The Vagabond Viscount, page 1
THE VAGABOND VISCOUNT
Home is where the heart is
THE DUKE OF STRATHMORE
SASHA COTTMAN
Copyright © 2023 by Sasha Cottman
Cottman Data Services Pty Ltd
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, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
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About the Author
Chapter One
January 1817
Bramshaw House
London, England
A bolt of white-hot pain tore through his left hand, and Flynn shot to his feet. “Blast!” He danced about on the spot for a minute, muttering a long string of foul curses.
Falling off a horse hurt. Taking a blow to the head at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing academy caused a certain degree of discomfort. But nothing in this world compared to the soul-deep agony of sticking a sharp sewing needle into the tender flesh of a finger. Especially when it was the little one.
“Ow, that hurts,” he muttered.
Flynn shook the injured hand. Why that should make the slightest difference, he had no idea. Then again, the laws of logic weren’t something that had ever really worked for him. Because if the world were in its right order, he shouldn’t have to repair his own clothes in the first place. And he most certainly would have more than a paltry two good shirts to his name.
He was Viscount Cadnam; one day he would be Earl Bramshaw. Flynn would bet the few shillings in his jacket pocket that, at this very minute, no other noble in London was sitting in his bedroom repairing a shirt.
No, that particular torture was his alone.
As the pain subsided into a dull throb, Flynn picked the garment up and resumed his seat. He had no choice. If he was going to make it to the party tonight, he had to repair the torn seam. No one else in Bramshaw House was going to do it. The servants were all under strict instructions as to the modicum of service they were permitted to provide him. None of the household were foolish enough to tempt incurring his father’s wrath by offering Flynn more.
Stabbing the needle back into the cream linen fabric, he consoled himself with the thought that Lady Augusta Kembal was going to be at this evening’s ball. The Duke of Mowbray’s eldest daughter was the one bright light in his cursed existence.
If I could just find a way for us to be together and then get out from under my father’s repressive regime, my life would be grand.
He had lived with that hope for many years. Prayed that as soon as he was able, he could be away from his father. But Earl Bramshaw was a man determined to make his son’s life a misery.
When he was done with his repairs, Flynn put the shirt on and finished dressing. He stopped and checked himself in the mirror. At first glance he appeared to be the same as most other men of London high society—well-turned out and privileged. It was only when he looked closer that he caught sight of the tiny repairs to his clothing. The threadbare and faded state of his unfashionable waistcoat held his gaze for a brief but disappointing moment. He could only hope it would be the same for the rest of the haut ton this evening. Heaven forbid anyone bothered to look down and take stock of his scruffy black boots. Leather polish could only hide so much wear and tear.
“You really do look like the Vagabond Viscount,” he whispered to his reflection.
At a recent Christmas party, Flynn had bent to pick up a dropped handkerchief, but as he lowered himself to the floor, the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping had reached his ears. The ass of his trousers had finally given way. After that embarrassing moment, the London newspapers had bestowed upon him the title of Vagabond Viscount, and of course, it had stuck. Whenever he attended a function, the whispers of his new moniker followed.
Fortunately, he was made of stronger stuff, and like the rest of his life’s trials, Flynn quickly learned not to take the taunt to heart.
Collecting his coat, he headed for the door and the staircase which led to the ground floor of Bramshaw House. He had made it most of the way to the front door when a familiar voice disturbed the night.
“Off to charm the ladies with your dashing good looks?”
Flynn stopped and slowly turned. At the top of the stairs stood his father, Earl Bramshaw, with his beloved greyhounds standing attentively either side of him.
His gaze took in the broad, solid form of the earl. Flynn’s sire was gifted with powerful shoulders and legs as thick as tree trunks. His back remained untouched by the passing years. And while he was a man who spent his life indulging in the most fiendish of pursuits, Earl Bramshaw’s health remained ruddy and strong.
The same could not, however, be said for his brindle-hued pets. Neither were in such fine fettle. One could only describe the dogs as being unhealthily overweight. An unkinder soul would simply suggest they were fat.
Did the dogs get the good roast beef tonight? I wasn’t even offered the bone. The remains of fish from two nights ago were all I had for my measly supper.
He was tempted to ask his father what the dogs had eaten this evening, but Flynn had learned long ago that any sort of defiance would cost him dearly. His gaze drifted to the earl’s sizeable right hand. It was clenched in a fist.
