A Dangerous Passion

  The Hellion Club, Book Eight

  by Chasity Bowlin

  © Copyright 2023 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 July 2023

  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.

  ARE YOU SIGNED UP FOR DRAGONBLADE’S BLOG?

  You’ll get the latest news and information on exclusive giveaways, exclusive excerpts, coming releases, sales, free books, cover reveals and more.

  Check out our complete list of authors, too!

  No spam, no junk. That’s a promise!

  Sign Up Here

  *

  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)

  A Dangerous Passion (Book 8)

  Making Spirits Bright (Novella)

  All I Want for Christmas (Novella)

  The Boys of Summer (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 Series

  Fall of the Lyon

  Tamed by the Lyon

  Lady Luck and the Lyon

  Pirates of Britannia Series

  The Pirate’s Bluestocking

  Also from Chasity Bowlin

  Into the Night

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Chasity Bowlin

  Author’s Note

  Part One: One Fateful Night

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two: Debts and Obligations

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Three: A Promise Fulfilled

  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

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  The Liberty of the Mint was a real place. Across the Thames from the City of London, the Mint was a lawless area that answered only to the High Court. In the 17th and 18th century it was a bastion for debtors. Debt collectors had no authority inside that area and thus would wait outside the gate that separated the Mint from the rest of the city on the Old Kent Road. This resulted in those who owed debts being virtual prisoners there. The law at the time prohibited the collection of debts on Sundays which meant that on that one day, the inhabitants could come and go freely from the Mint.

  In 1722 The Mint in Southwark Act was passed in Parliament, revoking the protection afforded to that area and to the debtors who had sought refuge there. Through the remainder of the 18th century and well into the 19th century, the Mint and its surroundings were home to some of the worst slums and rookeries in London. The area was also home to the Clink Prison, the Marshalsea Prison and many others. The residents of this region were often desperate and destitute.

  I’ve taken a few liberties with the timeline of when this book occurs and when the legislation that changed the Mint’s status was enacted. But it’s a fascinating subject and there is a wealth of information available online.

  Part One

  One Fateful Night

  Chapter One

  1826

  In his study, surrounded by volume after volume of ledgers, Vincent Carrow, better known as the Hound of Whitehall, was in his element. Some of those books contained simple accounts, others tracked favors done, favors repaid, and those who still owed him things much more valuable than mere money. And yet, nothing within those leatherbound tomes was illegal. Suspect, certainly, but not illegal. Those transactions were kept elsewhere, far from his home or any place where he might be incriminated by them should the local constabulary choose to stop turning a blind eye to his misdeeds in spite of his generosity to them.

  “You can come out now,” he called out. All traces of the accent he’d used during his meeting were now gone from his voice. The moment Viscount Seaburn had left, he’d shed it much like removing a coat.

  When Annabel stepped from behind the ornate and ridiculously ostentatious screen in the corner, he let his gaze roam over her freely. Her beauty was undeniable. With her auburn hair, porcelain perfect skin, and seraphic features, she might have been an angel. But then she wore only the thinnest of chemises—and not in the typical white. No, she favored sheer black with deep lace to trim the neckline. He ought to know—they’d all been charged to him. Of course, as he watched the way that nearly transparent fabric moved over her lush curves, he found himself hard-pressed to be irritated by her expensive tastes.

  Without a doubt, she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. And yet, he was not so awed by her beauty as he had once been. Because now he understood that it was only skin deep. He didn’t mind a woman with a fiery nature. In truth, he preferred them. But Annabel wasn’t simply a firebrand. She was a spoiled, petulant child with no feeling for anyone but herself. At the slightest hint that she would not get her own way, the tantrums—for they could be called nothing else—would begin. Those would be followed by tearful apologies and desperate clinging. The cycle had become tiresome.

  She stepped farther from the screen and into the pale light that poured through the window. It was a calculated maneuver to draw his attention to her greatest assets.

