Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance)

by Lisa Andersen

  “But then I would dismiss it as foolishness. For what woman could understand, empathize, with something of which she had no experience? This sounds awfully strange, Rebecca, but I feel as though you were in France with me—as though you really understand me. I believe I have found that somebody.”

  “You believe you have?” Rebecca said, reaching timidly for his hand. “Then I have you bested, Your Grace, for I know you have.”

  They kissed again then, and the ducks quacked into the waning sunlight.

  The Brigadier’s Mouse

  Monica Burrows looked down at her sister and felt for a moment as though she could weep. Marie had just turned nine – she was the last child Father had sired before his death – and she was innocent and naïve and didn’t understand the world at all. “But, sister,” she persisted, “Father wouldn’t have left us in such a bad situation. I know he wouldn’t have. I just know it.”

  “But he did,” Monica said. “I am sorry, my love. He did.”

  “But why?”

  Monica sighed. A little girl didn’t need to hear about Father’s drunken binges, his gambling addiction, his fall into consumption. A little girl didn’t need to hear that the Burrows were now a shunned family because Father had offended more lords than one could count on a single hand. Monica reached down and stroked her sister’s head. “It does not matter, my sweet,” she said. “I am sorry. Life is going to be hard for you as you get older.”

  “Not for me!” Marie declared confidently, pushing her upper lip outward. “I’m going to be a knight! I was reading about knights in the library, and that’s what I’m going to be! Yes! I will have a suit of armor and all the lords and ladies will say, There goes Marie Burrows, the bravest knight of the realm!”

  “I’m sure they will,” Monica said, still stroking her sister’s head.

  Presently Mother and Auntie entered. Ethel Burrows moved with the same languid sense of purposelessness as she had since Father’s death. Every movement seemed to be a massive chore. Strands of gray hair stuck up wildly from her scalp, and her clothes dangled from her bony, lifeless frame. She walked over to an armchair and threw herself down upon it. Clora Goodwin was a huge woman with legs like barrels and arms like thick branches. She stood in the room as though she owned it and looked down at her baby sister as Monica had been looking down at Marie—only with a good deal more superciliousness.

  “You should never have married him,” Auntie said. “I told you from the start. He stole a kiss in Father’s wheat fields! Didn’t I say when he stole that kiss! I said damn the consequences! You can’t marry a man who would dishonor you like that. And did you listen! Ha, no! You fell head over heels for that slimy man, and now look where you are!”

  Mother took this abuse quietly, her eyes downcast, a deadened expression on her face. “Auntie,” Monica said, “don’t be such a brute.”

  “Oh, the mouse speaks!” Auntie cried, turning on Monica.

  “Don’t call me that,” Monica said stiffly.

  “A poor girl can’t afford to be mouse-like, my dear, and yet at every party you sit quietly, staring at the ground as though the eyes of Man offend you!”

  “You are in a cruel mood today,” Monica said. “I will not stay to speak with you.”

  She was leading Marie from the room when Mother spoke. It was such a rare occurrence that Monica found herself turning without thinking. Mother sat up slightly in the chair. With bony, thin-skinned hands, she reached into her pocket and brought out a letter. “Wait,” she muttered, looking up through tired eyes. “This came two days ago,” she went on. “I do not know what to make of it. It is—yes, quite strange. Maybe you can have a look, Monica, dear.”

  Monica took the letter from Mother’s hand and brought it to the window, through which June sunlight streamed in incandescent glory. It was a stark contrast: that bright light outside and the dimness of the mood within. The calligraphy was short and sharp.

  Dear Mrs. Burrows,

  I cordially invite you and your family to a ball at Hightower Castle. It would please me if you would attend.

  Yours sincerely,

  Brigadier Roland Dare, Duke of Dinat.

  “Mother!” Monica exclaimed. “Have you read this!”

  “Yes, yes,” Mother said tiredly. “It is quite strange, is it not?”

  “Strange!” Monica cried, peering at the letter once more. She half-expected the words to skip off the page and out of the window. The Burrows no longer received many invitations to parties of any kind, let alone invitations to Hightower Castle! Even before Father’s scandalous behavior – even before they were shunned by high society – they had never been invited to His Grace’s castle, despite living only eighty miles to the south, on the fringes of Weston-Super-Mare. “What shall we do?” Monica said, after a pause.

  “Do?” Auntie boomed. “Do? There is only one thing we can do! We must go! Of course we must go! What else would we do? Sit here like forgotten specters, remembering times long passed when we used to be the life of parties most people cannot even recall. Yes, we must go!”

  “It is not your choice, Auntie,” Monica said. “It is Mother’s choice.”

  “Ah, nothing worse than a house full of women!” Auntie grumbled but said nothing more as she shuffled to a chair in the corner.

  “Mother,” Monica said, moving close to her. Monica, now four-and-twenty, had a wealth of memories of how Mother had been before Father’s death. A smile had always been fixed on her face, and laughter had never been far from her lips. She had hugged frequently and giggled like a girl at the slightest provocation. Now a smile was an alien thing to her, and laughter was naught but an unwanted echo from the past. “Mother,” Monica repeated. “What shall we do?”

