A Notorious Ruin
Page 1
A Notorious Ruin
By
Carolyn Jewel
Copyright © 2014 by Carolyn Jewel
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Cover Design by Seductive Designs
Image Copyright © Jenn LeBlanc/Illustrated Romance
Image Copyright © deposit photos/FairytaleDesign
ISBN: 978-1-937823-31-3
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
Acknowledgement
My deepest thanks go out to Carolyn Crane for being an awesome beta reader and to Robin Harders for editorial brilliance. To my sister for being such a great sport and a true fan. To my son Nathaniel for having grown into a fine young man. Bella, thank you for not eating my shoes. Recently.
To my Readers
Probably some of you reading this will roll your eyes when I say that as I write this, I am tearing up. But it’s true. The biggest, widest, most enduring, and heartfelt thank yous go to the many readers who loved Lord Ruin (the first book in this series) whether you wrote to tell me so or not. You’ve made all the difference.
For years, there was no hope of my being able to write the planned sequels, in part for contractual reasons, in part because, well, why would a publisher take a chance on a sequel to a book originally published in 2002? Especially since it went out of print shortly thereafter. But, between 2002 to this day, readers have been emailing me asking if I would ever write the sequels to that book. Every single month, every single year, for 12 years. Some of you even emailed my editor about contracting me to write the rest of the books. I am profoundly grateful that I was able, eventually, to take matters into my own hands.
And so, after far too long, after a really rotten 2013 when I got behind in my writing while life was…difficult, here is the first of the sequels. The others will follow. Thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who wrote to me. I hope you enjoy A Notorious Ruin.
Table Of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgement
About This Book
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 31
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
About Carolyn Jewel
Books by Carolyn Jewel
Excerpts
Change Log
About This Book
A Notorious Ruin
The Sinclair Sisters Series, Book 2
All the widowed Lucy Sinclair Wilcott wants is to save enough money to move to a cottage of her own and keep her younger sister safe from the consequences of their father’s poor judgment. No one is more aware than she how thoroughly her first marriage ruined her. She could not remarry if she wanted to. Then the Marquess of Thrale comes to visit and long-absent feelings of desire surge back.
Everything Lord Thrale believes about the beautiful Mrs. Wilcott is wrong. The very last woman he thought he was interested in proves to be a brilliant, amusing, arousing woman of deep honor who is everything he wants in a lover, for the rest of his life. If only he can convince her of that.
Books in the Series:
Lord Ruin, Book 1
CHAPTER 1
The Cooperage. Bartley Green, England, 1820
Lucy sat in the bow window of the second parlor and gazed at the scene unfolding below. Their new groom, looking smart in the suit she’d bought him from last week’s winnings, continued to struggle with the step to the carriage in the driveway. Oh, dear. She had hoped for a better debut from him than this. “Well, Roger, old boy.” The elderly hound at her feet rose and placed his head on her lap. She rubbed his shoulder. “This does not bode well.”
The dog, a wolfhound, if one squinted just so, did not reply.
The mechanism of the step defeated the groom still. She hoped and expected he would improve rapidly. At last, he managed the trick, but then he struggled with the carriage door. High atop the vehicle, the driver watched with disdain.
Outside, her father arrived to greet their guests. He stood a few feet away, hatless, arms held wide in greeting. Yesterday’s excellent weather had given way to clouds and enough of a breeze to riffle his iron-gray hair. She’d locked the door to the wine cellar three hours ago and was hopeful he was not drunk. He’d have found his way to the port and sherry, though. The groom held the door.
A gentleman exited; Captain Niall. She did not want them here, her father’s guests. Papa entertained like a man with ten or twenty thousand a year when, in fact, his income was far less and his debts far greater.
Captain Niall buttoned his greatcoat against the wind. He was a man of immense charm and refinement whom others had hinted would be a good match for her. As if such a thing were conceivable or in comportment with her desires.
This would not be, no matter anyone’s wishes.
The second occupant of the carriage emerged.
The Marquess of Thrale swung his arms and glanced at the sky a moment before he shook out his coat and wrapped his scarf around his throat. Despite his being unmarried and in possession of a title, he had not been a dashing figure in Town last season. Thrale, however, had made a friend of her sister Anne, and that was enough to recommend him to anyone. Though she appreciated his height and brawn, she did not find him interesting.
Captain Niall put his hands on his hips and arched his back. Thrale said something in that somber way of his, and Captain Niall laughed. They seemed unlikely friends, those two, yet they had traveled together from London all the way to Bartley Green. A month or more at The Cooperage and then another at Rosefeld after her brother-in-law and the others arrived.
She did like Captain Niall’s quick smile. Who did not appreciate a handsome, amiable man? She resented his being here. Lord Thrale, too.
