Of Sin & Sanctuary, A Revelry’s Tempest Novel 2, (EBOOK)

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{ Prologue }

Staffordshire, England
April 1811

It had happened to thousands of men before him.

It would happen to thousands of men after him.

The scene, played out countless times in studies rife with cigar smoke. The scene, just like this one, all across England. The scene that would start kindly, cordially, and then descend into demands—ultimatums of honor and sacrifice designed to serve the right of primogeniture.

Designed to serve first-born sons.

The grand estates of the country demanded it.

Theo’s own scene echoed the ghosts of every last one of those conversations.

He was nothing but the latest fool to be crushed under the custom. Another casualty to the convention of society.

Theo turned from the low flames of the fireplace in the study to Mr. Demetrick, only to find the man standing by the desk, his face impenetrable. Exactly as Theo knew it would be.

“Violet will never be yours, boy,” Mr. Demetrick said. “You are a rascal, a rogue, but beyond all of that, you are a third son of an earl. You will never be more. A second son, possibly—there would be a chance, but a third son?” He scoffed. “I will never allow my niece to marry you. I made a vow to her father on that accord long ago.”

“Yet, if I could offer her security—”

“Security beyond her own plentiful inheritance? I know of your finances, Mr. Williston. Or the lack thereof.” Violet’s uncle and guardian moved forward, puffing out his chest as he scratched his robust belly. “It is best to end this infatuation between the two of you before she becomes overly attached to you. You do realize, Mr. Williston, that you only do her harm by continuing this assault upon her time. And as a man of honor, I do not think you wish her any undue distress.”

Honor. Of course Violet’s blasted uncle would call upon his honor. Nothing was beneath the man at this juncture.

Theo’s left fist clenched at his side, as his glare skewered Mr. Demetrick. “Violet may very well disagree with what you have decided for her, Mr. Demetrick.”

“Violet does not know what she wants.” Mr. Demetrick paused, looking to Mr. Nullter, the solicitor of Violet’s estate who stood in the corner, silent.

Mr. Nullter offered Mr. Demetrick an angled nod, his thin voice snaking into the room. “It appears to be appropriate to tell him. It would lessen the debacle about to ensue.”

Mr. Demetrick’s look shifted back to Theo, his voice brutal. “I do know what is best for Violet. Lord Vandestile has already spoken to me about her.”

“Lord Vandestile?” Theo’s chest clenched, his fingertips digging into his palm from his tight fist. “But Violet has only met the man once—and at that, she was not impressed with him. She spoke those very words to me.”

“Yes, well that can be overcome,” Mr. Nullter said. “He would make a fine match for her and her inheritance.”

“I told him I would seriously consider his proposal,” Mr. Demetrick said.

“He’s already proposed?” Theo’s head shook. “No. Violet will never fall for him—the man is a notorious libertine.”

“The man is a viscount.” Mr. Nullter took a timid step forward, aligning himself with Violet’s uncle. “Impeccable lines. And he has already made efforts to curb his rakish ways as he pursues Violet.”

“And after he gets her?” Theo spit the words out, having to hold his feet in place—hold back against lunging at Mr. Nullter—or Mr. Demetrick—or both of them.

“She will have made a proper match that I approve of.” Mr. Demetrick patted his protruding stomach as he glanced down at Theo’s drawn fist. “From there, it is up to her to serve her husband. It is no longer my business.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed at Violet’s uncle. “What are you getting out of this blasphemous deal?”

“You go too far, boy.”

“Do I? You are willing to sacrifice Violet’s happiness at the altar of a title? For self-gain? Against what she truly desires?”

“Happiness is fleeting, Mr. Williston. As is what association you have with her.” Mr. Demetrick’s thin-lipped mouth turned downward in pity. “Violet is young. Her happiness is malleable. Even if she did buck against being paired with Lord Vandestile, it would have no consequence. As these matters go, I know you understand that it matters very little what Violet actually desires.”

“You would do well to release her now,” Mr. Nullter said. “That is what we ask of you—of your honor as a gentleman. Do not engage her. Do not encourage her attentions any further.”

Theo’s look shifted from one man to the other. He knew this had been coming. Knew it since the day he had been born a third son.

But to hear it. To live it.

He swallowed hard, his look landing on Mr. Demetrick. “You cannot control her.”

“No,” Mr. Demetrick said. “But all of us in this room know who controls her inheritance and how this will end—no matter how you argue against it, no matter how you fight it, Mr. Williston. So please, do the respectable thing and remove yourself from Violet. The longer you stay within reach, the more harm you do her.”

