Gareth Morant, Earl of Standon, is upright, eligible—and a bachelor who views the chancy business of falling in love with alarm.
Marriage just isn’t for him, and certainly not to his wild childhood friend Maude. But Maude is going to be in deep trouble if she doesn’t marry the highly respectable Earl, so what is a gentleman to do but create a scandal?
It isn’t easy to become a rake overnight, as Gareth and I discovered, but finding a naked governess in a brothel certainly helped and, with the enthusiastic support of his cousins Eva and Sebastian Ravenhurst (THE DANGEROUS MR RYDER) and Bel and Ashe Reynard (THE OUTRAGEOUS LADY FELSHAM), Gareth succeeds in shocking Society.
But by then Gareth has dug himself into a moral, emotional and social hole, and he has to climb out of it, greatly hindered by his own treacherous heart, Maude’s appalling acting and the surprising allure of the chaste Miss Gifford, who just wants to get back to teaching the piano and the Italian tongue. Or so she says.
I do hope you enjoy the progress of this reluctant rake as he discovers that falling in love is perhaps the most shocking experience of all.
My exploration of the life and loves of Those Scandalous Ravenhursts takes me to France next, where bluestocking spinster Elinor is assisting her scholarly mama amidst ecclesiastical ruins, quite unprepared for the eruption into her orderly life of THE DISGRACEFUL MR RAVENHURST, her black sheep of a cousin Theo. He’s the last thing she needs—unfortunately she soon discovers he’s the one thing she wants.
London—late February 1816
‘My lords, your honours, gentlemen! Your attention, please! At midnight, upon the stroke of the hour, Madame Synthia’s School of Venus presents our famed Parade of Beauty. Ladies of rich and varied experience! Exotic creatures of every hue! Country-fresh innocents willing and eager to learn their business at the hands of dashing London beaux! Posture girls of amazing flexibility and ingenuity for your delectation! In half an hour, my lords and gentlemen—take your places early and do not be disappointed!’
The ex-town crier employed at considerable expense by Madame Synthia—formerly known as Cynthia Wilkins of Camden Town—shouted himself to a stop and left the platform at the end of the Grand Assembly Lounge. Footmen began to set chairs around the stage and keen patrons jostled to fill the front row, despite there being half an hour to go before the start of the performance.
‘Morant, come on.’ Gareth Morant, Earl of Standon, winced as Lord Fellingham nudged him sharply in the ribs. ‘Those posture girls are all the go, but you need to be close up to get a proper eyeful.’ Fellingham licked his rather full lips. ‘They hold up a mirror and there are candles…’
‘I doubt they have any feature that any other woman you have had congress with was lacking, Fell.’ Gareth set down his almost-full champagne flute and regarded the scrimmage around the stage with bored distaste. ‘This place is a vulgar dive, I cannot imagine what we are doing here.’
‘You’re off your oats, old fellow, in need of a tonic, in my opinion,’ Fellingham retorted. ‘You’re no fun these days, and that’s the truth of it. Look at you—you’ve sat by the fire, toying with one glass the entire time Rotherham’s been upstairs with those Chinese twins, and never a word out of you but grunts.’
‘Indian twins.’ Gareth got to his feet and stretched. ‘They are Indian. I’m off to White’s, see if I can drum up a decent hand of cards.’
‘We can’t go without Rotherham,’ his friend protested, one eye on the rapidly filling seats before the stage. ‘And besides, I want to see this show. I’ve heard all about it, that’s why I wanted to come—remember? Let’s go and get old Rothers and watch it and then we’ll all go to White’s. He must be finished by now, surely. What do you say? Don’t be a killjoy.’
‘Very well.’ Gareth picked up his glass with a suppressed sigh, tossed back the contents and stood up. ‘Do you know which room he’s in?’
‘The Mirrored Chamber. Damn good room that, mirrors all over it, even the ceiling.’ Fellingham made for the stairs, pushing his way against the tide of men intent on reaching the stage.
‘So I collect. The name gives a slight hint.’ Damn it, Fell was right, his temper was short, nothing appealed any more. He wanted—no, needed—something, but he had no idea what, although it most definitely was not to be found in this temple to commercial sexual gratification. And the respectable novelty being pressed upon him—marriage—held no charms whatsoever either.
His friend snorted, good humoured despite Gareth’s tone. ‘Jaded, that’s what you are, you sarcastic devil. What you need is a good woman. No, make that a thoroughly bad one!’ Roaring with laughter at his own feeble wit, Fellingham struck off down a dimly lit corridor. ‘Down here somewhere, if I recall.’
‘Give me my clothes back!’ Jessica Gifford made a wild grab at the bundle of drab garments before the maid tossed them out of the door and slammed it. Outside, the key turned.
‘Now then, don’t give me trouble or I’ll have to get Madame Synthia up here, and you won’t like that, believe me.’ The maid grinned and went over to the wardrobe with a sway of her hips that indicated that the skimpiness of her gown was more than just an accident in the wash.
‘This is all a terrible mistake.’ Jessica stood there shivering, stark naked and too bemused and angry to be properly afraid. But at the back of her mind there was a growing awareness that she should be. She should be very frightened indeed, she realised, for it seemed that all the far-fetched tales she had heard about innocent country girls being snatched off the street by evil procurers were nothing less than the truth. But she wasn’t some innocent young milkmaid, she was a grown-up, independent, educated woman—this should not be happening to her!
‘There has been some error.’ She tried a reasonable tone, keeping her breathing light in an attempt to control it. ‘I am a governess, here to take up a new position.’
‘You’ll take up one of those all right.’ The maid laughed. ‘Lots and lots of new positions. You are a virgin, aren’t you?’ The glance she sent Jessica’s shivering, goose-bump-covered body was scornful.
‘Of course I am! I said there was some mistake. I asked the woman who greeted me as I got off the coach if she was Lady Hartington’s housekeeper and she said yes and took me to a carriage and the next thing I know, I am here.’
‘Yes, well, Lady H. won’t be wanting your services for her precious brats after tonight, especially as Lord H. himself is here and is likely to bid high for you. He’ll be getting you to show him the use of the globes, I’ll be bound. Or perhaps he’ll be slow at his Latin and’ll need a good birching. Put these on.’ She tossed a handful of flimsy scraps of fabric on to the bed.
‘This is a brothel?’ As well to have it clear, the logical, sensible part of Jessica’s brain told her, while the rest of it screamed in silent panic.
‘Lord love you, of course it is. Best vaulting house in town. Wonder if we ought to do something about your hair.’ The maid peered at her. ‘Nah. I’ll just unpin it, give you that ready to be tumbled look. They like that.’
‘There has been a mistake,’ Jessica repeated, adopting the tone of clear reason she found effective with some of her more dense pupils. ‘I am a governess, I am in the wrong place. If I am kept captive here,