The earl of zennor, p.1
The Earl of Zennor, page 1
THE EARL OF ZENNOR
THE LEAGUE OF ROGUES
BOOK XVIII
LAUREN SMITH
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Lauren Smith
The League of Rogues (R) is an officially registered Federal Trademark owned by Lauren Smith.
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ISBN: 978-1-960374-26-4 (e-book edition)
ISBN:978-1-960374-27-1 (print edition)
CHAPTER 1
Penzance, England, April 1822
“You know what’s wrong with you, Trystan?”
Trystan Cartwright, the Earl of Zennor, arched a dark brow at one of the two men seated across from him at the table in the grimy little tavern.
Graham Humphrey, a blond-haired gentleman with gray eyes lit with dangerous mischief, grinned at Trystan. His companion was Phillip, the Earl of Kent, a solemn man with a nature so honest he made up for Trystan and Graham’s roguish ways. Graham and Phillip were two of his most trusted friends, the only ones who could rein him in when his recklessness began to spiral.
“What?” Trystan asked, his tone laconic as he lifted his glass and downed the scotch within it.
“You’re bored. You get testy when you have nothing to do,” Graham observed.
“He’s not wrong,” Phillip added. “And often, what entertains you is not anything I would recommend.” He hesitated before continuing in a more careful tone. “What you need is a wife.”
Trystan snorted. “No, not yet. Perhaps not ever. Wives can be useful, but they are hardly entertaining. They are shackles that bind men to early graves.”
“Wives can open doors that men cannot,” Phillip said sagely. “Take a woman with breeding who has been raised to be familiar with the ins and outs of society, women like Audrey St. Laurent or Lady Lennox, who have a knowledge of business and politics. They have a vast amount of power and influence in not just feminine circles.”
“But what do I need with power and influence? I have plenty already,” Trystan replied. “Besides, you can turn any woman into a society creature. Feed her the right lines, put her in the right clothes and she’d fit like any goose with a gaggle of geese.”
“Are you joking? You can’t take just anyone and turn them into a lady. Ladies are raised from birth to think and behave a certain way,” Graham argued.
“Maybe that’s the problem. Perhaps I’d rather converse with a street urchin than another boring lady of society. They all bore me.”
Graham chuckled. “You need a mistress, not a wife, obviously,” he said, and took a swig of his ale. “Mistresses are amusing, but they require funds to keep them happy. My last mistress cost me a townhouse and half the jewels in London to keep her happy.” Graham frowned, as though he hadn’t really considered the cost until that moment. That was to be expected. Graham rarely gave anything much thought. He simply did what he wished and damn the consequences. It was why he and Trystan got along famously.
Trystan sighed. “I’m afraid even mistresses bore me.” His gaze wandered over the shabby little tavern. Its grubby wallpaper was peeling in places, the tables needed more than a good scrubbing, and the man they’d paid for drinks looked as though he had gone a few rounds in a pugilist match.
Trystan preferred their usual club, Boodle’s, but they were far from London and bound for his home in Zennor, which meant reputable places shrank in number the further they strayed from civilization. Zennor, despite its rural location, wasn’t all that bad; Trystan could admit that much. His ancestral home was built near the coast of Cornwall, and he liked the way the wind swept in off the sea and how the deep blue water burst into white foam as it careened into the rocky cliffs that banked the sea.
As much as he enjoyed the pleasures of a city like London, he felt an undeniable draw to his home, the many rooms of the rambling manor house full of memories of an adventurous, though sometimes lonely, boyhood. After his mother passed away when he’d been but a boy of ten, he and his father had grown close. He’d learned to appreciate the land and the home that had only a few years ago become his when his father had suffered a stroke and joined his mother.
After his father’s death, Trystan had taken to the life of an earl with relative ease. He did not squander his family’s fortune on drink, gambling, or other vices. His recklessness came in the form of what entertained him… usually something that would cause Phillip to frown and lecture him on responsibility. His two old school friends were the proverbial angel and devil on his shoulders, offering temptation and temperance in turn, which in its own way was an entertainment.
Trystan swept his gaze over the tavern again, this time taking in the occupants. Everyone here came from a hardscrabble life. Most looked to be dockworkers or sailors. It was possible even a few pirates still sailed into the seaside village.
As aristocrats, Trystan, Graham, and Phillip stood out from the crowd, and because of this they were earning more than a few curious looks from the more brutish men who huddled by the hearth on the opposite side of the room. The speculative looks these men were sending his way could result in trouble, which only made Trystan smile.
Perhaps these men would attack them in hopes of getting some coin. Wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace? He could do with a good brawl. He had studied for years at Jackson’s Salon with the best boxers in London, and had even managed to give the legendary Earl of Lonsdale a few good swipes.
