Earl of Baxter

  Earl of Baxter

  Lords of Scandal/Wicked Earls’ Club

  Tammy Andresen

  Copyright © 2020 by Tammy Andresen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Duke of Decadence

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Tammy

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  www.tammyandresen.com

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  Hugs!

  Prologue

  July, 1815

  * * *

  War was glorious, Mason thought as he lay in the dank basement of some seaside church on the very edge of death. They didn’t tell soldiers that, of course. That they were about to die. No, they told them that they were nearly better, would recover any day now.

  He was too sick to tell them they needn’t lie. He was prepared for death. He’d welcome it, in fact. Hell, he’d pushed so hard on the front because—and this wasn’t something a man ever said aloud—he’d wanted to die.

  If he were honest, he should never have lived. Hadn’t his father told him that over and over on the rare occasions in which he bothered to visit his bastard son? “You shouldn’t have survived. Should have died with your mother.”

  Mason shook his head. He’d done his absolute best to make his father’s wish come true.

  “There now,” a soft feminine voice crooned close to his ear. “No need to fret, you’ll be all right.”

  “I won’t,” he answered, raising a heavy hand and swiping at his eyes. When he dropped his hand, he blinked open his scratchy eyelids to look at the woman who had such a sweet voice.

  No, not a woman. A girl. A child.

  The girl tilted her head to the side and sunshine from a window above cast her in a holy light. His breath caught. He hadn’t thought himself capable of such a movement. His lungs expanded with the breath, drawing a deep gush of air—leading him to wonder if he’d died already and this was, in fact, heaven.

  The child had a halo of blonde hair, twisted back from her face with just a few soft tendrils falling about her cheeks, highlighting her large blue eyes and the soft pink tint that flushed her skin. She looked just like the cherubic angels he’d seen in paintings in his father’s house, the one time he’d been allowed to visit.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, drawing in another long breath. He tried to raise his hand again and touch her face, but his arm wouldn’t work.

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him, the look indulgent and amused. “But you’re a bit old for me.”

  He might have laughed, if he could get the sound out. He hadn’t meant it like that. She was clearly only a child, but she had the sort of beauty that was so rare in his world. Maybe it wasn’t beauty at all, but innocence. Whatever it was, she seemed to glow with it, as though she truly was of another world. “How old are you?”

  “I’m twelve.” She took a wet rag and wiped down his face with a gentle touch, light as her soft fingers brushed back his hair to make way for the damp cloth. “How old are you?”

  “That is young,” he answered, closing his eyes again. This time in pleasure. It would be nice to die with such a tender hand at his face. “I’m one and twenty.”

  “One and twenty?” she said, patting the cloth to his temple and helping to ease the fierce throbbing in his skull. “You’re young too. At least, that is, far too young to die.”

  He shook his head. “I watched men far younger lose their lives,” he said to himself, then wondered if he should have shared such darkness with someone so young.

  She ceased bathing him. The words were on the tip of his tongue to ask her to begin again, but then the soft bristles of a brush touched his hair and he nearly groaned aloud, the brush felt so good on his scalp. She was exquisitely gentle, and his fever-ravaged body reveled in the touch.

  She sighed in answer. “I’m sure you did. I’ve had to watch that too, I’m afraid. You and I, we don’t get the luxury of naiveté, do we?”

  He wished he could cry out in protest. He was a man, after all. The world was meant to be hard on him. But she, she was still just a girl. Her blue eyes should dance with delight, not death. “It isn’t fair.” His fists clenched in the sheet at his side and some measure of strength returned to his body. It was as though she were breathing life into him. “A girl as innocent as you should not have to see the darkness of the world.”

  She shushed him with a soft pat and a gentle stroke on his arm. “That’s very kind.” Then her fingers stilled, her grip tightening in his arm. “But death isn’t the worst this world brings. I know that for certain.”

  A wave of anger washed over him. “What’s happened to you that makes you say such things?”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Tell me,” he gritted out. Somehow. It was important to know.

  She shrugged. “My father wasn’t a good man.”

  Dear lord. He knew about bad fathers. He’d suffered at the hands of a father who’d been callously cruel. But somehow, this girl seemed even more vulnerable. “Why not?”

  She shook her head. “He gambled away every shilling we had. The money from his family, my mother’s money. Even the money she left me. He told me he’d replace it but…” She trailed off, clasping her hands in her lap. “Then he took his own life. The priest here says he’ll go to Hell for it.”

  Her voice shook, and he tried to lift his fingers once again and stroke her face. He almost succeeded.

  “My father will join him. Perhaps they’ll be friends.”

  She shook her head, her eyes growing wide with a fear he didn’t understand. “Do you ever worry that you’ll go there too?”

  He narrowed his gaze, lifting his head. “You are an angel. Hell is not the place you’ll go.”

