by Jenny Hambly
Rosalind
A Regency Romance
Jenny Hambly
Copyright © 2019 by Jenny Hambly
All rights reserved.
No part of this book 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.
Rosalind
A Regency Romance
Jenny Hambly
Bachelor Brides Book 1
Contents
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
Also by Jenny Hambly
About the Author
Chapter 1
London 1818
The Earl of Atherton had played quite recklessly tonight, not really caring whether he won or lost. Each throw of the dice had been accomplished with a negligent flick of his deceptively strong wrist. The vast quantities of wine he had been drinking just as recklessly, only showed in his slightly sprawled posture and the stormy look in his half-veiled grey eyes. His winnings had mounted steadily before him yet he seemed as disinterested in this as in everything and everyone else around him.
“I think,” he drawled softly, “yes, I really think that I have had enough.”
This drew various amazed glances from the other gentlemen who shared the table.
“I say G-George,” stammered the long-suffering gentleman to his left, “that’s the outside of enough, r-really it is, when you’ve been fleecing us all m-mercilessly all night.”
The wintry gaze gentled as the earl’s glance rested on his old friend Lord Preeve, whose slightly unfocussed, protuberant wide-blue eyes resembled nothing more than that of a startled rabbit. His glorious golden locks (quite his best feature) which had earlier been lovingly arranged by his fastidious valet, were now wildly disordered due to the frustrated tugs he had been giving them as the dice fell against him time after time.
A weary but fond smile curved the earl’s lips as he rose gracefully and began slowly pocketing the pile of carelessly flung notes and golden coins before him.
“My heart would be quite, quite wrung if I didn’t know you were rich as Croesus,” he murmured. “Go home, John, Wrencham will be looking for a new position if he catches sight of the disaster you have made of your hair. Even if he had sent you out coup au vent, which I am fairly certain, dear chap, he did not, he would be shocked, quite shocked.”
This gentle ribbing drew a grin from his companion on the right. There was no malice in it and they all knew there was no danger of this prophesied event occurring, it would be a brave valet indeed who would leave the employ of so rich and generally easy going an employer.
“W-well really, G-George, I suppose Townsend has barely anything to s-say to that mad riot of chestnut curls you sport, eh?” he protested.
“Nothing at all, my dear John, they are quite natural I assure you,” he reassured his spluttering friend. “Quite the bane of my sisters’ lives if they are to be believed.” He turned to the quiet, neatly dressed man next to him, quirking one finely drawn dark brow. “Coming, Philip?”
Sir Philip Bray, ex-captain of the 15th Hussars, had resigned his commission and reluctantly stepped into his late father’s shoes on the occasion of his sad demise over a year ago. With rugged good looks, considerable charm and a natural aptitude for dancing, he was a firm favourite at every society function, yet despite countless lures having been thrown his way, had so far avoided the parson’s mousetrap.
“With pleasure, my dear fellow, lead on,” he smiled, pushing back his chair and getting only slightly unsteadily to his feet.
The steady drumming of some very white fingertips drew everyone’s glance to the last occupant at the table. A large emerald glinted on one of the impatient digits. Everything about this gentleman was precise, no injudicious tugging had displaced a single hair of his close-cropped Caesar cut, his short sideburns framed his high, prominent cheekbones, and a thin patrician nose led the way to a pair of very thin lips whose natural expression seemed to be a sneer. A matching emerald tiepin nestled in the folds of his meticulously starched cravat, its glitter reflected in the cold green eyes that stared resentfully across at the earl.
“It wants three o’clock yet, Atherton,” he drawled, not quite able to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I for one would like the chance to recoup some of my losses.”
“Ah, Rutley,” the earl sighed, “loath though I am to disappoint, I really have had enough you know.”
A cynical smile twisted those thin lips. “Enough of winning?”
Hard grey clashed with agate green. “Enough of everything, my dear fellow, your revenge must wait for another occasion.” The voice remained soft, but the implacable note was unmistakeable and offering only the briefest of bows, the earl turned and left the room.
It was this strange humour that had persuaded him to try the new discreet hell on King St. He wasn’t in the mood to parry the usually pointless banter with which his cronies at Whites would have no doubt regaled him. His own unexpected succession to his late father’s honours, had recently made him the butt of a wide range of singularly foolish marriage mart jests. Thank God his mourning status excused him from attending all the great squeezes of the season where he might be expected to do the pretty for the latest round of insipid debutantes.
Sir Philip accompanied his friend along Old Bond Street in companionable silence for a time, somewhat doubtful that Atherton was even aware of his presence so distracted did he seem. Only the odd hackney or the call of the night watchmen claiming a fine night and the advanced hour broke the silence.
“You’ve made an enemy of Rutley if I’m not much mistaken,” he finally ventured.
Lord Atherton seemed to turn this thought over in his mind for a moment before shrugging somewhat fatalistically. “What, after all, can he do to me, Philip?”
