Romancing Lady Stone (A School of Gallantry Novella)

by Delilah Marvelle

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  From The Author

  Lesson One

  Lesson Two

  Lesson Three

  Lesson Four

  Lesson Five

  Lesson Six

  Lesson Seven

  Lesson Eight

  Lesson Nine

  Lesson Ten

  Lesson Eleven

  Lesson Twelve

  Epilogue

  Discover The School of Gallantry Series

  ROMANCING LADY STONE

  by Delilah Marvelle

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Delilah Marvelle

  Delilah Marvelle Productions, LLC All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10:1-939912-01-6

  ISBN-13:978-1-939912-01-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s crazy imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and nothing you should worry about.

  Book design © Delilah Marvelle.

  Cover design © Seductive Musings.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,

  no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed,

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database

  or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  To my dearest Reader,

  While this is a School of Gallantry linked story, its purpose is to deliver an unexpected glimpse into the heart beating behind the school itself while also connecting you to the upcoming world of the Whipping Society. Please note that the secondary love story in this novella will have its own full length book in the upcoming series. So don’t panic thinking I left their story untold. If you are new to the School of Gallantry, each book, including this novella, stands on its own.

  Romancing Lady Stone is my cheeky version of star-crossed lovers. Whether you believe in destiny or not, people who fall in love meet in the most random of places. I firmly believe I met my own husband because something otherworldly wanted us to. Our homes were cities apart. We went to different universities. There was no internet at the time and we had no social activities or friends in common that would have ever allowed our paths to cross. The fact that I met him on Halloween night was a sure sign of something magical taking place. Seeing it was Halloween night, my husband was also dressed up as a Russian Military Officer. How the hell could I resist? Given the themes I was playing with, I knew I had to make the hero of this book Russian in honor of my husband. I hope you enjoy getting lost in Russia with Cecilia and learning more about the secrets waltzing behind the walls of the School of Gallantry.

  Much love and Happy Reading,

  Delilah Marvelle

  Moscow, Russia

  Late evening, March 29th 1830

  A bone-penetrating glacial breeze whistled in through countless shattered windows, sending snow whirling across a cavernous lobby of a hotel that hadn’t seen the bustle of people since Catherine the Great. Cracked marble floors heavily stained by weather and years of neglect, stretched out into an echoing darkness.

  Maybe he was at the wrong address.

  Konstantin Alexie Levin paused from his slow stride beside a mold-blackened wall and lowered his chin. A glowing lantern swayed from a rust-crusted hook indicating that someone was, in fact, waiting for him. As instructed.

  Stripping off his well-worn leather glove, he dabbed a finger against the glass of the lantern. It was still cold to the touch, hinting it had been lit barely moments before his arrival. Pulling his glove back on, Konstantin scanned the darkness beyond the dim light. Except for the rustle of dead leaves scraping the floor and the distant roar of the wind lashing snow against the bones of the building, everything else in the blurring darkness was eerily quiet.

  Digging into the inner pocket of his heavy winter coat, he dragged out his father’s watch and flipped open the silver lid. The click of resisting metal from the latch reverberated as he leaned toward the lantern to see the hour.

  Midnight. How serendipitous.

  He snapped the lid shut. Grazing a gloved finger across the fading English words etched into the tarnished casing, Konstantin let out a breath that frosted the air and shoved the watch back into his pocket.

  Incredibly good things were known to happen to a Levin at midnight. He referred to it as the Glorious Midnight Bane. It had commenced back in 1792, when his father, an upper class gentleman with debts brought on by heavy gambling, had met a beautiful British spinster at the festival of Maslenitsa whilst church bells gonged at midnight. Her name was Miss Penelope Bane.

  His father, Mr. Roman Stanislav Levin, had hired an expensive tutor so he could master the British language and then romanced Miss Bane beyond his financial means until the two fell madly in love. In honor of their engagement, his father presented her with an amethyst ring he could not afford and she presented him with a silver pocket watch she could not afford. ‘Eternally Yours at Midnight’ was etched on the back of the silver casing in English. Shortly after their betrothal, Miss Penelope Bane tragically died in a horrific carriage accident and was barely identified by the amethyst ring on her finger.

  His father, the ultimate romantic, had never recovered and abandoned the last of his respectable name by becoming part of a powerful criminal organization to avoid going to debtor’s prison. He became a different man. But even long after his father married Konstantin’s mother, whilst becoming one of the most feared criminals in Saint Petersburg and Moscow, he still carried that watch and could often be found sitting with it in silence, opening and closing its silver casing as if communicating with Miss Bane.

  Though most would call it superstitious rubbish unworthy of a blink, the repeated connection between the hour and the watch was uncanny. The man only ever conducted business at midnight in honor of Miss Bane, and as a result, had survived everything, each and every time, no matter how outrageous the incident. His father had once travelled with a group of men to an armory where a paid official allowed them to take whatever they needed. It was a quarter to midnight when halfway through their ‘shopping’ of ammunition, the armory had mysteriously caught fire and blew several walls out of the building. His father was the only one to survive and walked away without a single burn or scratch. The watch was in his pocket.

