The Earl of Zennor E-Book

Lauren Smith

• Herausgeber: Lauren Smith
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The League of Rogues
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 227

Beschreibung

She’s no fair lady…he’s a wild rogue…

When Trystan Cartwright, the Earl of Zennor is bored he makes wagers…dangerous ones. One night in a grimy little tavern in Penzance, he and his friends stumble upon a wild, hellcat of a woman masquerading as an ill-tempered lad. Unable to resist the temptation of such a challenge, Trystan wagers he can turn the little hellion into a lady in less than one month. To win he’ll have to present her at a ball in London and fool the beau monde. But he never imagines that his lady lessons will lead to love…

Bridget Ringgold believes her worst nightmare has come true when three handsome gentlemen abduct her from the stables where she secretly lives. The devilish man who calls himself Trystan tells her she’s part of a wager and that she’ll learn to be a lady within the next thirty days and if she succeeds, she’ll be given the means to live a life she’s only ever dreamed about. But it’s easier said than done with Trystan drives her mad with his endless lessons, yet the moment she waltzes in his arms, she realizes she’s in danger of losing her heart...

Leseprobe

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.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-960374-26-4 (e-book edition)

ISBN:978-1-960374-27-1 (print edition)

CHAPTER1

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.

“There’s a girl with fire in her belly,” Graham said. “That’s a female who would never be tamed into a quiet, biddable lady of society.” he laughed, but Trystan wasn’t laughing.

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.

She checked for the cloth bag that contained her few treasures, something she did out of habit every night before she settled into sleep. The comb and the mirror had been her mother’s, along with several shillings she’d made by whittling wood into the shape of animals.

People passing through Penzance seem to like her figurines. She’d managed to sell or barter three or four of them each week for the last few years, which gave her a little money to afford extra food and clothes as she had grown older. She never wore dresses. Aside from the expense of having gowns made, it was easier and safer to wear clothing meant for men. The locals knew she was a woman, but with a grimy face and hair pinned up beneath a cap, she managed to avoid the interest of most men who passed through the tavern while she served drinks.

Even those fancy gents tonight hadn’t known when she’d served their drinks. She’d been watching them too, out of the corner of her eye, and had been rather nervous when her stepfather had ordered her to take more ale to them. But she’d done what she’d always done when she got nervous—she overcompensated with confidence. She couldn’t afford to be a fragile flower; she couldn’t fake her strength or confidence.

But that had been a mistake. The three men had paid more attention to her because of her impertinence than she’d meant them to. They were a handsome lot, with their finely embroidered waistcoats and polished boots that gleamed in the lamplight. Even the one who’d come in leaning heavily on a cane had been a handsome fellow. Men shouldn’t be that attractive, Bridget thought with a frown. Especially the one with dark hair and honey-brown eyes. He had an intensity that she didn’t like one bit, as if he could read anyone’s thoughts simply by meeting their gaze. That one was dangerous.

“But I’m out here, and they’re in there,” she murmured to herself. No one ever disturbed her up in the loft, because no one thought to look in the haystacks.

She busied herself by inventorying the rest of her possessions, which included a small carving knife that was tucked away in the back of the bag. Once she was assured her treasures were safe, she settled down to sleep and tugged her blankets up over her. She heard the horses below, nickering softly as they ate oats and hay. The scuttling of mice somewhere on the rafters, rather than frightening her, assured her she was safe. Mice always moved about when no one else was around.

She had closed her eyes and started to drift when the scurrying mice stopped and the stables turned quiet. A moment later, low voices whispered to each other from below.

“She must be in here. I saw her cross the courtyard as we came out,” a man said. His cultured voice was one she recognized, belonging to one of the fancy gents. His voice was smooth as warm brandy, and she remembered his eyes were the same color. Bridget slid free of her blankets and moved silently along the floor of the loft so she could peer over the edge. Three men stood in the center of the stables, looking around.

Bridget ducked down as far as she could to avoid being seen by them.

“Trystan, no one’s here,” one of the other men said.

“She’s here,” the first man said with a soft chuckle. “Aren’t you, little hellcat? Come out, child! I bought you from that wretch who claims to be your stepfather, and I’m here to discuss your future.”

“Trys, you’ll scare her. Tell the girl what you plan to do for her first, or she’ll think you mean her harm,” one of the men argued.

