Her Majesty’s Scoundrels
Christy Carlyle
Laura Landon
Anthea Lawson
Rebecca Paula
Lana Williams
Contents
Christy Carlyle
To Lure a Lost Duke
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
About the Author
Laura Landon
Cast in Scandal
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Laura Landon
Anthea Lawson
The Viscount's Secret
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
Also by Anthea Lawson
About the Author
Rebecca Paula
A Spy to Call My Own
Prologue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
About the Author
Books by Rebecca Paula
Lana Williams
Tempting the Scoundrel
Title Page
Other books in The Seven Curses of London series
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
Other Books By Lana Williams
To Lure a Lost Duke
Victorian Lady Detectives Series
Christy Carlyle
To Lure a Lost Duke
Copyright April 2017 by Christy Carlyle
Publisher: Gilded Heart Publishing
Edited by Linda Ingmanson
Cover Design by Midnight Muse Designs (Her Majesty’s Scoundrels cover)
The right of Christy Carlyle to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
QUALITY CONTROL: This book has been professionally edited, however, an occasional typo may have slipped through. If you find one, please contact [email protected] so that we may correct it in future editions. Thank you!
Find out more about Christy and her books at www.christycarlyle.com.
Chapter One
London, 1885
Independence felt divine.
The moment the front door slid shut with a satisfying thud behind the last client of the day, Octavia Fowler did what she’d never done in her life. Hiking her skirt above her ankles, she planted her bottom in the worn leather chair she’d recently found at a secondhand shop and lifted her boot heels onto the edge of her battered desk.
More than finally being her own master, she relished the sense of certainty. After months of worry—she had a unique talent for fretting—and scrimping, her bank account was no longer as empty as her belly had often been. The burden of being left on her own had lightened. Even the persistent ache in her shoulders began to ease.
Drawing in a deep breath, she ignored the pinch of her corset and leaned back. The muscles of her body unfurled as she lifted her arms in a soothing stretch. A bit like a cat luxuriating in the sun.
Never mind that her office was cold as a stone, and there’d been no sun on this gray, rain-spattered London day. Success warmed her bones. Papa had often said nothing brought as much satisfaction as a long day’s work, and Tavia’s long day had been worth the many hours spent writing reports, preparing invoices, and meeting with clients. By half past six, she’d been able to successfully close out three investigations.
Lifting a hand, she worked the knots in her shoulders, pressing and kneading as she would a lump of dough. Her fingers brushed the shawl she kept draped over the back of her chair, and she tugged the knitted fabric around her neck. She looked up and still couldn’t quite believe it was her name painted in tall block letters on the frosted glass of her office door. Somehow the business she’d created had blossomed into a reputable enterprise.
It made up for the loneliness that sometimes plagued her, and for the choice to remain unmarried. What use was passion when she could have success?
In its thirteen months of operation, Fowler Private Inquiry had flourished beyond all her expectations. Finally earning enough to pay for a modest flat in the city, Tavia now worried less about her meager, and quickly dwindling, inheritance.
Of course, she never admitted to her clients that investigation had begun as a lark.
The adventure of assisting an aristocratic friend, Lady Margaret Langham, to recover a set of lost gems had been a revelation. Investigating the jewel theft kept Tavia busy, exactly what she’d needed after months of wallowing in grief and uncertainty following her father’s death. Best of all, detection allowed her to put her natural curiosity to good use.
The experience had been lucrative too. Lady Langham’s plentiful gift of thanks and willingness to recommend Tavia to her friends turned a single success into a string of victories. In the last month alone, she’d solved mysteries for a wealthy widow, a successful Harley Street doctor, and a young bride about to embark on marriage to a man whose character she’d come to doubt. Unfortunately, Tavia’s investigation had proven the lady’s suspicions to be well-founded, but Miss Cuthbert paid her fee just the same.
After Father’s death, one maiden aunt insisted Tavia marry or face a lifetime of poverty and spinsterhood. But at four and twenty, she was well beyond her debutante days. She
’d never had much luck attracting the attention of eligible gentlemen. During her countryside upbringing, she’d been more interested in Papa’s lessons in wielding antique weaponry than in balls and beaus. Only one young man had ever showed her any interest, and he’d eventually rejected her for being too tomboyish and “asking too many deuced questions.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway near her office door, and Tavia tipped her chair forward, removing her boots from the desktop. A top-hatted figure in the outer hall cast a shadow against the frosted glass.
