The Perils of Pleasure
An Avon Romantic Treasure
Julie Anne Long
Contents
Prologue
As was usual for a Saturday at the Pig & Thistle…
Chapter 1
Of all the myriad ways Colin Eversea could have met…
Chapter 2
The words penetrated the numbness Colin hadn’t realized he’d cultivated,…
Chapter 3
She went down hard just as a sickening crunch of…
Chapter 4
It was a near thing. Colin could just barely angle…
Chapter 5
Every one of the Everseas gave a start when they…
Chapter 6
There were hooks on the back of the door meant…
Chapter 7
Colin jerked awake, sat bolt upright, and thrashed and thrashed…
Chapter 8
Deprived of her balance, Colin nearly stumbled out of the…
Chapter 9
“They won’t be, you know,” Colin said once their feet…
Chapter 10
English law enforcement was sadly fragmented, established in one parish…
Chapter 11
Dr. August was walking like a man with an urgent…
Chapter 12
Mr. Pallatine was a sort of amber-brown, a bit glossy,…
Chapter 13
And the doctor left, and they were alone, and it…
Chapter 14
“Your coffin is ready, Mr. Eversea.”
Chapter 15
Madeleine persuaded Mary to climb aboard the cart, Colin closed…
Chapter 16
Madeleine was resourceful. Colin consented to get back into the…
Chapter 17
And while Colin slept like the dead in a barn,…
Chapter 18
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Marcus said to the phalanx of soldiers…
Chapter 19
They’d been told Mutton Cottage was a mile or so…
Chapter 20
They’d walked only about a half mile more up the…
Chapter 21
And that left Colin and Marcus and Madeleine to have…
Chapter 22
Nobody, not even Isaiah Redmond’s formidable butler, argued with a…
Chapter 23
It was a squat stone church with a tall elegant…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Julie Anne Long
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
As was usual for a Saturday at the Pig & Thistle in Pennyroyal Green, the chessboard bristled with a miniature ivory and black battle, and Frances Cooke and Martin Culpepper hunched over it like two grizzled opposing generals in a place of honor in front of the fire.
But these were the only usual things about Pennyroyal Green today.
Ned Hawthorne paused in the endless task of keeping the floor swept to marvel: it wasn’t yet noon, but every one of the pub’s battered tables was crowded. Conspicuous among the regulars were Pennyroyal Green denizens who rarely appeared in the pub: the vicar, who could, irritatingly, be counted on not to drink a drop; the mysterious Miss Marietta Endicott of Miss Endicott’s Academy for Young Ladies had been coaxed down off the hill; a few of the Gypsies from the summer encampment on the outskirts of town had even wandered in, a violin dangling disconsolately from the hand of one of them.
Ned Hawthorne, whose family had owned the Pig & Thistle for centuries, had never seen so many somber faces.
And so little drinking.
For heaven’s sake, if they were going to have a proper wake for Colin Eversea, someone needed to get it started.
“”twas only a matter of time before Colin Eversea was hung, you know,” he reflected into the silence.
Ah, this burst the dam. A great uproar of shouted agreement and dissent ensued.
“Oh, aye, if an Eversea were to ’ang at long last, ’e would ’ave been my choice,” was one snide opinion.
“Nay, Colin’s a good lad!” someone else disagreed vehemently. “The very best!”
“Good at being bad, Colin is,” another person shouted to general laughter and a few squeaked protests.
“Well, ’e has a good heart,” some diplomat interjected from near the hearth. “Kind as the day is long.”
“Owes me five pounds!” came an indignant voice from somewhere in the back. “I’ll nivver see it now.”
“Oh, you should ken better than to bet wi’ Colin Eversea o’er anything.”
The voices trailed off. A lull ensued.
A throat was cleared.
“Then there was that bit with the countess,” came tentatively.
“And the actress.”
“And the widow.”
“And that horse race.”
“And the gambling.”
“And the duels!”
And voices once again tumbled all over each other, laughing and marveling, cursing and celebrating Colin Eversea.
Ah, that was better, Ned thought. Controversy made people thirsty.
Sure enough, the Pig & Thistle’s famous light and dark was soon flowing copiously from the taps followed by Ned’s favorite sound, the music of coins being slapped down on the bar and on the tables, and soon nearly everyone was sipping at something.
Without turning around, Ned thrust the broom he was holding off to one side, because even over the Colin Eversea inspired clamor, he’d heard his daughter Polly’s footsteps behind him. He would recognize them anywhere, over any sound.
When she didn’t take the broom, he wagged it to get her attention, then glanced back and sighed at what he saw: purple rings beneath moist eyes, a long woebegone face, and bedraggled hair.
“Now, Polly…”
“But I loved him, Papa.”
“No, you don’t, my dear,” he explained patiently. “He smiled at you but twice or so. That isn’t love.”
“That’s all it took, Papa,” she sniffed.
And that summed up Colin Eversea, the damned rascal.
There wasn’t a woman in the Pig & Thistle today between the ages of seventeen (that would be Polly) and seventy who wasn’t a bit misty, and more than a few were dabbing tears. The gents were looking right misty as well. As well they should. Colin Eversea was the most entertaining reprobate the Everseas had produced in decades, one of Ned’s best customers, and the gallows would deprive Pennyroyal Green of him in a mere few hours time.
