A Rogue to Remember

  The Hellion Club, Book One

  by Chasity Bowlin

  © Copyright 2019 by Chasity Bowlin

  Text by Chasity Bowlin

  Cover by Dar Albert

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 23

  Moreno Valley, CA 92556

  ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition 2019

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Dearest Reader;

  Thank you for your support of a small press. At Dragonblade Publishing, we strive to bring you the highest quality Historical Romance from some of the best authors in the business. Without your support, there is no ‘us’, so we sincerely hope you adore these stories and find some new favorite authors along the way.

  Happy Reading!

  CEO, Dragonblade Publishing

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Chasity Bowlin

  The Hellion Club Series

  A Rogue to Remember (Book 1)

  Barefoot in Hyde Park (Book 2)

  What Happens in Piccadilly (Book 3)

  Sleepless in Southampton (Book 4)

  When an Earl Loves a Governess (Book 5)

  The Duke’s Magnificent Obsession (Book 6)

  The Governess Diaries (Book 7)

  Making Spirits Bright (Novella)

  All I Want for Christmas (Novella)

  The Lost Lords Series

  The Lost Lord of Castle Black (Book 1)

  The Vanishing of Lord Vale (Book 2)

  The Missing Marquess of Althorn (Book 3)

  The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh (Book 4)

  The Mystery of Miss Mason (Book 5)

  The Awakening of Lord Ambrose (Book 6)

  Hyacinth (Book 7)

  A Midnight Clear (A Novella)

  The Lyon’s Den Connected World

  Fall of the Lyon

  Tamed by the Lyon

  Lady Luck and the Lyon

  Pirates of Britannia Series

  The Pirate’s Bluestocking

  Dedication

  I want to dedicate this book to my wonderful husband.

  Jonathan, you never fail to tell me, daily, that you love me, that you’re proud of me, that I’m beautiful and then you go one better, and show me those things, as well. Thank you for being better than any hero I could create.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Chasity Bowlin

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Barefoot in Hyde Park

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The study was in chaos. His father had been buried that morning, the will read that afternoon, and as night was about to fall, he was searching every scrap of paper for some hint or clue as to where he might find Alice. Head in hand, Devil sat on the floor that was littered with correspondence, bills of sale, and ledgers. Cravat missing, waistcoat long since discarded, and his shirt half-untucked from his breeches from his recent exertions, Devil reached for a decanter of brandy from the nearby table and drank directly from it.

  It was the finest brandy he’d ever sipped and had likely cost his father a fortune. But then, things and luxuries had always been more important to the man than his own children had. Temper swept through him, fueled by decades of neglect and hurt. Devil threw the decanter with all his might, and it smashed against the marble that surrounded the hearth. As the shards glittered and glistened, something caught his eye. A scrap of a letter was buried in the ash, having fallen beyond the reach of the blaze.

  Rising quickly, he used the poker to retrieve it. It was a letter written in Alice’s hand, but the contents of it were a mystery to him. All that remained was perhaps the most important part of all—her direction. The address of a boarding house in Spitalfields was far beneath his sister, and yet that is where their father’s coldness had relegated her to.

  Devil didn’t bother with his cravat or frock coat. He simply grabbed his discarded redingote and fled the house as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. Hailing a hackney, he tossed the driver a coin when they reached that ignoble address.

  It was worse than he’d feared. The building was old, listing terribly to one side. There was no glass in the windows, only shutters that let in more air than they’d ever block out. Banging on the door, a woman who could only be a prostitute opened it.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Alice,” Devil said.

  The woman cackled. “If they told you she’d give your money’s worth, Gov, they lied. Now, if it’s a nice ride you be looking for, old Meg here will do you right.”

  “Alice is my sister. I need to find her. If you show me to her room, I will give you whatever coin you require,” he said.

  The woman’s cackling stopped. “Her brother, are you? Well, you might be in time… but like as not, she won’t even know you’re here. Come on, then.”

  Devil followed the woman up the stairs, uncertain of what her strange proclamation meant. But the moment the door to that hovel of a room opened, he knew. The smell of sickness assailed him, something he was all too familiar with following his years in India. Entering the chamber, he found his sister lying on a thin mattress on the floor. He could hear a rat chewing on something in the corner. Her face was pale, her hair slicked to her body with sweat, and her eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. A small girl sat beside her, the fabric of Alice’s thin nightrail clutched in her tiny fists.

