Just a Little Wickedness

  Just a Little Wickedness

  Merry Farmer

  JUST A LITTLE WICKEDNESS

  Copyright ©2020 by Merry Farmer

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)

  ASIN: B084LRZCF6

  Paperback ISBN: 9798615770449

  Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.

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  Created with Vellum

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  London – March, 1890

  It was barely past seven in the evening, and already a headache was forming behind Alistair Bevan’s eyes.

  “It’s terrible,” his father, Lord Albert Bevan, Earl of Winslow, huffed, squirming against the back of his seat in the well-appointed carriage they traveled in. “That a man like Lord Chisolm could walk about town, holding dinner parties, and passing himself off as a genial host is simply disgraceful.”

  “Yes, dear, we know,” Alistair’s mother said with a long-suffering sigh, patting her husband’s hand.

  “The truth must be known,” Alistair’s father went on, his white mustache quivering. “Families such as the Eccles clan need to be exposed for their sins.”

  “I agree, Father,” Alistair said in as soothing a voice as he could manage. “But perhaps it would be better to wait until some sort of concrete proof is discovered before slighting the name of one of the most influential families in London.”

  Alistair sent a sideways look to his brother, Darren, seated in the carriage beside him. Darren wore a pinched frown that was all too familiar to Alistair. The glance they exchanged was loaded with the unique sort of tension that could only be shared by brothers who knew their father was losing his mind.

  “I thought Lord Chisolm and the rest of the Eccles family were your friends, Father,” Darren said in a manner that was usually reserved for speaking to a child.

  “Of course they are my friends,” their father replied indignantly. “One must always keep their friends close and their enemies closer, as they adage goes.”

  “Is that why we rushed about the moment we arrived in London from Dorset?” Darren asked with a smirk. “To pretend that your mortal enemy is actually your bosom friend so that we can keep them close?”

  Alistair didn’t approve of his brother’s teasing tone, but he didn’t try to stop the question.

  “We are behaving as any civil members of the aristocracy would,” their father insisted. “We received an invitation, and so we are accepting it.” It was a good enough answer, and Alistair was almost pleased by it, until his father added, “And if we’re clever, we can catch those beastly slave traders at their game.”

  Alistair winced, raising his hands to rub his throbbing temples. There it was again, his father’s dogged insistence that the Eccles family—the ones who bore the Chisolm title as well as the ones who didn’t—made their money through the slave trade.

  “Papa,” Alistair sighed, his eyes squeezed closed. “I’ll grant you that the Eccles’s might very well have made their fortune on the slave trade a hundred and fifty years ago, but you do realize that it is eighteen ninety and that the slave trade has been outlawed these eighty-three years now.”

  “He knows what year it is,” their mother said in a tight voice, offended at the very idea that her husband’s sanity was being questioned.

  “You only know what you studied in those dusty old books of yours, son,” their father scolded Alistair. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy.”

  Alistair opened one eye to peek at his father. The man had gone from getting lost in the past to quoting Shakespeare. It wasn’t going to be a good night, and they would be out in public when the inevitable breakdown happened.

  “Perhaps we should turn around and go home,” he suggested, but it was already too late.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of a stately Mayfair mansion and an attendant in fine livery rushed forward to open the door. Alistair stepped out first, followed by Darren. Darren offered a hand to their mother, escorting her on to the white marble front steps, while Alistair did the best he could to help his father out of the carriage without making him appear like the frail, old man he was. The worst of it was that Albert Bevan wasn’t even that old. He hadn’t yet turned sixty, and already his mind and body were failing. It could only mean one thing—that Alistair would inherit the earldom, the land and fortune, the seat in the House of Lords, and the duty and responsibility that went with it all far sooner than he was ready to.

  “Now,” his father said as Alistair offered his arm to support him in his struggle up the steps to where Darren and Lady Winslow were waiting in the doorway, “keep your eyes peeled for anything sinister.”

  “Yes, Father,” Alistair sighed, squaring his shoulders and walking on with as much dignity as he could.

  “There’s no telling what sort of evidence could be lying about in plain sight. Men like Chisolm are clumsy when it comes to hiding their nefarious activity. They grow too proud and too self-congratulatory, and that is when we must swoop in and bring them to justice.”

  “Of course.” Alistair nodded, but inside, his heart felt as heavy as a stone.

