Earl of Basingstoke Read online

  Earl of Basingstoke

  Wicked Earls' Club

  Aileen Fish and Wicked Earls' Club

  Published by Aspendawn Press, 2018.

  Earl of

  Basingstoke

  The Wicked Earls

  Aileen Fish

  Basingstoke

  Copyright © 2018 by Aileen Fish

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author at http://AileenFish.com.

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Book List

  Chapter One

  May 1815

  London

  Could an offer be in the near future for Lady P.W.? It could, if rumors are to be believed. A particularly scandalous earl was seen calling on her this very morning with a posy in his hands—an obvious sign of his intentions.

  Lady Phoebe Woodson snapped her diary closed and set it on the small table beside her chair, patted the leather cover, then carefully aligned her inkwell to its side. “You looked so lovely dancing with Hartshorne last night, Marjorie. Those sapphire earrings you wore matched your eyes.”

  “I’m exceedingly happy with him. I still have trouble believing we’ve been married almost seven months. To think a year ago I was ready to wed someone else.” Marjorie sighed and looked toward the window, her face glowing in the sunlight streaming through the glass, which highlighted her short, black curls.

  “You two are perfect for each other. Now it’s my turn. I must find the man who’s perfect for me. I’m twenty-four and am still single, isn’t it shocking? Papa has been giving me stern looks when each day passes without a gentleman sending flowers or asking to walk with me at Hyde Park. This year, I vow to not return to the country without accepting a proposal.”

  In truth, Phoebe had already found the man she desired with all her heart. She’d brushed aside flirtations from three men over the years, unable to consider anyone but him—Nathan Carruthers, Earl of Basingstoke. With his wickedly handsome dark features and glittering brown eyes, he was the most handsome man of her acquaintance.

  At least, she assumed his eyes were brown, and they must glitter, given how his smile lighted his face. She’d never stood close enough to be certain of the shade. Never danced with him, nor pretended to stumble so she could fall into his arms.

  A deep sigh escaped as her shoulders slumped.

  Her problem was getting Basingstoke to notice her. They’d been introduced three years ago, but for all she knew, he’d promptly forgotten her.

  “Do you think he’ll attend Lady Albright’s ball tonight?” Phoebe asked.

  “Who? Hart won’t be there. He mentioned meeting a friend at his club.”

  “Silly me—I forget you cannot hear what I think.” The friends laughed. “We’ve known each other so long I sometimes believe I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

  “Ah, now I understand,” Marjorie said. “You meant Basingstoke.”

  Phoebe actually blushed like a silly debutante, her cheeks burning so much they must be bright red. “I’m foolish to think of him, aren’t I?”

  “You’re foolish to think your father would allow you to even dance with him, much less marry. Those friends of his…the scandals…the rumors…even if only half are true, those men are truly wicked.”

  “But doesn’t the thought of kissing one of those scoundrels excite you, just a little?” Seeing Marjorie’s frown, Phoebe reconsidered. “Well, wouldn’t it have before you married? The gossip surrounding them might be as exaggerated as your husband’s situation was. Hartshorne wasn’t guilty of that scandal with his brother’s wife. Or rather, the woman his brother ended up marrying. That would have been quite the scandal the other way, wouldn’t it?”

  Marjorie’s scowl hadn’t softened. “That W pin on Basingstoke’s lapel tells you all you need to know about him. Wicked. Your parents would never forgive you for associating with such a man, and you’d be ruined in Society’s eyes.”

  “Very well, I’ll forget about Basingstoke.” She’d never forget the earl, though she could refrain from speaking about him. However, she wouldn’t stop detailing the rumors surrounding him in her diary. Embellishing them…making herself the willing victim of his debauchery, or what she assumed that entailed. Those stories she wrote might be as close as she ever came to a grand romance, so she’d take her enjoyment where she could find it.

  ***

  Nathan Carruthers, Earl of Basingstoke, scooped his winnings from the center of the table and stacked the coins in neat columns with his prior winnings. The club he and the so-called Wicked Earls frequented was quiet, the smell of stale pipe smoke lingering in the air. His friends and fellow earls, Grayson and Weston, passed their cards to the dealer, Sussex.

  Grayson drank from his glass. “What’s this rumor I hear about you, Basingstoke? You’re planning to leave the club soon?”

  “Leave? Never!” He eyed each of his friends, searching for the laughter they must be holding back.

  “That’s not what I heard. You’ve decided to end your days of freedom and marry.” Sussex shuffled the cards and dealt.

  Basingstoke coughed to cover his gasp of surprise. He’d mentioned something of the sort to his friend, the Duke of Thornton, but Thorn was very tight lipped. Who could have overheard? “That’s not precisely what I said. I don’t think I mentioned marriage, as such. I simply said it might be time to consider a family.”

