by Deb Marlowe
Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
By Deb Marlowe
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
© 2014 by Deb Marlowe
Cover Design by Lily Smith
Don’t Miss the Other Books in
The Half Moon House Series
The Love List
An Unexpected Encounter
A Slight Miscalculation
and coming soon:
The Leading Lady
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
A Note from the Author
The Red Door Reads ‘Who’s Ben Skrewd?’ Novellas
Sneak Peek at Ava Stone’s In the Stars
For the ladies Behind the Red Door
Chapter One
London, England
1814
Daily, the battle waged on.
The Silk Curtain Skirmish, Miss Liberty Baylis had dubbed it, and she fought determinedly, throwing back the heavy silk fabric from the breakfast room windows each morning, insistent on letting in what light could sneak past London’s perpetual gloom.
It was a battle doomed to stalemate, however. Her adversary, the stiff, oh-so-very-English butler, was equally unwavering in his mission to keep the all the rooms as dark and dank as a cave. Stubbs lived in fear of sunlight fading the furniture. He tugged the curtains closed tight again every morning, restoring the murk before she’d crossed the threshold on her way out.
He could do nothing save sniff his disapproval while she stayed, however. And today she lingered at the window, shifting restlessly while she gazed upon the wet, wide streets of Portman Square. Eventually she gave it up for a bad job and went to pace in front of the loaded sideboard instead. But she couldn’t settle, not even to a decision between kedgeree and coddled eggs.
“Do sit down and have breakfast, dear.” Her mother waved a butter knife in her direction. “You are beginning to affect my digestion.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.” Liberty settled for toast and took a seat. “I’m all at sixes and sevens.”
“I know this trip hasn’t been all you’d hoped, darling. It’s been hard on you, I do understand. It seems young English ladies just are not as active as American girls.”
Liberty sighed. She had looked forward to this adventure. She and her parents had talked about and planned endlessly for it. And to be sure, both of them had settled happily into their London routines. But none of it had turned out as she’d expected.
Perhaps it was her father’s fault. Third son of Viscount Levy, as a young man he’d balked at his family’s plans to seal him to the Church and left for the colonies instead. Full of energy and determined to make his own way, he’d worked, schemed and invested his way into becoming a captain of industry. Even at his age, he was still one of the hardest working men Liberty knew. Perhaps the surfeit of feminine companionship on the trip over had affected him, however. They’d arrived in Town and—shockingly easily—he’d slid right back into the lackadaisical life of an aristocratic man of leisure. He’d virtually abandoned his wife and daughter for his gentlemen’s clubs and sporting activities and such bastions of male dominance such as Tattersalls and Gentleman Jackson’s.
Her mother had barely noticed. She’d been struck with a grand idea on the passage over. An American heiress from one of Boston’s wealthiest families, she’d been most excited about absorbing the culture London had to offer. And as they’d plotted their visits to the great sights and museums, she’d come up with the idea of bringing some of it home with her. Moving quickly past the tourist stage, she’d jumped into the scholarly and charitable circles of Society and was busily learning how to become a grand Patroness.
Which left Liberty largely alone, with as much energy as her father had ever possessed—and few options on which to spend it. At home it would scarcely be an issue, but here she was hampered by the seemingly endless set of rules that governed the lives of an English Miss.
“There is only so much shopping one can do, Mama. I’d love to do something more interesting and productive than buying ribbons to match my bonnets. Yet that seems to be all that a young woman and her maid are permitted here.”
“It will get better soon. Your father says some of Society will return for the autumn session of Parliament. He’ll see that we receive invitations and soon you will have a whole new circle of acquaintances and all manner of dinners, parties and balls to attend.”
“I shall go mad in the meantime,” Liberty sighed.
“In the meantime, then, why don’t you find something to keep you busy? Take out that lovely mare your papa bought for you.”
“Oh, but riding is not at all the same here. I cannot leave Town for a bruising ride in the country. Here I am expected to ride only in Hyde Park, amidst the slow-moving aristocrats who stop endlessly to greet each other—and yet seem to find me virtually invisible.”
“Heavens, that does sound bad.” Her mother bit back a grin. “Well, it seems as if there is no hope for it. You should come with me today. I’m taking a special tour of the British Museum and I’ll have the chance to talk with some of the directors. They’ve promised to tell me how they go about with acquisitions.” She raised her cup and an arched brow. “I know Sir Benjamin will be happy to welcome you to the party.”
Liberty grimaced. “I might have come, had you not mentioned him.”
Sir Benjamin Skrewd, Baronet, chaired several committees connected to the Museum. He was a regular guest at the dinner parties of her mother’s new set. Liberty had spent an evening or two at the same functions, where she’d found him sweaty, smug and convinced he did her the greatest favor in bestowing his attentions in her direction.
“No,” she mused. “What I need is a project, an occupation,” she told her mother. “In fact, I was thinking that I would ask Jane Tillney to take me around to the Half Moon House. She seems happy with her volunteer work there.”
