Julia London 4 Book Bundle Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Dangerous Gentleman

  The Ruthless Charmer

  The Beautiful Stranger

  The Secret Lover

  DELL BOOKS BY JULIA LONDON

  The Devil’s Love

  Wicked Angel

  The Rogues of Regent Street series:

  The Dangerous Gentleman

  The Ruthless Charmer

  The Beautiful Stranger

  The Secret Lover

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books By This Author

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For this relief much thanks; ’tis bitter cold out

  And I am sick at heart

  HAMLET, ACT I, SCENE I

  One

  DUNWOODY, SOUTHERN ENGLAND, 1834

  PHILLIP ROTHEMBOW WAS dead.

  None of the mourners gathered around the grave had expected his demise to occur precisely this way, although there were certainly those who had wagered he would not live to see his thirty-third year. They never dreamed he would die by forcing the hand of his very own cousin. And they all agreed—rather adamantly in front of the justice of the peace—that Adrian Spence, the Earl of Albright, did not have a choice—it was either kill or be killed.

  Still, some of the mourners privately argued (at the public house, before the services commenced) that Albright might have avoided the confrontation had he not asked Rothembow to stop cheating. Not that anyone could dispute that Rothembow’s cheating was legion, or that Albright had been a virtual saint of patience through the years. But he might have thought twice before accusing his cousin before a roomful of people.

  That sentiment was met with the equally insistent one that as Rothembow had been cheating so very blatantly, he had obviously been asking to be called on it. A few tried to put forth that Rothembow had been simply too drunk to know what he was doing, particularly evidenced by his calling Albright a coward. Of all men, the Earl of Albright was the last one any of them would have called a coward, and furthermore, they argued, what could Albright have done? A man could hardly have his character challenged in the face of so many peers and not avenge his honor. Not one of the mourners could fault Albright for accepting Rothembow’s drunken challenge.

  Not one of them could believe that either man had actually gone through with it.

  So it was the collective opinion of the mourners that no matter how Rothembow and Albright came to be standing in that yellow field, Albright had had no choice. And he had done the honorable thing by deloping. Rothembow, who was still staggering drunk that morning, had responded by firing on him (a sin so great that the men shuddered each time they recalled it) and missing badly. Yet that paled in comparison to what Rothembow did next, and the mourners were divided on the subject of Lord Fitzhugh’s culpability.

  Having recently obtained a fine double-barreled German pistol inlaid with mother-of-pearl, Lord Fitzhugh had felt compelled to wear it in his new leather holster for the entire weekend in the event the party was set upon by thieves or an otherwise marauding band of ne’er-do-wells. So confident was he in his new pistol that he was in the habit of draping his coat in a manner that clearly displayed the firearm. Which was exactly how he was wearing it when Rothembow grabbed it from its holster. He had lunged for that pistol—primed for any event, naturally—and had fired a second time at Albright, clearly intending to kill him. Albright had to defend himself, and most agreed it was a bloody miracle that he was able to retrieve his own pistol and fire before his cousin gunned him down with a third shot. Fitzhugh had been the fool and Rothembow the coward—although one mourner noted that the wild look in Rothembow’s eyes suggested he was perhaps more deranged than cowardly.

  That, naturally, had prompted another round of debate as to whether Rothembow had actually meant Albright to kill him. It was hardly a secret among their set that Rothembow was drowning in debt, having squandered his funds and his life on excessive drink and Madam Farantino’s women, and was seemingly bent on self-destruction. That notwithstanding, it was inconceivable to them that a man might want to end his own life so desperately he would go to such extraordinary measures. Inconceivable, but apparently possible.

  Now, at the gravesite, all of the mourners who had come to witness the fantastic end to their hunting trip in the country covertly watched Albright and his friends beneath the brims of their hats as the vicar droned on.

  “Know ye in this death the light of our Lord …”

  The Rogues of Regent Street—Adrian Spence, Phillip Rothembow, Arthur Christian, and Julian Dane—were the idols of every man of the Quality. In fact, the final argument that had risen over the din of the public house was just how, exactly, the four childhood friends had come by that moniker. None could really recall, but they agreed the name had been earned honestly enough. The four had met at Eton, earning themselves reputations as young reprobates even then. But it was when their names started to appear with alarming frequency in the Times a few years ago that the name had stuck. The Rogues exhibited a penchant for breaking the hearts of proper young debutantes who strolled amid the Regent Street shops during the day. Capable of charming the young ladies and their mamas to the tips of their toes, they also were ruthless in winning their dowries from their fathers in the gaming clubs at night.

  “Know ye the quality of love …”

  That habit hardly endeared the four men to the Regent Street set, and for the more conservative members, their habit of openly frequenting the notorious Regent Street boudoirs in the early hours of the morning was the most egregious of their many sins.

  “And the quality of life …”

  Nonetheless, the Rogues were an enviable group who lived by their own code and amassed great sums of wealth in their various business ventures. They lived on the edge, never fearing danger, never fearing the law, and flaunting their disdain of society’s expectations for titled young men in the ton’s collective face—exactly what every mourner privately wished he had the courage to do. Until today.

