The Bedeviled Viscount Brockton

Titles by Kasey Michaels

Alphabet Regency Romances

The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane

The Playful Lady Penelope

The Haunted Miss Hampshire

The Wagered Miss Winslow

The Belligerent Miss Boynton

The Lurid Lady Lockport

The Rambunctious Lady Royston

The Mischievous Miss Murphy

Moonlight Masquerade

A Difficult Disguise

The Savage Miss Saxon

The Somerville Farce

Nine Brides and One Witch: A Regency Novella Duo

Historical Regency Romances

A Masquerade in the Moonlight (Enterprising Ladies)

Indiscreet (Enterprising Ladies)

Escapade (Enterprising Ladies)

The Legacy of the Rose

Come Near Me

Out of the Blue (A Time Travel)

Waiting for You (Love in the Regency, Book 1)

Someone to Love (Love in the Regency, Book 2)

Then Comes Marriage (Love in the Regency, Book 3)

Just Good Clean Fun Regency Romances

The Straight-Laced Duke Selbourne;

The Just Good Clean Fun version of Indiscreet

The Bedeviled Viscount Brockton;

The Just Good Clean Fun version of Escapade

The Dangerous Mister Donovan;

The Just Good Clean Fun version of A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Contemporary Romances

Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You (D&S Security Series)

Too Good To Be True (D&S Security Series)

Love To Love You Baby (The Brothers Trehan Series)

Be My Baby Tonight (The Brothers Trehan Series)

This Must Be Love (Summer Lovin’ Series)

This Can’t Be Love (Summer Lovin’ Series)

Stuck in Shangri-La (The Trouble With Men Series)

Everything’s Coming Up Rosie (The Trouble With Men Series)

Find Kasey’s books here!

For what do we live,

but to make sport for our neighbours,

and laugh at them in our turn?

—Jane Austen

Book One

A Dainty Entertainment...

Tweedledum and Tweedledee

Agreed to have a battle;

For Tweedledum said Tweedledee

Had spoilt his nice new rattle.

— Charles Lutwidge Dodgson

He was a handsome, well-shaped man:

very good company, and of a very

ready and pleasant smooth wit.

— John Aubrey

Chapter One

Simon Roxbury, Viscount Brockton, put his hat upon his head and gave it a smart tap, setting it at its usual rakish angle, and stood on the deserted flagway, surveying his surroundings. He took a deep breath of the damp, dripping London air that promised a heavy rain before morning, lifting his head so that his face was revealed by the flambeaux on either side of the door to the gaming hell he’d quit a moment earlier.

Physically, His Lordship was a tall man who cast a long shadow. Strong, well built, and devilishly handsome into the bargain. His proud mother could boast of her only son’s remarkable sherry-colored eyes and his flattering mane of darkest brown hair that had a simply delectable way of waving about his forehead and neck. His sideburns were the private envy of many of his acquaintance.

Added to his physical attributes was his wit—his rather sardonic wit—his generous fortune, his impeccable lineage and breeding. In short, the man could safely be termed as nearly perfect. Or he would be, according to a majority of the debutantes and their ambitious mamas who frequented the London Season, if only he were more interested in the wondrous institution of marriage. Which he most assuredly was not, and didn’t plan to be so for many years to come.

Still, even considering his stubborn reluctance to make some simpering miss the happiest creature in the world, Viscount Brockton remained a prime physical specimen as he stood waiting for his coach to pull up to the curb. It had only just gone three, and he’d left his two good friends behind him to gamble the night away. For himself, he had been more than ready to quit the hell, his objective for the evening accomplished. While his mission could be begun in an evening, it couldn’t be settled in that same short time span.

But that didn’t matter. He was in no hurry.

This was another of Simon Roxbury’s commendable attributes. He was a patient man. So patient, in fact, that he only smiled as his coachman pulled to the curb and the groom jumped down to help His Lordship with the door, apologizing for not having arrived sooner. There had been a small problem with the brake of the coach, the groom told him.

