Love by the Letters: A Regency Novella Trilogy
Page 1
Love by the Letters
A Regency Novella Trilogy
Kelly Bowen
Grace Burrowes
Vanessa Riley
A is for Amorous
Copyright © 2019 by Grace Burrowes; All rights reserved.
No part of this novella may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
B Is for Beautiful Secret
Copyright © 2019 by Vanessa Riley; All rights reserved.
No part of this novella may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
C is for Charlie’s Angel
Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Bowen; All rights reserved.
No part of this novella may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
A is for Amorous
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
To My Dear Readers
B Is for Beautiful Secret
Title Page
From the pen of Mr. William Carruthers…
Prologue
1. April 5, 1819, London, England
2. A Dash
3. A Courtesan Knows
4. The Challenge
5. One Pound Down
6. With A Man in Tow
7. The Earl's Courtesan
8. A Little Help
9. Investing in Her
10. A Carriage Ride
11. A Night at the Theater
12. Up, Up, Up in The Air
Epilogue
Dear Lovely Reader
Excerpt from The Butterfly Bride
C Is for Charlie’s Angel
C is for Charlie’s Angel
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Dear Reader
A is for Amorous
By Grace Burrowes
Prologue
Dedicated to those who have done battle
with the mean girls
* * *
To Miss Adelicia Beauvais,
The honor of your presence is requested in the offices of Mr. William Carruthers, solicitor, at the date and time noted on the enclosed card. The purpose of this appointment is to discuss the transfer of a sum certain into your keeping, and to discuss further terms relating to a additional consideration. Time is of the essence, Miss Beauvais, thus the favor of a reply to this letter would be appreciated. I remain,
Your Obedient Servant,
William Carruthers
Chapter One
“But sir, what am I do with the money?” Adelicia Beauvais had a fine grasp of mathematics, natural science, history, and literature. Mr. Carruthers’s daft scheme left her utterly flummoxed.
“You spend it,” the solicitor replied. “You will need to bide in Town, socialize, attend formal functions, and otherwise do the pretty if you’re to raise a substantial sum for St. Jerome’s. You will require a carriage from time to time, and you’ll certainly want to buy a few frocks. The initial money is intended to finance your fundraising.”
Ada remained seated when she wanted to pace and shout. “I do not bide in Town. I do not attend formal functions. I do not socialize, if by socialize you mean stay up until all hours discussing the weather while wearing fashions too confining to be comfortable, and dancing with any gouty old fool brave enough to ask me.”
Mr. Carruthers had perfected that bland, interested expression which was probably the first skill taught in solicitor school. Nonetheless, Ada suspected she’d amused him.
“If you are successful,” he said, “you will make a lot of deserving children very happy.”
For an educated man, he was a font of irrelevancies. “I have not met these children you speak of, and if their origins are as unfortunate as you imply, then a few more spoonfuls of porridge or a new pair of shoes will hardly alter their expectations.”
That sounded cruel, and yet Ada was not being intentionally mean-spirited. People thought a happy childhood consisted of adequate nutrition and shelter from the elements. A child could be well provided for and still miserable, as these cast-off children must be.
Mr. Carruthers opened a drawer of his desk—a massive edifice as desks went—and unrolled a paper across his blotter.
“That’s a recent painting of Hopewell Grange. This perspective is from the park as you come around the curve of the drive.”
Ada nearly walked out without even peeking, but her curiosity got the better of her, as it was ever wont to do. She leaned two inches forward in her chair. “I will own this, if I can raise the money for the orphanage?”
“Those are terms of the gift, provided the money you raise is received in hand by St. Jerome’s before the month is up.”
The manor house was four stories of golden sandstone set amid a green park. A swan floated placidly on a pond in the curve of the drive. A fountain in the center of the pond and colorful beds of tulips completed a picture of rural elegance.
“Whose terms?” Ada murmured, while mentally counting windows. Twenty-six full size windows and one door. Twenty-six places to sit and read by natural light. Twenty-six windows in which to grow plants for botany experiments. Twenty-six vantage points from which to gaze out upon lovely acres while simply thinking.
“I am not at liberty to say who has set this challenge before you, miss, but I can assure you that St. Jerome’s is deserving.”
“Tenancies?”
“Six tenant farms, plus a home farm. The estate is entirely self-supporting and makes a tidy profit.”
Self-supporting was a lovely word. One of Ada’s favorites in fact. “I have a month to raise how much?”
