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  “I see that you have a reckless flirtation with ruination,” Tristan remarked

  “So it would seem,” Annica replied. “Or could it be that you have a talent for catching me at my worst?”

  “Are you ever at anything else?” he parried.

  “If that is what you think, I wonder that you bother with me, m’lord.” She felt the cut to her slowly awakening heart.

  “Were it not for our contract, I wonder if I would.”

  “I release you from your obligation. Destroy our contract.”

  “You would like that, would you not? Then you could avoid the issue at hand.”

  “I do not know what you mean,” she faltered, knowing full well what he was suggesting.

  He stopped mere inches from her, and his eyes met hers directly, forbidding her the escape of looking away. “I think you are very aware of what is happening here, Annica…!”

  Harlequin Historicals is delighted to introduce Gail Ranstrom and her intriguing debut title,

  A Wild Justice

  Harlequin Historical #617

  #615 THE TEXAN

  Carolyn Davidson

  #616 AN HONORABLE THIEF

  Anne Gracie

  #618 THE BRIDE’S REVENGE

  Anne Avery

  GAIL RANSTROM

  A Wild Justice

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  GAIL RANSTROM

  A Wild Justice #617

  For Jerry, who taught me that love heals. Always in all ways, my love.

  With special acknowledgment to the original Wednesday League. Rosanne, Margaret and Donna, who kept me encouraged, focused and laughing. Ladies, you’re the best. Let’s do this again.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  London, 1816

  The library doors were locked and a copy of Miss Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility lay open on the low table. Lady Annica Sayles took her place on the forest-green sofa and nodded at the other four women. “I hereby call this meeting of the Wednesday League to order. Shall we proceed to the business at hand?”

  Charity Wardlow put her teacup aside and sat forward, her blue eyes twinkling as they swept over Lady Sarah, Grace, and Constance. “’Nica and I followed Mr. Farmingdale last night. He went to the bordello again. We followed him inside this time.”

  “What did you see?” Constance Bennington asked, ignoring the gasps of the others, her dark eyes wide with admiration for their daring.

  “Mr. Bouldin arranged for the…abbess, a woman named Naughty Alice, to take us to a secret room behind the paneling of one of the rooms. There were peepholes, and we could see and hear everything that transpired. Everything!”

  Annica nodded. “Mr. Farmingdale sat at a desk, pen in hand and staring at an open ledger. A woman, clad in…well, bows in the most interesting places, lounged on a settee. He told her to fetch him sherry, and she cringed when he spoke to her. The cad actually laughed! He relished her fear.”

  Constance sighed, trying to smooth her wiry red hair into the ribbon it had escaped. “Many men frequent brothels and are cruel. Though it is in poor taste, society turns a blind eye as long as they are discreet. How does this help us, ’Nica?”

  “’Twas what he said, Constance. He said, ‘I own this place, and that means I own you. Do as I say, or suffer the consequences.’” She waited for the import of her words to register.

  Grace Forbush, an elegant widow in her early-thirties, was the first to respond. “Good heavens! Do you mean to say that Farmingdale is engaged in trade? How…déclassé!”

  Annica smoothed the folds of her lavender gown. “More than mere ‘trade,’ Grace. Farmingdale is a flesh peddler. Naughty Alice said he had done something that even she could not ignore, and that is why she agreed to help us. I urged, but she would not tell me what he’d done. I think we must assume it was every bit as wicked as what he and the others did to you, Sarah.”

  Constance drew a long breath. “Should this be whispered abroad, Farmingdale would be quite beyond redemption. His entrée to polite society would be withdrawn. Invitations would be withheld, and he would be fortunate not to be challenged for even addressing a female in our circle.”

  Lady Sarah Hunter frowned and tucked an unruly chestnut curl behind one ear. Her violet eyes deepened as she recalled the incident. “I hate what he did to me, and I hate that I cannot leave my house without fearing that I will encounter him, but…”

  Annica leaned forward in earnest. “If it were possible for any of us to obtain justice through the courts, we really would be discussing Sense and Sensibility this afternoon. But you know what society would do with the knowledge that you were attacked. You would be the social outcast. You would be the one to suffer for it.”

  “Farmingdale is the third man of four who assaulted you last autumn,” Constance reminded her. “You did not balk at punishing the first two.”

  “But you must decide, Sarah,” Charity Wardlow offered. “’Tis your vengeance and, therefore, your wishes we obey.”

  “Use the information,” Sarah said with a brave tilt of her chin and a voice choked with emotion. “Once it is out, Mr. Farmingdale will surely have to leave London.”

  “And you will be able to breathe again.” Annica smiled. “We shall begin tonight, at the Worthingdon soiree.”

  Constance looked over the rim of her cup with an air of drama. “Before we adjourn, I must put another matter before you. While reading the Times this morning, I stumbled upon a story that reports a woman has gone missing.”

  “What sort of woman?” Grace asked.

  “I believe she is governess to a family in the Kensington district. And she is the third woman to go missing this month.”

  “Hmm, I wonder where she has gone?” Charity mused.