The groom now held the head of Thrale’s lead horse. Here, he displayed the expertise that had made her hire him over an older man. He had his mouth by the horse’s ear and gave every appearance of whispering secrets while he stroked the animal’s neck.
Roger settled his head on her lap as she absently rubbed his ears. Outside, her father and Lord Thrale shook hands. The same exchange occurred with Captain Niall. The men continued to converse, and then Papa went to the lead coach horse and ran a hand down its front leg. They were fine horses. Not ostentatious, but one saw the quality. One of the hun
ting dogs wandered from the stable, and her father gave its shoulders a pat. Lord Thrale did the same. Conversation turned to the carriage, for Lord Thrale thumped the side of the vehicle. The marquess’s carriage, since that was his coat of arms on the door. Talbot passant, and his coronet of rank.
Captain Niall, Lord Thrale, and her father remained in the driveway chatting. The groom rode postilion while the coachman drove the rig to the stable block. She continued with her excellent view of Thrale. He was a man of restraint and reserve who rarely extended his friendship to others. One must earn his regard. Her sister Anne, now the Duchess of Cynssyr, had done so. As if anything else were possible.
Papa gestured, describing, most likely, the general bounds of the property. He then pointed in the direction of Rosefeld, the home of her brother-in-law, Baron Aldreth. Not, at present, in residence, though he soon would be.
The two men were here to ride and to hunt and fish, and do all the sorts of things gentlemen did in the country. Lord Thrale’s presence was due, she suspected, to the fact that Bartley Green was a fertile location for a Sporting man to spend his time. Exhibitions and battles between talented and renowned prizefighters were frequent here owing chiefly to the presence of Johnson’s Academy of Pugilistic Arts in town. The Academy was one of England’s finest arenas for training and improving one’s skills in the art and science of pugilism.
At last, all three men turned to the house. Papa was grinning. No one could say Mr. Thomas Sinclair, Esquire, was not a congenial host. Because he never bothered to square expenses with income, there never was a guest who went away complaining of his experiences at The Cooperage. The best food, the best wine and spirits, cigars of rare and exotic tobaccos. Constant entertainments.
Roger came to attention when the front door closed. Voices he did not know meant new people to admire and pet him. She leaned over and stroked his head. Five minutes more of freedom. Five minutes in which she could be herself. So much grey around his muzzle. “We shall meet them presently, and you will be your noble self, yes?”
Most everyone believed the Sinclair fortunes were beyond reproach. After all, there were now two noble sons-in-law, one of them a duke, and long outstanding debts had been settled within days of Anne’s marriage.
In reality, he’d had a year to run up new debts and had done so with disheartening rapidity. Lucy kept the books now that Anne was married and was now intimate with the hopelessness of their finances. Papa had only to say; My second daughter’s husband is Baron Aldreth, and my eldest married Cynssyr. Yes. The duke. And credit was extended for more foolishness and waste.
She stood and ran light fingers over her hair, securing an errant pin or two, then adjusted her shawl and smoothed her bodice and skirts. If all one had was one’s looks, then appearing at one’s best was vital. Time and again she’d been told beauty did not matter, that what mattered was one’s mind and heart. The evidence for that, in her experience, was not persuasive. The exception proved the rule; her sister Anne’s marriage to the duke.
With Roger at her heels, she walked down the corridor to the stairs to meet her father and their guests, fully armored, to paraphrase the great Boswell, with perfection.
“Lucy.” Her father extended a hand and kissed her cheek when she met them. Captain Niall and Lord Thrale stood behind and to one side of her father, expectant. Smiling. Well. One of them was smiling. “Look here, it’s Lord Thrale and Captain Niall come to visit.”
She despised meaningless conversation. She did not wish to be cheerful or amusing or, worse, interesting. She had made an art of never being the latter. Subjects ladies were expected to find interesting seldom interested her. Sometimes, oftentimes, too often, she missed the bluntness of her old life. “Sit, Roger.”
Roger sat like the magnificent dog he was. He had no trouble meeting people. She remembered to curtsy to Lord Thrale first. She’d been away from London only a few months, and already she’d fallen out of the habit of genteel manners. Disaster awaited if she forgot herself. “My lord. Welcome to Bartley Green.”
Few men could stand silent and be so terribly present as the marquess. How had she forgotten that about him? His silence made her worry she’d already misstepped. He was taller than Captain Niall by three or four inches at least, much broader across his shoulders and torso, too.
In her time away from London, she’d not had to pretend she was a delicate and fragile woman. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father frown. He took it as a point of pride that men found her desirable, as if she were a pet dog who mattered only when it performed the requested trick.
Everyone falls in love with Lucy’s beauty.
