Praise for Rebel Lords of London
Enchanting the Earl: a prequel
“A Regency romance that makes you want more!” ~ author Kara O’Neal
The Earl's Error
“Sexy and exciting: Kathy L Wheeler tops smouldering romance with an intriguing mystery.” ~Miranda Neville, Best Selling Author
The Marquis's Misstep
“Quick pacing, funny dialogue, and charming characters make Kathy L Wheeler's books a must-read!” ~Double Rita Finalist, Amanda McCabe
The 7th Son
“7th Son is both gripping and delightful. A hero and heroine to root for. Twists and turns perfect for mystery lovers. A setting pure bliss for lovers of romance. And finding long-lost diaries to break a family curse, made for the perfect read."~ Rita Lifetime Award recipient, Sharon Sala - author of - THE LAST STRAW
“Expect a fast-paced ride in this captivating tale, written in Kathy L Wheeler’s bold, dynamic style. Intrigue, love, scandal and curses — what more could any reader want? You'll stay riveted until the very last page!” Author Jude Bayton - The Secret of Mowbray Manor
“Who can resist a romance between a cursed artist and an art critic with a tragic past? I was hooked from the enticing beginning to the satisfying end. Kathy L Wheeler has created a compelling story with a mysterious journal, sizzling passion and characters who come alive. Rich in setting and emotion, 7th Son takes readers on a twisty, tantalizing ride.” ~ award winning author Alicia Dean
The Viscount's Vendetta
“Edgy, fast-paced, sexy, is Kathy L Wheeler's latest Rebel Lord of London.” ~USA Today and New York Times Bestselling author, Cheryl Bolen
Books by
Kathy L Wheeler
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Books by
Kathy L Wheeler
Rebel Lords of London
Enchanting the Earl
The Earl’s Error
The Marquis’ Misstep
The 7th Son
The Viscount’s Vendetta
Lady Felicity’s Feud with Christmas (Regency Christmas Kisses anthology)
The Weatherford Sisters Mysteries
A Bullet to the Heart – Kathy L Wheeler
Hanging by a Threat – Terry Andrews
Fatal Drip of Wisdom – Sanxie Bea Cooper
A Dagger Cuts Deep – Kathy L Wheeler
Mail Order Bride Series
The Counterfeit
The Breakaway (IDA finalist)
Bloomington Series
Quotable (IDA finalist)
Maybe It’s You
Lies That Bind
Martini Club 4 Series
Reckless – The 1920s and Pampered — The 1940s
Other fun novellas
Nose Job – Scrimshaw Doll Tale
The Mapmaker’s Wife – Civil War Novella (IDA Winner Historical Short)
Blood Stained Memories – A World of Gothic novella
Trust in Love – Four Holiday Shorts
Cinderella Series
The Wronged Princess – book i
The Unlikely Heroine – book ii
The Surprising Enchantress – book iii
The English Lily – book iv (Scrimshaw Doll Tale)
The Betting Billionaires
Coming soon:
Fool’s Fortune
Fool Hearty
Fool’s Gold
Foolishness
The Viscount’s Vendetta
Rebel Lords of London
Kathy L Wheeler
The Viscount’s Vendetta
Copyright © 2021 by Kathy L Wheeler
All Rights Reserved
https://klwheeler.com
https://kathylwheeler.com
This story is work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without express written permission from Kathy L Wheeler.
Cover Art © 2021 by Novak Illustrations
Formatted by Kathy L Wheeler
Edited by Tiffany Tyer and Alicia Dean
Table of contents
Books by
The Viscount’s Vendetta
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
One
the Author
Books by
Prologue
Brandon Radcliff, Viscount Harlowe’s head pounded from the inside out with the power of a medieval torture device. There was an incredible, sick need for something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place what it was he craved. Through a squint he tried to assess his surroundings. He recognized nothing. The large bed, the canopy overhead, the surrounding bedcurtains. What he did recognize was the fact there was no air. “Open the window.” His voice was a raspy gravel from lack of use. It took too much effort to keep his eyes open.
“That is quite impossible, sir. It’s much too drafty for the infirm.”
The infirm? Was she speaking of him? Who was this paragon of health? Her voice was staid and matter of fact. There was nothing infectious or flirtatious or remotely inviting about it. Neither could he place it.
“Who are you?” he groused.
“Mrs. Bark.”