Sir Philip’s normally cheerful mien had temporarily deserted him, a slight frown lurked at the back of his usually smiling eyes. “Nothing, I should imagine,” he conceded. “But I hear he’s been playing deep and losing more often than not, there’s talk that nothing but an heiress will keep his creditors from his door.”
This depressing news seemed of little interest to Lord Atherton. “So he’s likely to be the latest is he? I fail to see, however, what the devil that has to do with me.”
A short laugh escaped his friend. “You’re a damned cool fish tonight, George. It has, of course, nothing to do with you, but he had an ugly, almost desperate look about him and if looks were pistols, you’d have had a bullet through your brain tonight.”
Atherton gave a rather harsh laugh. “At least that would save me from the prospective lists of suitable wives my well-meaning but annoyingly persistent sisters have already drawn up for me.”
“I sympathise, dear chap, and whilst I acknowledge it to be tiresome to be seen as a fish to be caught on someone’s none-too-subtle lure, I hardly think death preferable.”
“I apologise, Philip. I am less than good company tonight. Have none of this season’s beauties caught your eye yet?”
Sir Philip smiled. “Oh my eye, yes, but it is all so tame, so dull. None of them have any spirit. I’d rather have someone challenge me than smile charmingly and agree with everything I say.” He s
uddenly laughed at himself. “You are making me as maudlin as you, dear fellow, it won’t do.”
At the point where Davies St met Grosvenor St, the friends parted. Lord Atherton carried on towards Grosvenor Square whilst Sir Philip proceeded towards Brook St. His friend’s unusual mood preoccupied him so he didn’t notice a dark figure, no more than a shadow, dart back into Brook Mews. However, this slight wraith had no interest other than to remain unseen and waited patiently until he had passed before continuing furtively towards the dark, winding Avery Row where a modest cart and horse awaited.
“Come on, miss, best away whilst this blindman’s holiday lasts!”
The lithe figure climbed aboard and let out a low chuckle. “Stop fretting, Ned, all’s well,” she assured him.
A disapproving grunt was the only answer she received. Her reluctant escort showed an unerring knowledge of London as he led her down the less frequented alleys past Bloomsbury and into Holborn. It was not long before they pulled into the back entrance of Prowett’s Coffee House on Red Lion Street, which any slightly impoverished gentleman could tell you served up an excellent ordinary but had no idea that a lady of undoubted quality was, at present, living upstairs.
Her room faced onto the street and a sudden shout of laughter drew her to her window. Drawing the curtain slightly to one side, she glanced outside. The street lamps threw just enough light for her to make out two entwined figures in the doorway opposite. A young man had his face buried in the ample bosom of his chosen companion for the evening. She saw the painted older lady draw back for an instant, her hand outstretched for payment before she allowed him to continue in his amorous pursuits. She sighed and let the curtain drop back into place. She only hoped that the poor unfortunate soul that was forced to tolerate the attentions of the young buck pawing her, was getting well paid for her services. It was a sight she had seen only too often since making her temporary home here to be shocked. It might have been expected that a lady of quality would have taken out her venom on the fallen woman but she had seen enough since her brief sojourn in town to realise that poverty was rife, and the women often didn’t have a choice, whereas it seemed the young men had nothing to think of but their own pleasures. How she despised them. They were the privileged ones who were in a position of power and could, if they would, make some sort of difference to the world. But instead they used their wealth to further their own trivial pleasures, be it through gambling, drinking or whoring.
Reaching into her coat, she withdrew a slim case and dropped it onto the desk, before seating herself and pulling open one of the drawers. She retrieved a rather crumpled document and allowed a grim smile to curl her unfashionably full lips as she crossed out yet another name on her list. Lord Rutley would wake up tomorrow morning to find himself the latest victim of the Mayfair Thief. She regarded the closed case for a moment before opening it, the famous Rutley emeralds twinkled forgivingly in the light of the two candles that lit her small desk. Of course, the theft may have remained undiscovered for some time if she hadn’t left her calling card. That would not have suited her purposes at all, especially if the latest rumours going around the coffee room downstairs that he was so badly dipped he was going to pay his addresses to the heiress of a prominent merchant in the city, young enough to be his daughter, were true. She was surprised he hadn’t already sold them. That was after all, what her father had done with all but a few of her mother’s treasures and those she had been forced to sell at a fraction of their worth to fund her present frugal existence. A tentative knocking on the door recalled her attention to the present.
“Come in, Lucy,” she called softly, quickly adding the correct label to tonight’s haul. It wouldn’t do to get them mixed up, she did after all intend to return every item she had successfully stolen, eventually.
“Oh, look at you, Rosie,” her old nurse scolded, grabbing the cloth that hung from the washstand. “Here, let me get that muck off you.”
