Jennifer Haymore Read online

  The Devil’s Pearl

  A House of Trent Novella

  Jennifer Haymore

  New York Boston

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  A Letter from Jennifer Haymore

  Dear Reader,

  You cannot imagine my surprise when Lady Esme Hawkins walked into my office a few months ago. I hadn’t been expecting anyone that day, much less a young lady of her esteemed rank. After all, she was the only sister of Simon Hawkins, the Duke of Trent, one of the richest, most upstanding and influential (and eligible) bachelors in England.

  I seated her and offered her some tea. When we were both settled, I folded my hands on my desk and waited expectantly for her to state the nature of her business.

  But she just sat there, gazing down into her lap until I cleared my throat. “My lady?”

  Her gaze shot up to mine. I smiled at her, because her dark eyes were filled with something resembling panic, and I much prefer for people to feel comfortable and welcome in my office.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I asked her gently.

  She stared at me for a long time. Then, her bosom rose and fell as she blew out a deep breath. Then she blinked. And then, finally, she spoke, her voice a near whisper. “I…I am a lady novelist, too. At least, I dream of being one someday.”

  Pleasure suffused me, for I always enjoy meeting other writers. “Oh, how wonderful!” I exclaimed. “What kinds of stories do you write?”

  She glanced downward again, and I thought I’d lost her to embarrassment. I could see the flush had expanded to the tops of her ears beneath her extremely stylish black velvet hat.

  But she swallowed hard and said, “I write romances. Quite…scandalous ones, I’m afraid.”

  My lips twitched but I kept my voice sober. “Scandalous romances are my absolute favorites,” I told her.

  She blinked and looked up at me. “I daresay my brother wouldn’t agree.”

  Hm, that was probably true. The Duke of Trent was known far and wide for being a paragon of virtue and morality. His family, to his great frustration, was known for being neither virtuous nor moral, and he’d spent much of his life attempting to wipe the family name clean of its tarnished reputation.

  Before I could say anything else, she shuddered. “My brother would never forgive me for publishing something as improper as the stories I’ve written. And Sarah…” She shook her head, her voice dwindling.

  “Who’s Sarah?” I asked.

  Lady Esme’s dark eyes softened. “Sarah is the head housemaid, but she’s also—well, I know it is quite unorthodox, but she is like a sister to me. And she’s so sweet and kind and pure—if she found out about my stories she’d be absolutely scandalized!”

  “What about the rest of your household?” I asked. “What would they think?”

  Lady Esme thought for a long moment, then she gave me a slight smile. “My other brothers probably wouldn’t care.”

  I recalled she had several brothers—five in all, I think.

  “Although,” she added, “I believe my mother, the duchess, would think it’s marvelous.”

  “Well, that’s good. You have some support, then.”

  “But I would never tell her!” she proclaimed, a note of horror in her voice. “Not in a million years!”

  “Why ever not?”

  Esme’s eyes went round, and she wrapped her arms around her body as she shuddered. “Because she’s my mother.”

  My own eyes widened. “They’re that scandalous, eh?”

  “Yes! You have no idea, Mrs. Haymore. They are so scandalous, I sometimes cannot even believe that my very own pen created such…er…events.”

  I chuckled, but I was growing more intrigued by the second. “I’d love to read one of them.”

  Lady Esme bit her lower lip. Then she looked down and reached into the satchel she’d brought with her. She slid the notebook across my desk, and it came to a stop right in front of my hands. “I have them right here.”

  I opened the notebook and read the first story, entitled The Devil’s Pearl. It was so sexy my heart was racing by the time I finished it, and I was feeling the indelicate desire to go home and seek out my husband. Instead, I closed the notebook slowly and looked up at Lady Esme, who’d been watching me read the whole time, wringing her hands with nervous anticipation.

  “I’d like to help you with this, my lady.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really? Oh, I would be ever so grateful!”

  From that day forward, Lady Esme and I have been partners in preparing her spicy novellas for publication. I’ve grown to know the lady well, and we have become friends. She’s told me all about her family—the upstanding and (dare I say it) snobbish-sounding Duke of Trent, her other brothers, and her mother—and her friend Sarah, the housemaid. She’s talked to me about her secret dreams of the duke and Sarah marrying someday. (When she shared that wish with me, I smiled and nodded, but between you and me, I doubt that will ever happen. Aristocrats like the Duke of Trent never marry their housemaids….)

  So, dear reader, I present to you Lady Esme’s sexy, sinful, and scandalous The Devil’s Pearl, the first of the Lady Esme novellas.

  Enjoy!

  Sincerely,

  Jennifer Haymore

  Chapter One

  He had her. After twelve long months of searching, he finally had her in his sights.

  Sir Devlin Vaughn sank deeper into the smoky shadows of the ostentatious drawing room. He studied her as she flicked her cards open and smiled prettily at the man sitting opposite her. The dark tresses framing her face bounced to her shoulders, and her small hand curled suggestively around the cards.

