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While other children’s first memories might have been of hugging their mothers or playing with their siblings, his was different. Perhaps it was better that his first conscious recollection was of this tiny window and not the horrors that came before. Those memories were so terrible that his mind chose to erase them, only occasionally slipping them into his nightmares.

That tiny window had once been his beacon of hope during the toughest days of his life, a symbol of a brighter future filled with joy and happiness.

Now, as he looked at it, it didn’t represent that hope anymore.

It represented the end.

He turned as the guard slammed the cell door shut.

“Three days, William,” the guard said through the barred opening. “Three days and you’ll finally hang for your sins.”

Chapter 1

Sixty three days before the execution…

William sat at a card table in the center of a crowded room choked with smoke swirling up to blacken the low ceiling. He tapped his foot against the floor, a half-smoked cheroot clamped between his teeth. His cards fanned out in one bejeweled hand, while he reached for a mug of warm gin with the other. Laughter and shouts rang out as dice clattered across the felt tables.

God, he hated this place.

Typically, he steered clear of both hells and bawdy houses, as he shuddered at the thought of any place that reminded him of the past. However, William wasn’t exactly welcomed in many places, forcing him, on occasion, to hold his nose, grit his teeth, and walk through the seedy halls of the houses of depravity.

With Hades blissfully away on a wedding journey with his wife, this was the sole remaining refuge left in England where he had friends.

Very well, not friends exactly—he had none—but… associates? Individuals he could tolerate and who could endure his presence in kind. And for the business he had in mind, he was willing to tolerate a lot.

So, here he was, in the bawdy house aptly named the House of Pain and Pleasure. A little on the nose, in his opinion, but what did he know?

Through the hazy gloom swayed a harlot in a provocative silk gown trimmed with tattered lace. An elaborate white wig was teased high atop her head, with ringlets spilling over her powdered shoulders. As she sashayed closer, William saw her face was painted ghostly pale with two spots of rouge on the cheeks.

The harlot smiled coyly and settled onto William’s lap, eliciting whistles from the surrounding card players. Up close, the cloying scent of her cheap rose perfume mixed with the smells of unwashed bodies, smoking tobacco, and hair powder that permeated the stuffy gaming hall. Unperturbed by the bawdy chaos, she draped an arm around William’s shoulders and leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear. William took a long drag from his cheroot, exhaling smoke. He tapped her on the thigh and tipped his head in a gesture unmistakably asking her to vacate his lap.

Instead, she shoved her breasts into his face and got the reaction she desired. His cock stirred and hardened in excitement. But his demeanor didn’t falter. His body might have responded physically, but he was not amused.

“Please, get off my lap, my sweet. I am not interested in what you have to offer.”

“Your body says different,” she whispered saucily and wiggled her soft bum for proof.

William clenched his fists. It would be impolite, not to mention embarrassing for her, to physically remove the lady from his lap, but he was sorely tempted.

“My body does not rule me, madam. Please, remove yourself from my lap. I am a married man.”

“So are most people in this establishment,” she sulked, her lips in a pout.

“I am not most men,” he said, his gaze hard.

She tipped her head back and assumed a nonchalant demeanor before climbing off his lap. “If you’re such a faithful husband, why are you not with your wife?” She disappeared into the crowd and smoke, not waiting for him to respond. But the question stuck to William’s mind like a burr.

Why the devil not?

The answer was as simple as it was complicated.

Because she hated him.

She had rebuffed all his advances, torn up his letters, and thrown out the flowers. He knew; he had been watching.

But ever since the fiasco two years ago when she’d found out the depth of his deceit, Victoria—his wife—refused to have anything to do with him.

At first, he tried begging for forgiveness, requesting her audience, serenading her beneath her window. All he got for his trouble was that she had switched her room.