by Dawn Brower
“What’s that, dear?” Gabriel asked. He held the umbrella over her head, saving her from most of the rain.
“I was thinking of how we handed out rosemary sprigs at Philip’s funeral.” Jemma pushed herself up from the ground, coming to stand next to Gabriel.
He slid an arm around her waist, and she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. Together, they had made this trip to Philip’s grave thrice in the last year. Once, to tell Philip that David had been arrested and awaited sentencing. Finally, they had fulfilled their promise: they’d found Philip’s killer, and made him pay for ending his life so prematurely. It did not lessen the pain of his loss, but it gave them closure.
The second visit had been a month later, to tell him about their courtship. Jemma was thankful Gabriel hadn’t questioned her desire to seek Philip’s blessing—even if he couldn’t ever give it. But visiting Philip had made her feel like she could move on, while still remembering the life she’d had with him. Given Jemma’s status as a widow, it had been easier to keep their relationship out of the scandal sheets—there were few events she could attend while in mourning, and Gabriel had no desire to rejoin that part of society. While they spent much of their time together at Wolverston Hall, he still kept his own flat, and returned to it in the evenings. They looked at the year of mourning as time to get to know each other even more.
And lastly, they’d come to update him on David and the Wolverston estate. Given his status as a peer, David would not face the hangman’s noose or spend time in Newgate. The Marquess of Marlburg had argued strongly for David to spend the rest of his life in an asylum for the criminally insane, and the magistrate had granted his request. It was not the exact justice Jemma and Gabriel had wanted, but it was something. The Wolverston estate, meanwhile, was being handled by the Forster family’s solicitor.
“I miss him, still,” Gabriel said.
“As do I.” Jemma reached out, tracing the engraving of his name on the headstone. Philip Forster, Earl of Wolverston. Beloved husband and friend. She’d insisted on adding the “friend” part, even though Georgina had said at the time it wasn’t necessary.
But she’d wanted a memorial to the man she’d loved, not as a soul mate, but as a dear, dear friend.
The man who had led her to the love of her life.
Gabriel sighed, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “It makes me determined not to waste a moment of the time we have left.”
“That sounds wonderful to me.” Jemma looped her hand in his, her bright sapphire ring shining as the sun burst free from the clouds. “Shall we tell him, then?”
Gabriel smiled back at her. “It’s your turn, I think. I told him about our courtship.”
“Aye. You thanked him for hiding that letter in my clippings box, which again, I second, Philip.” She took a step forward, Gabriel following her with the umbrella. Dropping down on her knees again, she leaned her head against the cold stone. She placed a quick, chaste kiss to the marker, as she had to Philip’s cheek so many times before they were married.
Drawing back, she held her hand outstretched, as if he could see the ring. “We were married this morning, Philip. We wanted you to know.”
“Felicity suggested we have the ceremony in the cemetery to include you, but I thought that might be a tad morose,” Gabriel piped up, with a wide grin. Her friends had adopted him as one of their own, and Nicholas had declared him family.
Jemma smiled, remembering Philip’s cousin’s words of approval. If you were good enough for Philip, you’re certainly good enough for me. She didn’t think she’d seen Gabriel ever look so delighted to have another man—a duke, nonetheless—clasp his back and declare they ought to go to the club sometime.
“It would have kept Georgina from attending, though,” Jemma said. David’s arrest and institutionalization had sobered Georgina, but it had not completely removed her vicious tongue. In her own way, Georgina was in mourning too, for the man she’d always thought David was.
But Jemma would let Nicholas handle his sister’s grief. She had far, far too much to do these days. She and Claire had joined together to start a school for the children of St. Giles. If they were successful, they hoped to extend to the East End and Jacob’s Island. Meanwhile, Nicholas and Teddy were committed to trying to advance poor law reform in the House of Lords, and Gabriel had recently received a commendation for his work with the Runners.
Together, Jemma and Gabriel worked to build a future. They had neither title nor vast fortune, but they were happy. They would make their home in Wolverston Hall, the place where they had both spent some of their happiest days, and where they had fought a killer and won.
Their lives were on the edge of scandal, but that was how they liked it.
Acknowledgments
There are books that are easy to write, that spring forth from your fingers with such alacrity you feel as though you are flying. I have learned, in my last four years of publishing, that these books are rare—almost divine gifts, to be held up as examples of when you most enjoyed your craft. Then there are books that are akin to having your fingernails removed one by one, where the very act of writing is a gut-wrenching, seasick-inducing affair. You lose track of how many times you’ve rewritten things. The book morphs into some strange organism that is neither what you set out to write, nor anything you would have recognized at the start. You hold your breath and pray to whatever deity you believe in that it all sticks together, because you no longer can summon the energy to care. You just want it to be done.
This book was the latter.
