Wicked Surrender (Regency Sinners 2)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedications

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

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  About The Author

  Other books by Carole Mortimer

  Regency Sinner 2

  Wicked Surrender

  By

  Carole Mortimer

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2017 Carole Mortimer

  Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper Designs

  Editor: Linda Ingmanson

  Formatter: Matthew Mortimer

  ISBN: 978-1-910597-53-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DEDICATIONS

  My Wonderful Family

  Chapter 1

  Stonewell House, London

  Midnight, late July,1815

  “Good God, Dante, what is wrong with you?” Dominik Sinclair, the Duke of Stonewell, opened the side door of his London town house wider so as to allow Dante admittance from the pitch black of the night outside.

  Dante perfectly understood the other man’s surprise at his appearance. He had sent word to Nik earlier this evening of his urgent need to speak with the other man privately. His footman had returned immediately with Nik’s invitation for Dante to call on him at Stonewell House at midnight. A time, Dante knew, long after Nik would have ensured the rest of the household had retired for the night.

  Dante was aware, as the fashionable and eligible Duke of Huntley, he was considered to be a gentleman of impeccable taste and style. Not so tonight. His dark hair, which was inclined to curl, was a tousled mess from hours of running his fingers through it. His clothing was less than sartorial or elegant, being slightly creased because he had been wearing the same jacket and pantaloons all day and evening.

  “This is what is wrong with me.” He took a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat for the other man to see.

  The eight friends, known as The Sinners by Society, were also agents secretly working for the Crown. Two weeks ago, they had all chosen a piece of paper at random from Stonewell’s top hat, on which a lady’s name was written. Each of them was to pursue the lady whose name was written on their own piece of paper.

  Evidence pointed to one of those eight ladies, and it was not known which, being guilty of assisting in Napoleon’s successful escape from Elba five months ago, allowing him to begin his hundred days of taking back much of his empire. All that had come to a halt at the Battle of Waterloo last month, when Napoleon’s army was defeated and he was forced to surrender.

  The Crown wished for the traitor of five months ago to be identified and imprisoned, before she might offer further assistance to the deposed emperor as he waited to learn his fate for a second time.

  Stonewell frowned slightly. “You have a problem with this lady?”

  Dante scowled darkly. “I had hoped Wolf would be able to settle the matter this past week. Instead, he has proven Lady Hanwell’s innocence, announced it is his intention to marry her, and we are all invited to attend the wedding next month!”

  Stonewell poured brandy into two glasses before handing one to Dante and resuming his seat beside the fire. “Leaving you with no choice but to now ascertain Lady Aston’s guilt or innocence. Time, as you know, is of the essence.”

  Dante barely noticed the burn of the alcohol as it made a fiery path down his throat to settle uncomfortably in his empty stomach. Food had held no appeal for him today. Nor did he acknowledge the other man’s indication he should occupy the seat opposite his, as he instead began to pace on the carpet in front of the hearth. “Perhaps you have forgotten, but she was not always Lady Aston.”

  “I did not forget,” the other man assured him evenly.

  Dante scowled at the admission. “And what if one of our friends had chosen Bella’s name instead of me?”

  Stonewell shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I doubt I would be having this conversation.”

  Dante frowned his frustration. “She was my cousin’s stepdaughter.”

  The other man nodded. “Her deceased father was French and her mother Spanish.”

  “That proves nothing,” Dante dismissed. “Many of England’s nobility have French and Spanish relatives.”

  “I did not say it was relevant. I am merely stating the facts as I know them,” Stonewell gently rebuked. “I am also aware, after your cousin’s death seven years ago, his stepdaughter, Isabella Clairmont, became the ward of the same gentleman who was your own guardian until you reached the age of one and twenty. Your paternal uncle, the previous Duke of Huntley.”

  Dante’s mouth tightened. “Why are you telling me what I already know?”

  “So that you are aware I know.”

  “Bella remained the duke’s ward for only one month before she eloped with Aston.”

  Stonewell took another sip of his brandy. “And now she is a widow, and one of the eight—now seven ladies,” he corrected, “who are suspected guilty of treason. I am sure, if it is that much of a problem for you, one of the other Sinners would happily exchange the name of his own choice and take over investigating Lady Aston—”

  “No!” Dante had to force himself to unclench the hand not holding the brandy glass. He could not accept the possibility of any of his six close friends investigating, or worse, seducing Bella into admitting her guilt or proving her innocence. “No,” he repeated. “I will do it,” he accepted heavily. Far better him than watching one of his friends pursuing Bella.

  Even if being anywhere near Bella again was the very last thing he wanted.

  Dante had absolutely no idea of the tormented man he had left behind at Stonewell House as Nik looked at the name written on his own crumpled and dog-eared piece of paper.