  “Alice… Alice, it’s Devil. I’ve come to bring you home.”

  A soft groan escaped the cracked lips of the gaunt figure of a woman that had once been lauded as a great beauty. “Too late,” she croaked. “Save her. Save my baby.”

  Devil looked to the small girl clinging to her. It was impossible to miss that she was Alice’s child. The dark curls, the wide blue eyes—she was almost a replica of Alice as a child. “I’ll take care of you both.”

  Alice shook her head. “It hurts, Devil. To breathe. To move. I’m done in by it all.”

  “I’ll get you a doctor,” he insisted.

  “There’s no time,” she said. “Promise me you’ll care for Marina.”

  “I promise. I will take care of her… I will take care of you, Alice, if only you’ll let me,” he said, and his voice broke as tears welled in his eyes.

  His sister reached out, her pale hand falling on his, holding him there with a strength that surprised them both. Her breath rasped from her lungs, and she gave one sorrowful shake of her head. Then her eyes drifted closed.

  “Alice?” Her name escaped his lips on a panicked cry. But there was no response. He’d entered that room in time for her to breathe her last.

  The little girl laid down, pressed her face to the pillow beside her mother, and wept with a kind of agony that was almost animalistic. She might not understan
d death, she might not understand the permanency of it, but she understood that her mother was gone.

  Devil reached for her, lifting her to him. She screamed and kicked, fighting him with a fierceness that belied her slightness. He simply pulled her closer. And held her to him as tightly as he could. “I’ll take care of her. I’ll take care of you,” he vowed. “Whatever the cost. I promise.”

  Chapter One

  Wilhelmina Marks was seated in the drawing room of a posh townhouse on Park Lane that faced the lush greenery of Hyde Park. The clock on the mantel ticked, marking the hour as half-past one. Late. Very late, she decided. It was not a good sign.

  Her gaze traveled about the room as she waited. She had studied enough art during her rather remarkable education at the Darrow School for Girls to know that she was in the presence of very fine pieces, indeed. One appeared to be an actual Titian. If it wasn’t, it was certainly a very good copy. She might well have been wasting her time, but at last she had impressive things to look at. Cutting her gaze to the side, she attempted to study it surreptitiously. So intent upon her task was she that when the door opened and her prospective employer walked in, she didn’t even notice.

  “It’s the genuine article. Or so I was told. If not, well… it wasn’t my mistake to purchase it. It was my great grandfather’s and we don’t seem to be missing the coin overmuch.”

  He wasn’t very punctual but the Devil Lord was in possession of rather catlike grace, Wilhelmina thought as she rose to her feet. She allowed her eyes to drift from the Titian to the man who had just entered the room. Not for the first time, she thought she might have made a terrible mistake in coming here.

  His dark hair was mussed. In fact, all of him was mussed. Yet he still rather took her breath away. Her gaze was drawn to the dusky hue of his skin, sun-bronzed despite the fashion of the day for a paler complexion. It was a testament, she supposed, to his longstanding exile to more exotic locales. His clothing, despite his untidy appearance, was excellently tailored and fit his frame with precision. Rather too much precision, given the manner in which it highlighted the breadth of his shoulders and the wide expanse of his chest as it tapered down to a lean waist and hips. His muscular thighs, no doubt a direct benefit of his acclaimed equestrian skills, strained the fabric of his scandalously well-fitting breeches.

  Finding her voice after realizing she had been silent for too long, Willa said, “Forgive me, my lord. I was admiring the artwork rather intently and didn’t hear you come in. It’s a lovely piece.”

  He looked at it for a moment, then looked back at her, his amusement apparent. “I’ve never given it notice before. I will endeavor to do better.”

  His tone was flirtatious. Far too flirtatious for an employer and a prospective governess. Between that, his appearance, and his tardiness, it was not going well at all. First impressions were remarkably important and he seemed bent on confirming every dark thing whispered about him.

  “Tell me, Miss Marks,” he continued, “are you prepared to work in a scandalous house?”

  Willa didn’t bother to pretend she didn’t know what he meant. Douglas Ashton, Lord Deveril, more commonly known as Devil by the scandal sheets, was a topic of intense conversation and even greater speculation by such publications. It seemed that no matter what he did, be it bad, good, or indifferent, people (and society matrons in particular) were rabid to discuss it at length.

