Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

  Falling Stars

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  More from Anita Mills

  Connect with Diversion Books

  Falling Stars

  Anita Mills

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1993 by Anita Mills

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition December 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-220-8

  This book is dedicated to everyone who reads the last page first.

  Monk’s End: July, 1802

  It was hot in the tiny attic schoolroom, and Katherine Winstead fidgeted over her lesson, her mind clearly elsewhere. She glanced sideways at her sister, wishing Clarissa would complain of the heat. Mama would not fault Miss Beckwood for yielding to Claire.

  At seven, the younger girl was already possessed of the beauty that gained her everyone’s favor. With her fair skin and gold hair, she was the fairy princess, while Katherine despaired of being anything other than a small, dark elf. And there did not seem to be a day that passed that Mama did not make the unfavorable comparison, always sighing that “Poor Kate favors the Winsteads, I’m afraid.”

  But Harry, the eldest of the Winstead brood at seventeen, was quite handsome, prompting Papa to predict that one day Katherine would be just as pretty “in her own way” to his skeptical wife. Some days Kate herself suspected it was a hum, but nonetheless she clung to the notion that it could happen.

  The sound of a carriage barreling down the long lane brought Katherine to her feet, and despite the governess’s frown, she ran to the attic window.

  “He’s here! Claire, he’s here!”

  The younger girl looked up. “Mama will say you are not being a lady, Kate.”

  “But he is here! And there is someone with him!”

  As Katherine watched, Harry turned to say something to another boy. Ignoring the latter, she studied her brother eagerly. “How tall he has grown! Look, Claire—I think he is as big as Papa!”

  But Beckwood and Claire stared at his companion. Harry said something to him, causing him to look up, and Miss Beckwood gasped, “Why, just look at him!” Even Katherine could see it: Boy or not, he was beyond handsome. He was strikingly beautiful.

  “Oh, just look at him!” the governess said again.

  “Harry?” Katherine asked loyally.

  “I think she means the other one, Stoopid,” Claire hissed.

  Forcing herself away from the window, Miss Beckwood recalled her duty. “Back to work, both of you, else you’ll not get to go down at all.”

  Reluctantly, Katherine sat and took the quill. Glancing to where Clarissa’s head was once again bent so low that her hair obscured her paper, the woman sighed. “Katherine, you must try to be more like your sister.”

  Kate knew Claire was shamming it. She stared at her own page, thinking resentfully that the lesson would take far too long. And she did not care how much imaginary bolts of sateen and ribbon cost. She’d much rather go fishing with Harry.

  But as she worked, she could not help being disappointed that her brother had brought someone home with him. Before he’d gone away to school, he’d treated her more like a younger brother than a sister. He was like Papa, only not quite so busy.

  “Here now—what a pulled face for your favorite brother!”

  Katherine nearly knocked the ink pot from its holder as she jumped up. “Harry!” she squealed. “You’re my only brother!”

  “Hello, poppet.” Grinning, he opened his arms, hugging her.

  “Oh, Harry!—I am so very glad you are home! I have even had Old Joe show me how to bait my fishing hook, so you will not have to do it for me. And I can fire Papa’s hunting piece, even if I do not hit anything.”

  “Actually, we won’t be here long—Bell and I are going fishing up in Scotland.” As her face fell, he felt instantly sorry. “But I’ve brought gifts from London.” Guiding her away from the door, he half turned to the other boy. “Told you Kate was a hoyden, didn’t I? Kate, make your curtsy to Bellamy, Viscount Townsend.”

  “Miss Katherine,” the youth murmured. “I hear you are forever getting into scrapes.” He possessed her hand, then released it, smiling. “So am I, I am afraid.”

  “Yes,” she said simply. Turning to her brother, her quivering chin betrayed her. “How long do you mean to stay?”

  “Not above a week. But I shall return for a few days before term begins.”

  Amelia Beckwood hesitated, then with uncharacteristic forwardness, she thrust her hand out to the young viscount. “And I am Miss Beckwood, the girls’ governess—and you must forgive Katherine’s sad lack of manners.”

  “My dear Miss Beckwood, I should think you scarce out of the schoolroom yourself,” he declared gallantly.

  To Katherine’s utter disgust, the woman blushed. “How improper you must think me, sir. I—”

  “On the contrary.” He flashed a smile that lit his extraordinary gray eyes. “And I like improper females.”

  “Pay him no heed,” Harry advised her. “Bell’s a shocking flirt.”

  “What did you bring me?” Claire wanted to know. “Will I like it?”

  “I certainly hope so.” He drew two small velvet pouches from his pockets. Handing one to her, he opened the other himself. In his palm lay a lovely oval locket and chain. With his thumbnail, he flicked the enameled gold open to reveal a small compartment.

  “When you are older, it is big enough to hold a lover’s lock, Kate,” he teased her.

