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  “ANYONE WHO LOVES ROMANCE MUST READ SABRINA JEFFRIES!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas

  HELLIONS OF HALSTEAD HALL

  The “captivating” (Booklist) and “essential”

  (Library Journal) new series from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

  SABRINA JEFFRIES

  Praise for

  THE TRUTH ABOUT LORD STONEVILLE

  “Jeffries pulls out all the stops with a story combining her hallmark humor, poignancy and sensuality to perfection.”

  —Romantic Times

  “The first in a captivating new Regency-set series by the always entertaining Jeffries, this tale has all of the author’s signature elements: delectably witty dialogue, subtly named characters, and scorching sexual chemistry between two perfectly matched protagonists.”

  —Booklist

  “Lively repartee, fast action, luscious sensuality, and an abundance of humor make the first installment of the Hellions of Halstead Hall essential for libraries.”

  —Library Journal

  This title is also available as an eBook

  “The Truth About Lord Stoneville has the special brand of wit and passion for which Sabrina Jeffries is recognized, where each enthralling scene will thoroughly capture your imagination.”

  —singletitles.com

  “Sabrina Jeffries excels in the historical romance genre, and The Truth About Lord Stoneville is no exception.… Starts another excellent series of books which will alternatively have you laughing, crying and running the gamut of emotions.… Enjoy Oliver’s transformation from unreformed rake to devoted husband, and I guarantee you will have a tear in your eye.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  More acclaim for Sabrina Jeffries and the “warm, wickedly witty”

  (Romantic Times) novels in her national bestselling series

  THE SCHOOL FOR HEIRESSES

  WED HIM BEFORE YOU BED HIM

  “Includes all the sweet, sexy charm and lively action readers have come to expect, and true love triumphs over all obstacles. . . . Bravo to Jeffries.”

  —Library Journal

  “An enchanting story brimming with touchingly sincere emotions and compelling scenarios. . . . An outstanding love story of emotional discoveries and soaring passions, with a delightful touch of humor plus suspense.”

  —singletitles.com

  DON’T BARGAIN WITH THE DEVIL

  “The sexual tension crackles across the pages of this witty, deliciously sensual, secret-laden story. . . . Teases readers with hints of the long-awaited final chapter, Wed Him Before You Bed Him.”

  —Library Journal

  LET SLEEPING ROGUES LIE

  “Consummate storyteller Jeffries pens another title in the School for Heiresses series that is destined to captivate readers with its sensuality and wonderfully enchanting plot.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars)

  “Scandal, gossip, greed, and old enmities spice up the pot in this fast-paced sexy romp that bubbles over with Jeffries’s trademark humor and spirit. . . . Sparkling dialogue, stirring sexual chemistry, and an engrossing story.”

  —Library Journal

  BEWARE A SCOT’S REVENGE

  “Irresistible. . . . Larger-than-life characters, sprightly dialogue, and a steamy romance will draw you into this delicious captive/captor tale.”

  —Romantic Times (Top Pick)

  “Exceptionally entertaining and splendidly sexy.”

  —Booklist

  Also by Sabrina Jeffries

  The Hellions of Halstead Hall Series

  The Truth About Lord Stoneville

  The School for Heiresses Series

  Wed Him Before You Bed Him

  Don’t Bargain with the Devil

  Snowy Night with a Stranger (with Jane Feather and

  Julia London)

  Let Sleeping Rogues Lie

  Beware a Scot’s Revenge

  The School for Heiresses (with Julia London, Liz

  Carlyle, and Renee Bernard)

  Only a Duke Will Do

  Never Seduce a Scoundrel

  The Royal Brotherhood Series

  One Night with a Prince

  To Pleasure a Prince

  In the Prince’s Bed

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Star Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Sabrina Jeffries, LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Star Books paperback edition October 2010

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Illustration by Alan Ayers; handlettering by Iskra Johnson.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6754-0

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6757-1 (ebook)

  To the two women who’ve been essential to

  my career from the beginning: Micki Nuding, otherwise known as

  Super Editor, and Pamela Gray Ahearn, aka Super Agent. I greatly

  appreciate your using your superpowers on my behalf !

  And to Claudia Dain, Deb Marlowe, Liz Carlyle, Caren Crane Helms,

  and Rexanne Becnel—ya’ll are the best friends an author could

  ever wish for. Thanks for always talking me off the ledge!

  A Hellion in Her Bed

  Prologue

  Eton College

  1806

  Thirteen-year-old Lord Jarret Sharpe didn’t want to spend the night in hell. He glanced out the coach window at the moon and shuddered. It must be nearly eight—they would arrive at Eton just when the boys were being locked into the Long Chamber. And hell would begin.

