Page 1 of My Wicked Earl
1
LONDON 1830
“Really Colin,” Viscount Lindley leaned forward, widening his mismatched eyes in mock horror. “The fact that you haven’t had a woman in nearly a year isappalling, the death of your beloved Uncle Gerald notwithstanding. Having met the man, I’m certain he wouldn’t wish you to live the life of a hermit with nothing but your scribblings to keep you company. You’ve been in London for nearly a fortnight without so much as a glance at a female.”
“You exaggerate.” Colin Hartley shot his friend a murderous look before turning to take in the sumptuous furnishings of Hastings, Viscount Lindley’s very discreet, very exclusive club. Hastings was reserved for only the very wealthy of London, or the incredibly powerful. Viscount Lindley was both. The club was even more exclusive than Whites or Brooks.
The paneled walls gleamed in the mellow light of the wall lamps, their glowing patina likely the result of the scrubbings of dozens of maids. Each wall was covered with portraits of past patrons and benefactors. Various dukes, earls, and such, covered every square inch, all looking appropriately disapproving. Had any of those august men been alive they would have routed Colin from their midst with a mere curl of their upper lips.
Large comfortable chairs circled the room, in settings of two and four, so that the powerful could decide the fate of lesser beings in relative privacy. Plush Persian carpet, so thick and lush it put the fields of Ireland to shame, cushioned his worn boots. Servants dressed in blue and silver livery wandered between the wealthy gentlemen, discreet and quiet so as not to disturb their betters.
The room was rich and decadent, much like Viscount Lindley himself.
Nick’s lip curled. “Living in a hut—”
“Bugger off, Nick. My uncle’s estate in Ireland was not a hut. My God, just because a person isn’t a duke, or a bloody marquess, doesn’t mean one lives in a hut.”
“A farm then.”
“Estervale is anestatewhose tenants cultivate sheep, you snob.”
His friend shot him a wolfish grin showing a gleaming line of teeth.
“Had,” Colin waved his hand looking for the word, “needsnot necessitated my trip to London, I would never have left Ireland.”A half-truth.
“Needs?As in a woman?” Nick wiggled his brows lasciviously.
“No.” Colin rolled his eyes. “Other,needs.”
“Well then here’s to Uncle Gerald,” Viscount Lindley raised his glass. “I liked your uncle, by the way. A fine man, Gerald McBride was, despite his taking you to live on a sheep farm.”
“Estate. My uncle was a gentleman. Please rest assured not abitof manure ever touched me.”
A deep chuckle bubbled up from his friend’s chest and the room quieted almost immediately. Glances and raised brows were thrown over stiffened shoulders.
“I should hope not, after all, you are the son of the Earl of Kilmaire.”
“Thirdson. Thank God. I’ve no desire to ever wear the burden of a title. Sheep farming may suit me quite well.” Another half-truth, for while there were sheep, they no longer belonged to Gerald McBride, or his nephew.
“Indeed?”
“Besides, I would never have been able to finish at Eton had Uncle Gerald not taken financed the remainder of my education. My parents could certainly not afford to, I believe they spent all they had sending my brothers. Uncle Gerald was a godsend.”
Colin wished desperately that Uncle Gerald hadn’t mortgaged Estervale to the hilt. While he was grateful for his uncle’s sacrifice he was certain that the bulk of the money had gone to Runshaw Park and the Earl of Kilmaire, not Eton.
“Yes, it is fortunate Uncle Gerald took you in. I often wonder how it is that he and your mother had such…differentin opinions of you.”
How Colin detested Nick’s habit of picking apart a person’s life, his odd eyes piercing him as he brought up the odds and ends that made up Colin’s existence.
Colin had no wish to discuss the Mad Countess, as Nick well knew.
“Membership here must cost a bloody fortune.” He steered the discussion away from the Countess of Kilmaire.
“I’m certain of it, though I wouldn’t know.” Nick shrugged his large shoulders , causing the expensive and expertly tailored coat he wore to pull a bit at the seams.
The bloody coat probably cost more than Colin’s passage to London. And that was the problem. The very rich didn’t know what it felt like to counteverypenny.
Estervale, the house Colin had called home for ten years, was his home no longer. What a shock it had been to have a solicitor waiting on the front steps shortly after Colin laid his uncle to rest. The Bank of Ireland owned Estervale now. He must find an alternate means of support, one that did not involve sheep farming. For though he certainly wouldn’t admit such to Nick, Colin didn’t care a bit for sheep or the smell of wet wool.