Graham waved the barkeeper over to bring them more ale. “What you need, my friend, is a challenge.”
“I do, but I cannot think of a single thing that could hold my interest.” He played with the rim of his cup, gently stroking a fingertip along its smooth edge.
“How about a wager?” Graham said.
Phillip rolled his eyes. “You two and your bloody wagers. Didn’t you learn anything the last time when you freed that bear in that dogfighting ring?”
Trystan laughed. “I’ve never seen so many men run and scream like children when that poor beast got free.” he said. “You have to admit we did a good thing, though, Phillip. That bear should never have been held in chains and forced to fight like that.”
Phillip closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index finger. “As much as it pains me to admit it, yes, but the only reason no one was mauled to death was because of that Scottish fellow who was there to calm it down. If he hadn’t had such a gift with animals, you both might have been killed, and the beast as well.”
Trystan remembered that night all too well—and the surge of power he’d felt at freeing the beast and watching it chase the men who’d tormented it. But Phillip was right, the bear would have eventually killed someone if Aiden Kincade hadn’t been there to soothe the creature and trap it in a coach outside the warehouse where the beast had been held captive.
“All’s well that ends well. The bear is now in Scotland and we’re still here to wager yet again on something ridiculous.” He was, however, far from convinced that there was anything new he could bet on that would entertain him for long.
A serving boy brought them more ale, slamming the tankards down hard enough that the ale sloshed out of the cups.
“Ho, there! Watch it, boy!” Trystan snapped at the lad.
“Watch yerself, milord!” the boy countered sharply and stalked back to the bar.
“Impertinent lad,” Graham observed. “As I was saying—”
There was a loud crash near the bar. The boy had tripped and a tray of mugs now lay shattered on the ground.
“Daft fool!” The barman swung a hand and cuffed the boy across the face. The boy crumpled to the floor with a sharp cry of pain.
Trystan, Graham, and Phillip all tensed.
“He was impertinent, but he didn’t deserve that,” Graham said.
“Do that again and I’ll sell you to the whorehouse!” the barman roared. He kicked the boy’s ribs as the lad got on his hands and knees to collect the pieces. He fell onto his back and his cap dislodged, sending a tumble of long dark hair down in a messy, oily tangle.
“Bloody hell… It’s a girl,” Trystan murmured to his friends as they all stared in amazement at the creature on the floor. She was small, dirty cheeked, not the least bit attractive, and had a waspish tongue, but she was still a girl and shouldn’t have been hit like that.
“You try to sell me, and I’ll cut your bloody heart out and sell it to the bleedin’ butcher, you bastard!” the girl shot back at the barman. Despite his best intentions, Trystan found himself smiling at the girl’s courage.
He stared at the girl as she picked up a piece of broken mug and hurled it back at the barman. The clay shard smashed against the wall next to the man’s balding head. Then she ran outside before the bellowing pig could catch her.
For a second the taproom was silent. Then everything went back to normal, laughing and jeering and drinking. The little hellion was gone and no one seemed to care.
“Fancy that. A drink and a show,” said Graham.
Trystan’s lips twitched as he stared at the door the girl had vanished through a moment before.
“Christ, he has that look again,” Phillip muttered.
Graham was less concerned and looked hopefully at Trystan. “What is it? What’s your idea?” He knew his friend too well.
Trystan leaned back in his chair, a smug smile now spreading across his face as he gripped his mug of ale.
“I wager I can turn that whelp of a girl into a proper lady in one month.”
“That one? The hellcat who threatened to cut a man’s heart out? I just said you couldn’t possibly make a girl like that a lady,” Graham sniggered. “You might want to be careful she doesn’t cut yours out.”
“Yes, that one.” Trystan smiled wickedly at the thought of such a challenge.
“If you turn her into a proper lady, one to rival a duchess like Emily St. Laurent, I’ll pay you two hundred pounds.” Graham volunteered the vast sum of money as if it barely mattered.
“Throw in that black-and-red racing curricle and your fastest pair of geldings, and I’ll take that bet,” Trystan offered.
Graham eyed him thoughtfully. “What if we make it more interesting? Lady Tremaine’s ball is in a month. If you bring that girl to the ball and she fools everyone, you win. But if anyone sees through her disguise and you fail, you owe me…” Graham drew out his next words in wicked delight. “The deed to your hunting lodge in Scotland. I rather fancy it.”
“High-stakes indeed, just the way I like it.” Trystan chuckled. To have so much to lose only heightened the excitement of the wager, and his friends knew it.
“Now, hold on a minute,” Phillip interjected. “This is a woman, albeit a rough and ill-mannered one. We must set some rules for propriety’s sake.”
“Rules?” Graham scoffed at the same moment Trystan replied, “Propriety?”