I owe a debt of gratitude to my critique partners with every book I write, but in writing The Scandalous Widow I asked so much of the people who have been so utterly, breathtakingly loyal and willing. This book is dedicated to Christy Carlyle, who read this book at least four times in its various incarnations. The only reason I even made this deadline was because Christy kept pushing me forward. She was my touchstone, my hand to hold when I was convinced there was no way under the sun this was all going to work. She is both a wise editor and a devoted friend, and I am, as always, desperately grateful for her.
There are two women in my life that make me proud to call them my dearest friends—Eileen Richards and Christina McKnight. Eileen has been by my side for this entire crazy independent journey, and every day I am astounded to be the recipient of attention and honor from someone who is so truly strong, insightful and hard-working. (Plus her sense of humor is hysterical. CHURCH LADY FOREVER.) If there’s a piece of research in here about how the aristocracy lived, then it was Eileen who sent it my way. If there’s a description of something that meant reading a map, then it was Eileen. (All mistakes are my own.)
Christina McKnight and I have known each other a little over a year, and it is very, very hard to imagine my life before her. She is who I call when I can’t make sense of the world (which is often), and she helps me more than she will ever know to function in a world that is very anxiety-inducing and infuriating. We are two opposites, yet we work together so well.
Thank you to Ava Stone for helping me with research, and to Ali Trotta for her endless support. I am lucky to have you both in my life.
Thank you to my Daring Dames, who always come through for me! You guys are so amazing. You take time out of your day to review my books and share things for me, and that means the world to me. Thanks for listening to me ramble in my live chats. I love you guys.
Abby, Meghan, Cynthia, Karin, and Layna, thank you so much for doing a quick read on this book. You are the best!
Thank you to the great Charles Dickens, to whom I pay homage with Jemma and Gabriel’s visit to Jacob’s Island. I got the idea for Mauly Jives’s physical appearance from looking at pictures of Gillian Anderson (Mulder and Scully together forever, you know it) playing Mrs. Haversham in the BBC production of Great Expectations, so Dickens continues to give back to me in weird ways.
Thank you to my dear husband for putting up with me during the ro
yal cluster that was this book. Thank you for reading all fifty-six incarnations of this, and for still being willing to talk about it with me for hours on end. I love you with all my heart.
And lastly, but never least, thank you, readers, for your enthusiasm when I posted snippets for this book. You kept me from throwing it all in a trash bin and screaming “I WILL GO BACK TO AN OFFICE, SO HELP ME, I WILL.”
(Just kidding on that last bit. Leggings, no bra, and working from home for life, y’all.)
Also by Erica Monroe
Gothic Brides
Regency Gothic
The Mad Countess
The Determined Duchess
The Scandalous Widow
COVERT HEIRESSES
Regency Spies
I Spy a Duke
For Your Spy Only (2018)
The Rookery Rogues
Romantic Era Working Class
A Dangerous Invitation
Secrets in Scarlet
Beauty and the Rake
Stealing the Rogue’s Heart
The Lady Rebels (2018)
Anthologies
Mystified
Charmed at Christmas
Suspenseful Starts
The Rookery Rogues: Volume 1
Sign up for Erica’s newsletter and get exclusive excerpts, contests, and more:
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About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author Erica Monroe writes dark, suspenseful historical romance. Her current series include Gothic Brides (Regency Gothic romances), The Rookery Rogues (pre-Victorian gritty working class romance), and Covert Heiresses (Regency spies who are the children of a duke). She was a finalist in the published historical category for the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Romantic Suspense, and her books have been recommended reads at Fresh Fiction, Smexy Books, SBTB, and All About Romance. When not writing, she is a chronic TV watcher, sci-fi junkie, and comic book fanatic. She lives in the suburbs of North Carolina with her husband, two dogs, and a cat.
Erica loves to hear from readers, so please feel free to contact her at the following places:
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Red Door Reads
How to Land an Earl in Ten Days
USA Today Bestselling Author Ava Stone
For Deb Marlowe and her Valiant Husband.Thank you both for adopting me into your family as mine lives so far away.
Keeping an eye on me after oral surgery.
Bringing me homemade chicken noodle soup.
Negotiating with car salesmen.
Fixing my broken mailbox.
The two of you are the most wonderful people. I love you both very much!
~ Ava
Chapter 1
A certain darling lord was overheard at Whites last night, boasting of his ability to make any proper lady fall madly in love with him. I have been told the wager has been recorded in a particular book that resides at that establishment. Ladies of London, do not say you were not warned that a duplicitous charmer is on the hunt and not at all whom he appears to be.
~ Whispers from Lady X
The night before…
Whites Club
St. James Street, London
Reese Delacy, the Earl of Darling, regarded his old friend with a considerate eye. “Buck up, old man. From where I’m sitting, you’re damned lucky to be rid of her.”
“How can you say that?” Captain Lucien Gates slurred. “I loved her, Reese.”
Clearly, or the man wouldn’t still be bemoaning the loss of the fickle girl even now – Reese glanced at his pocket watch – twelve hours later. “At the risk of sounding cliché, there are plenty of other fish in the sea, Luce.”
