Page 3 of The Duke of Pain

Perhaps by the summer—which is what he had said last summer.

And the summer before and the one before that.

All he knew? Gideon had no heart to give to anyone.

If he were honest, the only other feeling he experienced beyond boredom was—Pain.

In his maudlin moments, he called himself The Duke of Pain.

No one knew of his past.

When Brandon had revealed his secret past anguish and hell, Gideon had not revealed anything at all of his.

Well, he had hinted, but that would be as far as it would go.

No one would ever breach his heart enough for him to speak of the past.

No one.

Chapter 1

Early June, 1898

London

The night was a typical one in the East End of London. Thick, coal-laden fog blanketed the cobblestone streets of Whitechapel. Laughter and raucous merriment poured out of the many pubs lining the narrow lanes and alleyways. A noxious odor of gas and stagnant water filled the air.

Gideon Broyles, Duke of Watford, held a linen handkerchief to his nose as his carriage traveled to a new and exclusive club. It recently opened on Poplar High Street, called The Velvet Vine and Tackle. Gideon grunted with amusement at the name, for “vine” was a euphemism for lady parts, and “tackle” was a euphemism for male ones.

He had already arranged to make a preliminary inspection of the club with the owner/host and later report back to his acquaintances at their meeting place on Albany Street near Regent’s Park.

If The Velvet Vine and Tackle passed his exacting standards, he would add it to their list of favored carnal haunts. They had quite an exclusive list of varied places to satisfy their myriad preferences.

Sexually active for several years, more years than he cared to count, there wasn’t much Gideon hadn’t experienced. Since his brief tumble with an under-house parlor maid at age sixteen, his sexual escapades grew in intensity as time passed.

The tedium was perhaps the main reason he had sunk to such dissolute levels. But he hadn’t examined the motives all that closely.

When the mood struck him, Gideon played the game, attended assemblies, and danced on occasion with the eligible daughters of the ton. None had ever sparked his interest, or more importantly, his lust.

In reflection, he wondered if he even felt anything resembling feelings of any kind.

Moving aside the red velvet curtain on his carriage window, Gideon glanced at the alley, a couple of men were copulating with shilling prostitutes against the brick walls. Yawning, he sat back. Anonymous alley sex was not to his taste. That particular predilection had belonged to Asher Colborne, Baron of Wenlock, one in his tight group.

However, the man was disgustingly and happily married, as were two others in their company. There was hardly anyone left in The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park. What once was a thriving group of twenty-one now stood at three active members. Four men recently joined as prospects and potential full members, but Gideon was not overly impressed with any of them.

The carriage came to a halt. Gideon clasped his walking stick and waited for his man to unfasten the door.

The door opened, and the wrought-iron steps snapped into place. Flicking his long cloak, Gideon slipped into the adjoining alleyway.

His man understood that he was to return in one hour. Gideon allotted that block of time for the inspection. Once he knocked on the oak door, the small window slid open, and a pair of sinister, blood-shot eyes glared at him in question.

“Password?”

“Lord Craven.”

“Welcome.”

Gideon inwardly cringed. The password annoyed him. By no stretch of the imagination was he a pusillanimous man. The name referred more to his cravings of the sexual nature. The decadent adventures he pursued had earned him the alias.