Collector of Hearts

  Collector of Hearts

  Cassandra Samuels

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Collector of Hearts

  Cassandra Samuels

  A heart worth collecting just might be a heart worth keeping.

  Thanks to a wastrel father and a laudanum-addicted mother, Arabella Fleming and her twin sister have one – and only one – season in London in which to find suitable husbands, to take them away and care for them and build new, stable families.

  Robert Mallory, Marquis of Shelton, is not suitable. Known as the Collector of Hearts, Shelton is a master of seduction, and he never fails when he sets his sight on a new target. And this season, he wants Arabella.

  Arabella is too clever to be swept up in Shelton’s wicked amusements, but she finds herself unable to resist the temptation of his company. And when she tastes his kiss, she discovers there’s more to him than a mysterious past and an infamous reputation. Arabella soon realises that, in order to protect her own heart, she has to collect that of another – the heart of the most notorious rake in London.

  About the author

  CASSANDRA believes she should have been born in the 1800s but since she wasn’t she decided to write about the Regency period instead. She loves costume dramas, witty banter, Jane Austen and all things Regency. She lives with her family on the sunny south coast of Sydney.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Kate Cuthbert who steered me in the right direction with this book and never gave up on me, and to all the Escape team for your hard work and dedication. Thank you to my editor Belinda Holmes for your eagle eye and enthusiasm for my work.

  A huge thank you to my critique partners Enisa and Marilyn who always know how to keep me on track and whose friendship continues to be a gift beyond price. Thank you to Alison who contributed to the early drafts of this book.

  Many thanks to my Breathless in the Bush family for your continued support and encouragement. And to my Historical e-loop sisters for only being an email away.

  Thank you to my family who suround me with love and support every day. Who could ask for more?

  This book is dedicated to Alan. Who has always told me to go for my dreams and to never give up. Plus he brings me coffee when I’m in the zone. I think he loves me.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing...

  Prologue

  London, England

  A wall by the River Thames

  Lord Faulkner is dead!

  Robert Mallory, Earl of Banbury, crumpled the note in his fist. The surgeon had said Faulkner would live. Just a flesh wound, he’d said. Lucky he was such bad aim otherwise he might have killed him outright instead of just injuring him, he said. He hated that bloody surgeon. For lying to him and making him believe this whole mess would go away. That Faulkner would live.

  It was no coincidence he was standing on this wall looking down at the murky muck below him. He watched as the water swirled and churned with the putrid matter of all Greater London. The smell alone should have been enough to repel anyone from standing on the very wall that kept it from the rest of the city, but not him. In his misery and guilt, the rank odour of the greenish-brown filth was almost … alluring. He imagined the water sliding over him, thick and heavy, like a giant slimy blanket.

  Yes, a quick death would be best for all.

  Dead. Dead. Dead.

  His gaze locked again on the swift current. On the sludge that held to the sides of the rough stone, as if an existence, however minute, could be had there. And what of his body? Eaten by fishes or forever caught in the marshy depths below? His shoes were slippery on the stone wall but somehow, despite how much he had drunk, he kept his balance.

  Would anyone even notice he was gone? Only his landlady, surely, when she came for the rent. His mother might mourn him, but not his father. He was more likely to curse him than mourn him. The Marquis of Shelton cared little about his only son and heir—even though he had made the man richer than he had ever been. The marquis cared little about anyone. Robert had not seen his father for nearly five years and had no intention of seeing him again.

  Not after today.

  Was it bizarre that he didn’t care?

  What kind of devil had possessed him to challenge poor Faulkner to a duel in the first place? A she-devil called Catherine Fairdale. She was as beautiful as she was evil, as enchanting as she was manipulative and as ambitious as she was greedy. Well, she’d certainly succeeded in her plan. She was now officially engaged to Lord Brogdan. The man she had planned and plotted to get from the start, using Robert and his friend James to make Brogdan jealous enough to propose. Robert hoped Brogdan made her life a damn misery. She deserved nothing less for what she’d done.

  Catherine had tricked both Faulkner and himself into thinking themselves secretly engaged to her, in love with her, and in return that she loved them when she had no intention of marrying either of them. He and Faulkner had been duped and they were paying for it with their lives. The irony of the whole situation was they didn’t find out the truth until after Faulkner had taken Robert’s lead shot in the side.

  Faulkner had paid his debt to the ferryman. Now it was Robert’s turn.

  ‘Dear God! Banbury! Get down from there, man, before you fall!’

  Robert closed his eyes and wished the voice away.

  ‘Are you mad? Come down, come down at once!’

  The voice seemed concerned, which was odd, for who would care if he lived or died? At least, not once the news of Faulkner’s death was made public. He must be mad. For how else to explain the events of these last few months, this season of hell, this foolishness called … love.

  He closed his eyes. Felt a whisper of a breeze on his skin. Just a step and it would be done. What was he waiting for? Take the step, damn you!

  ‘Don’t do it, Robert. Please.’