  “I might,” she whispered. She’d stopped grooming him and her small fingers slipped into his larger hands. “I have to leave this place. But the things I’ve done. The things I am going to do…” She shivered. “God forgive me.”

  He wanted to ask her what she planned. What terrible sins she’d committed that had her so worried. More than that, he wished to assure her that she needn’t worry. Of course, God would forgive her. She was a helpless child just trying to—

  “Clarissa,” a voice boomed across the basement. Her hand dropped from his and she scrambled to her feet. Only then did he realize she’d been sitting on a narrow strip of cot, her hip pressed to his. He felt cold without her heat.

  “Yes, Father?”

  For a moment, his thoughts jumbled. His father, here? The voice of the other man had reminded him of his own patriarch. Cold and cruel. But that was nonsense. How could the duke have come here? He realized he’d used what little energy he’d had talking with this girl.

  But he pushed his eyes open again. Fear for Clarissa washed through his body and he started to sit up too, but a small hand pushed him back down.

  “What have I told you about sitting idle?” The angry voice drew closer.

  “It’s the devil’s wo
rk,” Clarissa answered. She folded her hands in front of her and bowed her head.

  “That’s right.” Footsteps approached as robes swished. “If I catch you being idle again, it’s the switch for you.”

  “But he needed attending,” she said, her voice rising as an edge of defiance crept in.

  Mason watched as her chin tilted up and her folded hands curled with tension. The air whistled and then a crack rang out. He opened his eyes, shocked. Clarissa hadn’t made a sound, but she’d tucked her hands behind her back, and he could clearly see a red welt forming across her ivory skin.

  His body jerked on the cot as rage welled inside him. His little angel was being punished for those brief moments of comfort she’d given him? The injustice made him want to scream a battle cry. But his body refused to cooperate.

  And then she lightly touched his fingers again. Looking down, past her simple dress of serviceable fabric, he noted that her feet were bare.

  The priest must have seen it too because he demanded, “Where are your shoes?”

  She dropped into a curtsy. “I shall get them.”

  The other man’s lip curled. “What have I told you about not wearing them?”

  He felt her slight tremble. “That only harlots and—”

  “Enough,” Mason’s voice ripped from his chest. “That is enough.” Something deep inside him stirred. He had to live. This little angel needed protecting and there didn’t seem to be anyone else to do it.

  “Mind your business, Captain, or you’ll have to find another place to recover. The gutter would suffice.”

  His little angel was already backing away. “No need, Father. I’ll get them on right now.” And then she scurried away.

  Mason stared at the priest, who watched Clarissa’s retreat, his back stiff and straight, his expression unyielding. He made a promise to himself, right then and there to get better. She needed him. Clarissa. And he would rescue her if it was the last thing he did.

  Chapter One

  December 1821

  * * *

  Mason sat in the plush, upholstered chair, waiting for his half-brother to join him in one of the many sitting rooms in the Mayfair estate that the Duke of Devonhall called home. His father had died six years ago.

  The Demon Duke was what society had called him. Of course, Mason hadn’t known that until later. But his heir, and Mason’s half-brother, had taken over the title upon their father’s death. And then the new duke had promptly tracked down the brother he’d never known. He’d found Mason slowly recovering in the basement of a church in Dover where he’d been dumped by the British army to recover or die.

  The new Duke of Devonhall had swept his brother away but not before Mason had begged the man to find a girl. A little blonde with eyes the color of the sea on a sunny day.

  Bash had raised a brow. “Girl? How old? Please tell me you don’t fancy her?”

  Mason had spit on the dirty floor. He’d never sully thoughts of her with such base feelings. “It’s not like that. She saved my life and hers is beyond wretched. One good favor deserves another.”

  Bash had tried to find her. But by then, the priest swore that some lady had taken his little angel away. Given her a home, Father Byron claimed. Mason had had his doubts, but little proof.

  Still, when the Prince Regent had awarded Mason a title for valor on the battlefield—he had a feeling Bash was behind that honor—Mason had used his newfound power as the Earl of Baxter to see that the priest was sent to the furthest reaches of a Scottish island in a hamlet with a flock so small, there was little chance the man could do more damage.

  He’d have liked to kill the man, but then again, his father was surely in Hell and while Mason suspected he’d join him, killing a priest seemed like a golden ticket straight below. He’d often debated if a bad priest still counted but, in the end, he’d settled for the man living his life in near isolation.

  Of course, Mason hadn’t been able to resist telling Father Byron exactly why he was being sent to an island in the middle of nowhere. The priest had attempted to hurt an angel and a man had to pay for his crimes.

  Bash swept into the room in his usual fashion. His brother radiated confidence and power. “Did you close the deal? I need that club. The Den of Sins will be mine.”

