Duchess If You Dare

Book 1: Maidens of Mayhem

by Anabelle Bryant

Genres: Women's Fiction; Historical Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance

Synopsis

Fans of Sarah MacLean, Vanessa Riley, and Julia London will adore this modern take on the Regency, filled with tough, empowered women meeting their matches in a sexy story from rising star Anabelle Bryant.
 
“Delightful.” —Lenora Bell, USA Today bestselling author
 
From the glittering ballrooms of the ton to the city’s grittiest corners, London has no shortage of wrongs in need of righting—and the Maidens of Mayhem are prepared for the challenge. United by secrecy and sisterhood, these daring woman from all walks of life aim to fight injustice wherever it takes them—even into the arms of unexpected love...
 
Scarlett Wynn’s tragic childhood taught her that life can be cruel to women with little power. So when a local seamstress disappears, Scarlett vows to find out why. Armed with a weapon and her courage, Scarlett scours London for clues—and crosses the unlikely path of Ambrose Cross, the Duke of Aylesford, at an unlikely place: an upscale brothel. The Duke is trying to solve a mystery of his own, and Scarlett is sure they can help each other—if she can resist the attraction that draws them together . . .

As Duke of Aylesford, Ambrose is duty-bound to protect his family name from scandal no matter the cost. But Scarlett’s fearless spirit forces him to look beyond his world of privilege. Scarlett is as intoxicating as she is dangerous, igniting a fire in him like no other. But when the pair learn both mysteries they’re trying to solve are tied to a string of missing women, the tangled scheme they uncover may put their lives, and their growing love, in mortal danger—and lead them to search their hearts like never before . . .
 
“A delightful historical romance with a liberal dash of adventure, plenty of sizzling heat, and a heart of pure gold. A superb start to Bryant’s new Maidens of Mayhem series” —Lenora Bell, USA Today bestselling author

“Duchess if You Dare is a fantastic read that kept me up late and has me anxiously awaiting the next book in the series.”—USA Today Bestselling Author Renee Ann Miller
 
“Brilliant.” —Publishers Weekly
 

Release date: March 30, 2021

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

No matter. Scarlett welcomed danger as an exercise to measure her skill. Nevertheless, she remained vigilant to the perils in wait for a woman out alone at first light, most especially in a neighborhood regarded as London’s worst slum. Seven Dials was nothing more than a nest of narrow alleys and squalid tenements.

She glanced backward as a shadow arrowed across her path. She hurried her steps as behind her the stranger gave chase, appearing in the darkness as if dropped from the sky. Scarlett had surmised her enemy watched from above, slinking across the slates and down the eaves with the soundless grace of a falling star because she’d often moved in a similar manner. Except she’d never exposed her position as carelessly as the stranger who hunted her now.

Prepared for the inevitable attack, she pivoted and crouched low in a defensive pose, a motion so swift her black cloak wrapped around her body like a tight cocoon, quick to disguise her trousers and the long silver blade she’d drawn silently from her boot.

Women were expected to wear endless layers and cumbersome skirts, squeal and faint in the face of danger, to need the strength and courage of an able-bodied male, but not Scarlett Wynn. She refused to be categorized by a separate standard. She was an independent entity, capable beyond common belief and undoubtably lethal when the situation warranted violence.

Apparently, this moment warranted it.

Her foe remained in the shadows; his lean form unmistakably male. He held no weapon she could discern and when he lurched, she reacted with a honed agility that usually startled her attacker into momentary pause. But this man didn’t hesitate, his arm a band of muscle as he caught the fluttering edge of her cloak and with a sharp yank pulled her closer. In the past, she’d employed the same method on the offensive, binding the cloth around an assailant’s neck or body, the lightweight wool effective to choke or subdue as needed.

It appeared someone was knowledgeable to her technique—or worse, able to anticipate her reaction and counteract with skill.

Very well. The process would offer further opportunity to improve her dexterity.