  “And know ye the quality of mercy …”

  Until the solemn pain on the faces of the surviving Rogues suggested they had tasted their own mortality.

  And the mourners had tasted their own.

  “Amen.”

  Having seen what they had come to see, the mourners at last began to drift away from the gravesite in search of shelter from the threatening skies. Only five remained. Two were gravediggers, working to fill the hole before the rains came. The three surviving Rogues stood slightly apart, seemingly oblivious to the light rain as they stared blankly into the yawning grave.

  Adrian could not tear his eyes away from his cousin’s pine box as the words of the vicar rattled about his head, taunting him. Know ye the quality of mercy, indeed, he thought bitterly. He certainly would n
ever know mercy again. He would never know peace again. He had killed his cousin, one of his dearest friends, and had destroyed the quality of his own life in the process. There would be no mercy for him, not in this lifetime.

  He glanced at Arthur, who stood grimly rigid as the gravediggers pushed the earth onto the casket. Arthur, who in a moment of grief last evening had confessed that Phillip was the only one who had ever really looked up to him. In the unenviable position of being the third son of a duke, Lord Arthur Christian had, as long as Adrian had known him, felt inconsequential. Only Phillip, he said, had thought him capable of moving mountains. Only Phillip wanted to go where he led. But, Arthur lamented, he had never led him anywhere because he had nowhere to lead him to. And then he had harshly censured himself for not seeing the downward spiral sooner.

  Hell, Adrian hadn’t seen it, either. He never really understood it until Phillip was dead.

  But Julian had seen it. For two days now, the Earl of Kettering had barely spoken, except to admit last evening—having been moved by Arthur’s confession—that he had seen Phillip’s fall from grace and hadn’t done enough to stop it. Julian, who stood now with his greatcoat gathered tightly around him, a frown etched deeply into his face, had been Phillip’s constant companion the last five years or so. There had always been a special bond between the two of them, and Phillip’s demise was particularly difficult for Julian to bear—he feared he hadn’t taken his friend’s desperation seriously enough. That was perhaps because Julian was having a hard time himself. The sole guardian of four younger sisters for many years, Julian had been struggling since losing one of them a few years ago. Understandably restless since Valerie’s death, Julian had taken to following Phillip on increasingly aimless escapades, looking for something to fascinate him.

  Julian had seen Phillip’s downfall, he said, but had been too mindful of his pride, too trusting of his strength, too confident that Phillip’s esteem of Lady Claudia Whitney would bring him out of it to do anything about it. He had allowed it to happen, and no argument Adrian or Arthur put forth would convince him otherwise.

  But for all of Arthur and Julian’s pain, they had not killed him. Adrian had. As their unofficial leader for more than twenty years, he had let them all down by doing the unthinkable. The infamous control for which he was known had snapped like a twig under the pressure of a little fear and a stunning disbelief at what was happening. The events of the weekend played a thousand times over in his mind’s eye as he searched for a reason, anything that would help make sense of this horrible tragedy.

  It had started so innocently! Sick to death of Phillip’s cheating, Adrian had asked him to stop, plain and simple, and like a fool, had smirked when a drunken Phillip demanded satisfaction. He should have walked away. But his pride wouldn’t allow it, and he had convinced himself that when Phillip sobered they would end their foolish argument peacefully. But Phillip never sobered, and when he had actually fired on him, Adrian had turned away with sickening disgust. Lord God, everything happened so fast—Arthur’s cry of warning, the shot fired above his head, the frantic lunge for the small stand where his pistol lay, and the blurred moment in which he whirled around and shot Phillip through the heart.

  Somewhere in the distance the death knell rang. The gravediggers finished covering the grave and quickly departed with a wary look at the three remaining gentlemen. A fine rain was falling now, but Adrian could not make his feet move from the gravesite.

  “Come on, then. It’s over,” Arthur said quietly. Unable to make his legs move, Adrian ignored him. “Albright? The rain—”

  “I was a goddamned fool for letting him unnerve me,” he suddenly muttered to no one in particular, his eyes locked on the mound of earth.

  Arthur exhaled slowly as he glanced at the grave. “You may have pulled the trigger, but he wanted you to do it. Don’t torture yourself—he wanted it.”

  A sharp pain stabbed directly behind Adrian’s eyes, and squeezing them tightly shut, he blurted, “Good God, no one wants to die!”

  “He did,” Julian muttered angrily. “Come on, then,” he said, and put a hand on Adrian’s forearm.

  No mercy! Adrian’s mind screamed, and he angrily jerked away, unworthy of the compassion. “I didn’t see what was happening. That is … I knew he was in trouble, but I didn’t know he was drowning,” he muttered helplessly.

  “Neither did I, God help me,” Arthur sighed. “I should have seen it.” He glanced warily at Adrian and Julian. “Look here, we don’t see each other as often as we ought. We should make more of an effort.”

