by Regina Darcy
Table of Content
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
EPILOGUE
BONUS CHAPTER 1:
THE BUESTOCKING & THE VISCOUNT (also part of 15 story box set)
KEEP IN TOUCH!
Copyright © Regina Darcy 2018
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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ONE
It was impossible to tell the fog outside the tavern from the cloud of smoke that circled overhead within. Cognac in hand, Charles Fitzsimmons, the Earl of Hemsworth, rose from his chair and went to stand by the window, looking out upon the opaque night outside the glass. Behind him, still at the table, drinking as if Parliament were about to declare liquor illegal, were the comrades who had welcomed him when he arrived at the tavern.
Correction, the Earl thought, Baron Ainsworth was not a comrade. Ainsworth was . . . the correct word did not come and the Earl wondered whether it was because he had already drunk more cognac than his head could handle, or because the Baron was beyond words.
“Perhaps,” the Baron was saying, “the line of succession will run through the eighteen who precede you, and we’ll have King Charles III on the throne.”
The Earl ignored him. It was true that he was nineteenth in line to the throne of England, but he had no aspirations to sit upon it. It was enough to be the Earl of Hemsworth.
“What say you, Fitzsimmons? Fancy a crown upon that head?”
The Earl did not turn around. Outside, the rain continued to pour down, mingling with the fog to create a strange curtain of white beyond his view. Not a fit night for man nor beast, he thought. He should have simply stayed home on such a night and declined the invitation of his friends to meet in the tavern, no matter how posh and elegant its clientele or how exquisite its drinks.
He had as good or better at home. But there were reasons why he had accepted the offer, reasons that made no allowance for whether a man would prefer to sit by his own hearth on a damp, chill night in late March, or be gallivanting in a tavern.
“Fitzsimmons!” the Baron called out loudly.
The Baron was not quite drunk, the Earl suspected, but found it useful to pretend to be so that he could get away with being outrageous and disrespectable to his betters.
“Shall we start bowing now? To prepare?”
“That would be treasonous,” the Earl answered without turning around.
“You’re dull sport tonight,” the Baron derided.
The Earl frowned. Did Ainsworth wish to goad him into saying something which would travel to the ears of the Crown and get him hanged? George, the Prince Regent was not tolerant of slights against His Majesty.
The Earl got on well with his august relatives, but he was no fool and he knew that if he ever presumed upon his kinship, the Prince Regent, would set him in his place swiftly.
The Earl twirled the whisky in his glass. Ainsworth was playing his own game.
“Am I?” the Earl replied, as he resumed sipping from his glass. It would require nimbleness to look as if he was considering the Baron’s suggestions whilst appearing to be ignorant of any dubious motives.
“My apologies. I am wondering how my men are faring.” The men you abandoned. The stray thought hurt.
Although the Earl understood the reasoning behind his forced return to England, it still galled him that he had been required to leave the battlefield because of a slight wound to his leg. He had left the fray a hero, but he had left it limping.
The wound was healing well, the doctors assured him, but no, he could not return. That diagnosis had come not from the doctor, but from the Prime Minister. Besides, he had an obligation to his Earldom, the Crown informed him.
At the thought, he grimaced. Great-Aunt Agatha was very fond of reminding him of his obligations. She was also fond of reminding him that he needed to marry and sire an heir. Great-Aunt Agatha was his only immediate surviving Fitzsimmons relative, it was pointless to remind her that he was a grown man who had been in service to king and country.
To her the problem was clear. He was a Fitzsimmons and there was no infant Fitzsimmons to succeed him.
It was a sad state of affairs, she stated, when the noblest names in England could muster so few heirs. Even the Prince Regent, had only a girl child to carry on after him, but at least he had a child, even if a girl, she would add triumphantly.
Great-Aunt Agatha did not seem to understand that a man could not simply sire an heir out of duty to his lineage. Perhaps the Prince Regent had done so—his famed disdain for his wife was well known—but Charles Fitzsimmons was not so inclined.
By now, Great-Aunt Agatha would have retired for the night. Having lived in London while he was fighting in Europe, she acted as the lady of his household. The old battle-ax had no intention of being pensioned off to the country estate.
The Earl smiled to himself. He didn’t really want to send her away. Despite her obsession with the family line, Great-Aunt Agatha was great fun. She was cynical and explicit, occasionally vulgar in the most droll way imaginable, utterly oblivious to the opinions of the ton, and devoted to her great-grandnephew.
“Your men are faring quite well, I should think,” replied the Baron, snapping the Earl out of his musings.
The Earl looked at the man and struggled to hide his contempt. The Baron had not seen service, but was fond of claiming that it was his dearest wish to strike a blow against Bonaparte, if it were not for that dratted riding accident he’d suffered in his younger days.
No one who remembered the Baron in his youth recalled the riding accident.
