The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London Book 1)
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The Mysterious Miss Flint
Lost Ladies of London: Book 1
Adele Clee
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission.
The Mysterious Miss Flint
Copyright © 2017 Adele Clee
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9955705-4-2
Cover designed by Jay Aheer
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Contents
Also by Adele Clee
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Thank you!
The Deceptive Lady Darby
A Simple Case of Seduction
Also by Adele Clee
Books by Adele Clee
To Save a Sinner
A Curse of the Heart
What Every Lord Wants
The Secret To Your Surrender
A Simple Case of Seduction
Anything for Love Series
What You Desire
What You Propose
What You Deserve
What You Promised
The Brotherhood Series
Lost to the Night
Slave to the Night
Abandoned to the Night
Lured to the Night
Lost Ladies of London
The Mysterious Miss Flint
The Deceptive Lady Darby
Chapter One
“What the hell do you mean? You must know where she is.” Oliver Darby, fourth Earl of Stanton, rounded the solid oak desk, grabbed the solicitor by the flimsy lapels of his coat and shook him. “Wickedness is in the blood. My father is dead and buried, but I am very much alive. Now tell me where he sent her.”
“The … the late earl made no mention of it in his will, my lord.” The man’s neat white periwig slipped down to cover one eye. “Perhaps Lady Rose went to stay with an aunt.”
“Lies, I can deal with. Stupidity, I cannot.” Oliver released the pathetic creature, and he tumbled back into the chair. “We have no other kin, and you damn well know it.”
Mr Wild straightened his wig. “What about your sister’s godmother, Lady Stewart?”
“Neither of us have seen Lady Stewart since our mother died. Our father forbade any contact.” Oliver’s tone conveyed more than contempt for his father’s controlling manner. “And according to the housekeeper, no one has seen my sister for six months or more. I think that's a little long for a visit, don’t you?”
“My lord, I don’t know what else to suggest.” Mr Wild winced as though expecting another volatile outburst. “I assume you have questioned the staff.”
Questioned them? Oliver had torn the house apart to find answers.
He’d interrogated the servants until they confessed to all manner of misdemeanours. The footman’s dalliance with the maid was hardly surprising. The housekeeper’s deception over the price of a bottle of brandy proved more so. Mrs Baker’s brother was the proprietor of a liquor establishment. Any extra funds gained from the forged bills were passed to the housekeeper to purchase candles, since his father had reduced the household budget.
Despite hours of prodding and probing, none of the servants knew what had happened to Rose. Most presumed she was visiting friends in the country even though she’d left without her maid.
A sense of foreboding gripped him.
“I want a detailed breakdown of my father’s … of my assets,” Oliver corrected. “A list of all land owned regardless of how small the plot.” An image of a shallow grave entered his mind, and he cursed under his breath. Surely the bastard wasn’t cruel enough to do away with his own daughter simply to spite his rebellious son? “I want a list of all property owned outright, and any bought in partnership. Include all buildings rented by tenants.”
Had rational thought abandoned him?
Perhaps Rose had eloped and decided to break all contact with her family. Based on their father’s possessive nature no one would blame her. Perhaps she would breeze into the dining room this evening with rosy cheeks and a bright smile and regale tales of time spent in Brighton?
The painful knot in his stomach said otherwise. Rose had failed to attend the funeral, failed to appear to hear the solicitor read the will.
Mr Wild coughed. “I’m afraid I have a three o’clock appointment, my lord, and couldn’t possibly assist you today. But I can prepare the papers tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!” An innocent young woman was missing. And it was Oliver’s fault for leaving her in the care of a brute. Panic came in the form of a hard lump in his throat. “You’ll give me what I want now else I’ll empty every damn drawer myself.”
Mr Wild loosened the collar of his shirt and fanned his face. “My lord—”
“Now, Mr Wild!”
The man stood, though there was doubt as to whether his legs would support his weight. He scurried out into the hall and called Mr Andrews, the clerk.
While the two men ferreted about in drawers and cabinets, piling papers and files on top of the desk, Oliver contemplated the part he’d played in neglecting his sister.
The day his father insisted he marry Lady Melissa Martin, the most arrogant, conceited debutante ever to grace a ballroom, was the day he left Stanton House and the fog-drenched streets of London behind. His escape took him as far afield as Naples until his father cut him off without a penny. But Oliver was nothing if not resourceful. He’d always excelled at cards and had stumbled upon many a wealthy, drunken sot eager to part with his purse.
“I think that’s the lot.” Mr Andrews pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose. “Do you need any further assistance, Mr Wild?”
