The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree
A Whisper of Scandal Novel
by
Julie Johnstone
The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree
Julie Johnstone
Smashwords Edition
Cover Design by Covers by Lily
Editing by Double Vision Editorial
Proofreading by Victory Editing
Copyright © 2015 by Julie Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Author’s Note
Dear Readers,
During research on the Regency Era, I became fascinated with the trial of Queen Caroline, who is best known as Caroline of Brunswick. Her husband, King George IV of the United Kingdom, had been determined to gain a divorce from her so he’d had the Pains and Penalty Bill introduced into Parliament to prove that Caroline was adulterous and, therefore, not fit to be his queen. Of course, it was well known that there was no love lost between them, as the king had never been a faithful husband and his attempt was ultimately unsuccessful.
As often happens with me, this bit of information sparked a host of ideas in my mind, and thus, the plot of The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree was born. This book is a work of fiction with real people in it, but it is largely based on situations from my own imagination. There were indeed letters that came out during the divorce proceedings that painted the king in a very negative light, but how these letters were discovered I can only speculate, which is exactly what I’ve done here. I hope you enjoy the story!
All the best,
Julie
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WORLD OF JOHNSTONE TEASER
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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For Samantha Grace and Ava Stone, who have always been there for me with friendship, advice, and excellent brainstorming sessions. This book would have stalled at the beginning if not for the two of you. Anyone who will listen to me ramble my way through the infancy stage of an idea for a book is a true friend.
And for my husband, who gallantly took up the role of Mommy and Daddy several times so that I could finish this book. I love you! I could not write a more perfect hero.
Kisses ~ Julie
The Year of Our Lord 1820
London, England
Arabella’s shoes tapped against the tile floor of the Stanhope Home for the Mentally Impaired. Every window she passed as she walked down the corridor was wide open, and she wrinkled her nose at the stench that blew in from the river. Her mother often complained of the terrible smell, but Mrs. Henderson, the warden, had said the windows must remain ajar because becoming overheated made some insane people’s conditions worse. Arabella didn’t know for certain if this was true or not. How could she? She was a seamstress, not a physician or the wife of one like Mrs. Henderson.
Arabella had to rely on the woman’s word—quite an upsetting thing for someone who’d learned a long time ago to rely only on herself. It made her nerves tingle, but circumstances left her no choice, much in the same way fate had left Papa no choice but to rely on her. Once his lower body had become paralyzed and he was confined to a wheelchair, he’d been forced to trust her to provide everything—food, clothing, even the caretaker who watched him when Arabella went to work.
Just as her mother had trusted Arabella to pay the monthly bill for this place, with its white walls and the whimpers of sadness that rang through the halls. Otherwise, Mother would be sent away to Bethlem Mental Hospital, a horrid place for the deranged, where more than moans resounded in the corridors. Arabella had visited Bethlem—or Bedlam, as many had taken to calling it—when she didn’t think she would be able to scrape enough money together for the Stanhope Home. The hospital was damp, dark, and smelled of feces, and she’d seen dozens of patients chained naked who appeared to be starving with their skeletal frames. Upon leaving, she had vowed to sell her body before sentencing her mother to that misery. Thankfully, it hadn’t come to that.
She quickened her pace, hastened by the memories of Bedlam. Cries of horror filled the silence there, and fear colored the eyes of all who peered out from the tiny windows of their cells. Arabella’s throat constricted and her nails curled into her palms, breaking the soft flesh of her skin. She winced and forced herself to relax her tight fists. It wasn’t right to treat people so poorly simply because they had no money.
Her family was perilously close to destitute, and ever since visiting Bedlam, her nights had been haunted by dreams of her mother being imprisoned there. Arabella clenched her jaw and focused on the hunched back of the guard, Stewart, who walked in front of her. His shoulder blades protruded against the faded-blue material of his uniform, and his repellent odor wafted back to her with each step they took. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
He turned the corner, and with the sunlight shining through the window, she got a better look at the angry, red scratch on his cheek that she’d noticed when he’d let her into the home. It reminded her of the terrible scratch her old cat, Matilda, had given one of the neighborhood boys when he’d tried to hurt her. Arabella narrowed her eyes, a terrible suspicion rising. Had Stewart been harming one of the women here? He was always sending inviting, disgusting looks that she ignored, but if you were a patient here, trapped in a room, unable to leave… A sour taste filled her mouth.
Suddenly, Stewart paused at the door to Mrs. Henderson’s office and turned to Arabella with a leer on his face. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “If Mrs. Henderson gives you trouble about that blanket for your mother, pass it to me and I’ll get it to her. I don’t mind doing you the favor.” His gaze trailed away from her face and down her body before returning upward.