  He shook off the memory of that hand curling around him, caressing him, bringing him to fulfillment with a silky touch. He’d taught her that particular skill, but no other woman he’d known had such a talented hand. And he’d known many.

  Devlin’s fist crushed the black velvet curtain that hid most of his body from her sight, crumpling the delicate fabric. She’d left him brutally, nearly bringing him to his knees before hundreds of people. She’d shattered his heart then carelessly tossed the pieces to the crowd. She’d turned away from him to step into another man’s carriage. Then she’d escaped to the Continent and become a high-priced courtesan, so pretentious that even the deep-pocketed Viscount Clayton hadn’t been able to satisfy her expensive tastes.

  Now men surrounded her, vying for her attention. She knew it and played it up, teasing and coy. A thin, blond-haired fop whispered to her and she gazed at him from beneath sooty lashes, her laugh like a delicate splash of sunlight that turned other men’s heads. Oh, she knew what she was doing, all right—she’d once played these very same games with Devlin.

  She’d played him for a fool.

  Bitter resentment welled up in his gut, and he dragged in a lungful of air. He couldn’t watch any more of this, or he’d do something foolish, like blacken the eyes of every single man who had dared cast a lustful glance at her—a dozen of them, at least—then toss her over his shoulder and haul her out of here with a score of witnesses gaping after them.
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br />   Dropping the now-rumpled curtain, he escaped the salon, stomped down the corridor, escaped through the back door, and circled to the front of the building to lie in wait.

  He had loved her. Completely. Desperately. He would have given her anything. In those long, lazy afternoons they’d spent together, she’d made him believe she loved him too. She’d made him believe she was his, and, stupidly, he’d believed her.

  She’d been playacting, though—he knew now that for her it had all been about the blunt. The small gifts he’d given her—gifts he’d thought of as tokens of his affection for her, as symbols of the bond he’d felt between them—hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough.

  Coldness pierced Dev’s many woolen layers. He paced the dark street with his hands gripped together behind his back and gazed up at the star-speckled sky. Ice crunched under his feet.

  She would come out with one of the men. He knew it, and he could not contain the rage that truth incited in him. The man would take her to some elegant townhouse and take her to bed. Eventually she would leave her sated customer, and Dev would snatch her away. Then he would keep her with him. Away from this life, from all these men he couldn’t bear to witness looking at her with lust in their greedy eyes.

  When he’d first heard she’d returned to London a little over a month ago, the plan had sprouted in his mind and grown there like a rampant weed, and he’d poured all of his furious energy, born of jealousy and anger and other emotions he didn’t want to name, into his preparations.

  He’d planned only to watch tonight, to observe her in action so he could go home and make the finishing touches to his plan. But then he’d seen her in that dark room, the shining light in the midst of all those lecherous men, so beautiful she hurt his eyes. He’d watched her sip her champagne and laugh and flirt. He’d watched her distractedly brush away that one wayward curl that always fell into her face. She was real. Just as stunningly beautiful as ever.

  He couldn’t allow this to continue. This had to end. Tonight.

  He paced along the sidewalk, trying to avoid thinking of her inside that warm salon that smelled of tobacco and spice, trying not to picture the way the bodice of her skirt hugged her sweet curves, trying not to remember her fluttering lashes or her coy laughter.

  But he didn’t succeed. He remembered, and with every moment that passed, the burn in his chest increased. By the time she finally exited the party, Devlin had forgotten the cold.

  She was on the arm of not one, but two men.

  Boiling inside, raw and jagged and almost out of his mind with pain and fury, he lunged after them.

  * * *

  “Miss Beaumont, I fear you’ve had a bit too much of the bubbly.”

  Julia grinned at the teasing tone in her cousin’s voice. “I daresay you’re right, Algie,” she said, “but Lud, it feels marvelous to be a touch addled.”

  She rose up on her tiptoes, leaned in and kissed Algernon Ayers’s smooth cheek, stumbling on a cobble in the process. The men righted her promptly.

  She wasn’t truly sotted. The two glasses of champagne she’d drunk were just enough to make her feel nicely frayed about the edges.

  “It was fun, wasn’t it?” She sighed, blowing that blasted curly strand of hair out of her face. It had been so long since she’d had fun. When she’d left England for Paris, she had not expected her life to fall into such an abyss of desperation and fear. Viscount Clayton, who she’d trusted as a friend and confidant, had turned on her when she’d rejected his advances. After that horrible night, after she’d fended him off by kicking him in the ballocks and then running for her life, he’d returned to London and spread vicious lies about her.

  Knowing she’d never again be welcomed at her uncle’s house in London, she had been living in Paris on the edge of destitution for several months, trying to survive off the odd sewing job and struggling desperately to make ends meet, when Algernon had arrived to bring her back to England. With her talent for clothing design, he said, she could make something of herself in London.

  After all that had happened between her and Lord Clayton in Paris, after she’d ripped her reputation into tatters beyond repair, Algernon hadn’t judged and condemned her like everyone else. Instead, he had convinced her that she still possessed value as a human being. She loved him for that.