A little bit of mizzle won’t melt me, the viscount assured the sleepy-eyed groom, then mounted the steps the man had pulled down and launched himself forward, into the interior of his coach... where he abruptly found himself face-to-face with the business end of a dueling pistol.

Sit down, sir, and tell your coachman to drive on, the dark shape behind the pistol ordered in a gruff but still unmistakably female whisper.

Simon turned his head, looking back out the door to where the groom stood not five feet away, oblivious to his predicament.

Don’t do it, I warn you, or I’ll blow a hole straight through your head and laugh as your brains splatter all over this coach.

What an unpalatable image, Simon remarked quietly, his mind already dismissing the possibility of being shot in order to concentrate on not being shot.

He could probably let go of his two-handed grip on either side of the doorway to the coach, propelling himself backward onto the flagway as the bullet went whizzing harmlessly over his head and straight into the door of the gaming hell he had so recently vacated. Probably. But, as the pistol was rather heavy, and its owner noticeably nervous as she struggled to hold it with both hands, he could also end up being shot dead before he hit the ground.

Very well, he said quietly, so that the groom would not hear him and investigate. I’ll sit down now, if you’ll withdraw that evil-looking toy a bit, madam?

It’s not a toy, and I would prefer you did not call me madam, for I am no woman, sir, his captor responded, as he levered himself into his seat across from her and the door closed behind him, locking them together in the darkness. Now, order your coachman to drive on.

Of course you’re not a woman, Simon agreed as affably as possible. It was always best, he believed, to humor lunatics—at least until they were disarmed. How could I be so blind? You’re a regular brute of a fellow, aren’t you, at least in your heart and spirit? Pity that you’ve been cursed with so much of the feminine sex about you. And the voice and language of a well-bred female to boot. Yes, a man might be forgiven for believing you to be a female, although I don’t believe I, myself, can remember too many proper young misses with a penchant for pistols. Such a shame. If you’re a penniless second son embarked on a life of crime, I imagine being constantly mistaken for a female must prove no end of sorrow to you.

Your death would give me no sorrow at all, she said, even as he noticed that his assailant’s clog-clad feet did not quite touch the floor of the coach.

Cheeky little brat, he thought, longing to reach across the space dividing them, snatch up the pistol, and then tan the infant’s backside with it. He could disarm her in an instant, less than an instant. All he had to do was remain passive, keep his smile intact, and then he could—click.

Simon’s smile never wavered, even as his plan changed the moment he heard the pistol being cocked. Oh, dear, you’re going to be fractious, aren’t you? Isn’t it time all incorrigible young children were home and tucked up in their cots?

I said, his captor repeated, ignoring his insult, order your coachman to drive on. And wipe that odious, condescending grin off your face, if you please. This is a serious business.

Oh, yes, quite. I can certainly see that, Simon agreed. He weighed the possibility that he was about to have a rather large hole blown in him by a perfect stranger against the curiosity he felt concerning the reason behind this assault. Curiosity, which had been leading from the moment this little adventure had left the gate, won by several lengths. Very well, my fine young brigand, I’ll do as you ask. But only because I am amused—for the moment.

He leaned forward, causing the young brigand’ to shift quickly to the corner of her seat—the pistol still cocked and pointing in his direction—and opened the small door giving access to the coaching box. Hardwick, he called out sharply, you and I will be having words on the morrow concerning the depth of the devotion in which you hold your esteemed employer. I believe, you must understand, that a certain lack of vigilance on your part may have served to land that employer in an exceedingly undesirable position."

Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord? Hardwick asked, his florid face appearing in the small boxy opening in the roof of the coach. Oi don’t know wot yer talkin’ about, m’lord, by the ‘oly, I don’t. Oi’ve jist been sittin’ ‘ere as it was comin’ on ter mizzle, waitin’ on yer, loik always. Oh, and fixin’ the brake, o’course.