Bringing her gloved fingers to the tie at her throat, she released the strings and shrugged free of the garment, twisting loose in the process before kicking her attacker in the rib cage with a sharp jab of her heel. He took the hit easily, only jarring backward slightly with a huffed exhalation before he came at her again, the blue-black light lending few clues to the most vulnerable parts of his body, her blade at the ready to pierce skin. She might have aimed her foot lower and crippled the fool with a strike to his ballocks—but then where was the adventure in getting right down to it? Unless necessary, an attack of that nature was inequitable, similar to when an assailant used her hair as a point of weakness. Scarlett refused to allow such an advantage and always pinned the lengths into a tight bun at her nape, no longer offering anyone easy access. She considered herself an equal if not superior fighter. Gender remained irrelevant.

The stranger dropped the cloak to the cobbles and whipped it outward in a far-reaching arc meant to entangle but she expected the trap and leapt neatly aside. Gaining momentum, she leveraged use of the right wall, turned against it and scissored her legs, her arm pointed straight at her assailant, her palm tight on the hilt of her knife. This was a fight easily won and she might have sliced into him were it not for a betraying slant of sunlight that spared a glimpse of her attacker’s profile.

Recognition was quick and she lowered the blade at the last moment.

“You’ll need to do better than that.” Her statement, absent of fear, evoked laughter in response. “Or you may find my blade sunk deep into your neck.”

“When did you know it was me?”

“Your identity?” Scarlett leaned down and slid her weapon into the concealed sheath in her boot. “Only now. But your presence. . .” She scoffed softly with a hint of indignant mockery. “You’re too noisy on the eaves. I was aware of someone for twenty paces already.”

“Duly noted.” Felix Howell, friend more than foe, clenched his gloves together as if to lock the advice up tight.

Scarlett retrieved her cloak, snapped the fabric lengthwise to rid the wool of unwanted vermin and quickly reassembled. Then the two fell into step as if they hadn’t just fought viciously in a confined alleyway in the wee hours of dawn.

“What brings you here?”

“The last time we spoke, you invited me to test your skill.”

“To test your skill,” she corrected with a shake of her head.

“Either way, my curiosity was piqued. How could I resist a rare invitation from a Maiden of Mayhem, a beautiful and vigilant fighter against crime? I’d be a fool.”

“Things must be slow on Bow Street.” Scarlett underscored her tone with annoyance though she wondered if Felix noticed. “You shouldn’t speak so carelessly.”

“We are out at an ungodly hour in Seven Dials where everyone is either pursuing cheap gin or how to rid oneself of the headache caused by the overconsumption of cheap gin.”

“It’s not the ape-drunk and befogged who would find that information useful.”

“Agreed.” He swiped the pad of his thumb against the side of his nose twice in a habit she’d come to recognize and when he spoke again his tone had sobered. “The shadows are always listening. Still, your identity is safe with me.”

They exited the mouth of the alley and turned right on Suffolk Street. Scarlett meant to reach her seamstress’s apartment before daybreak. The hired girl, Linie, fitted Scarlett’s trousers, gloves, and every other article of clothing that couldn’t be purchased forthright from a modiste because of its uncommon requirements. Moving about before most of London peeled open an eyelid was second nature to Scarlett and she preferred to conduct business under the cover of darkness, blending seamlessly into the newly awakened commercial bustle of the area without notice once her errands were completed.

Ordinarily, Linie worked in Madame Ivory’s Emporium, a respected shop located on Bond Street where Scarlett first made her acquaintance. Linie was a sweet, young girl with nimble fingers and a flair for creative designs often unappreciated by her employer. When Scarlett had inquired casually about adapting a dress to include a split skirt for better mobility, Linie eyed her with genuine enthusiasm. Their relationship had progressed from there.

Since then, Scarlett brought her wardrobe requirements directly to Linie’s single-room apartment and simultaneously advanced the girl’s skillful experience, financial security and hopeful dream of becoming a lead designer in female fashion. Linie envisioned keeping her own shop someday, a place where customers could see her talent displayed through a variety of garments, the fashion designs au courant.

