To Ruin a Gentleman (The Scarlet Chronicles)

by Galen, Shana

  To Ruin a Gentleman

  The Scarlet Chronicles: Book I

  Shana Galen

  TO RUIN A GENTLEMAN

  Copyright © 2019 by Shana Galen

  Cover Design by The Killion Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication and Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Also by Shana Galen

  Dedication and Acknowledgements

  This book is dedicated to Joanna Mackenzie who always believed in this series.

  SPECIAL THANKS TO

  Joanna Mackenzie for editing,

  Kim Killion for the cover design,

  Martha Trachtenberg for copyediting,

  Monique Daoust for proofreading,

  and Abby Saul for formatting, uploading, and generally making everything come together.

  One

  Hampshire 1812

  The Right Honorable Thomas Daventry, only son of the Viscount Daventry, hadn’t been home in ages. It wasn’t that he didn’t get on with his parents. He did. It was more that he didn’t get on with Hampshire. The rolling fields dotted with puffy white sheep were certainly bucolic, but they were also tedious as hell. At nineteen, what did Thomas want with sheep and fields and an old drafty pile? London with its artists and theaters and clubs was far more exciting than Daventry Hall.

  Or was it?

  After last night, Thomas wondered if perhaps the old pile and his staid father and mother had unplumbed depths. And if his father was keeping secrets, Thomas wanted to know.

  Which was precisely why he’d ridden hell-for-leather the last few hours to reach home.

  Just after noon the sun peeked out from behind low-hanging clouds that had threatened rain, and Thomas crested the rise overlooking the stately house. It had been built in the last century by some famous architect or another. Thomas considered the man an architect with little imagination. How difficult was it to design a gray stone rectangular building? Daventry Hall was all symmetry and proportion, right angles and clean lines. Not a column, not a tower, not a turret (whatever that was) to be seen. It was stable and predictable, like his parents.

  Seeing the house again, Thomas almost turned right back around. It was foolishness coming here and confronting his parent about the information he’d received last night.

  On the other hand, as long as he was here, he might as well have a meal.

  Half an hour later, Thomas joined his father in the library. This dark-paneled room with plush couches and heavy draperies had always been his favorite room in the house, and he’d read most of the books it contained. Thomas had done his share of writing as well. He fancied himself a bit of a poet, though he’d yet to sell any of his verse.

  Like the library, the viscount looked much as he always had, though his dark hair was mostly gray now, and he wore his spectacles more often than in the past. The viscount removed them now and gave Thomas a long look from behind the polished desk.

  “What have you done now?”

  Thomas scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t I come for a visit?” He sat in one of the chairs across from the desk and admired the shelves of books.

  The viscount tapped his fingers on the desk, while the low fire in the hearth crackled. “Have you gambled away your allowance?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Fallen in love with an actress?”

  “You’ll need to increase my allowance if I’m to catch the eye of any actresses.”

  “Noted. What is it then? Been challenged to a duel? Lost your credit—”

  “None of those. I haven’t done anything except attend a dinner party.”

  The viscount steepled his hands. “Go on.”

  “I met an interesting gentleman there. A Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He claims to know you.”

  Thomas had been watching his father’s face, else he would not have noticed how all expression was wiped away. The viscount looked perfectly blank.

  “Do you know him?” Thomas asked.

  “No.” His father’s voice was level and without tone.

  “That’s funny. He...well, it’s ludicrous really. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.” He stood.

  “What did this Ffoulkes say?”

  Thomas shrugged. “He said to tell you hello and for me to ask you about the real Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  The viscount’s fingers, steepled a moment before, now locked together. “The Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “You know, the old story about the Englishman who rescued Frenchies during their revolution. Everyone says Sir Percy Blakeney was the pimpernel, but this Ffoulkes said to ask you about the real pimpernel.”

  The viscount rose and crossed to a small table with a crystal decanter. It wasn’t dusty—nothing in the house was dusty—but Thomas had never seen his father drink from its contents before. Now, he poured himself two fingers of the amber liquid and drank it down before pouring another two.

  “Are quite you well?” Thomas asked, concern, and not a little excitement, beginning to grow. “Did you know the Scarlet Pimpernel? Was it Sir Percy?”

  His father looked at him. “I suppose there’s no point in keeping it hidden any longer.”

  Thomas sank back into his chair, his gaze fixed on his father. This was what he had come for, and yet, he couldn’t quite believe his father had a story to tell. Viscount Daventry—Dull Daventry, as everyone called him in Town.

  “I did know Ffoulkes,” the viscount said. “It’s habit to deny it, but the truth is I knew him well. I knew Blakeney too. I knew them all—Dewhurst, Hastings, the whole league.” He sipped his drink. “And I suppose you are correct that Sir Percy was part of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “He wasn’t the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

  “He was a pimpernel, not the pimpernel.”

