Page 1 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

Prologue

As Benjamin Romilly, the fifth Earl of Furness, walked down Regent Street toward Pall Mall, tendrils of icy fog beaded on his greatcoat and brushed his face like ghostly fingertips. The rawness of the March evening matched his mood—cheerless and bleak. He couldn’t wait to leave London and return to his Somerset home. He’d come up on business, annoyingly unavoidable, not for the supposed pleasures of society. His jaw tightened. Those who complained that town was empty at this time of year were idiots. Even though walkers were few in the bitter weather, he could feel the pressure of people in the buildings around him—chattering, laughing, as if there was anything funny about life. It grated like the scrape of fingernails across a child’s slate.

Some invitations couldn’t be refused, however, and tonight’s dinner was one. His uncle Arthur was the head of his family and a greatly respected figure. Indeed, Benjamin felt a bit like an errant child being called on the carpet, though he could imagine no reason for the feeling. He didn’t see his uncle often. Well, lately he didn’t see anyone unless he had to. He walked faster. He was running late. He’d had trouble dragging himself out of his hotel.

He turned onto Piccadilly and was instantly aware of several figures clustered in the recessed entry of a building on the right, as if the light from the tall windows could warm them. Ladybirds, not footpads, Benjamin recognized, even as a feminine voice called out, “Hello, dearie.” One of them moved farther into the strip of illumination that stretched from the window, her appearance confirming his judgment.

Benjamin strode on. She hurried over to walk beside him. “A fine fella like you shouldn’t be alone on a cold night,” the woman said. “Look at the shoulders on him,” she called to her colleagues. “And a leg like a regular Adonis.”

“No, thank you,” said Benjamin.

She ignored him. “Such a grim look for a handsome lad. Come along, and I’ll put a smile on your face, dearie. You can believe I know how.” She put one hand on his sleeve to slow him and gestured suggestively with the other.

“I’m not interested.” Paint couldn’t hide the fact that she was raddled and skinny. Gooseflesh mottled her nearly bare breasts, on display for her customers. She must be freezing, Benjamin thought. And desperate, to be out on a night like this one. He pulled out all the coins he had in his pocket. Shaking off her hand, he pushed them into it. “Here. Take this.”

She quickly fingered them. “Ooh, you can get whatever you want for this, dearie. Some things you haven’t even dreamed of, mayhap.”

“Nothing.” Benjamin waved her off and moved on. Some plights could be eased by money, he thought. There was a crumb of satisfaction in the idea. When so much misery was intractable.

“Think you’re so grand,” the woman screeched after him. “Shoving your leavings at me like a lord to a peasant.”

Benjamin didn’t bother feeling aggrieved. It was just the way of the world. Things went wrong. Good intentions got you precisely nowhere. And he didn’t blame her for resenting the position she’d found herself in. He pulled his woolen scarf tighter about his neck and trudged on.

Stepping into the warmth and conviviality of White’s was like moving into a different world. The rich wood paneling and golden candlelight of the gentlemen’s club replaced the icy fog. There was a buzz of conversation and a clink of glasses from both sides of the entryway. Savory smells rode the air, promising a first-rate meal.

Surrendering his coat and hat to a servitor, Benjamin was directed to a private corner of the dining room, where he found his uncle standing like a society hostess receiving visitors.

Arthur Shelton, Earl of Macklin, was nearly twenty years Benjamin’s senior, but he hardly looked it. The dark hair they shared showed no gray. His tall figure remained muscular and upright. His square-jawed, broad-browed face—which Benjamin’s was said to echo—showed few lines, and those seemed scored by good humor. Benjamin shook his mother’s brother’s hand and tried to appear glad to be in his company.

“Allow me to introduce my other guests,” his uncle said, turning to the table behind him.

Benjamin hadn’t realized there was to be a party. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have come, he thought. And then he was merely bewildered as he surveyed the three other men who comprised it. He didn’t know them, and he was surprised that his uncle did. They all appeared closer to his own age than his uncle’s near half-century.

“This is Daniel Frith, Viscount Whitfield,” his uncle continued, indicating the fellow on the left.

Only medium height, but he looked very strong, Benjamin observed. Brown hair and eyes and a snub nose that might have been commonplace but for the energy that seemed to crackle off him.

“Roger Berwick, Marquess of Chatton,” said his uncle, nodding to the man in the center of the trio.

This one was more Benjamin’s height. He was thinner, however, with reddish hair and choleric blue eyes.

“And Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton,” said their host.

Clearly the youngest of them, Benjamin thought. Not much past twenty, he’d wager, and nervous looking. Compton had black hair, hazel eyes, and long fingers that tapped uneasily on his flanks.

“Gentlemen, this is my nephew Benjamin Romilly, Earl of Furness, the last of our group. And now that the proprieties are satisfied, I hope we can be much less formal.”

They stood gazing at one another. Everyone but his uncle looked mystified, Benjamin thought.Hefelt as if he’d strayed into one of those dreams where you show up for an examination all unprepared.

“Sit down,” said his uncle, gesturing at their waiting table. As they obeyed, he signaled for wine to be poured. “They have a fine roast beef this evening. As when do they not at White’s? We’ll begin with soup though, on a raw night like this.” The waiter returned his nod and went off to fetch it.

The hot broth was welcome, and the wine was good, of course. Conversation was another matter. Whitfield commented on the vile weather, and the rest of them agreed that it was a filthy night. Compton praised the claret and then looked uneasy, as if he’d been presumptuous. The rest merely nodded. After a bit, Chatton scowled. Benjamin thought he was going to ask what the deuce was going on—hoped someone would, and soon—but then Chatton took more wine instead. All their glasses were emptied and refilled more rapidly than usual.

It wasn’t simply good manners or English reticence, Benjamin concluded. Uncle Arthur’s innate authority and air of command were affecting these strangers just as they did his family. One simply didn’t demand what the hell Uncle Arthur thought he was doing.

Steaming plates were put before them. Eating reduced the necessity of talking. Benjamin addressed his beef and roast potatoes with what might have appeared to be enthusiasm. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could excuse himself from this awkward occasion, he thought. He was about halfway through when his uncle spoke. “No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve invited you—the four of you—this evening. When we aren’t really acquainted.”

Knives and forks went still. All eyes turned to the host, with varying degrees of curiosity and relief.

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