by Clee, Adele
A Gentleman's Curse
Avenging Lords - Book 4
Adele Clee
Contents
Copyright
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
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thank you!
Books by Adele Clee
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission. Distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement.
A Gentleman’s Curse
Copyright © 2019 Adele Clee
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-9164336-1-8
Cover by Jay Aheer
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Chapter One
“What do you mean the actress is unsuitable?” Hudson Lockhart lounged back in his fireside chair and studied his friend seated opposite. While he wanted to spring to his feet in a state of panic, years of good breeding forced him to arch a brow, nothing more.
“It is as I suspected,” Dariell began, the soft burr of his French accent doing little to settle the turmoil whirling in Lockhart’s chest. “The woman’s greed will be your downfall. While she has the skill necessary to play the role of your wife, she will betray you the moment someone presents a more lucrative offer.”
Lockhart gritted his teeth. His pulse rose more than a notch. To combat his growing anxiety, he stared into the fire’s flames. On this cold November night, a man daren’t drag his horse from the stables and ride as if wolves were nipping at his heels. A distraction might clear his head, but it would not solve his problem.
“And you are certain of this?”
Dariell nodded. “Would I have cautioned you otherwise?”
An oppressive silence descended.
Lockhart closed his eyes briefly. The walls of the small gatekeeper’s cottage seemed to close in around him—crushing his spirit. Were his efforts for naught? Years of waiting, months of planning, long hours spent dreaming of the moment he discovered the truth.
The truth?
A contemptuous snigger filled his head. Only two men knew what had happened on that fateful midsummer’s eve five years ago. One was dead. A corpse long since buried beneath the ground. The other had no conscience. The other slithered in the shadows—a snake in the grass.
“I understand your urgency, my friend,” Dariell continued. “The need for vengeance, it infects the body like a pus-filled wound that will not heal. But there is much at stake. The woman you choose must be a convincing liar, but she must be honest, steadfast in her loyalty, reliable.”
Lockhart sighed. Dariell often spoke in riddles, and tonight was no exception.
“I doubt there is a lady in the land whose character boasts of such a contradiction.”
A knowing smile played at the corners of Dariell’s mouth. Clearly, the Frenchman had a plan but enjoyed making a man wait for the grand revelation. “Perhaps there is one.”
Hope sprung to life in Lockhart’s chest. “You have someone in mind? Another actress?”
Dariell peered at the window as if watching, waiting for the answer to present itself. “Not an actress, no.”
“Who, then?”
The woman needed enough grace and poise to pass as the wife of a nobleman. She needed eyes brimming with passion, and a magnetic sensuality if people were to believe Lockhart had succumbed to marriage. She needed to embrace the role, feel comfortable with a level of intimacy expected when two people were in love.
In short, she needed skill in the art of deception.
Dariell rose to his feet. “Miss Darling strikes me as someone eager to fight for justice. A woman who tends to the needs of her family with such devotion is a woman worthy of your consideration. Do you not agree?”
Miss Darling?
A vision of the blonde-haired lady of the manor who provided food and lodgings entered Lockhart’s head. Amongst the ton, her plain features would mark her as a wallflower, and yet there was nothing fragile about her countenance. Her heart-shaped face and large blue eyes spoke of timidity, yet she was not afraid to express her opinion.
“The lady cannot look me in the eye,” Lockhart said, recalling the numerous times she had blushed in his presence. “She will probably have a fit of the vapours when I draw her into an embrace.”
Miss Darling was hardly a beguiling temptress. In bed, she was probably one of those frigid sorts who turned her back and hugged the edge of the mattress.
Dariell ambled over to the window and glanced out into the night. “Passion, it brims beneath her composed facade. It would take the right man to bring such powerful emotions to the fore.”
“And you think I possess the skill?”
Dariell glanced back over his shoulder. “You have a charm most women find irresistible. Miss Darling is no different.”
Suspicion flared. Dariell’s plan stretched to more than a desire to clear Lockhart’s name.
Lockhart narrowed his gaze. “I am looking for a temporary wife, not someone to fill the role permanently. So you can stop meddling. Miss Darling is unsuitable.”
“She is honest,” Dariell persisted.
“Yes, and too pure to play the wife of a scandalous rogue.”
Dariell stepped away from the window but hovered near the wooden door that let in too many draughts. “You have no other choice.”
The weight of the comment hung heavily in Lockhart’s chest. He could not hide away in a ramshackle cottage forever. Soon, his family would learn of his return to England. Soon, they would come to know that he had not perished from a tropical fever but was very much alive and well and out for retribution.
