by Deb Marlowe
The Lady’s Lover
Deb Marlowe
Copyright © 2019 by Deb Marlowe
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Cover Design by Lily Smith
Created with Vellum
To Becky, for sunshine and smiles, donuts and daydrinking, and for being the sweetest person I know
and
To Lady Diane DeLuna, immortalized in print and in the hearts of all the Debutantes.
Contents
The Half Moon House Series
1. Carlton House
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Afterword
About the Author
Also by Deb Marlowe
The Half Moon House Series
Read all the books in the Half Moon House Series
The Novels
The Love List
The Leading Lady
The Lady’s Legacy
The Lady’s Lover
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The Novellas
An Unexpected Encounter
A Slight Miscalculation
Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
A Waltz in the Park
Beyond a Reasonable Duke
Lady, It’s Cold Outside
The Earl’s Hired Bride
Carlton House
London, England
I thank you for coming so far with me, gentle reader. I thank you for listening to my story, told in my own words. I beg your indulgence, for I know I have not offered the titillation you hoped for—and I fear that I am about to disappoint you further . . .
—from the Journal of the Infamous Miss Hestia Wright
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“This feud of yours . . .” The Prince Regent of England stood at a window in the private audience chamber in his home, shaking his head and not looking at her while he spoke. “This battle between you and Marstoke, it has gone on quite long enough.”
Hestia Wright had both training and practice at hiding her emotions. Not even the impatience and exasperation the Prince Regent inspired could furrow her brow. She had learned from the best. Her mask sat firmly in place. “You will find no argument from me on that score, Your Highness.”
“What I would like to find is an end to it.” He gave a half turn she knew was meant to showcase his grey silk coat and navy waistcoat against the blue curtains behind him.
“No more than I would, sir.”
“Oh, a great deal more, I suspect,” he snapped.
Not for nothing had Hestia been named Queen of Courtesans in Great Britain and Beyond. Those days might be long behind her, but she still dealt with men of power and influence. And royal blood, too. She straightened her spine and raised her chin. “I do hope you have not called me here only to berate me, Your Highness. If you will recall, it was my people and their work that led to Marstoke’s capture not so long ago. And he was in the Crown’s custody when he escaped from Newgate.”
“Damn him!” The Prince Regent whirled from the window, the color rising across his fleshy cheeks. “Damn his defiant, insolent, impudent—”
He choked on his own words and didn’t continue.
Hestia waited while he coughed and wheezed and regained his composure. “Yes. Marstoke is all that and far worse besides,” she said, using her most conciliatory tone. “And with all due respect, sir, I am not the only one involved in a feud with the man, am I?” She held up her hand, ticking off her nemesis’s evil deeds on her fingers. “He planned to publically attack and embarrass your wife before all the foreign dignitaries visiting England—while placing the blame on you. He planned worse for your daughter—for who knows what he might have done to her reputation—or her person—with a look-a-like ready and waiting? And this latest attempt to kidnap Miss—”
“Yes, yes!” The Regent cut her off before she could state out loud the woman’s name—the woman she knew was likely the secret daughter of his first, unrecognized marriage to Maria Fitzherbert. Interesting, that. It told her that someone was listening. But someone who did not know the particulars of that state secret?
Unlikely.
“There is no need to reiterate all of the villain’s misdeeds,” he grumped. “I am well aware of them.”
“I rather suspect there are a few more that I am unaware of,” said Hestia wryly. “What is important is the pattern here. Marstoke is repeatedly trying to use the women in your life to harm you. Granted, most of his . . . transgressions are against women, but these acts appear to be deliberate and focused on you. If I knew the reason behind his animosity, I might anticipate—”
“Reason! Reason?” The Prince Regent was breathing heavily again. “There is naught of reason in that man! He is quite mad! I should think that was obvious.”
“It has been obvious to me for quite a long time,” she said shortly. “Which is why I have devoted so much of my time and so many of my resources to thwarting him.”
“But not enough, clearly! For he is still out there, is he not? Scheming and manipulating and generally acting a great, noisome nuisance.”
She closed her eyes. Nuisance? The man who had stolen her innocence, abused her body and mind and ruined her life—and countless others, too? The man who tempted well-bred young gentlemen into wickedness and treachery? Who had maimed and injured dozens and left no small number dead in his violent wake? Ask any of them and they would name him far more than a nuisance.
“Well, I will not have it,” the Prince Regent declared. “Not any longer. Do you know how many burdens I must bear? The wars, and my infinitely troublesome wife, and my stubborn daughter who will not look at the Prince of Orange with the consideration he deserves. And now rioting in London’s streets!” He waved his hands above his head, and light sparkled from the jewels on his pudgy fingers.
