Run Wild (Escape with a Scoundrel) - By Shelly Thacker Page 0,55
Almost midnight.
He hated to return home from his club this early, but he needed to be at the Old Bailey at seven on the morrow. He had an important felony case to present before the King’s Bench, and he wanted to look his best. Snapping the watch shut, he slid it back into his coat pocket.
With a sigh of bittersweet pleasure, he savored the memory of this night and the tastes that still lingered on his lips: rare roast beef, fresh oysters, quince pastry, fine port, and an expensive girl.
The chit he had enjoyed tonight had been a fetching thing freshly arrived from the countryside. Dark hair, a lovely full mouth. About thirteen years old.
The procurers at his club, the Laikon Society, constantly amazed and delighted him with their offerings. The society catered to men like him, men of importance and responsibility who needed and deserved the very finest in recreation. They had an eye for the best feminine flesh, selecting only the freshest and loveliest girls from the scores who flocked into London every week. Operating with the utmost discretion, they lured the new arrivals with promises of employment and lodgings.
After the first month or so, most of the girls adjusted to their new circumstances. For those who did not, there was always opium.
Membership in the club was unspeakably expensive and absolutely secret, operating entirely on passwords and pseudonyms. And it was worth every pound sterling he paid.
Prescott lit a long cigar, smiling. Tonight’s brunette had been brand new. He customarily requested the most recent acquisitions. She had fought him, of course. He always enjoyed that. Added a pleasant bit of sport to the evening’s entertainment.
Inhaling deeply of the cigar, he rested his head against the velvet seat and blew a ring of fragrant smoke toward the coach’s ceiling. Life was good. Life was very good indeed. He didn’t see how it could get much better.
The coach rolled to a stop before his town house. Pulling his boots on, Prescott settled his tricorne on his head and picked up his silk cloak and ivory-topped walking stick.
His driver opened the door. “Here we are, Your Honor.”
“Very good, Cragg.” Prescott lowered himself carefully down the steps to the ground. Years of indulgence had brought him a great deal of pleasure, but unfortunately they had also taken a certain physical toll.
“Same time tomorrow night, sir?”
“Of course, Cragg.” Prescott slipped him a guinea and headed for the door.
This was the only part of the day he hated: returning home to his wife. If he was lucky, the old cow would already be asleep upstairs, having half-drowned herself in sherry as was her daily custom. Sometimes, entire blessed weeks went by when he didn’t see her at all.
As usual, his valet opened the door, waiting with a silver tray that held a glass of warmed brandy.
But for some reason, tonight the butler was there as well. “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening.” Prescott eyed the man curiously as he exchanged his hat, cloak, and cane for the brandy. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
“You have visitors, sir. The Honorable Mr. Lloyd and the Honorable Mr. Eaton. I explained that you weren’t expected back until late, but they insisted on awaiting your return.”
“Lloyd and Eaton?” The two were his closest friends, colleagues from the high court, and he saw them almost every day. What could be so pressing that it couldn’t wait until morning? “Where are they, Covey? In my study?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Covey. You’re dismissed for the night.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The butler headed off for the servants’ quarters.
“You can retire as well.” Prescott dismissed his valet with a flick of his hand, then started down the marble-tiled corridor that led to the rear of the house, swirling the brandy in his goblet. Damn and blast, he hoped this didn’t concern the case he was presenting in the morning.
He opened the door to his study.
His two friends waited inside, seated before his desk, enjoying glasses of port. Before the hearth stood two other men he had never seen before—lower-class types, one a portly chap with his arm in a sling, the other a young lad with a shock of red hair and nervous, darting eyes.
“Hibbert!” Eaton came out of his chair. “We were beginning to think you’d never get here.”
“Eaton.” Prescott went forward to shake hands. “Lloyd.” He kept looking at the two strangers, his curiosity becoming puzzlement. “What’s this about?”
Lloyd pumped his hand enthusiastically. “News that couldn’t wait until morning, old man.”