Adrift With the Viscount (Lords of the Night Book Three) Read online

  There is no peace until the humans are dead and the United Kingdom is ours once more.

  Spare me your insanity. As if you will ever sit on the throne of England, you who cannot live beyond the water.

  Then we will sink the islands. Once England is submerged, the throne is easily attainable.

  The merfolk hated humans for clogging the seas with their fishing vessels and dumping cargo, their dead and their rubbish in the water. They only tolerated Valentine within their ranks because he was a skilled fighter, and though he refused any longer to brawl for their causes, his beast took control as soon as that weapon hit his hand. When that happened, it was extremely difficult to regain his human sanity and thinking.

  He’d killed innocent sailors over the years, lured others to their deaths by drowning, for he adored singing and that was a tool the merfolk used. For this, he would never grasp forgiveness and it would forever haunt him. It marred the wondrous gift his voice was. Rarely did he sing for pleasure anymore. Those were truths his friends never knew about him. He couldn’t bring himself to talk of any of it. Finding freedom within the seas came at a cost, and at times, he considered the cost too high. Taking a life, no matter the reason, changed a man, and not for the better. None of this would have happened had he found a lady, courted her and had a love affair of the ages. If he’d had his humanity, he could forget the strife beneath the waves and his connection to it.

  Yet love hadn’t come and neither had a woman he could trust.

  I could find peace, perhaps visit the Irish property. Forge a new life. He wanted that more than he’d ever wished for anything. I’m so tired of hoping I am enough, wondering if I’ll ever find acceptance for what I am… what I’ve done. Valentine used his strong tail to surge through the water, moving ever closer to where he’d left his clothing.

  There is no peace for you while your allegiance remains divided.

  That was a truth he couldn’t deny. Only, which man did he want to live as more? He would need to decide, and soon.

  Annoyed that the commander had soured his swim time, Valentine broke the surface of the water near a bridge. Then he froze, and it had nothing to do with the temperature. A woman stood beneath a gas light. A trace of silvery tears trailed over the cheek he could see, for she had half-turned from the view of the water. She tipped up her head, and when the hood of her emerald cloak fell away, he sucked in a breath. Golden curls shone in the lamp light.

  Vaguely, he knew of her, for she worked within Bête Noire, the gentleman’s club that he and the other Cursed Lords had opened as a sanctuary of sorts. The last time he’d caught a glimpse of her, he’d admired the curves her petite figure supported. But why wasn’t she there now? Hyde Park was a dangerous destination for an unattached woman once darkness fell, and there were rules in place at the club that prohibited them from leaving at night.

  With a frown, he ducked beneath the water as she turned her face toward him, but when he surfaced again, she’d gone.

  Damn it.

  Yes, she was a tempting baggage, but he wasn’t looking for a bit of muslin to tupp before he left England. He was simply finished with trying to woo a woman when every attempt had met with defeat, fear, and disgust.

  More reason to ship out.

  He pulled himself onto the bank and his scales shimmered in the moonlight. Valentine slicked back his ruddy hair, and when the transformation into his human form completed, he stood and moved toward his abandoned clothing. Time to make a showing at the club and tell his closest friends in the world goodbye.

  It was unlikely he’d return to London soon… or at all.

  The warmth of Bête Noire rolled over him as he strolled through the club, enough that the cold of the water was finally banished from his veins.

  When he approached his customary table in the private salon reserved for the cursed lords, he couldn’t help his grin. The Duke of Manchester as well as the Earl of Coventry were already there. Valentine greeted them with enthusiasm as he slipped into a seat.

  “Gentlemen.” He ordered a whiskey from a passing servant. “I assume Devon is still playing the dutiful son and brother?” It had been a long time indeed since the four of them had sat at this table. Not since before the duke had wed, surely.