“No, Andrews, that will be all.”
“Wait.” Oliver gestured to the mountain of paper. “I want a single list of all land and property. If Mr Wild has no objection, you may take notes.” Oliver raised a brow and stared down his nose at the agitated solicitor. “And lock the front door. Unfortunately, Mr Wild cannot make his three o’clock appointment.”
Arrogance was a trait Oliver despised. As was using one’s position to control and manipulate people. But Rose was missing, hidden away in some godforsaken place so his father could punish him from beyond the grave.
Mr Wild offered no objection to the demands made. Yet the hint of disdain about his countenance mirrored the look Oliver had cast his father many times in the past.
A pang of remorse for his high-handed approa
ch hit him squarely in the chest. “Had my father’s man of business not disappeared along with half the silver, I would have had him attend to this sorry task.”
“Mr Burrows did not disappear,” Mr Wild said, brushing the dust from his hands. “Your father dismissed him some time before his death. Burrows had not been paid for six months, and no doubt thought to take the cutlery to pay his rent.”
“Why? My father was not short of funds.” On the contrary, Oliver had inherited a substantial income. Regardless of his father’s disapproval and their subsequent estrangement, continuing the Darby bloodline was paramount — the only thing that mattered.
But it took more than money to produce offspring worthy of a life of privilege and title. It took marriage to a simpering debutante from good stock. It meant conforming to the rigid rules Oliver had fought long and hard to avoid. Witnessing his parents’ constant battles were enough to convince any man of the merits of bachelorhood. Indeed, the only promise he’d made was that the Darby line ended with him.
“From what I gather, they were at odds over business.” Mr Wild sat in the chair behind the desk and opened the first file. “The refusal to pay Burrows was simply an act of defiance.”
Oliver gave a snort of contempt as he dropped into the seat opposite. “My father liked to make a point.”
Mr Wild’s resigned nod spoke of personal experience. “So, other than Stanton House and Bridewell, there’s the shooting lodge on Loch Broom.” He turned to his clerk. “Are you writing this down, Andrews?”
The clerk nodded from the small desk in the corner of the room.
“There’s the house on St James’ Street,” Wild continued, flicking through the documents, “one on Mount Street and the house bequeathed to your late mother in Acton, Shropshire.”
Scotland! Shropshire! The list went on.
Bloody hell!
He’d been the earl for almost a week, missed the funeral but had made it home for the reading of the will. In light of Rose’s disappearance, the finer details had seemed unimportant. Hearing the vast extent of his father’s estate filled Oliver with dread. Despite searching Bridewell — their family seat in Sussex — and finding nothing, the accompanying eight thousand acres would take months to search.
The more the list grew, the more Oliver’s temple throbbed. All the other houses mentioned were leased to tenants. It would mean investigating every one — a mammoth task for a man on his own. And while he plodded about from one county to the next, heaven knows what predicament Rose found herself in.
“What about derelict buildings?” Oliver said, his tone more subdued now.
Various images flashed into his mind. A damp rat-infested cellar. A crumbling shelter, home to stray dogs and vagabonds.
Mr Wild frowned. “Your father would not have sent Lady Rose to a place unbefitting her station.”
Oh, his father would have sent them both to the devil.
Thankfully, Oliver possessed the Darby family traits: slightly crooked little fingers, a V-shaped hairline and a Roman nose with an aristocratic bump on the bridge. The Darbys were ugly men. However, Oliver had been fortunate enough to inherit his mother’s striking blue eyes, full lips and evenly spaced features. The old earl’s obsession with his wife’s beauty led to suspicions of infidelity and was the cause of his distant relationship with Rose. While Oliver had hair as black as his father’s soul, Rose was the only Darby ever to possess honey-gold tresses.
But to send her away, to ignore her absence and pretend she’d never existed.
“My father would go to any lengths necessary to achieve his goal.” Numerous times he had demanded Oliver return home. Had Oliver known Rose was to be a pawn in their game, he would have employed different tactics.
“The list is extensive,” Mr Wild said as he tied the string around the last file and placed it with the others. “Perhaps an enquiry agent might help you to investigate those properties further afield. If you plan to search the length and breadth of the country yourself, may I suggest you start at Gretna Green.”
“I shall consider my options.” Oliver wouldn’t rest until he’d checked every property, although hiring an agent in Scotland might save him weeks of unnecessary hours on the road.
“A gentleman of your status and position requires someone to manage his investments. Should you need such a man, I am happy to make a recommendation.”