I have to get out of here before he decides I need a dose of his fatherly punishment.
“I am going to a ball to see some friends, my lord,” replied Flynn. He addressed his father the same as all the household servants did—with fearful respect.
“Friends. Who would count you as a friend?” sneered his father.
The gray-haired earl made his way down the stairs with the chubby animals trailing in his wake. When he reached Flynn, his father’s disapproving gaze took in his attire.
“Look at you. You are a bloody disgrace. It’s a wonder people don’t mistake you for a rag-and-bone picker. Well, you had better hurry up and land yourself a filly with a good dowry, because those clothes won’t survive another season.”
My poor attire is down to your tight purse strings. My lord.
He would dearly love to say that to his father, but he wasn’t a fool.
“I am as eager to find the future Countess Bramshaw as you are, my lord. If you could perhaps see your way clear to paying for a new suit, I am sure that would help with my efforts to secure the hand of a suitable young lady,” replied Flynn.
He had a monthly allowance from his late mother’s marriage settlements, but it was barely enough to keep Flynn going. The state of his boots reflected his need to save money. He walked most places rather than indulging in the extravagance of hiring a hackney cab. The Bramshaw carriage was reserved for the personal use of the earl and no one else. Genteel poverty might have a nice ring to it, but it wasn’t a pleasant way to live.
“I bought you a new suit three years ago. I am not made of money,” snapped the earl.
Money was tight in the Cadnam household, but Flynn suspected that was purely down to the gambling habits of his sire rather than the actual earnings from the family estate. Bramshaw Hall in Southampton ran a fine head of sheep, and its wool was of an excellent quality. Only the very best of London’s tailors used it to make their garments.
There was no point in continuing the discussion. Any moment now his father would start in on him about how unworthy a son he was—how much of a disappointment he was to the Cadnam name. The customary tirade of insults would soon be followed by the wailings of the earl’s self-pity.
It was when Earl Bramshaw eventually tired of feeling sorry for himself that things often turned dark. Flynn couldn’t face that tonight. He had to see Augusta, and he didn’t want to have to hide the telltale cuts and bruises from her.
“I am grateful for all that you do for me, my lor
Please let me get out of here.
When one of the dogs began to fuss, Earl Bramshaw bent and gave it a tender rub behind the ear. It gave Flynn a moment’s pause. Affection wasn’t something he had ever received from his father.
Stirring from his musings, he made ready to make his escape.
“I shall bid you a good night, my lord.”
He hurried toward the front door.
“Make sure she has plenty of money and a father who will indulge her. You can bed the wench while I work over her papa’s purse. And don’t do anything foolish like thinking you might marry for love.” His father’s words followed him into the street.
Once safely out in Cavendish Square, Flynn stopped and took the time to button up his coat and lift the collar. Anything to protect himself from the chilly January winter wind. From his pocket, he pulled a thin woolen scarf and wrapped it about his neck. It was a fifteen-minute walk to the party in Green Street, and if he kept up a steady pace, he would be nice and warm by the time he arrived.
He gave the front door a quick glance, then shook his head. As with a good many things, his father had it all wrong. Flynn hadn’t the slightest intention of entering into a marriage of convenience to a woman whose dowry his father would then seek to raid.
I shall never do that.
Flynn yearned for a union based on mutual affection. For him to have a wife who loved him as much as he loved her. He wanted nothing like what the late countess and her husband had shared.
His parent’s ugly connection had been a cold, hard lesson in what could go wrong. From what Flynn had gathered over the years, while the earl had been enamored with his stunning bride when they were first married, the countess could barely tolerate being in the same room as her husband. Flynn had been the first and only child of their ill-fated union.
His father had made it plain to him over the years that he held Flynn to blame for the breakdown of his marriage. And while he had never bothered to furnish his son with any particular reason for holding him to such an account, it was clear that the mere presence of Flynn was often more than enough to stir the earl’s wrath.
That is not what I want for Augusta and myself.
He had to find a way for them to be together but not have her share his miserable home life. There were many things he had learned to endure privately, but Flynn would never subject Augusta to the tyranny of his father.
I must keep G away from him and his grubby fingers off her dowry.
But getting in-between Earl Bramshaw and money was always a risky proposition. Wealth was power.
