by Regan Walker
“...a superb historical romance, filled with passion, political intrigue,
and a worthy hero and heroine!”
—Award-Winning Author CYNTHIA WRIGHT
WHO MIGHT MANAGE MARY CAMPBELL?
Hugh studied the great black horse in front of him, concentrating now upon its rider. Each moment brought more amazement. A girl sat the stallion, dressed in men’s riding clothes, long legs clinging to the beast’s flanks and golden hair streaming out behind her, a pennon of liquid sunlight. She was like a goddess riding upon a mythical beast.
He held his breath as she raised her arms and tilted her face up to the sky. It was the most alluring sight he’d ever seen, like a bird flying.
“Who is she?”
Lord Baynes smiled. “Ah. That would be our Mary. Have you not met her?”
“I have not had the pleasure. Does she always ride like that—in men’s breeches, astride, so fast and so…reckless?”
A look of amusement crossed his companion’s face. “She does.”
RACING WITH THE WIND
Book 1 in the Agents of the Crown Trilogy
by
Regan Walker
www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.
RACING WITH THE WIND
Copyright © 2012 Regan Walker
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
Digital edition created by Maureen Cutajar
www.gopublished.com
ISBN 978-1-938876-00-4
To my best friend, Judy, who inspired the character Elizabeth, and who encouraged me to write this story. With her “seeing heart,” before I’d even written the first word she assured me I would one day be a published author of historical romance. I wish that each of you could be blessed with such a wonderful friend.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No book comes into being without the help of many people. Among those I must thank would be my mother who taught me to read when I was four and convinced me I could travel the world through books. Then, there were the authors who inspired me: Kathleen Givens, Virginia Henley, Marsha Canham, Cynthia Wright, Shirl Henke and so many others. (Virginia and Cindy were kind enough to read my manuscript and make suggestions.) Those masters of historical romance were my unofficial mentors. I must also thank my critique partners and fellow authors, Jackie, Mary and Susan—and Jill—from the San Diego Chapter of the Romance Writers of America, each of whom helped me make the manuscript better. The last of those who made the book what it is today was my editor, Chris Keeslar, who with his professionalism and patience coached me through the final changes. I could not have done it without you!
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Author Bio
Synopsis
“When one does not love too much, one does not love enough.”
—Blaise Pascal
Prologue
The outskirts of Paris, 1811
A tall figure stood among the trees, another shadow in the gloomy night. Swirling mist covered the ground around him like a soft gray carpet. A chateau loomed ahead, a dim monument in the light of a pale half moon that revealed only shades of gray.
He waited for a drifting cloud to obscure the moon’s faint glow before daring to steal across the wide expanse of lawn. His boots made no sound as he crossed the stone terrace and became one with the wall of the elegant mansion. There he paused and listened. All was quiet save the rustle of the leaves stirred by the gentle breeze.
Looking up, he peered though the mask that covered his face and fixed his eyes on his goal, a window high above. Barely disturbing the mist, he reached for a thick vine and climbed.
His dark hair was loose at his nape and he was clad all in black, moving like a wraith. The clouds continued to drift in the night sky, uncovering the half moon. A glimmer of silver reflected from his chest where he wore a brace of pistol daggers; the weapons were unique and of a French design, and he had used them before to great effect. A smile came to his lips as he considered the legend that had spread about him—a larger than life figure who successfully stole secrets from places believed safe from intrusion. They called him L’Engoulevent, the Nighthawk. He came only at night, swooping down and disappearing before anyone roused. An occasional glimpse by a servant or a guard had provided only partial descriptions. Some said he flew with a cape. Others said he wasn’t human at all but rather a dark and ghostly apparition. But the Nighthawk was very real. Tonight his target was the home of a French general believed to be the author of Napoleon’s plans to invade Russia.
Perched above the ground, clinging to the vine, he reached for the edge of the leaded window. The latch gave way with a quiet click. He slipped through the opening and dropped into a low crouch on the thick rug. Surveying the bedroom before him, he could see the sleeping form of a young woman in a white poster bed, her dark hair spread upon the pillow. She did not stir as he moved past her and toward his destination.
At the end of the hall he located the study reported to hide the secret documents he sought. Cautiously he entered the spacious room lined with traditional dark wood cabinets and tall book-filled shelves, and stealthily moved to the carved wood desk facing a marble fireplace. Reaching into his shirt he pulled out a small black velvet case. Inside were the delicate tools that had opened the most secure locks in France.
Working with only the pale light from the windows behind him, he opened the locked drawers and captured his prize. Placing the correspondence and map inside his shirt, he surveyed the room. He knew there would be more.
