My Lord Hercules Read online

  My Lord Hercules

  Copyright © 2013 by Ava Stone

  Cover design by Lily Smith

  Image credit: fotola / 123RF Stock Photo

  My Lord Hercules, The Betting Season

  Copyright © 2012 by Ava Stone

  My Lord Hercules, Ladies & Gentlemen

  Copyright © 2012 by Ava Stone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  About Ava Stone

  More from Ava Stone

  Thomas ~

  You’re my own personal demigod, and I love everything about you.

  ~ Ava

  Gioco Place, London – September 1813

  Lord Harrison Casemore tossed his cards to the middle of the table and leaned back in his seat. He glanced at his watch fob and tried to make out the time. Was it 4:25 or 5:20? He opened his eyes wider, willing the whiskey from his foggy mind, trying to focus on the watch hands before him. It felt like 5:20, but it looked like 4:25. Whichever it was, Harry was most assuredly ready to leave and head for Berkswell House.

  “Casemore.” A hand clapped him on the back and Harry looked over his shoulder to find Tobias Clifton, the Marquess of Woodsworth, standing behind him. The man’s ever-present frown was fixed firmly on his face.

  Harry nodded a greeting to his old acquaintance. “You want my spot, Wood? I was just leaving.”

  “Vingt-et-un?”

  Harry nodded once more. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck than I did tonight.” Not that Woodsworth had ever been blessed with luck, but it wasn’t Harry’s responsibility to ensure the man kept what was left of his inheritance, if there was even anything left of it at this point.

  “Much obliged.”

  Harry pushed his chair back from the table, relinquishing the seat to the marquess. He said his farewell to the other players and started toward the exit, staggering a bit more than he’d like. No wonder he played so terribly tonight; he could barely walk a straight line.

  He glanced toward the main door and stopped where he stood. Was that a girl, dressed like a fop? Harry blinked, hoping to clear his vision. And though he was deeper in his cups than he should have been, there was no mistaking the womanly curves of the young man who’d just entered the hell. Young man, his arse. Harry knew a woman when he saw one. And this one possessed pretty olive skin and full lips made for kissing. He couldn’t see her eyes, however, as the overlarge beaver hat on her head shielded everything above her delicate nose.

  What the devil?

  The girl in gentleman’s clothes breezed past him, and he caught the faint scent of lilacs. No man worth his salt would smell like lilacs. What was the girl up to?

  Tired and foxed as he was, Harry couldn’t make himself leave the hell. Not right now, in any event. As his eyes followed the girl, he realized he wasn’t the only one whose notice she’d captured. A bit o’ muslin a few feet from the chit-in-disguise seemed to assess her as though she was a treat to be gobbled up. Harry couldn’t help but laugh. One or both of those women was sure to be in for a surprise.

  The girl, so very out of place, looked across the sea of patrons. Her lips pursed, and she heaved a sigh. What she was after, Harry had no idea, but watching her was almost as entertaining as sitting in his brother’s box at Drury Lane. He meandered to the closest wall and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest, waiting for the evening’s performance to continue.

  Seedy. Yes, Miss Miranda Bartlett surmised as she glanced around the gaming hell, seeking her quarry, seedy was most definitely the best word to describe this particular establishment. The blackguard had to be somewhere in this smoky den of iniquity, amongst the litter of brazen light-skirts and other gentlemen of quality. The question was, where?

  Miranda tugged her pilfered beaver cap lower on her head to better shield her face as she scanned the hell. After all, Devlin would murder her if he found out she’d sneaked out, if anyone recognized her. But what choice did she have? Someone had to find Tessie. And the best place to start was with the Marquess of Woodsworth, whom Miranda had seen enter the place not five minutes ago. He had to be here somewhere. But there were so many men who fit his lordship’s build. And the room was terribly smoky. How on earth did men breathe this putrid air night after night?

  A roar of cheers rose above the din in a far corner, catching Miranda’s attention, as did the colorful language that followed the merriment. Men certainly were odd, boisterous creatures, weren’t they? Peculiar, loud, and odiferous. The sooner she found Woodsworth, the sooner she could demand the villain tell her what he’d done with Tessie, and the sooner Miranda could leave this horrid place, never to return.

  To that end, she should probably walk the perimeter of the room for a better view, and perhaps catch a patch of clean air in the process. Doubtful as that was, she chose to be optimistic as it was better than the alternative.

  Just as Miranda took a few steps toward the back of the hell, a woman appeared in her path. The doxy’s face was coated so heavily with cosmetics, she looked like a caricature. “Well, aren’t ya a wee thing?” she said, her breath tinted with some odor Miranda couldn’t quite place. “But a man’s stature has nuffin’ to do wif his size.” And then she stuck her hand out and grabbed Miranda’s crotch in her fist.