That’s reassuring, Hardwick, His Lordship responded genially, slanting a look toward his captor, who was now no more than three almost effortlessly breached feet away from him. The pistol, a mere two. And easily grabbed—if he was still so inclined. He was not. The pistol was cocked, and the chances of one of the pair of them being shot quite dead were high. Daring was one thing, redbrick stupid was quite another. Otherwise, Hardwick, my good man, he continued after a pregnant pause, I might be forced to believe you to be disloyal.

"Would you stop prosing on like some vacant-headed ninny and just tell him!" the intruder whispered fiercely, waving her pistol, rather wildly Simon thought.

Patience, my dear, patience. I thought you might wish to listen to Hardwick talk. You hear how he drops his ‘aitches’? You might want to practice that, yes, if you plan to make a habit out of holding up coaches? As his captor growled low in her throat, he again mentally measured the distance between himself and the barrel of the pistol. No. It really was too much of a gamble. Oh, very well. I was just trying to help. No need to get your back up. Now, do you have a particular destination in mind, or will I be forced to bother dear, obtuse Hardwick a second time?

Order him to drive toward Hampstead Heath. There’s an inn there, the Green Man. Do you know it?

Hampstead Heath? Or, as Hardwick would say, ‘ampstead ‘eath’? The aitches again, remember? That I do, and the Green Man as well. Know where they both are, I mean. And green I would be, indeed, to venture anywhere near that den of thieves after dark. Can’t you think of some place closer to town? Simon sighed theatrically. Ah—there you go, waving that pistol again. Oh, very well. Hardwick— he called out, to the Green Man, my good fellow. And make haste. I’ve a sudden urge to be relieved of any worldly possessions I might have upon my person.

He then sat back against the squabs once more, crossed one leg over the other and both hands across his chest as the coach moved off over the cobblestones. He grinned, feeling rather wicked. " ’appy now, my dear?"

Immensely so, my lord, if you must know, his kidnapper replied in a rather appealingly husky yet wonderfully feminine voice, one that was much more interesting than her purposely gruff whisper. Had he met her somewhere in Society? Danced with her? Supped with her? Insulted her in some way? He thought not. That voice was much too singular to have been forgotten. Now, just sit there and be good, she ordered tightly, then said nothing more for a long time—until Hardwick had driven them free of the city, as a matter of fact.

Simon also kept his own counsel, although his mind was far from quiet. He was wondering, as it happened, how on earth he would ever live down being robbed by a mere girl if the news were ever to become public knowledge. A gentleman did, after all, have his reputation to consider.

Besides, it was late, and he was mightily fatigued, and possibly even bored. No, he was most definitely bored. This realization of his rather incomprehensible reaction to the grave danger he might be in was enough to keep him awake for a little while. But, after a bit, surprised at himself as he was, the gentle movement of his well-sprung coach actually lulled him into a light slumber.

He may even have snored.

Aren’t you in the least interested in why I have abducted you? she asked at last, chagrin evident in her tone, anger more than evident in the force behind her hard kick to his shin.

Truth be told, not particularly, the viscount answered honestly, yawning widely as he pushed himself up from the comfortable slouch he had slid into during his nap. He had been gambling and drinking rather deep for several hours, and now yearned more for his bed than he did for information. But I rest easy in the knowledge that you will tell me everything I need to know in your own good time. That will be soon, won’t it? I’m for bed, you understand, scintillating as your company has been this past half hour or more.

You’re insufferable! She directed another kick at him. I should shoot you now, just on general principles.

Simon resisted the impulse to rub at his now twice-insulted shin, for clogs were a considerable weapon. But the girl was beginning to wear on his nerves. I’d be more comfortable if yours was a unique statement, he said, always at his most excruciatingly polite when he was most vexed. However, since it is not, I suppose I should spend the next few days in deep reflection, considering how I have so abused my fellow man—and woman—as to have been termed insufferable so often, by so many. Is there perhaps an organized group of you? Do you hold meetings? Keep minutes of all that is discussed? I could peruse them, learn to pinpoint my more gross failings—if I am not shot dead before sunrise, of course.

