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  For Sue—who taught me to use my imagination

  Acknowledgments

  So many people are there for me along the road from idea to finished book. Thanks first and foremost to my lovely and wonderful editor Holly Ingraham, who went above and beyond the call of duty for this one. Congratulations, lady! To Lizzie Poteet, Amy Goppert, and all the team at St. Martin’s Press who work tirelessly behind the scenes. To my awesomesauce agent Holly Root for always knowing just the right thing to say. To my friends and family—especially my sister Jessie—without whom I would not be able to do this job I love so much. And to Stephen, Tiny, Toast and Charlie, for keeping me company during the long hours at the computer and for not getting too annoyed when I push them off the keyboard.

  Prologue

  “For a club called the Lords of Anarchy,” said Miss Ophelia Dauntry wryly as she scanned the Paynes’ crowded ballroom, “they seem remarkably well behaved.”

  As the current president of the once notorious driving club, Lord Payne had done much to repair the club’s image in the eyes of the haute ton. And part of that campaign had been the invitation the club had extended to Lady Hermione Upperton, whose new membership was the reason for tonight’s celebration. They had even gone so far as to fête her induction with a rout instead of what they might otherwise have done—taken the excuse to drink to excess in their favorite tavern on the Brighton Road.

  “I think we all know why they are behaving so prettily,” Lady Hermione said with a speaking look. She was under no illusions about the reasons for her warm welcome into the brotherhood. But as a driving enthusiast with a desire to take her place among the sporting elite, she was happy to seize whatever chance she could get.

  Especially since her father had done his level best to keep her from fulfilling her dream by threatening every other club with a lawsuit if they allowed his daughter to become a member. Only the Lords of Anarchy had ignored the Earl of Upperton’s threats and extended the invitation.

  “I believe you should be chatting with your new compatriots,” said Mrs. Frederick Lisle—more commonly known as the celebrated poet Leonora Craven. “Especially since you are looking so lovely.”

  Hermione smiled at her friend’s compliment. It was true that she felt far more fashionable than usual in her deep blue silk gown. The color contrasted with her creamy complexion as well as bringing out the blue in her eyes. And she’d chosen to have her maid dress her dark hair in a newer, softer style which was more becoming than her everyday utilitarian chignon. Though she was now a member of a club that was known for its masculine pursuits, she didn’t wish them to forget that she was a lady. And as such she hoped to bring a more equitable sensibility to the membership.

  “Thank you, Leonora,” she said, suppressing the urge to twirl. “I was sure Ophelia would faint dead away on seeing me rigged out in such finery.”

  “I always knew you had it in you,” Ophelia said primly. Then in a lower voice said, “I’m just happy you chose to put away your dowdy gowns on an evening when there are so many handsome, eligible gentlemen around.”

  “Are we interrupting?”

  Ophelia colored as she realized Leonora’s husband, Freddy, was behind her.

  “Of course not, darling,” said Leonora with a twinkle in her eye as she made room in their little circle for both Freddy and the two men flanking him: the Earl of Mainwaring and the Duke of Trent. Friends from school, the three had once been four—with Leonora’s late brother Jonathan having rounded out the group before his death.

  “I am surprised to see you here, Mainwaring,” Hermione said with a raised brow. “I thought you were firmly against the notion of ladies participating in such rough pursuits.”

  As if he knew how much it would irritate her, Mainwaring raised his quizzing glass and surveyed her with it.

  “I do not believe you are showing any signs of masculinity, Lady Hermione,” he drawled. “So I suppose I must withdraw my objections.”

  That he was as handsome as he was provoking vexed Hermione even more than his grudging approval. With dark unruly curls that cried out to be tousled and the fine-boned features of a Renaissance angel, he would have been called pretty if he were a woman. But he was most certainly a man—as his wide shoulders and trim waist attested. Yet, Hermione could focus only on his maddening personality.

  “You are the most infuriating man,” she said with a scowl. “Do you really have to enjoy setting my back up so much? It’s most unbecoming.”

  Mainwaring gave a shrug. “Perhaps not, but it’s far too amusing for me to give up.”

  She wondered if it would spoil the party in her honor if she were to start a brawl. Likely not, but knowing that the Lords of Anarchy wanted to rejuvenate their image, she could jeopardize her membership. And though it would feel wonderful to snatch away Mainwaring’s quizzing glass and smash it into tiny pieces, she would not risk her new place, even for the satisfaction of erasing Mainwaring’s smug grin.

  “There is more to life than amusement,” Hermione retorted. “In fact, I would find it most amusing to—”

  “Children,” interrupted the Duke of Trent. “I believe our host is approaching his guest of honor.”

  Hermione, without the height of the duke to let her see above the crush, stared in the direction Trent had indicated, and soon saw that he was correct. Lord Payne, accompanied by his lady wife, was headed their way.

  “My dear Lady Hermione,” said the viscount, “I hope you are enjoying yourself.”

  He smiled politely at the circle around her, but without warmth. He and Freddy had crossed paths during the tenure of the previous club president, who was also Freddy’s cousin. And it was obvious there was no love lost between the men.