The Earl was of the opinion that the army already had its share of rogues and ruffians and did not need another.
“You surely don’t believe that they cannot fight without you at their side,” the Baron continued.
“I say, Ainsworth, you’re sounding rather foul. No one has ever spoken low of Charles Fitzsimmons as an officer, and his men think highly of him.”
The Earl smiled at the reflection in the window. Trust loyal Percy Tennison to speak up in his defence. Tennison had served with the Earl but had come home half a year ago, thanks to a bullet that left him with an empty left sleeve. Tennison bore the injury with stoic dignity, but he would not see his commanding officer slighted or maligned.
“I spoke nothing against him. I merely make the point that there are officers in his place who will certainly see to the welfare of his men, as well as he would have, had he been able to remain with them.”
The tone of Baron Ainsworth’s voice left the impression that perhaps the Earl had not wished to remain, that he had sought to return home. Tennison might bristle at the slur, but the Earl ignored it. He would not be goaded into a duel merely because Ainsworth was his usual disagreeable self.
“I am certain—”
The remainder of Percy Tennison’s rejoinder was cut off by the sound of a woman’s scream slicing through the foggy night
and carrying into the tavern. Galvanised by the sound, the Earl, drawing his pistol from his coat pocket, hastened out into the night.
He saw a woman struggling, as a man sought to pull her reticule from her wrist.
The Earl assessed the situation quickly. No telling what the robber might have in his own pocket, a knife perhaps or a pistol, like the Earl. Best to ease the situation and make sure that that girl was safe.
“Enough of that now,” the Earl called out. “Leave the woman alone and get on your way—”
His pacifying words were met by a lunge from the thief. The Earl’s instincts, honed by his military experience and many sessions in Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon, answered for him and he planted a facer with his fists before he had time to think about what to do.
“Here now, what’s this!” demanded a constable, who had followed the noise of the fray.
“Someone for you, constable,” the Earl replied, pulling the thief up by his collar. “He’ll do well to spend the night incarcerated. He was attempting to rob this lady.”
The constable turned to stare at the mysterious young woman standing beside the Earl. Her hood covered her face. “What’s a lady doing out at night?” the constable asked in a voice laced with suspicion.
“I’ve no idea,” the Earl replied, “but as she was the one about to be robbed and not the one doing the robbing, I recommend that you take this rascal into custody.”
The Earl turned to the young woman. He could see that she was shaken and trembling from the encounter, even though the constable had the thief in hand and was lugging him away from the tavern.
“Here, miss,” the Earl said, proffering his arm in support to the girl. “I’ll take you home where you can be safe and collect yourself after this ordeal.”
The woman gasped and pulled away as if he had affronted her. “Indeed, sir,” she stammered, “I wonder that you should be so familiar with me!” Her hood fell back and he caught a glimpse of azure blue eyes, surrounded by a heart-shaped face. His heart skipped a beat.
“I didn’t—miss, I meant no disrespect, I merely wished—”
“Fitzsimmons! What’s happening old chap?”
The Earl turned toward the tavern as he heard Percy Tennison calling out his nickname.
“There was an attempt at robbery,” he replied. “A thief was taking advantage of the fog to rob this young woman—” he gestured in the direction of the victim, only to find that he was pointing at nothing.
No one was there. The girl was gone.
“What young woman?”
“There was a girl . . .
TWO
Despite having no great eagerness to return home, Miss Gemma Blake walked briskly through the fog, the events of the evening having sufficiently frightened her into haste. She had long felt that she had an affinity with the night. Its shadows and its mysteries held an allure for her palette and canvas that she could not explain, and it summoned her like a supernatural master, although she knew that she ought not to go.
Tonight had been dangerous, though. She did not want her aunt, Lady Ann Benton to know that she had been out again. Her aunt had enough to endure. She had a terrible wasting illness, which made each breath a victory over her weak lungs.
Lady Benton was all that Gemma had left in the world, since the death of her parents two years before. She had welcomed her with great joy, even though her husband, Lord Evan Benton, had given Gemma a cold appraisal when she showed up, trunks in tow, to move in.
Lady Benton had encouraged Gemma’s dream of being an artist and had purchased the paints and supplies she needed. She had transformed an unused upstairs room into a studio for Gemma and had praised her paintings, hanging them in the rooms of the house where guests would be sure to notice them, and crowing triumphantly to Gemma whenever she sold one for her. But her aunt had been ill for so long that Gemma doubted that she would have a home for very much longer. It was unlikely that Lord Benton would allow his wife’s niece to reside in his townhouse after . . .
What would she do if Lord Benton turned her out, as he surely would, when Lady Benton was no longer alive to forbid it? She had seen tonight how hostile the streets of London could be. If not for the interference of that brave and nameless gentleman, the one who had rescued her and then offered to take her home . . . Doubtless he meant harm in his own way, Gemma realised. Gentlemen did not offer the hospitality of their homes to unknown women they encountered on a dark street. He had likely assumed that she was plying her trade. It was an embarrassing thing to realise. What would Lady Benton think when Gemma came home? If she were still awake . . . if the laudanum that the doctor prescribed for her had not already taken effect and she wasn’t deep in a dazed slumber . . .