  “Scandal is of little concern to me, my lord,” she said. Her own father was rather notorious himself, after all, but she felt no need to bring that up just yet, if ever. He certainly wouldn’t, she thought. Her father had never made any overture to acknowledge her presence in any way. Even her enrollment at the Darrow School had been initiated by Effie and not by him. He’d simply permitted it so he could cease discussing her. Pushing distressing thoughts of her father aside, she said, “I care not at all for the opinions of others, only my own. I do, however, care for morality.”

  His dark eyebrows lifted imperiously and a cool smirk played about his handsome lips. If there was ever a reason not to take the position offered, that was it. He was too handsome and too certain of his own handsomeness for her peace of mind.

  “That’s a bold statement, Miss Marks. And what is your opinion of me? Am I the devil they say I am… or perhaps I’m something even worse?” His tone was taunting, and yet there was a note in it that seemed to suggest her opinion mattered in some way.

  Willa kept her tone neutral and her expression even. It was part of her training, after all, to remain unflappable in the face of even that sort of outrageousness. “You are a man, my lord. Not a devil. Regardless of whatever moniker the gossipmongers have saddled you with. But I will tell you that I have misgivings about this position. I had them before I came here and they exist still… in ever increasing increments.”

  He stepped deeper into the room, his broad shoulders seeming to fill up the space. “I see, Miss Marks. Do go on. I find myself utterly fascinated. I would even hazard to say I am quite enthralled.”

  If he thought she would not give her honest opinion, despite the nature of their acquaintance, he was sadly mistaken. Willa was nothing if not honest. “Your reputation is not based entirely upon unfounded gossip, my lord. You are a womanizer, renowned not only for the extent of your debauchery but the frequency and intensity with which it is pursued. And your drinking. And your gaming. And your fighting and dueling and racing horses and phaetons up and down busy pedestrian-laden thoroughfares… all of these things have been taken to with, I would even hazard to say, unprecedented enthusiasm.” The last was uttered in a mocking tone that was laden with reproach.

  His once-amused expression had shuttered, becoming unreadable. “You are unexpectedly candid, Miss Marks… especially for one seeking employment.”

  He was quite mistaken on that score. She was not there to be interviewed by him for employment but to interview him to see if she would consent to work for him. She was a graduate of the Darrow School, after all. “I came here today hoping to see something from you that would make me question the veracity of all that I have heard. But I did not. I waited here for twenty-five minutes past our appointed time. And when you arrived…” She held out her hand, gesturing from his head to his feet, as if words were not even necessary.

  “Oh, no, Miss Marks. Do not stop now. Your honesty is… well, refreshing isn’t the word precisely. But it’s at least unique, and I find myself anything but bored in your presence.”

  Her own eyebrows shot skyward at his scathing tone, so she did continue. “Fine. Your breeches are rumpled, your boots are muddy. Your waistcoat is the same one I saw you in yesterday when I walked past this house to determine exactly which address I was looking for so as not to be late. In short, you are ill-prepared to receive me, and that speaks volumes to your character.”

  “There are perfectly reasonable explanations for all of that, Miss Marks,” he said in a droll tone. “Surely you would not be so quick to judge?”

  Wilhelmina smiled coolly, but as she spoke, there was a definite bite to her tone. “There is also rouge on your hastily-tied cravat and I can smell the brandy—and rather cloying perfume—from here. Some things are quite self-explanatory, my lord. I thank you for the offer of employment, but I must respectfully decline. Good day, my lord.”

  *

  Devil blinked at the woman before him in confusion. Had she actually turned him down? No, she hadn’t. Because he hadn’t offered her the bloody position yet! Who the hell did she think she was?

  “That’s a bit premature, Miss Marks. You do not yet know if I want to hire you,” he sneered.

  She laughed then, the musical and tinkling sound grating on his nerves as it intensified his brandy-fueled headache. When she stopped, her lips still quivered with mirth and there was a light, far too wicked for a governess, that gleamed in her pretty green eyes. “Of course you want to hire me, Lord Deveril. I am a graduate of the Darrow School. There are no better governesses in all of England. Not only that, but we are renowned for taking on difficult cases, children who might otherwise be considered untrainable. You honestly thought that you were interviewing me, instead of the other way around? Oh, dear. You have been out of England for some time!”