by Kitty Curran
“Lady Evangeline, please wait!” you cry out. She turns around, sending your heart leaping, and her beautiful, placid face lights up with sincere pleasure.
“You’ve changed your mind, my dear? Do you truly wish to watch an old bluestocking pore over some ancient scratchings for a few hours when you could be exploring the wonders of Cairo?”
“Oh, yes!” you cry. Lady Evangeline’s mouth quirks at your sudden enthusiasm. Embarrassed, you glance at your dusty feet, if only to hide your face, which you are quite sure must be glowing scarlet.
If Lady Evangeline notices, she doesn’t let on. Instead, she catches your chin with one cool pale hand and lifts it so your eyes meet. You find you can barely breathe as a smile spreads slowly across her face.
“Splendid.” She links her arm with yours and starts down the narrow corridor. As you feel her velvet-soft skin touching yours, a thrill travels through you.
Still, you take a moment to look back warily at the man whom sweet Kamal calls his guard. To your surprise, he is staring at you in a manner that makes you feel as though he can see through to your very soul. Before you can ponder what this means, Lady Evangeline throws open the study door.
“Well, my dear,” she says, “shall we begin?”
Go to this page.
You clap your hands together and try to sound authoritative.
“I wanted to clean out the classroom today, but unfortunately a certain Scottish someone doesn’t seem to think that possible. It’s almost as if he thinks you don’t have the strength to clean out a schoolroom by yourselves.” The children stop punching one another for a moment and goggle at you. “ ‘Weaker than kittens, and just as easy to scare’ was the phrase, I believe is what he said.” You do not feel guilty for the lie.
The children erupt into howls of outrage and darkly mutter “bloody stupid haggis-eating so-and-so” and “finks he can tell us wot to do…” You feel mildly bad for throwing Mac under the horse-drawn omnibus, but only just…and now you have more than twenty scrappy young cockneys to maneuver.
“I know!” you say, feigning outrage. “I told him that you were more than capable of cleaning out a schoolroom on your own, but he didn’t believe me!”
The howls grow louder, and within minutes the classroom is filled with a horde of children rearranging furniture, sweeping, and scrubbing the walls. The room is already starting to look shockingly presentable.
Colonel Abercrombie chooses this moment to walk in, and immediately starts chuckling.
“Och, ye must have cast a spell upon the wee bairns, just like how you have bewitched young MacTaggart!”
“I-I’m not sure what you mean…,” you splutter, blushing furiously.
“He means Captain Mac wants to feel you up, miss,” explains Sallie politely. “That is what my mum, God rest her soul, used to say about her gentleman visitors, and they liked her ever so much.”
Before you can think of an answer, Colonel Abercrombie rescues you.
“Help me move these boxes, will ye, Sallie? There’s a good girl.” He smiles at you with fatherly tenderness. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just be moving a chest and a few boxes of some old papers of mine, no more, and then I’ll be out of your way.”
“It is no mind at all, Colonel Abercr—” The words dry up in your throat as you notice a certain strapping red-haired figure watching you in fascination from the doorway.
Mac cocks his head, grins, and walks in, nodding to the departing Abercrombie, who is lugging the heavy chest with shockingly little effort for a man of his age. Your heart flutters uncontrollably as Mac makes his way to you. What would it be like to have such a man “feel you up”? Every particle of your body aches with longing to know, and you hate yourself for it.
“What have we here?” says Mac, wincing as None-of-Your-Business deliberately knocks into him, grumbling about “bloody Scots swanning in here like they own the place.” Mac doesn’t notice, or chooses not to. Instead he resets the boy’s course, saying, “Easy there, Bert,” so kindly that it only serves to further darken the boy’s mood. As the child stomps off, Mac turns to you, admiration and amusement sparkling like diamonds in those hazel eyes.
“I have nae idea how you managed this, lass, but it seems there is more to you than meets the eye.” He reaches out and wipes a smudge from your cheek with a firm, calloused thumb. You tremble at his touch. “I feel I owe you an apology. Truly, you must have bewitched us all.”
While you feel the very breath leaving your body as you stare into the soulful depths of his eyes, Sallie elbows another girl hard in the ribcage.
“See! I toldja, didn’t I?” she hisses.
“Cor!” says her friend. “You reckon he’s going to start feeling her up soon?”
You and Mac break apart instantly, but there is little time for awkwardness. The acrid smell of smoke begins to fill your nostrils, and you hear one of the children scream. Abercrombie rushes back into the room.
“We have to get out! The orphanage!” he says. “The orphanage is on fire!”
Mac immediately takes charge. “Lads! Lasses! Take one other person’s hand and follow me!” The children immediately respond and file out behind him, even angry little None-of-Your-Business.
You are relieved by how swiftly you escape, for the blaze wastes no time in consuming the crumbling building in its hot, angry flames. Mac stands in the pouring rain, his wet shirt clinging to his powerful shoulders in a highly distracting way, watching his life’s work consumed by the inferno. His jaw is taut, but his eyes betray the depths of his emotions.