She could not think of her aunt’s demise, even though her eyes predicted that she would soon, once again, be on her own. What that would mean, she did not know.
Where could a young, unmarried woman with no family go when she was on her own? Lord Benton—she could not call him Uncle, although he was her aunt’s husband—he was not a congenial man.
She would not be welcome to stay. The subject had not been broached, but there were topics that did not need words. She had seen Lord Benton’s cold, acquisitive eyes upon her and she knew that to remain under his roof was to submit to his sovereignty in more ways than one.
The butler, Reginald Wadsworth, opened the door to her knock. His face, wreathed in sorrow, revealed what she had dreaded.
“My aunt?”
“I’m very sorry, Miss Gemma. She has passed on to her reward in heaven. She went peacefully, Miss Matilda says. She was with her when she died.”
“I’m glad she was not alone. I should have been with her, I know.” Gemma handed her coat to Mr Wadsworth. “I . . . could not be there.” Gemma felt her grief shower over her like a wave. She was now truly all alone in the world. Poor Aunt Ann.
She was soon snapped out of her melancholy by the butler’s voice.
“Lord Benton wishes to see you in his study, Miss Gemma.”
Their eyes met. Wadsworth could not voice his concern and Gemma dared not, but each knew that a reckoning was imminent.
“Thank you, Mr Wadsworth,” she said, taking refuge in formality so that she could maintain her composure. “My aunt always thought highly of you.”
“We all felt a great loyalty to Lady Benton, Miss Blake,” Wadsworth replied, equally formal in his tone. Perhaps he, too, was dreading the changes that would come without Lady Benton’s calm, compassionate rule over the household.
Lady Benton had no children, which perhaps accounted for her fondness for her only niece. She had been an heiress in her youth and had made what was judged as an advantageous match, marrying Lord Benton, who had a title and a need for money, although he was not fond of spending it. During her life, Lady Benton had maintained control over her income. But with her death, that wealth would revert to her husband, who would relish having it.
Gemma supposed that she ought to refresh herself after her nocturnal misadventure, but she could see little point in combing her hair or straightening her dress merely for Lord Benton. There was no advantage that she could see in improving her appearance for him. In fact, quite the opposite. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she made her way to the study and knocked firmly on the door.
“Come in,” Lord Benton called in response to her knock.
She walked into his study. The room was dimly lighted. Lord Benton had a lamp upon his desk, but no other candles or illumination. Gemma felt as if she were smothered in the darkness that surrounded her as she followed his direction and sat upon the chair in front of his desk.
“Your aunt is dead,” he told her, his voice harsh and rasping. “She was profligate in her expenses and took you in out of charity. I am not so extravagant. But you will not find me unaware of your . . . possible worth to me.”
He allowed the words to sink in to her thoughts. There was silence. Gemma forced herself to meet his cold grey gaze with an impas
sive expression, from which the animation of her sparkling brown eyes and cheerful countenance was absent.
“I trust that you know my meaning,” he said when the silence appeared as if it would not end.
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Then I shall speak plainly, you stupid girl.” At the insult Gemma inhaled in surprise. “In the eyes of society, I am your uncle. You may stay here without scandal because of that. However, I do not look upon you as a niece. You may have value to me as a potential mistress. If you wish to have the shelter and security of a respectable home, you may stay here, provided that you warm my bed. Am I clear?”
It was no more than she had suspected and yet the words were chilling. Share the intimacies of the bedroom with a man she feared and despised, one who had no kindness in him? Submit to the caresses of a man she did not love? Accept the fact that, as an orphan with no protector, she was powerless?
Gemma rose. She would not willingly sacrifice her virtue to this man.
“I decline your offer,” she replied, her words glacial and emphatic, yet entirely within the bounds of civility. Lady Benton had always preached that courtesy was the very best way of mounting a defence, and Gemma realised that it was true. To express herself as she felt, she would need to give way to emotion. That would not be effective when dealing with a man of Lord Benton’s impassive demeanour.
Anger revealed itself beneath the iron façade of his features. He had been attractive in his youth, Gemma knew. The painting in the drawing room attested to a man of trim physique, abundant dark hair, and a commanding presence. But time had softened the boundaries of his frame and diminished the volume of his hair, so that he reminded Gemma of a sewing pincushion—round and undistinguished except for the fortress of pins which barricaded him from others.
“Then you must leave,” he replied, smiling in frigid triumph. “I shall retain the paintings that you have finished as payment for the cost incurred in allowing you to stay here these past two years. They shall pay the costs of your aunt’s funeral.”