The Viscount of Shadows (The Rakes of St. Regent's Park #6)
KG Publishing
Release date: Nov 14, 2023
Cover by EDH Professionals
BLURB
Oliver Wollstonecraft, Viscount Tensbridge, and recent member of The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park, has a secret: he leads a double life. He sits on a progressive parliamentary committee by day, crafting laws to benefit the less fortunate. But by night, Oliver tests those values, acting as The Sentinel, a masked protector of the underprivileged. Nothing shakes his stoic resolve until he comes to the aid of a bold and fiery woman who turns out to be a lady detective. She awakens emotions Oliver believed were well hidden.
Claudia Ellingford has secrets of her own. The illegitimate daughter of a villainous duke, she spent the past ten years surviving on the streets. Recently hired by The Galway Investigative Agency, Claudia relishes her exciting new occupation. But nothing prepared her for seeing a masked man lurking in the shadows and patrolling the alleys of a notorious section of London. What is more shocking is that the stuffy viscount who hired her is the vigilante that stirred her dormant desire.
Claudia and Oliver become swept up into a perilous situation, with a vicious criminal determined to discover The Sentinel’s true identity. But what is also in danger is their hearts, facing their doubts, and finding a path to lasting happiness.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Vigilante viscount! Lady Detective!
EXCERPT:
Claudia scanned the crowd and located Nottingham. By all
accounts, he was good-looking if your preference ran toward smug, middle-aged
elites. The baronet already had a pint of bitter in one hand and a plump woman
in the other. He buried his face in the woman’s generous bosom, his mouth
latching on to the barely-revealed nipple peeking out of her low-cut blouse.
The woman laughed naughtily, whispering in his ear. Someone grabbed
Claudia’s shoulder and spun her about, pulling the shawl from around her head.
The garment fluttered to the ground. Three men stood before her; their gazes were
lascivious and threatening. She had expected this, as a woman alone was unsafe
in this area.
“Here, sod off and all!” she yelled, using her Irish accent.
“I belong to Grindhouse Pete, eh? So, you’d best shove off and leave me be, you
bleedin’ muckshites!” Claudia had no idea if Grindhouse Pete was still in
control of this part of the rookery, but the men’s hesitation meant the name
still carried some weight.
“Pete won’t mind if we have a taste,” one man rumbled. “I’ve
never had me a redhead afore. Wonder if she’s red—down there?” The other men
chuckled salaciously.
“A taste?” She slowly raised the hem of her frayed plaid
dress, giving the men a flash of leg. Claudia stealthily reached for her knife.
“A taste of what, ducks?”
With the men now distracted, she grabbed the knife from her
rawhide holder and swung around in an arc, making contact.
One of the men screamed, his hand covered his cheek. Blood
oozed between his fingers. “The bitch cut me!”
Before Claudia could react or reply, someone dropped down from
above. In a flash of dark leather, the tall man—she assumed it was a man
considering the width of the shoulders and the muscular build—battered one of
her attackers with what appeared to be a truncheon.
He then spun to face the other men, pulling a large dagger
from his coat. “This is my territory,” the muffled voice dangerously hissed as
he held the blade to one of the men’s throats. “Leave now if you want to live.”
The men needed no further inducement. They grabbed the
beaten man, brought him to his feet, and hurried out of the alley. The tall man
turned to face her as he tucked the knife away.
His territory?
Be damned if she would wait for this leather-clad rookery
boss to lay his hands on her. Claudia lifted her leg and kicked him right in
the bollocks. Or at least she hoped so, as ascertaining the target remained
challenging in the dark. She must have made at least partial contact as the man
descended on one knee, his breath expelling in wheezing gasps.
“I was trying to help you,” he bit out.
“I don’t need any assistance,” she replied, speaking in her
own voice. “I had the matter under control. Who are you?”
The man grunted as he stood. “The Sentinel, at your
service.”
What?
“You’re a vigilante? Really? Why?” Vigilantes were not
unheard of in the seedier sections of London, and many people considered them a
necessity, considering there were segments of the city that coppers refused to
police. Someone had to protect the poor. But Claudia thought those urban tales
came from a London of long ago. How interesting.
“And who are you?” he asked, disregarding her
questions.
She took a step closer to get a better look. The man was
encased in leather from head to toe, from the long coat, waistcoat, shirt,
trousers, boots, and scarf around his head. Claudia could not tell if the mask
hiding his facial features was leather. Perhaps not. He slipped his truncheon
into his belt, the dagger under his coat, then pulled his floppy hat lower over
his brow to conceal his eyes.
Claudia reached into her cleavage and handed a card to him.
“I am with The Galway Investigative Agency. Sorry about the kick. I thought you
were a rookery boss.”
“I’ll live,” he mumbled. Claudia surmised that he took the
card and slipped it in his coat pocket, for it was too dark to read the thing
anyway. “Then go about your investigating and be gone. It is not safe
hereabouts. And you shouldn’t carry anything that can identify you.”
“I am aware it is not safe,” she bellowed. Although Leather
Man had a point about the card, she would never admit it aloud. Althea and
Eleanora had mentioned it might be best not to carry identification. Claudia
should have surmised they meant the business cards as well. Live and learn.
He stepped toward her, but Claudia held her ground. He
clasped her arm and brought her in close enough that she caught a brief and
faint whiff of bergamot and lime. She always had an excellent sense of smell.
The odor was an expensive men’s cologne, meaning this man was not working
class. Though the mask muffled his voice, he did not have the cadence of the
lower stations of society.
She raised her chin defiantly, catching his gaze—and a brief
glimpse of light-colored eyes, though she could not quite make out the shade.
Blue, gray, or green? It was hard to tell. The Sentinel pulled her into the
shadows, causing her to gasp and grab his arm. Solid muscle flexed under her
grasp.
“A further word of advice,” the deep, muted voice intoned.
“Before kicking men in the bollocks, ascertain if they are friend or foe.” He
nuzzled her neck, causing a frisson of awareness to pass through her. And a jolt
of excitement.
He released her arm and stepped farther back into the
darkness.
“I will do as I like!” she called out.
But she was talking to damp, foggy air. The Sentinel
had disappeared.
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