“Who is it?” None of her clients had ever called beyond business hours.
Whoever he was, the man possessed an unusual clipped gait and no interest in answering her query. Standing, she quietly retrieved her father’s penknife from her desk as he approached. Without knocking, he tried the latch. Then again when the locked door wouldn’t give way.
Tavia’s pulse ratcheted up as she positioned the knife in her fist, blade down, prepared to strike. Turning the key she’d left in the lock, she slid the door open a crack. “Our offices are closed, sir.”
Thin, silver-haired, and sporting a stern frown, the visitor removed his perfectly brushed top hat and scraped his gaze from the tips of her boots to the arch of her brows. “I have come at the request of someone you won’t wish to deny, Miss Fowler.”
“Give me your name and leave your card, sir.” Tavia lifted her hand, palm up, to receive his calling card. “I will hear your client’s concerns at a more reasonable hour. Please call again tomorrow, but be aware that I alone decide which cases to take and which to refuse.”
Beyond a healthy bank account, the independence to make all her own choices was one of the main benefits Tavia relished about being a lady of business.
When the man refused to identify himself or produce a card, she began to push the door shut. Tired and hungry, she had no patience for recalcitrant callers.
A leather-gloved hand shot toward her as he planted his palm against the door to stop her. “Hear me out, Miss Fowler.” The older man’s voice held an irritating note of command. “You find me at your threshold because you have a reputation for discretion and discernment. You will need every ounce of your good sense for the challenge ahead.” He extracted a small envelope from his pocket and held it up for her inspection. “As you see, your new client will require utmost discretion.”
Tavia’s hand shook as she clasped the envelope. The engraved lion and unicorn on either side of the royal coat of arms had been gilded and shimmered in her office’s single gaslit sconce.
“An introduction, Miss Fowler. Please open the missive.”
After allowing her a moment to gape and catch her breath, the man cast his gaze down her person again. He eased her father’s penknife from her fist and helpfully offered her the implement.
Tavia slit the envelope and slid free the single square of linen stationary. The writing slanted to the left and contained enough loops and whirls to make deciphering the script difficult, but she sensed urgency in the lines of ink. Four words were unmistakable. Come to Buckingham Palace.
“Will you accompany me to the palace, Miss Fowler?” her visitor asked the moment she lifted her eyes from the note.
“Now?” Slow down. Think. Tavia tried to rein in her racing thoughts. “I don’t understand.” Why did the queen of England and the British Empire even know of her existence? Before starting her detection business, she’d enjoyed a quiet life. Her father’s frequent travels meant she had the run of their country household, and she’d rarely ventured from home, except for an occasional jaunt into London to see her father off on a train journey or purchase a detective novel from her favorite bookseller.
The gentleman sighed before replacing his hat, fussing to arrange the piece of expensive headgear perfectly on his snow-white hair. “Her Majesty is expecting you within the hour. I am not at liberty to say more.”
“Yes, of course,” Tavia heard herself say. Discretion, he’d said. That was why she’d been chosen. Yet shock rooted her in place. Her muscles had stiffened, and her usually quick mind felt as unyielding as chilled treacle. She yearned for a witness to this bizarre turn of events.
Her visitor cleared his throat meaningfully, as if he wished to spur her into action.
Tavia forced her feet into motion, gathering her notepad and fountain pen and shoving them into the pocket of her skirt. She turned off the office’s gaslight, buttoned on her overcoat, and drew in a long bracing breath. “I’m ready.”
Whatever she was going to be asked to investigate, Tavia decided one mystery needed solving first. Why, when London teemed with investigators, Queen Victoria had chosen to summon her?
* * *
Like many Londoners, Tavia had walked Green Park dozens of times, gazing up at the numerous glittering windows of Buckingham Palace’s facade. Yet nothing could have prepared her for being wheeled in a plush carriage into the drive of the royal residence. Guards stood aside as they rolled through the structure’s low, narrow arch leading into the inner courtyard.