Instinctively, you grab his hand. He turns to you, looking as though his soul, too, has been swallowed by the conflagration. You share a moment, a sweet yet bitter moment, where it seems as though only the two of you are here, on this wet London street, the past burning away before your eyes like so much kindling. Unfortunately for you both, this is not the case.
“Oi! Dodger! No! Bad dog!”
You are broken from your reverie just in time to see Dodger racing back into the building—and little Timmy chasing after him.
Bloody Dodger. Turn to this page.
You race Craven to young Alexander’s room, and once there, you find the child crumpled in a sobbing heap on the floor.
Almost all the paintings of Blanche that hung elsewhere in the home have been gathered here, which is impressive considering their sheer number. Even more impressive, and horrifying, is that the eyes of every face have been ripped out.
You are struck by the sick poetry of it—if Blanche could see you now, trysting with her husband while her child screams for help…
Master Alexander turns his reddened eyes to you. “Mama’s coming to get me again. Just like she got Helena!”
Helena?
“We NEVER speak that name, child!” Craven roars.
“But Papa,” Alexander pleads, “she still plays with me every night!”
Something darker and more pained than any of the dark and pained looks that you’ve seen cross Craven’s face. “Never!” he rasps. He flees the room, leaving you and Alexander alone with…
“Helena?” you half whisper.
“My sister!” Alexander cries. Sister? But you did not know of a sister…Your heart drops as the child grips your hands in his tiny fingers and weeps into your outstretched palms. “Helena says that she’s not at peace, and neither is Mama.” Hearing these words, a chill runs down your spine.
“She says to watch out for the bad man,” Alexander whispers, and your blood runs cold.
Enough of this.
If you wish to go straight to Craven and demand to know exactly WTF is going on, turn to this page.
If you would love to get a straight answer from Craven but know that such a thing isn’t possible even on a good day, let alone a day with a marathon passionate interlude just before his child brought up his dead other child’s ghostly warning of danger,
maybe you would be better off doing some sneaking around on your own first. Turn to this page.
Constantina struggles against her captors the whole way back to the castle.
“Scum! You are all scum!” she cries.
“Of course, dear,” you say, as though she is merely another recalcitrant orphan. “Now behave or you’ll be sent to bed without supper.”
Fortunately, the castle is old enough to have an actual dungeon, which yet more fortunately has been untouched by the ravages of time. You and Mac leave Constantina there, screaming about Napoleon.
No sooner have you stepped back into the fresh air than you run into a smartly dressed man, who can only be—
“Lord Fleming!” Ollie cries.
“The top spymaster in Britain,” Mac whispers to you. “No doubt our friend’s chief of command.”
“We came as soon as we heard,” Lord Fleming says briskly. “Well done, Ruston.” Ollie whispers something in Lord Fleming’s ear. The spymaster frowns, but Ollie whispers something more, and then Fleming hands him two packages, which he brings to you and Mac.
“Colonel Abercrombie’s older brother died without issue several months ago,” he explains. “That made Colonel Abercrombie the laird of this place. Of course, given the circumstances of this case, all his assets were seized for the crown…”
“So we’re out, then,” Mac interrupts, taking your hand in his own rough, manly paw. “Us and the orphans. Homeless.”
Your heart sinks. But Ollie hands Mac the packages.
“No. You saved my life. And Lord Fleming has pulled a few strings. Since this was once property of a man who betrayed his country and caused the deaths of so many of his countrymen, it is only fitting that his lands should go to those who have suffered from such actions.”
“You don’t mean…” you say.
Ollie grins. “Captain Angus MacTaggart, it is my pleasure to inform you that this castle and all the land belonging to it is now the property of the Society for the Protection of Widows and Orphans of the War.”
You and Mac exchange astonished glances. Ollie shrugs and then looks around at the crumbling structure disapprovingly.
“I may also be owed a considerable reward for finally finding the mole and uncovering rather a large amount of information that will help us find other traitors. Thanks, again, to you two,” he says. “It is money I have no interest in, given the circumstances, and it seems to me you could do with some repairs around here.”
“Oh, Ollie, you can’t—”
But Ollie waves his hand dismissively. “I want you to have the money so you can make this hovel a suitable place to raise these children. I can think of no better purpose for it.”
Mac shakes Ollie’s hand vehemently. “I don’t know how to thank ye.” Ollie fixes his gaze on you.
“Some time alone with her would be more than enough.”
You smile at Mac. You feel his gaze boring into your back as Ollie leads you to the other side of the room. “What is it, Ollie?”
He cups your face gently, and you gasp.
“I realized something tonight,” he says. “That all this time, I was in love with a mirage.” Suddenly, his russet hair and the hopeful expression in those rich brown eyes make him seem once more like the boy you used to love. “The only woman I have ever truly loved is you. And I don’t want to lose you a second time.”
“You mean—”
“I mean I want to keep you in my life. I have no doubt Fleming will be impressed with your pluck and quick thinking—”
“And use of stockings,” you add.
“Indeed. So I have proposed that you and I work together.” Ollie smiles. “Well, my darling? What do you say?”
If yes please, you want to be a spy and have sultry intrigues with your sultry ex-lover, turn to this page.
