The Den of Iniquity

  Welcome to the most notorious address in London…

  Beneath the airs and graces of the Ton lies The Underworld – London’s most scandalous gambling hall.

  The only thing darker and more debauched that the hall itself? The proprietor, Max Sinclair. As mysterious as the corners of the city he stalks, Max has vowed to take revenge against the men who murdered his mother. And The Underworld attracts London’s darkest characters – the perfect partners in crime.

  But when Lady Vivienne Beaumont enters The Underworld, Max’s life becomes more dangerous than he ever thought possible.

  The Den of Iniquity

  Anabelle Bryant

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  Also available by Anabelle Bryant

  Three Regency Rogues

  To Love A Wicked Scoundrel

  Duke of Darkness

  The Midnight Rake

  Regency Charms

  Defying the Earl

  Undone by His Kiss

  Society’s Most Scandalous Viscount

  His Forbidden Debutante

  ANABELLE BRYANT

  began reading at age three and never stopped. Her passion for reading soon turned into a passion for writing and an author was born. Happy to grab a suitcase if it ensures a new adventure, Anabelle finds endless inspiration in travel, especially imaginary jaunts into Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her clever characters live out her daydreams because really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl?

  Though teaching keeps her grounded, photography, running and writing counterbalance her wanderlust. Often found with her nose in a book, Anabelle earned her Master’s Degree and is completing her Doctorate Degree in education. Thrilled to be an author for Harlequin’s HQ Digital line, Anabelle’s historical romances are character driven. She strives to provide a heartfelt connection between her hero, heroine, and the reader, believing the emotional journey on the path to true love is the most important bond. Clever secondary characters and lively conversation keep the pages turning.

  Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. She enjoys talking with her fans. Follow her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AnabelleBryantAuthor, Twitter via @AnabelleBryant and join her mailing list via www.anabellebryant.com for the latest news concerning her upcoming novels.

  My sincerest gratitude to Clio Cornish and Helen Williams

  who understand my view of the Regency in brilliant detail.

  This book is dedicated to the friends who fill my heart with their impatience for this series.

  Kim, Lynda, Cindy, Ellen, Kelly, Beth-Ann, MaryBeth, Lauren, Terri, and Judy.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Book List

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Copyright

  Prologue

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Maxwell Sinclair leaned closer, his menacing growl a hairsbreadth from the liar’s mottled face. ‘Twelve years isn’t long enough to wipe a repugnant act of violence from my memory and neither is it gone from yours.’

  The image haunts me every day and always will.

  Max pressed harder on the broken billiard stick, the polished wood rolling over the cur’s Adam’s apple to settle at the softest part of his neck. A sharp chortle followed as Ludlow gasped for breath, his face bright crimson, eyes enlarged and frantic.

  ‘Please. Have mercy.’ He choked out the words. ‘It wasn’t my idea. It was Pimms.’

  ‘An insignificant detail. You eluded me for years and now that I’ve dragged you from the hole where you hide, I’ll be damned before I waste this opportunity.’ Max shifted his weight forward. ‘You didn’t grant mercy all those years ago, now did you?’ Frustrated with the conflicted emotions pulsing in his blood and wanting to be finished, Max applied more pressure to the cue, satisfied when Ludlow sputtered a desperate guttural breath. There was no need to prolong the altercation. No one would dare step into the alley behind the disreputable gaming hell while Max conducted business. Still, he’d dirtied his hands enough.

  Dropping the stick, he withdrew as the man’s eyes fluttered closed, the limp body falling to the filthy cobbles of the Whitechapel alley in a crumpled heap.

  ‘Dump him in the river.’ He turned without a backward glance. ‘Hell’s waiting for Mr Ludlow.’

  Two men emerged from the shadows to act on the order. And so the first deed was done.

  Chapter One

  Vivienne Beaumont stood amidst the flickering wall sconces of the gallery at Nettlecombe House and studied her mother’s portrait. Tears stung her lids but she dashed them away, unwilling to allow them to fall.

  Control.

  Control remained of the utmost importance and proposed the most difficult challenge. Another breath and she won the battle to reclaim her composure.

  Consumption and its slow lingering deterioration stole her mother’s vivacity and led to an early death eighteen months prior; yet while the mourning crepe lifted from the windows, mirrors and fireplace mantels, nothing could allay the sombre weight of grief shrouding Vivienne’s heart.

  Her mother had possessed a munificent spirit, a rare combination of intuitive compassion and benevolent wisdom. Widowed before Vivienne could know her father, her mother had raised her with strength and pride, determined to keep a place in society no matter that at times hardship made life difficult. How ironic that her mother had remarried only months before her decline and never enjoyed the security she’d found so late in life. She’d spoken of a pleasant future, optimistic she could grow a family now that she’d begun a new life with the earl.

