by Cara Elliott
She waggled a brow in warning.
Yes, some secrets we will keep just to ourselves, he thought to himself. That Olivia and he would have a lifetime together of sharing not only secrets but passions and friendship was far more intoxicating than the rare wine gracing his crystal goblet.
“Speaking of which,” murmured Cecilia, “I just received a note from Lucy’s father saying that sacks of letters in response to the advertisement are still arriving at the inn.”
“You may assure Simmonds that the matter will be taken care of,” replied John.
“I propose another toast,” chimed in Henry with a lopsided grin. “To Hurley, to Simmonds, to the Royal Mail coach!”
“I think perhaps we’ve all imbibed enough spirits for the night,” said Cecilia, slanting a look at her husband’s cheerfully flushed face. “And the children have already been up long past their bedtime.” She rose, ignoring the grumbled protest from Prescott. “Come along, you two. We have a very full day scheduled for tomorrow. First we must stop and pay our respects to the Sloane family. And then we shall finally finish our tour of the Tower menagerie.”
“And if some villain tries to snatch Scottie again,” said Lucy, “I shall knock him on his bum and feed him to the lion.”
“No villain would dare challenge such a highly decorated warrior,” said John. He had awarded the little girl one of his medals for valor, and she had worn it proudly pinned to her dress ever since. “However, the danger is over. You two are safe.”
Lucy’s chest puffed out with pride, but she didn’t look quite convinced. “Maybe Scottie and I could take boxing lessons at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, just to be sure.”
“Oh, what a corking good idea.” Olivia cracked her knuckles. “I have always wanted to learn how to throw a right cross.”
John repressed a bark of laughter. The legendary pugilist would probably fall into a dead faint if a female tried to set foot in his exclusive establishment. “I’ve a better idea. I shall hire one of Jackson’s assistants to come give you all private lessons at the Manor.”
This time it was Olivia leading the shouts of “Huzzah!”
“The Manor is going to be lots more fun to visit, Scottie, now that Miss Sloane will be there,” confided Lucy in an overloud whisper.
So it is, thought John, offering up a silent prayer of thanks for pens, papers, and a newspaper editor who knew a good story when he saw it.
“You are supposed to be sleeping.” Closing the bedchamber door behind her, Lucy padded toward the desk, where a single candle was burning brightly.
“So are you,” answered Prescott, not looking up.
“I heard a scratching noise, so I thought I had better come investigate.” She craned her neck to look over his shoulder.
“What are you writing?”
“A letter.”
Lucy gurgled a warning sound deep in her throat. “My father says there is an old adage about pressing your luck…” She angled a step closer. “It’s not another advertisement, is it?”
“Yes.” Prescott carefully dipped his pen in the inkwell and resumed his efforts.
“For what?” pressed Lucy, unable to contain her curiosity.
“A brother,” replied Prescott. “Or a sister,” he added hastily. “Girls are not so bad.”
“Oh, no,” said Lucy decisively. “No.”
He looked up with a scowl. “Why not? It worked like a charm last time. Even you admitted tonight that it was a good idea.”
“Yes, but…” Lucy took a perch on the corner of the desk. “Do you know where brothers and sisters come from?”
“Of course I do, you goose,” he replied. “From storks, who drop them down the chimney.”
Lucy fiddled with the end of her braid.
“There are an awful lot of stork nests in London,” went on Prescott. “Surely someone who reads the Morning Gazette knows of one that contains what I’m looking for.” After adding a last line, Prescott picked up the letter and handed it to her. “Here, read it over. I think it’s rather better than the first one, if I say so myself.”
She skimmed over the scribbling and shook her head. “Brothers and sisters do not come from storks.”
“They don’t?”
“Most definitely not.”
His eyes narrowed. “Since you are so smart, I suppose you are going to tell me where they really come from.”
“Well, as to that, I overheard Jem discussing babies with Sarah the barmaid, and…” She made a face. “I didn’t exactly follow all they were saying, but trust me, it did not involve storks. I think perhaps this is something you should leave to your father and Miss Sloane.”
