Third Son's a Charm Read online

  Also by Shana Galen

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  Copyright © 2017 by Shana Galen

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Alan Ayers

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  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—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

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

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  A Sneak Peek at No Earls Allowed

  One

  Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Sophie Jordan, who is one of the finest writers I know and a genius at brainstorming. Thank you for giving me the idea for this series. I’m so honored to call you friend.

  One

  London, 1816

  Ewan Mostyn, third son of the Earl of Pembroke, prowled the main room of Langley’s gaming hell like a golden-maned lion stalked the savannah. Ewan moved through the ornate room with its red and black damask walls, gilded moldings, and glittering chandeliers as though he owned it. He had a share in the club, so his proprietary air was not wholly without merit. The illusion that he belonged among such opulence and fragility was somewhat less warranted.

  As his feet sank into the scarlet rugs, his gaze passed over the club’s dealers, men who straightened at his mere glance. Then he nodded to the courtesans—bold women whose eyes dipped, nevertheless, when they met his. Finally, he studied the patrons. Even these wealthy, powerful men studiously avoided garnering his attention.

  Unless they were idiots, like the two men Ewan approached now.

  Charles Langley had politely ordered the anemic son of the Duke of Suffolk out of the club. The pup’s debts were mounting, and his frequent bouts of inebriation were becoming tiresome. But since the lad had not taken his leave, he had become Ewan’s problem.

  Ewan did not like problems.

  “She’s mine for the night,” Suffolk’s son said loudly, poking another man in the chest and hauling a painted tart to his side.

  The other man was somewhat older than the duke’s son and rather more sober. “And I told you, sir, that I have already paid for the lady’s charms. Kindly unhand her and scamper home to your father.”

  Ewan planted his long, muscled legs beside the two gentlemen and crossed his arms over his chest. The older man widened his eyes until his eyebrows all but reached his graying sandy brown hair. “Sir,” he said with a quick bow. “I-I-I’m terribly sorry for the disruption. Lord Pincoch and I were having a slight disagreement.”

  Ewan looked past the older gentleman and fixed his eyes on the duke’s son. All around them, conversation ceased or dimmed to mere whispers.

  “Get out,” Ewan said. He was a man of few words, which meant those he spoke now carried even more weight.

  Pincoch was too deep in his cups to realize the danger he faced. “I’ll leave when I damn well please, and no half-wit with more brawn than brains will give me orders.”

  Ewan felt a muscle in his jaw tense. Not personal, he told himself. But it was too late. The old fury bubbled inside him, and he struggled to contain it. His face betrayed none of the struggle, which must have been why the pup swaggered forward, pulling the tart with him.

  Ewan took quick stock of the situation. The lad’s friends stood behind him, uncertain what to do. The older man had his allies as well. And the tart was gasping for breath beneath Pincoch’s tight hold. Ewan’s course of action was clear, though Langley would undoubtedly complain about the damage later. Hell would freeze over before Ewan allowed a man to call him a half-wit and walk away in one piece.

  With a speed that belied his size, Ewan grasped Pincoch’s free hand and wrenched it behind his back. Pincoch immediately released the whore, who sank to her knees and gulped in a breath. Pincoch screeched for help, and that was the signal for his friends, similarly inebriated, to jump into the fray. The four men charged Ewan, who rammed Pincoch up against a gilded mirror with one hand and tossed a man back by the throat with another.

  The older man grabbed the woman and pulled her under a green baize table, where several other patrons had taken refuge. Those still out in the open regretted their decision when one of Pincoch’s friends heaved a chair at Ewan. It crashed into his back, and he growled with annoyance. Still holding the lad in place, he turned to see another chair sailing toward him. Ewan reached up, caught the furnishing in midair, and thrust it back. It crashed into a faro table, overturning table, chairs, and chips.

  Bereft of chairs, Pincoch’s friends manned a frontal assault. Ewan finally released Pincoch, and when the boy sank to the ground, Ewan shoved a booted foot against his chest to hold him in place. Both hands free now, he threw a punch with his right and slammed one of his attackers back with his left. Something crashed, but Ewan didn’t have time to note what it was before the next man hurtled into him. He struck Ewan in the jaw, and the offense landed the man a blow to the breadbasket and an elbow to the throat. When he was on the ground, wheezing for air, another man took advantage of the lull to dance before Ewan.

  Ewan almost rolled his eyes. This one thought he was Gentleman Jackson or another renowned pugilist. If there was somewhere Ewan felt at home, it was in the
boxing ring. This man danced more than he fought, and while he did his fancy footwork, Ewan slammed a left hook into his jaw.