  “This is so. More than that, he’s taking to his new role as adoring husband with much enthusiasm.” Manchester nodded and poured out a measure of brandy into his snifter. “After that, I believe he and Elizabeth plan to partake in an abbreviated honeymoon, to Bath or Brighton.” His brown eyes twinkled. “I’m afraid my sister wasn’t forthcoming about her plans.”

  “I don’t doubt it. She probably didn’t wish for you to come after her in a misguided attempt at brotherly protection.” Valentine chuckled, for it was well known in their circle that Lady Elizabeth had a strong will, and she’d won the Earl of Devon with that same determination despite the duke’s meddling and warnings. “I wish them well.” That was God’s honest truth. They all deserved happiness and a chance to take it if fate offered. When his drink came, he lifted it. “May we all experience the best of life in future endeavors.”

  “Hear, hear,” Coventry said in a voice that roiled with amusement. He lifted his wine glass and the ruby red liquid inside shifted like the waves of the sea. “To the future.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” the duke murmured. They touched glasses and the click of crystal rang in the sudden quiet of the room. Manchester leveled his gaze upon Valentine, speculation in those brown depths. “You look resolved, Mountgarret. Have you plans of your own?”

  “I do.” The moment of truth had come. He encompassed them both in his glance. “I am going to sea. Finally. I fear I’ve tarried too long in London already.”

  “Ah.” Coventry leaned back in his chair. He raked a hand through his thick raven-black hair and landed his emerald gaze upon Valentine. “I suspected as much. You’ve been restless for weeks now.”

  “Yes.” If any of his set understood, it was Coventry, for he was the only one of them that had been married previously and had his heart shattered beyond repair from complications thereof.

  The duke leaned forward. “How long will you be out of pocket?”

  Valentine shrugged. “A year. Perhaps more.” He took a sip of his whiskey. Not as good as what the Irish distilled, but it wasn’t terrible. “There is no reason for me to stay in London now.”

  “Because of the curse?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “There is no chance it can break immediately. Why should I linger in Town? Besides, I hear the call of the merfolk once more.”

  “They are not your people, Mountgarret,” the duke said with a frown. “They only want you with them to swell their numbers, to kill. You know this.”

  “I do.” Valentine sighed. He drained the remainder of the liquor in his glass. “Yet I don’t feel at home in London either. I haven’t in some time.” He paused, searching for words. “I exist in a nether world. It’s quite annoying.”

  “Understandable.” Compassion and empathy burned in Coventry’s eyes. If any man in the world could understand, it was his chums. “What will you do? You have responsibilities here, to your title, to your sister and nieces.”

  Guilt prickled at his conscience. “I won’t be an absentee landowner, if that’s what you mean.” He toyed with his empty glass and refused a refill when a passing servant asked. “As for my family, they know how being away from the sea has affected me.” He stared at his fingers. “I shall visit as often as I can. It’s the best I can promise, but I must find my own peace.” With a glance that included both of his friends, he said, “For I am quite certain my path won’t include the love of a good woman.”

  At times the life of a man doomed as a shifter took its toll on every aspect of his life.

  “You cannot know that for a certainty.” When Valentine didn’t answer, Manchester narrowed his gaze, but since he’d married, he no longer had such a quelling visage as he once did. “What about the club?”

  “What of it?” Valentine shrugged. “You and Coventry and Devon run things like clockwork. Rarely am I a part of the day to day operations. Haven’t been for quite some time.” He bounced his glance between his two friends and his heart gave a mighty thump. He truly would miss them. “I grow weary of the routine even here. What I want is peace, quiet, and the time for contemplation.”

  The duke flicked up an eyebrow. “To come to grips with what you are.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Coventry snorted. “We can hire new women, if that’s what you’re hinting at.” He took a sip of his wine while his eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “Ha.” Valentine laughed even as heat crept up the back of his neck. “Not my point.” An image of the blonde he’d seen on the bridge popped into his mind’s eye. He just as quickly banished it. “I am not after a woman in any capacity.”

  “The right woman can bring you the peace you seek,” Manchester said in a whisper with a grin. “I know from experience.”