  Mother squinted up at Monica as though seeing her for the first time. Her body looked deflated. Absentmindedly, she picked the cushion of the chair. It was torn and ragged from this habit. “We will go,” she muttered. “Of course, we must go. One does not refuse a duke. But I fear it will be frightfully tough, being in a room full of people who have shunned us.”

  “Let them whisper!” Auntie cried.

  “My first ball!” Marie beamed, tugging at Monica’s sleeve.

  “As you wish, Mother,” Monica said.

  Monica did not feel strongly one way or the other. The objections and desires cancelled each other out. She was frightened of going for the same reason as Mother. There would be people there who remembered well Father’s conduct prior to his death. There would be people there who he had offended gravely, and there would be daughters there with whom Monica had played before the rift had torn friendly relations asunder. But still … the thought of a party, a ball at that, was not an altogether frightful prospect.

  “He was in the war, wasn’t he?” Marie whispered in the night.

  “Yes,” Monica confirmed. “He was in France.”

  “I wonder if he has any scars.”

  “Sleep now, sister,” Monica said.

  There is a point, though, Monica thought. Does he have any scars?

  *****

  His Grace did have a scar. It trailed down the left side of his face, starting at his temple and zigzagging down to the side of his mouth. It was pale white, and had been there for years. He wore it well and without shame. He did not attempt to cover it, and if he caught somebody surreptitiously looking at it, he stared them straight in the face. Monica found herself admiring his aplomb. She did not think she would be so self-assured with a mark like that.

  Mother, Auntie, and Monica took cups of wine from the footmen and found a table in the corner of the hall. Scowers and Sinnets and Wemmicks and Howards and Pattons and Donnells and lords and ladies Monica was not familiar with populated the ballroom. The floor was given to dancing, and Monica waited with her hands upon her lap. She knew from experience that lords would
dance with a lady even if they did not mean to court her, and soon enough, a fat lord by the name of Charles Sinnet asked Mother if Monica could dance. Monica was carried to the floor and moved through the routine steps with the man.

  The problem was she never felt it. Whatever it was. Mother had felt it with Father. That was why she had married him. Their love had burnt brightly and fiercely, like torchlight in winter, melting snow all around. Their love had been a solitary star on a cloudy night, somehow burning despite the obnoxious blackness of the clouds. Monica had never felt anything even approaching that: had never felt the desire to give herself bodily and mentally and spiritually to a man. She had never even felt a mild stirring. But that was not important, she knew. If she voiced her concerns, Auntie would laugh at her. A lady does not concern herself with love, my niece. She need only concern herself with propriety, money, and position.

  After the dance, Monica returned to the table. Marie had run off somewhere with the other children, and the three women sat together in a quiet circle. Mother looked around with wide, anxious eyes, as though inspecting each lord and lady who came into her vision, trying to remember if Father had offended this one, had insulted that one. After a few minutes, another man came and asked Monica to dance. She accepted placidly and once again moved routinely and numbly through the steps.

  The dance was nearing its end when a form moved behind her partner. “May I take this dance?” the form said. The voice was deep and peremptory: a voice that was accustomed to being listened to. Her partner bowed and then skulked away, revealing His Grace. Monica let out a quick breath, and then recovered herself and managed to keep her face impassive.

  His Grace moved forward and took Monica’s gloved hand. He began to move with the music, and Monica had no choice but to move with him. Her heart was beating madly in her chest, and she was suddenly glad she was wearing gloves, lest His Grace feel the sweat that had beaded upon her palms. “You seem afraid, my lady,” His Grace said. “Is it the scar?”

  “No!” Monica cried, far too eagerly. “No,” she repeated, in a more measured tone. “It does not frighten me at all, Your Grace. Not at all.” She paused. “How did you get it?” she blurted. She knew it was a topic of conversation wholly inappropriate to the current circumstances, and she never would have been so bold, but something about His Grace’s hand covering her hand infused her with confidence. She looked bravely up at his face and saw that he was looking down at her.

  “They call you a mouse, my lady,” His Grace said. “They all call you a mouse. They say that you barely speak, and when you do it is only in squeaks or whispers, and here you are asking about my scar.”

  “Perhaps I was merely not interested before,” Monica said. What are you doing? Auntie will be furious. Mother will be distraught. This is a duke, Monica! You are being improper and impudent. And yet she couldn’t stop. It was as though something else – an alternant Monica, perhaps – had taken hold of her. “Will you answer my question, Your Grace?”

  “You are a brave girl,” His Grace said. His eyes were forest-green and alive with light and interest. His face was square, shaven, and strong. He wore his earth-brown hair short, and he had the overall appearance of a rock: timeless, strong, immovable. Monica felt as though she could throw herself against him for an eternity and he wouldn’t budge an inch. “Yes,” he went on. “A very brave girl indeed.”

  “I do not believe I have been called brave before, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, but you are,” His Grace said. “Your family is in ruins and you are dancing with a duke. And instead of groveling, you dare to ask a question filled with impudence and impropriety.” She would have thought she was being chastised if His Grace’s voice was not full of a sort of pride.