“Yes,” Phillip insisted. “If you both do as you’re planning, that woman will be under your control, Trystan. You will be responsible for her. That means you cannot turn her into a mistress or take advantage of her. You must think about her future. What reason does she have to accept your terms, and what will you do once the wager is over? Toss her back into this bar and tell her to carry on as before?”
Trystan laughed. “You honestly think I’d take advantage of that creature? Lord, Phillip, I have standards. I thought she was a bloody boy, for Christ’s sake. The little hellion has nothing to fear from me. I shall not touch her. Not even if she begs me and not unless I lose my own sanity.” He was still chuckling at the thought. He had his pick of women to share his bed, and certainly wouldn’t choose a bloodthirsty guttersnipe like the creature he’d just seen.
“Good.” Phillip relaxed. “You both must deal with this girl with some sense of decorum and chivalry.”
Trystan snorted, and Graham only laughed into his mug of ale.
“Enough talking,” Graham said. “Get to it, Trystan. Claim the girl, and let’s be on our way.”
Trystan stood, took his time dusting his waistcoat off, and then he walked over to the barman. He braced his arms on the bar and leaned forward to speak to him.
“Was that hellion whelp yours?” he asked the man.
“Whelp?” The barman seemed confused by the word.
“Yes, the girl you kicked like a starving dog.”
The heavyset gray-haired man scratched his chin, eyes narrowing in suspicion at Trystan. “What if she is mine?”
“Then I wish to buy her from you.” Trystan expected the man to show at least a minor concern for the girl’s treatment or at least pretend to care what Trystan might do with her, but he didn’t so much as ask about Trystan’s intentions.
“How much are you willing to pay?”
Trystan stared at the man before he reached for his coin purse and tossed fifty guineas on the table.
“There’s fifty,” Trystan said.
The man smacked his lips and decided to press his luck. “I could make double off her if I sell her to the whorehouse, plus profits on top of that.”
“No madame at a brothel would split any profits with you. She would buy the girl and that would be the end of it. You and I both know it. And she certainly wouldn’t pay you fifty guineas for that girl.”
“Throw in another five then. She is my stepdaughter, after all, and I love her dearly.”
Trystan let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m sure you do, old chap.” He slapped another five guineas down beside the rest. Then he returned to his friends at the table and finished his mug of ale.
“How much did she cost you?” Graham asked, trying to hide his devil-may-care grin.
“Fifty-five guineas.” He wouldn’t miss a single coin, not with the excitement of his wager to look forward to.
Graham whistled. “Expensive girl.”
Phillip looked heavenward and cringed. “You two are absolute barbarians.”
“Perhaps we are, but what a challenge this will be.” Trystan smiled with relish. “I assume you’ll come with us to watch over the girl and play her nursemaid?”
His friend gave a weary sigh, but there was a hint of humor in his eyes. “I suppose I had better. Although, I would argue, you two are the ones in need of a nursemaid.”
Ignoring Phillip’s remark, Trystan looked about the taproom. “Now, to find the little hellcat…” He started for the door and his two friends followed. He was a little more drunk than perhaps he ought to be, but he was quite looking forward to the adventure of turning this hellcat into a fine lady.
Bridget Ringgold huddled against the side of the tavern, cloaked in shadows while she nursed her wounds. Her stepfather’s blow had split her lip, and her ribs ached. She’d be damned lucky if they weren’t broken. Her chest would be purple in a few hours after the kick she’d taken. Blood filled her mouth with a foul taste, and it stung each time she ran her tongue over her lip.
She shivered against the brisk fall wind that blew in off the sea. She wished desperately she could sneak back in the kitchens and warm herself, but the odds of her stepfather finding and striking her again were too high. That meant she would be sleeping in the stables tonight.
Bridget needed to find a way out of this town and into a new life, one that did not involve spending time on her back in a brothel. She was old enough to be on her own—nineteen, in fact—but had few decent options open to her. She could cook a little, could clean a bit, but not well enough to earn a decent living at either. She’d had plenty of men offer her marriage, but none of them were good or decent men. One had almost certainly been a pirate. If only her mother had been here to offer advice, to help her find a way in life either by counsel or helping her find someone to share her life with.
Her mother had died ten years ago, leaving Bridget with a beast of a stepfather. She’d been too young to learn any skills that a woman ought to learn from her mother and had been too busy just trying to survive the dangers of living with a man like her stepfather.
Pushing away from the side of the tavern, she crossed the cobblestone courtyard and ran into the stables. The loft above was quiet and no one ever came up there, aside from the occasional stable boy who forked down hay for the horses. Bridget climbed up the ladder and crawled through the haystacks until she found her nest made of blankets that formed her bed. She had nicked the blankets here and there over the last year from drunken travelers not minding the belongings in their coach while they went into the tavern for a drink.