  By sheer force of will, Valentine kept himself from rolling his eyes. It was well known how much in love with his blind wife the duke was. “I refuse to go down that road again.” Years ago, he’d fallen in love. Hard. Unequivocally, in fact. Even gone so far as to propose and offer everything that he was. The woman hadn’t been able to stomach his fins or scales or the bloodthirst. When she’d spied his tail the one night he’d felt comfortable enough to show her, she’d gone to her bed in a fit. Days later, she’d jilted him at the altar, and he’d taken that lesson to heart.

  Never again. A man was only strong enough to survive being broken once.

  Manchester clapped a hand to Valentine’s shoulder, which yanked him out of his dismal thoughts. He squeezed in sympathy or encouragement, the viscount couldn’t say. “Not all women are the same. You need only look to me or Devon to know that.”

  “I’d rather not risk it, for disappointment a second time would have devastating results,” he was quick to reply. Another failed love affair would send him straight into the arms of the bloodthirsty merfolk. “My ship is all I need at this juncture of my life.”

  Coventry grinned. “There’s no danger of becoming entangled with a female onboard a ship, eh? Best place to be if you’re running from destiny.”

  Bloody hell, what was the man on about? “I’m not running.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” He lifted his wineglass in salute. “You are a better man than I, Mountgarret.” The earl took a deep drink and then rested the crystal upon the oak tabletop. He laughed but there was a decided hollowness to the sound. “Yes, a better man indeed, for I cannot bring myself to give up hope.”

  Is that what I’ve done then, given up on hope? Perhaps I have.

  Silence reigned for a few minutes before the duke cleared his throat.

  “You will miss the birth of my first child, as well as Devon’s return.”

  “So I will.” A twinge of bitter envy lanced through him. The duke had seemingly everything a man could want, and he’d fought hard for it. Would such happiness come his way? Not bloody likely any time soon. Regardless, neither of those domestic events were enough to keep him tethered to land. “I am certain the both of you can survive without me.”

  Manchester nodded. “We shall miss you around Town. For so long, we four have been together, commiserating, encouraging.”

  “You will soon forget about me.” He wished to say more but the sour bitterness upon his tongue felt vile enough that he swallowed any other words. He was cursed, this was true, but that fact didn’t need to eat at him until he built walls about himself to keep everyone out.

  “No.” The duke shook his head and his brown hair, longer than current fashion, waved. “You are a vital part of us. You know this.”

  “Perhaps.” Valentine sighed. He looked first at Coventry and then at Manchester. An ache set up in his chest, for he would miss their company. “I suffer from ennui, and I am tired of chasing hope, truthfully.”

  The earl grunted. “Such is life for us every five years, unless you’re Manchester, who has made peace with his beast.”

  “That I have. My wife’s love soothes my ragged soul at times.” He didn’t drop his gaze when the other two gawked at him. “I won’t apologize for my affection or for my decision. Being cursed isn’t the death knoll we’ve always thought.”

  “And neither should you,” Coventry hastened to add. He drained the remainder of wine from his glass and then addressed Valentine. “When do you depart?”

  “In three days, and it cannot come soon enough.” There were too many other worries to attend to that didn’t concern toiling beneath his curse. He was what he was, and he’d accepted that—mostly. What made a man better was what he planned to do despite the challenges, and that did not include joining the ranks of the merfolk army.

  “Good luck, my friend,” the duke murmured. “Know that if you should change your mind and remain in Town, we will be here for you.”

  He nodded. “I thank you for the kindness. For the moment, the sea is where I belong. Once I discover my purpose in this life, I shall return to London and resume my duties with perhaps a more grateful attitude.”

  “Perhaps a new appreciation, as well,” Coventry murmured. “It is something all of us can use.”

  “Yes.” He would pray that day of enlightenment came soon, for he couldn’t continue to feel as if he was adrift in his current existence.