  When Konstantin had fallen deathly ill as a boy, and the doctors could not lower his fever and the priest was brought in, he remembered his father gallantly tucking that watch into his hand and staying with him all night. Whilst other fathers might have given their sons the crucifix during a serious illness, his father gave him the watch.

  Miraculously, Konstantin had recovered and learned to believe in its power.

  And so it was, barely a decade ago, at exactly midnight, his father, his hero, his mentor, who had been battling consumption for months, took his last breath. Miss Bane’s watch slipped from that noble hand and fell against the floor beside the bed, shattering the glass casing within. The watch had ceased ticking right along with his father. It was a sign from beyond.

  Blinded by his own grief during a wake attended by every influential criminal in Russia that offered their condolences (and work), Konstantin had tried to clasp that broken watch into his father’s limp hands, but his mother wouldn’t permit it. She insisted the watch be pawned. He couldn’t do it. He understood his mother had always been sensitive about the subject of Miss Bane, but he also knew what t
hat watch meant to his father. He therefore hid it at the bottom of a drawer. It wasn’t until his poor mother died that he had a clockmaker repair the damaged watch. He had carried it in his pocket ever since. It had become an old friend, which protected him and gave him the luck he knew he didn’t have.

  Much like his father, he never went anywhere without it.

  Heavy, booted steps scuffed against the floors of the vast lobby behind him.

  Konstantin yanked the dagger from his leather belt and spun toward the sound. He slanted the blade toward the darkness beyond the lantern and called out, “I do not appreciate being summoned to an abandoned hotel as if it were your mother’s parlor.”

  Two men emerged from the shadows and into the dim light. They paused shoulder to shoulder. Expensive, thick fur coats tightly bound their hefty bodies.

  “We apologize for inconveniencing you, Mr. Levin,” the taller one said. He grinned, exposing crooked but clean teeth. “I am Boris. ’Tis a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And I am Viktor,” the shorter one offered, inclining his head. “We appreciate you meeting us at this hour with the weather being what it is.”

  Despite their overly warm smiles, Konstantin knew better than to put away the dagger. Midnight may be a lucky hour, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.

  The one on the left, Viktor, resembled an oil-painted gentleman. From that tonic-drenched blond hair that shone like glass, to a smoothly shaven face. Only vain men insisted on fully shaving their beards during the winter in Russia, because everyone knew facial hair protected the face from all the goddamn wind, ice and snow.

  The other one, Boris, looked like most Russians, poor bastard. His dark, shaggy hair touched the large shoulders of his fur coat and his bushy, black beard with its tendrils of grey still held a clump of stew he hadn’t properly wiped away from a late supper.

  Konstantin gestured toward the man’s beard. “You were in a bit of a hurry to get here, I see.”

  Viktor leaned in and in a quiet tone pointed out the clump of stew to his associate.

  Boris hurriedly brushed it out of his beard.

  Konstantin lifted a brow. “Your missive indicated this matter was of unmitigated importance.” He refrained from tapping his blade against each of their foreheads. “I have no idea who you represent, but I am on the straight path and have been for three full months. I am working alongside a butcher.” For measly pay, but it was legal. He was learning a whole new set of skills. “If you have an offer, it had better be respectable and not involve weapons or a fist.”

  Viktor eyed the blade, then slowly reached into the inner pocket of his fur coat and withdrew a folded parchment. “Should you confuse our visit with your family’s sordid past, we wish to assure you we are here on behalf of Duc de Andelot. Forgive the location and the hour but he insisted we call on you outside of prying eyes given the nature of our news. You are being asked not to discuss the details of this meeting with anyone. For your safety.”

  Konstantin paused. Duc de Andelot? He didn’t think he’d ever hear from that one again. Andelot was third cousin to the King of France. Or who had once been the King of France. During the storm of the revolution, the duc’s face had been heavily marred, forcing him into wearing a black velvet mask. No one had ever seen him without it. Whatever money he’d escaped France with, he had invested heavily into merchant ships sailing into the West Indies.

  It made him into the god of gold and power he now was.

  The duc had bought a large estate and lived like an aristocratic Russian, even though he was half-French and half-British. Every year, Andelot donated thousands of rubles to the poor, and during harvest, and despite his age of five and sixty, the man stripped down to a linen shirt and trousers, with his mask in place, and went out into the fields with a scythe to muddy his own boots alongside his laborers.

  The man was a legend.

  Everyone in Moscow revered the duc.

  Well…almost everyone.