  Miranda leapt in surprise, not able to contain the yelp of disbelief that escaped her. Good heavens! She’d been assaulted, right in the middle of the crowded establishment! Her mouth fell open in indignation and she couldn’t quite find her voice.

  “Though in yer case…” The doxy placed a hand to her heart and cackled. “Ya might have the smallest cock in all of London.”

  The smallest cock in all of London? Who said things like that? Miranda’s face heated and she stumbled backwards, bumping into a something very large behind her.

  Miranda spun on her heel, staring up in to the green eyes of a handsome gentleman who could pass as Hercules’s double. Well, if Hercules wore jackets, waistcoats, and cravats instead of togas. The width of the gentleman’s shoulders was easily twice the size of Devlin’s. Miranda had never seen any man who looked as strong as this one. And when a rakish grin settled on his face, she couldn’t help but gulp.

  “Well, my good man,” the Herculean gentleman drawled, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

  She hadn’t seen him either. A man of his stature, she would have remembered. She lowered her head and said with the deepest voice she could muster, “New to Town.”

  “Indeed?” He laughed, which didn’t do much for
her confidence. “Well, since you’re new to Town, I hardly think Gioco would be the best place for you to acquaint yourself.”

  He was certainly pompous, wasn’t he? Who was he to say where a young buck he’d never met could go or not go? “I appreciate your advice, sir, but I’m quite content here.”

  Again the gentleman laughed, and then he placed one of his enormous hands on Miranda’s shoulder and shoved her, not ungently, toward the exit. “Out with you.”

  Was he some sort of guard? No, he was dressed much too well to be a paid gaming hell henchman.

  “See here—” Miranda dug her feet in, refusing to move one more inch “—I can stay here if I want, and—”

  Hercules, or whatever his real name was, leaned down and whispered near her ear, “Should anyone discover who you really are, you’ll be done. Now turn around like a good little girl, and I’ll see that you’re returned home safely.”

  Miranda’s breath lodged in her chest. Did he know who she was? If so, shouldn’t she know him? Her gaze locked with his green orbs, and butterflies flittered about her belly. Who was he, this demigod who seemed intent on thwarting her? And why would he make her belly flip? She didn’t have time for a flipped belly. She had to find Tessie. She had to.

  The gentleman heaved a sigh. “Either you walk out of here using your own two feet, or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you out. Your choice, madam.”

  Arrogant brute. Miranda’s belly stopped its fluttering as she narrowed her eyes on Hercules. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He shot her one last warning glance before bending at the waist and hefting her over his shoulder. Miranda squealed as her brother’s hat fell to the floor and her dark tresses tumbled forward, covering her face and, fortunately, her identity from the rest of the patrons of the hell. Hercules stumbled slightly as he started for the exit.

  Harry regained his balance and managed to keep from sending himself and the tempting little bundle over his shoulder to the ground. Falling would put a quick end to his chivalrous deed. Had he known he would have been required to carry a chit from Gioco’s tonight, he wouldn’t have downed that last whiskey.

  “Put me down!” The girl pounded on his back and squirmed in his hold.

  Harry glanced over his shoulder only to stare at her very shapely bottom, just a few inches from his face. He almost stumbled again. Damn it all to hell! “Stop moving,” he growled.

  “Put me down!” she demanded again.

  So that her identity would be revealed to everyone in the vicinity? Then the beating he was currently enduing would be for naught. Harry easily hailed a hack and hauled opened the coach door. With haste, he deposited the girl inside the conveyance, despite her kicking at him. Even though he knew he should send her on her way, he had no faith she wouldn’t get herself into more trouble along the way, though why he should worry himself, he had no idea. So after a quick glance around up and down Floral Street to see if they’d caught anyone’s interest, Harry climbed inside the hack after her.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  The chit folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. Her long dark hair spilled over her shoulders. From the stubborn set of her jaw and the regal way she held her head high, it was quite obvious the girl came from a well-to-do family. In fact, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if her father was a peer. What the devil was she doing, sneaking into a gaming hell in the middle of the night? When he only stared at her, the girl’s glare darkened, making it quite clear she had no intention of telling him anything.

  “It’s a short ride to Bow Street,” he threatened. “So either tell me where you live or I’ll find a Runner instead.” Whatever she was up to, odds were she wouldn’t want her father to find out.

  “If I thought they’d help me…” she mumbled so softly, he wasn’t sure he heard her.

  “What’s that?”

  She clamped her mouth closed again. Stubborn girl.

  Did she need some sort of help? “Are you in trouble?”

  She snorted. “Indeed. Some brute tossed me over his shoulder and threw me inside a hack.”

  At least she was talking. He bit back a smile. “Well, that brute is trying to help you.”

  “I was doing just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

  Oh, she was doing beautifully. Had she forgotten the painted whore who’d tried to grab her cock? “Gioco’s is hardly the sort of place for a girl like you.”

  “But it’s just sort the place for a man like you, is it?”