“You really think so?”
Wadding the paper into a ball. Lucy tossed it into the still glowing coals of the fireplace. “Yes.”
“But—” began Prescott
“Trust me on this, Scottie.” She reached for a fresh sheet of paper and slid it over to him. “If you want to write to Mr. Hurley again, why not simply thank him for the advertisement’s resounding success.”
An insistent thump-thumping interrupted a most delightful dream. “Go away,” muttered Olivia, pulling the bed quilt over her head in hopes of recapturing the image of John’s supremely sensual mouth and all the lovely sensations it had been stirring along the arch of her neck.
“Wake up, Livvie.” The bedchamber door burst open, admitting her sisters.
“Look, look! We have something amusing to show you,” said Caro.
“Mmmph.” Olivia opened one eye just long enough to catch a flutter of newsprint and then shut it again. “Whatever it is, can’t it wait until a more civilized hour?”
“It’s nearly noon,” exclaimed Caro. “You never sleep so late in the morning.”
“Perhaps she’s practicing to be an indolent idler of a countess,” said Anna dryly. “Would Your Ladyship like a pot of chocolate served to her in bed?”
Uttering a very unladylike word, Olivia sat up and threw a pillow at her younger sister’s head.
“Does that mean you would prefer café au lait?”
“Arggh. Please don’t mention any sort of liquid libations.” When Olivia had shared the momentous news with her sisters on returning to High Street, Anna and Caro had evinced not even a tiny bit of surprise—or none that she could remember. But then again, after a rather late and boisterous evening of festivities with John’s family and a nip of celebratory sherry with her siblings, the details of the entire night were a trifle fuzzy.
“Remind me not to drink port again,” she mumbled, wincing as a blade of sunlight cut through the window draperies.
“Because only the finest champagne is fit for a countess,” announced Anna. “Ha, ha, ha.”
“Oh, please, put a cork in it,” retorted Olivia, and then took her head in her hands. “Ugh.”
But despite the touch of queasiness in her stomach, she felt a delicious warmth spreading through the rest of her body as she recalled John’s arms around her during the carriage ride home, and the intimate endearments he had whispered in her ear.
Love. Of all the words she had ever penned, that was perhaps the most powerful one of all…
Paper crackled as Caro once again waved the Morning Gazette. “Will you two stop your quibbling long enough for me to read this aloud?”
“Oh, go ahead.” Olivia expelled a sigh. “It’s likely the only way I’ll get rid of you.”
Caro rolled her eyes. “Ha! What would you do without us?”
“Go back to enjoying a peaceful sleep and sweet dreams,” she replied dryly. Her smile, however, belied the teasing tone.
“Dreams of dark eyes and a shining suit of armor,” chortled Anna. “And don’t try to deny it. For all your avowals to the contrary, at heart you’re as much of a romantic as we are.”
“I am,” admitted Olivia. “Truly. Madly. Deeply.”
Caro rapped her knuckles on the bedpost. “Well, speaking of romance, there is a notice in this morning’s newspaper o
n just that subject. It says—and I quote—The editor of this newspaper requests the ladies of Mayfair to cease sending letters in response to our recent advertisement for a wife. The position has been filled. No other candidates need apply.”
She looked up thoughtfully. “You know, Anna, have you considered that a newspaper advertisement could add a very interesting plot twist to your new work-in-progress—”
“Don’t you dare,” warned Olivia.
Anna’s expression was impossible to read. “Never mind my novel,” she murmured. “Do you think if I put an advertisement in the Morning Gazette, I would find a Perfect Hero for myself?”
Caro took a seat on the end of the bed and drew her knees up to her chest. “It seems to me that Perfect Heroes are rarer than hen’s teeth. But you never know where you might find one…”
About the Author
Cara Elliott started writing Western novels at the age of five. However, she traded in her cowboy boots for Regency high-top Hessians after reading Pride and Prejudice in junior high school and hasn’t looked back. She graduated from Yale University, and she now lives and works in New York City.