The solicitor named an outlandish sum, and Ada let the painting curl in on itself. “Do you grasp how impossible a chore you have set for me, Mr. Carruthers? I know nobody. I am invited nowhere. I have no propensity for begging, charming, or wheedling, all of which appear necessary to fulfill this bargain. The money you give me today will be wasted if I spend it on fripperies and dancing slippers in hopes of waltzing polite society out of its coin.”
Mr. Carruthers let the painting remain on the blotter like some ancient scroll. “You are from a titled family, Miss Ada. You went to a proper finishing school. You have cousins and connections, aunts and uncles. I daresay you have correspondents. You are not without resources.”
Ada rose and collected her gloves and bonnet. A tidy little ginger cat guarded them on the sideboard, and squinted at her as she retrieved her accessories.
“I have family. That cannot be helped, and some of them are even reasonably decent people.” Aunt Kitty was a love, if something of an original, and several of the cousins
were good company in small doses. “I cannot say you have wasted my time—you apparently have an eccentric client putting demands on you—but I also cannot accept the sum you proffered earlier. I refuse to be a party to a doomed scheme that will waste needed coin. Donate that money to the orphanage, and we’ll spare Mayfair my pitiful attempts at small talk.”
Mr. Carruthers was on his feet before Ada could gain the door.
“I am unable to do as you wish, miss. The bank draft is made out to you and you alone. You may keep this initial sum and do with it as you please, or you may use it to raise additional funds for the orphanage. Those are your options.”
Twenty-six windows… on one façade alone. Ada pulled on her right glove. “Does Hopewell Grange have a conservatory?”
“Of nearly five thousand square feet.”
She had to brace herself against the sideboard. Her entire cottage was about half that size, and while she loved it, she did not own it. She rented, which limited the modifications and modernizations she could make.
She donned the second glove, which needed darning on the index finger. “What of a stable? Does it have a stable?”
“Eight loose boxes, eight straight stalls, plus a carriage house.”
Days cantering the countryside in search of botanical specimens called to Ada. Long afternoons studying geological formations, charting temperature and wind measurements. She undertook those activities now, but not on the scale of a true scientist.
“I am an utter failure at waltzing, Mr. Carruthers, and I do not enjoy it.”
He tucked his hands behind his back. “You must do as you see fit, of course.”
Ada’s finishing governess had used the same excruciatingly indifferent tone when she’d known Ada’s resolve was crumbling. Mr. Carruthers was nothing like Miss Gladshaw. She’d been a fluttery blond, while he was dark-haired and dark-eyed. Her bombazine and taffeta had announced her every move. Mr. Carruthers raised silence to a high, manly art.
Ada unknotted her bonnet ribbons, a clumsy undertaking when she’d already put on her gloves. “I am the worst possible candidate to raise money for a lot of hungry children.”
“If you say so, miss.” Mr. Carruthers held a piece of paper out to her. “The bank draft is yours to do with as you please.”
Ada had no delusions about herself. She was a charmless bluestocking of plain appearance and blunt speech, but she had scruples.
“If I take that money, I must at least try to do what I can for those children. I cannot simply accept funds from an unknown benefactor and indulge my fancies with it.”
“No conditions attach to the surrender of this initial sum, Miss Beauvais. I’ve merely made suggestions that should improve the chances of putting Hopewell Grange into your hands.”
Six tenant farms upon which to experiment with various strains of sheep, poultry, and bovines. Horses to ride, acres to roam… Endless supplies of manure with which to experiment on the ideal composting process, too.
“Does Hopewell Grange have a library?” Say no. Please, please say no.
“Of course. I can show you the schematics if you like. The library measures sixty feet by twenty feet, if I recall correctly. Not the largest collection in the shire, but a commodious space housing a good four thousand bound volumes.”
Ada might have resisted the farms—the family seat was a vast bucolic fiefdom. She might have resisted the conservatory, for it was nearly too big for her to fathom. She might have resisted the stables, because she could after all only ride one mare at a time, but the library…
Defeated by the bound volumes. “Tell me again the name of the orphanage?”
Mr. Carruthers passed her the bank draft and several other sheets of paper. “I’ve written the name and direction for you, and included a letter of introduction to the current headmaster. Lord John Waverly lives on the premises, and can explain all you care to know about the children and their needs.”
“They are children, which is enough bad news for the moment. I have thirty days to tilt at this windmill?”
“Thirty days to make Hopewell Grange your home.”
“When water buffalos levitate, Mr. Carruthers. I’ll bid you good-day.”