  The sentiment of a man who had attended a funeral, Adrian thought blandly. He could hardly fault Arthur. If he had thought this was the last time he would see Phillip—

  “Our lives have taken us on different paths, Arthur,” Julian muttered. “It’s not the same as it once was.”

  “I’m not asking that it be the same. I just believe … come now, a vow. A vow among us, today, on Phillip’s grave, that we will never allow another of us to slip away. Nothing will go unsaid between us. I vow that at least once a year, on the anniversary of Phillip’s death, I will assure myself that all is well with the two of you, that not another of us will fall,” he said, almost desperately.

  “Arthur, you are overwrought,” Julian insisted, and glanced helplessly at Adrian.

  “Bloody hell, Kettering, what harm is there in it?” Arthur snapped.

  Julian frowned and looked at Phillip’s grave. But Adrian merely shrugged—there was no harm in it, and if it eased Arthur’s anguish any, what difference did it make? Their lives had taken different paths, and no graveside vow was going to change that. “I vow,” he muttered. Arthur looked anxiously to Julian.

  Julian groaned. “What sentimental folly, Christian,” he complained, and rolled his eyes at the pointed look Arthur and Adrian gave him. With a snort of exasperation, he nodded his head. “All right, I vow, I vow! Are you satisfied?”

  Arthur’s gaze slid to Phillip’s grave again. “Hardly,” he mumbled.

  Adrian winced, too, as he looked at the earthen mound. He should have paid more heed, but it was too damned late now. Phillip was dead. Suddenly sick, he pivoted sharply and walked away from the gravesite, his cloak snapping furiously about his boots. With a final look, Arthur and Julian fell in behind him.

  Two

  KEALING PARK, NORTHAMPTON, ENGLAND

  ADRIAN LEFT JULIAN and Arthur at the road to London and headed north, racing fast and hard from Dunwoody and the unspeakable thing he had done. But there was no place he could run to, no refuge from his guilt. London was out of the question—he had no desire to face the ton after what he had done, or his father, whom he knew to be there. Kealing Park was the last place he should seek refuge. But it was the family’s home, the one place on earth where he was capable of finding a measure of peace. Not that he had any hope of that.

  He rode mindlessly, feeling as if his entire being had been scattered in a thousand different directions like the leaves his stallion, Thunder, kicked up. He relived every moment from the time they had arrived at Dunwoody until the fatal morning, searching for an explanation that would enable him to put the pieces back together again. He saw every turn of card in his mind’s eye, and now questioned if Phillip had been cheating at all—perhaps he had just been losing badly. Perhaps, for once in his life, Phillip had not been cheating.

  In the village of St. Albans he was forced to a halt by market traffic, and as he waited, he happened to see two gentlemen. One was golden-haired, just like Phillip. And he walked with that same easy gait, twirling his hat absently on one finger as Phillip used to do. A cold shiver ran through Adrian, and he had shouted after that man, only to have his heart plummet. Of course it wasn’t Phillip. Phillip was dead.

  He rode quickly from the village before anyone could see the madness he was so certain had overcome him, his heart pounding against his chest. Was he losing his mind? Could he be so ridiculously sentimental? Phillip was dead!


  Phillip, who had arrived at Dunwoody with a flask of whiskey under one arm and a particularly notorious woman on the other, signaling the start of a weekend of debauchery so typical of their gatherings. Phillip, who was so drunk that night that Adrian could recall marveling at his ability to remain standing. “Then why did you sit for cards?” he asked himself aloud. The bastard always cheated, the severity determined by the amount of liquor he had consumed. Why hadn’t he just walked away?

  He would never know why, but he hadn’t, and the next thing he knew, the accusation had tumbled out of his mouth. Then Phillip was unsteadily on his feet, a dark, strangely victorious look on his face. Or had Adrian just imagined that was so? “You insult me, Albright. I demand satisfaction!”

  That had stunned him completely—it was the last thing he had ever thought to hear from Phillip’s mouth. He had not meant Phillip to take offense. God, no, he had never meant that. And when he had tried to laugh it off, to make light of Phillip’s intoxicated state, his cousin had looked him squarely in the eye and demanded, “Are you a coward?”

  Adrian moaned and shook his head. Thunder was beginning to labor, he noticed, and he pulled up on the reins, slowing their pace. As the horse slowed to a trot he recalled the whirlwind of unfamiliar emotions that had unbalanced him that night: a desire to hit Phillip in his fool mouth; absolute horror at what his friend was apparently doing; gross confusion as to why. “Wh-what?” he had stammered stupidly.

  “By God, I think you are afraid! You are a bloody coward, Albright!” Phillip had shouted, and by so saying, pushed Adrian and his foolish pride into a corner.

  But even then he had no intention of dueling him. “All right, Rothembow. Pistols at dawn,” he had shot back, and heard Arthur’s gasp as Julian jerked around and stared at him as if he were insane, which he certainly must have been.