Vacancy: Viscount Preferred: Calling All Rakes Read online

  VACANCY: VISCOUNT PREFERRED

  CALLING ALL RAKES

  TAMMY ANDRESEN

  Copyright © 2022 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

  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

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  LOST: The Love of a Lord

  Other Titles by Tammy

  About the Author

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  www.tammyandresen.com

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  Hugs!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Placing an ad for a husband was a delicate task to be certain…

  A blank sheet of parchment stared up at Lady Priscilla Applegate as she sat at her writing desk. Choosing her words perfectly was of the utmost importance for the task at hand. She brushed the feather top of her quill across her cheek as she considered the precise phrasing she might use.

  “Large dowry…” she whispered, so as not to be overheard by her mother or her cousin. Not that they were likely to hear her over the volume of their own voices. The two of them were incapable of speaking to one another without the conversation turning into an argument. Not that she blamed her mother a bit. “Clean. Reasonably attractive…”

  She nibbled at her bottom lip as she continued to consider her list of possible attributes. “Crochets admirably?”

  Her mouth turned down as she mentally crossed that last item off her list. Did men care about such things? Three of her friends had recently wed and none of their husbands had considered their prospective brides crocheting ability, of that Priscilla was certain.

  She dipped her pen into the inkwell and then lightly tapped the tip on the rim to remove excess ink. Blotches might mar her meaning, and this task was too important to risk any misrepresentation.

  “Priscilla,” her cousin called, sharp and hard, making her jump. A bit of ink splashed onto her fresh page, ruining her first attempt before she’d hardly begun. His voice always surprised her. To look at him, one would think he’d sound as soft as his frame implied. With overly high collars on his shirts, his cheeks and jowls appeared to droop down over them.

  “Yes?” Priscilla calmly set down the quill, then turned to look at him, arranging her skirts so they didn’t twist or bunch. Maintaining a façade of propriety seemed the best method for keeping Eugene Fitzsimmons at a distance.

  A distance he very much wished to close.

  She’d attempted to argue with him as her mother did now, but that method had proven not only ineffective, but dangerous. His temper flared over the smallest disagreements.

  “Tell your mother that I am not ridiculous in the least for pursuing your hand in marriage. In fact, it’s the natural order, as I see it.”

  “You wish for me to tell my mother how you see it?” she asked, knowing full well she’d been intentionally obtuse. Tiny barbs were her only weapon these days.

  Eugene, the new Earl of Purlington, her fourth or fifth cousin on her father’s side, had inherited her father’s earldom. A fact he took great delight in lording over her. He huffed now, his large cheeks puffing out even further. “I hold the title. I ought to have the finances with which to run the earldom.”

  Priscilla pressed her lips together, not bothering to reply. She’d said it all before. Her father had passed eighteen months prior. It had taken the solicitors over a year to find Eugene, a month for him to make his way to London and two more for him to realize that while he held the title, and the entailed property, most of the loose assets had been carefully placed within her dowry.

  Priscilla had been through all the paperwork herself, not that she’d ever inform Eugene of this fact. He’d only berate her for not knowing her place.

  To be fair to Eugene, her father had taught her a great deal about finance and the earldom, more so than most girls would ever know, but he hadn’t an heir of his own so he’d imparted the knowledge on her. He enjoyed teaching and she’d been an apt student. For that reason, she knew for certain that Eugene had the money required to maintain the earldom. There just wasn’t much extra.

  An industrious man would know how to take the farms and land he’d inherited and make his own fortune, but Eugene was not that man.

  He wanted all the spoils, and he wanted them now.

  Which is why he’d decided that he and Priscilla ought to wed.

  She’d sooner toss herself from the London Bridge. She’d not let her father down by allowing all those funds to land into the hands of a greedy dandy.

  Not that she ever said that out loud, either.

  “You have the finances you need.” Her mother bit back, sparing Priscilla from answering. She gave her mother a silent “thank you” as Eugene pivoted back toward the other woman, his face turning a distressing shade of purple. Which left Priscilla to resume her work.

  Priscilla was not considered a great beauty. Nor was she a successful debutante. She’d not had many suitors, not that she’d cared until her father’s passing. But she was the daughter of an earl with a large dowry and passing accomplishments. And her looks, while they erred on the side of sweet, were nice enough. Surely, she could do better than Eugene. Couldn’t she?

  The few suitors she’d had when her mourning period had ended had been frightened off by Eugene, and he’d restricted her social schedule to a bare minimum of events.

  All facets of her day-to-day life that were within his control, he restricted to his utmost ability. Fortunately for her, her mother, and thanks to her late father, who she married, however, was not up to Eugene. A fact she thanked the heavens above for every day.