  “Why do you do that?” As she asked the question, she pursed her lips into a pout that was designed to make a man think of only one thing. It might have worked had he not seen her use that particular trick many, many times.

  “What do I do?” He forced himself to look away from her and the way the light gilded her curves beneath her chemise. He had work to do. No man reached the level of success that he had by being lazy or distracted by a pretty face and a pair of breasts.

  “Speak in that horrible cockney accent when you and I both know that your natural way of speaking is as perfectly enunciated and articulate as anyone in society. In fact, I daresay it’s better than most!”

  It had been said in a
teasing manner, but there was something in her tone, some hidden nugget of truth that she did not want him to see. It embarrassed her, he realized. She liked his fine house. She certainly liked the lines of credit he’d created for her at various stores. All the pretty gifts, all the luxuries—and she certainly liked the way he fucked. Either that or she faked it better than most. But she was still ashamed to be associated with a man from such humble beginnings. It seemed that no matter how high he climbed, he would still be the bedraggled urchin from the rookeries. If she only knew, he thought, that the man who’d fathered him was a duke.

  His mother had tried to teach him to speak properly, and she’d laid the foundation, he supposed. But it had soon become clear to all of them that he had a better chance of survival if he looked and sounded like everyone else in the den of hovels where they’d lived. So, he’d fallen into the habit of speaking in that manner when out and about and reverting to more modulated speech when home with her. When it had been time to divest himself of that street accent, he’d worked long and hard to eliminate the last vestiges of it. But it still would never be enough. All the noble blood and perfect diction in the world would never truly make up for the fact that he was born in the gutters.

  As if he was speaking of something as simple as exchanging pleasantries, he explained, “Because it does not suit my needs for Lord Valentine Somers, Viscount Seaburn, to know that I am anything more than a grubby, cockney street rat who made good.”

  Annabel sidled toward him, hips swaying in a manner that was almost hypnotic. She perched on the edge of his desk and leaned in close enough that the scent of her perfume, something he had gifted her, wafted to him. But it wasn’t her perfume that held his interest. It was the lush breasts now perfectly displayed and so close to him that her intent was unmistakable. She was bent on seduction.

  “Why don’t you come back to bed, my love? It’s so early when we’ve had such late nights,” she whispered suggestively. “And it’s so terribly lonely there without you.”

  For just a second, he considered it. But in the end, his duties and obligations won out. After all, he wasn’t just taking care of his business but all the people that were involved in it. If he let things slide, others suffered for it. Everyone in his employ counted on him for their livelihoods and he could not simply shrug off the weight of those responsibilities. Besides, Annabel knew the hours he kept, that the club owned his nights for the most part. To be with him meant she would have to content herself with the few hours he had left, usually just before the dawn. But Annabel was not one to ever content herself with anything. Demanding was the kinder term he might use to describe her nature.

  “I cannot, Annabel.” It was uttered with genuine regret, as much because he wanted the pleasure and release her body could provide, but also because the burden he bore was growing heavier with time. Since he’d been a young man, less than sixteen, he’d been building an empire. Smarter than most and a good fighter, he’d recognized that he possessed a skill others would pay for—protection. That was how it had begun. With a small crew of only four, they had begun to offer protection to certain businesses for a fee. Security for brothels came first and then the gaming hells. After that, other illicit businesses had started seeking out his services. Fences. Smugglers. For twenty-three years he had been at the helm, and it was growing old. He was growing old.

  Her expression went from amorous to angry in a heartbeat. The pout was no longer an affectation, but quite sincere, and her brow furrowed with anger. “You know I have to leave soon!” Agitated, she got up and began to pace the room, working herself up into a typical tantrum. “I have to go back to my wretched husband and that monstrosity of a house in the countryside! But you don’t even care! You never cared. You’re just like all the others!”

