Matthew Wolfe: The Adventures Begin

By Blair Bancroft

At the risk of being taken up by Bow Street, Matthew Wolfe returns to London, hoping to discover some clue to his heritage, which just might be royal. But, of course, nothing goes as he hoped. Not even the role he had eagerly anticipated as one of Harding's Hellions. Yet becoming an adventurer has some unanticipated benefits, such as acquiring an elegant mistress a decade older than he. And discovering his former fishing companion, Jocelyn, has grown into a beauty old enough to make her come-out.

But even as a partner in a newly formed private investigations business, life does not run smoothly for Matthew. Vast sums of gold and gems are being lost to a clever gang of thieves operating on both sides of the Channel, yet Matthew and his partner are unable to capture the villains. A problem that is also keeping him too busy to explore that ever-tantalizing trail that might lead to royal relatives. And then, just as he is on the verge of combining his search for the thieves with the long-postponed search for his heritage, yet another dramatic problem crops up.

Warning: The Matthew Wolfe series is a return to an old tradition—one long story told in installments, each with a cliff-hanger ending. So do not expect Happily Ever After until the final book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736799901

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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Matthew Wolfe – The Adventures Begin

by Blair Bancroft

Published by Kone Enterprises

at Smashwords

Copyright 2021 by Grace Ann Kone

For other books by Blair Bancroft

Please see https://www.blairbancroft.com

1

From Book One, The Making of Matthew Wolfe . . .

Seventeen-year-old Matthew Wolfe, born and raised in the London rookery of Seven Dials, was jailed, and badly mistreated, for doing a good deed. A hero to most who knew him, Matthew is liberated and given shelter by two former officers of the elite cavalry regiment, the Royal 10th Hussars, who see the truth Matthew’s mother always claimed—that he was born to be a gentleman, not a street urchin. (An allegation Matthew finds difficult to believe.)

While sheltering on a hops farm in Kent, Matthew acquires a fishing companion and best friend, Jocelyn Ainsley, age twelve. But on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, he leaves his new friends behind, risking his freedom to return to London, so he can read a letter from his mother that he hopes will the solve the mystery of his birth.

Chapter 1

I will keep my appointment on the Ides of March.

Matthew Wolfe, not being a believer in surprising dangerous men surrounded by well-armed guards, sent his cryptic note a full month before his arrival in London. No signature necessary.

Now here he was, standing before the house of his mother’s long-time lover, come to fulfill the promise he’d made as she lay dying in an attempt to birth a second child twelve long years after her first.

He had left his arrival ’til late in the day—gone ten, it was—but what else could a wanted man do? Matthew Chadwick, also known as Nick Nameless, might be officially dead, but his looks were too distinctive to be long ignored among those who once knew him. It would be some time before he dared walk the streets of London without fear of being taken up. Flattening a prince on a countess’s doorstep was a crime not easily forgotten.

Matthew told the hackney driver to wait, squared his shoulders and, grim-faced, walked the few steps to the front door of the house on Princes Street and banged the knocker. The hulking figure who answered the door flashed a broad grin. Now ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, boy! Grown a treat, you have. Come in, come in. He’s expecting y’.

Matthew’s set features softened. Ned Towner’s beefy face was nearly as familiar as the man he’d come to see, and the memories that flooded his mind were all good. Ned and his fellow bodyguard, Ben Rivers, had been like a pair of bluff and hearty uncles. Even when giving him scolds, they had never exhibited an ounce of malice. But the house on Princes Street—won, fully furnished, in a card game—was new. Matthew had been here only twice before, during the awkward days when he was working out a reconciliation with the man he had long thought his father. The elegant townhouse represented the final step in the rise of a marquess’s bastard from criminal mastermind in the squalor of London’s East End to living cheek by jowl with the nobs in the elegance of Mayfair. An achievement Matthew’s mother had not lived to see. Surely an irony, for he suspected she was raised in a home even more luxurious than the fancy new house on Princes Street.