The early hour assured Linie wouldn’t be late for work and, aside from her quick attention in producing the garments, the girl possessed an even more valuable trait. Linie didn’t ask questions, often too anxious to explore a new idea to ponder why Scarlett required a hidden pocket sewn into the calf section of her breeches or two layers of leather on the palms of her gloves.

“As always, it is a pleasure.” Felix bowed low as he prepared to leave, his pretense of chivalry somewhat comical. “Until next time.”

“Next time don’t make so much noise if you intend on surprising me. Appear when I least expect it if you’d like to test your skill.” Scarlett spared him a smile and then turned on her heel. Linie’s apartment was still four blocks to the east and she wanted to reach the address without further delay.

Ambrose Cross, fourth Duke of Aylesford, brought his fist down on the ornately carved mahogany desk and glared at his brother seated before him. “This can’t continue.”

“It’s just a loan, Ambrose. A minor sum to tide me over until—”

“That’s what you said last week.” Forcing out a breath composed of equal parts frustration and exhaustion, Aylesford reclaimed his chair in an attempt to gain a better leash on his temper. “Much to my dismay you still possess no purposeful aim and while it’s your right to dally with women, drink to excess and gamble foolishly, you’ve taken privilege too far. Worse yet, the people you surround yourself with are leeches and sycophants who will take your money and muddy your good name.”

Martin appeared disgruntled but Ambrose noticed his brother didn’t disagree.

“You won’t get another farthing from me, never mind two thousand pounds, until you show you’re more accountable with your spending.”

“You’d force me to heel?” Martin eyed his brother with an incredulous expression. “That’s taking privilege too far. Were our parents alive to hear this conversation, you’d be the one in the wrong, abusing your power simply because you were born first and hold the ledger books hostage. It should be noted I would have won at the tables last night if I’d had enough in my pocket to play longer.”

“Come now, Martin. I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night.” Aylesford refused to have this argument yet again. He wouldn’t defend his stance. Nor would he insist their father, if not mother as well, understood the responsibility of the title and the unending effort it took to keep the dukedom solvent and productive. He was tired of watching his hard work and dedication get tossed away on a shake of dice or squandered on ladybirds and liquor.

Yet Martin persisted. “You’d deny me recreation?”

This question burned through Aylesford’s last nerve like a cobweb strung over a flame. “Yes, considering your entire adult life has been composed of nothing but the same.” He stood, his temper ramped another notch, and shoved his chair backward to round the desk and approach his brother. “But I won’t deny you purposeful work. You could oversee the swath of land to the north of our property in Oxford. Once established, you’d confer with the farmers about their upcoming harvest.”

“I don’t know a thing about farming—”

“Neither did I until Father taught me. A steward will educate and guide you until you understand the undertaking. It’s meaningful work instead of the reckless way you while away your days on fanciful amusement and extravagant idleness.”

“What would you know about either? You’re always locked away in your study.” Martin heaved a breath. “That’s a deuced dull way to live.”

“It’s called responsibility. You should introduce yourself to the concept,” Ambrose countered. “While you’re out cavorting and wasting valuable time, I’m answering correspondence concerning the family holdings, providing for our tenants, and reviewing parliamentary matters.”

“You say.” Martin pinched his lips twice as if he couldn’t decide which words to allow out. “But you’ve managed so well, I wouldn’t wish to interfere with whatever system you have in place. Besides, it sounds as if you’re attempting to shirk your duties and put some of that meaningful work on my shoulders. With the title comes the toil. I’ve perfected my purpose and have always considered my expertise to lie in the role of second son. The expendable male. It’s better that way, for both of us.”

Ambrose was too intelligent not to recognize these compliments as excuses, but if Martin believed he could continue to draw on the finances with careless haste, then his brother was about to receive an education nonetheless. “I’m reducing your funds.”

“Reducing? I came in to see you today because I need more.” Martin inflected the final word so determinedly even a bootjack would understand his meaning. “I’m requesting your help. That’s what you do, Ambrose. You help. You help everyone and now I need you to help me.”