  Mason looked up at his brother. Bash’s infatuation with this particular gaming hell was a mystery to Mason, but he generally didn’t ask his brother why he wanted things. Bash was a harder-looking man, his features more prominent and more aristocratic than Mason’s. They shared the same dark hair and penetrating eyes, both well over six feet as their father had been. But Mason’s features were more classically handsome. His father had told him once, in a sneer, that he looked far too much like his mother to ever be accepted in society. “No aristocrat is that pretty.”

  Perhaps his father had been correct. But with Bash’s help, society had accepted him nonetheless. Well, for the most part. “I closed it.”

  Bash gave him a salacious grin and sat across from him. “You are prolific. No one has your negotiating skills, you charming devil, you.” He laughed then, a hand at his stomach. “So the Earl of Gold accepted your offer to be a partner in a secret gaming hell. I’ll be damned.”

  Mason’s fist clenched. “Let’s not use nicknames, shall we. They’re tawdry.”

  Bash scrunched one eyebrow as he gave Mason a sideways glance. “You don’t like yours, I take it, Earl of Bastards? I personally think it has a nice ring to it.”

  Mason frowned. “Your nickname, Duke of Decadence, has a ring. A bastard is just what I am.”

  Bash scowled, sitting forward in his chair. “That’s not true. Not anymore. You’re an earl now.”

  Mason gave his brother a practiced smile. It was light and airy and meant to hide the turmoil that was always close to the surface. “True.” He needn’t discuss the particulars of being raised a bastard. The truth was, Bash had suffered nearly as much being the legitimate son. A cruel man was cruel to everyone.

  Besides, their terrible father wasn’t what he wished to discuss. Nor was the deal with Goldthwaite.

  Funny, he’d spent the last six years building an actual life. Gaining favor among the ton, placing himself in a position of power.

  It had been to thumb his nose at his father, of course. The man had wished for his unwanted son to die under some Frenchman’s boot. He’d almost succeeded in convincing Mason that it would be best for everyone. That was until he’d met Clarissa. Rather than die, Mason had become one of the most powerful earls in all of England.

  But everything had changed today.

  “I found her,” Mason said, his hands spreading out on his thighs.

  Bash fell back in his chair, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Who?”

  “Clarissa.” He smacked one of his palms on his knee. “After all these years, I finally met her again.”

  Surprise widened Bash’s eyes. “No. How?” He scrubbed his jaw. “I thought you’d dreamed her or imagined her. A fevered delusion or something.”

  Mason smiled at that. There were times he’d wondered himself. But last night, he’d seen his angel again. Flesh and blood and no longer a girl but a woman. “She looks just as beautiful,” he murmured as much to himself as to Bash. Honestly, she was even more gorgeous now. Then she’d been a child, but yesterday, a woman had stood in her place. Tall and fair, and lovely beyond his wildest imaginings.

  “Where?” Bash asked, leaning forward once again, resting his elbows on his knees.

  That was the tricky part. “She is living with the Earl of Goldthwaite.” When he’d left her, she’d been an orphan in Dover. She was the last person he’d expected to meet while negotiating the sale of a gaming hell, the Den of Sins.

  Bash’s hands slapped against his thighs. “I know you are aware that we need the Earl of Goldthwaite to make our new club a success. Not all of us are the new leader of exclusive clubs like you are. Goldthwaite is pivotal to our plan.”

  Mason snorted. It
was true that he’d become the proud head member of the Wicked Earls’ Club. His job was now to facilitate activities for the other earls who were part of the secret club. But sincerely, he’d only taken the position as a way to gain power.

  He’d agreed to help finance the Den of Sins for the same reason. With gold came influence.

  But long before he’d decided to spit on his father’s grave by being one of the most powerful men in England, he’d made a promise to a girl who’d saved his life. “I won’t upset Goldthwaite.” Probably. Maybe. Well, who knew, really?

  But his goals no longer aligned with his brother’s. Clarissa was far more important than anything else.

  One thing was for certain, he needed to see Clarissa again. And he knew when he’d see her again. In two days’ time, the Earl of Goldthwaite was to marry Clarissa’s friend, Penny, and he was invited to the wedding.

  This would be his chance to find out if she really was his little angel. And if she was, he needed to know what had happened to her and how he could help.

  Clarissa shifted in her pew at the front of the church, attempting to ignore several factors.

  The first was that she’d not stepped foot into a house of God since she’d left the care of Father Thomas Byron six years prior. Penny’s wedding had been the only reason she’d returned to one. She’d never miss her best friend and savior’s marriage even if the devil himself rose up through the floor.

  She was just a bit afraid he might.

  Memories of her brief time at Byron’s parish sent shivers through her body, and she wrapped her arms about her middle. He’d been a cold, cruel man and Clarissa still remembered every line of his face. Even worse, she could still hear the swish of his switch.