1
Late May, 1826
London
If there was one thing Daedalus Whitcombe disliked immensely, a failed plan was at the top of the list. His plans always worked. His infallible plans had made him the most successful purveyor of lewd and lascivious reading material in London. Of course, his latest plan involved a woman, which likely accounted for its failure.
As if you would know anything about making plans with a woman.
He ran his hands through his hair and slumped into the comfort of his well-worn leather chair. The list of things he disliked was fortunately brief. The list of things he loved was far longer. His chair, tucked behind the battered oak desk from which he ran his scandalous literary kingdom, ranked high on that list. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the soft headrest. With a deep breath, Daedalus savored the air around him, air to him like the sweetest wine.
How he loved the scents of walnut oil, turpentine, briny black, and the distinct perfume only burnt soot, roots, and bone produced. Could Floris brew such a combination into a cologne, he might well add some to his bath water on a regular basis. He doubted most men, and very few women of his acquaintance would be so enthused by the aroma of fresh printing press ink. Then again, none of them had made the substantial fortune he had on that concoction’s use.
The case clock across from his desk chimed the hour, a faraway sound when accompanied by the mechanical thump, whirr, and hiss of the printing presses on the floor above his office atForbidden Pleasures – Wicked Books and Naughty Novels. He loved the music of his new steam presses at work almost as much as he loved the scent of ink and paper. After three attempts to read the time on the clock Daedalus pinched the bridge of his nose and donned his spectacles.
Yes, he loved the smell of ink and paper, the sound of his presses, and even, grudgingly, his spectacles as they enabled him to see and gave him a more serious appearance. A necessity in the cutthroat and sometimes barely legal publishing business in London. At the staid age of thirty he did not love his eternally youthful face, which made his not being taken seriously a damned nuisance. The spectacles helped. His success helped even more.
Surrounded by the sights and sounds and scents necessary to the creation of the books and other written works sold in the shop housed in the floors beneath his feet, he should be content. He was for the most part. There was little he loved more than the signs of his independence. He reveled in the reminders that assured him of his escape from the useless existence he’d been allowed to live for the first twenty-five years of his life.
Now, with his thirtieth birthday only a few months away, he had but one more small independence to win. Perhaps not quite so small. He had no idea nor experience of this elusive freedom yet. He checked the clock once more, checked his appointment diary, and sighed.
“Women,” he muttered. “Is there even a single one who can keep an appointment on time?” Lady Honoria Atherton had demanded this meeting. Where the devil was she?
He turned the key to open the desk drawer to his left and rested his hand on the two leather-bound volumes within. He was not in the habit of publishing a great many books bound in this way. Discretion was wanted for books like those provided byForbidden Pleasures. The sort of discretion provided by binding them in marbled book boards without titles or author names on the covers. Not that the authors’ names were often true names at all. Most of the works in his shop bore names like Anonymous or A Gentleman of Pleasure or…
The books in the locked drawer were his personal copies of the shop’s two current bestselling tomes—A Feast of Fantasiesand the newest by the author,A Banquet of Base Desires.His obsession with them was fast becoming a problem. Like a lusty schoolboy, he made use of the stories on their pages every day in his chambers next to his office. In his bath. In his carriage. The words penned byAn Insatiable Ladyconsumed him. Until the identity of the lady herself had become an indelible quest in his mind. Hence his most recent plan—his failed plan to meet the author of his financial security, his sleepless nights, and his fevered daydreams.
There was only one thing he despised more than a failed plan and that was—
“Yer brother’s ’ere ta see yer.”
Daedalus leapt to his feet. His cup of tea upended and splattered all over his breeches. “Beelzebub’s bollocks! Dammit, Ox, can you not knock?”
“Door weren’t closed were it?” Ox, former bare-knuckle boxer and the shop’s usher and enforcer, lumbered into the office. “Do yer want to see ’im?”
“Of course, he will see me.” The Duke of Chelmsford strolled into the room as if he owned the place. “I gave you my card. There is no need to announce me like the butcher delivering a haunch of pork.”
Ox stared at the elegant card now crumpled in his massive fist. “Reckon ’e knows yer name.”
Daedalus snatched a cloth from the shelf behind him and busied himself swiping at the tea stains all over the falls of his buckskin breeches. “Did we have an appointment?” He slipped his spectacles off and continued to blot and rub even once he realized there was no help for his clothes. The cloth gripped tightly in his fingers, he drew in a steady, silent breath. Finally, he raised his head to look at the bane of his current existence.
“Do I require an appointment to speak with my brother?” Chelmsford turned his gaze around the office, his expression a combination of disdain and disbelief.
“A bit of warning wouldn’t go amiss,” Daedalus muttered as he tossed the cloth aside and dropped back into his chair, sliding his spectacles into the open drawer before he pushed it closed.Say six months warning or so.
“Want me to throw ’im out on ’isarse, guv’ner?” Ox offered. The duke’s raised eyebrow, tantamount to a gasp of shock in mere mortals, forced Daedalus to swallow a laugh. The former boxer’s unimpressed attitude served as a reminder. The Duke of Chelmsford was just a man. A man long removed from the wild, happy boy with whom he’d explored the fields and forests of their family’s country estate from morning until dark.
Daedalus shook his head. “As much as I would enjoy that, I’d rather not see you in Newgate for manhandling a peer of the realm. Not to mention the scolding I’d receive from your Maggie if you didn’t show up for supper tonight.”
“Too right, guv’. More tea?” Ox picked up the spilled cup and retrieved the saucer from Daedalus’s desk.
“That won’t be necessary,” Chelmsford snapped. “I will not be staying long.”
“There is a God,” Daedalus replied with an insincere smile.
“Weren’t asking yer, were I?” Ox pinned the duke with his most menacing glare.
Daedalus was seized by a sudden coughing fit.