The loft vibrated as the man began to climb up the stairs of the ladder. Bridget would have shoved the ladder away and sent the man crashing to the floor, but that would leave her no easy way to escape. If she tried to make that drop, she would most likely break an ankle or her neck, and she was injured enough as it was.

Thinking quickly, she dug through her bag until she found her whittling knife. It was a small blade, but it could still cut them if they tried anything. But her best chance was to not be seen at all.

The man reached the top of the loft, searching the dim, hay-strewn platform. It was just dark enough inside the stables that he might miss her.

Please don’t let him see me, please.

She held her breath, and the blood roared so loud in her ears she couldn’t hear much else.

“Gotcha!” With his feet still planted on the top rung of the ladder, the man lunged for her. Bridget scrambled back, but one of his hands gripped her ankle and dragged her toward him. She kicked at him with her foot and caught his chin. He grunted in pain but didn’t let go. Instead, her fight seemed to light a new fire in him. He climbed fully into the loft and dove at her. Bridget raised the knife just as he landed on top of her, and she felt the blade scrape across his arm.

“Christ, she has a knife!” The man bellowed as he pinned her flat on the floor.

He grasped her wrist, stopping the hand holding the knife, and pressed it hard against the floor beside her head.

“Let go of it, hellion!”

“No!” she spat.

“Let go!” His grip tightened to the point of pain, forcing her to drop the knife. His grip instantly eased and the pain vanished.

“Er… I say, Trystan. Let’s be quick about this,” one of the man’s friends said. “It looks as though we’re kidnapping this girl, when that’s not really the case. I don’t wish to be here long, lest we find ourselves in trouble. Our coach is ready.”

Trystan stared down at her, the hard angles of his face too perfect for any man, especially one as wicked as the devil himself.

“Listen, little cat,” he growled. “I bought you tonight from that swine who claims to be your stepfather. I have no plans at all to hurt you, except to spank that ass of yours if you dare to stab me again.”

“I ain’t no whore!” Bridget spat angrily. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Of that, I’m very aware,” he replied. “And that’s not why I bought you. Come down with me, and my friends and I will explain just what I plan to do with you.”

Bridget didn’t want to go anywhere with a man she didn’t know, let alone three.

“Go to hell,” she snapped, but she was all too aware that he was fully on top of her and could do anything he wished to her if he wanted. His weight didn’t crush her, but she was fully pressed into the floor by his body, trapped and helpless. Something wild fluttered in her lower belly that made her feel strange.

“Graham, find some rope, please. The little cat refuses to withdraw her claws,” Trystan shouted over his shoulder to one of the two men waiting below.

“Miss…” the third man’s voice gently called out. “We really mean you no harm.”

Bridget spat, “You’re trying to bloody nab me. Ain’t nothing innocent about that.” Her protest was silenced as Trystan rolled his eyes and shoved a wadded handkerchief into her mouth.

“There, that’s better.” He grasped both of her wrists in one hand and dragged her toward the ladder. She fought valiantly, and he soon seemed to realize he could not force her down the ladder. He peered over the side of the loft and then before she could stop him, he scooped her up and tossed her.

She screeched and a second later landed in a wagon of hay just below. Trystan climbed down the ladder and pulled her from the hay.

“Rope, Graham.” Trystan held out his hand.

The one not leaning on a cane passed Trystan a coil of rope, which her captor used to bind her wrists tightly together. Then he held her still, with one strong hand gripping her arm. She was trussed up like a sheep for slaughter.

“We need to get her into the coach. I don’t want that barman changing his mind. She’s got too much spirit to end up in a brothel,” Trystan announced.

Confused by his words, she stumbled along as Trystan pushed her to follow his two companions into the waiting coach. She panicked, trying to spit out the gag. Her bag, her things… all that she had in the world was still in the stables. Tears streamed down her face, and one of the men noticed.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,” said the one who used his cane to walk about. His eyes were gentle as he looked upon her. “Please don’t cry, Miss. Everything will be all right. Now please, don’t scream. I give you my word no one will hurt you.” He removed the handkerchief from her mouth just as the other two men sat down. The dark-haired devil named Trystan chose the seat directly beside her, and she was suddenly warmed by the heat of his body.

“Please—please, milord. My bag… I ain’t got nothing else.”