“Harm?” Theo guffawed and stepped to Mr. Demetrick, his look challenging with every fiber of his being. “You know nothing of harm, you sanctimonious prig. I may not be the man that you want for your niece. I may not be worthy of her.” He forcibly unclenched his fist, taking a step backward as he shook his head. “But someday—someday, she will fall. And it will be me—I will be the one to catch her. I always will be. I will be worthy of her. I will bring her happiness. And you will choke upon your words, old man.”

Without waiting for a response, Theo turned and left the room quietly, each step precise, echoing through the hazy smoke suffocating the room. Each step a silent promise, a silent rail against his order of birth and what it meant for his future.

A future he had always refused to acknowledge, but could always see.

A future he didn’t want.

A future he had no idea how to change.

~~~

Two Years Later
Derbyshire, England
September 1813

She hadn’t thought her life would end like this.

The darkness swooping in, eating her whole.

She had always been meant for much brighter things. Adventure. Laughter. Love. The world at her command. Her mama had always said so before she died.

Not the tentacles of cold death, snaking around her, squeezing the life out of her.

Violet let her breath exhale.

One last time.

The bubbles of air drifted up through the water above her, disappearing into the surface.

She had floated once in the ocean, long ago on a trip to Brighton with her parents after begging endlessly to do so. Dipping under the waves had been so very much like this.

Water above her.

But as once she had lifted herself toward the blazing sun, laughing as she broke free from the water’s surface, now she battled away the panic, the instinctive need for breath.

The struggle wasn’t even as hard as she had anticipated.

She kept her eyes open, watching, until the end. More out of curiosity, than out of need to fight against the black.

The last bubble popped above her.

Her eyelids faltered, quivering as they slid closed.

Done. She was done.

 
{ Chapter 1 }

London, England
March 1816

Violet flipped the page on her calendar, her fingernail pressing into the wood grain of the desk, sawing back and forth as she stared at the dates, willing them to change, even though she knew she couldn’t alter the rotation of the earth around the sun.

Less than a month away.

The Gala of Three was approaching far too quickly for the amount of work that still needed to be done. But there was no altering course now—the three-year anniversary of the opening of the Revelry’s Tempest gaming house was coming whether she wished it or not.

It would be the most fruitful event of the year. That, Violet was sure of. In the two and a half years that she had run the gaming hall on Brook Street, she knew the numbers better than she knew her own hands. She could now predict, merely by the attendee list, how much coin an evening of gaming would bring to the Revelry’s Tempest’s coffers.

And the third anniversary celebration had attendees of the highest order set to come. It would be a success. It had to be.

Even if one of her dearest friends, Adalia, wasn’t here to help. Adalia had started the Revelry’s Tempest three years earlier, just months before marrying the Duke of Dellon, and was the mastermind behind the inventive games the Revelry’s Tempest was known for. Adalia was an expert at producing the most bizarre and fantastical moments of entertainment for the crowds. And while Adalia still owned the house, she had given Violet the Revelry’s Tempest  to run as her own years ago.

As much as Violet wished her here, she was no force against nature. Adalia and her husband were currently sequestered away at Dellon Castle, awaiting the birth of their second child.

A knock on the door thudded into her office and Violet looked up from her desk. “Enter.”

The door cracked open and Logan, the Revelry’s Tempest’s head of guards, poked his far-too-handsome head in. A rush of warmth from the ballroom and the cacophony of gleeful winners and grumbling losers floated into the office. “Lady Vandestile, there is a slight commotion upstairs in one of the private card rooms that requires your presence.”

“Cass is not available?”

“Lady Desmond would not be the proper authority in this situation, my lady.”

Her eyebrow cocked. Logan rarely had a situation that needed her interference. And if there was an altercation, no one was better at diffusing a fracas than Cassandra, so Logan usually brought most concerns to Violet’s dear friend.

“What is it?” Violet stood, walking around the desk to follow him into the thick of the crush that had gathered to gamble that night.

Logan waited until they threaded their way through the crowd to lean down to her as they walked to the stairs in the hall just outside the ballroom. His voice was low—the utmost in discretion. “There is a man that insists that we approve an additional marker to his name.”

Violet looked up at Logan, noting his slight limp was more pronounced than usual. She was on the wrong side for him to lean down toward her. “And it would be unwise to do so?”

Logan shrugged as they started up the stairs.

“How much has he already lost?”

“Seven thousand pounds.”