  The three men laughed loudly, and Basingstoke gritted his teeth, glancing around the room to see who looked their way at the outburst.

  “Last I heard, the one required the other, at least for a man of our station,” Weston said. “Although, the ton is convinced you’ve already fathered a son.”

  “Leave Benjamin out of this discussion, or any other!” Basingstoke scowled at his friend.

  Grayson nodded. “Back to marriage…what could have put such a thought into your head? You’re young…what, twenty-eight?”

  “I’m twenty-nine, but that’s beside the point.” Nothing had caused him to waken one day and decide he needed a wife. Several members of their club had lately found love, but he wasn’t envious of them.

  He didn’t think so, anyway. No, this idea was a whisper that he heard at odd moments of the day, while riding his horse or sitting alone with a book. A very subtle notion that he should probably ignore.

  But he was beginning to like the idea. Not the part where he had to search for the right young lady—he dreaded that the most. The result…the feeling of satisfaction when he sat opposite his wife at breakfast, or he read aloud to her in the evening under the glow of a lamp, those moments were what he looked forward to.

  In other words, a marriage completely unlike his parents’.

  “Basingstoke, when you’re done wool-gathering, it’s your call.”

  He wasn’t even certain which one of the men spoke, but he quickly took his turn before anyone else could add to the good-natured derision. />
  In the morning, he would finally look at the invitations piled on his desk and see where to begin his search. He had no fear of running into one of the wicked earls in a ballroom, so he could enjoy his evening without the catcalls they’d likely offer.

  Chapter Two

  A certain notoriously wicked earl is rumored to have fallen madly and quite passionately in love with the diamond Lady P.W. Our sources are uncertain if the feelings are returned. Is there heartbreak in store for the Earl of B~?”

  The next evening, Basingstoke stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the other finely-dressed members of society who waited to enter Almack’s. He’d presumed he was less likely to be turned away at this door than at any ballroom, even if he had an invitation. Some of those matrons invited the most scandalous men they could, just to be able to say, “Do you know who refused my invitation?” Then they’d expound on what sort of debauchery kept him from coming.

  Lady Sefton, one of the patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms, was an old friend of his mother’s and she was likely the one who insisted he be granted permission to purchase a voucher each year, although he rarely used it. This Season, he would use the ten-guinea cost of the annual subscription to its utmost.

  Even if it killed him.

  Skirting the red velvet ropes marking the dance floor, he searched for somewhere to begin the undesirable task of socializing. He had no idea which young ladies were participating in the foolishness known as the marriage mart, and which intended to lead her suitors along like puppies, only to refuse a proposal. If one of his friends was in attendance, he could ask, but that was unlikely as his friends avoided these events at all cost.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Thornton disappearing into the card room. Thorn would be a good person to ask, since those looking for marriage were exactly the sort of lady he avoided.

  Now that he thought about it, joining a card game would allow Basingstoke to catch up on the gossip involving someone other than himself, for a change.

  He abhorred gossip, but at times like this, it was his best tool.

  The table where Thorn sat had four other men already seated there, but Basingstoke pulled a chair from along the wall and muscled his way between two of the players.

  “You won’t find a wife in here,” Thorn said with a sly grin as he placed his bet.

  “I’m hoping you men can save me some time. To which young ladies should I request an introduction?”

  One of the men chuckled and shook his head. “Why do you think we’re in here? To avoid conversing and dancing with the ladies. How on earth could we be expected to know who’s in the other room, aside from our wives and sisters?”

  The other men laughed in agreement.

  The older brother of one of this Season’s diamonds eyed Basingstoke, grimaced, and sighed. “What sort of girl are you looking for? I’m assuming you understand my sister isn’t for you.”

  “Of course.” What did he want? He hadn’t thought much about it, assuming he’d know it when he saw it. Or met her. “Well, she must be pretty—”

  The men laughed again and derided him for insisting appearance mattered.

  “I am in earnest. A pretty wife will have pretty daughters, which will make it much easier for them to marry. I’m considering their needs, not my own.”

  “You’ve got this well planned,” Thorn said, “for someone who’s just decided to marry.”

  “As well I should. I’ll share my home with this woman for the rest of my life, and she’ll be the mother of my children. How can I know if she suits, if I don’t know what I want?”

  He kept the other qualities to himself. She must be an avid reader, or at the very least be willing to listen to him read to her. That made him sound like a popinjay, to be sure, but it was important. He didn’t care what her income was, as long as she wasn’t extravagant. Wanting her to come from a scandal-free family wasn’t something he held out hope for, given his reputation—and his father’s lifestyle.

  Maybe he should wait another year to marry. He shouldn’t rush a decision like this. Just because his friends lately found love and happiness didn’t mean the commodity was going to dry up soon.

  The urge to join these men at the table and forget all other foolishness hit strong, but he could play cards in his club at any time. Still… “Deal me in.”