  “I’m not sure I follow. If he was not the pimpernel, who was?”

  His father set his drink on the desk and gave Thomas a hard look.

  “Are you saying?” Thomas shook his head. It was not possible. His father could not be the Scarlet Pimpernel. “I-I cannot believe it.”

  HUGH COULD HARDLY FAULT his son for the look of pure incredulity that crossed his face. It wasn’t every day a child’s parent admitted to being England’s most celebrated hero. Hugh had never wanted acclaim or recognition. That’s why he’d given it to Blakeney, but he couldn’t start there. If he was to tell his son the tale, he should start at the beginning. But what exactly was the beginning?

  Even as he thought it, the remembered scent of fresh apples and cut hay and sweet clover seemed to infuse the room. Because, of course, it all began in Versailles, and it all began with her.

  Two

  Versailles 1789

  Ange
lette enjoyed dining alone. She’d risen early so she might have some solitude before her guests joined her, which meant she was not pleased when her butler announced the arrival of a Viscount Daventry.

  With a pained expression, she’d dabbed at her mouth. “Show him in.”

  The English had no manners. Not only was the man a full two days late to the house party, he had the gall to arrive at the ungodly hour of half past seven. She never should have invited him. She’d only done so because her sister had written to her and begged a favor.

  Thérèse was in London and had met and befriended the viscount, who was apparently an avid importer of French wines. When he’d said he was traveling to France on business, Thérèse had invited him to stay with her and her husband, the Marquis de Beauvais, at their château and vineyard. Thérèse hoped the viscount would consider importing the de Beauvais family wines to England. But Thérèse had written to say the marquis’s business in England had taken longer than expected. Would dear Angelette extend the viscount an invitation to her house party? Angelette had done so, and now the man himself had deigned to make an appearance.

  His footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he followed the butler to the dining room. The door opened and she rose, smoothing her pale pink skirts. After wearing black for so long, it still seemed strange to look down and see color. But she was not in mourning any longer.

  “Madame, Lord Daventry.”

  She looked up and into the handsome face of the man standing in her dining room entry. He sported wavy brown hair, which was bare of both a wig or powder and which he’d pulled into a short queue and fastened with a plain black thong. No ribbon of silk for him. His eyes were blue, not dark blue like hers but the clear, bright blue of the cornflowers that dotted the fields near the château in the spring. He was neither plain nor too handsome, his face oval with prominent cheekbones and a straight nose. He looked fit and trim in his coat and waistcoat the color of champagne. His breeches fit snugly, showing his muscled calves to advantage.

  He bowed when he entered, his eyes never leaving hers and his mouth lifting in a mischievous smile that made her breath catch in her chest.

  No, she definitely should not have invited him.

  “Bonjour, Madame la Comtesse.”

  “Good morning, Lord Daventry.” With a nod, she dismissed the butler. “Won’t you join me for breakfast, my lord?”

  “English!” He took the chair a footman pulled out directly across from her. “It’s music to my ears.”

  She lifted her cup. “Most people find French the more melodic of the two languages.”

  “I find French the more annoying of the two languages.” He nodded to the footman who approached with a cup. “I don’t suppose you have tea. Une tasse de thé?”

  “Oui, monsieur.” The servant stepped away to prepare it.

  “It’s been an age since I heard English or drank tea.”

  “You are not much of a traveler, I suppose,” she said, sipping her coffee.

  “I do a fair amount of traveling, but I like my little pieces of civilization.”

  She raised her brows, amused despite herself. “And coffee is not civilized.”

  “It’s a bitter and foul brew, and those who drink it have personalities to match.”

  She lifted her cup and sipped.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “The bitter and foul brew.”

  He laughed. “I’ve only just arrived and have already managed to insult you. You must forgive me. I haven’t slept in three days.”

  “Is that why you’ve arrived two days late to the house party?”

  His expression turned serious. “No. In fact, I wasn’t certain I would arrive at all. I came through Paris.”

  “But Versailles is only a few hours’ journey from Paris.”

  “The difficulty, Comtesse, was leaving Paris. Have you not heard?”

  She shook her head. Since her husband’s death, she’d paid little attention to French politics, eschewing the balls and court affairs at the Palace of Versailles as well as the theaters and galleries of Paris. She’d come to her late husband’s Versailles estate because it was cooler in the summer than the château in Avignon. Not to mention, her brother-in-law was in Avignon now, as was his right, and he’d recently married and she thought it only polite to give him and his new wife privacy. Her mother, being English, had returned home when Angelette’s father had died, but Angelette had friends in France, the closest being her older sister Thérèse, who was now the Marquise de Beauvais.