  Only six women left for his friends to investigate before he would be forced into investigating her.

  Chapter 2

  Aston House, London

  Two days later.

  “His Grace the Duke of Huntley is here to see you, my lady.” The butler presented a silver tray bearing the duke’s gold-embossed calling card.

  Lady Isabella Aston, Bella to her friends, made no effort to take that card. Her heart had momentarily ceased beating at the mention of the man she had once loved and who had scorned and ridiculed her when she expressed that emotion to him.

  The same man who had haunted her daydreams and inspired her every nighttime fantasy long before that.

  She had been an outgoing thirteen-year-old when her widowed mother, Antonia Clairmont, eloped with Henry—Hal St. Just, the Marquis of Cornwall and a gentleman five years Antonia’s junior. The match had not been approved of by the groom’s parents, most particularly his mother, the Duchess of Huntley. Consequently, it had been several months before the duke and duchess relented enough to forgive their son.

  That forgiveness had never extended to Antonia or her daughter, Isabella, from her first marriage, but they were grudgingly included in family occasions such as Christmas cele
brations. It was at their first Christmas with the St. Just family that Bella had met her step-papa’s cousin, Dante.

  For Bella, it had been love at first sight. Well…as much as a thirteen-year-old girl could fall in love. Most would have called it infatuation. Dante had cruelly called it that several years later.

  Then aged four and twenty, Dante St. Just had been all that was tall, dark, and handsome. His hair was inclined to curl if it grew too long. He was several inches over six feet tall, with a lithe and muscular body shown to advantage in the perfectly tailored clothes he favored. He possessed an aristocratic face which could have decorated a Roman coin: perfectly arched brows, compelling green eyes, a sharp blade of a nose, high cheekbones, and a sculptured mouth above a strong and determined jaw.

  Was it any wonder that her thirteen-year-old heart had been instantly smitten?

  In return, her newly acquired Cousin Dante had been pleasant enough to her. But being a man full grown, he had obviously shown no more interest in her then than when the two of them continued to meet at family gatherings. Not surprising, with her perfectly straight dark hair, round and olive-skinned face—the latter courtesy of her Spanish mother—and her flat-chested figure.

  There had been a vast improvement in Bella’s appearance by the time she reached the age of seventeen, the age when her mama and stepfather had unfortunately perished after a freak storm had overturned their sailing boat. There had been no children from their union, and having no other relatives, Bella had become the ward of her stepgrandfather and stepgrandmother, the Duke and Duchess of Huntley. Dante St. Just, now his uncle’s closest male relative, had become heir to the dukedom.

  At seventeen, Bella had already attended her first Season, and had learned the art of curling her hair. Her face was no longer round but heart-shaped. She also applied a powder that gave her face a paler appearance. She possessed a smooth and creamy brow, high cheekbones, long dark lashes surrounding dark brown eyes, and a pert nose. Her lips were full above a pointed chin, which she lifted stubbornly whenever she was intent upon having her own way.

  The only thing that had not changed were her feelings for Dante St. Just.

  “My lady?” her butler, Grant, prompted quietly at her lack of response.

  Bella firmly closed down those painful memories. “Please inform His Grace I am unwell and not up to receiving visitors this morning.”

  “You appear well enough to me.”

  Bella rose abruptly to her feet as Dante St. Just strode into her drawing room with the same cold arrogance with which he had dismissed her seven years ago.

  He looked older, of course, lines beside his eyes—which she doubted were due to laughter—and grooved into his cheeks. But that maturity only added to Huntley’s imposing handsomeness.

  A setter of fashion rather than a follower, Dante St. Just’s appearance was always impeccable, and today was no exception. His dark hair was styled just so. There was the ruthlessly trimmed beard he had made fashionable, covering the firmness of his jaw. His dark green superfine was tailored perfectly to wide shoulders and a muscular chest, gray pantaloons emphasizing long and shapely legs, above shiny black Hessians.

  Aware they were in the presence of her butler, Bella could only allow the flashing of her dark eyes to challenge the duke’s intrusion into the inner sanctum of her home. “I was unaware you were a qualified physician, Your Grace.”

  Cold green eyes looked down the length of his nose at her. “One does not need to be a physician to see that you are the picture of health.”

  From any other man, that remark might have been taken as flattery or flirtation. Not so coming from Huntley, and certainly not in connection to her.

  Besides, Bella knew it was not true. Despite what the duke might think to the contrary, she was only recently recovered from a severe cold, during which she had lost weight due to a lack of appetite. Her face was also paler than usual, in contrast to her dark hair and the brightness of her peach-colored day gown.

  “Shall I bring tea, my lady?” Grant was his usual attentive self.