How apropos. Brandon would have laughed if his body didn’t feel as if he were already in the grave, awaiting the shoveled dirt to hit him in the face. His limbs, his muscles, his bones were just too heavy to move. “I need air, Mrs. Bark. Now,” he growled.
“I’m your nurse, sir, and I must insist the window remain closed, lest you catch a chill.”
He wanted to ask where he was, but the effort was too great; he only knew he needed air or he would die. He vaguely remembered being hauled up a flight of stairs, and gruel being spooned to him as if he were a child. There were nightmares—screams that shot out of a stark, bleak darkness. The soothing touch of a cool hand on his brow. Though not much more came to mind. He had no idea of the day or the time of year.
The door creaked open. “It there a problem, Mrs. Bark?” This voice he recognized. It was soft, familiar, and caring.
“Lore? Open the window.”
“Please, do as he asks, Mrs. Bark.”
Mrs. Bark huffed and her heavy footsteps stomped over the carpet across the room.
“Please take yourself
off for some tea, Mrs. Bark. I’ll sit with my brother.”
“Yes, milady.” The heavy steps clomped back across the room and out the door. The door latched softly.
“How do you feel?”
“As if I’ve been flattened by a barouche with a team of six. Where am I?”
“Home. Bran. You’re home. Kimpton Manor in London. You’ve had quite the ordeal. You’ve been missing for a year. It’s been terrible.” Her voice trembled, and a sense of nostalgia hit him that was so intense, a sting pricked behind his eyes.
“How long have I been here?”
“You can’t remember?”
He tried, but his mind was a blank slate.
“Three days. Thorne, Lord Brockway, and Baron Ingleby found you and Lady Maudsley’s daughter in the hold of a boat in Southampton.”
A memory hit him along with a sense of relief. A girl’s voice, seeping through. “She said she wasn’t good with adventure and that she thought I was dead.”
“Lady Irene is not prone to dramatics like her younger sister.” Brandon heard the smile in his older sister’s voice, and some of the tension eased from his body. “She’s quite the proper miss. I’ve received a note from her twice a day, demanding—nicely, of course—a detailed précis on your progress.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Well, admittedly, I was less than honest with her. I didn’t wish to worry her.”
A cool breeze touched his face, and he was able to draw in a breath.
“Do you remember anything?”
“For example?”
“Anything before you went missing.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“All right. Do you remember sending me some of your paintings for safekeeping?”
“I sent you paintings?”
“Don’t tease, you awful brother. You’ve been gone a year. I want to know where you were and why you didn’t call.”
How did he tell her he wasn’t joking? He thought back to his childhood. He could remember George Welton and him putting frogs in Lorelei’s bed. He remembered Lorelei taking him and George by the ear to gather them up. He remembered Lorelei administering a sound punishment that took him all of ten hours from start to finish, that George managed to duck out of. He remembered his parents. Their carriage accident. Spixworth Hall. But he couldn’t, for the life of him remember the past year. He breathed through a swell of panic. “How old is Lady Maudsley’s daughter?”
“Nine.”
“Good God. I was on a boat with a nine-year-old girl who does not care for adventure? Who thought I was… dead?”
Lorelei took his hand and squeezed. “I’m afraid so. But thankfully, you’ve both appeared to survive the ordeal.”
“That remains to be seen,” he said on a whisper, still trying to stem a mountain of panic.
One
Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, stole silently up a flight of stairs to the family wing of the Kimpton house while Lady Kimpton was busy giving Lord Harlowe’s nurse the boot. For a caretaker, the woman was as sensitive as a pet fish.
At the top of the stairs, she spotted Andrews, the Kimptons’ very capable footman. But how to get by him? She needn’t have worried. Molly, nursemaid to Harlowe’s heir, Nathaniel, appeared from another flight asking his assistance on something.
“The little blighter’s crawled to the back of the wardrobe and I can’t reach him,” she told Andrews.
Andrews glanced inside the door he was guarding then hurried up the stairs after Molly.
Maeve tiptoed over to the door and glanced in. A large bed shrouded with dark velvet curtains hid its occupant. The chamber was stifling. She tapped at the door.
“Lord Harlowe? I’m Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer. Did I wake you, sir?”
“Air,” he croaked. “I need air.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Maeve glanced about. The worst she had to fear was embarrassment and being the daughter of Lady Ingleby had taught her that, while such awkwardness could be acutely uncomfortable, one would not perish from it. She strode across the room as if she breached peers’ bedchambers on a regular basis.
