Chronicles of Love and Devotion: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Abigail Agar

  A thunderclap drowned out the words she heard him call out to her, and then she stepped into the crowd and disappeared feeling the prick of tears on her cheeks.

  Why? Why sad? You foolish girl, you knew his reputation, knew he had his companions in the night.

  She had even found herself clearing forgotten items from his room, an empty stocking balled up and lost in the maelstrom of the covers, or a small cachou box of ladies’ rouge.

  She slipped from the ballroom and left the sound of the music behind her. The band was finally switching to a jaunty quadrille, and couples were pairing off to dance. She tried not to think of Lord Stanley and his revolting slut tramping around the floor together.

  Deep down, she knew it was not the whore who had offended her. It was the man.

  She wiped her eyes and headed for the corridor with the rows of suits of armour as Helen had requested. In the gloom of the corridor she found Helen sipping from a punch glass and holding a candlestick.

  ‘My goodness, Fidel. What happened?’ Helen’s face was all compassion and the sight of so pitying a look nearly broke Vera down to miserable tears. Instead, she steeled herself.

  ‘Nothing, Helen. Just a little shaken. Did you know about Caruthers being a molly?’

  Helen looked horrified. ‘You know? You mustn’t tell. They’d hang him.’

  ‘He confessed his feelings for me.’

  Helen laughed out loud. ‘Fancy that, who would have thought it?’ She stepped forward and put a hand on Vera’s shoulders.

  Vera’s heart sank. This is a night of madness across the board.

  ‘I can’t blame him,’ said Helen. ‘I had the same thought myself.’

  The realisation dawned on Vera. Instinctively she withdrew from Helen, using Caruthers’ words as an excuse. ‘Caruthers gave me a message for you,’ she said, stopping Helen in her tracks. Vera’s world seemed to be imploding around her, the walls crashing and pillars bursting.

  ‘Oh, and what is that?’ Helen asked, obvious disappointment at being thwarted showing on her face.

  ‘Stop drinking the punch,’ Vera answered with a little more venom than intended. But she felt angry, her friend, her confidant, had designs on her as well – or at least on Fidel. So that was what Helen’s remark about the East Wing had been about, to lure her there. Vera was beginning to feel hemmed in by the desires of others, even as she struggled with the implications of her own.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Vera followed up, her words softer now. But she had to extract herself from this situation forthwith. ‘You really ought not to drink so,’ she said taking the opportunity to distance herself from Helen’s advances. ‘Come, let’s return to the ballroom,’ she added,

  Turning on her heel and leaving Helen following in her wake.

  ***

  She agreed to dance with Helen, joining the Quadrille as her partner and struggling to remember the man’s part that she had so often danced opposite. The wine and punch were doing their work, and even though she found herself looking around the room trying to spot Lord Stanley, from time to time she began to enjoy simply being in the throng of people, so anonymous to most that she was not even Fidel, let alone Vera.

  Her mind drifted, and with great force she slammed into the broad chest and front of a powerfully built gentleman. He had on his arm the same prostitute who had smeared her bright red lips on Lord Stanley’s mouth.

  She fell backwards and hit the floor.

  That woman, she thought, the green eyed monster rearing its head.

  ‘Look where you’re going, boy,’ snarled the figure.

  Stupid girl, thought Vera. She had slipped into the old steps, gone right instead of left and collided with–

  She looked up to see who it was, an apology on her lips, when she saw it was the face of her pursuer: William Fitzwilliam.

  Here Vera was, looking up at the man charged with bringing her to the gallows for a crime she had not committed. Would he recognise her? She had never sat for a painting, so he would only have her description from friends and acquaintances. Besides, he was looking for a woman of one and twenty not a man too young to grow a beard.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said. She began to get back up on her feet, but she could feel anger growing inside her. Her father and mother were dead, Mishka too, and here was the man too stupid to find the killers. She wanted to lash out. It was all so unfair; this woman who could enjoy the caresses of Lord Stanley, and Vera unable even to acknowledge her own name for fear of being tried and hung.

  Her heart was throbbing in her throat, and she could barely hear the music over the sound of thundering blood in her ears. With hate and anger boiling up out of her, she forced herself to swallow once and steady her voice.

  This was a man fallen from the grace of the aristocracy. I know where the soft spot on a man like this is, her inner-voice snarled and, knowing as she did it that it was a bad – a terrible – idea she said, ‘My apologies to your lady as well, sir. Perhaps we should have the constables in to take her away.’

  Fitzwilliam’s face darkened. ‘What did you say, boy?’

  ‘I meant no harm. Perhaps you were unaware of the lady’s profession?’