“Here, here!” Archibald Atherton agreed, lifting his whisky up in a mock toast.
But Lucien was unfazed as he shook his head. “No one ever looked at me the way she did.” After that admission, he tossed back the rest of the whisky in his glass, seemingly even more glum than he’d looked previously.
Reese and Arch shared a look, but there was nothing either of them could say to counter that point. Lucien was right, of course. Miss Caldwell hadn’t looked at the army captain the same ever since he’d returned from the Continent, needing the assistance of a cane to get around after taking a ball in his leg at Quatre Bras. She was an opportunistic little piece of baggage, though Reese held his tongue to keep from saying as much. When Lucien was whole and hale and the favorite grandson to the Duke of Hythe, Miss Caldwell hung on his arm and on his every word as though he personally placed each star in the night sky. The little tart hadn’t even waited as much as a day before announcing her betrothal to someone else.
The truth of the matter was, Lucien was lucky to be rid of the girl, but Reese suspected that saying as much wouldn’t be consoling in the least. Honestly, he had no idea what would reduce his friend’s heartache, so he said, “Someone else will come along,” for lack of anything better to say.
“And so someone has.” Lord Daniel Westham dropped into a seat next to Arch and across from Reese, grinning unrepentantly. “What are we drinking to this evening?”
“Drinking to nothing except the fickle gods of love.” Arch gestured slightly to the morose army captain in the seat next to Reese.
Any decent fellow would wipe his ever-present grin from his face. Daniel Westham, however, was not terribly decent.
The man snorted in response. “No such thing. Just drivel Byron spouts to get women to fall into his bed.”
“You sound as jaded as Darling,” Arch replied.
“Love is real. Our love was real,” Lucien insisted. “Whenever Anna looked at me...”
“Any woman can look at you the same way,” Reese said. “It’s simply knowing what to say to them, that’s all. Westham is right about that. Why do you think ladies all over Town think they’re in love with Byron? Because of his flowery words, that’s why. Knowing what to say and how to say it, that’s all it takes.”
Lucien blinked at Reese with his glassy eyes. “I think it takes more than words.”
“As do I,” Arch agreed.
Of course, the two of them would be in agreement on that particular matter. They were the more romantically minded fellows of the group. “A certain amount of charm goes a long way,” Reese conceded with a nod. “But that’s all it takes. The right words, the right charm, and you could have any chit you want falling at your feet and madly in love with you.” Having watched each and every one of his sisters fall prey to such things from even the earliest of ages was proof enough of that.
“Any chit you want?” Arch asked, his dark brow lifted in disbelief.
“Not even I believe that,” Daniel added. “Flowery words can only get you so far when dealing with proper misses. Of course, I have much more experience with the not-so proper ones.”
Any given miss was a puzzle. It simply took figuring out which piece went where. It wasn’t all that difficult to sort out once you knew what you were doing. “Any proper girl you want,” Reese repeated, “within a fortnight.”
“Indeed?” Daniel asked. “And exactly how much are you willing to wager, Darling?”
Damn it all. Now they were wagering? Reese hadn’t meant to do that. And especially not at Whites with that blasted betting book in such close proximity. “I hardly think we need to wager on any particular girl’s affections, Westham.”
“So you’re not so certain in your abilities, then?” the man goaded him.
Oh, he was certain, damn Daniel’s eyes. And when Reese was successful in this little game – and he would be, women, after all, had always found him rather charming – he could show Lucien that finding a different lady, one worthy of his friend’s affection, was not a lost cause in the least. He just needed to look for a
more decent girl the next time. “Shall we make it a hundred pounds?”
“Darling,” Arch muttered in disapproval.
“Let’s make it more sporting than that,” Daniel spoke over their friend. “How about two hundred pounds and I’ll give you the fortnight to make any proper girl fall madly in love with you?”
The gauntlet had definitely been thrown down. Luckily, Reese had no concerns whatsoever about the outcome. “Odds are I can do it in even less time.”
“For God’s sake,” Lucien muttered.
“Ah?” Daniel grinned, his blue eyes alit with the challenge. “Even less time, you say? In that case, let’s make it an even ten days.”
DAY ONE
Hythe House
Curzon Street, Mayfair
England was freezing and completely dreary. In fact, Miss Cara Beckett was fairly certain she’d seen more sunlight during the last hurricane that battered the shores back home than she had in London over the last sennight. She shivered slightly as she stepped from her host’s carriage and wished, not for the first time, that she was home, warm and walking barefoot upon the pink sandy beaches of Bermuda.
But she had a job to do and one that she could not fail at or there wouldn’t be much of a home to return to. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Home would still be there, but not much else would be if she wasn’t successful here, in London, batting her lashes at every Member of Parliament she came across, vowing to every humorless lord that he was the most enchanting fellow she’d ever met, even allowing one or two of them to attempt to court her. Politics was a dirty business, but unfortunately it was also necessary, at least that was what Papa had always said.