Page 1 of Seduced By a Scoundrel

One

LONDON – MARCH, 1837

At the young age of seven-and-twenty, Jeremy Wilkes was already one of the most celebrated tailors of theton. His shop on Jermyn Street was a constant hive of activity as some of the finest gentlemen and wealthiest industrialists of London and beyond came to Jeremy for the latest in sartorial elegance.

Jeremy had his favorite clientele, though.

“It’s terribly exciting to see the growth that Cecil and Austin, that is, Lord Thurleigh and Mr. Haythorne, have brought about for The Chameleon Club,” Ellis Copeland, the Marquess of Wilmore, commented as Jeremy worked to fit the waistcoat he was constructing for the man. He had pins in his mouth and a bit of chalk in his hand, so he wasn’t able to reply before Wilmore continued with, “But, of course, that was what Uncle George wanted. The Chameleon Club and The Brotherhood are his legacy to us, to our kind.”

Wilmore grinned at Jeremy, as though he was happy to be in a place that was safe enough for two men to talk openly about things that might end with them jailed and hanged if they spoke in such a way out in the street.

Jeremy blushed at the thought of George, the previous Marquess of Wilmore. He placed the last pin from his mouth into the fabric of the waistcoat and said, “Your uncle was a great man and well ahead of his time.”

Wilmore laughed. “You have no need to tell me. I learned more about Uncle George’s unique tastes and his generosity at the party at Swanmore Glen, nearly two years ago now, than I ever thought I’d learn.”

Jeremy smiled, but he didn’t have anything to say about the now legendary summer house party. The late Marquess of Wilmore had been a rake and a rogue who had left an entire field of former lovers, some of them among the wealthiest and most highly placed men of theton, behind. The party he’d bade the current Lord Wilmore to host in his honor was now the stuff of myth and gossip among the members of the newly formed Brotherhood.

Jeremy was not quite important enough nor close enough with the late Lord Wilmore to have been invited. At least, he had not been back then. He’d been well-respected and enjoyed the patronage of a great many of the men who had attended, however. He’d even been the late Lord Wilmore’s tailor during the last years of his life. Jeremy and the late Lord Wilmore had enjoyed countless conversations over silk and linen as Jeremy had dressed him for every possible occasion.

To be honest, Jeremy also suspected the late Lord Wilmore had had something to do with the rise of his business from a humble room attached to another shop to the splendid premises on Jermyn Street that he enjoyed now. Jeremy had known of the late Lord Wilmore’s proclivities, and while the old man had flirted shamelessly with him while Jeremy went about his work, he’d never been seduced by the older man, like many a bright-eyed and eager young man who shared his tendencies had.

Even without a more sinful connection, good fortune had begun to come Jeremy’s way after the first few additions to the late marquess’s wardrobe that he’d constructed. As someone who had been born into a tailoring family, who had learned to sew before he’d learned to walk, and who had been apprenticed to a Saville Row tailor from an early age, the inevitability of Jeremy’s future had never been in question. But it was George who had made all of Jeremy’s ambitions come to fruition at a far younger age than he might have been before finding success.

“You should join us again at The Chameleon Club,” Lord Wilmore went on as Jeremy finished marking the alterations he needed to make to the waistcoat, then moved behind the man to help him out of it. “You were there for the inaugural celebration. I remember seeing you in conversation with Detective Talboys.”

Jeremy’s face flushed so hot that he was grateful for the ability to turn away for a moment to take the waistcoat aside. Hehadbeen conversing with Det. Talboys. He’d been completely mesmerized by the man’s rough and rugged form, his easy smile, and his overtly sensual ways. Despite the fact that Talboys was a man of the law, Jeremy had felt like he was in grave danger just being in the man’s presence.

Not danger of being assaulted or harmed in any way, which was a constant worry for a man of his age and admittedly too soft appearance. No, Derrek Talboys had made him fear for his moral and emotional safety.

“There is to be another ball in a fortnight,” Wilmore continued as he stepped down from the platform where he’d been standing while Jeremy took his measurements and made his marks. “You should join us.”

“I’m hardly worthy of attending a ball at a prestigious club,” Jeremy replied, stepping back to help Wilmore with his jacket.

“Oh, but that is the brilliance of The Chameleon Club,” Wilmore said, full of enthusiasm. “Membership is not based upon class or wealth. In fact, the very point is to have members of all classes and professions. The only requirement is that you are a man who loves?—”

Wilmore stopped abruptly and cleared his throat as one of the young men Jeremy employed as a runner and lad of all work stepped back into the shop from the chilly morning street.

“Morning, my lord,” Artie said, touching the brim of his cap with an awkward half bow. “Lord Braintree’s suit has been delivered, sir,” he said to Jeremy.

“Lovely. Thank you, Artie,” Jeremy replied with a smile, then went on with, “Would you mind helping Timothy in the back with Mr. Naman’s order? The man was insistent on everything being done before Saturday.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Artie said, unwinding his muffler and shrugging out of his jacket as he headed into the back part of the shop, which was three times as large as the public front room where Jeremy met with and measured his clients.

Once Artie disappeared behind the curtain, Jeremy turned to Wilmore with an apologetic smile. “You’ve no need to worry, my lord,” he said. “My staff is discreet. To be honest, if what you say about The Brotherhood admitting men of all social classes and positions is true, they would all be eligible to join you.”

A slow smile spread over Wilmore’s face and he nodded. “Clever,” he said. “More than clever. That sort of solidarity is precisely the sort of thing Uncle George wanted to see from all of us. We have to stick together, you know. Times and opinions are changing, but not a one of us is out of the woods yet, regardless of our social standing.”

“Quite true, my lord,” Jeremy nodded.

Wilmore finished fastening his jacket and reached for his hat and gloves where they’d been left on the side. “Say, would you like to join me for luncheon at The Chameleon Club? My better half, Lord Fulbright, will be there,” he said.

A swell of good feeling for having a man like Lord Wilmore seek to include him warmed Jeremy. “Would that I could,” he said, “but I have an engagement with a particularly demanding client in just an hour’s time. He is not the sort of man to be put off or kept waiting.”

“Ooh! Sounds intriguing,” Lord Wilmore said with a bright smile.

“Perhaps,” Jeremy said with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. In fact, the client he needed to set out to see was one of the most prominent and fickle clients he’d ever had. Being of service to the man was as much a gamble as anything he’d ever done, because Sir John Conroy could most definitely make him or break him.

“Next time,” Wilmore said, putting on his hat and heading for the door. “And do think about joining us at The Chameleon Club and officially applying for membership in The Brotherhood. We would very much like to have you.”

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