  There was a long silence and with furious triumph she saw her jibe had hit the man of the law square on. His face turned beetroot red, and he seemed to be struggling to contain the boiling fury.

  A long silence hung over the two of them, long enough for the music to end, and the dance which had been entertaining their little party ground to a halt and began to disperse. A few of the dancers gathered around. Clearly those who know a spectacle when they see it.

  Vera began to get to her feet, but Fitzwilliam put a foot to her chest and pushed her back down. ‘Would you care to repeat, for the benefit of those around us what you just said about my companion?’

  Vera looked up at the ring of faces, and the little voice that tried to warn her that this was foolishness muttered quietly that it had told her this would happen.

  ‘I was informing,’ she said, aware that her fury was sinking and being replaced by mortified embarrassment, ‘the Chief Constable of Bathcombe that his companion is a lady of the night. A fact he might have been aware of if he were a more competent enforcer of the Crown’s laws and spent less time drunkenly cavorting in the company of fallen women and more time finding the real killers of the Ladislaw family.’

  This time Fitzwilliam allowed Vera to rise to her feet.

  ‘That’s an interesting accent you have, boy,’ he whispered to her. Then in a voice that the crowd around them could hear: ‘This woman is my sister, Lady Catherine de Montfort. You impertinent little wretch. You will taste the cane for your words.’ He spoke without raising his voice though through the level words came a fury that expressed hatred more perfectly than any furious rant. He raised his hand, and Vera winced, stepping back and bumping straight into Lord Stanley.

  ‘I say, Will. What do you think you’re doing to my manservant?’ Lord Stanley stepped out of the crowd.

  ‘You heard what he said of my sister?’

  ‘An easy mistake to make in the current environment, no matter how pure the lady’s reputation, besides, you can’t strike my manservant in my home.’

  ‘I know my standing under the law, Stanley. A gentleman may …’

  ‘You’re under an illusion. Not only are you no gentleman – I have your brother’s good authority on that – but the boy is of royal blood.’

  ‘Your servant is a royal?’ Fitzwilliam began to laugh.

  ‘I am as serious as death, Will. You are striking a gentleman. As even the bastard son of the King of Poland must be.’

  ‘Polish, eh?’ said Fitzwilliam. ‘So that’s why you’re so sore about the Ladislaw murders then?’

  Vera almost laughed at Lord Stanley’s ludicrous lie about Fidel’s background. No one who knows Mister Fielding would ever believe a relative of his to have even a drop of royal blood, surely.

  Somewhat buoyed by Lord Stanley’s prot
ection of her, Vera risked further insult, blurting out: ‘I am sore because the girl clearly didn’t do it, any damn fool can see that, and only an incompetent or corrupt man would fail to chase the real culprit.’

  She immediately regretted it.

  Are you trying to get caught, you damn fool?

  Fitzwilliam was back to frowning again, though this time with his eyes narrowed and a very searching look at Vera. ‘So the boy is a gentleman, Stanley?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Will. You’ll not whip him without repercussions.’ Lord Stanley had the smile of a man who had won. A man who had won, and who was also dangerously drunk.

  ‘Well then, gentleman to gentleman, I demand satisfaction.’

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Lord Stanley’s face fell. Vera let out the most egregious word in her masculine vocabulary.

  ‘Choose your second boy. Next time I see you, I will avenge my sister’s honour and my own on your mortal flesh.’

  I’m going to have to learn to shoot properly, thought Vera. She had been challenged to a duel.

  Red sky in the morning, she thought as the thunder crashed above the dance hall. Should have taken warning, sailor.

  Chapter 10

  Lord Stanley shrugged his jacket off and hung it over a low-hanging branch. ‘Are you ready to begin?’ Birds chirped in the nearby trees, and sunlight filled the grassy clearing deep in the gardens of the Avonside Manse.

  Vera nodded, trying not to let her gaze linger on the angles of his shoulders that were more apparent in the crisp white shirt.

  Concentrate, Vera. Your life could depend on this.

  ‘I am,’ said Vera. She kept her eyes on his.

  He nodded. ‘Good.’ His hands moved methodically as he opened a dark wooden case, revealing the pistol inside. He lifted it deftly and began loading the muzzle. Vera remembered the process from the day that now seemed so long ago when she and the lieutenant had loaded Papa’s musket.

  ‘Pay close attention, now,’ said Lord Stanley. ‘I’ll do it this time, but the next time you must see to it yourself.’

  Vera nodded earnestly. ‘I shall.’