  This portrait, completed only months before she’d taken ill, reflected actuality. The artist had captured her mother’s serene disposition and kind smile with great talent. Fresh tears burned Vivienne’s eyes. The gaping absence left behind seemed dark and endless, unable to be filled by friendship or preoccupation, their relationship an example of steadfast respect and uncommon adoration.

  She touched the edge of the gilded frame and wiped for lingering dust, her fingertips coming away clean, a credit to her daily ministrations. The long sorrowful nights Vivienne had tended her mother through sickness did little to prepare her for the stark emptiness of death, and despite evidence of worsening illness week after week, hope had survived, only to be left in a wake of despairing finality.

  Now everything had shifted, Vivienne’s world once again poised to change. With the mourning period over she would be forced to re-enter society when she’d much prefer the sanctuary of quietude found in her rooms, at least until the pain of loss subsided. Her eyes watered again and she fought back the tears with a se
ries of fast blinks. It proved hard work to master control over tender feelings, yet no sooner had the thought developed when a misplaced disquiet shadowed her reflection. Footfalls from behind caused her to whirl in wary surprise.

  ‘Vivienne.’

  Her stepfather, Ellis Downing, Earl of Huntley, approached and her pulse hitched as a crawl of gooseflesh dotted her skin. Perhaps he brought with him the brisk air of the hallway.

  ‘Why do you torture yourself, dear? The gallery is dank and chilly, rarely attended by the servants, and still I find you here more often than not.’ He stopped before her, too close for comfort, and a wry expression lowered his brow. ‘Your mother would never approve.’ His voice deepened. ‘I see so much of her in you.’

  The reference brought stifled emotion to the forefront and she drew a sharp inhalation as if to muster strength, though the stale air of the corridor chided the earl spoke true. His mention that she resembled her dear mother cut deep and all effort to prevent sentimentality failed as a single tear overflowed.

  ‘Do not cry.’ He spoke plainly.

  How many times had she heard this command in the past year? How difficult to control one’s heartache, the very same organ that sustained life now lanced raw from the hardship of death.

  ‘I will do my best.’ She whispered the words though they revealed the mantra of her existence. Will. Unending will to control and continue.

  ‘Of course you will. You are a Beaumont. You carry yourself with pride as any young lady should.’

  Was there mockery in his tone? He smiled, though no gladness reached his eyes.

  ‘Your mother would never wish for you to prolong your grief. In most circumstances, one cannot control death, but life is filled with possibility and choice.’ In an unexpected gesture, he touched her face, two fingers sliding over her skin from the corner of one eye where tears still threatened across her cheekbone and down to her chin. ‘You look so very much like her before the illness ravaged her inner light. A beauty incarnate.’

  A faint warning stirred and a shudder raked her spine, yet she held still, the hesitant reaction sparking another of his derisive grins.

  ‘I told you it was unpleasant and damp in this quarter of the house. Join me downstairs in the salon for tea where I can provide better conversation than a musty portrait on the wall. I won’t have you catching a draught. We’re improved company together. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  She gave an absent nod. Her eyes returned to the painting over her shoulder in a silent apologetic farewell. ‘Perhaps we should have one of the servants move Mother’s portrait to the salon or breakfast room. I would like that.’ At times her stepfather caused her misgivings, but he would not silence her voice. Besides, this request was small.

  ‘Clever girl, always ready to share an idea or solve a problem.’ He slanted an arm outwards to encourage that they take their leave. ‘If it pleases you, it shall be done.’

  She followed his retreating form through shadows, confused and equally cautious. She’d barely adjusted to life at Nettlecombe before her mother fell ill and now, with the mourning period past and a short supply of excuses to remain in her rooms, she found avoiding her stepfather’s scrutiny most difficult.

  Perhaps that concern alone would serve as impetus to hurry her back into society’s fold and reclaim the relationships she’d abandoned upon her mother’s infirmity.

  The hell was packed tonight. A rush of innate satisfaction filled Sinclair as he peered at a crowd of the privileged and disillusioned from the suite of rooms above. Soaking in the success of the enterprise, one third of it at least, he allowed the fleeting condition to wash away the unpleasant deed he’d committed earlier in the evening.

  Some would label it murder.

  He called it necessary.

  But this, this arena of wealth and power, was his greatest accomplishment. Below men of every class—from distinguished titled gentlemen to commonplace elbow shakers—emptied their pockets, consumed drink and partook of iniquitous gratification with abandon, all for a price they willingly paid. The establishment might be labelled a hell, but for the participants it more genuinely resembled paradise.

  Beyond these four walls, England remained ripe for economic and political strife. The recent Spa Field riots had encouraged a more vocal discord, many Englishmen anxious to seize control of banking and government, their main objective to deliver a petition to the Prince Regent requesting reform from their hardship and distress. But such change was slow in development and gambling offered a faster, more pleasurable option than opposing the powers of regulation.