As distracted as he was by the purpose of his visit, Matthew took the time to appreciate his surroundings: the jade and white tiles on the hall floor, the delicate sculptures in niches set into the walls, the graceful curved staircase leading up to a gallery above. A fine house indeed, but it was doubtful any neighbors came to call. The position of most powerful man in London’s vast underworld did not exactly put one on the guest list for balls, routs, or Venetian breakfasts in the rarified halls of London’s ton.

Matthew’s lips inched into a wry smile. If there was one lesson he’d learned as he was pushed into being a gentleman, it was that power and money could only go so far. Nicholas Black might live in Mayfair. He would never be accepted by his neighbors.

Bookroom. Ye know the way.

Caught with his mind far away, and perhaps a wee bit reluctant to take the final steps toward the moment that had been so long in coming, Matthew managed a friendly nod for Ned before loping up the staircase and finding his way unerringly to his favorite room in the house. A room so impressive he’d promised himself he would have one like it some day. Tall oak bookcases lined the walls; a world of knowledge permeated the air, accented by the scent of leatherbound books and old money, spiced by a whiff of brandy from the decanter on a sidetable. Against one wall, a green marble fireplace with a blazing fire; beneath his feet a richly hued Turkey carpet and sitting behind the oversize mahogany desk, waving Matthew to the chair in front . . .

Nicholas Black.

So you’re alive,Nick pronounced in a tone as bland as if he’d been remarking on the weather.

A striking man was Nicholas Black. Dark hair cut fashionably short, light from the fire emphasizing a hint of red, piercing flint gray eyes set in a rough-hewn face that was nearly as pale as marble. A creature of the night, that was Nick Black. Mention of his name hushed conversations, made strong men quake in their boots and weak men run for cover. Nicholas Black, father to Matthew Wolfe in all but blood.

Despite knowing the man for a decade or more, Matthew stood before him as stiffly as he did when reporting to Colonel Marcus Trevor. I apologize for not letting you know sooner, but an official death certificate and a quick trip to the country were all that saved me. The price—not telling a single soul, lest I endanger those who helped me.

From what I’ve heard, you were a hero. Not many can say they lived to tell the tale of milling down a prince.

Matthew’s eyes sparked. The worst part is, I’d likely do it again.

They exchanged knowing glances, pale blue to steel gray; lips twitched, tension draining away. Once again, Nick waved Matthew to the chair, studying him for several long moments before raising his eyebrows and inquiring a shade accusingly, Wolfe?

Matthew, his eighteen years dissolving back to childhood, squirmed. I needed a new name. Darius Wolfe is the Best Man of Business in all London, and I liked the name. Wolves are clever, now aren’t they?

They are. And Wolfe suits you, Black agreed, if a bit grudgingly. Though when you’re finally able to show your face in town, there may be a bit of awkwardness, with some wondering if you’re Wolfe’s by-blow.

Matthew, taken aback, blinked. Think I’m so clever, he muttered, yet I never thought of that.

In a rare show of emotion, Nicholas Black huffed a sigh. But you didn’t come for chitchat. It’s time. Let’s get this done.

Suddenly, for the very first time, it occurred to Matthew that his erstwhile father found this moment almost as painful as he did. Nick and his mum had been together a long time, and there was no doubt he had made their lives much easier. And then . . . Matthew grimaced. In the space of an hour he had watched, helpless, as his mother died, his infant sister shortly after. Mad with grief, he had turned on Nick, blindly blaming him for their deaths, and Nick—who, Matthew now realized, had been as anguished as he—barked back, revealing that Matthew was no son of his.

A stunning blow that sent Matthew running out of the house, living on the streets for three years before he’d taken his first tentative steps toward a wary reconciliation with the man who had risen to leader of London’s Underworld. A move Matthew’s inborn, inexplicable arrogance had kept him from doing until he had distinguished himself by rising to the role of leader of the more than half the homeless children of Seven Dials.