  He could remember a time when the world revolved around his father, when the man was the epitome of strength and wisdom to him. He would have given anything to have that man back, but since that was as impossible as fetching a chunk of cheese from the moon to go with supper, the best he could do was to be the man his father needed him to be, as hard as it was. There were so many things that would disappoint his father to his core if he knew, starting with the fact that Alistair enjoyed the romantic company of men the way he was supposed to enjoy that of women.

  “Let me know if you need me to take a turn,” Darren murmured to Alistair as they reached the magnificent front hall of the stylish mansion.

  “I will,” Alistair promised, then glanced around at the opulence.

  The Chisolm mansion in Mayfair was new, as far as stately London homes went. It had been constructed barely twenty years before in the place of an older, Georgian building, and held all the modern conveniences a man of as much wealth as Lord Chisolm had could buy. The chandeliers were gilded, the art was that of grand masters, and the furnishings in the parlor they wer
e led to, where titled and notable guests from the most desirable families in London gathered before supper, were artworks in themselves. Alistair noted several members of the royal family in attendance. He also noticed two pairs of wide, startled eyes staring out at the guests from a Japanese screen set in front of what looked like a concealed servants’ entrance to the room.

  That charming detail—staff in the house peeking at the glorious guests—set Alistair a fraction more at ease. He deliberately glanced away, loath to give up the secret of whoever was spying on them.

  That ease was shattered a moment later when his father leaned closer to him while staring across the room. “You see there?” He nodded to a young woman dressed in the latest Paris fashion, her hair piled fantastically on her head. “That is Lady Alice Norton. She is one of the most eligible heiresses on the market this season.”

  Alistair’s stomach sank. “She is quite the beauty,” he said, knowing it was what he was expected to say.

  “She is exactly the sort of bride you should be setting your sights on,” his father went on. “Not only is she a social triumph already at her young age, she could provide you with sons who bear a connection to the royal family.”

  Lady Alice happened to glance in Alistair’s direction at that moment. All Alistair could do was to smile tightly and nod to the woman in acknowledgement. The thought of courting Lady Alice—or any other woman, for that matter—turned his blood cold. He was no liar, and any overture he made to a woman would be a lie of astounding proportions. He knew who he was, though hardly anyone else did, certainly not his family. But he also knew his duty. He knew what was expected of him.

  “My lords and ladies, supper is served,” announced a butler who was dressed as elaborately as any of the guests.

  For once, Alistair was glad of his father’s frailty. It meant no one expected him to single out one of the ladies in the room to escort into dinner. Darren upheld that tradition for the family, and their mother was escorted in by a bishop, which she would no doubt crow about for days to come. Alistair followed behind the rest of the guests, supporting his father as a savvy footman gestured for him to bring his father to a place that had been specially arranged.

  “Keep your wits about you,” Alistair’s father whispered as they crossed into the dining room.

  “Father,” Alistair sighed. “Surely a family that goes out of its way to prepare a special place for you at the table is not infiltrated with the enemy.”

  His father let out a humorless laugh. “You would be surprised, my boy. And besides, Lady Chisolm is a Fitzgerald, not an Eccles. I’m certain this is her doing.”

  Alistair opted not to answer. Partially because several guests were already staring at them. Paul Eccles, Lord Burbage, Lord Chisolm’s oldest son, in particular seemed to be keeping one eye on them as Alistair helped his father into his seat.

  “Do you need some help there, Farnham?” Burbage asked, addressing Alistair by his formal title in spite of the fact that they’d known each other since university. Alistair rarely bothered with formalities when it came to men near his own age who traveled in his same social circles, but he couldn’t think of Burbage in any way but formally.

  “No, thank you,” he replied with a civil smile. As soon as his father was as comfortable in his chair as he could be, Alistair seated himself in the chair beside him.

  “Only, it seems as though your father needs more assistance these days than he used to,” Burbage went on, his grin a little too pointed, as he took a seat across the table.

  A few of the guests seated nearby were kind enough to look startled at the comment. Lady Burbage—Paul’s wife of less than a year, who was already a little too round with child for polite company—leaned closer to whisper something to him with a scowl. Burbage ignored her.

  “I am still here, young man,” Alistair’s father said in a voice that was louder than it should have been, drawing even more attention. “So don’t count me out yet.”

  A few of the ladies tittered with nervous laughter as footmen moved about the table, serving the first course. Alistair felt heat rise up his neck, but it was hard to tell whether it was anger or embarrassment. He would rather have died than admit his father was an embarrassment to him, but the facts were the facts.