“Surely you can persuade the ton you’re in love with her,” Dariell said, hanging on to the prospect of Miss Darling becoming Lockhart’s wife like a dog did a juicy bone.
“Danger lurks in the darkness.” The villain thought nothing of committing murder and blaming an innocent man. “I could not ask the lady to risk her life for me, regardless of how much I am willing to pay.”
Lockhart’s gaze swept to the metal bucket sitting ready to catch raindrops from the leaking roof. The Darlings lacked funds. Judging by the simple meals prepared each evening, things were bleak. Why else would an unmarried woman rent a cottage to a stranger?
“Would you rather see two ladies struggle than offer a solution?” Dariell mocked.
“It is unlike you to play the guilt card.”
Why would Dariell not leave it alone? Playing Lockhart’s wife might bring Miss Darlin
g financial reward, but the experience would forever taint the lady’s spirit. She would have knowledge of a world run by the greedy, the corrupt, the lords and ladies who would do anything to advance their positions. She would know what it meant to be the subject of malicious gossip.
“Regardless,” Lockhart continued, “your efforts to persuade me are in vain. Miss Darling would never leave her sister.”
Dariell’s hand settled on the doorknob. “Not unless someone else took on the role of caring for Miss Emily.”
Before Lockhart could form a response, Dariell opened the cottage door. From the feminine shriek outside, it was clear supper had arrived.
“Ah, Miss Darling,” the Frenchman said, gesturing for the lady to enter. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
“Startle me? I almost dropped the pot on my toes.” As always, the lady’s tone carried a hint of humour that lessened the blow. “Would you mind offering Emily your arm, monsieur?”
“Mind? It would be a pleasure.”
Dariell stepped back as Claudia Darling entered the room. As had been the case for most nights this last month, Lockhart stood and moved to offer assistance.
“It is easier if I place the pot on the table,” Miss Darling said. Her gaze flicked in his direction but did not remain there for long. Soon she would give a rushed recital of the night’s menu followed by an apology for the lack of variety.
Lockhart found the iron stand and placed it on the crude round table near the far wall. “And what delights await us tonight?” he said in the rich drawl that always left the lady flustered.
“Pheasant casserole with parsnips and carrots.” She placed the heavy pot on the stand, breathed a relieved sigh and flexed her fingers. Miss Darling insisted on bringing supper each evening though she had numerous servants capable of seeing to the task. “I know it is the third time this week that you’ve—”
“Pheasant is a particular favourite of mine,” Lockhart interrupted. He lifted the lid and inhaled the woody aroma of game and thyme. “And I am grateful for a hot meal.”
A blush touched her cheeks, and she shrank back towards the door. Somehow, she found the courage to look at him directly. “There is no need to be polite.”
The depth of her sapphire-blue gaze held him in thrall though he maintained an indifferent expression. Miss Darling could not act the part of his wife. Not because her innocence made her unsuitable, but because he was in danger of devouring her naive little mouth, of ravishing every inch of purity from her sumptuous body.
Such was the way of wicked men.
“And I have brought a baked apple tart.” Miss Emily Darling approached the table whilst clinging on to Dariell’s arm. Every evening, she accompanied her sister on the short walk from the manor house named Falaura Glen.
Dariell placed the dessert on the table. “And it smells delicious.”
Miss Emily smiled as if the compliment were the pinnacle of her life’s achievements. “You are most kind, monsieur.” She turned and looked at Dariell, though having lost her sight as a child, gazed somewhere beyond his shoulder.
Silence ensued.
“Would you care to dine with us, Miss Darling?” Every evening, Lockhart invited them to stay for supper, but they invariably declined. Tonight, he felt compelled to be more persuasive than usual. “My friend is weary of my less than enthralling conversation.”
Miss Darling gave a nervous smile as she scanned the breadth of his chest. “We thank you for the offer, sir, but we ate two hours ago and should get back to the house.”
Two hours ago? Lockhart could never get used to dining at six.
“It is cold out. Won’t you at least warm yourselves by the fire before venturing home?”
A shiver shook the lady’s shoulders, and she drew her drab shawl across her chest. “A brisk walk is a perfect remedy for cold bones.”
If the woman could not remain in a room with him for five minutes, how on earth was she to share his bed? No. Miss Darling was a most unsuitable candidate, indeed.
“Still, I would not want you to catch a chill on my account.”
Miss Darling raised her chin. “I have a hardy constitution.”
“Then humour me,” Lockhart countered, desperate to prove Dariell wrong, desperate to prove this lady lacked the wherewithal to tackle the vipers in the pit called the ton. Yes, wiping the smug grin off his friend’s face was the reason for his persistence.