  “I am pleased to see so many of the membership come out to support you, Lady Hermione,” said Lady Payne, her hand possessively on her husband’s arm. Hermione wondered if her hostess was warning the club’s sole female member away from her husband. It could not have been easy for her to stand by his side through the wilder exploits of the club. “I do wish you will consider me a friend during your membership. As the only lady, I know it will be difficult for you to find your footing.”

  She need not worry though Hermione could hardly say so aloud. She had no designs on any man, much less the boorish Lord Payne.

  Aloud, she said, “Thank you, Lady Payne. It is most kind of you to think of me.”

  “Nonsense,” her host contradicted his wife. “I foresee no issues for Lady Hermione with the other chaps. We are not the first driving club to admit ladies, after all. So long as she knows her way around a coaching pair, she’ll be fine.”

  Lady Payne flushed in embarrassment at his contradiction. Hermione exchanged a speaking glance with Leonora—not a happy match, that.

  Before Hermione could break the awkward silence, Payne gave a brisk nod. “We’ll leave you to it, then. I shall see you later this week at the fir
st club muster of the season in Hyde Park. We meet by the Queen’s Gate.”

  And just as quickly as the couple had appeared, they disappeared back into the crush of guests.

  “Well, that was awkward,” Mainwaring said once their hosts were out of earshot. “I wonder if he is that charming with all ladies or reserves such bombast for his wife.”

  For once, Hermione couldn’t argue with him. But if she were going to succeed in the club, she’d need to accept the bad with the good. Even if it meant suppressing her dislike for the way the club’s president treated his wife.

  “Once a bully, always a bully,” said Freddy grimly. “I had hoped he’d become a bit less difficult with my cousin Gerard gone, but it would seem that the leopard does not change his spots.”

  “Don’t let’s spoil Hermione’s night with all this dark talk,” Leonora said, linking her arm through Hermione’s. “I see champagne over there. Why don’t you gentlemen go fetch some for us?”

  “Ahh, I see how it is,” Freddy said with a much-put-upon sigh. “Now that we’re wed, you think you can just order me about.”

  “Trent and I aren’t wed to her, but she’s ordering us about as well,” Mainwaring pointed out with a shrug. “I think she just wants us gone so that they can talk about lady things.”

  And since none of the three ladies denied the accusation, the three men soon took themselves off to find the champagne tray.

  “Are you sure you wish to be part of this club, dearest?” Leonora asked Hermione once the men had gone. “I know you are desperate for some place to show your skill with the reins. And I do most certainly think that you are any of these men’s equal, if not superior. But I cannot like it that you will be associating with Lord Payne. He was not blameless in all that went on with the club when Jonathan was murdered. Though it’s true he was not responsible for the worst of it.”

  But Hermione had already made up her mind. And though she, too, found Lord Payne troublesome, she had decided that until she saw evidence that the club was sliding back into its former bad habits, she would give them the benefit of the doubt.

  “I know it’s difficult for you to understand,” she said aloud. “But I am doing this with my eyes open. At the first sign of trouble, I will sever my ties, I promise. But until then, I would like the chance to determine whether a club like the Lords of Anarchy can give me what it is I’m looking for.”

  “But what is it that you’re looking for?” Ophelia, who had remained silent until now, asked. “What do you want from them?”

  “What every woman wants.” Hermione smiled sweetly. “To win.”

  One

  “Damn me, Mainwaring,” an aggrieved Mr. Percy Edgerton groused, throwing his cards to the table. “I should have known better than to bring my winning streak to any table that included you as a player.”

  But Jasper Fawley, the Earl of Mainwaring, had heard it all before. With a shrug, he scooped up his winnings and began methodically counting them into his purse. “You cannot say you weren’t warned, Edgerton,” he said when he was finished. “By me and others. And it’s not as if you cannot afford to lose it.”

  Percy, the wealthy heir of Viscount Edgerton, persisted in the delusion that he was something of a virtuoso at the tables. From what Jasper could tell, he wasn’t all that bad when his opponents were on his level. Hence the earlier winning streak. But the Earl of Mainwaring was accounted to be the most skilled player in the ton and as such had proceeded to annihilate Percy trick by trick until the other man was left with only a few coins on his side of the table.

  “Come now, Percy,” said the blowsy widow at the young man’s shoulder, her rouged lips close to his ear. “I’ll have my cook prepare you a nice supper to make up for it.”

  Despite his winnings, Jasper felt an unaccountable stab of envy. A warm woman and a nice supper sounded damned inviting.

  What did he care that a scapegrace like Percy Edgerton was destined for a more comfortable night than his own? Clearly he’d had too much brandy.

  It wasn’t as if he couldn’t find a willing woman if he wanted one. His dark hair and handsome face had served him well with the ladies since he was a halfling. He wasn’t a vain man, but he knew that regular bouts at Jackson’s and fencing at Angelo’s had honed his lean frame into something more than one woman had found pleasing to the eye—and the touch.