Arabella stiffened. “No, thank you. I’m sure Mrs. Henderson will be agreeable to allowing my mother a blanket from home.” She didn’t know if the warden would be congenial or not, but she was not about to take a favor from this man. His dull, lust-filled eyes told her what he’d want in return. It was the same thing the creditor, Mr. Branburry, had expected in exchange for not taking all their possessions when Papa could no longer pay the bills. Arabella had simply told the man what time to arrive at their house to empty it. She still felt a tug of satisfaction when she recalled his gawking face. She’d explained to him in careful, controlle
d tones that she’d rather have nothing to wear, read, or sit on than allow him to touch her.
Stewart leaned toward her; her nostrils flared at the heavy scent of urine that wafted from him. “One day,” he snarled under his breath, “you’ll realize how much you need a man.” He swiveled around and knocked on Mrs. Henderson’s door.
Arabella clutched the frayed, wool blanket that had been her only one. Need a man? She almost let the sharp laugh in her throat free. She’d had a suitor, Mr. Benjamin Fowler. Thinking of him didn’t even make her heart skip a beat anymore. She’d realized that she had not really been in love, but rather, infatuated with the idea of love. She’d thought his blue eyes kind and his heart pure and would have probably married him. But he’d proven just how deceitful appearances could be. He’d told her in very polite words that he could never marry a woman who likely had insanity tainting her blood, no less a traitor for a brother. She didn’t bother to tell him that she was adopted.
His willingness to leave her had shown he was not worth her breath. Nor did she trouble to remind him that there was no actual proof that her brother Daniel had been attempting to flee his regiment when he’d been shot and killed. The evidence Daniel had sent before dying showed a different story. She had letters from him, telling of things his commander had lied about. And his commander had been courting the same woman as her brother… She had no doubt he’d been jealous of Daniel, but no one would listen. The false words of a shifty-eyed captain would never convince her, even if it had convinced the rest of the world.
A giant lump formed in Arabella’s throat and she swallowed it back. Now was not the time to become misty-eyed over all that had befallen her family. She suspected most men would have done just as Benjamin had, but she didn’t care to find out. She slaved all day to simply put food to the table, house herself and her father, and ensure her mother continued to receive proper care. The last thing she desired was the trouble of a man.
“Mrs. Henderson says you can go in.”
Arabella snapped her attention to Stewart, who was already striding past her with long, gangly steps. Her gaze fastened on that dark slash on his cheek. Could that be the mark of fingernails from a woman who had clawed at Stewart’s face in self-defense? Her stomach pitched downward as she thrust her shoulders back and took determined steps through the door and into the warden’s office. She would make sure that Stewart had no contact with her mother anymore.
Mrs. Henderson, dressed in a severe black gown, sat behind a large, gleaming mahogany desk. She raised a creamy hand to her coif of brown-and-silver hair. “Miss Carthright, I’m glad to see you here today. I was about to pin you a note.”
Arabella’s chest tightened. “I know my payment is overdue.”
Mrs. Henderson nodded. “Two months. I could overlook one month, but two…” The woman clucked her tongue.
Arabella slipped her mother’s wedding ring off her finger. If Mrs. Henderson demanded security until she received the money Arabella would soon have, this ring was all she had to offer. There was no other institution like this in London, and she refused to see her mother go to Bedlam. “I will be able to pay by tonight,” Arabella promised, pressing the wedding ring between her thumb and forefinger. This time her words were true. The gowns Lady Conyngham had commissioned were finally complete after hours of tedious toil, and the lady had promised her ten pounds if all four garments were ready within two weeks. She planned to deliver them to Lady Conyngham after leaving here and collect payment. Of course, she had to pay ten percent to Madame Chauvin as the proprietor of the dress shop and the one who had given her the job. But Lady Conyngham had said that if she was pleased, she would give Arabella a bonus on top of the agreed-upon pay.
Mrs. Henderson tapped her nails against the wood, the clack, clack, clack filling the silence and making Arabella’s nerves sing. The warden let out an irritated sigh. “Miss Carthright, this is not Bedlam, where they take people who can pay nothing. This is a private home owned by a generous lord who took up the cause of the deranged after his own beloved wife perished at Bedlam. Yes, he does dip into his own pockets to keep this home afloat, but his generosity does not include your mother being here for free.” Mrs. Henderson’s painted mouth twisted into a sympathetic smile. “I wish we could be more accommodating, but running this place is costly.”
“I understand,” Arabella quickly inserted.
“It does not seem you do,” Mrs. Henderson replied in a sharp tone that made Arabella’s temper notch up.