  Tugging at his black cravat, he looked over at his grandmother. What could he say to make her change her mind? Six months ago, she’d carried them off to live with her in London—away from Halstead Hall, the best place in the whole world. She wouldn’t take him to the brewery with her anymore. And she made him go to horrible school. All because of how Mother and Father had died.

  A chill froze his soul and he felt like something had died in him, too. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep … he couldn’t even cry.

  What kind of monster was he? Even his older brother Oliver had cried at the funeral. Jarret wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Not even late at night, during his nightmares about Father in the coffin.

  He’d read the newspaper accounts of how the bullet had “shattered his lordship’s face,” and he couldn’t forget that image. Bad enough that
he was still haunted by seeing Mother, stiff and pale, lying in the casket with her snowy gown covering her bullet wound. Every time he thought of what Father’s closed casket must mean, he could hardly breathe.

  “Tell Oliver I expect him to write me every week, do you hear?” Gran said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” A sharp pain seized his chest. He’d always secretly believed he was Gran’s favorite. But not anymore.

  “And you, too, of course,” she added, her voice softening.

  “I don’t want to go to school!” he burst out. When her eyebrows lifted, he added hastily, “I want to stay home. I want to go to the brewery every day with you.”

  “Jarret, my boy—”

  “No, listen!” He mangled the mourning gloves in his lap as his words came out in a rush. “Grandfather said I’ll inherit the brewery, and I already know everything about it. I know how the mash is made and how long to roast the barley. And I’m good at math—you said so yourself. I could learn to manage the books.”

  “I’m sorry, lad, but that’s just not wise. It was wrong of me and your grandfather to encourage your interest in the brewery. Your mother didn’t want that for you, and she was right. She married a marquess precisely because she wanted greater things for her children than mucking around some brewery.”

  “You muck around it,” he protested.

  “Because I have to. Because it’s the primary support for you children until your parents’ estate is settled.”

  “But I could help!” He yearned to be of some use to his family. Plumtree Brewery was far better than learning about who crossed the Nile and how to conjugate Latin; what good were those to him?

  “You can help more by taking up a respectable profession, the kind you can only get at Eton. You were born to be someone far greater—a barrister or a bishop. I could even bear your being in the army or the navy, if that’s what you wanted.”

  “I don’t want to be a soldier,” he said, appalled. The very thought of holding a pistol made his stomach roil. Mother had accidentally shot Father with a pistol. Then she had shot herself.

  That part was confusing. Gran had told the newspaper that when Mother had seen Father dead by her hand, she got so sad that she shot herself. It didn’t make sense to him, but Gran had ordered them not to speak of it again, so he didn’t. Not even to ask questions.

  It hurt something awful to think of Mother shooting herself. How could she have left the five of them alone? If she had lived, she might have let him have tutors at home, and he could have kept going to the brewery with Gran.

  His throat tightened. It wasn’t fair!

  “Not a soldier, then,” Gran said kindly. “Perhaps a barrister. With your sharp mind, you could be a fine barrister.”

  “I don’t want to be a barrister! I want to run the brewery with you!”

  Nobody at the brewery ever said nasty things to him. The brewers treated him like a man. They would never call Mother “the Halstead Hall Murderess.” They wouldn’t tell vile lies about Oliver.

  When he realized Gran was watching him, he smoothed the frown from his face.

  “Does this have to do with the fights you got into at school?” Gran asked with worry in her voice. “Your headmaster said he’s had to punish you nearly every week for fighting. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  A look of extreme discomfort crossed her face. “If the other boys are saying nasty things about your parents, I can speak to the headmaster—”

  “No, damn it!” he cried, panicked that she could read him so well. She mustn’t speak to the headmaster—that would only make everything worse!

  “Do not curse at me. Come now, you can tell Gran. Is that why you don’t want to go back to school?”

  He stuck out his lower lip. “I just don’t like studying, is all.”

  Her sharp gaze searched his face. “So you’re lazy?”

  He said nothing. Better to be branded a laggard than a tattletale.

  She gave a heavy sigh. “Well, not liking to study is no reason to come home. Boys never like to study. But it is good for them. If you apply yourself and work hard, you will do well in life. Don’t you want to do well?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

  “Then I am sure you will.” She glanced out the coach window. “Ah, here we are.”

  Jarret’s throat closed up. He wanted to beg her not to make him go, but once Gran made up her mind, no one could change it. And she didn’t want him at the brewery. No one wanted him anywhere, anymore.

  They left the coach and walked to the headmaster’s office. She signed him in while a servant brought his trunk upstairs to the Long Chamber.

  “Promise me you won’t get into any more fights,” Gran said.

  “I promise,” he said dully. What did it matter if it was a lie? What did anything matter?

  “That’s a good lad. Oliver arrives tomorrow. You’ll feel better once he is here.”