You can learn more at:
CaraElliott.com
Twitter, @CaraElliott
Facebook, https://www.facebook.com/cara.elliott.71
The Hellions of High Street series continues with Sinfully Yours
Please see the next page for a preview
Chapter One
Alessandro twisted free and fell back against the rough stones just as a dagger thrust straight at his heart. Steel sliced through linen with a lethal whisper, but the blade cut naught but a dark curl of hair from his muscled chest.
“Tsk, tsk—you’re losing your edge, Malatesta,” he called, flashing a mocking smile. “In the past, your strike was quick as a cobra. But now…” He waggled an airy wave. “You’re sluggish as a garden snake.”
“You’re a spawn of Satan, Crispini!” Another slash. “And I intend to cut off your cods and send you back to Hell where you belong.”
“Oh, no doubt I shall eventually find my testicolos roasting over the Devil’s own coals. But it won’t be a slow-witted, slow-footed oaf who sticks them on a spit.”
With a roar of rage, Alessandro’s adversary spun into a new attack.
Whoosh, whoosh—moonlight winked wildly off the flailing weapon, setting off a ghostly flutter of silvery sparks.
As he danced away from the danger, Alessandro darted a quick glance over the tower’s parapet. The water below was dark as midnight and looked colder than a witch’s—
“Crispini—watch out!” The warning shout had an all too familiar ring. “Le Chaze is behind you!”
“Damn!” muttered Alessandro. He had told—no, no, he had ordered—the young lady to flee while she had the chance. But no, the headstrong hellion was as stubborn as an—
“Damn!” muttered Miss Anna Sloane, echoing the oath of Count Crispini, the dashingly handsome Italian Lothario whose sexual exploits put those of the legendary Casanova to blush. Throwing down her pen, she took her head between her hands. Several hairpins fell to the ink-spattered paper, punctuating a heavy sigh. “That’s not only drivel—it’s boring drivel.”
Her younger sister, Caro, looked up from the book of Byron’s poetry she was reading. “What did you say?”
“Drivel,” repeated Anna darkly.
Caro rose and came over to peer over Anna’s shoulder. “Hmmm.” After a quick skim of the page she added, “Actually, I think it’s not half bad.”
“I used a knife fight to liven things up in the last chapter,” said Anna.
“What about those clever little turn-off pocket pistols we saw in Mr. Manton’s shop last week?” suggested Caro.
“Chapter Three,” came the morose reply.
“Explosives?”
Anna shook her head. “I need to save that for when they hijack the pirate ship.” She made a face. Hijacking—even that sounded awfully trite to her ears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I seem to be running short of inspiration these days.”
Caro clucked in sympathy. Like their older sister Olivia, the two younger Sloane sisters shared a secret passion for writing. “You’ve been working awfully hard these past six months. Maybe the Muse needs a holiday.”
“Yes, well, the Muse may want to luxuriate in the spa waters of Baden-Baden, but Mr. Brooke expects me to turn in this manuscript in six weeks and I’m way behind schedule.” Anna was much admired by London’s beau monde for her faultless manners, amiable charm, and ethereal beauty. Little did they know that beneath the demure silks she wore a second skin—that of Sir Sharpe Quill, author of the wildly popular racy romance novels featuring the adventures of the intrepid English orphan Emmalina Smythe and the cavalier Count Alessandro Crispini.
“Perhaps you can bribe Her with champagne and lobster patties,” quipped Caro, whose writing passion was poetry. “We are attending Lord and Lady Dearborne’s soirée tonight, and they are known for the excellence of their refreshments.”
Anna uttered a very unladylike word. In Italian.
“You would rather wrestle with an ill-tempered Word Goddess than waltz across the polished parquet in the arms of Lord Andover?”
“Andover is a bore,” grumbled Anna. “As are all the other fancy fops who will likely be dancing attendance on us.”