  “Puzzling,” Annica agreed. “Who reported her absence? Her employer?”

  “Yes. It would appear she is without family. Just the sort we are sworn to champion. As we are nearly done with Sarah’s cause, I thought we might take on a new project. Shall we look into the matter?”

  “Aye!” The vote was unanimous.

  “Oh, this wild justice is everything, is it not?” Annica exclaimed. “Richard Farmingdale is about to pay for what he did to our Sarah.”

  Chapter One

  “You asked which of the women present tonight has a reputation for intelligence, capability and loyalty,” Julius Lingate said, nodding toward a woman at the far end of the Worthingdons’ ballroom. “Lady Annica Sayles fits that description to the letter.”

  “Go on,” Tristan Sinclair, eighth earl of Auberville, interjected, studying the slender line of the woman’s back, the dark hair with red glints secured in a tidy chignon at her nape, and the graceful sway of peacock-blue satin as she strolled beside a fair-haired young lady.

  “Not much is known about her life in Sussex before coming to live in London. By all accounts her father—”

  “The earl?”

  Julius nodded and continued, “—was a souse and a particularly unpleasant man. He was in his cups when he insisted on
driving the family carriage home from a visit to the vicar’s. He came round a bend too fast and tipped the fool thing over. Killed himself and his wife. The valet, who was riding inside when the earl took his place on the box, threw Lady Annica clear, but ’tis said she was never the same afterward. The valet still limps. Lady Annica steadfastly refuses to discuss the event.”

  “Interesting. And then?”

  “The title and ancestral estate went to her uncle Thomas, who is her guardian. She has her mother’s estates and property, and has even controlled them for the past three years.”

  “How long ago was the accident?”

  “She was not quite sixteen, so…nine years ago.”

  “Young for such hurts,” Tristan mused, remembering his experiences with betrayal and loss at the hands of his mother. He’d promised himself then that he’d never trust or need a woman again. He’d marry—that much was inescapable for a man in his position—but he wouldn’t need a woman.

  “She buried herself in her art, her books and politics, acquired a reputation as a bluestocking, took up a variety of causes and reforms,” Julius droned on. “That’s where the problems come in. She has barely managed to stay on the right side of scandal.”

  Tristan smiled and relaxed. A woman with her own commitments would have little time to demand a depth of commitment he was not willing to give. “I owe you my gratitude, Jules. You have confirmed my own information.” He watched the object of their conversation shake her head and send a young man away with a wave of her hand.

  “It couldn’t have been easy—orphaned, alone, humiliated by the scandal over her father’s behavior,” Julius continued.

  “According to my sources, she was bloody magnificent! She neither confirmed nor denied the rumors.” His quarry turned to acknowledge an acquaintance, and he was momentarily dazzled. Even at this distance, he could see the exact color of her wide, sparkling eyes—brownish evergreen, the precise shade of pine trees and wooded glens. In them was a solitary gleam that could not be disguised—the look of a soul who did not believe in love, who did not expect it. The look only a fellow cynic would recognize. Bloody magnificent, indeed!

  A delicate pink stained her cheeks and her full mouth curved in a delicious smile that begged ravishment. He drew in a sharp breath. Had he known Lady Annica Sayles was so stunning, he’d not have wasted time making further inquiries. Oh yes, she’d do nicely. “She hasn’t had suitors? That is difficult to believe.”

  “To the contrary, she’s had suitors coming out of the woodwork. She smiles sweetly and then makes quick work of them. You saw what happened to that young man—and I’d wager all he asked for was a dance.”

  Tristan’s hands tightened on the balustrade of the staircase landing. “She is rude?”

  “Nay! Her manners are impeccable. One would have to experience the chill to comprehend my meaning.” Julius grinned.

  “Have you?”

  “Indeed! Yet we’ve been cordial since. Now confess. What’s behind your fascination with Lady Annica Sayles?”

  “I’ve been busy settling my father’s estate in Devon since resigning my commission. Now that all is running smoothly, I am ready to turn my attention to acquiring a wife and begetting an heir. The lady would appear to meet my requirements.”

  Julius coughed, spraying a mouthful of wine over the landing’s Oriental carpet. “Wife? Good God, Auberville! You’d do better to court the queen! You cannot be serious.”

  Tristan thumped him on the back. “If I did not need an heir, I would not marry at all. Women are risky, at best. I want one who will offer the least amount of trouble and not require supervision. In short, I want a capable woman.”

  “Least amount of trouble? Have you heard a single word I’ve said?” Julius was incredulous. “Lady Annica isn’t suitable at all. She’s no biddable miss. With no parents to set her limits, she sets her own. She is beyond capable—she is headstrong. Good God, Tris—she gambles at cards! I believe James Stanford saw her ‘blow a cloud’ in Bennington’s game room. She is considered a bluestocking. ’Tis whispered she has been known to wear trousers. She has political views and speaks them. She is engaged in social reform and is not received in certain circles as a result.”