  He bit back a hot retort. Oliver tried to look out for him, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Besides, at sixteen, Oliver spent all his time brooding and drinking with his older friends. Tonight he wouldn’t be here at all.

  Another shudder wracked Jarret.

  “Now give Gran a kiss and tell me good-bye,” she said softly.

  Dutifully, he did as she bade before trudging up the stairs. He’d scarcely entered the Long Chamber and heard the doors being locked behind him when that beast, John Platt, sauntered up to paw through his bags.

  “What have you brought for us this time, Babyface?”

  Jarret hated the nickname that Platt and his friends had given him because of his hairless chin and short stature. But at seventeen, Platt was a foot taller than him and a whole lot meaner.

  Platt found the paper-wrapped apple cake Gran had given him and took a big bite out of the middle while Jarret watched, gritting his teeth.

  “What, aren’t you going to take a swing at me?” Platt asked as he waved the cake in front of Jarret’s face.

  What was the point? Platt and his friends would beat him up, and he’d just get in trouble again.

  Every time he cared about something, it got taken from him. Showing that he cared only made it worse.

  “I hate apple cake,” Jarret lied. “Our cook puts dog piss in it.”

  He had the satisfaction of watching Platt glance skeptically at the cake before tossing it to one of his stupid friends. He hoped they choked on it.

  Platt turned to searching his bag again. “What have we here?” he said as he found the gilded box of playing cards Jarret had received from his father as a birthday present.

  Jarret’s blood stilled. He thought he’d hidden it so well. He’d brought the cards to school on impulse, wanting something to remind him of his parents.

  This time it was harder to stay calm. “I don’t know what you plan to do with those,” he said, attempting to sound bored. “You can’t play worth a damn.”

  “Why, you little weasel!” Grabbing Jarret by his cravat, Platt jerked him up so hard it cut off his air.

  Jarret was clawing at Platt’s fingers, fighting for breath, when Giles Masters, a viscount’s son and the brother of Oliver’s best friend, wrenched Platt’s hand from his cravat.

  “Leave the lad be,” Masters warned as Jarret stood there gasping. Masters was eighteen, very tall, and had a wicked left punch.

  “Or what?” Platt drawled. “He’ll shoot me? Like his brother shot their father to gain his inheritance?”

  “That’s a damned lie!” Jarret cried, balling up his fists.

  Masters put a hand on his shoulder to stay him. “Stop provoking him, Platt. And give him back his cards or I’ll make a hash of your face.”

  “You won’t risk getting into trouble this close to matriculation,” Platt said uneasily. Then he glanced at Jarret. “But I tell you what. If Babyface wants his cards back, he can play piquet for them. Got any money to wager with, Babyface?”

  “His brother doesn’t
want him gambling,” Masters answered.

  “Aw, isn’t that sweet,” Platt said with a smirk. “Babyface does whatever his big brother tells him.”

  “For God’s sake, Platt—” Masters began.

  “I’ve got money,” Jarret cut in. He’d learned to play cards at Father’s knee and he was pretty good at it. He thrust out his chest. “I’ll play you.”

  With a raise of his eyebrows, Platt sat down on the floor and sorted out the cards to make the thirty-two-card piquet deck.

  “Are you sure about this?” Masters asked as Jarret sat down across from his archenemy.

  “Trust me,” Jarret replied.

  An hour later, he’d won his deck back. Two hours later, he’d won fifteen shillings off Platt. By morning he’d won five pounds, much to the dismay of Platt’s thickheaded friends.

  After that, no one called him Babyface again.

  Chapter One

  London

  March 1825

  In the nineteen years since that fateful night, Jarret had grown a foot taller and had learned how to fight, and he was still gambling. Now, for a living.

  Today, however, the cards were meant to be only a distraction. Sitting at a table in the study in Gran’s town house, he laid out another seven rows.

  “How can you play cards at a time like this?” his sister Celia asked from the settee.

  “I’m not playing cards,” he said calmly. “I’m playing solitaire.”

  “You know Jarret,” his brother Gabe put in. “Never comfortable without a deck in his hand.”

  “You mean, never comfortable unless he’s winning,” his other sister, Minerva, remarked.

  “Then he must be pretty uncomfortable right now,” Gabe said. “Lately, all he does is lose.”

  Jarret stiffened. That was true. And considering that he supported his lavish lifestyle with his winnings, it was a problem.

  So of course Gabe was plaguing him about it. At twenty-six, Gabe was six years Jarret’s junior and annoying as hell. Like Minerva, he had gold-streaked brown hair and green eyes the exact shade of their mother’s. But that was the only trait Gabe shared with their straitlaced mother.

  “You can’t consistently win at solitaire unless you cheat,” Minerva said.