  ‘This is an exquisitely crafted weapon,’ he said as he delicately tipped in the gunpowder from a small pouch. ‘Walnut stocks as traditional for the maker. It’s a Wogdon, 0.58 caliber smoothbore.’ He held the piece with tenderness, and Vera wondered what it would feel like to be within such a caring grip.

  Get a grip. She had hoped that his dalliance with a prostitute might have dampened her feelings for him. But discovering that no dalliance had occurred and that the woman in question was in fact a married member of an aristocratic family was a jarring experience.

  Lord Stanley was still showing her the weapons, and she tried to concentrate. He traced his finger under the barrel. ‘It’s engraved with the maker’s signature, and here, you see, if you look closely –’ He beckoned Vera nearer. ‘There’s a finial pineapple as well.’

  Vera couldn’t help laughing. ‘Why a pineapple?’

  Lord Stanley smiled. ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  Vera looked at the weapon and felt her laughter cease as memories of the last shooting day came rushing in again. She’d lost so much since then. What she wouldn’t give to have her papa with her again, or even to be scolded for her poor aim. On that day she’d hit Cupid’s likeness, and now, she realised ruefully, Cupid had shot her.

  She glanced at Lord Stanley and felt the familiar aching pang. Back with the lieutenant, flirtation had come easily because he meant nothing to her. Now she knew what being in love felt like.

  ‘Shall we get on with it?’ Lord Stanley looked at her quizzically, and Vera realised her face might have betrayed her daydream. Don’t even imagine such things, she chided herself. Lord Stanley saw her as nothing but a scrawny lad who didn’t know how to shoot.

  The glossy wood of the pistol caught the light, and Vera ushered herself back into the moment.

  ‘Of course,’ said Vera. ‘What shall the target be?’

  Lord Stanley held his hand to his forehead to block the sun. ‘Do you see the knot on that ash tree, Fidel?’

  ‘I do, My Lord,’ Vera said, taking note of the small oval-shape across the clearing. ‘Isn’t it a little far?’

  ‘That’s the distance you’ll be, Fidel – thirty paces,’ he said. ‘You might as well get used to it from the start.’ Lord Stanley held the pistol out to Vera.

  ‘Aren’t you going to go first to show me how?’ asked Vera.

  He shook his head. ‘That would be a waste of powder. Let’s see how you stand.’

  Vera tried to place her feet firmly on the earth and straighten her shoulders like his. Her bound chest hindered her breath, but she tried not to let this show.

  Lord Stanley walked a circle around her, looking her up and down. She felt vulnerable under his evaluating gaze.

  Finally, he stopped behind her and placed his hands on her hips. ‘No, like this.’ He guided her body to the correct position. ‘Legs apart. Make sure your weight is evenly balanced. You’ll stand your ground better.’ He lightly tapped her heel with his toe to separate her feet. ‘Like that.’

  Vera could feel his breath on her neck and was beginning to find it difficult to think. ‘Like this?’ She did her best to place her feet as he instructed.

  He nodded and stepped back. ‘That’s better.’ He held the pistol out to Vera. ‘Now let’s see how you fare.’

  Vera inhaled deeply despite her binding and took the weapon from him. The ornate silver-tone engravings caught the sunlight. For a moment, she stared at it. The long silhouette and gentle curve of the wood felt natural in her hand.

  The satisfying weight was smooth against her fingers. Something flickered inside her. It was a sense of power. Before she realised, her heart was racing. She liked it more than the last time. The pistol was, in truth, an artfully made object, despite, or perhaps because of its deadly purpose.

  She held up the weapon and stared out at the target. She imagined it to be the face of her enemy.

  Lord Stanley placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Remember that you want to aim for your opponent’s head or essential organs, especially his heart.’

  Vera swallowed hard. ‘What happens if I get it right?’

  Lord Stanley shrugged. ‘Well, there’ll be a lot of blood, I can assure you of that.’ He said this with a rather jaunty tone that echoed against the hard bolus of fear that seemed to be forming in her stomach.

  Killer or killed, damned either way.

  Vera nodded, although her hand was beginning to shake, this gun was not as heavy as her father’s musket, and the shivering was not from tired muscles but a fearful heart.

  She remembered the way her parents had been murdered. She wondered what it would feel like to be the one who inflicted such violence, no matter how deserving the recipient. The image of her papa’s face flashed through her mind.

  Vera lowered the weapon.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she said.

  Lord Stanley sighed and stepped up beside her. ‘Yes you can. Here.’ He placed his hand over hers and raised it up. ‘Just imagine it’s only a game.’

  Vera tried to focus on the knot target, but the sensation of his skin against hers was distracting.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked him.