  Clarissa held up a smaller heart-shaped locket, then pouted when she saw Katherine’s. “Ooooh—I want that one. Please. She won’t care.” Tossing her curls for effect, she looked up coquettishly at her brother. “She’d rather have a fishing pole—or a grubby dog.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll ask Mama,” she threatened.

  “Mama didn’t buy it—I did. For Kate.”

  Claire’s lower lip thrust out farther as she appealed to the governess. “Beckwood, tell him I must have it.”

  “No.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Mama’ll make her give it to me—I know she will!” she declared angrily.

  “If she does,
I’ll never buy you anything again,” Harry threatened.

  The young viscount intervened, asking, “May I see it?”

  Claire eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then held the gift out. “I don’t want it—I want the other one.”

  He pulled a single strand of pale blond hair, rolled it around his little finger, then slipped it inside the small heart. Snapping the locket closed, he polished it on his coat sleeve, then handed it back.

  “There,” he announced, smiling. “You have your very own lover’s lock, Miss Clarissa.”

  The tears stopped on the instant, and a slow smile of triumph curved Claire’s small mouth. “Put it on for me, will you, Beckwood?”

  “If you must bicker, his lordship will not think you are ladies,” Amelia Beckwood reminded them. Her eyes met Bellamy Townsend’s, and her cheeks pinked becomingly. “It was terribly kind of you.”

  Harry’s gaze took in the paper on Katherine’s desk. “Finish your lessons, Kate, and I promise I shall ask if you can dine downstairs tonight.”

  “Downstairs!”

  “What about me?” Claire demanded plaintively. “She’s only ten, and I—”

  “And you are only seven,” he finished for her.

  “Mama won’t—”

  “I’ll ask Papa,” he countered.

  “It’s not fair!”

  He ignored her. “For now, Kate, I’ve got to go on down—haven’t bathed since London. And I expect Bell will want to sleep an hour or two—he played deep at the Black Boar last night.”

  “Harry!” Claire shrieked.

  Attempting to mollify her spoiled charge, the governess bent to study the heart-shaped locket. “How pretty it is, Claire,” she murmured soothingly. “Do you not agree, Katherine?”

  Kate wasn’t attending that. She was listening as her brother and Bell Townsend spoke from below.

  “ ‘A lover’s lock,’ ” Harry mimicked. “It’s a wonder you aren’t bald.”

  “Always keep the females happy, old fellow, and they’ll give you anything you want.”

  “Someday,” Harry predicted, “you’re going to have hell to pay for keeping too damned many of ’em happy.”

  Within two days, Harry’s friend had charmed nearly everyone in the house, exerting himself to be agreeable, joining in every amusement, whether it meant fishing or playing bowls with Harry and Katherine, riding the pony cart with Claire and Miss Beckwood, or target shooting before all of them. Even Katherine found herself liking him.

  But Beckwood acted as though she were the schoolgirl, making a silly, giddy fool of herself for Bell Townsend. Where lessons had once been of paramount importance, she now said, “It would be a shame if the girls did not get the fullest possible visit with Master Henry.” Then the woman accompanied them everywhere, always smiling dreamily at the viscount.

  And Claire declared baldly, “When I am grown, I shall be Viscountess Townsend!”

  “Fiddle. He will be far too old for you by then,” Kate shot back.

  “He is but seventeen like Harry,” Claire retorted. “And Papa is nine years older than Mama.”

  Mama. At dinner, she directed most of her conversation to Townsend, laughing at his every attempt at wit. At one point, she voiced the hope that his influence could “rein in Henry’s vices.”

  Keeping a straight face, the young viscount reassured her, “Oh, he don’t get into scrapes around me.”

  “What a dear boy you are,” she murmured approvingly. “You remind me of your mama—such a lovely creature, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “She always called you her angel, as I remember.”

  Katherine looked up at that and caught his wince. “Mama always had hopes of me, I suppose,” he said.

  “No—no, she was quite right. One has but to look into your countenance to see you are everything she could have wished.”

  Harry choked. Coughing until tears streamed down his cheeks, he finally had to turn away from the table.

  “Really, Henry, you forget your manners,” Lady Winstead complained. “Drink slowly, I beg you.”

  “I don’t think it was anything he drank, Mama,” Kate spoke up. She waited until her mother’s attention was claimed by her father, then she mouthed the word “angel” at Townsend. His gray eyes met hers as his lips formed “brat” in response.

  After dessert, Lady Winstead rose. “I find myself rather tired,” she said, addressing her husband. “Do you go up also?”

  He nodded. “I thought to partake of one brandy in my book room, my dear, then I shall join you while the young people play cards.”

  “Cards?” Her mouth flattened in disapproval, as though the word itself were sinful.

  “I told Henry I didn’t mind it if they played a few games of whist,” he answered mildly.