“May we stay?” Miss Emily asked. “Just this once. It won’t hurt to have a small bite to eat, and I am keen to hear Monsieur Dariell’s opinion on Plato’s ancient theories of the soul.”
Dariell’s eyes brightened. “And I would be delighted to hear your views on the subject.”
Lockhart suppressed a smirk. He turned to Miss Darling and arched a brow. “Well? Will you disappoint two people who clearly have a shared interest in philosophy?”
A faint huff of annoyance left the lady’s lips. “What loving sister would deny her sibling a moment of pleasure?”
What loving wife would deny her husband the same?
Lockhart gestured to the table. “Then allow me to escort you to your seat.”
He offered his arm though judging by the flash of horror in Miss Darling’s eyes she did not relish the prospect of touching him. Being a man used to taking charge, he captured her dainty hand, ignored how soft and warm it felt, and placed it in the crook of his arm.
“It has been some time since I escorted a woman to dinner.” More than five years to be precise. “Permit me this one indulgence.”
She cast him a sidelong glance but continued to hold his arm. “You strike me as a man who’s used the same line many times, Mr Lockhart.”
“On the contrary, Miss Darling, I never grovel for a lady’s attention. But I should like to play escort to you all the same.”
Her bottom lip quivered, but she held her composure and inclined her head by way of acceptance. Lockhart almost gave a triumphant cheer for having advanced a few paces in this battle of wills.
The next hour passed quickly, the conversation interspersed with awkward moments of silence. Perhaps neither lady felt comfortable dining in the company of men.
After consuming a glass of wine—a particularly fine claret Dariell had brought back from London—Miss Darling’s shoulders relaxed. Aided by the soft glow of candlelight and the intimate seating arrangement around the small table, the lady grew a little more comfortable in his presence.
“Have you visited London recently, Miss Darling?” Lockhart doubted she had the funds to travel to the nearest coaching inn but a desire to prove Dariell wrong forced him to pry.
The lady dabbed her mouth with her napkin though she had long since finished her meal. “My duties keep me at Falaura Glen, sir, and I am not one for the hustle and bustle of city life.”
Lockhart glanced at Dariell and raised a brow.
As he suspected, this lady was ill-suited to play his wife.
“And what keeps you amused in the country?” Lockhart asked. No doubt she spent her days reading poetry or squinting over a needlework frame. “I’m told there’s a monthly assembly in Flamstead.” Not that he had an interest in attending.
Miss Darling glanced at her sister, a look of pity passing over her features. “I’m afraid I make a rather clumsy dancer, sir.”
It was a lie. A perfectly constructed lie used to spare her sister’s feelings. A moral lie if such a thing existed.
Dariell looked at Lockhart. His satisfied smile conveyed his belief that Miss Darling would be a perfect wife.
“Do you dance, Miss Emily?” Dariell asked much to the shock of her sibling whose eyes grew as wide as saucers.
Miss Darling glared across the table. She looked ready to leap from her seat and throttle Dariell for his foolish comment. “I took you for an intelligent man, monsieur.”
The need to protect her sister radiated like a flaming beacon. She was not afraid to speak her mind when it mattered.
Damnation!
Yet another reason why this lady was the ideal candidate.
“My affliction makes dancing impossible, monsieur,” Miss Emily said without a hint of embarrassment.
Dariell inhaled deeply. “One needs only to hear the music and move their feet to dance. With the help of a supportive partner, there is no reason why you cannot waltz about the floor.”
“Waltz, monsieur?” Miss Emily’s illuminating smile lit up the room. It was as if someone had just offered her a chance to experience heaven here on earth. One could not fail to share in the lady’s apparent joy.
Lockhart sensed Miss Darling’s sudden panic.
Miss Emily clutched her hands to her chest. “You believe such a thing is possible? Possible for someone like me?”
“I am certain. With your permission, I am happy to be your tutor.”
Lockhart shifted his gaze to Miss Darling.
Water swam in her eyes. Nerves, excitement and fear were all etched on her dainty face. He wished they were on such intimate terms that she might confide in him, allow him to experience the wild flurry of emotions that made her want to cry.
Dariell was right.
Miss Darling concealed a fiercely passionate nature beneath her prim facade.
Dare he say, he was intrigued. He had an overwhelming urge to be the one to unlock the lady’s darkest secrets.
“You would not mind me stepping on your toes, monsieur?” Miss Emily said before glancing in her sister’s direction. “What do you say? Might Monsieur Dariell teach me to dance?” Every word brimmed with hope. “We can use the library if we move the chairs.”