  But how to meet that man with Eugene’s eye upon her was the current question. Her friends could help. Charlotte was uncommonly clever, Mona a duchess, and Alexi the kindest person Priscilla had the pleasure of knowing. But they were all newly wed and very busy, and she’d not bother them unless the situation became dire.

  Clara, her final and best friend, had been helping, and together they’d devised this plan.

  They’d put an ad in the paper for a husband.

  As far as plans went, it was a poor one. Both in that it was gauche at best and scandalous at its worst. But a better option had not presented itself, and so Priscilla forged ahead.

  She took out a fresh sheet of paper, dipped her pen into the inkwell once again and began to write.

  Vacancy: One titled and funded lady looking for an eligible lord in need of a wife. Meet in Hyde Park by the entrance to the rose gardens at noon on Tuesday, the 11th of April, 1837.

  She stared down at the sheet, reading her words several times. Succinct and to the point. She dusted the letter and carefully folded the parchment, addressing it to The Times. Including one quid, she sealed the letter and rose to ring the bell.

  The argument behind her continued, but she largely ignored the raucous noise. Her mother was more than capable of outwitting Eugene. r />
  As she handed the letter to the butler, Priscilla added a silent prayer that a suitable gentleman answered her call.

  Wyatt Highland, ninth Viscount Ware, rose from bed just as the clock in the hall struck noon.

  While most lords slept late, his reasons for still being abed were far more…interesting…than spending his evenings drinking or gaming or both.

  He stretched aching muscles, moving gingerly to test each. When he was certain they’d all support his weight, he rubbed a hand through his dark hair before he grazed his middle finger along the tender skin that split his cheek in two, the flesh still itchy even after two years of healing.

  Not that it bothered him that much. Rubbing the skin had become a reflex, a habit that reminded of him why he did the things he did.

  Moving to the bell cord, he stepped over his pile of black breeches and a black linen shirt that he’d stripped off before collapsing in bed the night before.

  He stretched again, working out a knot in his back before he rang the bell and started for the bath of water already waiting for him. A gift from Ralph, who brought the bath in every day just before noon.

  The hot water had become his morning savior, helping him recover from his activities the night before. He sank into the water with a groan of satisfaction, noting several new bruises along his midsection.

  Ralph would have something to say on the topic of his bodily damage for certain. He didn’t find Wyatt’s nightly wanderings fitting for a man of Wyatt’s station or something along those lines. Ralph was likely right.

  He was also a nosy overprotective biddy.

  Ralph maintained that a man with a viscountcy and no heir, not even a wife to provide one, and turning thirty in a matter of weeks, ought to be out in the evening wife-hunting rather than fighting petty criminals. But Wyatt had little appetite for the marriage mart and a great deal of vitriol where thieves were concerned, so he continued to ignore his valet.

  A former boxer, he’d been Wyatt’s trainer, friend, and lifelong companion. And his only confidante when it came to his nightly activities. Nearly everyone else on his staff assumed he went out every evening for far more gentlemanly pursuits.

  Which is why, although Ralph was a wretched valet, his position was beyond secure, and the man harangued him at every opportunity.

  The door opened just as Wyatt began to soap himself, scrubbing off the dirt and dinge from the night before.

  “I see you made it home another night.” Ralph stopped at the edge of the tub. “Though you look worse than ever.”

  Wyatt glanced up at him with a frown. Tall and thickly muscled, Ralph’s dark hair often stood out at odd angles as it did this morning. His entire appearance completely at odds with his position in Wyatt’s house. “Your charm is immeasurable.”

  “So is your carelessness.” Ralph stretched out in the chair next to the fire, reaching for Wyatt’s morning paper.

  Wyatt snorted. “You’re helping me dress.”

  “Too sore to do it yourself?”

  He glared, but his words held no actual irritation. “No. It’s what I pay you to do.” He and Ralph bickered. It’s what they did. He didn’t actually care if Ralph tied a decent cravat though he likely could use some help pulling on his jacket.

  In answer, Ralph lifted the paper back over his face, ignoring Wyatt entirely.

  Finishing his bath, he rose from the tub, and sloshed his way across the floor to grab a large cloth to dry himself. He gingerly rubbed his legs and midsection, working the stiffness from his shoulders.

  “Have you made your point yet?” Wyatt asked as he tried and failed to reach down to his feet. “I could use some bloody help.”

  Ralph didn’t even bother to lower the paper. “In a moment. I’m reading.”

  Wyatt straightened, stopping to stare. Even for Ralph, he was being cantankerous. “Really? I can barely dry myself and you can’t—”

  “I’ve found something interesting,” Ralph said by way of answer. Then he set the paper aside and grabbed a second cloth.

  Wyatt wrapped the first about his midsection and eased himself down into a chair, groaning softly as he did.