Violet coughed, her gut dropping. “Seven thousand pounds? Who would we allow that much credit to—and who would dare to think we would extend that credit even further?”

They reached the top of the stairs and Violet switched to walk by Logan’s right side.

Logan pointed to the third door along the hall. “That is why your assistance is needed. He…he is making claims that you will approve it.”

Her eyebrows lifted at Logan just as he opened the door to the card room for her.

She stepped into the room, quickly taking in the scene. Two men standing, hands wildly swinging as they shouted at each other. Four women—two of them her most loyal patrons—sitting around the gaming table, chatting, obviously titillated by the ensuing scandal. The dealer leaned back in his chair, a staunchly bored look on his face.

Whatever had just happened in this room was not going to reflect well on the name of her gaming house.

Violet took a step forward just as a third man moving from the sideboard with a full tumbler of amber liquid wobbled in front of her path.

She froze for a long moment. An excruciatingly long moment. So long, it gave the staggering man a chance to stumble forward and throw his left arm around her shoulders.

The stench of brandy—both cheap and expensive—enveloped her.

“There she is. The flower. My little petal.” The crux of his elbow tightened around the back of her bare neck as he pointed at Logan with a finger flipped above his tumbler. “She will tell you. Tell you all how wrong you are. She’ll approve the marker.” He looked at her. “Won’t you, Violet?”

Bloody hell.

Theodore Williston, the fourteenth Earl of Alton.

Adalia’s wayward turned wastrel brother.

Back from the dead and working on an early grave, if all she had heard of him during the past two and a half years was true.

Violet jumped to the left, shoving off his arm resting on her shoulders.

His support suddenly removed, he stumbled to gain his balance, his drink sloshing onto the floor as his gaze swung to her.

Now that he stood swaying in front of her, Violet could truly take in Theodore’s face.

His blue eyes bloodshot, Adalia’s brother looked like he hadn’t slept in five days. His nose sat crooked—far from the straight line it once was—with a bump halfway down before the slope shifted slightly to the side. A long scar, rippled, like the skin had torn rather than been cut, ran from his left eyebrow down across his cheekbone until it disappeared at the base of his ear.

She searched his face, searched for a remnant of the past in him that she recognized. He had disappeared one day and then had sequestered himself away for so long that she had to hunt in her mind for a solid memory of the past.

His hair. His sandy blond hair was the same. Disheveled, as it always had been. But the same. Cut or mangled, hair grew back. Skin and bone did not.

Adalia had told Violet of her brother’s injuries two and a half years ago. But this—his face so marred—she had not imagined.

Logan cleared his throat behind her. “Lady Vandestile, Lord Alton was insistent that you would approve a marker that is far above our limits.”

Violet jumped, Logan’s sudden voice in the quiet room emphasizing the fact she was standing there like a ninny, staring at Theodore.

Theo. The man she had known since she was thirteen and had made friends with Adalia. The man she had once had fanciful dreams of marrying.

When she had last seen his face five years before, it had been perfect.

No more.

And now she was gaping at him, trying to reconcile what he had become.

“Is your inspection of my current state satisfied, Vee? I am hideous, I know it. You now know it. So let us move onward.” Theo pointed to Logan over her shoulder. “Tell him, Vee. Tell your man to allow the marker I need.” Theo swayed slightly in a slow circle that threatened his balance.

Brazenly presumptuous, as always. That had not changed.

She glanced about the room, noting all the wide eyes eager for her next move—for her to dole out humiliation. She bit her tongue.

For how she had just gawked at him, she owed him that much—to be spared any more indignity. She conjured her most patient smile. “Lord Alton, can we discuss this in private?”

“Anything you say can be heard by all my new friends here, Vee.” Theo’s left hand swung out, motioning to the men and women at the table.

Violet glanced to the octagonal card table. By the setup on the table and the pot in the middle, the group had been playing a rather high-stakes game of Loo. A game that was not over.

She looked to Theo. “Please, Lord Alton. Just for a moment in private, please.”

He stepped toward her, his left arm flopping along her shoulders again. “Truly, Vee. No secrets here.”

His weight shifted, using her for a crutch against his inebriation. A fresh waft of brandy hit her, the smell smothering her. Violet spread her feet wide, bracing herself against the extra weight on her shoulders. Her look landed on Lord Jiften across the room—one of the most dreadful gossips of the ton.

She glanced up at the side of Theodore’s face.

The bugger.