“I have helped you. Again, and again, and again to no end. But be assured this is indeed the end. There will be no more expendable cash at your disposal. You’ll need to learn how to live on a budget.”

“A budget?” Martin’s face screwed into a look of abject horror. “But you’re Aylesford. You’re a duke. One of the most powerful men in all England. I’m your brother. We don’t . . . budget.” The last word was tainted by a note of revulsion.

Ambrose waited patiently; however, when his brother remained silent with that same expression of shock etched on his pale features, he continued. “Your funds are being reduced by two thirds, one third of which will repay the woeful debt you’ve already accrued. The other third will be placed into savings for your future. I regret having to treat you like a child, but you’ve left me few choices. You’ll need to make do with one third of what you’re accustomed.”

“One third?”

“One third.” Ambrose couldn’t resist the opportunity to deliver a final lecture replete with sarcasm. “Instead of your nightly entertainment of prostitutes, dice and brandy, from now on it will have to be prostitutes, dice or brandy.”

“Truly, Ambrose?”

“Definitely, Martin. Do you understand and agree? Keep in mind a man is only as honorable as his word.”

“I do.” Martin’s expression fell further. “Deuced. Life will be dull and uneventful.”

“I don’t doubt that it will and that’s exactly what you need.”

Upon entering the narrow hall, the first thing Scarlett noticed was the absolute quiet. Not that any of her early visits were met with conversation or other ambient noises of life, but the eerie silence struck her as a foreboding sign that either Linie wasn’t at home or remained abed, both suggestions unlikely. Never had the girl shown a disregard for her responsibilities and more than once Scarlett had encouraged her to slow down. Working toward a goal was one thing, but exhausting oneself in a race against the clock was quite another.

Entering Linie’s room confirmed Scarlett’s initial misgiving and simultaneously created several more concerns. No lantern burned and the fire lay dead in the grate. It appeared Linie hadn’t spent the night at home. Any presumption she’d stepped out this morning for fresh bread was swiftly dashed. Scarlett lit the lantern so she could see the interior with ease.

Articles of clothing were strewn across the bed as if considered and discarded. None appeared designed for sale. The skirts were part of Linie’s simple, serviceable wardrobe although Scarlett suspected the seamstress tried on all designs, whether intended for herself or others. That would be a temptation too difficult to resist.

A peek into the narrow closet on the opposite wall revealed three satin gowns, all of which showed signs of wear but were so unexpected they forced Scarlett to pause. The necklines were low, the colors and styles garish, and not at all in keeping with Linie’s distinctive appreciation of fashion. But then, what did Scarlett know of the girl other than her talent with a needle and ambitious desire to become London’s most innovative modiste? Perhaps the dresses didn’t belong to her and were hung there in wait of a paying client.

The single window that faced the alley was partially opened, wide enough for Stitches, Linie’s adopted stray, to come and go as she pleased, although the cat’s water bowl was dry and food bowl empty with only a few crumbs crusted around the rim. Further proof Linie hadn’t returned to her rooms for a good length of time. Certainly not since last evening. But then where had she gone? And where was she now? It wasn’t like the girl to neglect her pet or shirk her responsibilities, most especially on a day when Scarlett would retrieve her commissioned garments and pay a handsome sum.

Despite these abnormalities, near the footboard atop an old wooden trunk where Linie often kept Scarlett’s order, the wrapped package waited. What should she make of this? Linie must have expected her visit. What happened to disrupt their planned appointment? Scarlett wasn’t comfortable leaving the payment in the room. The open window as well as an easily picked door latch were all invitations to theft. She would return this evening to pay and confirm everything was as it should be. While Scarlett thrived by balancing on the razor’s edge of danger, she wouldn’t wish for anything untoward to befall her young friend.

“Come now, Martin, your brother is behaving downright priggish.” Kenneth Kilbaren, fellow second son and general ne’er-dowell, leaned his chair back on its rear legs and raised his brandy for another swallow. “It’s easy for those with power and money to be cruel to the lot of us without.”