  “The situation in Mozambique is quite concerning.” The titled gentleman sitting on Alistair’s other side tried to strike up a conversation. “But I’m certain we’ll have Portugal on the run in no time.”

  “Their position is untenable,” Alistair agreed, although the only thing he knew about the problems in Africa was that something was going on.

  “They never should have—”

  “Look at that,” Alistair’s father hissed on the other side, dragging him away from polite conversation.

  Alistair sent an apologetic glance to the man trying to talk to him—who easily turned to converse with the middle-aged woman on his other side—and turned to his father.

  “Chisolm will have an heir and a spare before summer,” his father went on, nodding to Lady Burbage, or rather, the portion of her stomach that was visible above the table.

  If Alistair could have slumped under the table to hide from the inappropriate topic of conversation, he would have. “Father, perhaps we could discuss this later.”

  “You mustn’t let them get too far ahead of us,” his father whispered in return. “You’re just as capable of marrying a socialite as Paul Eccles is.”

  “He’s referred to as Lord Burbage, Father.”

  “He’s a viscount,” his father muttered on, either stating the obvious or on his way to making a point. “You’re a viscount,” he went on. “His father is an earl, your father is an earl. And I can say with relative certainty that you will be an earl before he is.”

  “Father, please.” Alistair glanced around, trying to gauge who was listening in and who was politely ignoring his father’s lack of propriety.

  He caught sight of two tiny heads poking around the corner of the modest doorway at the end of the room and was certain they belonged to the same pairs of eyes he’d spotted behind the screen in the parlor. If he had to guess, by the look of them, he’d say their spies were a hall boy and scullery maid. Lord Chisolm certainly didn’t have children that young and Burbage was only beginning his brood.

  “Look around you, son,” his father went on. “You could have your pick of a bride. And I’m quite certain you could do better than snotty little Paul Eccles.”

  The woman seated on his father’s other side cleared her throat loudly.

  Heat flooded Alistair. “You know this isn’t an appropriate dinner topic,” he whispered.

  His father huffed. “What is the point of going out in society if not to make couples? What is the difference between flirting in a ballroom and strategizing in a dining room?”

  The evening wasn’t going to go well. His father was already raising his voice. Alistair was no fortune-teller, but he could predict that within ten minutes, his father would be standing and attempting to auction him off to the highest bidder. He had no choice but to act.

  As soon as the footman carrying the soup course came near, Alistair sent him an apologetic look. The man frowned curiously, and as he attempted to serve his father, Alistair bumped his arm, sending just enough soup splashing onto his father’s dinner jacket to disrupt proceedings.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” the footman apologized.

  “It’s my fault entirely,” Alistair murmured to him, adding an earnest look to make certain the man knew it, then standing. “Come along, Father. I’ll help you tidy your jacket.”

  Not a soul at the table looked the least bit surprised. Darren sent Alistair a grateful nod. Their mother glanced down at her soup in sorrow as the friend seated next to her whispered something comforting to her. Across the table, Burbage was doing a poor job of hiding a snicker. His father, Lord Chisolm, seated at the head of the table, let out a dramatic moan and rolled his eyes, making it clear he thought the once grea
t Lord Albert Winslow was a pathetic joke.

  Acid churned in Alistair’s gut as he closed an arm around his father’s shoulders and escorted him from the room.

  “There’s a parlor across this way where you could rest,” Chisolm’s butler said, directing them across the hall. “I could see if one of the valets is available to help with the jacket.”

  “Thank you.” Alistair nodded to the man.

  “Where are we?” Alistair’s father asked as soon as he was seated on a cozy settee next to a cheery fire.

  “We’re waiting for a valet to come along to help with your jacket,” Alistair explained.

  “Good, good.” His father nestled back into the pillows as Alistair arranged them behind his back. “I’ll wait here while you search the room for signs of foul play.”

  “I’m not going to snoop through Lord Chisolm’s house,” Alistair said, shaking his head. “You might not want to admit it, Father, but there’s nothing wrong with the Eccles family. I can’t say that I like them very much, but they’re no more nefarious than half the other grand families in England.”

  “That’s what they want you to think,” his father insisted, closing his eyes and letting out a happy sigh. “You’ll find the truth. I trust you. I rely on you.”

  Alistair stood helplessly by, watching as his father fell fast asleep. It was bittersweet to know he had his father’s complete confidence. Every son wanted to feel their father’s approval, but one false move on Alistair’s part and that confidence would be blown out of the water. One tip of his hand and his father would see through the illusion Alistair presented to the world.