Sometimes she wondered if her father kept a tally of the men he felt had fallen in love with her face or figure, and whether his satisfaction with her depended upon an ever-increasing list.
If she had managed to offend Lord Thrale so soon, well, there was nothing for it. He would have to live with his disappointment in her and she with his disapproval. Quite manageable, in her opinion.
At last, the marquess bowed. “Mrs. Wilcott.”
The next several weeks stretched before her, a desert of emptiness that must be crossed no matter how desiccated she became. With a smile, she turned to the captain. Ah, yes. This was the trick, wasn’t it? A smile that meant nothing at all.
In contrast to Thrale, the captain was a la mode; everything a man of taste and fashion could hope to be and more. “Good afternoon, sir. I hope we find you well.”
“Yes, thank you. Is Miss Sinclair at home?” Captain Niall had been one of her sister Emily’s most ardent admirers last season.
“She is visiting a dear friend, but never fear. She will be home presently.” Roger bumped against her thighs, and she came near to losing her balance. Lord Thrale was close enough to steady her. “Thank you, my lord.” There was unexpected strength in his grip. “Before tea I expect.”
Roger left his sit to sniff Captain Niall’s boots and then his knees. He gave the dog a gentle push away with one leg. Thwarted in his quest for admiration, Roger turned to Lord Thrale.
“Now, Lucy, m’dear.” Papa’s frown deepened. “No one wants a dog coming up so bold as that.”
“My apologies.” She moved to pull Roger away, but Lord Thrale had already bent to give Roger’s shoulder a rub.
“This is your dog, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
Captain Niall’s mouth twitched. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a dog of such uncertain antecedents. Are you certain he’s yours, Mrs. Wilcott? I thought ladies kept dogs they can hold in their arms. This one is a monster.”
“I’m sure some do.” A thread of panic pulled tight. Such ironic words were not expected from her, for she did not miss Lord Thrale’s cocked eyebrow. She pasted on another smile. She would defend Roger to anyone, including charming, happy, Captain Niall. Even to the king himself. “Nevertheless, he is mine.”
Lord Thrale found the spot behind Roger’s ear the dog loved best, and Roger groaned in ecstasy, dignity abandoned.
“I hope you had a pleasant journey here, Captain Niall. My lord.”
Papa spoke over her. “Now, Lucy, that mongrel of yours—”
Lord Thrale gave Roger one last pat and straightened. “Yes, ma’am. We did.”
Her father clapped Thrale on the shoulder. Roger, meanwhile, plastered himself against the marquess’s legs, tail wagging. “I’m going to show you the billiards room, had it put in last winter. What do you think of that?”
“Papa.” Careful negotiations were required with her father now that he had the stimulation of guests and spirits. “Lord Thrale and Captain Niall might first like to change from their travel clothes.”
“Are you saying our guests do not look presentable?”
“Not at all.” Anne knew how to deal with him when he’d been at the sherry. Anne knew the words to say and how to say them, and Lucy failed at that. She always had. Even before Lucy left Bartley Green, Anne had managed everything.
She took a step back, and her elbow bumped a marble bust of Aristotle. A recent purchase of Papa’s she had been unable to prevent. He’d had the statuary sent all the way from Athens. She doubted it was genuine. For several seconds, she lost the feeling in her arm. Damn. She resisted the impulse to cradle her elbow. “Had I been traveling all day, I should want a moment to put myself to rights.”
Her father guffawed. “If there’s a light breeze, she wants to put herself to rights, ain’t that so, Lucy?” He shook his head and shared his merriment. “I never saw a girl so worried she might have a hair out of place. From the day she was born, I own.”
“I’m sure,” she said, “quite sure Lord Thrale will enjoy the billiards room.” And there was Captain Niall, standing here, so handsome and charming. “Captain Niall, too.”
“A moment to neaten myself would be welcome.” Whether Thrale said this because she was floundering so horribly, she had no idea, but she was grateful he had. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilcott. Sinclair, shall we find each other later?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll show you your rooms, then, my lord. Captain. We’ll have a friendly game afterward.”
“I look forward to it,” Thrale said.
Captain Niall’s gaze lingered on her, and she gave him what she called her drawing room smile. “Will we see your sister later, Mrs. Wilcott?”
“Yes, certainly.” There were two of her. The woman she presented and the woman inside who wished these men gone. How was she going to survive the coming weeks?
CHAPTER 2
“This is a pleasant town,” Thrale said to his valet, Flint. They were on the cobbled main street of Bartley Green, ostensibly in search of the florist. Per the directions he’d been given, they ought to have turned right two corners back, but Johnson’s Academy was located on the far side of the Crown & Pig, and that excellent establishment was in sight. The florist wasn’t going anywhere.