Suddenly, a pleasant-faced gentleman in a many-caped coat, an innocent stranger who’d wandered in before the rest of the crowd and consented to try the dark ale, made a mistake.
He leaned across to Frances Cooke at the chessboard, and said:
“I beg your pardon sir…but am I to understand that Colin Eversea—the Satan of Sussex—hails from this town?”
Culpepper sighed extravagantly, slowly pushed his chair back from the chessboard, crossed his arms and gazed up at the beamed ceiling.
“New to Pennyroyal Green, are you, son?” Frances Cooke’s voice was mild, but he’d raised it just a little. A singular, strong voice, Frances Cooke had. Some might even call it a…portentous…voice. The vigorous debating in the pub tapered rapidly into a hush.
Everyone knew what was about to happen.
“Yes, sir,” the oblivious stranger told him brightly. “I was passing through on the way to Brighton when my horse threw a shoe. They’re taking care of me at the blacksmith. I’m Mr. William Jones.”
“’Tis pleased I am to meet you, Mr. Jones.” Frances Cooke thrust out his hand to be shaken by Mr. Jones.
Frances Cooke was tall and lean and
bowed like a sapling confronting a strong wind. His hair was sparse, his gray brows so furry and alert they might have passed for pets, and spectacles gripped the tip of a nose reminiscent of the time Rome ruled Brittania. He knew things, Frances Cooke did: he knew the story behind the names etched into every tilting marker in Pennyroyal Green’s graveyard; he knew where the stones used to build their church had been quarried and that the foundation of it had been built over a Druid temple; he knew the wood in the old table beneath his elbows came from Ashdown Forest.
Frances Cooke wasn’t bashful about telling what he knew, either.
“Ah, very good. Well, ”tis an interesting story, the story of Colin Eversea. And to tell it properly, we need to go back to the time of the Conqueror.”
“Good heavens! As far back as that?” Mr. Jones was humoring Mr. Cooke.
Mr. Cooke gazed at him long enough to make Mr. Jones’s fingers twitch just a little nervously on his tankard of ale. “I wonder, Mr. Jones, if you happened to see a pair of oak trees growing very close together in the square as you rode into town?” he asked gently.
“I did at that. Two very grand trees. Pretty town you have here.”
Cooke nodded, as if this went without saying. “Mr. Jones, those oak trees were mere saplings when William the Conqueror set foot on English shores. And over the centuries their roots have grown so twisted together that they now battle each other for space and depend on each other to remain upright. And this…”
Frances Cooke leaned forward a little, and every person in the pub reflexively leaned a little toward him, as if blown there by a breeze, and Frances Cooke’s voice took on the stentorian resonance of the practiced bard.
“…this, my friend, is a rather apt metaphor for the Everseas and Redmonds. For their families have anchored Pennyroyal Green since before this town had a name, since before the Conqueror set foot on these shores. And ancient grudges and secrets bind them fast, and curse them to this day.”
The stranger, despite himself, was enthralled into a short silence. “Good heavens!” he finally managed faintly. “Secrets and grudges? What manner of secrets and grudges?”
Everyone in the pub seemed quite pleased with the effect of the story on the visitor. Relative silence—there was the sound of sipping, which pleased Ned Hawthorne—and reflection ensued.
“Well, they would not be secrets if we all knew them, would they, sir? But some say the bad feelings began when the first Saxon—a Redmond—cleaved the first Norman’s—an Eversea—skull back in 1066 or so. The Redmonds, on the other hand, have it that it began even earlier, back before Rome ruled Brittania, back when all of our ancestors wore skins for clothes. They say an Eversea stole a Redmond cow.”
This surprised a short, nervous laugh from Mr. Jones. “Well, then. Was anything ever proved in the matter of the cow?”
“Nothing is ever proved when it comes to the Everseas,” someone groused from the back of the crowd, to a rustle of laughter.
Frances Cooke smiled tolerantly at the interruption.
“’Tis true, Mr. Jones. Both families are quite wealthy and grand now, but rumors are that the cow theft was only the beginning of the way the Everseas intended to build their fortune. They’re such a cheerful clan, you see, so ”tis difficult to countenance. But piracy has been implied. Smuggling intimated. Much darker things alleged. Kidnapping, larceny. Accusations have been leveled over the centuries, and accusations, as we all know, tend to originate somewhat in fact. But no one is certain where their considerable money originated, and no one has ever proved a thing. Which is why ’tis such a shock, you see, for all of us, to know that an Eversea will go to the gallows for murdering the cousin of a Redmond in a pub fight. Why now, after hundreds of years?”
Mr. Jones contemplated this. “Well, then. Do you think justice is being done with regards to Colin Eversea?”
Frances Cooke steepled his fingers beneath his chin and cast a glance toward the pub’s beamed ceiling. “It depends on how you define justice, I suppose, Mr. Jones. For ’tis said an Eversea and a Redmond are destined to break each other’s hearts once per generation. And Lyon Redmond, the eldest of the Redmond children, disappeared some years ago. The Redmonds believe ’tis because Olivia Eversea—she’d be the eldest daughter of the Eversea family—broke his heart.”