She reached the window and unlatched it. It swung back easily, letting in a sharp cool breeze. If anyone could understand the need for air, it was her. Having almost drowned at the age of five gave one specific insight into what it felt like not to be able to breathe.
Startled from a restless sleep, had Harlowe the strength, and could have reached his drinking glass from the bedside table, he would have hurled it across the room. He was wretchedly thirsty. Kimpton had told Lore that he suspected Harlowe had been drugged with laudanum the entire year he’d been missing.
The long-term effects of opium use were excruciating upon withdrawal. At least, for the moment, the bouts of violent retching had subsided. The door opened and, before he could make his brain function, a tall willowy woman with shockingly fire-orange hair appeared. He couldn’t pull his eyes away, and despite the coils of braids on her head, tendrils strained for liberation.
His avenging angel moved like a ghost, arranging the bedcurtains to let a sharp gust of cold air in. This was not his normal dragon, though she somehow appeared the part.
“Is that better, my lord?” Her voice… was smoother than smuggled French brandy.
“Much,” he squeezed out through the rusted confines of his throat. He watched through hooded lids as she moved quietly back around the end of the bed. He couldn’t tear his attention away from that hair. He would swear it would singe the palms of his hand upon touch.
She put a hand to her head, a slight smile curving full lips. “Frightful, isn’t it? Outside of a henna rinse on a regular basis, I’m afraid there’s nothing to do about it, much to my mother’s dismay. And frankly, my hair does serve its purposes in keeping away some of the more determined libertines.”
Harlowe frowned, at least, inside he was frowning. “Libertines?” he scratched out. He didn’t like the sound of that. He flitted his fingers in a small wave for her to approach, his wrist never leaving the top of the coverlet. Unable to resist, he watched her approach from a hooded gaze. He had no notion how long he’d been asleep.
The lady moved to the chair next to the bed where candlelight from the mantel over the grate turned the orange of her hair to wild ginger, showcasing light streaks of gold. “I’m thrilled to see you are not only coherent, but your sense of humor is intact.” That sultry resonance, strong yet soft and low, ignited a deep slow burn he hadn’t experienced in over a year. It was most inconvenient.
He swallowed his groan. “It comes and goes,” he said gruffly. He closed his eyes. “How may I assist you, madam? Is there a reason for this visit?”
“Curiosity,” she said without hesitation.
“I see. Visiting me was more convenient than a carriage ride to Bedlam. Less expensive too, I suspect. Shall I retch in your presence? Scream out in agony for the unending stomach cramps? Will you hold my hand in the middle of the night when I am hit with a bout of insomnia? Perhaps warm me when I’m chilled and shaking from a desperate need of another dose of laudanum?”
“Do you feel in need of another dose?” She picked up a glass from the bedside table and filled it with water from a porcelain pitcher and held it out.
“What does a lady of noble standing like you know of caregiving to the infirm?” he said without heat. He drank the glass dry and handed it back.
She set it on the table, giving him her profile with a pert nose that turned up at the end. “My late husband was ill for a time before he… expired.”
“So, you are not married?”
“Not any longer.”
“That doesn’t explain why you are here.”
“I’m thinking of applying for the position of your new nurse.”
“New position? Where is my old nurse?”
“Currently being sacked, I suspect.”
That tidbit stunned him. “More water,�
�� he choked out.
She complied, handing him a glass half filled, then slipped an arm beneath his head to assist him, inundating him with a soft floral scent of hothouse roses. “My sister is letting the dragon go?”
“That was the impression I received.”
“And you wish to take over the dragon’s position? What on earth would possess—”
She cast him a mysterious smile complete with full plump lips. “You must not remember Lady Ingleby.”
“Lady Ingleby?” The name was familiar, but no image came to mind. And then it did. “Tall, large, loud woman.”
“Overbearing, insistent, pretentious? That’s her.”
Harlowe studied her calm countenance. “What about her?”
“She’s my mother. After my husband’s death, while he provided for me, there were no properties in which I could reside. My father passed long before, and my mother, well, she has a way of leveling guilt that riddles me with remorse. Now she drags me to every rout, soiree, musicale, and ball, parading me before every reprobate in the ton.”
“So, she made you feel guilty as mothers are wont to do.”
“Yes. Didn’t yours?”
“I think she was much too lenient on me. It was Lorelei who took on the guilt-laying tasks.” He felt a smile in his chest at her appalled expression, though the muscles on his face didn’t seem to be in working order. “Don’t look at me like that. Lorelei did an excellent imitation of exerting her will over me.”