My Lord Hercules

My Lord Hercules

Copyright © 2013 by Ava
Stone

Cover design by Lily Smith

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http://www.123rf.com/photo_
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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.

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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.”