If no way, Ollie has too wild a past, you don’t know him after all these years, and you’d prefer a career that doesn’t involve getting shot at, turn to this page.
Nothing has prepared you for the spectacular yet elegant beauty of Manberley, the ancient seat of the Granvilles and home of Sir Benedict. Crossing the tastefully furnished receiving room, filled to the brim with the cream of the ton, you remind yourself that you are the longtime companion of Sir Benedict’s aunt and have been personally invited to this house party by his cousin, Lady Evangeline. Truly, you have just as much right to be here as all these fine ladies and gentlemen, even if their handkerchiefs probably cost more than you make in a year. You raise your chin defiantly and search for a friendly face.
Unfortunately, Lady Evangeline is nowhere to be found. Even more unfortunately, you see the toadlike form of Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw swiftly approaching, his face florid with excitement. And gin.
Desperate to escape, you turn sharply left and find yourself running headlong into a body that is at once familiar and disturbing. You force yourself to look up into the searing gaze of him, the man you detest and desire in equal measure.
“Sir Benedict,” you say through gritted teeth. “What a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” He kisses your hand, his eyes narrow with suspicion, and you curse your traitorous body for shivering at his touch.
“It was so kind of you to invite the Dowager Lady Craven and myself to this gathering,” you continue in a honeyed tone laced with arsenic.
“Lady Evangeline would have had my head had I not.”
“Of course. I forget how easily intimidated you are. I am so very sorry,” you bite back.
“Your kindness is quite extraordinary.” Benedict nods toward Sir Charles Burley-Fanshaw, who is currently hovering in your vicinity. “Especially when directed towards those who are able to give you something.”
“Oh, Sir Benedict!” you trill. “Your meticulous morality, even in the face of such hardships as a baronetcy, a fine estate, and a fortune, does you credit.”
Sir Benedict leans closer and whispers in your ear. A scent that is a mixture of leather, sunlight, and all man envelops you.
“By the way,” he whispers, “what is it exactly that you have done with my aunt?” Your faces are so close that it would take moving but an inch for you to kiss his cruel, barb-slinging mouth.
Across the room, a glass smashes. Sudden silence descends upon the crowd.
There, at the entryway, stands a man so beautiful he looks like an angel of Botticelli’s—an angel very much of the fallen variety. Behind him, a mousy young woman holds a kerchief to her mouth, fighting back tears.
“Who is that?” you whisper. But Sir Benedict is as frozen as the classical statues lining the walls of the room you are standing in, his patrician face drained of all color.
“Cad,” he hisses. “What the devil do you think you’re doing here?”
The fallen angel pointedly ignores him. “For those of you who are not aware, my name is Rafe Caddington,” he says. “Or, should I say, Rafe Granville.” The room heaves a united gasp. “You see, until recently my sister Henrietta and I believed ourselves to be mere by-blows of an affaire the late baronet had with our notorious mother, the famed doyenne of the stage, Mrs. Caddington. How wrong we all were.” He tosses Benedict another look, at once triumphant and venomous. Another thrum of whispers travels throughout the room.
“What do you mean by that?” Benedict’s silver-gray eyes are ice cold as he stares at the intruder.
“Well, brother of mine, all that has changed. You see, I have discovered a most interesting document.” Cad thrusts a worn yet official-looking sheet of paper into the air. “What I have here is the secret marriage certificate of our late father, the baronet, and Henrietta’s and my mother. You will see that it is dated two years before the nuptials of the baronet with Sir Benedict’s own high and mighty mother, and six months before my birth. I believe anyone passably acquainted with mathematics has already worked out what that means…”
Cad st
alks toward Sir Benedict like a hyena circling a lion.
“It means that Henrietta and I are the legitimate offspring of Sir Piers Granville. It means that I am the true baronet and owner of this fine estate and all its attendant privileges. What is more, seeing as my mother was alive and well until just eight years ago, it means that the marriage between Benedict’s mother and father was very much illegal!” Cad steps toward Benedict until their noses almost touch. “And that makes dear old Benny—”
“There, at the entryway, stands a man so beautiful he looks like an angel of Botticelli’s—an angel very much of the fallen variety.”
Cad pauses a moment, a golden version of his dark glowering brother, the profiles almost perfectly matched.
“—nothing but a bastard.”
The room explodes with chatter. Several ladies faint dead away. Cad stands triumphantly, fielding questions from the hangers-on who now surround him, while behind him poor Henrietta sobs quietly—unusual behavior for a young woman who has just discovered she is a legitimate member of the aristocracy. You are at once suspicious but immediately distracted by the sight of an ashen-faced Sir Benedict, now being fully ignored by his former guests. Your heart aches for him despite yourself.
“I am so very sorry,” you say gently. “Did you have any idea prior to this?”
Benedict turns to you, eyes blazing beneath his cold exterior.
“You would do very well to leave this alone.”
“What?” Such a brusque dismissal is shocking, even from him. He stares at you piercingly, and you feel both your hackles rise in anger and your traitorous bosom heave with longing.
“Stay out of it,” he growls. “That is not a request.”
The very nerve of the man, thinking he could boss you around so gruffly! If you wish to give him a piece of your mind, turn to this page.