Noble Scoundrel
Peril & Persuasion, Volume 1
Amy Sandas
Published by Amy Sandas, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
NOBLE SCOUNDREL
First edition. November 9, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Amy Sandas.
Written by Amy Sandas.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Epilogue
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About the Author
To my mother. A woman of undeniable strength, bravery, and heart.
Chapter One
London, August 1817
“What d’you find out?”
Mason waited impatiently with his arms crossed as Dell Turner took a seat in one of the pink and yellow chintz-covered chairs complete with scrolled arms and claw-foot legs. Turner had a specifically developed talent for looking at home and at ease no matter where he happened to be.
Mason took position near the fireplace rather than trust the ridiculously delicate-looking furniture.
For years, Mason had known Turner as an occasional sparring partner who frequented similar haunts around London’s East End. He’d only recently discovered his friend was also the man known with equal awe in both the rookery and the ton as Nightshade, a man of various talents and unmentionable skills who accomplished tasks (usually covert and often dangerous) no one else could.
When Turner finally glanced up, his expression was as flat as his tone. “Not much. Maybe nothing at all.”
“Out with it.”
Turner responded to the sharp command with a subtle tilt of his head.
Mason’s size and rough manner had a tendency to threaten people even when it wasn’t his intention. He wasn’t above using his brutish appearance to his advantage when necessary, but such tactics weren’t likely to work on Turner. His harsh words had been more a product of his impatience than an attempt at intimidation. With a lift of his brows, Mason waited for Turner to continue.
“There’ve been murmurs—nothing specific and nothing concrete—of a former Runner by the name of George Boothe poking around for information that lines up with our own inquiries.”
“Such as?”
“He’s been asking about a boy, twelve years old, dark hair and eyes, with fine speech, recently arrived in London...currently suspected to be alone in the city.”
Alone in the city.
The words triggered an instant tension in Mason’s body and a sickening twist in his guts. It wasn’t so many weeks ago that his two-year-old daughter had been lost in the great and terrible city.
He hadn’t learned of Claire’s existence until she was already a few months old. Her mother had worked at a dance hall near the docks, and though she and Mason had been lovers for a short time, they’d parted ways after only a brief affair. It wasn’t until several months later that Molly had come knocking on his door, demanding money for the care and keeping of the girl-child swaddled in her arms. Peeking at the tiny pink face of his daughter for the very first time, Mason had experienced a kind of fear he’d never known before. His only example of fatherhood had been his own drunken, violent sire, and he was confident he wouldn’t manage to do much better. Believing the babe was best off in her mother’s care, he didn’t see his small daughter as often as he’d have liked, but he supported them as best he could. Molly tended to move about a lot and there were times Mason had no idea where his daughter was. But he’d never believed her to be in danger.
He regretted that assumption more than anyone could know. If he’d been more present, he might have noticed Molly’s growing addiction to opium. If he been a proper sort of father, Claire would have been with him when Molly abandoned her and left London for parts unknown.
Mason had torn London apart looking for Claire, hating himself for not being there when her mother had failed to be. When his brute force tactics failed to turn up any clue to Claire’s whereabouts, he’d gone to the one man in London who might succeed where he’d failed. Nightshade.
A man Mason also knew as Dell Turner.
Proving worthy of his reputation, Nightshade had located young Claire in the hands of a criminal gang led by a man named Bricken, who intended to smuggle her and others from the country to be sold into servitude and worse overseas.
Just a couple weeks ago, Mason, Turner, and two of Nightshade’s associates rescued Claire and nearly a dozen others from the kidnappers’ warehouse. All of the other children had been returned to their respective homes, orphanages, or whatever street gang they ran with except for one older boy who called himself Freddie.
It was clear by his refined manner and rich clothing that the boy was of the nobility, but he steadfastly refused to tell them anything of his people or origins.
It had also been equally obvious that Freddie had acted as Claire’s protector during their horrid ordeal. Noticing how the shy and frightened little girl had clung to the older boy after their rescue, Mason decided to take Freddie in until Turner could dig up some information on the tight-lipped lad.
After several days and innumerable dead-ends, Turner finally had something of a lead. Though vague, the description certainly fit Freddie. It could be the same boy. Could be someone else entirely. When Turner didn’t say more, Mason frowned. “That’s it?”
The other man’s expression remained closed and his hazel eyes assessing. Whatever was going on in his swift and cunning brain wasn’t revealed in his gaze. “As I said...it could be nothing.”
Mason’s back teeth clenched. There was more. “Tell me.”
“I put a tail on Boothe to gather more information. He was observed reporting to a home in Mayfair—a mansion long entailed to the Duke of Northmoor. For decades, the place has been empty but for a few servants.”
Turner’s method
