staircase with its intricately carved banisters, then down the long hall that led to the ballroom. He was dressed for effect tonight in his scarlet military regalia, his medals and gold epaulets flashing in the candlelight. They passed several aristocratic guests along the way, but Dylan ignored their stares and whispers.
The heady scents of beeswax and roses assaulted his senses as he entered the ballroom. The laughter and buzz of conversation indicated the earl’s privileged guests were having a good time.
Dylan scanned the crowd, his smile widening. He hadn’t been to one of these affairs in more than a decade, but nothing had changed. Society girls in elaborate gowns still whirled around the parquet dance floor on the arms of suitable young gentlemen. Titled matrons still schemed and plotted from the corners as the older men congregated in small groups, looking bored.
When the last notes of the current waltz faded away, Wadsworth cleared his throat. “The Honorable Captain Dylan Blake.”
For a moment, utter silence reigned. Scores of interested nobles craned their necks for a glimpse of the earl’s prodigal son, home at last after twelve long years of dedicated service to the Crown.
Dylan met his father’s furious gaze. He smiled, then turned his back and skirted the gleaming dance floor.Let the old bastard come to me.His days of seeking the old man’s favor were long past.
After an awkward pause, the music started up again, as did the whispers.
Julian Tremaine, Lord Basingstoke, who was Dylan’s only friend in this whole crowd, strode toward him. Dressed in austere black, as usual, the earl’s eyes glinted with welcome. “Blake! Where the hell have you been?”
Dylan shrugged, amused by the knowledge that everyone else wanted to know the same thing. “I had a prior engagement.”
Basingstoke stared at him for a moment, then chuckled in admiration. “You were with Cassandra, weren’t you?” He shook his head in astonishment. “Has there ever been a woman youcouldn’tget, once you set your mind to it?”
“Never.” Dylan grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a long, appreciative drink. “It’s the uniform. Besides, I’m making up for lost time. I was in the Army for a bloody long time, you know.”
Basingstoke laughed, then sobered and nodded in Warren’s direction. “Well, I hope she was worth it. Your father was furious when you didn’t show up for dinner. Threw off the whole thing. Uneven number, and all that.”
Exactly one hundred of London’s most elite and fashionable attended Warren’s annual ball. Because of its exclusivity, thetonconsidered an invitation to be the height of social accomplishment.
The earl had debated long and hard about allowing his younger son to attend. By selling out early in his career, Dylan had taken the place of some far more deserving social climber. The earl had lectured Dylan endlessly about the importance of the occasion and threatened vague, dire consequences should Dylan do anything beyond the pale.
For these reasons and a thousand more, Dylan had taken a sinful amount of pleasure in the fact that his late arrival had turned his father’s One Hundred Ball into a dinner of ninety-nine.
There would be hell to pay for this latest transgression, but Dylan was enjoying the moment anyway.
“My father has been furious with me since the day I was born,” he told Basingstoke with a shrug. “I figured I might as well give him a reason.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dylan saw his older brother, Michael, confer with the earl, then move through the crowd in Dylan’s direction.
As blond and golden as Adonis, Michael had always been the earl’s pride and joy. Viscount Sherbourne from birth, Michael would one day inherit the earldom and all the wealth and privilege that went with it. In return, Michael kept his reputation above reproach and obeyed their father’s every command.
No doubt he was obeying one of those commands now.
“Let’s go down to the billiard room.” Dylan refused to stick around and be chastened in such a civilized manner. He’d much prefer it if his father made a scene and took him to task for his irresponsible behavior once and for all.
But that would never happen. The earl didn’t care enough about his second son to expend such emotion.