  Heaving for breath but not willing to show weakness, Ewan turned his head to take in the room. “Anyone else?”

  No one moved.

  With a nod, Ewan lifted Pincoch’s limp body by the arms and dragged him past the broken tables and chairs, the shattered mirror, and the cracked marble statue. Ewan winced. That statue was new, and he fully expected Langley to opine about it for hours. A footman opened the door of the club, and Ewan tossed Pincoch out onto the street.

  He turned and saw several other patrons donning coats and wraps, preparing to depart as well.

  That was just what Ewan needed—for Langley and the club to lose blunt because Ewan had scared the patrons away. Goddamn it. Ewan couldn’t do anything right. He tried to do his job as the muscle of the club, but it seemed he was always making some misstep or other. He’d already broken the statue. He couldn’t be responsible for a mass exodus as well. Ewan positioned himself in front of the door and pointed back to the gaming tables. “Inside.”

  “But I…” A man who had just donned his beaver hat tried to move toward the exit.

  Ewan pointed to him, then at the main room, and the man put a hand to his throat. “Very well. If you insist, I could play a game or two.”

  He turned back to the main room, followed by the rest of the crowd.

  One man, however, stood his ground. He looked as though he had recently arrived and seemed in no hurry either to step inside or flee back out the door. Instead, he leaned on his walking stick and cocked his head. He was a tall man—not as tall as Ewan but taller than average—and he had a thin form and dark hair under a beaver hat. His great coat was fine quality, as was the ebony walking stick with a silver handle and tip.

  “You are one of the Earl of Pembroke’s, are you not?” the man asked.

  Resigned, Ewan leaned against the doorjamb, where the footmen welcomed patrons and took their coats. Some of the patrons liked to talk. Ewan had found he was not required to answer.

  “Not his heir or even the spare. I know those two well. You are the soldier. The third born—or is it the fourth? I know you have a sister.”

  Ewan cut his eyes to the man, and then disguised his interest by focusing on one of the flickering candles in a chandelier over a table where a group played piquet.

  “Well, no matter. I had heard you were strong. You fought with Lieutenant Colonel Draven in the war.”

  Ewan kept his eyes on the candle. It was an ordinary candle, sputtering and fighting to stay lit. In this world, even a candle fought for light, resisted being snuffed out.

  “Now that I see you, I’m not surprised you survived,” the man said, continuing as though the two were having a conversation. “You are uncommonly strong. And you do not like to be called stupid.”

  Ewan turned his head sharply toward the gentleman, who held up his hands. “For what it is worth, I do not think you stupid. No man with less than all his wits about him survived the war against Napoleon. In fact, I would like to hire you.”

  Ewan narrowed his gaze, almost disappointed. It was not the first time he’d been propositioned. Men had tried to hire him to perform in entertainments or to box for them. Women wanted him for bedsport. Ewan liked his place at Langley’s just fine. He enjoyed the modest income his portion of the club afforded him and parted with very little of it to rent a room on the second floor. As his father would not deign to step foot in a gaming hell, Ewan need not trouble with unwanted visits from the earl or any other member of his family.

  “I suppose this is not the place to discuss such matters,” the man said. “Would you come to my residence?” He removed a card from a silver case and passed it to Ewan.

  Ewan barely glanced at it. The light in the vestibule was too dark to read anything anyway. He put the card in his pocket.

  “Right. The day after tomorrow at ten in the morning then, if you are interested. It is honest work, and I will reward you handsomely. I will give you more details when you call.”

  Ewan moved aside and the gentleman passed. A footman opened the door so the yellow lights and bright sounds of the gambling hell spilled into the dark street. When he was alone again, Ewan withdrew the card and moved into a rectangle of light.

  “Rrr…iii…D,” he said slowly, staring at one of the words on the card. “Rid.” His head hurt as the letters moved and jumped. He stuffed the card back into his pocket and crossed his arms again.

  When the last patron had left the tables and the sun was peeking over the horizon, Ewan did one last turn about the club. Maids swept and dusted. Sweet girls, most of them smiled at him when he passed. Ewan headed to the kitchen. Another perquisite of living here was the food. For as long as he could remember, he’d always had a voracious appetite.

  In the kitchen, Mrs. Watkins had a plate ready for him, the mountain of food buried under a thick slab of buttered bread. “Now, Mr. Mostyn,” she said, wiping her red hands on her apron. “You sit down right here. I have some nice potatoes and a stew.”