"Oh, just shut... up!"

So sorry, he apologized insincerely, now wondering how much longer the young woman could hold on to the cocked pistol without it going off. Consider me a monk, sworn to a vow of silence.

If I believed that, I’d believe anything, and I don’t believe I believe that, his captor shot back with what he had to admit was complicated candor. A candor that made the potentially dangerous brat all the more interesting to him.

The whole time he had spoken and, indeed, for much of the time he’d spent in the coach, Simon had been cursing the darkness that kept his captor’s face and form hidden from him. He had, however, at least been able to deduce that she was not at all tall, fairly slim—and that she smelled of lavender water and horse. Not an entirely unpleasant combination. Her accent was cultured, educated. She had only a hint of the country miss about her—one blessed with any number of brothers who had taught her manners, words, and expressions she should not know. This also confused him. Not being in the habit of seducing innocent country maids, he could think of no innocent young woman who would wish him injury or death.

Which left him with the notion, not too odd, that he was being driven into the countryside to be handed over to yet more kidnappers who would then solicit a ransom from his sure to be appalled mother, the Viscountess Brockton. His mother would be horrified, frightened, and as dependably scatterbrained as was her custom. This, unfortunately, would probably also mean that he would be at the mercy of his captors for at least a week before the viscountess recalled the location of the Roxbury family solicitors and gained access to the funds required to free him.

Of course, that also meant he would miss Lady Bessingham’s bound-to-be crushingly boring rout scheduled for the next evening, which couldn’t be considered entirely a bad thing.

His captor pushed aside a corner of the leather curtain and peeked out into the countryside, just now beginning to grow light with the coming of yet another damp English dawn. She let the shade fall back into place. We’re nearly at our destination, so I suppose it is time I got on with this.

Got on with this? Simon repeated, a small part of him at last beginning to take the evening’s adventure seriously. Would that mean that you’re going to hand me over to more kidnappers, or that you are simply going to shoot me and run off with my coach? Be gentle with Hardwick and the groom, I beg you. They may put up a slight protest in concern for their master, and I wouldn’t wish them injured in any way.

Kidnappers? The girl’s tone was incredulous, and Simon exercised his jaw muscles, wishing he had exercised them less a moment earlier. Clearly the girl had not considered kidnapping, or ransom. Had he now put that idea into her head? And was that idea better or worse than the one that had instigated his abduction? Good God, man, I wouldn’t want you in my company above another ten minutes. Why on earth would I want to hold you for ransom?

Then you do plan to shoot me, Simon said, his relaxed pose belying the fact that he was fully prepared to wrench the pistol from her bound-to-be-tired grasp. But you hadn’t planned to do that just on general principles, if I remember correctly. Which means you have a definite reason for this small travesty. Would it be too much if I was to ask you to explain yourself?

The pistol remained steadily pointed at his chest, perhaps even a bit more steadily than it had this past thirty minutes or more. At last you’re interested? I had begun to think you hadn’t a brain in your handsome skull for anything more than how best to fuzz a card!

Simon grinned, relaxing once more. Clearly the chit wanted to talk much more than she wished to shoot. My handsome skull? Oh, you do flatter me, madam. Please go on. But what’s this about fuzzing cards? I assure you, madam, that Viscount Brockton is known for many vices, but cheating at cards is not amongst them.

He watched as the pistol drooped slightly, then was righted. "Viscount Brockton? What the devil are you talking about? Who is Viscount Brockton?’

Uh-oh, Simon said, smiling as the dawn broke over his predicament, if not the world at large—and definitely not over his companion’s confused head. Do I detect a small problem here, young lady? A trifling complication, perhaps? Yes, I believe so. Please allow me to introduce myself.