  “I’m afraid I have not.”

  The viscount’s gaze shifted to the footman, then back to her. “There are riots in Paris and mobs in the streets. The gates were closed for at least a day while the royal army attempted to restore order.”

  “The bread shortages,” she said, understanding now. Years of poor crop yields had meant shortages of flour as well as other goods. She’d had to allot more money from her budget to buy the necessities, and she could only imagine what that meant for those without means. “No doubt the king and his ministers will find a solution.”

  Daventry glanced at the footman again. “If by that you mean locking the Third Estate out of the hall at Versailles and causing them to make pledges on a jeu de paume—you see how annoying that is? Three words when two, tennis court, would do. In any case, if panicking the commoners into taking oaths against their monarch on a tennis court is your king’s policy, then I am less than impressed. The situation has gone from bad to worse.”

  Angelette gave her footman a pointed look. “Leave us,” she said in French. She’d been speaking to the viscount in English, but she could not be certain the servants did not understand that language. The liveried footman left the room, closing the door behind him. When they were alone, she rose and walked around the table so she could speak softly.

  The viscount rose when she did, meaning she had to look up at him when she stood before him. She had not considered that eventuality. She was not a short woman or particularly petite, but he made her feel both. “My lord—”

  “Call me Daventry. Everyone does.”

  “Very well, Daventry. I do appreciate you making me aware of the situation in Paris, but you must understand this sort of discussion is most distasteful to the members of the nobility. I hope you will keep this news to yourself for the remainder of the house party.”

  His expression remained unchanged. “You want me to keep my mouth shut so you might bury your heads in the proverbial sand?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  “Oh, I understand what you are saying, Comtesse. I don’t think you understand what I am saying.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Which is?”

  He bent down, leaning close to her. “You, and all the rest of your class, are in danger.”

  “Ridiculous. There have been excesses, of course. I understand the anger the lower classes feel, but neither I nor my late husband have treated our tenants unfairly. Not to mention, I am only half French and spent much of my youth in England.”

  “The mobs in Paris weren’t asking those they confronted their nationality. If a lady or gentleman looked like a noble, he or she was a target.”

  “Of violence?”

  “Not yet, but I have no doubt it is coming.”

  “And what do you suggest? Leave my home, my friends, my family?”

  “You have family in England. I met both your mother and sister, and they asked me repeatedly to persuade you to return with me to England.”

  Angelette waved a hand. “The British papers exaggerate the unrest here and my sister is unnecessarily worried.”

  He gave her a long look. The intensity of his striking blue eyes made her shiver. “Madame, as I said, I have just come from Paris. I assure you the unrest is no exaggeration.” He raised a hand before she could demur again. “I am heading for Calais and a packet to Dover tomorrow morning. I would like you to travel with me. I cannot force you, but if you choose t
o stay here, then I doubt we will meet again. Ever.” He gave her a short bow. “Excuse me. Your butler offered to show me to my room.” He marched out of the room, leaving her alone.

  “What an annoying man,” she muttered to herself. Thank God he’d be gone tomorrow morning.

  LITTLE ANGEL, INDEED, Hugh thought that afternoon as he waited for his turn with bow and arrow. He’d never met a person so misnamed. She should have been named little devil. Unfortunately, he couldn’t quite work out the French for that. He watched the comtesse raise her bow and narrow her eyes along the shaft of the arrow at the painted hay target. He had to admit, she looked angelic enough. Her dark curly hair had been arranged in an artful style and swept back and up. Her straw Bergère hat, worn on the crown of her head and tilted down over her forehead, was adorned with pink silk ribbon and an assortment of pink and white silk flowers. Tendrils of her dark hair spiraled down about her neck and blew across her pale cheek when the breeze rustled the trees. He couldn’t help but notice that in the dappled sunlight her dark hair seemed to be infused with strands of red and gold.

  Her robe à l’anglaise was pink silk with a white underskirt. It was far less ornate than what many of the other ladies wore, being devoid of ribbons and lace and other fripperies. He had heard some of the female guests remarking that the comtesse was only recently out of her widow’s weeds. Hugh was of the opinion black would have suited her, since it was the color of Satan. The pink only made her look sweet and pretty. Hugh considered her neither.

  The comtesse released her arrow and it flew straight and true, hitting the hay target just to the left of the center.

  Everyone clapped politely. Everyone but Hugh. His turn was next, and he moved past the brightly clad French nobles to take the comtesse’s place. A servant moved to collect her arrow from the target, but Hugh called, “Leave it.”

  The comtesse, who had been speaking to some duchesse or other, turned to give him her attention. “Won’t my arrow be in your way, Monsieur le Vicomte?”