“I dare say that isn’t exactly accurate, KK, although I know you understand my problem, being in damned low water yourself.” Martin downed the last of his drink, his mind busy in an attempt to rationalize this unexpected upset to his finances. “My brother takes great pride in reputation, opinion and appearance. I suppose all I can do is compromise.”

“In which way exactly?” Kenneth shifted forward and dropped the chair to the floor in a thud loud enough to cause other patrons of Cribb’s Parlor to glance in their direction.

Had his friend paid attention? Kenneth’s mind was known to wander if one went on too long in conversation.

“The way I see it, as a nobleman but not an heir, it’s generally expected I fritter away my time in various forms of excess. Being a second son works to my benefit, KK, as it should to yours. We have the chance to embrace an indulgent life without all the brainwork and paper shuffling that accompanies a musty old title, yet this sudden change of heart by my brother makes that impossible.”

“We’ll just need to be more innovative, won’t we?” Kenneth added, equally invested in the outcome since he so often relied upon Martin to fund their escapades.

“I’m up for the challenge.” Martin nodded with surety. “Aylesford suggested I economize my pleasure and choose one source of nightly entertainment instead of three.”

“Choose between gambling, liquor or women? An interesting proposition that, if I may be so bold.”

“You may.” Martin paused, the seed of a new idea taking root. “Regardless, I still have a few feathers to fly, enough for us to celebrate this newfangled notion with a bang-up evening.”

“I bet we’ll manage brilliantly.”

“I’ll accept that wager.” Martin drew an X in the air. “Now, we’ve gambled, haven’t we?”

Kenneth knocked on the scarred tabletop beside his glass. “And we’ve already imbibed.”

“True, quite true. So, what do you say we treat ourselves to a little bubble and squeak tonight?” Martin grinned, his usual carefree disposition restored. “And I’m not talking about beef and cabbage, my friend.”

“The Scarlet Rose?”

“Only London’s finest brothel for London’s finest second sons.”

“Let me check my schedule.” Kenneth pantomimed donning spectacles as he withdrew an imaginary book from his breast pocket to open and review. “As I suspected, I’ve no sessions to attend in the lofty House of Lords being I don’t hold a seat in Parliament.”

They raised their glasses in celebration of their evening plans. It didn’t matter Martin’s was already empty.

Scarlett made her way to Mortimer Street along Cavendish Square and up the steps into Wycombe and Company, the squat building of sandy limestone and rectangular grid windows unremarkable in comparison to the other fine shops in the vicinity. This establishment was a poky little premise, modest at best, and overshadowed by the adjacent haberdashery. Wycombe’s didn’t sell fashionable trinkets or offer necessary services to its customers because it had no customers and no wares to sell.

On the lower level there was everything one would expect to find within a merchant’s place of business, though it rarely if ever was used. In contrast, abovestairs there were several rooms, a working kitchen, bath chamber and drawing room.

In essence, to all passersby the property was innocuous, but if you happened to be a member of its exclusive population, then the building was indispensable. And so, it was that the nondescript structure of Wycombe and Company existed in plain sight for all of London and no one was the wiser for its importance.

Scarlett entered, cheered to see Julia Wycombe at the writing desk near the far window. Out of necessity Scarlett had kept her cloak drawn around her unconventional narrow-fit trousers as she bustled through London’s busy streets, but the action often left her overheated and now she couldn’t wait to shed the garment.

Julia Wycombe was a widow whose husband, a viscount, had acquired considerable wealth through wise investment. Upon his passing he left everything to his younger brother who had since relocated to America, content to gift the Mortimer Street address and London town house property to Julia. The arrangement smoothed away most every wrinkle when Julia, Scarlett and the other Maidens of Mayhem realized they needed a centrally located and specific meeting place away from their individual homes in order to accommodate their uncommon lifestyle. With society disinclined to allow females to conduct business, own property or invest finances without the consent or participation of a male, the Wycombe building became their fortress of secrets.

“Scarlett, how are you?” Julia turned to glance over her shoulder and then after a swift smile reorganized the papers she’d attended and stood to approach.

“Well enough considering I had my knife drawn before . . .