He held out his hand, not for a moment believing he was about to have the pistol placed in it. I am Simon Roxbury, Viscount Brockton, of Sussex and Portland Place—and various and sundry other places in between which I will not bore you with at the moment. Now your turn. Who did you think I was?

But his captor didn’t appear to be listening. Instead, she was muttering something that sounded much like, "Of all the cork-brained, numb-skulled, idiotic—how could I have been so wrong? The crest was his, I could have sworn it!"

The crest? Simon interrupted, preferring the young lady more focused on the moment at hand, and the pistol in her hand. One never knew what could happen to an untended firearm, after all. Are you perhaps referring to the decoration on the doors of my coach? It cost me a pretty penny, to tell you the truth, but if you’re going to ride about town allowing your equipage to brag of your consequence, it wouldn’t do to have shoddy paintwork, don’t you agree?

He sighed deeply, wishing his friends Bones and Armand could be with him, just to watch the fun, and then pushed on, more than happy to drive his captor to further distress. It’s wretchedly expensive, you understand, this business of impressing one’s acquaintance with such ostentatious fripperies, but it must be done. My mother insisted upon it.

"I don’t see how I... how could I have—what? Are you talking to me? Why are you talking to me? God’s teeth, but you talk too much! Can’t you see I’m having a problem here?"

"Indeed, yes. You are having a problem. We are having a problem as a matter of fact. Both of us. But force yourself to concentrate for a moment, my dear brigand, if you can, Simon said affably, unable to withhold a smile at the brat’s plight. Or, as I believe I understand what has transpired here this night, you might allow me to explain our predicament?"

She remained dumb, and distracted, and Simon leapt into the breach. Certainly, he said, pushing on just as if she had asked him to, I’d be delighted. You came to Curzon Street this evening in search of someone—some awful, terrible person who has done you or one you love a considerable injury, possibly pertaining to card-playing?—and then crawled into entirely the wrong coach. I can understand that, what with the dark, and the rain and all. Do I have the series of events correct so far? Although I still believe I’ll be having a small talk with Hardwick, who has proven to be a weak link in the impenetrable defense I incorrectly assumed I had built against being brought face-to-face with an befuddled female brandishing a loaded pistol. And just think of the wear and tear on my horses, being forced on this journey so late at night! Why, I do believe I should be much angrier than I am. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. I really should be angry. Perhaps even incensed. Am I dressed correctly for incensed, do you think? Perhaps if I were all in black—

"Would you stop! God’s teeth, but you’re making my head ache! The pistol sagged again, now being supported by just a single small hand, as the other was involved in rubbing at the young woman’s temples. I planned, and planned, and screwed my courage up to the sticking point—and for what? To end up being talked to death by this idiot? Oh, now what do I do?"

Simon leaned forward, only slightly, just enough to be faintly intimate, not enough to be threatening. If I could brook a suggestion, he said kindly, I would say you might begin by lowering your weapon?

The cocked pistol was once more held between both hands, once more directed at his heart. I don’t think so, my lord, the young woman said cuttingly—and still in that so strangely attractive husky voice, even while speaking of blood and mayhem. And why would he be admiring her voice at a moment like this? He really would have to examine his character, for it must surely be flawed. Either that, or he had developed a sense of the ridiculous that he hadn’t known he possessed. Either way, he was, frankly, enjoying himself very much.

But she was speaking again. I definitely will not give you my pistol. I’ve no great desire to end this night hauled away to the gaolhouse and clapped up in irons.

Clapped in irons? Oh, foul, foul! As if a gentleman would do such a thing! Moving very carefully, Simon reached to his right and dropped the shade, letting in the first light of dawn so that it could reveal the earnestness of his expression. There has been no crime committed, I assure you. Why, I often end my evenings by ordering my coachman to take me for a relaxing drive into the countryside. Truly.

Don’t be nice to me, his captor shot back angrily. I don’t like you even a little bit, and I certainly don’t trust you. You’re too jolly by half, and, besides, I think you’re making fun of me.

