They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
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Traveling in his coach, Hero couldn't help but be irritated by the amount of time he was spending preparing himself for his nightly visits to O'Reilly's. He'd never before been on a schedule. Now he was on one every night—not only for when he went to O'Reilly's but for when he left. Josephine insisted. Three at the latest.
After all, she needed her beauty to rest.
Not that he attributed her beauty to the amount of sleep she indulged in. He had a feeling she could go a week without sleep and still be ravishing. It was more than the alabaster of her skin or the honey of her hair. It was the confidence that she exuded—as though she somehow demanded that when a man looked at her, he would see naught but her perfection.
He'd known a good many beautiful women, but he'd never given much thought to exactly why they were beautiful. Josephine in particular puzzled him. She wasn't striking, and yet he was hard pressed to think of anyone he found more attractive.
Not even Mabel could compare, and yet, he saw more perfection in her features, and so it stood to reason that she should be the more beautiful of the two. Certainly, gazing at her had always brought him pleasure, but he saw something else there when he looked at Josephine. Something he couldn't identify, something he couldn't understand.
But it wasn't for Josephine that he'd taken to properly preparing himself for his late-night outings. It was for Mabel. He was taking an inordinate amount of time each evening because of Mabel.
Before he'd asked Mabel to marry him, he'd simply gone to O'Reilly's whenever he wanted, and while he never dressed as a beggar, he'd certainly never taken the time to shave, bathe, and change into fresh clothing. He brushed his hair, he applied sandalwood cologne. He was always properly decked out.
For several nights now, he'd gone to all this trouble, all this bother. It wasn't as though Mabel had an opportunity to notice. As soon as he led Josephine through the back doorway into the private hallway where customers were forbidden, she disappeared into Mabel's office, closed the door, and they were secreted away until Josephine came out, prepared to go home.
Mabel would give him a sweet smile, but by then his breath was tainted with whiskey, his hair was furrowed from the numerous times that he'd combed his fingers through it, and he was no longer in an agreeable mood because for the first time in his life he was losing at the gaming tables. He was distracted, not concentrating on the gents at the table. He wanted to know what was going on behind that blasted closed door.
To further add to his irritation, Jim's reports were of little use. Today Josephine had again visited with the Duchess of Avendale—apparently she was helping the duchess with a party that she was giving—bought a new fan and a new parasol, gone into a bookshop and come out with a purchase, which Jim, with a few well-placed coins, had learned was David Copperfield. According to the shop owner, Lady Josephine Langford had a fondness for Dickens.