  Ralph gave him a look of contempt before he tossed another cloth onto Wyatt’s feet to soak up the water. “Rough night?”

  It had been.

  He’d followed a purse snatcher from the theater district all the way to the docks. He’d no more caught the man when several of his compatriots had decided to join the fray. Not only had Wyatt been unable to apprehend the thief, he’d gotten a healthy beating for his efforts. “No more than usual.”

  Ralph finally rose from the chair to assemble Wyatt’s clothing for the day. “You ought to quit. You’ve made your point, I think,” he said before he disappeared into the dressing room.

  Wyatt wasn’t attempting to make a point, he was trying to make a difference. That’s what Ralph never seemed to understand. “I can’t quit. I’ve only just made the papers.” The reason he couldn’t stop was far more complex and way more personal. He clenched his hands and then unclenched them again, an image of his father flashing through his thoughts. Helping people who were too weak to help themselves was his life’s mission. A calling.

  Ralph grunted. “Speaking of. Look at the headline in The Times.”

  Wyatt glanced over to see a drawing of a man dressed all in black with a black mask and a domino as he, twice the size of everyone else, chased down a group of five men. He smiled, or he tried. The scar prevented one side of his mouth from lifting, so it always looked as though he were giving some one-sided sly grin. “Very flattering,” he answered, rubbing his legs.

  Ralph reemerged, laying a simple linen shirt, breeches, boots, cravat, vest, and waistcoat on the edge of the bed. “Quite.”

  “I’m making people feel safer, you know.”

  “By putting yourself in danger.”

  True. Wyatt’s eyes drifted closed again as he listened to Ralph brush his boots clean. He’d have to finish the books by tonight to make certain his accounts were in order before going out again. It was a task he’d always done for himself. He enjoyed it, and it added a natural quiet to his days that balanced out his nightly activities. Perhaps he’d take tonight off from saving the city. He wasn’t sure his body could take another night.

  Besides. One promise he’d made himself when he’d started his vigilante justice was that he’d not allow the people who depended on his land to suffer. His father had done little right, but impressing the importance of the title was one of the few traits he’d successfully engrained in Wyatt. Ralph too, if they were being honest.

  “It’s time you stopped skulking about the shadows and began the hunt for a wife,” Ralph said, as if reading Wyatt’s thoughts.

  Wyatt made a soft sound of dissent, a knot settling in his stomach as it always did at the thought of Angela. He believed in the viscountcy up to a point. And that point might be marriage. “I found a bride already, remember?”

  The steady back and forth of the horsehair brush stopped as Ralph answered. “You were engaged. Not married. And the fact that she was too foolish to see the wedding through does not mean you should go without an heir. The viscountcy depends on you.”

  “I’ve got years to make an heir.”

  “Not that way you live.”

  Another truth.

  But how did one go about courting a woman living as he did? Besides the fact that he bore a large and ugly mark down the left side of his face, he hadn’t the time or the inclination to attend balls, or picnic in the park, or pretend to care about a woman when he didn’t. He doubted he’d ever allow himself to care again. But as he and Ralph had this conversation daily, he didn’t bother to say any of it out loud. “I’ll see to it in time.”

  Ralph harrumphed. “You promised that your nighttime activities would not get in the way of your duties.”

  “They don’t.”

  “An heir is your duty.”

  Wyatt pushed out of the chair, determined to
dress himself. Ralph was irritating his last unharmed nerve. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  “Good.” Ralph left the clothes on the bed, and returned to the side table where he’d left the paper. When he came back toward the bed, he laid the sheet next to Wyatt’s clothes. “Then you’ll understand why I insist you attend.”

  “Attend what?” But his eyes were already straying to where Ralph’s finger rested. He’d grown used to Ralph’s gruff mothering but as he scanned the words, his mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious. You want me to answer an ad in the paper for a woman looking for a husband?”

  Ralph shrugged. “Why not? Says she’s a lady with a dowry.”

  “Because…” Wyatt spluttered, his arms lifting as he forgot sore muscles and tired arms. A dowry was the least of his concerns. “She’s likely—”

  “Scarred?” Ralph said, raising one eyebrow as he looked at Wyatt.

  “I was going to say not suitable.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me how you really feel. Don’t hold back.”

  “It’s Tuesday, you know.” Ralph said, rocking back on his heels. “You could still make it. The appointed time is in an hour.”

  Wyatt shook his head. The idea was absurd. But then again, so was this daily conversation. And Ralph had a point. If the woman wasn’t awful, the idea of a quick and easy arrangement had potential. He could make a match, make an heir, and skip most of the unpleasantries that he’d had to experience the first time around. And he’d be able to continue his work once there was an heir. “If I go, will you cease your constant bellyaching?”

  Ralph shrugged. “For a time anyway.”