  Her much-maligned husband. In the beginning, he’d felt a bit sorry for her—a pretty young thing married off to an old roué. But the man she’d married was not a monster at all. After Annabel’s many complaints about her husband, he’d looked into the man and discovered that her husband was a young man, quite well liked, and apparently deeply in love with his straying wife. If anyone had been wronged in their marriage, it had been Annabel’s husband. “It’s not a house in the countryside, Annabel. It’s an elegant if somewhat gothic-inspired manor on the seashore.” Guilt was a wasted emotion and one he did not bother with, but he could certainly admit when he’d been party to an injustice. If ever there was a reason to end things with Annabel, that was it. “And I do care, but I have work to do.”

  The account books were waiting and needed his attention. And unlike Annabel, numbers didn’t lie. Numbers always gave him the truth. He didn’t love Annabel, but he desired her. In fact, he wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman. Or so he’d thought at first.

  She was like a fire in his blood in the beginning, one that gave him a fair bit of sympathy for the opium eaters and those bedeviled by the ruination of gin. But that wasn’t love and it never would be. Love wasn’t something that could grow and flourish in his very dark corner of the world, much less in the hardened black recesses of his miserable heart. And Annabel’s shine had begun to dull—her temper and her childishness were wearing on his nerves.

  She grabbed the account book he’d been working on and flung it across the room. Ink spilled across the surface of his desk, some of it dripping onto his shirt and trousers. It was not the first time he’d seen such outbursts from her. Annabel could go from throwing things and shouting obscenities at him to crying piteously and begging his forgiveness all in the space of seconds, it seemed. It was the way of things with her. Unpredictable and often dangerous in her temper, there was a volatility in Annabel that had only increased during their acquaintance. Even their passionate bed play and her loveliness could not counteract the difficulty inherent in being with her. He was a man who liked order, and she was a creature of chaos and temper.

  “Do not do that again,” he warned.

  “Why not?” The words were tossed out as a challenge, even as she bared her teeth at him in threat—like a she-wolf.

  Pushed beyond reason by her temper tantrums and childish antics, he snapped, “Because I’m not your husband. And I’ll toss your naked arse right into the street, scandal be damned!”

  She shrieked at him, a wild sound that was half crazed. Then she came at him, hands clenched into claws as her nails raked over his chest where his open shirt had parted, leaving a burning trail of blood in her wake. Abruptly, he shoved her away from him and her screeches turned to sobs as she collapsed, sprawling to the carpet. She laid there and wept like a broken child, as if she were the victim rather than the attacker. It would always be that way, he realized. There was something inside Annabel that was so irrevocably damaged she hadn’t a chance. He didn’t believe in happy endings or love—those were myths fools used to justify their behavior—though contentment was possible. A peaceful and pleasant existence could be had, just not with Annabel.

  The desire to end things with her had been in his mind for a while and with every one of her tantrums had only grown stronger. But this was more than a tantrum—it was an attack. She’d drawn blood from him. Men had died for less. He wouldn’t hurt her. That wasn’t his way. But he would send her packing and reclaim the peace she’d taken from him.

  Reaching into his desk drawer, he retrieved the red leather box that had been delivered the day before, and he tossed it to her where she remained, crumpled by her own grief at his imagined slights. Perhaps the diamond and emerald parure would soothe her clearly overwrought sensibilities. “That was to be your parting gift. Take it and go. I’ll have Stavers send for the carriage.”

  He didn’t look back but walked out of his study and retreated to his chamber. Temper was a liability, something that almost always put a man at a disadvantage, and he typically avoided it at all costs. But she’d managed to stoke his. Pressing his fingertips to the deep gouge on his chest, he drew them away covered with his blood. He’d never struck a woman before in his life. Even pushing her away, he hadn’t intended for her to fall. His only intent had been to protect himself from further injury.

  At first, he’d enjoyed the unpredictability—the fire and ice of her had been a challenge to him. Living in a world where every person he encountered kowtowed to him, it had been a refreshing change in the beginning. But he could find some other way to alleviate his boredom than dealing with a spoiled woman-child who shrieked like a fishwife.