The Lord and the Wayward Lady

A season of secrets, scandal and seduction in high society!

A darkly dangerous stranger is out for revenge, delivering a silken

rope as his calling card. Through him, a long-forgotten past is stirred to life. The notorious events of 1794 which saw one man murdered and another hanged for the crime are brought into question. Was the culprit brought to justice or is there still a treacherous murderer at large?

As the murky waters of the past are disturbed, so is the Ton ! Milliners and servants find love with rakish lords and proper ladies fall for rebellious outcasts, until finally the true murderer and spy is revealed.

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Silk & Scandal

From glittering ballrooms to a smuggler’s cove in Cornwall, from the wilds of Scotland to a Romany camp and from the highest society to the lowest...

Don’t miss all eight books in this thrilling new series!

LOUISE ALLEN has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional, for as long as she can remember and finds landscapes and places evoke powerful images of the past. Louise divides her time between Bedfordshire and the north Norfolk coast, where she spends as much time as possible with her husband at the cottage they are renovating. With any excuse she’ll take a research trip abroad – Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite atmospheric destinations. Please visit Louise’s website – www.louiseallenregency.co.uk – for the latest news!

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Silk & Scandal

The Lord and the Wayward Lady

Louise Allen

Silk & Scandal

COLLECT ALL EIGHT BOOKS IN THIS WONDERFUL NEW SERIES

The Lord and the Wayward Lady Louise Allen

Paying the Virgin’s Price Christine Merrill

The Smuggler and the Society Bride Julia Justiss

Claiming the Forbidden Bride Gayle Wilson

The Viscount and the Virgin Annie Burrows

Unlacing the Innocent Miss Margaret McPhee

The Officer and the Proper Lady Louise Allen

Taken by the Wicked Rake Christine Merrill

For my fellow Continuistas –

Annie, Christine, Gayle, Julia and Margaret – with love. What a wonderful way to meet!

January 5, 1814. London

‘Just look at that blue sky, guv’nor. Mornin’ like this, all’s right with the world and no mistake.’

‘You must be in love, Dan.’ Marcus Carlow, Viscount Stanegate, observed as he looped his reins and took the corner from Piccadilly into Albemarle Street at a brisk trot.

A waft of onions from behind him accompanied an indignant snort from his tiger. ‘You won’t find me shut up in parson’s pound, guv’nor. Nah, just look at it: all crisp and sunny and fresh. A perfect day—proper lifts the spirits. Nuffin’ could go wrong on a day like this.’

‘After a remark like that, a superstitious man would take to his bed, order the doors to be bolted and expect disaster.’ Marcus grinned, steadying the pair as they took exception to a large party proceeding along the pavement in a flurry of bandboxes and fluttering scarves.

It was a damned good day, Dan was right. The sun shone, the air was crisp, the fog had lifted and the intriguing Mrs Perdita Jensen was showing unmistakeable signs of a willingness to accept his carte blanche.

Yes, if one disregarded a father whose poor health was wearing down his mother’s spirits, one sister whose aim in life appeared to bring him to an early grave with worry, another whose sweet innocence was equally conducive to anxiety, and a brother who, when he was not putting life and limb at risk on the battlefield, was set on becoming the wildest rake in town, then one might, indeed, believe that nothing on earth could go wrong.

Marcus contemplated the day ahead. Luncheon with the family, a meeting with Brocket, the estate manager, up from Hertfordshire with a bulging portfolio of estate business, dinner at his club and then a visit to Mrs Jensen’s discreet apartments to agree terms. Calm, ordered, satisfactory and predictable, just for once.

‘Take the curricle round to the mews, Dan. I won’t be—’ The door of the double-fronted town house burst open as a footman emerged at the run. ‘Peters?’

‘My lord.’ The man pulled himself up at the foot of the steps. ‘Lord Narborough—it looks like another heart stroke, my lord. Mr Wellow said I was to take a hack and fetch the doctor, urgently.’

‘Dan, take the reins.’ Marcus thrust them into the tiger’s hands as the young man scrambled round and into the seat. Marcus vaulted down and pushed the footman up beside Dan. ‘If Dr Rowlands isn’t at home, find where he has gone and bring him.’

He took the steps two at a time and caught the closing front door. The hall was in turmoil. Richards, the youngest footman, was wringing his hands and declaring that it wasn’t his fault, the young lady looked respectable enough and how was he to know she was a murdering hussy? Wellow, the butler, was demanding of Felling, the earl’s elderly valet, where his lordship’s drops were, and at the foot of the stairs three young women were engaged in a noisy argument.