Sweet Release

SWEET RELEASE

Prologue

London

March 8, I730

Alec Kenleigh tossed back the last of his brandy and savored its heat as it scorched a path to his stomach. There was nothing to be done about it. Nothing—not a warm meal, nor a woman’s body, nor drink—seemed to ease his mind this night.

He shifted his gaze from the crackling fire to Isabelle, who sat at her gilded French dressing table brushing the tangles from her long, dark hair. She always went straight from the bed to her mirror.

How utterly absurd.

“What is it?” she asked, looking as much at her own reflection as at his.

“Hmm?”

‘You are staring.” She stopped brushing long enough to fix him with a practiced, seductive gaze. At one time that look would have made him ache. Now it had no effect on him at all.

“You please me,” he replied.

It was what she expected. She laughed, as he had known she would, then resumed brushing.

God’s love, she was a beauty. That, at least, was the truth. Alec let his gaze linger on the delicate features of her face, slender throat, and full, creamy breasts, which swayed with each stroke of her gold-handled brush, their dusky red nipples taut with arousal even now. He’d never met a woman as given to sex as Isabelle.

She smiled coquettishly, evidently mistaking his perusal for desire. Aye, she was physically flawless. Experienced. Charming. So why had he begun to lose interest? He wasn’t perturbed by her other lovers. He had known about them from the beginning. Nor did he care that she spoke endlessly of trivial matters—fashion, parties, London’s latest scandals—for he’d never known a woman whose thoughts did not revolve around such things. Except Elizabeth, of course, but his sister was the exception among women. The truth was that Isabelle St. Denis, with her French accent, her late husband’s wealth, and her matchless beauty, inspired only lust in men. Although he appreciated the joys of lust, Alec had come to realize he wanted more.

The clock in the parlor below struck one. He rose and began to dress. Never during the five months they’d been lovers had he stayed the night. Both of them preferred it that way.

“Leaving so soon?” Isabelle put her brush aside and rose to meet him. Embracing him, she pressed her breasts against him and ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. Her wet tongue teased his nipple.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been very good company tonight.” He placed a kiss on the end of her upturned nose. Her skin was heavy with the scent of French perfume.

“Can’t I persuade you to stay a bit longer?” She stroked the length of him through his breeches.

Alec closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying her expert touch, then pulled her hand away, ignoring his hardening cock. She turned away abruptly, her lips pressed into a disappointed frown. Grabbing a white silk dressing robe from the nearby settee, she shouted for her maidservant. “Mary!”

Ignoring her, he tied his hair back with a velvet ribbon, forgoing the more complicated
ramillie
for a simple queue, then reached for his shirt.

What a perfect way to end the day. His mistress was shrieking like a banshee, and after their confrontation this morning, Philip no doubt hated him. He’d dealt harshly with his brother, Alec knew. But, by God, Philip was no longer a boy. It was time for him to cease his debauched ways and take on manly responsibilities.

There was more than enough work for him at the firm. If Philip wanted money to spend on whores and gambling, he’d have to earn it. Alec yanked impatiently at an uncooperative button on one of his cuffs.

“Mais,
merde dors!
Where is that little
putain?
Mary!” Isabelle strode like a half-naked queen to her mirror and began brushing her hair again with quick, agitated strokes. “English servants are so lazy. In Paris she’d not be treated with such leniency.”

“Then it is good Mary was born in England and not France.” Isabelle responded with a derisive “humph” and muttered French profanities that would have stung the ears of the most hardened men. Refusing to be baited, Alec smoothed the frills of his embroidered jabot, slipped into his waistcoat, and began to feel under the bed for the soft leather of his boots.

Hurried footsteps approached from the hall, and Mary’s pale face poked through the door. Although he had never asked her age, he was sure the girl was no more than sixteen—about the age of the girl Philip had destroyed. Alec thrust one foot into its boot, then the other.

“Mistress?”

“See to it Monsieur Kenleigh’s carriage is brought around.
Rapidement!”

The girl scurried away.

“Thank you for your charming hospitality, Isabelle. I can find my own way out.” He was in no mood to endure a display of temper.

“Alec, wait!” Isabelle rushed into the hall and wrapped her slender, pale arms around his waist, her rouge-stained lips bowed in a perfect pout. “Don’t be cross with me. What am I supposed to feel when you no longer want me?”

“There are more than enough randy young studs in London eager to take my place.” He lifted her chin and kissed her lightly on the lips. “You’ll not even miss me.”

“Oh, but I will,” she said, looking up at him sulkily from beneath dark lashes. “You may know how to please a woman’s body, but you have much to learn about a woman’s heart.”

Alec laughed. “Would you have me believe you love me,
cherie?
You’re simply displeased it is I, not you, who has decided to end things.”

End things? He hadn’t thought about it before, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized that was exactly what he wanted to do. He watched surprise, then rage flash in Isabelle’s eyes. Her lips spread in a coy smile.

“You’ll be back,” she said.

He kissed her lightly on the lips, then turned once more toward the darkened staircase, leaving her to sulk as she chose. Downstairs in the foyer he found his greatcoat laid out next to his hat and gloves. The light patter on the window told him it was raining again.

“Sir?”

He looked to find Mary standing behind him, her thin face lit from beneath by the candle she was holding.

“Might you be needing anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you, Mary.”

She curtsied and stepped back to await his departure. Isabelle would have her skin if she failed to lock up behind him. He put on his coat and went to the door. Moisture on the rain-spattered window prevented him from seeing anything outside, but he’d be able to hear his carriage arrive. He wanted to get home to his own bed, to forget this entire day.