  No one called him by his name. It felt strange to hear it. Even Catherine had called him Banbury. Robert made a rather ungraceful turn, his arms outstretched, and looked down at the voice as he regained his balance.

  ‘Ah! Young Lord Shacklesbury. I’m afraid I can’t come out to play. I have an appointment, you see—with the devil no doubt, but an appointment none the less.’

  ‘This is not the way.’ Was that a frown on Shacklesbury’s usually congenial face?

  ‘No? I was going to put my pistol to my head, but it seemed so … messy. Can you suggest a better alternative?’

  ‘Banbury, listen to me,’ Shacklesbury said. His voice held a slightly strained timbre. ‘I’m sorry about Faulkner. I know he was your friend but if you do this, she will win. Don’t you see? She will have killed you both.’

  This gave Robert pause. He felt the muscles in his face contort into a frown, or maybe a scowl. ‘How convenient that would be for her.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Shacklesbury replied. ‘And all without lifting so much as a finger. A little too easy, don’t you think?’ />
  Slowly he absorbed Shacklesbury’s words. It took a little longer than normal. He was drunk as a lord—had been since he’d shed his bloodied clothes. For who would do such a thing sober?

  Shacklesbury wasn’t drunk. He was a good man, a good second, albeit a reluctant one. But he had done his job and done it admirably. He could not have asked for more, considering he had picked him out of a crowd and thrust the duty upon him only yesterday eve.

  Shacklesbury was right, damn him. Although this did not alleviate Robert’s guilt. He’d killed a man. Faulkner may have forgiven him, but he would forever hold the image of James as he fell. How his blood had poured from him like wine from a tipped bottle. He’d killed Faulkner, and over what? A woman.

  Standing on the wall looking down the Thames, Robert had hoped for absolution in his own death, but now that suddenly seemed … insane. Would he not be better served by being a thorn in her side, by making her life a misery? He didn’t know. To do that meant seeing her. It was one thing he hoped never to have to do again.

  He looked down at Shacklesbury’s sweet round face.

  Quinn Braxton, Viscount Shacklesbury, a man whom he had only met yesterday, was holding his hand out to him, like a lifeline, a second chance, a piece of driftwood for him to cling to in an uncertain sea … if he wanted it. Why did Shacklesbury even care? Why would he look at him with such a desperate expression, as though he truly thought Robert was worth saving?

  Looking over his shoulder once more, he saw that the Thames flowed on despite him, without him, and he let the note that had still been secure in his sweating palm, fall. It landed softly and lay upon the scum for a few seconds before the current, and the inevitable, took it away.

  ‘Come,’ Shacklesbury said to him in a slow comforting tone. ‘I have a place where we can go.’

  Robert simply nodded and allowed Shacklesbury to help him off the wall. He felt weak, as though he had been balancing on the edge of life and death for hours; and perhaps he had, for he could not recall how long he had stood upon that wall.

  He made one vow to himself as Shacklesbury helped him into a carriage. He would have his revenge on Catherine and her kind, of that he was certain. No woman would ever again lure him to be a fool in love.

  Chapter 1

  Dawn, five years later

  London, England

  The Ring, Hyde Park

  Mist swirled through the trees like a caress. The sun, still weak in its attempt to light the land through the frost of the morning, made the leaves on the trees and the grey sheen of the grass sparkle with the anticipation of the day. A vast contrast to the tension that ebbed and flowed in the small clearing. The nickering of horses and the whispered tones of men competed with the breeze that aided the mist on its journey, twisting and rolling around the small gathering.

  ‘Shelton. It’s time,’ Quinn announced.

  Robert nodded and urged his horse forward. He’d been the Marquis of Shelton for more than two years and still he hated it, hated the reminder that his father would have disinherited him in a heartbeat if he could have.

  The pit of his stomach lurched, as it did every time he’d had to perform this duty. It was always like this. He wished he felt more remorse for sleeping with Butterworth’s wife, but he didn’t. She had sought him out, had thrown herself into his arms and his bed with little thought of her poor husband. And to be truthful, he always knew there was a possibility of this very event taking place when he had taken up the lady’s offer.

  Some part of him craved it. The danger. The recklessness of it all. The possibility that this might just be the fool who could end the Collector of Hearts and end the madness. Quinn had told him it was like he had emptied his soul on mornings like this. Perhaps. Only Quinn knew the real price he paid for this folly.

  They halted their pawing beasts at the edge of the gathered group of men. Robert casually threw his leg over the neck of his steed and slid lazily from the saddle, his boots making only the slightest sound as he landed. Quinn dismounted in the normal manner.

  An elderly man stepped forward, heavily leaning on his cane. He eyed Robert with barely concealed hatred and stated in a gravelly voice, ‘Shelton, you unpardonable scoundrel. Have you anything to say for yourself?’

  He was used to being greeted with such affection, and turned slightly with a raised eyebrow and a careless smile. ‘I have no idea what you are referring to, Lord Brent.’ He kept his tone cool and even.