  Unfortunately, Bella felt no such politeness in regard to the gentleman to whom she had barely spoken in seven years. “His Grace will not be staying long enough for tea, but thank you, Grant.” She waited until the butler had left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, before turning back to Huntley. “What possible reason could you have for coming into my home uninvited?” she demanded without preamble.

  Dante had predicted his initial visit to Bella Aston’s home would not be a pleasant one. Indeed, he had fully expected her hostility.

  No doubt she would be happy to ensure he continued not to be disappointed in that expectation.

  That Bella was now a fully mature woman with a presence of her own was without a doubt, and expressed in both her haughty bearing and her lack of even an attempt at politeness toward him. Having been a duke these past five years, and treated with all due deference to that title wherever he went, it was an attitude Dante found refreshing rather than the insult she no doubt meant it to be.

  “Why, what else would I be doing here but visiting you, my dear Cousin Bella,” he drawled.

  “You will address me as Lady Aston.” Her tone was frosty. “Nor have you ever felt the need to pay me such a visit during the past seven years.”

  He raised mocking brows. “A single gentleman does not pay visits to a married lady unless he wishes to start the gossips’ tongues wagging.”

  “I believe only the word single applies to you in that description.”

  He gave an appreciative smile. “Your own tongue has developed a sharpness I find wholly appealing.”

  She frowned her irritation. “If you are attempting to flirt with me, Huntley, then do not bother yourself. I am totally immune to such gentlemen as yourself. And despite what you might believe to the contrary, I am, in fact, still recovering from a cold. So if you would kindly—and quickly—state your business and then be on your way?”

  And fiery, Dante added appreciatively to haughty and impolite. Not that Bella had ever lacked spirit, a trait she had inherited from her often temperamental Spanish mother. His cousin, Hal, had certainly appeared to enjoy his wife’s fiery nature for the short time the couple had been married.

  Nor did Dante find Bella’s appearance any less appealing because of her recent cold. She had always been beautiful, her hair very black against her olive complexion, with dark brown eyes a man might drown in. Her throat was long and slender, and maturity had given her a fuller figure. The swell of her breasts spilled over the low neckline of her pale orange gown, her hips curvaceous.

  As to Dante stating his business…

  After speaking to Stonewell on the matter, Dante had pondered a reason he would suddenly call upon Bella. As she had already stated, they had not spoken more than a few polite words of greeting these past seven years, and then only if they should happen to meet by chance at a Society event.

  The letter delivered to Dante early this morning requesting his immediate presence at Huntley Park had fortuitously provided the answer to his dilemma. “I have received word from Huntingdonshire that my aunt, the dowager duchess, as she now prefers to be called, is seriously ill and unlikely to recover. She has requested she would like to see you again before she dies,” he added bluntly before Bella had opportunity to politely express her regret—insincerely; there had been no love lost between the dowager and Antonia’s daughter—at the dowager’s ill health and repeat her request that he be on his way.

  He tried to imagine how Stonewell and the rest of The Sinners would have responded to such a rude dismissal and knew without doubt those gentlemen would all have given Bella a severe set-down.

  But none of those gentlemen had the history with Bella that Dante did.

  Her eyes had widened in surprise. “The dowager and I have never liked each other.”

  Dante’s mouth tilted into a mocking smile. “I believe being upon one’s deathbed tends to give one pause to reflect up
on, and regret, one’s past actions.”

  “Indeed?” Bella eyed him scornfully. “Then let us hope, for your sake, that your own death does not come too swiftly; otherwise, I fear there would not be time enough for you to regret all of yours.”

  Oh yes, Bella was decidedly so much more than she had been seven years ago. Not only a fully mature woman, but one of strong emotions. Moreover, one who did not hesitate to state exactly what she was thinking and feeling.

  Strong emotions that might have caused her to become a traitor to her adoptive country?

  For her sake, Dante sincerely hoped this was not the case. It would be unpleasant to see a rope encircling and then stretching that slender throat.

  He repressed a shudder of revulsion at the thought of it. “You are referring no doubt to our last…conversation?”

  Color bloomed in her cheeks. “A gentleman would not have referred to it.”

  “But, as you have already remarked, I am not a gentleman,” he reminded her softly.

  Bella barely managed to hold her ground as Dante stepped closer to her. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of his minted breath caressing her cheeks, his cologne an intoxicating mixture of sandalwood and male musk.

  Her resolve broke, and she stepped away, refusing to be drawn into the seduction of that heady combination. “At least we are in agreement on something.”

  Green eyes mocked her action. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have no plans to quit this earth for some time yet.” He shrugged. “My aunt is a different matter, however.”

  Bella frowned her displeasure at what sounded distinctly like emotional blackmail to her. Who, in all conscience, could refuse the request of an elderly lady who lay dying?

  Bella knew that she could, and without remorse, when Agatha St. Just was that elderly lady.