Rosalind submitted meekly to the rigorous scrubbing required to remove the soot from her face.
“Why can’t you wear a loo mask instead? You’ll be ruining that lovely complexion of yours if you’re not careful. Where’s all this going to end? That’s what I want to know,” Lucy grumbled. “You’ll end up in Newgate and no mistake if you don’t give up this lark soon.”
Rosalind smiled fondly down at the plump, anxious face of her most faithful servant and friend, wondering which of the two hazards was bothering her old nurse more.
“Well I don’t happen to have a loo mask at present but I admit it’s not a bad idea,” she conceded graciously, “but it will take more than a half-asleep watchman armed with a lantern and a stick or a couple of foxed gentlemen to catch me, Lucy, never fear.”
Lucy took a step back and planted her small, capable hands on her wide hips. “Of course there’s no danger at all, that’s why you won’t even take my Ned in with you.”
Rosalind’s smile faded. “He helps me enough as it is. I may not think the risk that great, but you know I won’t put anyone else in danger. This is my game and I’ll play it out.”
Recognising the finality in her charge’s clipped tones, Lucy sighed long and deep.
“Well, let’s get you out of those clothes, my girl, they’re positively indecent.”
With no more ado she stripped the clinging breeches and dark, close-fitting coat from Rosalind’s tall, willowy form, threw a nightgown over her head, cursorily dragged a brush through her raven locks and tucked her up in bed, her rough, disapproving attentions in no way concealing her very real affection.
Rosalind stretched limbs suddenly weary and offered a tired smile. “It’s nearly over, only one left on my list.”
Lucy paused in the act of packing away the items of clothing that had so offended her sensibilities. “Well, and what then, missy? What’s to become of you when you won’t even sell your haul? You may as well benefit from those as has stolen your inheritance from you.”
“Go to bed, Lucy, you have to be up again in a couple of hours,” Rosalind murmured even as sleep dragged her down into its clinging embrace.
Tonight the dreams came thick and fast. She was back at her childhood home, Roehaven Manor; her father had been drinking again and instead of showing his only child his usual careless affection he had locked her in her room. Confused and resentful, she had rebelled. Always a tomboy and excellent at climbing, she had thought nothing of opening her window and clambering onto the nearest branch of the tree outside, from where it was an easy descent to the garden.
Like a moth to a flame, she had been drawn to the lights in her father’s study window. There she had found the reason for her incarceration, around a small table by the fire sat her father and three gentlemen, none of whom she recognised not having benefited from a season in London. So engrossed were they in the turn of the cards she was in little danger of being seen. A hard anger had settled within her as she had studied her father’s red, prematurely lined face, his thick brows drawn together in a fierce frown of concentration. She noticed his hand was slightly unsteady as he picked up the glass beside him and drained it.
He had taken to hard drinking and gambling after her mother’s death five years previously and she knew from the drastic reduction in staff at the manor that it was only a matter of time before they lost their home. As Willow, their long-suffering butler entered the room carrying another bottle of burgundy, she ducked beneath the stone lintel but not before she was sure he had seen her. A trusted friend, he did not give her away and she turned and ran in the moonlight through the increasingly wild gardens.
Her dream shifted and she was standing beside her father, gripping his hand tightly as she looked on her beautiful mother’s pale, still face. Although she knew she was dead from the dreadful bout of influenza she had suffered, she still silently willed her to open those soft, gentle brown eyes.
Next, she was back in her bedroom, huddled under the covers, as they could no longer afford to have the fires going as a
matter of course, when a loud shot shattered the night, causing her to shoot upright.
“Hush now, it’s alright my love, Lucy’s here,” came a soothing voice.
Rosalind forced heavy eyes open to find her shaking body clasped closely to her old nurse’s bosom. Relaxing into the warm embrace, she allowed silent tears to fall. When this was all over, when all of the fine gentlemen who had bled her father dry had been punished in some small way, she hoped the dreams would stop.
Chapter 2
Never at his best first thing in the morning when in town, Lord Atherton was not best pleased to be disturbed whilst still at breakfast. He raised surprised eyes to his butler Radcliffe, but that esteemed personage was quickly brushed past by the earl’s impetuous sister, Lady Isabella Hayward. Intercepting a brief look of sympathy between them, Isabella laughed prettily.
“Yes, Radcliffe informed me you hadn’t left the breakfast table yet but it is already almost midday and I am really very busy this morning so you will just have to make the best of it,” she informed him, sitting down firmly.
“Another cup, my lady?” enquired Radcliffe impassively.
“Yes, if you please,” she dimpled at him.
The earl sighed and laid his paper aside. Even dressed in a trim dress of black crape worn over black sarsenet, his sister still radiated a restless energy that failed to match her mourning colours. The necessary curtailment of her usual relentless whirl of social activities had resulted in an unwarranted interest in his own affairs that was as ill-judged as unwelcomed.