Caro lifted a brow. “Lud, you are in a foul mood. I thought you liked Andover.” When no response came, she went on, “I know you’ll think me silly, but I confess that I’m still a little dazzled by the evening entertainments here in London. Colorful silks, diamond-bright lights, handsome men—you may feel that the splendors of Mayfair’s ballrooms have lost their glitter, but for me they are still very exciting.”
A twinge of guilt pinched off the caustic quip about to slip from Anna’s lips. Her sister had only recently turned the magical age of eighteen, which freed her from the schoolroom and allowed her entrée into the adult world. And for a budding poet who craved Worldly Experience, the effervescence of the social swirl was still as intoxicating as champagne.
“Sorry,” apologized Anna. “I don’t mean to cloud your pleasure with my own dark humor.” She shuffled the stack of manuscript pages into a neat pile and shoved it to the side of her desk. “I supposed we had better go dress for the occasion.” Knowing Caro’s fondness for fashion, she forced a smile. “Which of your new gowns do you plan to wear? The pale green sarcenet or the peach-colored watered silk?” Her own choice she planned to leave in the hands of her new lady’s maid. The girl was French and had already displayed a flair for choosing flattering cuts and colors.
“I haven’t decided,” replied Caro with a dreamy smile. “What do you think would look best?”
“You are asking me?”
“Only because I am hoping you’ll ask Josette to come with you and give her opinion.”
Anna laughed.
“Not that you don’t have a good eye for fashion,” said her sister. “You just refuse to be bothered with it.”
“True,” she conceded. “I find other things more compelling.”
Caro cocked her head. “Such as?”
“Such as…” A restless longing for something too vague to put a name to.
Anna had carefully cultivated the outward appearance of a quiet, even-tempered young lady who wouldn’t dream of breaking any of the myriad rules governing female behavior. Up until recently it had been an amusing game, like creating the complex character of Emmalina. But oddly enough, a very different person had begun to whisper inside her head.
The saint dueling with the sinner? As of yet, it was unclear who was winning the clash of wills.
“Such as finishing my manuscript by the due date,” she replied slowly.
“Well, seeing as you are so concerned about being tardy,” said Caro dryly, “perhaps we ought to start off this new resolve of good intentions by heading upstairs now.”
Much as she wished to beg off and spend a quiet eveni
ng in the library, hunting through her late father’s history books for some adventurous exploit that might spark an idea for her current chapter, Anna hadn’t the heart to dampen her sister’s enthusiasm. She dutifully rose.
“Oh, come now, don’t look so glum,” said Caro. “After all, inspiration often strikes when you least expect it.”
Slipping behind a screen of potted palms, Anna exhaled sharply and made herself count to ten. The air hung heavy with the cloying scents of lush flowers and expensive perfumes, its sticky sweetness clogging her nostrils and making it difficult to breath. Through the dark fronds, she watched the couples spin across the dance floor in a kaleidoscope of jeweltone colors and glittering gems. Laughter and loud music twined through the glittering fire of the chandeliers, the crystalline shards of light punctuated by the clink of wine glasses.
Steady, steady—I mustn’t let myself crack.
“Ah, there you are Miss Sloane.” Mr. Naughton, second son of the Earl of Greenfield and a very pleasant young man, approached and immediately began to spout a profuse apology. “Forgive me for being late in seeking your hand for this set. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Forcing a smile, Anna made no effort to accept his outstretched hand. “No apologies necessary, sir. The blame is mine. I—I was feeling a trifle overwarm and thought a moment in the shadows might serve as a restorative.”
His face pinched in concern. “Allow me to fetch you a glass of ratafia punch.”
“No, no.” She waved off the suggestion. “Please don’t trouble yourself. I think I shall just pay a visit to the ladies’ withdrawing room”—a place to which no gentleman would dare ask to escort her—“and ask the maid for a cold compress for my brow.”
Naughton shuffled his feet. “You are sure?”
“Quite.” Suddenly she couldn’t bear his solicitous smile or the oppressive gaiety a moment longer. Lifting her skirts, she turned before he could say another word and hurried down one of the side corridors.