Her mother grew serious. “Be careful, dear. I haven’t quite got it worked out, but it seems as if there is something not quite respectable about Jane’s work there. I do know Lady Tillney frets about it.”
“Well, it didn’t stop her from catching Lord Worthe, did it? They’ve only just announced their betrothal. And in fact, I believe they met at Half Moon House.”
“Yes, and the fact that every mother with an unmarried chick hasn’t rushed over there tells me there is something to be concerned about,” her mother answered dryly.
“Oh, very well. I’ll discuss it with her, but Jane Tillney is well beloved by Society. I doubt it could be so bad.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“At least you are accomplishing something while we are here. I’d so love to be doing something worthwhile again.” She crinkled her nose. “Or maybe I just want to show these slow, stolid English what a little American spirit can accomplish.”
Her mother laughed. “I hope you will do just that, my dear.”
“That settles it, then. I’ll stop over at Jane’s house today.” Liberty set down her napkin, but paused, her attention diverted. Harris, her lady’s maid, had just passed in the hall outside. She caught Liberty’s gaze as she went, her own full of suppressed excitement.
Liberty stood. “I hope your day is enjoyable as wel
l as productive, Mama.”
“Thank you. I’ll return before dinner. Shall I see you then?”
“Of course.” She gave her mother an absent peck on the brow and then hurried on her way, not even pausing to tease Stubbs as he closed the curtains.
Harris had gone, but Liberty sped upstairs and found her waiting, all alight, in her room.
“Has there been another one, then?” she asked, catching the maid’s excitement.
“Yes, miss!” Harris held out the Morning Post, opened and folded over.
She snatched it up and carried it to the window, quickly finding what she was looking for.
A Gentleman, of fine airs, blonde, dressed in Cerulean from top to boots and in a coach with a Crest on the door, who so gallantly came to the aide of a Young Lady on the evening of Thursday, the 5th, and who solemnly pledged to meet her again at the hidden red door with the white lintel, is earnestly requested to keep his promise at last, or send ‘round a note explaining his failure. She has not lost her good opinion of him, but finds it hard to stand fast against those who accuse him of ungentlemanly behavior and even deceit. Please, kind, kind sir, do keep your appointment and don’t disappoint her.
“It is something, isn’t it Miss?” Harris stared at the Post, clearly in awe.
“Indeed. The third something, at that.” For three weeks running the unknown Young Lady had posted her plea in the adverts. “She’s growing desperate, the poor thing.”
“I do feel for her,” the maid sighed.
“As do I.” In point of fact, Liberty felt entirely in sympathy with the girl, who must be sitting, waiting for her gentleman to show up, for something to happen, for her life to begin. “I’m sure anyone who has read these sad notices must sympathize with her.”
“But that’s just the thing, Miss. Everyone’s reading them!”
“Everyone?”
Harris nodded. “All the young ladies, all their maids and servants. Even some of the gentlemen have caught wind of it, according to servant’s gossip. And most of them are taking pokes at the poor girl, and saying she’s likely no better than she ought to be.”
Liberty gasped. “How could they say such a thing when they don’t know anything of her? Of her situation?” She scowled down at the paper. “There’s nothing here to suggest anything improper on her part.” She watched Harris. “Is that what you think?”
“No, indeed, Miss! My heart goes out to the dear girl.” The maid frowned in speculation. “She can’t be from London, though, or have spent much time about in Society, or she’d never have done such a thing.”
“Not from London? How shocking. That will set them all against her for sure,” Liberty snorted. But it only fixed the girl more firmly in her sympathies. She waved the paper. “Clearly she’s had some sort of an education. She must only be young and inexperienced.”
And likely at cross-purposes with a world that wished to pigeonhole her. What I need is a project, an occupation. Perhaps she’d found just that.
“I’d dearly love to help her. But she’s been careful to give away nothing definitive, I’ll grant her that. And London is so very large. I’d never find her.”
“But that’s just it!” Harris practically quivered in her excitement. “You know Charlie—the errand boy downstairs who runs for the kitchens?”
She nodded.
“He says as how he knows which place she’s speaking of—the secret red door with the white lintel.”
Liberty straightened. “Does he?”
“He says it’s on a shortcut he takes, through a back lane on his way to the dairies.” Harris’s eyes widened. “Perhaps he’ll show us!”
Purpose ignited in Liberty’s belly. It felt good. Wonderful to think of being useful and occupied once more. Just a little digging about and she could lift this girl’s spirits, perhaps even secure her life’s happiness.
A thread of caution crept into Harris’s expression. “But what will you do for the young lady? What could you do?”
“I can talk to her. More important—I can listen. My parents are connected to Society. No doubt, with a little more information I could track down her ‘gentleman of fine airs.”
Harris’s eyes widened. “Do you really think so? Oh, what a fine thing that would be!”
“I could.” Liberty’s shoulders straightened. “I shall. It’s decided. I’ll help this poor girl find her happiness if it’s the last thing I accomplish in London.”
***
Boards creaked beneath his feet as Simon Lansing, Viscount Brodham, climbed the boarding house stairs. He grimaced. The treads were worn as thin as his patience.