Gawd, what a hot-headed young fool he’d been.

Matthew snapped back to the moment. Nick had uncovered the wall safe concealed behind a painting and begun to twist the dial. At last—at long last—he was about to discover what his mother had written in the letter she had penned so long ago and decreed he could not read until his eighteenth birthday. Pray God it was the key to his identity. His mother’s name and family. His father’s. It was hard, being a nobody.

Nick removed a folded piece of parchment from the safe; solemnly, he handed it over. Shall I leave you alone? he asked.

No. This was a moment Nick had a right to share. Too bad it had taken so long for him to realize it. Matthew broke the wax seal, unfolded the close-written two pages, and read:

My dearest Matthew,

There is so much I want to say, and so little time. Know that I love you, that I am proud of your fine wit, your spirit and determination, qualities that they will help you grow into the special person you are meant to be. Know that you may hold your head high, both father and mother as high-born as anyone could ask.

It is likely you now know that Nicholas is not your father, and you undoubtedly are anxious to learn the secret of your birth. And in that I must disappoint you, for I still find I cannot allow my family to know how disastrously I fell from Grace.

Matthew’s gut seized, his eyes blurred. No-o-o-o. She had to tell him. She must. He plunged on.

When I discovered I was with child and your father far, far away, I could not speak of it to anyone. Better to die than admit I had gone so far astray. I wrote a note telling my family I was eloping to the Canadas with a young man who lived so far into the back of beyond that it was unlikely I would be able to write. (A silly faradiddle, I know, but I thought it might keep them from searching for me, and it seemed infinitely better than disappearing with no note at all.)

And then I sneaked away most dramatically, in the dead of night, and hid myself where no one would think to look. The underbelly of London.

As for your father, he never knew—gone from England before you were so much as a gleam in my eye.

Matthew gulped. Hell and devil, was Wentworth right? His eyes jerked back to the page.

You must understand, Matthew, in case you ever discover him and are tempted to run him through, that your father never knew about you. Know also that looks will not help you find him, for you are nothing like him. Nor anyone in my family. It is possible you resemble one of your father’s ancestors.

And because I know you—the pup who would never, ever give up the bone—I leave one item of evidence. Nicholas has promised to keep it safe, along with this letter.

Matthew, I would rather you left sleeping dogs lie, but whatever your decision, I beg you to be a good man, a caring man, a fine husband and father. Above all, place no blame for my situation on any shoulders but mine. And a pride that refused to bend. A pride that would not tolerate condemnation or pity, choosing instead a solitary and lonely road until I was fortunate enough to meet a man strong enough for both of us to lean on.

I hope you have been kind to him, Matthew, for if I should die in childbirth, he too will be hurt by my passing.

Matthew, guilt-ridden, closed his eyes, struggling to shut out the memories. Truth was, he’d ranted, raved, shouted blame and hate. Yet those three years on the street had taught him to stand on his own, to survive no matter what. And an important lesson about the disastrous results of losing one’s temper. Mum, I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t Nick’s fault. But at twelve it didn’t seem that way.

Now was not the time for regrets. He needed to know the rest.

I have loved you from the moment I first saw your tiny red face, squalling as if offended by the rudeness of being torn from the comfortable berth where you had dwelt for nine full months. Know that, whether you can see me or not, I will always love you, always be with you. Watching my boy become the man I know he will one day be.

All my love,

Mother

That was all there was? Matthew turned the pages over, finding nothing more than his name and the broken seal of red wax. Eyes wide and protesting, he looked up to find Nick dangling a locket before his face. An oval, close to three inches long—delicately embossed gold, not brass. And very familiar. In fact, the woman who called herself Mary Chadwick had worn it every day of her life; and Matthew had assumed it was buried with her. He reached out, hand trembling, staring at it for a moment before doing the unthinkable, violating his mother’s privacy by looking at what had been forbidden for so long.