Tavia cataloged every sight and sound—the rhythmic clip of the four bays pulling the carriage, the particular shade of scarlet on the queen’s royal household guards’ coats, the rattle of swords sheathed at their sides as they turned and snapped to attention as the carriage rolled past.
When the vehicle stopped, her visitor descended first and assisted her down rather than waiting for the pair of liveried footmen who stood nearby.
Once inside the palace, a cadre of servants passed her from one to another. First a footman, then a maid, then an attractive middle-aged woman who subjected her to the same close inspection as the man who’d collected her from her office. He continued to loom at her side as they approached a set of white lacquered doors edged in gold.
“Wait here, Miss Fowler.”
“May I know your name, sir?” She felt a fool for not pressing the matter before entering a carriage with him.
His cheeks lifted, and a half-dozen lines creased the edges of his mouth into a wolfish grin. “You may address me as Cecil.”
“Wasn’t there another queen’s counselor by that name?” A William Cecil, Lord Burghley, had been a statesman during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Had he chosen the name of the Tudor queen’s advisor to give her a hint to his influence?
“Indeed,” he said, still grinning.
Tavia didn’t believe it was his given name. She suspected the man would never offer her anything but what duty demanded. “Are you as crafty as he was, sir?”
“Quite, Miss Fowler.” Turning his back on her, he pushed one of the tall doors open and pivoted to close the panel in her face. “Wait here a moment.”
An ornate ormolu clock in the corner ticked down the minutes. Tavia fought to keep her feet from tapping in rhythm while awaiting Mr. Cecil’s return. She noted each piece of furniture, the floral pattern of the carpet, and flicked her gaze to the clock face, wondering how long this “moment” would stretch. Just when she began tiptoeing toward an adjacent room to peek inside, the door swung open, and Mr. Cecil waved her in.
“I hope you’ve learned to curtsy,” he whispered as he swept past her and shut the door behind him, leaving her alone with the queen.
Across the room, her generous figure encased in black bombazine, stood the reigning monarch of England. Her graying hair had been pulled back into a simple chignon at her nape, and her eyes, which Tavia had always noticed first in every portrait she’d seen of the queen, were even more striking in person.
“Come join us near the fire, Miss Fowler. I find myself unwilling to leave its warmth on rainy days.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Tavia started forward and then realized she’d forgotten to curtsy. She paused and dipped until one of her knees popped in protest. When she stood, those large blue heavy-lidded eyes were trained on her like beacons.
“No doubt you wonder why you’ve been summoned, Miss Fowler.” The queen gestured toward a chair near the fire before settling onto a plush se
ttee. A small white dog rose from the rug near the fire and joined its mistress. Tavia would have found the beast’s dark eyes and petite face adorable, if not for the little growl of warning the creature emitted.
“Don’t mind Gina.” The queen stroked the little dog’s head. “She’s rather fiercely protective. A bit like Lord Cecil.”
“So Cecil is his name?”
“Of course.” The queen’s steel gray brows dipped in the center of her forehead. “He is not a dissembler, Miss Fowler. Merely a man of caution and strategy. Fine qualities in a queen’s advisor.” After settling her gown about her ample lap, she said, “Perhaps your line of employment makes you suspicious of everyone you meet.”
“Perhaps,” Tavia acknowledged. “I do tend to examine everyone closely these days.” Her work as an investigator had changed her, but so had losing her father, her home, and her single chance at wedlock. What she’d never expected was to spend an evening discussing such matters with her monarch.
“Suspicion has its uses, I’m sure.” Queen Victoria reached for a silver bell on a polished table at her side and waited until two maids arrived and dispensed cups of aromatic tea before continuing. “Do you have a talent for dissembling, Miss Fowler?”
Tavia frowned. Her work involved discovering the truth, but falsehood was sometimes necessary along the way. “I have played roles and worn disguises on occasion, ma’am.” Staring into the delicate bone china cup, Tavia watched a bit of tea leaf swirl in the steaming water. Now she knew how her suspects must feel when confronted with some behavior she’d observed while watching them surreptitiously for days or weeks.
“Excellent. You may need to employ that skill for the mission I intend to set before you.”
“Mission?” Tavia laid her teacup aside and edged forward in her chair, eager to hear more.
“Oh my.” The monarch’s round face broadened in a grin. “You do remind me of your father with that flash of anticipation in your eyes.”
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