His gaze came to rest on an old painting of a French military officer in dress uniform hanging over the fireplace. The officer’s white breeches reflected the room’s meager light, but he cared not for the painting, only for the secrets it might guard. Silently he crossed
the room and lifted the gilded frame. The cast-iron safe set behind it made him smile as if encountering an old friend.
He set the painting on the floor to once again work his magic with the lock. Again he was successful. Ignoring the velvet jewelry cases and money, he reached instead for the letters and papers. Not bothering to decipher the words in the dim light, he added these documents to those in his shirt, closed the safe, and returned the painting to its original position. His mission complete, he crept down the hall to the bedroom where he had first entered the house.
The young woman stirred in her sleep, restless in her dreams. He should have departed without disturbing her, but something made him pause. Perhaps it was her beauty. Her face, with its delicate features and well-shaped lips, was turned slightly to the side. Upon closer inspection, she looked to be about eighteen.
He bent to hover for a moment, breathing in the fragrance of lavender. Her lips were warm as he bestowed his kiss. He knew he was keeping alive the legend, and there was no benefit to a legend when one’s purpose was to remain unknown. Yet, he could not resist. There were few enough pleasures in the life of duty that he’d chosen for himself.
Her pale eyes opened slowly, heavy with sleep. Placing his finger on her lips to quiet any words, he whispered to her in the perfect speech of the French aristocracy, “I leave you my kiss and a wish for a good life, beautiful mademoiselle.”
She gasped as she took in his masked appearance, but then a faint smile came to her lips. “The Nighthawk,” she whispered, and reached for him, entwining her fingers in the hair at his nape.
Without saying a word, he gently pulled her hands from his neck and moved to the window and back into the night. He had accomplished his mission. The Nighthawk might be a thief, but he was not a despoiler of innocents.
More’s the pity.
Chapter 1
London, 1816
Standing at the edge of the ballroom, Lady Mary Campbell smiled to herself, thinking it was a bit like standing on the edge of a cliff. Stepping forward would bring a drop into the unknown. It was a step she had no desire to take.
But, then, she had no choice. She’d postponed her dreaded debut as long as possible, and at nineteen she was well past the age most ingénues greeted their first season. Dressed in ivory satin she was, but she could hardly wait for the day she could wear red. And though she would have preferred her long hair down and flowing free, tonight it was drawn up into a pile of curls.
Gazing into the immense room with its crystal chandeliers, hundreds of candles, and men and women in elegant finery, Mary let out a deep sigh. It was all very glorious, of course, but it wasn’t the Tuileries Palace where she had waltzed last December. It wasn’t the world she loved, the world in which she thrived, the world of books and ideas. It wasn’t the countryside, where she could ride her horse and forget everything. It wasn’t even her uncle’s world of statesmen. Those men, she was certain, would not give a thought to the gowns or balls for young women entering London society, and she wished she could follow their example. No, Mary was not at all at home in this place where young men mingled with their future wives—wives they would dominate and keep from truly seeing or enjoying the world.
That was one reason she was not anxious to wed, and she had several. But at the request of her mother, the dowager countess of Argyll, she had come to this ball and would dance with the young men. And when her sweet mother insisted her only daughter go to court and curtsey before George, Prince of Wales, the Prince Regent, Mary had bowed to the gracious request and sweetly obeyed.
Her best friend, Elizabeth St. Clair, bubbled on at her side about the grand decorations and the pretty gowns, but Mary’s mind was on the Times article she’d read at breakfast describing Napoleon’s exile on the island of St. Helena. There was a small note at the bottom of the article saying recent information suggested Napoleon’s defeat in Russia was, in part, due to the legendary Nighthawk. She longed to meet the mysterious man, that stealer of secrets, if indeed he existed. But if he did, she was certain he would not be wasting his time at some tedious London ball. The world did not revolve around a dance, not even the waltz.
Elizabeth tugged on her glove. “I say, Mary, do you agree?”
Mary realized she had missed what her friend was saying and tried to recall the original question. She wanted to show support for Elizabeth, whose blue eyes were wide with wonder at the beautiful gowns and the handsome young men; her older sisters had already taken their place in London society, and Mary knew Lizzy was anxious to join them.
“Well, it is rather as I expected, Lizzy. It’s like being offered up to the highest bidder, is it not? ’Tis strange so many go so willingly to the auction block.”
Elizabeth’s side-glance stopped Mary’s reflection. “Oh, do try and enjoy yourself, Mary. It’s not so bad. Besides, you’re gathering many admiring looks!”
