A Beastly Scandal
Page 28
“Belle.” He turned her to face him. “I have a question I would like to ask.”
Belle returned his solemn look with a teasing smile, her arms casually yet possessively wrapping around his neck. “And what would that be, Rufus?”
She had never looked more beautiful than with her sooty face and singed hair. Quite a change from his angel in the snow. Yet, the woman whom he had lambasted then as being unworthy of him, now seemed eminently suitable.
“Annabelle Lilith Marchant.” He removed her arms from around his neck and dropped to one knee. “Will you do me the honor of haunting me for the rest of my days as my wife?”
She burst out laughing, then bent to accept his proposal with a lingering kiss. “Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes.”
He stood, whooped, and then looked around. The place was crawling with villagers. If he was to kiss her the way he wanted, they needed a better hiding spot. Eyeing the maze, he took a firm grip on her hand and raced toward the opening.
“Rufus!” She sounded breathless. “Do you mean to have your way with me?”
“I do, my lady. Though I did not realize reading my thoughts were part of your special abilities.”
She chuckled. “It had not been, until this moment. But is this the right time and place for what you have in mind?”
He stopped abruptly at the maze’s edge. “You object?”
She shook her head. “No, but what will your Aunt Henrietta say to my going unescorted into a maze with you at sunset?”
“That it is high time I made an honest woman of you.”
She ran a thumb across his lips. “Is that your plan?”
In response, he pulled her close enough so she would be in no doubt about his plans.
Her violet eyes widened with excitement or anticipation, and he hoped it was both. “I intend to stir another blaze between us before this day ends.”
“Rufus Marlesbury, are you saying you intend to steal my innocence?” For all her stern tone, she wore that mischievous look she sported when he first asked her to kiss him after her carriage ran him off the road. “What type of lady do you think I am?”
Despite her humor, he answered seriously. “Not a lady, an angel,” he whispered and kissed her as no angel had ever been kissed.
Ernest jumped up to join in the fun, and Rufus pulled back with a groan of frustration. “Belle, tell this confounded dog to stop vexing us. You can talk to him. Ask him to go plague Phillip or Mother or my aunt. Anyone but us.”
The puppy skirted his shove and, encouraged by Belle’s laughter, jumped on them and nearly toppled them to the ground in order to obtain his portion of the affection being so generously shared between the two people he loved most.
Rufus laughed and gave in to the dog. After all, Belle was his for the rest of their lives, and Earnest loved her almost as much as he did.
The End
(Please continue reading for an excerpt of A DEVILISH SLUMBER)
A Devilish Slumber
If you enjoyed A BEASTLY SCANDAL,
you’ll love Shereen Vedam’s next story,
A DEVILISH SLUMBER
The Rue Alliance-Book 1
Available in February 2014
Here’s a sneak peek . . .
MIDNIGHT, WEDNESDAY, April 8, 1813, London, England
A scream rippled across the misty, dockside air.
Sir Phillip Jones’s pulse lurched at that mournful cry. Gripping his walking stick, he raced down the hilly road of the deserted warehouse district in Wapping. A second muffled scream rang out and was then abruptly cut off. No longer concerned about keeping his movements covert, he ran toward those terrified shrieks. Rounding a corner, he tore past a man staring toward where the screams had come from.
“Imbécile,” the large man grumbled from behind him.
Phillip was ten feet away before it registered that the man had sworn in French. By then, the woman who ran out of a warehouse gripping a bloody dagger had captured his focus. For a split second, her face was clearly highlighted by a stray shaft of moonlight piercing the mist. He stumbled to a halt, his chest heaving for air as stunned recognition sank in.
Rose?
The lady started and swung toward him. Had he spoken aloud? Pulling her hood up, she then sprinted off into the night.
Phillip instantly gave chase, but when he reached the open warehouse door through which she had fled, he pulled back. If that had been his Rose, he knew where she lived.
Rapidly retreating footsteps behind him suggested the irate Frenchman, probably a sailor, was also prudently withdrawing from this possible crime scene.
Inside the warehouse, despite the wide open door, it was pitch black, but that coppery scent of fresh spilled blood was unmistakable in the chilly sea air. Instead of blindly stepping in, Phillip pulled out his candle and circular silver tinderbox from his pocket. He had not survived the dangers of being an intelligence officer for the past five years by acting foolishly during a crisis.
He methodically placed the candle’s wick end into the hole on the lid and struck the flint until the candle lit. Then, with flickering candle attached to the tinderbox’s socket, he cautiously proceeded inside, his walking stick, with its hidden sword inside, raised to act as a club. If someone lurked within this warehouse, he would need blunt force, not blade finesse.
The warehouse was empty except for the victim who was slumped on the grimy floor, blood pooling at her side. Her throat had been slit. Her eyes were wide open as if in shock. He lowered his weapon, placed his candleholder on the ground, and knelt to check for signs of life. Her arm was limp and there was no pulse at the wrist, not even a hint of a breath. Her skin was still warm, but her spirit had been effectively extinguished.
