The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,12
latest copy of The Daring Lady Darcy was delivered, my lord, along with the newssheets.”
Winter perked up. He had no idea who the irreverent author was, along with the rest of the nobility—the wagers at all the clubs had grown intense—but those ingenious little periodicals drove business to The Silver Scythe’s private rooms in twittering droves. Gentlemen, ladies, couples…all wanting to try Lady Darcy’s scandalous advice. He grinned. If he ever met the author, he’d shake their hand and offer them a bottle of his finest whiskey.
Lady Darcy, the heroine in the letters, was both delicious and depraved, and her written explorations titillated the ton to no end. With the lilting prose of a Jane Austen novel, the debauched content was more along the lines of John Cleland’s Fanny Hill, a favorite of Winter’s own collection of expurgated literary works. The author of The Daring Lady Darcy was anonymous, and rightly so. No sane gentleman courted a prison sentence for obscenity, and some of the scenes flirted in the realm of the offensive.
“Also,” Ludlow went on, “Lord Oliver did call in earlier.”
Winter groaned, his good humor waning. “Wonderful. What did my dear stick-in-the-moors brother want?”
The man was a gnat, always buzzing around, complaining about Winter’s lifestyle and grumbling that their family’s sterling reputation was being smeared. True, Winter wished he could walk away from his ducal birthright and stick it to his father, but he couldn’t deny that his family name and wealth had opened many doors.
One of which was being able to use the first portion of the inheritance he’d received at eighteen to invest in The Silver Scythe. That venture had almost given the old man apoplexy, but Winter had earned money hand over fist, nearly quadrupling his investment in the social club during its third year. The profits gained in the last year had been staggering.
From a scandalously young age, Winter had devoted himself to a life in the pursuit of pleasure. He’d dropped out of Oxford, flaunted his name and wealth, and generally made a spectacle of himself whenever he could. He’d earned his disreputable reputation within the ton, and worked tirelessly to keep it.
Until Prue’s death changed everything.
After that, admittedly, he’d struggled. For months he went through the motions, but the things that used to bring him pleasure only made him feel hollow. Days of debauchery no longer held any appeal, and wasting his life, even if to spit in his sanctimonious father’s face, seemed like an insult to the memory of his sister. He went back to university and got his act together. Made a plan with Westmore to buy The Silver Scythe. Got married as insurance.
Winter still owned the outrageously successful club, but he wasn’t the same.
“Lord Oliver said that he would return tomorrow,” Ludlow said, and cleared his throat as Winter turned to leave. “I’ve also heard word from the servant grapevine that His Grace’s residence at Vance House is being readied for the duke’s arrival in town.”
Winter froze mid-step. “My father is coming to London?”
“For the season. That is what I’ve heard, my lord.”
“And what of my…er, Lady Roth?”
The butler’s lips flattened imperceptibly. “Lady Roth is currently at Kendrick Abbey, my lord. Mrs. Butterfield writes that she is in excellent health, spends time with Miss Clarissa and the Fairfax twins, and visits with Her Grace, Lady Beswick, once a month. It is fortunate that they live only a short ride away. However, the duchess will soon enter her confinement with her second child, as you know.”
Of course he knew. Beswick couldn’t stop talking about his three-year-old daughter, Philippa, and he was over the moon that his wife was pregnant again. Winter didn’t begrudge the man his joy, but his notion of happiness differed greatly from the settled duke. An evening of happiness for Beswick included childish romps and bedtime stories, whereas for Winter, it involved financial accounting, gambling, a spot of whiskey, and the occasional pining for a future he would never have.
“Tell Matteo to send my congratulations to Beswick.” He paused. “And purchase an extravagantly romantic bouquet of flowers for his duchess. Don’t send a note. It will drive the duke crazy.”
Winter smirked. The Duke of Beswick was possessive to a fault, and while his duchess had no eyes for any other, Winter loved aggravating his friend. The man wasn’t called the Beast of Beswick for nothing.
Ludlow nodded. “And your wife, my lord?”
Winter balked at the question. He had no idea what kind of flowers Isobel liked. Or if she