  It happened to be his favorite hell. Not that he had to explain himself to her. “Where shall I take you, Miss…?”

  “You can open that door and leave me be.”

  That wasn’t going to happen. “Very well.” Harry sighed. “I don’t know who you belong to, but I imagine the authorities will figure it out and return you to whomever.”

  At that, her eyes rounded in fear.

  Blast and damn. He hadn’t meant to scare her. He was trying to help, for God’s sake. “Please.” He softened his tone. “It’s been a long night. I just want to see you safely returned to your father.”

  Her eyes dropped to the ground as though he’d hit on something. Then she steeled her shoulders and sat her tallest, which wasn’t all that tall, and said with more bravado than a number of men of his acquaintance, “And why should you care?”

  She was a spitfire, and he couldn’t help but be slightly charmed. “You’re about my sister’s age, if I had to guess,” he explained. “And if Pippa ever found herself in a situation like this, I would hope someone would make certain she was returned home in one piece.” Then he shook his head and said, “Though I can’t imagine her doing anything so harebrained.”

  The exotic beauty frowned at him, not that Harry should have been surprised.

  “Sir?” the impatient driver called from his box. “Where to?”

  Harry leveled his most intimidating glare on the girl, the one he’d practiced on Pippa all of her life. However, this particular chit didn’t seem impressed at all. Well, he couldn’t sit in the hack all night, staring at the girl. “Bow Street,” he finally called.

  “Number four, Curzon Street!” the brunette yelled a half-second later, her face flushed even in the moonlight.

  “Number four, Curzon Street,” Harry repeated for the driver. So she lived in the middle of Mayfair, did she? Harry’d been right. She did come from a good family. “My sister lives on Curzon Street,” he said amicably as the hack lurched forward.

  “The one who isn’t harebrained?” she asked tartly, as though she wasn’t pleased to have been manipulated into giving him her direction.

  Harry laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Well, I’m not thrilled with her choice in husbands, but she’d never dress like a dandy and sneak into a gaming hell.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t get to select our sisters’ betrotheds,” she grumbled.

  The tone of her voice and her sudden sour expression struck Harry as odd. Had he hit upon the reason for the chit’s middle of the night sojourn to Gioco’s? “Is that what you were doing? Tracking down your sister’s betrothed tonight? Hoping to get evidence of his low character?”

  An unladylike snort escaped the girl. “Puttenham wouldn’t be caught dead some place like that.”

  Puttenham? Harry sat back against the squabs. He knew who she was. Well, he knew who her family was, he silently amended. Devlin Bartlett had three half-sisters, didn’t he? Which one sat opposite him in the hack? “Your brother is Marston.” After all, the Earl of Puttenham had recently returned to England and announced his betrothal to one of the viscount’s half-sisters. The little hoyden’s olive complexion made all the sense in the world now. Her late-mother was Greek, or was she Italian? The girl across from him certainly bore no resemblance to Devlin Bartlett, that was for sure.

  “You know my brother?” Miranda gulped. Blast it, she never should have mentioned Puttenham, that humorless prig. All of London was agog over Alessandra’s engagement to the du
llard earl. Now how was she going to escape her captor or savior or whoever Hercules thought himself to be?

  “Harrow,” he said in way of explanation.

  Harrow? He’d known Devlin since they were boys? A cold chill washed over Miranda at that news. All she could do was beg. “Please don’t tell my brother about any of this.” Devlin would murder her on the spot. The trousers, the sneaking out in the dead of night, the fact that she’d crossed the threshold of that gambling club.

  A rakish smile lit Hercules’s face once more. “Tell Devlin Bartlett that I’ve seen the shape of his little sister’s legs?” A laugh escaped him. “No, I won’t condemn myself to a dawn appointment, Miss Bartlett. What is your name, by the way? Your first name? I should know it, if I’m to keep your secret, shouldn’t I?”

  The shape of her legs? Good heavens! Even in the darkness, she’d wager he could see her blush. Drat it all! Nothing had turned out like it was supposed to. No one was to have noticed her. She shouldn’t even be having this conversation. She should have spotted that blackguard Woodsworth, demanded to know what he’d done with Tessie, and escaped before anyone was the wiser. Blast Hercules for figuring her out so easily. “You said you were keeping my secret so Marston wouldn’t put a ball in your chest. I don’t see that I owe you my name in exchange for your cowardice.”

  Hercules’s brow rose in amusement. The rogue was enjoying himself, drat him. “A wise man, not a coward.” He leaned forward on his bench, bringing his handsome face within a hairsbreadth of Miranda’s. His eyes – a lovely green, she could see now that he was so close – twinkled in the moonlight filtering into the hack. His whiskey-scented breath tickled her cheek. “As I see it, Miss Bartlett, I can’t tell your brother about our meeting, but neither can you. So you can either tell me your first name or I can claim a kiss instead for my troubles. Marston will be none the wiser, no matter your choice.”