He remained by his desk, a tall dapper man impeccably attired for his station. “A word of advice, Miss Beauvais?”
“Please. I have never wasted a large some of money before. Any insights you care to share will be appreciated.”
“Be yourself. Don’t undertake this challenge as you think you ought to do it, raise the money in the manner that is true to your nature.”
“Interesting.” Ada plunked her bonnet onto her head. “You advise me to stand in Hyde Park bellowing at the lords and ladies to give me their money. Perhaps if I waved a pistol about they’d take me seriously. But no, then I’d be arrested. Can’t have that. Even Aunt Kitty would look askance at criminal behavior. Good-day, cat. Good-day, Mr. Carruthers.”
Mr. Carruthers bestirred himself to hold the door for her, while the cat remained squinting on the sideboard. Perhaps squinting was the feline version of laughter.
“Cora had an accident.” Henrietta reported that development with the longsuffering of an eight-year-old who’d been making the same announcement nigh daily for a month.
The smaller girl stood holding Henrietta’s hand, sniffling and staring at the floor of the front foyer.
Lord John Waverly knelt, and still all Cora risked was a peek at him.
“I’m very proud of you, Cora.”
She dropped Henrietta’s hand to wipe at her nose with her finger. “I accidented again.”
A minor accident this time, if the olfactory evidence was any indication. “But Cora, look at the time. Can you tell me what time it is?”
She stared at the clock in the foyer, her lips moving silently as she counted to herself. “Three.”
John poked her gently in the belly. “Exactly right! Three in the afternoon. You went all morning, and halfway through the afternoon without an accident. That is excellent progress. I hope you are proud of yourself.”
Over Cora’s head, Henrietta was looking at him as if he were daft.
“I’m wet,” Cora said, bottom lip quivering. “Again.”
“What’s a little wet when you nearly lasted until afternoon sunshine without a slip? The Lord in his infinite wisdom made laundry tubs, and nobody is quicker than you are at changing out of a damp dress. Upstairs with you now and then you can join us in the garden.”
Her bottom lip stopped quivering. “I can still play in the garden?”
“Of course. In fact, I think you and Henrietta ought to get five extra minutes as a reward for your great progress.”
“C’mon, Cora,” Henrietta said, grabbing Cora’s wrist. “I’ll help you get into a clean smock.”
Henrietta lead the way up the steps, Cora peering down at John dubiously all the way to the first landing.
Cora had been apprenticed to a cook, though what cook could have mistaken such a tiny girl for a seven-year-old? When the cook had declared Cora too simple to be of use in the kitchen, a pastor had brought Cora to John, declaring St. Jerome’s a far safer environment than the one the child had come from.
“And you are making progress,” John muttered as the girls’ footsteps faded above. “Albeit very slow progress.”
He had thirty minutes before he’d be called upon to supervise the children’s afternoon time out of doors. Half an hour was sufficient to jot off at least two heartfelt letters imploring the patrons—
A hard triple thump suggested a stranger on John’s doorstep. The regular deliveries went around back, and callers were non-existent. He swiped his fingers through his hair, buttoned his coat, gave his hopelessly wrinkled cravat a fluff, and opened the front door.
A small, plain woman in a straw hat that had seen better days stood on the steps. She was attired in a gray wool cloak fit only for shepherds in rural Christmas plays, and wore spectacles that seemed too big for her face.
&nb
sp; “Good-day,” John said. “Do you need directions?”
“If this is St. Jerome’s Charitable Hospital then I’ve been given all the directions I could possibly wish for. Might I come in?”
She had the look of a crusader, so John stepped back because crusaders could be angels in disguise—or that was the theory.
“John Waverly, at your service.”
She drew off her gloves and stuffed them into a beaded reticule. “Lord John Waverly?”
Oh, dear. Lord John, in that tone, never boded well. “My father is the Marquess of Gandham, though in these surrounds, the title seems a bit superfluous. I am vastly honored to be headmaster of this humble establishment, and the children refer to me in that capacity. May I take your cloak?”
As angels went, the lady was very well disguised. Beneath her cloak was another drab garment that might once have been a dress though it would have served equally well as a horse blanket. When she removed her bonnet, a lock of dark hair tumbled free, only to be tucked haphazardly back into the bun at her nape.
The errant tress only half-heeded the guidance of her fingers, and draped itself against her neck as she peered around the foyer.
“I am Miss Ada Beauvais. What is that smell?”