  The music stopped. His Grace turned swiftly and gestured for another song. The dancers looked around, laughed, and then retook their steps. Some changed partners, but His Grace moved once more toward Monica. “Very well, my lady,” he said, retaking her hand. “I will tell you the story of how I got this scar, and it will be quite a scandal if anyone should overhear us.”

  “Good,” Monica said. “Life has been so boring of late.”

  “My lady!” His Grace cried, a mischievous smile lifting his lips.

  *****

  His Grace and Monica continued their dance, and all the while Monica was wondering where in the Lord’s name she was going, and furthermore, why His Grace was reacting the way he had. She was behaving in a monstrously impudent way, and yet His Grace, far from being offended or aghast, seemed curious. He looked at her as one who looks at something one has never seen before, a mixture of fascination and a hint of fear upon his countenance. “Do you truly wish to know how I acquired this scar, my lady?” he said.

  “Yes,” Monica said, her mouth dry.

  They kept dancing, and nobody, upon casual observation, would’ve guessed that anything other than proper and mundane words were being exchanged between them.

  “Very well,” His Grace said, as they spun around the floor. “I was in France, as you know, for a horribly long time. I was in France longer than any man should be in a place of death. The days were long and boring until they weren’t. We had just faced off against a rabble of the Frenchmen, and we were tired. We collapsed upon the battlefield, surrounded by corpses. My lady, I fear this is a story entirely improper and unsuited for your delicate ears.”

  “My ears are not as delicate as some would believe, Your Grace,” Monica said, and then squeezed his hand. “Please, continue.”

  Did you really just squeeze a duke’s hand? Monica, what has possessed you? You are like a changed woman! What if Mother saw? Even worse, what if Auntie saw? You would be an outcast! You would be shunned from high society! Your whole family would, again!

  But she didn’t feel guilty or ashamed. She didn’t feel as though she’d made a disastrous mistake. If anything, she felt wild and free. She felt like she had finally been emancipated from a prison in which she’d lived since Father’s death. She knew that this dance would have to end, but for the moment, she was living within a timeless place, wherein all that existed was her and His Grace.

  “Anyway,” His Grace went on. “There was one man who was not … as we had thought. I approached him to release him from his suffering when he came up with a blade and gave me this gift. Never before had I realized just how dangerous an injured man could be.”

  Monica’s heart was pounding hard in her chest now, as though it would break through her ribs. “Did it hurt, Your Grace?”

  “Oh, yes,” His Grace said.

  He opened his mouth to say more, but the dance ended. He relinquished his hold on her and retreated into a fray of noblemen and women. Monica watched him go with a profound feeling that she had lost something, that something irreplaceable had been taken away by that meeting. After a moment of thought, she knew what it was. It was her ability to tolerate her infuriatingly mundane existence. Her existence was, after all, a monotonous affair in which nothing much happened: in which all that really existed was day and night, and conversations with Mother, and the blessed relief of spirit which Marie supplied.

  Mother looked more alive when Monica retook her seat.

  “That was His Grace,” she whispered. “Wasn’t it, Monica?”

  “Yes, Mother,” she said.

  “What did you speak of?”

  Monica shrugged. “Courtly things, Mother,” she said. “Nothing world-changing.”

  But that was a lie, for Monica knew that her world had been immutably changed now. She knew that when they returned to their homestead, she would feel trapped, isolated, stifled. She knew that His Grace had changed her forever. He caught her eyes some time later when he was entertaining a small circle of lords and ladies. He was about to look away when he paused and smiled at her.

  That smile fueled two months of dreams.

  ***** />
  From June to late August, the Burrows existed in a world apart from high society. There was nothing for Monica to do but read French novels and think over her short time with His Grace. Like a snowball rolling down a snowy hill, the event grew in her mind until it was something cataclysmic and magical. No longer was it just a startling event; now it was something akin to an earthquake. She found herself unable to become interested in daily things. Sitting in the drawing room with Mother and Auntie was intensely boring, and even playing with Marie lost some of its charm. Always, in the back of her mind, she saw His Grace.

  The dance was outwardly insignificant. She knew this. But she would also say to anybody who claimed she should “get over it” that they didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that her life, for the longest time, had been one of isolation and boredom. They didn’t understand that she had felt trapped in a life that had branded her a mouse. They didn’t understand that a dance and a conversation with His Grace had been more interesting and stimulating than seven years of minor parties and social invisibility.

  It was late August, and finally the monotony of diurnal existence was disturbed. Mother walked into the drawing room with much more speed than was the norm this afternoon. August sunlight burst through the window like an overripe plum, splashing light over the chairs and shining in thick shafts upon the paintings. Monica sat near the window with her hands on her lap, trying and failing not to think of His Grace.

  “Mother, what is it?” Monica said, her reverie momentarily shattered.“Mother?”

  Mother grabbed the back of the armchair as though she would fall without its support. “A letter has come,” she muttered. “A letter has come for us. It is—a strange letter. It is a letter I would not think the Burrows would receive, even before your poor Father’s death. It is a letter that is wholly unlike anything anyone of our standing has received. It is bold and bad and—and I do not quite know how to take it.”