Hestia raised a brow. “Well, the price of bread is—”
“Yes, yes, I know it! I didn’t bring you here to debate the Corn Laws, Miss Wright.”
She sighed. “Why have you brought me here, sir?”
He drew himself up. “I brought you here to tell you that I want this business with Marstoke taken care of once and for all. Imprisoned or dead or transported, I do not care, as long as his plotting is put to an end. And since you have not managed the job on your own, you will be working with some of my people to see it done.”
“I see.” She drew a deep and bracing breath. “There might be a problem with that plan, Your Highness.”
That pulled him up short. “Indeed?” One word, but it emerged as frosty as an ice from Gunter’s.
The growing ire she hid so expertly kept her warm in the face of it. “Yes. How many people know the name of Miss—” She stopped herself. “The name of the lady I so recently brought to you, sir?” She raised a brow. “Very few, I suspect, and fewer still who understand her significance. And every one of them are likely in your inner circle, are they not?”
“For the most part,” he acknowledged. “What do you mean to say, Miss Wright?”
“You’ve a cat a
mongst your pigeons, sir,” she said baldly. “A turncoat.”
All of the bluster went out of him. He leaned heavily on the desk in the midst of the room, then sank down into the padded chair. “Yes. I have feared so, and it has weighed upon me, too. Who has betrayed me, I wonder?” He sighed. “Another burden.” He shook his head and looked at her with mournful eyes. “It is hard to go through life not knowing whom to trust, my dear.”
Harder still to know whom one should trust—and find them wanting. But she was wise enough not to bring up the betrayal of family to this particular royal. She kept the thought to herself and displayed the sympathy that the Prince Regent clearly craved.
“It’s why I had you brought here, to Carlton House, and kept the meeting quiet. Only a select few will know of this project and you will be working with one of my most trusted advisors.”
She had a hunch she knew who that might be. “Thank you, sir, but that won’t be necessary. The fewer who know of this, the better, and I can manage quite on my own.”
“No, ma’am.” The Regent’s gaze had gone hard. He looked suddenly like the man who held a nation in his hands—and had fought to get it. “I’ve suffered this particular thorn in my side for too long. I want it plucked out and crushed underfoot. Perhaps doused in oil and burnt too, for good measure.”
He leaned toward her. “I know you do a great deal of good work, my dear. Do not think I am unaware or unappreciative of the care you take of some of my most unfortunate subjects. But I ask you to put all of that aside now, or give it into someone else’s hands. I want all of your concentration and focus on working with my agent and finally putting a stop to Marstoke and his ceaseless machinations.”
Give it into someone else’s hands. Easy enough to say, perhaps, when one was the acting king. When one was surrounded by lackeys. When one spent more hours endlessly redecorating than on state business and spent the nation’s money on chandeliers and overwrought gilding and that Rembrandt on the wall.
She wanted to scream her defiance. Sneer at his dismissal of the endless work awaiting her.
None of it showed.
It never did.
The mask was in place.
She nodded. Stood.
He pushed himself to his feet. The door into the antechamber, where she’d waited earlier, opened. A footman bowed and held the door open for her.
“Your Highness.” She curtsied low.
“I look forward to hearing of your progress, my dear.”
She did not reply, only walked out and through the endless opulence of his home. It was a relief to leave the oppressively quiet and rich atmosphere for the bustle and noise of Pall Mall. She stood for a moment, undecided, then set off, heading east toward Cockspur Street.
John Everett, the Earl of Stoneacre, allowed his feet to drag as he made his way through Hanover Square, to his father’s home. He might have delayed a few moments longer, had the door not swung instantly open.
“Hello, Sommes.” He handed the butler his hat and glanced at the magnificent arrangement of hothouse flowers in the entry hall. “Only one?” he asked. “Are we economizing this week?”
“We are, sir. I am afraid there is only one choice each of savory and sweet on the tea tray today.”
“Horrors. How provincial. My mother must be vexed, indeed.” They shared a grin. “I suppose we shall muddle on, though.”
“The muddling has begun without you, sir.”
“Oh, very well.” Stoneacre sighed. “Let’s have at it, then.”
Sommes opened the parlor door. “The Earl of Stoneacre has arrived, my lady.”
His mother brightened as he stepped over the threshold, and beckoned him in. “There you are, dear. Come in. I’d hoped you’d arrive earlier, but never mind.” She stood to greet him with a kiss and then turned, presenting the other ladies with a wave of her hand. “Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Chisholm and her lovely daughter, Miss Chisholm.”
Stoneacre made his bow and bent over his mother’s hand as she sat, raising a brow at her as he did so. He took the seat she indicated and held up a hand to demure a cup of tea. “I was under the impression that you had an urgent errand for me, Mother.”
