A Person of No Consequence: A Short Regency Romance

by Alison Stuart

  Hannah selected an uncomfortable gilded chair which offered a good vantage of the room. If Fabien was to be among the invited guests tonight, she would see him long before he noticed her in this dim corner.

  He arrived late with his sister, the Duchess of Lydbury, on his arm. He had the first dance with the Duchess and for the next dance she saw the beautiful Lady Challingbrooke in his arms. The whole room seemed to hold its breath as they danced. They made a perfect couple.

  Watching them together caused her such pain that she could bear it no longer. She rose from her shadowed seat and slipped out on to the terrace. The immaculate garden stretched down to the Thames and the bright lights from the house sparkled in the dark depths of the ancient river. A wave of loneliness and desolation swept over her and a choking sob escaped, drawn away on the soft river breeze.

  ‘It is a beautiful evening,’ said a low, accented, male voice behind her.

  She started, the breath stopping in her throat, but forced herself not to move.

  ‘It is indeed,’ she said, wondering how one correctly addressed French aristocracy and adding, ‘my lord.’

  ‘‘My lord’?’ His voice held a murmur of amusement. ‘What happened to ‘Fabien’?’

  ‘Fabien was a boy I knew a long time ago,’ she said. ‘I do not believe I would recognise him anymore. I would be surprised if he recognized me.’

  The gravel behind her crunched under his feet as he moved towards her. He stood so close now she could feel the heat of his presence. Her roiling stomach and every nerve in her body told her to flee, but she remained quite still. If he touched her she would melt.

  ‘But he knows you, Hannah Linton. He has never forgotten you. He wrote to you for two years but never received a reply.’

  ‘My mother never passed them on,’ she said, her voice choking. ‘She thought it would be too cruel. She only told me about them on her death bed.’

  She felt him stiffen. ‘Too cruel?’

  She turned to face him. ‘I was the price of Sir Simon Trevan’s silence. He threatened to turn mama into the authorities for harbouring an enemy unless I married him. He wanted sons but I… I failed him.’

  He stood with his back to the brightly lit ballroom, his face shadowed and immobile, like the carved face of a statue. A face she knew so well, harder now than it had been all those years ago, but still the face of Fabien Brassard, her first and only love.

  ‘You paid a heavy price for my freedom,’ he said at last. ‘Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?’

  ‘Forgive you...?’ The words fell from her mouth and she shut the rest of the sentence off. ‘…Forgive you? I have never stopped loving you, dreaming that you would return and rescue me, but you never came...’

  He lifted her right hand. She had folded the glove back earlier in the evening and the little garnet ring he had given her, his mother’s ring that had hung on a chain from his neck and survived the shipwreck, sparkled in the light from the doorway like a ruby. He looked down at the little object and raising her hand to his lips, he kissed the ring.

  ‘Is it too late for Fabien and Hannah?’ he murmured as he kissed each finger in turn and then turning her hand over, brushed his lips across her palm.

  She gave a shuddering gasp as the pain of the past ten years threatened to overwhelm her.

  He placed a finger under her chin and raised her face to the light, a gentle smile curving the corners of his lips as the orchestra struck up a new dance.

  ‘They are playing a waltz. Shall we scandalise the mesdames of society? Dance with me, Hannah Linton.’

  THE END

  About the Author

  Award winning Australian author, Alison Stuart learned her passion from history from her father. She has been writing stories since her teenage years but it was not until 2007 that her first full length novel was published. A past president of the Romance Writers of Australia, Alison has now published several full length historical romances and a collection of her short stories. Many of her stories have been shortlisted for international awards and BY THE SWORD won the 2008 EPIC Award for Best Historical Romance.

  Her inclination for writing about soldier heroes may come from her varied career as a lawyer in the military and fire services. These days when she is not writing she is travelling and routinely drags her long suffering husband around battlefields and castles.

  Readers can connect with Alison on her social media pages and Goodreads.

  www.alisonstuart.com/

  OTHER TITLES by Alison Stuart

  Historical Romance

  Her Rebel Heart

  Lord Somerton’s Heir

  And Then Mine Enemy

  The Guardians of the Crown Series

  By The Sword (Book 1)

  The King’s Man (Book 2)

  Exiles’ Return (Book 3)

  Paranormal Historical Romance:

  Gather The Bones

  Secrets In Time

  If you enjoy regency romance, you may enjoy reading Alison Stuart’s, LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR

  LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR

  Lord Somerton’s Heir

  From the battlefield of Waterloo to the drawing rooms of Brantstone Hall, Sebastian Alder’s elevation from penniless army captain to Viscount Somerton is the stuff of dreams. But the cold reality of an inherited estate in wretched condition, and the suspicious circumstances surrounding his cousin’s death, provide Sebastian with no time for dreams, only a mystery to solve and a murderer to bring to justice.

  Isabel, widow of the late Lord Somerton, is desperate to bury the memory of her unhappy marriage by founding the charity school she has always dreamed of. But, her dreams are shattered, as she is taunted from the grave, discovering not only has she been left penniless, but she is once more bound to the whims of a Somerton.