  “That will change when she is Lady Auberville. And if one must be bound to a woman for life, she should at least be able to function adequately without constant instruction or supervision, and carry on a conversation regarding subjects other than gowns and social events. A woman I can talk to, Jules. Is that too much to ask?”

  Julius raised his eyebrows heavenward. “Lady Annica is unmarried by choice, not lack of offers. If you are set on her, you had better prepare for a fight.”

  Lady Annica and her companion paused just beneath their position on the landing. Two other women joined them and they all bent their heads together, their voices dropping to whispers—exchanging some piece of feminine confidence, no doubt. Lady Annica was so lovely and delicate that he could scarcely envision her engaging in the activities Julius described. She laughed at something her companion said, and the delightfully wicked sound sent shivers up his spine.

  He had been undecided until a few moments ago. But now, having heard her laugh, he was certain that, if he did not marry her, he would at least know how to provoke that sound. He had some interesting ideas even now.

  “Once she learns your intentions, you are not likely to gain entry to her salon,” Julius whispered.

  Tristan smiled. Diplomacy, strategic planning and expediency were his forte. “Do you think I should give her a sporting chance?”

  “That would be quite decent of you, Tris.” His friend shot him a wry grin. “’Tis more than she’d give you, and I’ve never known you to give an edge away. Egad! The wagers that will be laid on this. I can’t wait to see the carnage. Lady Annica and Auberville! Shall I introduce you now?”

  Tristan smiled, the excitement of the game rising in him. “No. I’d wager the indirect approach would be best. I know her uncle, Lord Thomas Sayles. He may be of some use to me.”

  Tristan’s lips curved in what his enemies called his “predatory smile” when he caught sight of Thomas Sayles, seventh earl of Lakehurst, reading the Times in the lounge of White’s Club for Gentlemen the following afternoon. This was like the old days in Tunis—diplomacy and negotiations, cat and mouse. Not the bloody covert activities he engaged in now.

  “Ah, there you are, Thomas. Hendricks said I might find you here,” he said in greeting.

  His target, a middle-aged man with a gray mustache and balding head, looked up and gave him a distracted smile. “Auberville. Haven’t seen you for a good long while, lad. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No. Just came to pay my respects and say goodbye.”

  Lord Sayles perked up and gestured to the deep club chair across from him. He waved for a silent waiter to bring a glass of claret for his guest. “Going somewhere?”

  “I shall be removing to Devon before long.”

  “Can’t retreat this early in the season, lad. What will the ladies say if you do not give them a fair chance at you? Lucy mentioned your name as one of the season’s most eligible.”

  “Your wife flatters me, Thomas, but for now I have other things on my mind.”

  “What might that be?”

  He gave a lazy shrug, leading the conversation. “Deuced nuisance, really. I’ve been trying to find an illustrator for a publication on flowering shrubs indigenous to the Cornish coast. All the best artists are contracted. Perhaps I’ll have better luck in Devon.”

  “Have you tried Beetleson?”

  Evidently Thomas was going to need some guiding. “I was hoping to find an original approach. So many of these books have been done that I fear mine will be lost in the stacks unless I have a fresh presentation.” Tristan sighed. “I tell you, Thomas, I’d be willing to accept a dilettante at this point.”

  “Dilettante, eh? The Ladies Art Society awarded my niece, Annica, a First in oils and waterco
lors two years running. The watercolor in the foyer here is one of hers.”

  “Your niece?” Tristan appeared to consider this for a moment. “Would she engage in such an undertaking? Most women do not want to enter a business arrangement.”

  “This is the very thing that would appeal to ’Nica. She has become a most unusual woman.”

  “Would her husband allow her to accompany me—chaperoned, of course—to the sites of several specimens?”

  “Annica is not married, Auberville. As her guardian, I would not object at all. She could use some outings in male company. She is with her bluestocking friends too much.”

  “I would be interested in talking to her, Thomas. I shall send her a note requesting an interview.”

  “No!” Thomas raised one hand in a gesture of interdiction. “I wouldn’t warn her, were I you. Drop in tomorrow afternoon. Use my name. She will see you as a courtesy to me.”

  Tristan assumed an air of deep thought. “If you are certain, Thomas. I wouldn’t want to put the lady out.”

  “She’d relish the opportunity to prove herself as capable as a man. Be warned, though—she is an unconventional female. She can be quite curt. Doesn’t mean anything by it, but doesn’t like to waste her time, she says. Good thing you’re not a timid man.”

  Tristan raised his glass again. “I have dealt with brusque people ere now, Thomas, but thank you for the warning.”

  Annica set her watering can aside and lifted the gilt-edged calling card from the silver tray. “Tristan Sinclair, Lord Auberville.” She flipped the card over to read the scrawled message, “Referred by Lord Thomas Sayles.”

  She’d heard of the man who was taking London by storm. She raised her eyebrows. What could society’s darling want with her? Still, his credentials were impeccable, and she knew her uncle Thomas would be appalled if she declined to receive him.

  “Show him to me, Hodgeson,” she said in a resigned tone. The greenhouse was an unlikely place to receive callers, but he had not made an appointment, after all.