She ground her teeth. It would not do to argue the point.
Mrs. Henderson picked up her quill pen, glanced down at the document before her, and began writing. A sinking sensation filled Arabella’s entire body. She leaned forward but could not make out the words. “What are you doing?”
The warden paused and fixed her dark eyes on Arabella. “I’m writing to the hospital to let them know that your mother will be delivered there tomorrow morning.”
“No, please!” Arabella snatched the paper off Mrs. Henderson’s desk and thrust the ring in front of the woman’s nose. The warden’s eyes widened a fraction as she stiffened in her chair. The leather squeaked with her movement. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
“It doesn’t have to be hard at all,” Arabella replied, moving the ring back and forth in the air. The small, well-cut diamond caught the light and cast a glow in the shadows. “Take this ring as collateral. I vow I’ll bring the money tonight.” Though coming tonight would mean paying her father’s caretaker an additional wage to sit for longer hours today. Arabella would do it, and make up the deficit of funds by skipping dinner for the next two weeks.
With pinched lips, Mrs. Henderson slowly outstretched her hand.
Arabella deposited her mother’s wedding ring in the warden’s open palm, and as she did, a hard knot of despair lodged in her belly. This was the only possession of her mother’s that Arabella had left. The ring symbolized a happier time, and giving it away like this— She swallowed hard. Well, handing it over was like handing over all the happy memories she had left, too.
Dash it all! Tears burned in her throat, but she’d die before relenting to the silly fear that was trying to consume her. She was not giving the ring—or her hope—away forever. She licked her dry lips. “When I bring you the money, you can give me back the ring.”
Mrs. Henderson held the ring close to her face. Her droopy eyelids pulled upward, forming three folds of skin over her eyes. She bit the ring and nodded with a grunt of satisfaction. “I will take this ring as payment for the two months you owe. The first is on Monday. That gives you three days to secure two more pounds for the upcoming month. Be here then with the money or your mother will be gone by day’s end.”
Arabella stared at her mother’s ring. She could not lose it. “What if I bring you the six pounds we owe tonight? Will you return the ring to me in exchange?”
Mrs. Henderson gave her a flinty stare. “I have a previous engagement tonight. I cannot wait around for you,” she snapped. “And if you want this ring back so badly, it will cost you seven pounds. You may pay me Monday morning and not before. I’ve no idea when I’ll return to the office this weekend, and I’m not planning my time around you. Are we clear?”
Oh, they were clear, all right. Mrs. Henderson was going to pocket some money for the favor of letting Arabella pay late, but there was nothing she could do about it. “Yes,” she forced, nearly choking on the word.
Mrs. Henderson smiled and deposited the ring in her desk drawer with a clink. Arabella’s chest tightened. At least the ring was not gone for good, unlike her mother’s mind. She took a deep breath. Her responsibilities to her mother and father were her top priority, and she’d not fail them, just as they’d never failed her.
“I brought a blanket for my mother,” she stated in a firm voice. “She complains of always being cold. Will you see that she gets it?”
Mrs. Henderson nodded. “Certainly,” she said in a falsely accommodating vo
ice. The warden motioned to her desk. “Leave it here, and I’ll give it to the guard to take to her.”
Apprehension ran down Arabella’s spine like quicksilver and curled in the pit of her belly. “I’d rather Stewart not be around my mother anymore. Is there another guard perhaps that could…” Her words trailed off at the flash of anger that crackled in Mrs. Henderson’s eyes. Arabella blinked, sure she saw incorrectly, but no, Mrs. Henderson suddenly appeared livid, her lips pressed white and gaze burning.
“What is your grievance with Stewart?” The question slashed through the air with the snap of a whip.
Arabella stiffened. For her mother’s sake, she could not back down. “He’s made lurid suggestions to me, and I would prefer another guard if you don’t mind.”
“Lurid suggestions to you?” Mrs. Henderson’s voice rang with disbelief, even as she swept her gaze over Arabella.
Heat flushed Arabella’s neck at the woman’s blatant appraisal of her person. The warden’s face paled as her eyes met Arabella’s. “Please take my apology.”
A sigh of relief escaped Arabella. “You needn’t apologize for your guard.”
Mrs. Henderson nodded. “I’m afraid I must. Stewart is my son.”
Her son? The distant manner in which Stewart’s mother treated him almost inspired Arabella’s pity until she recalled his leer. That same tingling apprehension that swept down her spine moments ago now danced up her skin, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Despite Mrs. Henderson’s seemingly unmotherly attitude toward Stewart, Arabella suspected by her pinched lips that the warden was none too pleased to have her son criticized, be it true or not.
“I’m sorry. I did not know.”
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