Deception was rife, it appeared. Oliver trusted no one. “I prefer to keep my own accounts for the time being.”
“As you wish.” Wild pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. “And does that conclude our business for today, my lord?”
“It does,” Oliver replied as the clerk approached the desk and handed him the written list of assets. His stomach churned at the thought of the monumental task ahead. “And you’re certain that’s everything?”
“Indeed.” Wild gripped the arms of his chair and edged forward, a manoeuvre to encourage Oliver to stand.
While sitting in the confines of the small, musty office, the job of finding his sister seemed achievable. Everything he needed was on the single piece of paper in his hand. Hope blossomed in his chest if only for a fleeting moment.
But the world was a vast place when someone was missing.
The clerk’s persistent cough and constant shuffling dragged Oliver from his reverie.
“What is it, Andrews?” Mr Wild said, his gritted teeth masked by a forced smile.
“It’s just that the late earl also did business with Mr Jameson.” The clerk shrank back as soon as the words left his mouth.
“Jameson? But that’s ridiculous. I was the earl’s solicitor.” Wild scowled. “What need had he to visit with Mr Jameson?”
The clerk’s mouth curled downwards. “Perhaps it was a personal matter, sir.”
“But I dealt with all matters. You must be mistaken, Andrews.”
Oliver exhaled. “Can we not simply call Mr Jameson in and ask him?”
Mr Andrews took a hesitant step forward. “Mr Jameson is away at Park Hall, drawing up papers for Viscount Trench.”
“In that case, he can offer no objection. Find my father’s file and bring it here.”
Both men looked at him as though he’d suggested sacrificing all first-born males.
Mr Wild shook his head. “We cannot enter a colleague’s office without his permission. We must wait for him to return.”
“If your colleague drew up papers for my father, then they belong to me. The fact Jameson has failed to pass them over to you is suspicious, is it not?”
There was a prolonged silence.
“Very well.” Oliver shot to his feet. “I shall search for the file myself.”
“No, no.” Mr Wild waved his hands in the air as he scanned the breadth of Oliver’s chest. “It is best that I go. The drawers are full of private documents. Should our clients learn of a security breach they may take their business elsewhere.”
Oliver gestured to the door. “Then let’s get to it.” There wasn’t a minute to waste.
Accompanied by the clerk, they entered the office across the hall from Mr Wild’s. The room was just as dark and dingy. Breathing the musty air was akin to sucking in sawdust.
Wild scurried over to a tall cabinet, glanced back over his shoulder numerous times as if expecting Jameson to jump out from behind the coat stand.
“This is highly irregular,” Wild muttered as he flicked through the contents of a drawer. “I can see nothing listed under Stanton or Darby.”
“Then I suggest you look again.” An odd feeling in the pit of Oliver’s stomach convinced him they were looking in the right place. “See if there's a file under the name of Benting.”
Mr Benting was an alias used by his father when he wished to travel incognito. When he stalked his wife, and booked into coaching inns to check she wasn’t meeting a lover.
Wild opened another drawer and scanned the row of files. “Yes, there is a Benting,” he said with some surprise. He pl
aced the thin file on Mr Jameson’s cluttered desk, read a missive, and then examined a document embossed with a wax seal.
“Well?” Oliver’s fingers tingled as he contemplated ripping the document out from under the solicitor’s nose. “What have you found?”
“There is no proof that the Mr Benting mentioned here is your father. There is nothing to suggest a connection or why he purchased the property.” Wild glanced down at the piece of paper and shook his head. “Without Mr Jameson to corroborate Andrews’ story, I’m afraid there is nothing more I can tell you.”
Even if Mr Jameson were available, he would have received a substantial reward to keep his tongue.
“Indeed,” Wild continued, “I fear there has been a terrible misunderstanding.”
A misunderstanding? The comment caused an irritating prickle at Oliver’s nape.
“You mentioned a property,” Oliver said, his curiosity piqued. There had to be a reason why his father was secretive about the purchase. “Can you not tell me where it is? Is anyone living there?”
“Such places are never short of occupants,” Wild answered cryptically. “But it appears there is some mistake. The property was bequeathed to a Miss Flint, although she has yet to come forward and claim her inheritance.”
Who the hell was Miss Flint?
“Then I see no harm in riding there and introducing myself.” Perhaps his father’s jealousy stemmed from guilt. Could Miss Flint be his father’s mistress? To discover the old earl was a hypocrite would be amusing under less dire circumstances.
The solicitor’s eyes glazed over. “Good Lord, the manor is not somewhere one visits whilst in the neighbourhood. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to stop at such a place.”