  Now she staggered home between Algernon and Thomas Jones, her cousin’s lover. Algernon and Julia had been inseparable in childhood and had stayed close, the two proverbial black sheep in their pious family.

  Thomas grinned. “It was fun indeed, m’dear. You are ravishing. You had every gentleman at the party primed to drop to his knees for you.”

  Algernon flashed Thomas a quelling look. She squeezed his forearm and spoke gravely. “It’s all right. Please don’t worry about me, dear Algie.”

  Algernon knew everything—she’d told him back in Paris. He’d worried even then, not quite convinced that she’d done the right thing by leaving London. But even after hearing the whole sordid tale, he still hadn’t judged her. And even though he trusted her not to make any more foolish mistakes, she still saw these flashes of concern in his eyes. She knew he wanted her to be happy. She was trying—she really was. But for the past year, happiness for Julia had been an elusive, ethereal thing, impossible to hold onto.

  “I am not worried about you. You know that.”

  She smiled gratefully. Returning home was the most frightening thing she had ever done, and she could not have done it without Algernon. He had given her employment as head seamstress in his stylish tailoring shop, a position that kept her in the back room of his shop and separated from society. Tonight it had been fun to flirt a little, but she had no plans to try to reestablish herself in society. It would be impossible, considering how Viscount Clayton had slandered her.

  She was someone altogether different from the person she had been a year ago. She knew now to always use her head and to no longer be controlled by matters of the heart. She had come to her senses and remembered that in the end, men only wanted one thing, and it was always temporary. Lord Clayton, whose intentions she had so naively thought honorable, had driven the lesson home.

  A single growled word yanked Julia from her thoughts. “Stop.”

  The voice had come from behind them. Rough. Deadly. Familiar.

  All three of them froze. Algernon and Thomas dropped her arms and spun around. Julia turned more slowly, fear rising like a flood in her chest.

  The man stood in the shadows about ten feet away. He was dressed in black, and it was nearly impossible to make out his features in the darkness of the night. He took a single step forward, the crunch of his boots on the ice like a loud crack in the cold, late-night stillness.

  And even though she couldn’t see him, she knew who he was. She knew the way he stood, his stature, the square, broad shape his shoulders made beneath his coat, the way his dark hair curved into a widow’s peak at the top of his forehead.

  “You will be coming with me, Julia. Walk slowly toward me.” His voice was low and gravelly-rough. “You two,” he added, tilting his head first at Algernon, then at Thomas, “stay where you are.”

  Julia cast a frantic look at their surroundings. She didn’t know this street; she only knew that they were somewhere near Algernon’s house in Bedford Place. It was a narrow lane, quiet, with not a soul in sight. The houses abutting the pavement were dark, their occupants long since retired for the evening. But if she screamed loudly enough…

  No sooner had she opened her mouth to do just that than he took another step forward and snapped, “Don’t make a sound.”

  “And you—don’t come any closer,” Algernon warned, raising his hand in the universal gesture to halt. A brave, blessed soul, her cousin. She was close enough to him, however, that she could feel the tremors running through his body. She didn’t blame him. Sir Devlin Vaughn stood several inches taller than Algernon and was twice as broad. He was a dark, looming figure, as imposing as an avenging angel on this cold an
d lonely London street.

  “Come here, Julia,” Dev commanded, reaching out his hand to her. She remained rooted to the spot.

  Algernon straightened beside her and said stoutly, “I will not allow you to harm this lady.”

  Lowering his hand, Dev laughed, but it was a bitter, caustic sound devoid of humor. “Well now, she’s hardly a lady, wouldn’t you agree?”

  She swallowed, blinked hard, and gazed down at her feet, her heart constricting at his words. Like everyone else in London, Dev thought her a trollop. Lord Clayton had not forgotten anyone when he’d spread his vicious lies.

  It hurt, but she shouldn’t be surprised.

  She nudged Algernon with her elbow. “I know him. It is Sir Devlin Vaughn. He was the one—” She drew in a shallow breath. “I know him.”

  Thomas gripped her elbow. “We will not let him have you, Julia.”

  “Unhand her,” Dev growled. Julia could feel the heat of his gaze on the spot where Thomas held her.

  Immediately, Thomas dropped her arm.

  “Touch her again and you will regret it.”

  In the gloom, she could not decipher the look upon Dev’s face, but he’d taken yet another step closer, and now she could see his fists bunched at his sides.

  How she had missed him. Part of her wanted to run to him, to throw herself into his arms. Ridiculous, considering his attempts to bully the three of them. But how could she forget the talks and laughter she and Dev had shared, the cozy days in his bed and at the inn, the passionate lovemaking…?

  A shudder rolled through her. Relinquishing her body to him had given her the most profound pleasure she had ever known. Her life in the past year had been utterly sterile in comparison.

  “Come to me, Julia,” he ordered, his tone of one accustomed to command.

  That voice sent waves of heat pulsing across her skin, centering low in her belly and pooling into desire.

  No, no, no. That was a terribly incorrect response to this man—to this situation. What a traitorous body she had.