Page 6 of Tender Blackguard

Having grown up on an old estate far from London, Alastair had set eyes on the man who’d sired him only once, when he’d been very young. He didn’t recall much about the visit other than the fact that it triggered one of his mother’s worst spells. After that, he had no desire to know the man who roused so much pain and anguish.

That was up until a few months ago, when Alastair had been compelled to confront the man over the facts detailed in letters his mother had written but never sent. It took a few inquiries to discover that after the marquess had been exiled from England more than a decade prior, he’d taken up residence in Venice.

When faced with Alastair’s accusations, the reprobate had denied nothing. He’d been proud, in fact, of his past exploits. But before Alastair could take any steps to ensure his father faced proper justice for his crimes, the old marquess died suddenly in the soiled bed of his favorite prostitute.

As his sole heir, Alastair had inherited everything the first Marquess of Warfield left behind. Including the lurid memoir of his life as one of the most degenerate and unabashedly licentious lords London had ever seen.

The rambling writings detailed the secret passages twisting through the Warfield mansion and gave explicit direction on how to access the underground tunnel which extended from the house to an empty carriage house located in the mews beyond the walled garden of the Warfield property. It also described in unnecessarily lascivious detail the activities he and a select group of peers had indulged in for decades prior to the scandal which had ultimately forced the marquess from England. The evil acts were laid out in plain, unadulterated terms by a man who clearly felt no remorse for his wickedness.

To Alastair, they were the words of a monster who’d ruined his mother’s life without a moment’s regret and, as the memoir claimed, the lives of countless other innocent young women.

His father might have escaped justice, but there were others in their self-called brotherhood who would not be so fortunate. They had the wealth and position to protect them from authorities who’d have very little recourse against men of such high stature, but Alastair had no such limitations. Craving vengeance and justice, Alastair vowed to see all members of the wicked brotherhood exposed for the villainous defilers they truly were.

Despite his sire’s candid descriptions when it came to their depravity, he was frustratingly discreet when it came to the names of his fellow reprobates, using initials or other vague descriptors when detailing their many crimes. All he’d noted was that there had been a dozen men in all, of similar social standing and wealth. Based on a few of his stories and the frequent use of the secret tunnel, it was clear that at least some of them had houses in London that were within convenient proximity to each other and to Warfield House.

As soon as Alastair had taken up residence in his sire’s prior London townhouse, he’d gone about making the acquaintance of his nearest neighbors. And after months of sleuthing and prying, he’d confirmed the identities of six members of his father’s set. But more importantly, he’d happened upon clues that suggested the gentlemen were involved in something more sinister than he’d expected. The marquess’s memoirs waxed poetic about orgies and brothels and sadistic practices explored with unwilling victims, and though his father’s former friends and peers still clearly liked to indulge in their preferred pleasures, Alastair had started to suspect their involvement in something decidedly more criminal and undeniably more reprehensible.

Alastair had acquired a slew of random financial records and had diligently scoured any mention of the lords in public and some private documents going back decades. Through hundreds of references and seemingly unconnected estate records, he’d noticed something disconcerting popping up with surprising frequency. At first, he’d tried to brush it off as simple random occurrences or strange coincidence.

But the denial didn’t last long.

In the last four years, seven young maids had been reported as missing, and each of them had been employed by one of the known members of his father’s lascivious club, whether at a London home or country estate. And none of the women had ever been found. In fact, it didn’t appear any investigation at all had been conducted into their sudden disappearances.

Alastair had no doubt the brotherhood was involved in the fates of these young women, whose numbers could be so much larger if the other, as of yet unidentified, members were found to be associated with similar reports.

Frustration rolled through him. With a muttered curse that burned his throat, he rolled the papers once again to replace them in the back of the box atop the notebook containing his father’s lewd scribblings.

He’d discovered the disturbing reports weeks ago but still had no physical evidence to support his suspicions, just striking coincidences and suggestive circumstances he couldn’t ignore. His vow to avenge his mother had evolved into a near obsession with exposing the noble lords and bringing a final end to the evil thriving right in the heart of London’s most elite neighborhood.

Until he destroyed them completely, the so-called brotherhood would continue preying upon vulnerable young women. Women like his mother.

He’d bring it all down. Every man. Every house. Every last sordid legacy.

Chapter Three

“I won’t be stayin’. This house ain’t natural. It ain’t!”

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