  But he’d begun to feel bored of late when it came to the practiced wiles of that kind of woman. Perhaps he’d been on the town for too long. Been the recipient of too many come-hither looks and calculated smiles. Or it could very well be that seeing his friend Freddy—Lord Frederick Lisle—settled down with a woman who had more to recommend her than bedroom skills and a fine bosom had given him an itch for something more permanent than the sort of relationships to which he’d become accustomed.

  Whatever the reason, he was happy enough to go home alone if it meant avoiding the sort of liaison that would leave him temporarily sated but ultimately empty.

  Before he could bid farewell to the unhappy gamester and his mistress, however, the Duke of Trent stepped up beside him.

  “I think there’s something you should see in the back room,” Trent said, his naturally saturnine face even darker than usual.

  Why had Trent even come to Mrs. Wallingford’s hell tonight? Jasper wondered as he followed the other man through the throng toward the rooms reserved for high-stakes games. Trent never seemed to enjoy himself when he played, and he lost more often than he won.

  Even so, years of long friendship had led Mainwaring to accept the other man’s presence on such occasions without question. At the very least they could both avoid matchmaking mamas in such establishments, which was a high recommendation in and of itself. And when necessary, the duke did what he could to extricate especially reckless young pups from the clutches of sharps.

  “It’s not young Lord Dalrymple again, is it?” Jasper asked in a low voice as they wended their way through the crowded card room. “I vow I’ve stopped his skiff from going over the falls so many times I’m beginning to think he should give his bloody family estate to me.”

  But Trent shook his head before extending an arm for Mainwaring to precede him through a narrow doorway into a room that was even more crowded than the card room.

  When he reached the edge of the crowd nearest the table, he saw at once why Trent had brought him.

  “It’s a pretty little estate,” the Earl of Upperton, Lady Hermione Upperton’s father, said, running a finger beneath his cravat. “It’s unentailed so it would be yours free and clear, Saintcrow. It’s a valid stake.”

  Earlier that year Jasper and Lady Hermione had been thrown together thanks to the marriage of her dearest friend to his. Though they hadn’t always dealt amicably with one another, Jasper had a great deal of admiration for the lady’s spirit—and if he were honest, for her sharp wit and shiny dark curls that seemed always to be escaping their pins. He certainly had no wish to see her embarrassed or impoverished by her father’s profligate time at the tables.

  Before he could speak, however, Upperton’s opponent, Lord Saintcrow, a man whom Jasper knew to be a skilled card player, cleared his throat. “I don’t know…” he said, drawing out the last word.

  It might have been a ploy to make Upperton add more to his wager, but it might also have been sincere discomfort at the stake the older man offered. Jasper didn’t know Saintcrow well enough to say.

  But clearly Upperton had been spooked by the other man’s reluctance. When Jasper glanced at the pile of IOUs on the table before them, he saw why. The two men had been playing for some time apparently. And like many gamblers before him, at each loss, Upperton had reupped the stakes in order to win back what he’d lost. If he was offering up his unentailed property, the play had been deep indeed.

  “My daughter’s matched grays,” Upperton said, his voice sharp with anxiety. “You know she’s renowned for her appreciation of horseflesh. They are worth fifteen hundred at least.”

/>   Saintcrow, who had not seemed particularly interested before now, sat up straighter. “The ones I saw her driving in the park last week?”

  It was well-known around town that Lord Saintcrow was in the market for a coaching pair, and had even applied to Tattersall’s to search out a team for him. But it was an expensive way to acquire horses, and there was no denying that there was a certain allure in the idea of gaining a well-matched set of horses over the course of an evening for a few hundred quid instead of after months and a couple thousand pounds.

  Upperton, however, was not so knowledgeable about horses as his daughter was. “I suppose they’re the same ones,” he said with a shrug. “I haven’t seen them myself, but since she got them I’ve been approached by any number of chaps with offers to buy them.”

  I’ll bet you have, Mainwaring thought with a grimace. Any man of sense would know Upperton was short of the ready and might be eager to sell off any valuable possessions. Even if they didn’t, strictly speaking, belong to him. He recalled quite clearly that Hermione had purchased the pair with her own funds since her father—notorious for his objections to her fondness for driving—had refused to buy her a pair with his funds.

  Saintcrow, however, had no notion of the horses’ true ownership, and his eagerness was apparent in the way he leaned forward at the table. “I’ll accept the pair as your wager, my lord. And the Lincolnshire estate.”

  Jasper exchanged a quick look with Trent. He could, knowing the truth about the horses, speak up, but to declare it openly in front of witnesses would be tantamount to calling Upperton a liar and men had been called out for less. Plus, the scandal would damage Hermione’s reputation irrevocably. Something he’d avoid if he could help it.

  Once the terms were set, the game itself was short and sweet—at least for Saintcrow, who at the end of play found himself the proud owner of a pair of finely matched grays, named as Jasper had heard Hermione say, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, because their original owner had been fond of Shakespeare. He only hoped that the end of this particular drama was happier than that of Hamlet.