  But this Somerton is unlike any man she has met. Can the loveof an honourable man heal her broken heart or will suspicion tear them apart?

  In the meantime, please enjoy the first chapter of LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR....

  Preview - Lord Somerton’s Heir

  London June 28, 1815

  ‘Are you certain he’s here?’ Isabel — Lady Somerton — asked, her voice muffled by the lavender scented kerchief she had pressed to her nose and mouth.

  The pathetic piece of muslin did little to conceal the stench of unwashed bodies, blood, corrupted wounds and worse that pervaded the makeshift hospital. The price Wellington had paid for the victory lay crowded on filthy straw mattresses on the makeshift hospital floor of an old warehouse in Battersea.

  Everywhere she turned the wounded had been crowded together, so many of them that only a curtain separated the officers from the other ranks. Pushing aside the curtain, the conditions for the officers was little better. At least they had cots, not straw-filled bags, but those who had survived the rapid evacuation to England were in a poor state. Most still wore the tattered remnants of the uniform they had worn in battle over ten days ago and it looked to Isabel as if the rough bandages over their wounds had not been changed in days.

  A young boy, hardly older than Peter Thompson, the stable boy at Brantstone, screamed for his mother. Her heart stopped at the heartrending sound and she turned and knelt down beside him, smoothing the hair back from his burning forehead. He clutched her hand, looking at her with unseeing eyes.

  She murmured to him, the sort of platitudes she imagined a mother would use with an ailing child and his breathing steadied and then stilled; the hand clutching hers fell away.

  Her companion, Bragge, the Somerton man of business, touched her shoulder.

  ‘Come away, my lady.’

  She stared down at the child on the cot. ‘But...’

  ‘He’s dead, my lady.’

  Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it down. She could not show weakness, not now. She needed all her strength.

  She rose slowly to her feet and cast the dead boy one last look, her lips moving in silent prayer for his soul and the mother who
would grieve for her son.

  ‘The orderly over there said he’s in that corner, Lady Somerton.’ Bragge’s voice carried no conviction and he looked as green and sickly as she felt.

  He held the lantern higher to illuminate the man they had sought for so many months. He lay on his left side with his back to them. A torn and stained scarlet jacket with a Captain’s epaulettes had been thrown across his shoulders and a ragged blanket covered his torso and legs. All Isabel could see of the man was dark matted hair.

  Isabel held back for a moment, wondering what she would say. She had rehearsed a pretty little speech in the coach but now as she looked down at the man known to the world as Sebastian Alder, the words deserted her. How would he take the news? It could not be every day that the humble son of a country parson found himself elevated to the peerage. Would he rejoice or rail against his mother who had kept the secret of his parentage from him?

  Doubt seized her. What manner of man would he turn out to be? Surely a parson’s son would have some education, but would he be capable of running the Somerton estates? For the first time since hearing the news that they had found an heir to the Somerton estates, a niggling doubt caught her.

  ‘My lady?’ Bragge’s voice broke through her musing and she took a deep breath.

  Steeling her nerves, she reached out a gloved hand, touching the man on the shoulder.

  ‘Captain Alder?’ she ventured in an uncertain voice.

  When he did not stir, she looked up at Bragge, her heart sinking.

  ‘Are we too late?’ she ventured.

  ‘Try again, my lady.’

  She bent down and closed her fingers on his shoulder, shaking him.

  With a speed that took her completely by surprise, a hand grasped her wrist as the man rolled onto his back, hot, angry, feverish eyes seeking out the person who had disturbed him.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  Isabel gasped, taking a step back, but he did not release her wrist. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you...or hurt you,’ she added, seeing pain in the tightened lips and sunken eyes.

  Slow comprehension softened the unshaven face and he released her wrist. His eyes closed and he let out a softly aspirated breath.

  ‘My apologies to you, lady. I did not mean to scare you. Just a soldier’s instincts,’ he said.

  Rubbing her wrist, she looked down at the man and caught her breath. There could be no denying he was a Somerton. He had his cousin’s finely chiselled cheekbones and well-shaped mouth, but his jaw had a strength to it that Anthony had lacked.

  ‘Are you...’ she ventured. ‘Are you Captain Sebastian Alder, son of the late Marjory Alder of Little Benning in Cheshire?’

  His eyes opened again but all the fight had gone from him. Beneath the stubble on his chin, his face looked grey, the eyes feverish and sunken in his skull.

  ‘My mother is eighteen years in the grave. Why do you want to know about her?’ The man frowned as if he were trying to bring them both into focus. ‘Who are you?’ His voice rasped with the effort of speech.

  ‘I am the dowager Viscountess Somerton and this is my late husband’s man of business, Bragge. We have been looking for you for over six months now.’

  He frowned. ‘Looking for me? What do you mean? What is your business with me?’

  ‘We’ve come to take you home,’ Isabel said.

  His mouth quirked into a humourless smile. ‘Well that is a nice sentiment, Lady Somerton, but I very much doubt I would survive such a trip. It’s nigh on two hundred miles to Cheshire.’