  ‘I meant by way of an apology to Butterworth.’ The words were strained through clenched teeth like a growl.

  ‘An apology?’ He chuckled. ‘Surely you jest, old man. I’m not in the habit of apologising, and certainly not for the faithless habits of a woman, or the slack leash of her husband.’

  Lord Butterworth seethed in indignation from within the group gathered around him.

  Quinn closed his eyes for a moment like he was praying for something, before saying, ‘Why must you antagonise them?’

  ‘Because, my dear friend, I can. Fires them up. Nothing worse than a lacklustre duel, you know.’ Robert then smiled at the assembled men. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Let us get this over with, shall we? I wish to have my breakfast before it turns into my lunch.’

  He took off his gloves and handed them to Quinn, with a wink of reassurance. ‘Why, Shacklesbury, you’ve gone quite pale.’

  ‘I’d be better if I was at home in bed,’ Quinn muttered.

  Brent came up to Shacklesbury and asked, ‘You’re his second?’ As if he couldn’t understand why anyone would volunteer for the role.

  ‘Yes,’ Quinn replied while frowning at Robert. ‘I’m afraid I am.’

  He wasn’t upset by his friend’s little swipe. He’d grown an incredibly thick skin in recent years. It was necessary when one was surrounded by men who hated him. By men who wanted to kill him.

  If only one of them would.

  He’d heard the whispers of the ton for years. Why did these women swoon at his feet? It was a concept their husbands, fathers, and brothers struggled to comprehend. What made his appeal so strong? They saw him only as a dangerous man—the ruination of women his only objective. A man who maimed innocent men forced to defend their names in a public act of satisfaction.

  The game, however, was much more complicated than that. The ladies of the ton fought each other to be the next to play. They came to him. He only had to give them one lustful look and they melted into puddles of desire at his feet.

  ‘Seconds, will you pace out the markers?’

  Quinn nodded, left the small group and went to meet the surgeon and the other second.

  Robert watched them through half-lowered lids. Shacklesbury was efficient in this area—Lord knew he’d had enough practice—but he still found it fascinating to watch his friend, for he seemed able to negotiate without the other second even realising what was happening. Quinn always made sure the duel was set out in the best interests of both combatants. He always played fair. It was one of the things he admired most about him.

  The two seconds shook hands and went about the business of placing down the markers. Then, their faces serious, they stood side by side, checking and loading the pistols.

  Robert leaned against Butterworth’s carriage while watching a rabbit at its breakfast. Bored now, he picked up one of the pistols and smiled. As he expected, they were brand new. He looked for the mark of the maker. Long, curly letters engraved on the side of the pistol spelled out Wogdon of London. He was impressed but doubted whether the pistols had even been tested. Robert looked down the sight, weighed it in his hand and checked its balance. Then, with a casual flick, spun it on his finger and handed it back to Quinn. Butterworth didn’t even give the pistols a glance. The fool! A man who thought one pistol was the same as another was asking to be killed.

  It seemed old Lord Brent had deemed himself host to this little gathering. His cold, drooping eyes turned Robert’s way, to which he merely nodded and proceeded to ignore the deadly looks Butterworth was sendin
g him.

  ‘Are we ready, gentlemen?’ The old man stepped up to them.

  Butterworth gave Robert a withering look before replying, ‘By God, yes!’

  The angrier Butterworth was, the less likely he was to keep his head when the time came. He’d seen the same mistake played over and over in the past.

  Grimly, he observed his opponent. The man’s hands were already shaking. At this rate, it was unlikely he’d hit the broadside of an elephant at five paces, let alone a man at ten. Butterworth was bloody lucky Robert was such a good shot.

  ‘Stations, gentlemen,’ Brent commanded.

  They walked to the first marker. Quinn cocked the pistol, handed it to Robert, who clasped the grip, pointing the muzzle down and away from his opponent. He moved it to his firing arm and pointed it down beside his leg.

  ‘How far?’ he asked as he gazed straight ahead.

  ‘Ten from five,’ Shacklesbury replied, indicating the paces. His friend then asked him in a whisper, ‘Where is your aim?’

  ‘Left arm, above the elbow.’

  Quinn rested a hand on his shoulder for a moment, before he walked over to join the small group of men who had gathered near Butterworth’s carriage.

  ‘Attend!’ The command was called out. Robert raised his pistol upwards, the muzzle to the sky, the butt level with his shoulder. He leeched towards the second marker then on to the next. He stopped at the agreed distance and put his pistol down against his leg.

  Silence screamed in his ears. Not even a bird dared tweet.

  When they reached the last marker, both men turned and faced each other. The commands, ‘Present! Fire!’ were shouted in quick succession.

  In the seconds after the commands were issued, Robert turned side on, presenting the smallest target. He lifted his pistol, narrowed his eyes down the sight and registered the panic in the other man’s eyes before he squeezed the trigger.

  The sound of gunfire boomed into the air like a marauding army. It filled the area with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

 
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