“I think you are imagining that. Recall the conversation of the Baroness Johnson in the retiring room we overheard. She could barely wait to tell her friends that the Campbell hoyden who reads philosophy and rides horses like a man is here.”
“Actually, you were most gracious to her, Mary; more the lady than she. I rather think she’s just a jealous old biddy. Besides, I wasn’t talking about the women. It is the men who cannot take their eyes off you.”
Mary’s cheeks warmed. Her friend was exaggerating again out of kindness and loyalty. Her mother, too, remarked in a caring way about her appearance, and her uncle complimented her gowns, but Mary knew their words were merely encouragement to wear the female frippery she disdained. Her heart seized with a pang of regret as she wondered if her father would have thought her pretty. He had not lived to see her blossom into womanhood.
“Lizzy, I am not seeing what you are, but since you asked, I will do my best to be happy. After all, you are here, and I do love to dance.”
As if summoned, two young men approached and asked for the first quadrille. Mary resolved to be nice.
So it begins, she thought to herself.
One young man offered an arm. Green eyes met blue. His kind face was framed by light brown hair, and he smiled, leading her smoothly out into the room. They were soon gliding across the polished wood floor. To her surprise, Mary’s spirits lifted.
As the dance took a turn, Mary’s gaze drifted over her partner’s shoulder, drawn unbidden to two men standing in front of a pillar. She did not recognize them, but the dark stare of the taller man pierced her gown, corset and chemise and touched her very skin. Feeling exposed in a way she never had, she shivered, and she was glad when her partner whirled her away.
And yet, she continued to surreptitiously watch the man, drawn to his overwhelming presence. He wore black, his white shirt and cravat the only contrast to the dark brown hair that fell in waves to his nape. He exuded a kind of power unlike any other male in the room. There was nothing the dandy about him.
* * *
Taking a long draw on his brandy and gazing around him, Hugh Redgrave, Marquess of Ormond and only son of the Duke of Albany, drew a breath and held it as his eyes came to rest on a girl gliding across the dance floor like a swan over a lake. The tall young woman with hair the color of spun gold and fine features set in an oval face was striking, but it was more than her beauty that drew him; she moved with a grace beyond her years and had a fire in her eyes that set her apart from the other debutantes.
He had found the evening tiring until now. The ball served only to remind him he was nearing the age of thirty, and as his father’s heir, the pressure to select a wife from among the young ladies presented increased with each passing year. Comforting himself with an occasional mistress to warm his bed was serving his needs just fine; he was in no hurry to take a wife. When he did, it simply would be an arrangement among peers. Far better to see marriage as a matter of business, as so many others did. That would have one advantage: He could never lose someone he loved.
Yet, he wanted to delay the inevitable for a while longe
r. He had a good excuse. His work had kept him away from England, and if he were fortunate, it still might. Perhaps the Prince Regent had a new assignment for him.
As was his usual practice, Hugh had made this appearance in the ballroom before retiring for a game of cards. Leaning over to his friend, the second son of the Earl of Lindsey, he chuckled. “I feel a bit like a fox watching baby chicks. Do you think we make their mothers nervous?”
“They do watch us with skeptical eyes,” Griffen Lambeth replied. “No doubt they are worried any minute we will pounce.”
Hugh nodded. “Indeed. And how little we’ve done to deserve the reputations we have.”
“I’m not sure I agree with that, since you have cultivated yours as a cover for your other…activities, have you not? And by cultivation I’m not just speaking of your latest indulgence, Lady Hearnshaw. Before her there was the countess of—”
“I confess I have done. It seemed necessary at the time. Just like my sneaking back to England every year or so to put in an appearance at a ball and leave the impression I was still in London, ready to pounce at any moment. All is part of the show.”
His reputation as a rake, a man of the world who would seduce any woman who took his fancy, would unsettle the mamas, he knew, but better the mamas think them rakes than know them as spies. Not that he intended to dance with anyone. No matter there were some real beauties at the ball tonight; his previous encounters had taught him young noblewomen were silly and too talkative, prattling on about town gossip and matters of the home. Insipid. A night with one would precipitate a quick marriage. No, it was best to stay with women who posed no threat to his bachelor status. Older, more experienced women, women who willingly offered their bodies while not asking for his heart.
Still, he was curious about the blonde girl. There was something special about her. “Who’s that dancing with Arthur Bywood?”
Griffen’s eyes scanned the couples. “Ah. I wondered if you’d noticed her. That would be Lady Mary Campbell, daughter of William Campbell, the late Earl of Argyll. You remember, the one killed in that horrible riding accident.”