He worried that if he did happen to marry the Duke of Mowbray’s daughter, there was every chance that Earl Bramshaw would be waiting at the front door of the church, hand extended, seeking to claim Augusta’s bridal settlement the moment the newlyweds set foot outside. It was one of the reasons why he dared not propose to her.
If only I could tell Augusta the truth as to why I hold her at bay. Of the shameful family secret I have had to keep hidden all these years.
He was a grown man, fit and healthy. But he was still no match for the brute strength of his sire.
Flynn would gladly hand over every last shilling he had if it meant keeping Augusta safe. But the bitter years of his own experience had taught him that Earl Bramshaw was a man who had no interest in seeing other people happy. He thrived on misery. Especially Flynn’s.
The thought of his father wielding any sort of power over the woman he loved meant he couldn’t offer for Augusta. He wouldn’t knowingly put her in harm’s way. He shuddered at the thought of his father and his unyielding fists.
I have endured because I’ve had to, but I’d rather die than let him get a hold of my beloved G.
But time waited for no man or, in this case, woman, and even the ever-patient Lady Augusta Kembal would eventually tire of waiting for Flynn to offer for her hand. And if he didn’t, it was inevitable that she would, in time, look elsewhere. The thought of her being with someone else filled him with soul-deep despair.
I have to find a way out of this situation. I can’t bear the thought of losing her.
Before crossing the street, Flynn stuffed his hands into the warm pockets of his coat. He might well be set to handle the cold of the night, but he was still struggling with the thorny problem of how he could marry Augusta while at the same time keeping her safe from his father.
There was one thing of which he was certain—if Earl Bramshaw dared lay a finger on the woman he loved, Flynn would kill him. Even if it cost him his own life.
Chapter Two
Augusta couldn’t help herself. No matter how hard she tried, her gaze kept returning to the front door. If she wasn’t looking, she was listening, taking in every name as guests arriving at the party were announced. But one face was yet to appear. One name was yet to be called. Viscount Cadnam.
You promised you would be here tonight. Where are you?
When the sharp elbow of her sister, Lady Victoria, dug firmly into Augusta’s ribs, she quickly turned. “What?”
Victoria huffed in annoyance. “Gideon said that Flynn was coming tonight, so would you kindly cease with the lovestruck glances at the front door. If you don’t, people are sure to eventually notice. Besides, it’s not that late. Give the poor man a chance to dress and make a proper entrance.”
The idea of Flynn making any sort of grand entrance filled Augusta with a mixture of both joy and sadness. She would be happy to see him, but knowing that heads always turned whenever the Vagabond Viscount appeared at a social event made Augusta heartsick. It wasn’t Flynn’s fault that he lived with so few coins to his name. She hated the horrible nickname that the man she loved had been saddled with by London society. People could be so cruel. Especially Earl Bramshaw.
The members of the haut ton were more than content to judge a man on his manner of dress. Still, no one wanted to deal with the uncomfortable subject of just why a nobleman was forced to mend his own clothes and get about the city streets in tattered boots.
If only I could openly give him my love. Let the world know that he is mine.
Then she would be well within her rights to defend him publicly. To call to account those who whispered spiteful remarks. To confront his odious, penny-pinching sire. One day, she would do just that. She would give Flynn’s father a piece of her mind.
Until then, she would remain nothing more than the sister of Flynn’s best friend, Gideon. It was a role she constantly chaffed against. She wanted to be his everything.
Like the rest of her siblings, Augusta had been raised to speak her mind—and her heart. To seek love and claim it. The Kembal family was one where passion was not suppressed. Her parents had a fiery marriage, but secretly she envied them. They had blistering rows and were known to tear at one another. They were also madly in love.
Her cheeks burned at the sudden memory of wandering the woods near Mowbray Park the previous summer and stumbling upon the Duke and Duchess of Mowbray in the middle of marital congress. Her father had her mother backed up against a tree, with Lady Anne’s legs wrapped around her husband’s hips. From their grunts and sighs, there could be no mistaking their occupation. Her brother Lord Richard Kembal had dragged Augusta away with all due haste and made her swear never to tell a soul what she had seen.
That was a love she could understand. A union of two people who had decided they wanted to be together and build a life based on their mutual desire. They were united as one.