The look on Philip’s face had been one of total disbelief, though it was not as if he were cutting his brother off entirely. Philip lived in his home, ate his food, made use of his servants, grounds, and stables. Alec had merely placed a condition on Philip’s rather generous allowance. Their father’s will specified that Alec was to manage his brother’s financial affairs as he saw fit until Philip’s twenty-fifth birthday, a scant year away. Given the sorry state of things, Alec had neglected his duty far too long.

Mary sneezed and curtsied sheepishly in apology.

Alec smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. What a burden it must be waiting hand and foot on a woman like Isabelle, he thought, noticing Mary’s chapped lips and the dark circles under her eyes. He had seen enough bruises on her face to know Isabelle occasionally struck her. He had offered more than once to help Isabelle find a French servant, hoping she would release Mary into his care. With five children to tend, his sister would welcome the extra help, and there was no doubt Elizabeth would be far kinder to Mary. But Isabelle had become jealous, mistaking his concern for something less honorable, and had jealously refused to let the girl go.

Mary shifted nervously under his gaze.

Alec looked away. From the street outside came the clack of hooves against wet cobblestones. “Good night, Mary. Get some sleep.”

“Good night, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He welcomed the blast of cold rain against his face, as it stole’ his breath and blew away the cloying scent of Isabelle’s perfume. Pulling up the collar of his greatcoat, he descended the steps two by two, then climbed into the dry warmth of the richly appointed carriage. He sank into the claret cushions, closed his eyes, and let the rocking of the coach carry him away. Still, his mind would not rest.

What could he have done differently? He could have taken Philip to task years ago, before things had gotten so out of hand. He could have forced Philip to join the military, where many younger sons found both discipline and their place in society. At the very least he could have waited until Philip had slept and was sober. Instead he’d confronted his brother the moment Philip had staggered through the door this morning. The sun just up, Alec had heard the door slam, heard Philip’s footsteps in the hall, and had followed him upstairs to his rooms.

Philip had taken it much harder than he’d imagined. His voice still rang in Alec’s ears.

“You bastard!” Philip had whispered, his boyish grin fading abruptly into an angry grimace. Then, fists clenched, he swung. Alec stepped easily out of his path, and Philip crashed onto the Persian carpet in a drunken heap, his powder-white wig askew.

“My God, Philip. Look at yourself!” Alec turned away, the stench of tobacco and alcohol overpowering. “Obviously I have been remiss in my responsibility. I should have done this long ago. I might not have cared quite as much if you were intent on destroying only yourself, but I won’t let you take others down with you!”

Philip rose unsteadily to his feet, his face rigid. “She was a whore.”

“She was sixteen!”

“It was her own damned fault! I didn’t tell her to—”

“No! She was your responsibility!” Anger burned like hot iron in Alec’s gut, and he fought the urge to slam his fist into Philip’s insolent face. “Had you any sense of decency, you would have offered to provide quietly for her and the babe. Instead you abandoned her, and she died trying to rid herself of your get!”

Philip stood for a moment, his hard brown eyes gazing unflinchingly into Alec’s. Then he looked away and his expression softened. “I regret what happened, of course.” He tossed his wig onto his large four-poster bed. “Had I known what she intended to do . . . You can’t seriously mean to let one mistake come between us, Alec.

We are brothers.” An apologetic, boyish grin spread across his face. “You can’t charm your way out of this one, Philip. You will live according to my terms, or you won’t see another farthing.” Philip’s nostrils flared, and his smile grew fixed. “You won’t get away with this.”

“I already have.”

The coach struck a rut, jarring Alec. It was strange to think he’d once been envious of his brother. Philip, as the second son, hadn’t been burdened with learning the intricacies of the shipbuilding trade. That duty had fallen to Alec. As the firstborn son, he had inherited the vast Kenleigh estate, including the business his great grandfather had started. While he had suffered the attention of joyless and unforgiving tutors, Philip, who was six years younger, had spent his childhood doing whatever pleased him. Their father, who had ignored Alec except to chasten him, had found Philip amusing and had indulged him in his antics, allowing him to break every rule without consequence.

Now Alec’s envy had turned to pity, perhaps even contempt. Philip lived in a hell of his own making. He was almost always drunk and had fallen deeply in debt. His friends, if one could call them that were harlots, drunkards, and braggarts. If one of them didn’t kill him, surely the pox would. Then there was the alewife’s daughter.

Socrates had answered the back door in the middle of the night to find her, weak and bleeding, on the step. Alec had sent for the surgeon immediately, but the doctor had said there was nothing to be done. The girl had died within the hour, her life leaking from between her legs in a pool of scarlet. While the good citizens of London blamed her for her own death and were happy to forget her. Alec could not.

The carriage jolted to a halt, nearly throwing Alec from the seat.

He waited for the motion to resume, but the carriage remained still.

What the devil?

Had an axle broken? And where was Edward? Had the driver, whose inconstant temper was a mystery, decided it was no longer his duty to keep his master informed?

“Bloody hell!” Alec pulled up his collar and threw open the carriage door.

Icy, wind-driven rain bit into his face.

The first blow took him by surprise. It exploded against his skull, knocking him to his knees on the wet cobblestone. Through a haze of pain, he looked up in time to see the butt of a musket arcing through the air toward him. Deflecting the impact, he grabbed the weapon and tore it from its owner’s hands.

But the third blow came from behind.

Pain shattered Alec’s thoughts.

A flash of red.

Darkness.

From the shelter of a doorway across the street, an old man, drunk and unable to sleep in the cold, wet weather, watched the two thieves as they dragged the unconscious man into the alley from which they’d sprung. He heard them shout at one another, but the wind and rain drowned out their words.