  Three months earlier, Konstantin had been approached by an anti-aristocratic criminal organization to abduct Duc de Andelot and deliver the man into their hands so they could kill him. They believed the duc was a threat to their organization because the peasants liked him too much. What they didn’t know was that Konstantin had always secretly admired the duc and that despite bearing his father’s well-known name, he, much like his father, wasn’t the brute everyone thought he was. Konstantin took the assignment because he was determined to protect Andelot. The night before the appointed abduction, Konstantin was almost killed trying to deliver a secret missive to the duc. Konstantin sustained a bullet to his left shoulder but survived. All of the men involved in the plot to kill Andelot were arrested within six hours and sent to Siberia. The duc, as it turned out, was good friends with the Emperor.

  It made Konstantin realize that supporting the violence only created violence.

  So he retired from the business.

  The duc, in vast appreciation, had invited Konstantin into his grand home for a meal and billiards. Not being able to see his face beyond a mask was a touch unnerving, but as the evening went on, Konstantin felt like they were old friends. The duc, in between casual billiard shots, had eventually asked Konstantin what he wanted in return for saving his life. Konstantin asked the man for respectable work so he could become the gentleman his father had once been before criminal life had erased the Levin name. The duc told him he’d be rewarded with something far better. But a day later, the duc had quietly left Russia to go to London to resolve a private matter. That was three months ago.

  “I am listening.” Konstantin tried not to sound too agitated. He hadn’t saved the duc’s life to be rewarded, but he didn’t appreciate being led on, either. “What can I do for him that I haven’t already?”

  Boris set his mutton-like shoulders. “The stars have decided to shine brightly for you, Mr. Levin.”

  Konstantin refrained from rolling his eyes. “Metaphors belong to poetry I reserve for beautiful women. Now get to the point. What does he want?”

  “The duc has officially declared you one of three beneficiaries to his estate. He made the decision whilst in London. You would not be able to inherit his title, as that privilege passes only from blood to blood, but also, according to France’s law of 1808, his title no longer exists amongst the titles Napoleon re-instated. You will therefore only be able to inherit a portion of the funds tied to his name. We were sent to deliver the news to you at an undisclosed location so you were not put into any immediate danger given the amount involved. You are to receive an equal sum of one hundred thousand pounds. Not rubles. Pounds. Unlike the other two names stipulated in his will, your portion of the estate will be delivered into your hands in the next three months. He is, after all, in excellent health and wishes to reward you now, rather than later. You are therefore being mandated to leave Russia and go to London to collect the entire sum.”

  Konstantin nearly choked on his own spit. One hundred thousand?! Holy— This had to be a joke. It had to be. “And where is your proof that either of you actually represent the duc?” He pointed his five-inch blade toward their faces. “I want to see it.”

  Viktor hit Boris in the shoulder. “Give him the proof he requires.”

  Boris puffed out a breath, unfolded his arms and patted his fur coat. From an inner pocket, he withdrew a velvet pouch, which he unstrung. Digging into the pouch with gloved fingers, he removed a gold signet ring with a crest used for legalizing documents. He held it up, angling it toward Konstantin. “His seal. We are sworn to only use it upon his command and destroy it upon his last breath.”

  Konstantin’s eyes widened. It was indeed the duc’s seal. He’d seen a similar ring emblazoned on the duc’s hand when he dined with the man three months ago. Stunned, Konstantin lowered the dagger. “The duc intends to give me one hundred thousand pounds?”

  Boris slid the ring back into its velvet pouch. “Yes.”

  “Without any stipulations or provisos?”

>   Viktor nodded. “Yes.”

  Konstantin pointed the dagger. “Why?”

  Viktor glanced toward the blade. “Is that necessary, Mr. Levin?”

  “Forgive me.” Konstantin sheathed the dagger into the scabbard slung around his hip. “I am still transitioning into respectable life.”

  Viktor promptly held out the parchment he’d taken out earlier. “His Grace asked that we deliver this letter into your hands.”

  Although good things were known to happen to a Levin at midnight, this was a touch ridiculous. Konstantin tugged the letter from Viktor’s gloved hand and turned it over.

  Breaking the jet-black wax seal, Konstantin unfolded the parchment and tilted it toward the sliver of light emitted from the lantern hanging beside them. He paused. Similar to the conversation they had shared over a meal and billiards, it was in English.

  Mister Levin,

  After a long night of getting to know you, which I will admit reminded me of days in my youth spent with old friends who have sadly perished amongst the flames of the revolution, I have concluded you need a more suitable reward for the risk you took in saving my life. My reasoning behind giving you such a large sum goes beyond mere appreciation. Your upbringing has made it difficult for you to erase your past and start anew, which is why I intend to gift you with an opportunity to become the man I know you to be. The one your father and Russia had never allowed you to be. I hope we will continue to be friends. I have very few acquaintances I trust, but you have earned your place amongst those few for life. Please find me at my new home at 32 Belgrave Square in London. I look forward to seeing you again and apologize for having left Russia so abruptly without sending word.

  Gratefully,