  The kitchen was comfortable and inviting, and Ewan sat, feeling the chair creak under his weight. He drank deeply from the ale in the glass before him, but he did not shovel food into his mouth as he usually did. Instead, he reached into his pocket and laid the card on the table. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

  The cook frowned at it and picked it up. Her kitchen maid, a mousy girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, glanced his way timidly, then continued scrubbing the pots. The cook held the card close to her round face, red and glistening from the heat. “It’s the card of the Duke of Ridlington.” She put a hand to her heart. Then she laid the card on the table again and pointed to the words. “See, it says ‘His Grace, the Duke of Ridlington.’”

  Ewan nodded slowly. He was surprised a duke wanted his services. This was no mere request for an exhibition of strength then. It might be legitimate work. Ewan pointed to the other words on the card.

  The cook turned the card and peered at it. “That’s his house: 2 Berkeley Square.”

  “Thank you.” Mildly intrigued, Ewan lifted the card and stuffed it back in his pocket. Now he dug into his dinner. His mother would have fainted if she had seen him eating thus. But his mother was dead, and Mrs. Watkins only cared if he enjoyed her food, not if he used the correct fork or a napkin to dab his mouth.

  “I wonder why the Duke of Ridlington gave you that card,” the cook said, wiping the table where he sat, although it was already clean. “I think he hopes to steal you away.”

  Ewan wondered the same, but he didn’t want to show his interest. He lifted one shoulder, then ate another helping of potatoes.

  “Seems like you could do better than this.” She gestured to the kitchens, which were as nice as any Ewan had seen. “Surely your own father could find a place for you.”

  And this was why Ewan hadn’t wanted to show interest. He didn’t always like where such conversations led. Talk of Ewan’s father soured his stomach. As the third-born son, he was expected either to become a soldier or enter the clergy. Ewan had done his part for his country. After Napoleon was defeated, Ewan had sold his captain’s commission and left without a backward glance. His father had probably wished he’d died in the war, but Ewan had lived. Now, no one and nothing could ever force him to join the army again.

  As for the clergy, that prospect was laughable. Ewan couldn’t even read the Bible, much less stand up every Sunday and drone on about it. If God had wanted Ewan to enter the church, He shouldn’t have made him such a lackwit.

  No, Ewan liked working at Langley’s just fine. Ewan had the money he had made from his days in the army and the sale of his commission, but a little more never hurt and it gave him something to do. He didn’t exactly belong, but then he’d always been a misfit. He didn’t belong anywhere—anywhere but
the Draven Club.

  Ewan shoved the last bite into his mouth, nodded at Mrs. Watkins, and carried the plate to the kitchen maid so she could wash it. Then, ducking his head so he wouldn’t bang it on the low lintel, he left the kitchen and made his way through the club’s back rooms, with their gilded mirrors, mahogany tables, and red velvet chairs and couches. His mother would have called it garish, but Ewan rather liked it. After ensuring all was as it should be, Ewan climbed the stairs to his room. Using the small key, he opened the door and stepped inside, locking the door after him.

  He sat on the bed, removed his boots and coat, set Ridlington’s card on the floor, and flopped down on the bed. In addition to the bed, the room held a wardrobe and a table with a basin for washing. The room had one small window, which Ewan had covered with black cloth to block the sun. The room held nothing else—no books, no papers, no personal mementos. The walls were white and unadorned with paintings.

  The room, simple in purpose, was just as he liked it. Nothing to confuse or distract him. He closed his eyes and slept.

  When he awoke several hours later, it was to the rumbling of his belly. He might have gone down to the kitchens and found bread and cold stew, but when he sat up and dropped his feet onto the floor, they landed on Ridlington’s card. He still did not know what to do about it, but he knew who could tell him. Neil Wraxall would know what to do. Neil always knew.

  And Neil would be at their club.

  Ewan stripped, washed, and dressed again in one of his finer coats. He didn’t don a cravat. He didn’t like anything tight on his neck. The club didn’t require a cravat. The club didn’t require anything except that the members had served in Lieutenant Colonel Draven’s special unit.

  The suicide unit, as Neil called it.

  The survivors called themselves the Survivors. They called Ewan the Protector.

  Ewan might have taken a hack to the Draven Club, but it was a sunny, though unseasonably cool, spring afternoon and the walk from Langley’s on Piccadilly and St. James’s to King Street was short. Besides, he liked to pass Boodles. The ancient lords hobbling inside always hobbled a bit faster when they caught sight of him.