He was abusing the situation—the room. He knew she wouldn’t humiliate him in front of these people. But the unpaid credit he had managed to draw out of Cassandra the last time he visited the Revelry’s Tempest had put Violet’s bank into the negative for months. Violet had been at Dellon Castle, visiting Adalia, and Cassandra had assumed responsibility for the Revelry’s Tempest while Violet was away. Cassandra had felt horrible for the incident, having never even questioned Theodore’s ability to satisfy the markers when he had asked for the credit.

Violet would not make that mistake. “I would rather not discuss private matters in public, Lord Alton.”

“Public—private—everyone knows everything, Vee.” His voice took on a demanding tone. “You know that as well as I. So you can draw up that marker now.”

That was her limit. It was one thing to be asked. Quite another to be ordered. “I am afraid we cannot offer further markers to you, Lord Alton.”

His head jerked back, shocked for a moment before a strained grin came to his lips. Anger simmered under the smile. “Violet, surely you understand that my sister would approve any marker, since this is legally her house.”

Violet stepped forward to duck away from his arm and turned to face him directly. “I actually have no doubt your sister would approve of exactly what I am doing, Lord Alton.”

His top lip curled in a sneer. “My hideousness too much for you, Violet? You cannot trust a monster like me?”

The back of her neck flushed. She recognized exactly what he was doing—exploiting her guilt at her earlier boorishness. It was so very easy for her to now see through his manipulations—any man’s manipulations, for that matter. Little did Theo know preying upon her guilt wouldn’t work.

She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that just as her eyes met his.

His eyes.

The color she recognized from long ago, the cool blue of ice under a clear sky. Bloodshot, but the silver-flecked blue was there. Angry. Overbearing. But also struggling. Raging. Raging against everything in this world.

She recognized that, the fierce depth of the torment. It made her mouth clamp closed, hiding the slight gasp bubbling from her chest.

Without a word, she walked around Theo.

Logan still stood by the door and she paused next to him, going to her toes to whisper in his ear. “Allow him enough to make it through the next hands. But throw as much brandy as you can down his throat. The quicker he loses consciousness, the less money we will lose.”

Logan nodded.

Her chest growing heavy with dread, she left the room. Down the stairs to the ballroom, she avoided eye contact with everyone in the crowd as she weaved her way through the hazard and card tables to her office at the back of the main gaming room.

Her avoidance didn’t stop the portly Lord Hortman from grabbing her arm as she passed him. Her look whipping to him, she cocked her head upward so she could stare down her nose at him. She was a widowed viscountess and expected the respect the title demanded, but she also owned a gaming house—and that made far too many men audacious with their grabby paws.

“Lady Vandestile, I have been waiting for you to make an appearance this eve in the ballroom—you have been my good luck.” Lord Hortman motioned to the French roulette table in front of him. “What say you, red or black?”

She forced a sweet smile at him. “You bring your own luck with you, Lord Hortman.”

He laughed an overly hearty chuckle. “The luck I bring is poor tonight, my lady. I need some of yours. Come, you have much to spare.”

Violet doubted that, what with the scene upstairs with Theodore. She had an overwhelming suspicion her luck was quickly waning. The smile on her face spread wider, sweeter. “Whatever you see in my face, Lord Hortman—red or black, that is the one to bet on.”

He considered her a moment, eyes canny, and then he laughed. “Red it is, my lady.” He set his markers down onto the red velvet of the table.

Violet walked away from the table before the wheel stopped. A whoop followed her as she opened the door to her office. Red it was.

Closing the door behind her, both of her hands gripped the doorknob behind her back as the farce of the smile slipped from her face, her head dropping forward. The brass knob a lifeline, she leaned back against the door, gasping for breath after breath.

She could play the part she needed to in order to fill the coffers—play the sweetly flirtatious widow for every idiot looking to part ways with his coin. She could do that to ensure she had complete control of her funds, her life.

But each and every time she had to slap a smile on her face in front of a man, she had to simultaneously swallow back a gag in her throat and instant panic in her chest.

She couldn’t let that show. Especially not to another idiot man, just as her husband had been.

Her head lifted, her eyes landing on the calendar on her desk. Even from across the room, she could see the word “Gala” in thick ink, taunting her.

It would be a success. It would.

As long as the entertainment fell into place. The Spanish wine shipment arrived from Montes de Malaga. The new games of chance were developed. The right food was chosen to specifically fatten bellies and loosen purse strings.

As long as everything was perfect.

She needed it. Needed to make Adalia proud of her. Needed to finally secure her own future after years of paying off debts.

And the gala would do just that.

Secure her future.