Simon’s chuckle was deep, coming from low in his throat. Making fun of you, my dear? Why, of course I am. Bloody hell, madam, what else is there for me to do—except this!

The pistol was in his hand a moment later, probably before his former captor could even register his intent—a happy surprise of concentration and calculated movement that surely would give Simon reason to compliment himself later, once he was shed of the girl.

Now, he said as the young woman cowered against the squabs, doubtless in fear for her life—so that he considerately uncocked and pocketed the pistol— perhaps you’ll allow me to have a slight verbal exchange with Hardwick concerning our destination. Yes? I thought so.

He leaned forward and opened the small door, all the while keeping his interested gaze on the young woman’s face. As he ordered Hardwick to turn the coach around, he conducted a cursory inventory. Figure, small and slim beneath a too-large cape and atrocious leggings and crude clogs. Face, unidentifiable beneath the slouch hat and dramatic black-silk cloth tied around the mouth and nose. Eyes—the only part truly visible—a lovely, wide, rather frightened green.

He’d always had a weakness for green eyes.

Ah, that’s better, Simon said once he had done speaking with his coachman, who had muttered a few none too inspiring words about lordships who drink too deep before calling the horses to a halt, then beginning to turn the coach. Now, to pass the time on our ride back to London, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tell me a small story?

She pulled the silk scarf higher on her face, clearly wishing to hide her eyes, and failing. She was unable to do so and still see him, or to keep him from noticing that her brows, although dark, hinted of a hair color no deeper than chestnut—which went quite well with her remarkably clear, milky skin.

There’s nothing to tell, my lord, she said; her tone grudging, and not a little angry. I thought you were someone else. Either let me go or turn me over to the Watch when we get back to the city. I owe you no explanations.

I hesitate to bring this to your attention, but anyone would think you were still holding the pistol, love. But let’s be pleasant, shall we? Simon opened a small door at the side of the coach and revealed a space that held a silver decanter and a half dozen small glasses. Would you care for some brandy? There’s always an unwelcome chill at dawn, don’t you agree?

When she refused to speak, Simon shrugged, uncapped the decanter and poured three fingers of brandy into one of the glasses. He then threw it back, allowing his eyes to close for a moment as the liquid heat ran down his throat, warmed his belly. No wonder his mother so favored the drink, although he, himself, usually shunned it in favor of his beloved champagne. Ah, superb. A name, fair lady, he said quickly, skewering her with his eyes. Just give me a name, and we’ll call quits to this entire affair. No Watch, no magistrates, no gaol. Just a name—and your freedom. Whisper it, if you wish.

The small figure grew a full inch as her back went stiff and straight against the squabs. "I would die before I gave you my name, sir!’’

"Good God, girl, what would I do with your name? Simon asked, enjoying the young woman’s daring high dudgeon in the face of total ruin. It would be easy enough to ferret out that information later—as he didn’t plan on allowing her to disappear from his life quite yet. But, for the moment, another name interested him more. I want the identity of the man for whom you planned a murder most foul this evening. After all, I might wish to warn him. Then again, if he really is a cardsharper, I might just wish to stand back and enjoy the show. I’m a well-loved man, and with a reasonably good heart, or so I’m told, but I am not without my small vices."

She spread her hands as if in surrender, saying, If it will shut you up, I’ll be more than happy to tell you. His name is Noel Kinsey, the Earl of Filton, and a more odious, horrible, heartless—

"Vile, despicable, dangerous man would be difficult to find, Simon interrupted, shocked to his toes although he would not allow this reckless female to know it. Are you out of your infinitesimal mind? I could have had your weapon anytime I wanted. Filton would have not only had it, he would have used it on you in a heartbeat. I begin to think you’d be safer if I turned you over to the Watch, truly I do. Or I could order Hardwick to drive us past Bethlehem Hospital and we could have you fitted with your very own strait-waistcoat. You are most definitely quite mad."

Your opinion means less than nothing to me, my lord, the infuriating girl announced even as—showing herself to be