  “There are more than enough gamesters in this house, I think,” she responded stiffly. “And I do not want Katherine—”

  “Oh, Mama—it is but a harmless game,” Harry insisted. “And it requires four to play it.”

  “Humph! There are no harmless cards, Henry.” She eyed her husband reproachfully for a moment, then sighed. “Miss Beckwood, I hope you understand there is to be no money wagered.”

  “Yes, Lady Winstead.”

  “Ten o’clock at the latest, then.”

  With that pronouncement, she left them. Katherine’s father sighed, then shrugged his shoulders. “I guess woman is meant to be man’s conscience—eh?” With that, he started for the door, stopping only to ruffle Katherine’s hair. “For luck, Kate,” he murmured. “Play ’em close, you hear? And play ’em to win.”

  As Katherine crept into the bed she shared with Claire, her sister rolled over and sat up. “Don’t think I won’t tell Mama,” the girl said crossly. “The clock’s struck midnight.”

  “I know. But we were winning, and Miss Beckwood did not want to come up.”

  “You gamed? Mama would never approve!”

  “Mama knows.” Katherine rolled onto her side. “Good night.”

  Reluctantly, Claire lay back down. “Well, I will still tell her that you did not come to bed until past midnight,” she decided. She turned away and hugged her pillow. Just when Katherine supposed she slept, the younger girl muttered, “Why does it always have to be you and Harry? Why doesn’t he favor me?”

  “Probably because of Mama,” Kate answered.

  Claire’s breathing evened out quickly. Turning her head against her own pillow, Katherine savored her win—Harry had teased that if she’d been at White’s, she’d have been rich. It was a hum, and she knew it—what defeated Bell Townsend and Beckwood had been Papa’s “medicinal” rum, which Harry had discovered in a cabinet.

  He and Bell had persuaded Miss Beckwood to have “a drop.” Eventually, she’d had a great deal more than that. By the end of the evening, all the woman could do was giggle, she remembered with disgust. And Townsend was not much better.

  The clock struck the half hour, dividing the darkness, and as the sound receded, Katherine thought she heard a door squeak slowly open. She lay silent, listening as someone quickly passed in the hall. For a moment, she wondered if she merely imagined what she heard, but then the servants’ stairs creaked.

  Katherine crept to her window and peered into the moonlit garden below as a woman emerged from the house and darted down the garden path toward the maze. At the last instant, she looked back as though she feared to be followed, and Katherine stared. It was Miss Beckwood.

  But what on earth would she be doing out in the middle of the night? Then the answer came—she’d had far too much rum, and it did not take much to guess that she was sick. After all, when Harry’d gotten into Papa’s Madeira, he was up half the night retching, and everyone knew it. And poor Beckwood could not afford such a thing, for if it ever came to Mama’s ears, she would be turned off.

  Katherine ran down the back stairs and outside. The cobblestone path was wet with dew, the grass slippery beneath her bare feet. Her heart pounding
, she stopped at the edge of Papa’s prized maze and hesitated. There was no sign of Beckwood. But what if she herself got lost? What if she could not find her way back before morning? She shuddered to even think of the peal Mama would read over her. For a long time, she listened, wavering, thinking perhaps she should go back and let Beckwood take care of herself.

  Then she heard the woman’s cries, followed by strange, animal-like grunts. Poor Beckwood. Swallowing her fear of the dark, she ran toward the sounds, not daring to call out that she came. She stopped when she saw them.

  The governess was lying on the ground, her bared, thrashing legs pale in the moonlight. Above her, a man rocked on his knees, his pantaloons pulled down around his ankles. The woman’s cries became louder, more frantic, but he did not stop. To Kate, it looked as though Beckwood fought him.

  She found her voice and screamed, “You are killing her! Stop it—oh, stop it! Papa! Papa! Help!”

  Beckwood’s attacker cursed loudly as he separated awkwardly from her and staggered to his feet. He lunged toward Katherine, nearly tripping over his clothes. Behind him, Beckwood sat up and covered her face with her hands, crying, “We are discovered! What have I done—oh, what have I done?”

  “Kate! What the hell are you doing here?”

  Katherine froze at the sound of Bellamy Townsend’s voice. He was still pulling up his pantaloons when he reached her. He caught her shoulder, shaking her. She stared, wide-eyed, when he released her.

  “Oh, lud.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, it isn’t—I mean—she—” His gray eyes reflected the moon. “Look, I didn’t hurt her, I swear.”

  It came to her then— Whatever he’d done, Beckwood had wanted him to do it. Mortified, she broke away and ran. At the edge of the maze, she stopped, her heart pounding, just long enough to catch her breath, then she hurried back toward the house.

  Still in his nightshirt, her Papa appeared at the door. “Kate! What in the devil are you doing out there?” he demanded.

  The awful look on Beckwood’s face floated before her as she clung to her father. “I thought I saw a ghost, Papa,” she lied.

  “Where?”