  ‘Oh, not to Cheshire. We are taking you to your new home: Somerton House in Hanover Square.’

  The man ran a hand across his eyes. ‘This is a jest or some strange fever dream that I’m going to wake from. Lady Somerton, or whoever you are, I do not live in Hanover Square. I told you, my home is in Cheshire.’

  ‘It’s no jest, Captain Alder. You are now the Viscount Somerton of Brantstone, first cousin to my late husband and as such, the heir to his estates.’

  To her surprise, Alder covered his face with his hands and laughed.

  Ignoring him, she continued, ‘The doctors said you would be all right to be moved such a short distance and I have arranged the best doctor to see to you.’ She glanced at Bragge. ‘Bragge, go and fetch the coachmen.’

  Bragge inclined his head and scurried out, leaving Isabel alone with the new Lord Somerton.

  Alder removed his hands from his face and watched her with puzzlement in his eyes — brown eyes, she noted, a soft, warm brown, not the cold grey of Anthony’s.

  She looked around the ward and shuddered. ‘This is a terrible place,’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘I’m surprised anyone survives it.’

  ‘They don’t.’ The man on the pallet tried to sit up, falling back with a groan.

  ‘’Ere! Who are you then?’ A strident cockney voice caused Isabel to turn on her heel to be confronted by a soldier of Alder’s regiment, judging by the yellow facings of his jacket. He carried a bowl of water and some cloths, and he looked at Isabel as if she were some ill-intentioned assassin.

  Isabel straightened. ‘I’m Lady Somerton. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Bennet, Corporal Obadiah Bennet and you ain’t got no business with my captain. He ain’t strong enough for visitors.’

  Alder’s hand clutched at his corporal’s jacket. ‘Lady Somerton is just leaving, Bennet,’ he croaked.

  Isabel glanced down at the sick man. He had to come with her. Without him she would be lost. It was not his choice. He had obligations and responsibilities to assume. Didn’t he understand that?

  ‘Why do you want to take him away? I can take perfectly good care of him ‘ere,’ Bennet said.

  Isabel looked around the stinking ward. The dead boy still lay unregarded on his mattress, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.

  ‘No! I cannot leave without him.’ She heard the rising hysteria in her voice. ‘He will die here. At Somerton House we can look after you properly. I can get the best doctors... A nurse...’

  ‘And why would a grand lady like you want to do that?’ Bennet sounded derisive.

  ‘Because,’ she lowered her voice, aware that their little contretemps was attracting attention, ‘your captain is the new Lord Somerton and he should be taken home where he can be looked after properly.’

  ‘What?’ Corporal Bennet stared at her and then down at his officer. ‘Is this lady stark, staring mad? I’ve known you since you was sixteen years old and you may be many things, but you ain’t no lord.’

  Alder waved a hand. ‘Explain it to him, or I’ll have no peace.’

  Isabel looked down at the wounded man. ‘It’s true. Your father was James Kingsley, my late husband’s uncle.’

  Bennet scoffed. ‘’is father was the Reverend Alder of Little Benning in Cheshire and a right decent gentleman too.’

  Isabel glared at the little man, tempted to rebuke him for his insolence.

  ‘The Reverend Alder was his stepfather.’ She looked down at Sebastian Alder. His eyes were open but unfocussed and she wondered if he could even hear what she was saying. ‘According to my information, Captain Alder, your mother married him when you were two years old. How many times must I repeat it? You are Lord Somerton’s heir.’

  Alder frowned as if trying to reconcile what she was saying. He raised a hand and ran it across his eyes. ‘It sounds an incredible tale but, Lady Somerton, I don’t have the strength to argue with you. If it means that you are intent on removing me to somewhere more pleasant than this charnel house, I can do no more than be much obliged.’

  She crouched down beside him, instinctively straightening the blanket and the ruined jacket. ‘I know this is a shock. I meant to break it to you when you were in a better state to receive the news.’

  Sebastian Alder laid a grimy hand on her arm. ‘Do whatever you want with me, Lady Somerton. I am yours to command’

  She managed what she hoped was a reassu
ring smile. ‘I promise you the full story when you are stronger. For now we must get you away from this place.’

  ‘What about me?’ Bennet protested.

  ‘Bennet comes too.’ Alder’s fingers closed on her sleeve, his voice now so weak she had to bend to hear him. ‘He’s been my batman for fifteen years now. I’m not leaving him.’

  ‘Of course.’ Isabel glanced at the little corporal. ‘Bennet comes too.’

  She smiled at the new Lord Somerton and put her hand over his, gently laying it back on his chest. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep or unconscious. Rising to her feet, she beckoned Bragge and the coachmen who had pushed past the curtains, one carrying a stretcher. She prayed they were not too late. Even the most innocuous of wounds could kill if not treated properly.

  (End Exerpt)

  BUY LORD SOMERTON’S HEIR and it’s short prequel, SEBASTIAN’S WATERLOO