There was silence. The entire town knew the story, but it was rather a heady one for the stranger to absorb.
“But I think I can speak for all of us”—Cooke’s glance encompassed the room of villagers—“when I say I’m astounded that it has come to this hanging. And that the world will be diminished for want of Colin Eversea.”
There was a general sigh of concurrence, and one mutter: “…owes me five pounds!”
“To Colin Eversea!” Frances Cooke raised his tankard and voice high. “Reprobate, rascal, heartbreaker—”
“And friend,” Ned Hawthorne concluded firmly.
“And friend!” Mistiness and heartiness and irony blended in a roar of farewell.
All over the pub tankards were raised, clinked, and tipped down throats. Hands swiped foamy mouths, and Culpepper’s fingers pinched the top of Cooke’s queen and slowly, slowly levered it up.
Cooke might have been the town historian, but Culpepper usually won at chess.
Chapter 1
Of all the myriad ways Colin Eversea could have met his demise—drowning in the Ouse at the age of six, for instance, or plummeting from the trellis leading up to Lady Malmsey’s bedroom window some twenty years later—somehow he’d failed to consider the possibility that he might hang. In fact, when all was said and done (admittedly, there was an awful lot to say and do), Colin had always thought he’d breathe his last breath lying next to the beautiful Louisa Porter of Pennyroyal Green after having been married to her for three or four decades.
Never, never did he imagine he might spend the last few hours of his life in a damp Newgate cell with a flatulent thief called Bad Jack.
And now Colin and Bad Jack sat in the pews of the Newgate chapel while the prison’s ordinary railed vividly about the tortures of eternal hellfire awaiting the two of them once their souls had been choked from their bodies. Next their shackles would be struck, their arms bound, and they would be strung up from the scaffold erected outside.
Bad Jack seemed bored as a schoolboy trapped inside on a sunny day at school. He picked his fingernails. He belched, and thumped his sternum with his fist to help the belch out. He even leaned back and yawned grandly, treating the ordinary to a view of his dark and mostly toothless maw. All in all, it was a bravura performance, but it was lost on the audience who had paid for the privilege of watching the condemned tortured by the pregallows sermon.
For it was Colin they had come to see.
They peered over the railings up above the chapel, eager to compare the actual man with images on the broadsheets rustling in their hands. Mere ink did not do justice to the reality of Colin Eversea, to his height, his loose-limbed grace and vivid eyes and strong elegant features, but myriad lurid images had abounded for weeks in the broadsheets. The English loved nothing more than a criminal with dash, and if he was gorgeous, so much the better.
Colin’s brother Ian had brought one of the most popular broadsheets to him: on it he was depicted with Satanic horns and a pointed tail and wielding a ridiculous knife—more a scimitar, really—dripping blood into a pool.
In a rare note of authenticity, the artist had seen fit to sketch him in a Weston-cut coat.
“Looks just like you,” Ian had told him. Because that’s what brothers were for.
“What bloody nonsense.” Colin handed the broadsheet back to Ian. “My horns are considerably more majestic.”
Ian began to smile, but it congealed halfway up. Colin knew why: “majestic horns” reminded both them of the first time Colin had pulled down a buck—in Lord Atwater’s Wood.
But neither of them said anything aloud. There were too many memories; every one of them, the smallest to largest, was
painful as a stab now. Airing just one seemed to somehow give it more importance than the others. They never reminisced.
They exchanged inanities about broadsheets instead.
Colin handed the broadsheet back to his brother. “Will you have this framed? Something in gilt would suit.”
He’d said this more for the benefit of the warden, who hovered near him as often as possible to make note of his comments to sell to the broadsheets. Those broadsheets had become both cherished mementos and valuable investments. For Colin Eversea was not only a legend now—he was an industry.
There was even a popular flash ballad, sung in pubs, on street corners, on theater stages, and in amateur musicales:
Oh, if you thought ye’d never see
The death of Colin Eversea
Come along with me, lads, come along with me
For on a summer day he’ll swing
The pretty lad was mighty bad
So everybody sing!
Jaunty tune. Before things began to look so grim, back when their confidence had been unshakable, back when the Everseas’ petitions for Colin’s freedom were still crisp in the hands of the Home Secretary, his brothers had even written their own verses. Most of them concerning his sexual prowess, the size of his manhood or the lack thereof.
Because again, that’s what brothers were for.
It was all very ironic, Colin thought, given that he had spent much of his colorful life attempting to stand out from his forest of impressive brothers and earn his father’s admiration, even going so far as to join the army. But he’d managed to come home from the war entirely intact, whereas Chase, for instance, came home with a heroic limp, and Ian had been wounded. Then again, his father, Jacob Eversea, had always treated him with a sort of bemused detachment. No doubt because he was the youngest of the boys and had always been by far the biggest handful. Perhaps his father thought it wouldn’t pay to become too attached to him, because he’d known he was bound to do himself in inadvertently in a duel or a horse race or plummeting from the trellis of a married countess.
The Perils of Pleasure Page 1