With a defeated sigh, he searched her reticule and found calling cards which confirmed her identity. This was indeed Mrs. Beaumont, the woman he had come to meet tonight. Not many from this riverside section of London could afford the luxury of calling cards. Her gown was serviceable, but not of high fashion. He strode restlessly around the empty warehouse, kicking aside empty crates and litter, poking at the walls in search of a hidden door, anything to prove that Rose was unlikely to be the culprit of this crime.
Anger built as he returned, empty handed, to the body. With a grunt of frustration, he flung his weighty walking stick across the room. It struck the wooden wall with a satisfying bang and then clattered as it rolled across the hollow chamber.
Shoulders set with resolve, he proceed with his last distasteful but necessary search. He examined the underside of Mrs. Beaumont’s sleeves and delved into her bodice. Nothing. He then lifted her gown in case she had strapped something to her limbs. Disappointed there too, he removed her boots and stripped off her stockings. Finding nary a clue, he carefully redressed her, making sure she would be respectably covered before the river police arrived. All the while, words rang through his mind. That cannot have been Rose running away.
As he re-positioned her arms at her side, he noticed one of the lady’s hands clenched tight. Pulse speeding in anticipation, he raised her fist for closer study. Probing with his forefinger revealed something held inside her fist. He pried her fingers apart until they revealed a scrunched-up handkerchief. Drawing his candle holder closer, he carefully spread apart the material on the floor. There, on the top right, was a small, black, neatly embroidered crest of a raven.
That further evidence of Rose’s guilt left him in choking silence as he battled the urge to compare it to the handkerchief now burning a hole in his breast pocket. Finally, knowing he had no choice, he pulled out the other and gently unfolded it beside the crumpled one. The two crests were a perfect match. His handkerchief had been a gift from Lady Roselyn Ravenstock.
Phillip’s first duty was to protect England and the crown. Three years ago, when assigned to tra
il two suspected traitors, Evelyn Ravenstock and her French uncle, he had not hesitated to use Lady Evelyn’s sister, Rose, to bring the two villains to justice. Unfortunately, while wooing Rose to gain closer ties to her family, he had unexpectedly fallen in love with the gentle, breathtaking beauty. Rose had been as warm-hearted and innocent as her sister was callous and brazen.
Then, while fleeing Phillip’s men along the coast of Dover, Evelyn and her uncle’s carriage had careened over a cliff. Phillip had been saddled with the distasteful duty of informing the Ravenstock family about the tragic news, resulting in a deeply grieving Rose despising him for her sister’s demise.
Hoping to give Rose time and distance to recover enough to forgive him, Phillip had accepted an assignment that took him deep into the battlefields of France. His infiltration into the French military command structure unfortunately stretched from the three months he had signed on for, to a two year engagement, during which he was unable to contact Rose. Every night, his fear grew that when he returned to London, it would be to hear that Rose was married.
On his return home last autumn, he had been happy to discover, nay thrilled to learn, that Rose was still unwed. But before he could seek her out, he was sent on another urgent mission, this time to Cheshire, to recover missing naval plans.
Since the main suspect was none other than Phillip’s cousin Rufus, Lord Terrance, whom he loved like a brother, Phillip had been unable to refuse. After recovering the stolen plans and identifying the real traitor, the Prince Regent had privately proclaimed Phillip England’s savior. Phillip might have been able to stomach that fulsome praise with grace, but then the regent insisted on knighting Phillip for his service. Though the prince prudently refused to mention why, news of Phillip’s role in saving England still leaked out. One newspaper even foolishly printed a drawing depicting his bravery, and his secret work became all too public.
Foolish letters began arriving fast and furiously from strangers asking him for assistance with any number of inane threats, from missing jewelry, and suspiciously lost pets, to distrustful neighbors. When he received Mrs. Beaumont’s missive, he had thought it to be of the same ilk. What restrained him from immediately tossing the letter into the fire, as he had the others, was her mention of Lady Roselyn Ravenstock.
Mrs. Beaumont’s missive said she had vital information pertaining to Rose’s safety. What he should have done was paid Rose an immediate visit. Instead, perhaps dreading Rose’s reception after his three year absence with nary a note, he had come to the docks to first ascertain the facts of the matter.
Far too late, as it turned out. Because, he now suspected Rose had become as villainous as her sister.
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About the Author
SHEREEN VEDAM writes heartwarming historical and fantasy romances that have a healthy dollop of mystery, with a pinch of magic. Though born in Sri Lanka, Shereen’s roots are firmly planted on the west coast of Canada. After thriving for five years in friendly Winnipeg with its-40ºC wind chill factor, she decided sandals and shorts for nine months of the year was infinitely preferable to six months of parkas, snow boots, and frozen nose. Now Vancouver Island’s magical rain forest, with its ancient cedar, red-barked arbutus and giant weeping sequoia, inspires her writing.
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