  The Underworld provided an attractive prescription for the injustice of society. The wagering offered within the hell was non-discriminatory and, more importantly, able to perpetuate the comely belief one could secure immeasurable wealth. And that was an immediate lure many could not resist.

  He drew the heavy velvet curtains closed as if shutting away yet another dark secret and poured a glass of expensive brandy before he settled behind his desk, feet atop the inlaid mahogany. A long exhalation speaking more of supplication than victory broke the quiet and Ransom, his wolfhound at rest beneath the desk, followed with a bark in gruff reply.

  Sinclair held little regard for society’s chosen. But of their money, he possessed a different opinion. Proud bastard that he was, it pleased him to watch earls and viscounts empty their pockets at his tables. He held their vowels and marked their accrued interest with a shrewd spark of pleasure in his eye, their careless spending having amassed him and his two partners impressive wealth.

  Born on the wrong side of the blanket, sired by a jackal disguised as an earl, his childhood might have been the mundane and unfortunate tale of an aristocratic by-blow, neglected by fine society and otherwise forgotten, but Fate planned differently. By the persistence of his proud mother’s demand he received an excellent education, obtained through the attention of multiple tutors who visited their country home and instructed him in every masculine necessity from horsemanship to pistol shooting.

  At her adamant insistence, he’d received formal schooling at Eton, tolerated by the ostentatious institution because his father held a title and paid a generous sum to have Sinclair’s error of birth overlooked. The exceptional conditions created by his mother’s love and father’s wealth ensured he’d had all the privilege and intelligence equal to peers of the realm, while the circumstance of his birth left him unbound by the rules of formal society.

  Of course, all that changed upon his mother’s death.

  A bitter sneer curled his mouth and he finished off his brandy, unwilling to open the unpleasant catalogue of memories that accompanied that last thought.

  Three sharp knocks sounded, a signal used by Cole Hewitt, second investor in the exclusive West End hell, to announce his arrival; though Ransom had already detected someone approached with a low growl one half minute before Cole struck the door.

  ‘Enter.’ Sinclair replaced his empty glass atop the desk as the panel opened.

  ‘How does it go, Sin?’ Cole dropped onto the leather couch aligned with the left wall. He appeared exhausted, his collar undone and boots mud-covered. ‘I’ve obtained the information you’ve hunted, but you’re not going to like the result.’ He leaned his head back, allowing his eyes to close as if he regretted imparting the news and witnessing his friend’s disappointment. ‘I’ve located Rowley.’

  Sinclair dropped his feet from the desktop and whipped around to pierce Cole’s reclined form with a hard stare. His pulse hammered as he curled his fingers into a fist. ‘And—’

  The one word demanded an expedient answer.

  ‘You can visit him graveside in the courtyard of an ugly little church named All Hallows by the Tower on Byward Street. Dirt hole, little more—’

  Sinclair let loose with a string of black curses that had Ransom up and snarling, his ears flat. ‘Settle.’ He reassured the hound with a rub to the neck. ‘A dirt grave is more than Rowley de
serves.’ He scoffed. ‘All along the worthless scum was here in London under my nose.’

  ‘Under the ground now.’ Cole shifted his position and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he continued. ‘No reason to let it anger you. It’s one less task for you to undertake, whatever the cause.’

  Sin remained silent and stood to pace. The revenge he sought was foul business enough without revealing his bloodlust to one of his closest friends. Cole battled his own demons, illegitimate birth the least of it. They had wealth in common too, although Cole possessed business acuity sharper than a dagger’s blade. Having fallen into each other’s company through a series of unlikely circumstances, they’d become fast comrades. Sin was the one in the trio with outreaching contacts and inward misery. Cole appeared better adjusted to life’s circumstance though one never knew what drove a man. He pulled his focus to his friend’s continued explanation.

  ‘And the reason it proved near impossible to find Rowley was he often went by his surname: Johns. With such a common moniker it sent me down more misleads than I’d care to confess, chasing after a shadow who turned out to be another man altogether.’

  ‘I did as well.’ Sinclair’s low mutter was lost in the slide of the curtain pull, once again opened to the world of gambling below. ‘Thank you. I never meant to involve you or occupy your time but while the news is unexpected, it’s appreciated. I’ll visit on the morrow for no other reason than to piss on his grave; though I would have preferred to step on his neck.’ Anger lit a flame to his blood. He’d wanted to be the one to end Johns’ life, see the fear in his eyes and relish the man’s last gasp as he pleaded for mercy, a request that would not be respected. Sinclair spanned his restless fingers in an exercise to release pent disappointment, though frenetic rage coursed through him with the news. There was a certain natural, powerful, satisfaction found in using one’s hands to exact revenge. Johns’ death denied him the pleasure.