  Three of the men, including Thorn, stopped what they were doing and turned toward him.

  He shrugged. “Can’t I play a few hands before dancing?”

  They all stared, and Thorn cleared his throat.

  “You’d think you all were my father. I’m a grown man, I can make my own decisions.”

  “Of course you can,” Thorn said. “And we can decide not to let you play.”

  “What do any of you have to gain by my marrying?”

  “Nothing at all,” the dealer, a gray-haired older man, said. “But if you play, we stand to lose plenty. Be off with you, lad, and let us continue.”

  Feeling fully chastised, Basingstoke shook his head and shoved back his seat. In a move of pettiness, he didn’t bother to return the chair to the spot where he’d found it. He was certain everyone in the room had just witnessed his dismissal. He’d never been treated that way, and it took every ounce of his nerve not to protest and demand the respect he was due.

  Yet Thorn was right. He hadn’t come here to play cards.

  Finding a bride was hard work, he was sure of it, and he might as well get this whole ordeal behind him.

  Returning to the ballroom, he again skirted the velvet ropes, this time in search of Lady Sefton, who would leap at the chance to show off one of her favorite scoundrels. Several young ladies—very young, by the look of them, not to his tastes at all—fluttered their eyelashes or fans while watching him pass, only to be nudged by a chaperone so they snapped their gazes away.

  This behavior would make this business much easier, narrowing the list of women to consider. Her parents must approve of the betrothal, and he wasn’t going to beg for acceptance. Showing their distaste for him before an introduction was made allowed him to simply walk on.

  To his surprise, a pretty lady with brown hair twisted into an elaborate knot on the back of her head, and bright, sparkling eyes, smiled when he looked her way. Her manner was different to the others, more glad than flirtatious, which intrigued him. He didn’t recognize her, nor did he see anyone nearby whom he could ask for an introduction. He’d have to wait until he found Lady Sefton.

  That person was on the far side of the room, and by the time he reached her, there was no sign of the smiling young lady.

  “Lord Basingstoke, I’m pleased to see you’ve decided to make use of your voucher. I’ve wondered when that time would come.” Lady Sefton took his arm and joined him on his path around the dancers.

  “You can’t convince me my presence has been missed.”

  “By the matrons, no. However, I’ve become bored with the lack of a good scandal. Please indulge me.” The rolled fabric of her turban forced her to lean away to talk to him. She spoke good-naturedly, with an undeniable twinkle in her eye.

  “I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I’m hoping to put those in my past.”

  “I see, and that’s why you’re here. I can scarcely believe that day has arrived. Since you’ve sought me out, you must wish for an introduction. Any particular lady, or shall I choose one I think you’d find desirable?”

  “I saw a brown-haired girl who seemed to know me, but I don’t recognize her. Shall we begin there?”

  “Only if you give me more details than hair color.”

  “Lavender gown with sort of…” he tried to demonstrate the fit of her sleeves, then waved his arms down his front and outward to indicate her hem, “and flowers. Here, and there.”

  Shaking her head, she smiled. “You are hopelessly male. That description hardly helps, but in the meantime, I will be the envy of the matrons with such a handsome young man at my side. Come, show me your young lady.”

>   She wasn’t flirting. It was an honest statement demonstrated by the looks they garnered.

  An older woman with full curves packed into a tight, straight gown, and an ostrich feather rising above her turban, rushed to block their path. “Lady Sefton, you look lovely this evening.”

  “Lady Lucas, how delightful.” Lady Sefton’s voice bordered on sarcasm.

  The matron fluttered her hand at her two daughters. “Girls, come here.” She smiled again at Basingstoke.

  Lady Sefton caught his eye. “Lord Basingstoke, this is Lady Lucas, wife of Sir Harrison Lucas, and their daughters, Miss Lucas and Miss Elaina.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgement, hoping they’d move away now that the matron had gained her introduction. He was not that lucky.

  “My lord, my eldest daughter has the next set open. There are so few gentlemen here tonight, it’s difficult for all the young ladies to find partners.”

  The poor girl in question turned a delicate shade of pink, stirring Basingstoke’s pity.

  “How lucky for me,” he said, tipping his head and smiling politely as he spoke through gritted teeth. “I find myself without a partner also.”

  Two entire dance sets passed by the time he’d escorted her sister, too, and he was once again free to search for the lovely vision in lavender and gain an introduction. While approaching Lady Sefton, he saw the beauty among the dancers. Catching the matron’s attention, he tipped his head toward the crowded floor. “There, that’s the one.”

  Peering through her lorgnette as Basingstoke reached her, Lady Sefton nodded. “Ah, yes. Excellent taste, my lord. She is Lady Phoebe Woodson, daughter of the Earl of Appledown. Come, we’ll find Lady Appledown and make you known to her.”