Quiet, peace, a spot of rest—that’s all he’d been hoping for. Lord, that made him sound more than double his two and thirty years, did it not? But at times he felt as curmudgeonly as the octogenarian set.
A natural result of twelve harrowing years in the diplomatic service. Not exactly the fine, dignified line of service he’d expected, starting out. Oh, the dreams he’d had. The visions of formality, of passionate yet studied negotiations, of important treaties signed and a role in carving the path of nations. And to be sure, there had been moments of glory and intense satisfaction after policies were shaped and the job had been well done.
But somewhere, somehow, the focus of his career had shifted. He’d become the man with the uncanny ability to avert scandal, to hide the worst sins. A reputation he’d never sought, but which grew over the years. It had led to a deuced lot of babysitting unruly Royals, disguising the dirty doings of foreign dignitaries and bribing newsmen to look the other way. He knew every fancy brothel in Europe and most of the low ones too—knew the back ways in and the best ways to sneak an important official safely out. He’d listened to lies, he’d blocked bribes and had smoothed over innumerable sexual shenanigans.
A bit of peace now that he’d retired was the least he could ask for.
Or so one would think.
But peace was likely not on the agenda today. No, back in London barely a fortnight and here he was in Cheapside, come to stamp his foot on the proverbial dock and command his nephew and heir to stop skinny-dipping in the scandalbroth.
Brodham paused outside the door, gathering himself and sending up a fervent prayer that a bit of young folly was all that this would turn out to be. All of these years and Peter had never shown a sign that he might suffer from his father’s . . . issues. If he were to start now, Brodham’s hope for peace and quiet would fade quicker than a fogbank in the sun.
Rapping on the door, he barely waited before opening it and striding inside. Clearly he’d surprised the young man draped across the parlor sofa. “Peter, your unfortunate fashion sense is getting you in trouble once again. Is it true that you own a pair of those deplorably wide-legged trousers—in blue?”
“Simon!” The boy struggled to sit up. “What? Trousers? Yes, the most smashing pair. Not just blue,” he mumbled, subsiding back to stretch out again. “Cerulean. Paired with a dark blue waistcoat with silver embroidery.” His eyes drifted closed. “Just . . . the . . . thing. . .”
“What’s this?” Brodham stared in shock at his nephew’s splinted leg, his pallor, and the unnatural thinness of his face. He swiveled to face Nestor, Peter’s manservant, as he came from the kitchen, a napkin still tucked at his chin.
“My lord!” Nestor snatched away the napkin and straightened.
“Nestor, what in creation is going on here?” He waved a hand in Peter’s direction, but the boy didn’t stir.
“An accident, sir. Mr. Gardiner has fractured his leg, the doctor says.”
“What? When?”
“Near three weeks ago, sir. ‘Twas the merest stumble, but there’s a crack, and it pained him something fierce.”
“Three weeks? He’s been like this for so long?” He pulled a chair close and took up Peter’s wrist to check his pulse. Slow. Damned slow. “Does his mother know? Why was I not informed when I arrived in Town? Did you not think to notify his family?”
&nbs
p; “We’ve got along well enough.” The servant had the grace to flush at the dark look Brodham shot him.
The sharp bite of worry made him rough as he shook his nephew again. “Peter! Wake up now, sir!”
“Simon?”
“Peter, what have you done, man?” He couldn’t keep the edge from his tone. Old fears and older memories swamped him. He glared at the boy as he blinked up at him and tried to rise on an elbow.
“Done? Nothing, to be sure.” Peter squinted down at the splint. “Ah, yes, my leg. Cracked it a good one.” He lay down again, but then frowned and lifted his head again. “Were you thinking it was something else, Simon?” He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. I promise you. I just cracked my leg. Nestor’s been looking after me.”
He sank down again and was asleep almost instantly.
Brodham sat back and looked at the manservant.
Nestor blanched. “He never asked me to send a message. Not to anyone.”
He picked up one of the bottles resting on the side table. “I should say not, if you’re pumping this lot down his throat. Damnation, man. Have you kept him drugged this entire time?”
Nestor straightened. “I’ve only followed the doctor’s instructions, sir.”
He held up a blue bottle with a flowered label. “I’d like to know which doctor recommended Miss Florentine’s Nighttime Elixer for a broken leg.” He waited. “Well?”
The servant shifted. “I might have also consulted the apothocary.”
“On how to best arrange yourself a vacation? You’ve had an easy time of it, haven’t you, with your master sleeping around the clock?” He rose. “How long have you been with Mr. Gardiner?”
“Nigh on three years.” Nestor paused. “Sir.”
Long enough to have heard some family secrets, some things he thought he could put to use, it would seem. Cursing under his breath, Brodham snatched up a waste bin. He swept the collection of bottles and powders in envelopes into it and thrust it at Nestor. “You could have killed him with this poisonous mix. Throw it out. All of it. And then get yourself to the coffee shop on the corner and bring back a pot of strong, black coffee.”