Chapter One

      London, June 1839

      If Nicholas D’Arcy had been a less extraordinary lover and his partner, the lush red-headed Lady Alicia Burroughs, more discreet, her husband would not have discovered them. But ‘less’ had never been an adjective to describe Nick, any more than ‘discreet’ was an adjective one applied to Lady Burroughs, who was currently voicing her appreciation of his abilities with enough vocal skill to impress an opera diva.

      Lucifer’s balls! The whole house could hear her. Why stop there? The whole neighbourhood probably could. It was only by a stroke of luck that Nick caught the rapid thump of angry bootsteps surging up into the hallway just as Lady Burroughs took a breath beneath him before she climaxed. The climax was beautifully done, one of his best, and all screaming aside, the stunning Lady Burroughs was worthy of it, laid out across the bed as she was. Her auburn locks cascaded over the bed’s edge, her head thrown back, throat exposed, neck and back arched as he thrust into her. She was breathing hard and, deuce take it, so was he. He’d managed to get fairly worked up about this, too. Lord Burroughs didn’t know what he was missing, but he was about to.

      ‘Alicia!’ the man’s voice boomed down the hallway.

      ‘It’s Burroughs!’ Alicia sat up with a gasp and a believable amount of panic, enough to make Nick start worrying in earnest. He had—what? Ten seconds? Maybe fifteen? Burroughs was heavily built and not the fastest runner. Maybe he wasn’t even running, just walking quickly. There’d be time for trousers, but nothing more.

      Nick leapt from the bed and grabbed up the discarded trousers. He thrust in a leg, hopping around on one foot while he tried to simultaneously gather up his shirt and coats. ‘You said he was gone until Monday!’ Nick hissed, piling his shoes on top of the messy pile in his arms.

      ‘Oh, hush, will you? You don’t want him to hear you. Hurry.’ Alicia sat in the middle of the bed, a sheet drawn up modestly over those creamy breasts of hers.

      Nick glanced around the room. There was no time for this window and her door was certainly out of the question. ‘Does the dressing room go through?’ If he was to be caught, it wasn’t going to be by a pompous ass of a man who couldn’t keep his wife in his own bed.

      With a wink to Lady Burroughs, he was off, sliding through the dressing-room door with two seconds to spare and into the connecting room just in time to hear Lord Burroughs roar, ‘Where is he?’

      In your room, you old windbag, Nick thought with a chuckle, but he had to think fast. This would be the first place Burroughs would look. Even Burroughs wasn’t dumb enough to realise the only way out was through the dressing room. Nick dashed into the hallway and opted for another room on the garden side of the house. He sidled in and closed the door softly behind him. He was safe for now. He set down his bundle of clothes and put on his shoes.

      ‘Millie, is that you?’ a voice called from the antechamber. Nick halted in midmotion, one shoe on, one shoe off. He grabbed his clothes and raced for the window. He was too slow. An older woman in a dressing gown emerged from the little room before he was halfway across. The dowager countess!

      She was going to scream. Nick could practically see it climbing up her throat. He had to silence that scream and he had mere seconds to do it. He did the only thing he could think of. He strode two paces towards her, swept her into his arms and kissed her. Most soundly, too, and damn it all if she didn’t kiss him back with a little tongue. The dowager countess—who would have thought it? It was arguably the most pleasant surprise of the evening because afterwards, she cleared her throat and said, ‘Young man, you’ll want to use the window. I think you’ll find the trellis quite stable.’ Then she winked at him. ‘It’s been used before.’

      Good Lord, did Burroughs have any idea what went on in his house? Nick thanked her and wasted no time. The last thing he needed was for Millie the maid to show up. He’d have to kiss her, too. But that would be better than Burroughs, who Nick could hear throwing doors open as he barrelled down the hall. Again it was down to a matter of seconds between discovery or escape. Nick tossed his clothes down first and stuck a leg out to test the rung.

      ‘Come back any time you like,’ the dowager countess called after him. ‘I have the gardener keep that trellis well maintained. He thinks it’s for the roses.’

      Nick merely smiled and climbed into the darkness as Burroughs knocked on his mother’s door. The dowager would have to live with her disappointment, Nick decided. He wasn’t coming back to the Burroughs town house for quite a while.

      The rest of the escape was easy after that. He found his way out of the garden and, after he’d travelled through the warren of back alleys, he stopped and finished dressing. He was safe for the time being, although safe was rather relative. Alicia Burroughs wasn’t exactly a soul of discretion, as he’d noted earlier. It would only be a matter of time before Burroughs knew it was him.

      There was going to be hell to pay for this. Nick tucked his shirt tails into his trousers. His name would be all Burroughs would know, though. Responsibility for tonight’s débâcle began and ended with him. There must be no connection to the agency, no threat of exposure to the League of Discreet Gentlemen, the organisation to which he belonged and which, by virtue of its name, had to remain discreet at all costs. People didn’t mind doing business with a highly capable gentleman escort, but they did mind others knowing about it. If word of the organisation and what they did got out, every last one of them would be completely ostracised.

      Nicholas began to walk. He wasn’t ready to go back to Argosy House, the league’s headquarters. What would he tell Channing? The league’s founder would be so very disappointed in him. Discretion was the code the league lived by. To break it meant the worst kind of ruin. It would be the end of the Gentlemen, the end of the very good money he made, the end of a lot of things, not the least being the end of him; Nicholas D’Arcy, London’s most outrageous lover. Women paid enormous sums for his skill in bed. They stuffed jewels in his pockets to find out just how outrageous he could be. And because he needed those jewels and those extraordinary sums of money, he encouraged it. Who was he if he wasn’t Outrageous Nick?

      Nick kicked at a pebble on the pavement. To be fair, he probably encouraged the attention for darker reasons than money and the notoriety. Sex was about all he was good at. Thank goodness he’d been able to turn his one skill into a marketable talent. More than that, he thanked goodness he’d met Channing Deveril, who’d made his success possible. Otherwise, he’d probably still be bumbling around as a clerk in a shipping firm