Authors: Escapade
Kasey Michaels
Escapade
Kasey Michaels
“Kasey Michaels creates characters
who stick with you long after her wonderful stories are told. Her books are always on my nightstand.”
—Kay Hooper,
NYT
bestselling author
“A master storyteller.”
—
Romantic Times
“A writing style, voice, and sense of humor perfectly suited to the era and the genre.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Delicious... a thoroughly delightful historical romance. A pleasurable read.”
—
Booklist
“There is so much wit and wisdom in the pages of
Indiscreet
that you’ll be filled with wonder, and giggling all the while. Kasey Michaels returns with all the hallmarks that have made her a Regency romance treasure: humor, unforgettable characters, and a take on the era few others possess. Sheer reading pleasure!”
—Kathe Robin,
Romantic Times
“Ms. Michaels has written the best and funniest prologue that I’ve ever read. This sets the tone for the entire book. The hero is perfect, the heroine is outstanding, add Kasey Michaels’s humorous trademark, and you have a winner.”
—
Rendezvous
“[A] lively romp... a well-plotted, humorous story filled with a bevy of delightful supporting characters.”
—
Library Journal
“So appealing... brilliantly described... [A] fabulous tale.”
—Harriet Klausner,
Affaire de Coeur
“5 Bells! Ms. Michaels keeps the fun coming.”
—
Bell, Book and Candle
“A charming, lighthearted romp. Kasey Michaels has given Regency fans another well-rounded, delightful love story.”
—
Bookbug on the Web
Original Print Edition published, 1999
Copyright 1999 by Kasey Michaels
Electronic Edition Copyright 2013: Kathryn A. Seidick
Electronically published by Kathryn A. Seidick, 2013
Cover art by Tammy Seidick Design,
www.tammyseidickdesign.com
EBook Design by
A Thirsty Mind
, 2013
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author.
To Mary McBride, whose spirit soars free as the eagle’s;
To Leslie LaFoy, whose X-ray vision slices through steel walls;
To Kay Hooper, who can leap obstacles in a single bound;
And to Fayrene Preston, whose loving heart sees the Superman in us all.
Now Available:
Kasey’s “Alphabet” Regency Romance Classics
The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane
The Playful Lady Penelope
The Haunted Miss Hampshire
The Belligerent Miss Boynton
The Lurid Lady Lockport
The Rambunctious Lady Royston
The Mischievous Miss Murphy
Moonlight Masquerade
A Difficult Disguise
The Savage Miss Saxon
The Ninth Miss Noddenly, a novella
The Somerville Farce
The Wagered Miss Winslow
Kasey’s Historical Regencies
A Masquerade in the Moonlight
Indiscreet
Escapade
but to make sport for our neighbours,
and laugh at them in our turn?
—Jane Austen
A Dainty Entertainment...
Tweedledum and Tweedledee
Agreed to have a battle;
For Tweedledum said Tweedledee
Had spoilt his nice new rattle.
—Charles Lutwidge Dodgson
very good company, and of a very
ready and pleasant smooth wit.
—John Aubrey
Chapter One
S
imon Roxbury, Viscount Brockton, put his hat upon his head and gave it a smart tap, setting it at its usual rakish angle, and stood on the deserted flagway, surveying his surroundings. He took a deep breath of the damp, dripping London air that promised a heavy rain before morning, lifting his head so that his face was revealed by the flambeaux on either side of the door to the gaming hell he’d quit a moment earlier.
Physically, His Lordship was a tall man who cast a long shadow. Strong, well built, and devilishly handsome into the bargain. His proud mother could boast of her only son’s remarkable sherry-colored eyes and his flattering mane of darkest brown hair that had a simply delectable way of waving about his forehead and neck. His sideburns were the private envy of many of his acquaintance.
Added to his physical attributes was his wit—his rather sardonic wit—his, generous fortune, his impeccable lineage and breeding. In short, the man could safely be termed as nearly perfect. Or he would be, according to a majority of the debutantes and their ambitious mamas who frequented the London Season, if only he were more interested in the wondrous institution of marriage. Which he most assuredly was not, and didn’t plan to be so for many years to come.
Still, even considering his stubborn reluctance to make some simpering miss the happiest creature in the world, Viscount Brockton remained a prime physical specimen as he stood waiting for his coach to pull up to the curb. It had only just gone three, and he’d left his two good friends behind him to gamble the night away. For himself, he had been more than ready to quit the hell, his objective for the evening accomplished. While his mission could be begun in an evening, it couldn’t be settled in that same short time span.
But that didn’t matter. He was in no hurry.
This was another of Simon Roxbury’s commendable attributes. He was a patient man. So patient, in fact, that he only smiled as his coachman pulled to the curb and the groom jumped down to help His Lordship with the door, apologizing for not having arrived sooner. There had been a small problem with the brake of the coach, the groom told him.
“A little bit of mizzle won’t melt me,” the viscount assured the sleepy-eyed groom, then mounted the steps the man had pulled down and launched himself forward, into the interior of his coach... where he abruptly found himself face-to-face with a loaded pistol.
“Sit down, sir, and tell your coachman to drive on,” the dark shape behind the pistol ordered in a gruff but still unmistakably female whisper.
Simon turned his head, looking back out the door to where the groom stood not five feet away, oblivious to his predicament.
“Don’t do it, I warn you, or I’ll blow a hole straight through your head and laugh as your brains splatter all over this coach.”
“What an unpalatable image,” Simon remarked quietly, his mind already dismissing the possibility of being shot in order to concentrate on
not
being shot.
He could probably let go of his two-handed grip on either side of the doorway to the coach, propelling himself backward onto the flagway as the bullet went whizzing harmlessly over his head and straight into the door of the gaming hell he had so recently vacated. Probably. But, as the pistol was rather heavy, and its owner noticeably nervous as she struggled to hold it with both hands, he could also end up being shot dead before he hit the ground.
“Very well,” he said quietly, so that the groom would not hear him and investigate. “I’ll sit down now, if you’ll withdraw that evil-looking toy a bit, madam?”
“It’s not a toy, and I would prefer you did not call me madam, for I am no woman, sir,” his captor responded, as he levered himself into his seat across from her and the door closed behind him, locking them together in the darkness. “Now, order your coachman to drive on.”
“Of course you’re not a woman,” Simon agreed as affably as possible. It was always best, he believed, to humor lunatics—at least until they were disarmed. “How could I be so blind? You’re a regular brute of a fellow, aren’t you, at least in your heart and spirit? Pity that you’ve been cursed with so much of the feminine sex about you. And the voice and language of a well-bred female to boot. Yes, a man might be forgiven for believing you to be a female, although I don’t believe I, myself, can remember too many proper young misses with a penchant for pistols. Such a shame. If you’re a penniless second son embarked on a life of crime, I imagine being constantly mistaken for a female must prove no end of sorrow to you.”