“I do. But it can wait long enough for you to sit a moment.” The marchioness passed a plate of savories. “We were just discussing the heat. It comes early this year and seems to have driven a large number of people out of London.”
“Traffic does seem thinner,” he agreed. “Are you thinking of heading back to Wiltshire, soon?”
“In time. It is easier to bear the heat at home, but there are some pleasures that just cannot be found in the country. Don’t you agree, Miss Chisholm?”
“I do, Lady Woodbury. I would stay in Town straight though to the end of the year, if I could.”
“Are you finishing your first Season, Miss Chisholm?” Stoneacre asked politely.
“I am. It has been wonderful,” the girl said with satisfaction.
He didn’t doubt she’d been a success. She was lovely—all prim blonde locks and pale cheeks and the sort of slim tidiness that showed her simple day gown to the best advantage.
“Will you return to the country with your family, my lord?” She turned innocent blue eyes on him.
“I don’t believe so. My work keeps me busy, just now.”
“That must be why we have not met before now,” she remarked.
“Stoneacre’s work with the Privy Council can be quite demanding,” his mother interjected. “When he marries, his wife will have to learn to be flexible.”
“Or perhaps just busy in her own sphere,” Mrs. Chisholm suggested. “There are any number of activities for a young matron these days. Charity has found much to occupy her in Town, beyond the Season’s festivities and the usual tourist destinations. She has joined several ladies’ societies and discovered a couple of causes well worth her time.”
“Very laudable, I’m sure,” his mother said with a nod.
“There are so many things to learn, as well,” the girl added. “I very much enjoyed the lecture on the ancient Greek buildings that Mrs. Montague sponsored last week.” She looked at him through her lashes. “Does your work for the Prince Regent lead to much travel, my lord?”
“It does, now and again.”
“My son returned from France, months past, and I’ve barely seen him since,” his mother complained.
“I was in Brittany, Mother,” he corrected her.
“It’s all the same, isn’t it?” his mother asked with a toss of her head.
“Oh, I don’t think I’d like to go to France,” Miss Chisholm said with a shudder. “Not even after the Duke of Wellington put Napoleon in his place. I don’t care for the color green at all.”
Stoneacre glanced at his mother, hoping for an explanation, but she was wearing an expression that echoed his befuddlement. Even the girl’s mother looked puzzled.
Miss Chisholm looked around, clearly sensing the confusion in the air, but not understanding it.
“Green, dear? Do you reference the uniforms of the French soldiers? I believe they wear a good deal of blue.”
“No, I meant their skin,” she explained.
At the continued silence, she looked around again. “Their green-tinged skin? Lawrence explained it when I asked why the French are so often referred to as frogs.”
Stoneacre ruthlessly suppressed a laugh. Not for the world would he bruise the girl’s feelings. His mother coughed and turned her head. The girl’s mother, however, rolled her eyes.
“Really, Charity. I should think that you’d learn not to be so gullible where your brother is concerned.”
Color rushed into her face. She darted a quick glance his way, then lowered her gaze to her twisting hands.
“Do not fret, Miss Chisholm.” He gave her a smile. “Such a misunderstanding casts no shame in your direction. Only your brother should feel badly over it.”
“Oh, he won’t. Not a bit.” She breathed deeply and met his gaze directly aga
in. “Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.”
“Not at all.” He stood. “Forgive me, Mother. As you are in no hurry to share your errand, I’ll return later to address it. For now, the Prince Regent has a task for me that he does consider urgent.” He bowed to the room. “Ladies, I bid you good day.”
He made his escape, shaking his head at his mother’s machinations. Yes, she’d been pestering him lately about his age, his duty and the integrity of his bloodline, but he hadn’t expected her to push so hard, and so quickly.
He sighed. He knew his mother was right on all counts, but it wasn’t her nagging that made him admit it. It was his own . . . loneliness. The dawning realization that his work was not enough anymore. The ache and the sense of something missing that haunted his quiet moments of late.
He probably should be looking for a possible countess. Miss Chisholm was a perfectly lovely girl, but she was not the one to fill his emptiness. Nor any girl like her. He was too old to chase after Society’s fresh-faced debutantes. He wanted a woman of wit and intelligence and humor and heart. He’d found one, too, damn it. But she’d made her indifference plain. And the Prince Regent was likely right now grinding to dust any slim chance he’d ever had with her.
With a sigh, he set off for Carlton House, to see how much damage had been done.
Chapter 2
You’ve heard, now, about the beginning, about the stupid mistake I made, the terrible misjudgment of character that forever changed my life. You wait with bated breath, I am sure, for the details regarding the relationships that followed. The details about the men who bid for me, once my new life as a courtesan was underway. I know many want to know the identities of the men who fought and bought their way into the honor of my company . . .