  CHAPTE TWO

  Lady Phoebe Winthrop prowled about Hyde Parke when she had been unable to sleep. Restlessness shifted through her. It had grown worse in recent weeks and she didn’t know why, but if she kept moving, she was able to stave it off.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true. That same feeling overtook her no matter what she did or where she was. She suspected one reason lay with the Viscount Mountgarret. Ever since she’d spied him in passing at Bête Noire a handful of weeks ago, she’d felt as if adventure was in the offing, and it all had to do with him.

  But how? And why? Never had she uttered one word to him, nor had he talked to or tarried with her. She was nothing to him. In all honesty, she was nothing to everyone she’d ever met, but it didn’t used to be that way.

  Oh, no. Once upon a time, she’d been the charming and spirited youngest daughter of the Marquess of Brixton, enjoying her life and place within the ton as if she’d had no cares in the world. It had all come crashing down one fine spring day when she’d been but sixteen and had met one of her father’s more dashing contemporaries.

  And she’d had no choice but to learn a bitter lesson regarding the thoughts and actions of men, even those who’d claimed to love and protect her.

  That horrible event seemed a lifetime ago, but sixteen years had passed since then, and she’d been forced to make her own way in the world, push through the rumors and innuendo, fight through the disappointment and the anger, endure everything that had come her way. In those intervening years, she’d grown strong and perhaps bitter, untrusting certainly. No one would look after her or care for her, so that responsibility rested solely on her. And there was no hope of attracting a man bent on marriage, especially not with her disfigurement. Men saw that, lusted after her body regardless, and judged her as less than a common doxy. Deemed her unworthy of love because in their eyes, having such a mark upon her body made her less.

  I am better than that, want more than what fate has given me. I wish to take from life all that I can—all that I deserve.

  Phoebe shook her head in an effort to dispel those unpleasant thoughts of her past and what had caused her fall into ruin, and the circumstances of her appearance over which she had no control. Instead, she turned her musings back to the viscount. For whatever reason, the elusive man fascinated her to the point that she’d taken to slinking after him at the gentleman’s club, following him whenever her duties allowed, watching him while she remained hidden. What about him called to her?

  You are a silly, stupid widget, Phoebe.

  A sigh of melancholy and frustration escaped her. Bête Noire, the club that had ultimately become her saving grace, was her only way of seeing the viscount and now she was on the verge of throwing out that salvation because of her obsession with that one man.

  Though it was true that most women installed at the establishment were there as whores, that was not her lot in life. Truly, there was no kinder way to describe them, and from what she’d come to understand, some of the women were expected to provide for the other… needs of some of the owners, even if those requests might seem peculiar.

  Phoebe had never had cause to witness such things though, and no one talked about them. She had never inquired further, for just like she had secrets, so did others. It wasn’t her place to dredge them up.

  When she’d landed at the club’s much-lauded door with the name of Mrs. Eagan on her lips, gleaned through gossip as she’d made her way back to London, and the only thing going for her was her looks, she’d been taken inside and hired after naught but an interview with that erstwhile lady as well as one of the owners. The man had intimidated her, had seemed to peer into her soul with his piercing emerald eyes, but he had deemed her worthy of joining Bête Noire’s ranks, and she been grateful for the concession.

  At least there she’d be safe.

  When she had consigned herself to making a living on her back, regardless that it was at a gentleman’s club and not whoring on the street, instead she was given a headmistress role of sorts. In short, she was caretaker to half the women on the third floor, a counterpart to Mrs. Eagan, who held the same task. Such a boon she couldn’t have fathomed.

  But she’d been no less pampered and groomed than any of the others. Before she was allowed to learn her duties, she’d been encouraged to lounge about like a lady of leisure, partaking of perfumed baths, having her hair washed and dressed, been fitted and measured for a handful of dresses and one pretty gown as befitting her station, along with several sets of beautiful satin, silk and lace-trimmed undergarments and pieces of night wear. The room she’d been assigned was small, but pretty, and it was all hers, a place where she could retreat from the world.