Regency 01 - The Schoolmistress and the Spy

by Julia Byrne

  THE SCHOOLMISTRESS AND THE SPY

  Regency Romance and Mystery, Book 1

  by

  Julia Byrne

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Portugal, 1808

  Papa had lost at hazard again.

  Emily huddled under the blankets in the bedchamber she shared with Miss Tibberton, her governess/companion, and listened to her father ranting as he stomped around the parlor downstairs.

  He was searching for money and not finding any, because she and Tibby had hidden what little remained from Papa’s last win in an inside pocket of one of Tibby’s dresses. It was the safest place she could think of because while Papa wasn’t above telling her to turn out her pockets, he wouldn’t dream that timid little Tibby would hide anything from him.

  Fortunately for the success of her scheme, Tibby had gone next door for a few minutes to check on a sick neighbor and couldn’t be frightened out of her wits.

  Another outburst of shouting came from below. At least Papa couldn’t throw anything. He’d broken the last ornament in the house two days ago. She’d managed to placate the landlord with a few coins, which had left her dangerously short of money. And the rent was due in a couple of days.

  If she was a wife that wouldn’t be a problem; the army would pay for their billet. But that didn’t apply to daughters who followed the drum, and even wives were limited to six per company.

  Emily sighed, resigned to the fact that she’d have to clean and scrub the place in lieu of rent. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  She’d once suggested to Papa that she try to find work. Since the only work available in an army camp or a Portuguese village was of the menial variety, he had immediately flown into a rage and said no lady bearing the Proudfoot name was going to demean herself by getting her hands dirty.

  Obviously, he’d never noticed the scrubbed floors.

  Their circumstances hadn’t been so bad at first. When Papa had swooped down on the school where she’d been sent by her grandparents and taken her away with him, she’d thought he was the most wonderful, exciting person in the world. He always found a billet for them near the camp and whenever he wasn’t on duty he stayed with them. He’d even given her some of his army pay and put her in charge of the household finances.

  That had been three years ago. Since then, she’d discovered that Papa’s army pay was often gambled away before she saw it, and if any money did make it as far as her purse it was liable to disappear again.

  Downstairs, Papa stomped across the parlor and opened the front door.

  He must be going back to the camp, she thought, where he’d talk his way into another game. Maybe he’d win this time. He did win quite often, and then he’d be in a good mood. And if he drank enough brandy he’d return and fall into a stupor on the sofa downstairs and she’d be able to take a few coins from his purse to tide them over.

  The first time she’d resorted to that tactic, Tibby’s fluffy grey curls had almost stood on end in shock, but she’d soon agreed that taking a few coins unbeknownst to Papa was preferable to being thrown out onto the street, or having to endure a barrage of abuse because there was no money to buy food. And thanks to the brandy, Papa never remembered, next morning, how much he’d won or lost the night before. Or even if he’d won or lost.

  The front door closed and a murmur of male voices wafted upward. Her heart lightened a bit, because if Papa had a caller he might not return to the gaming tables.

  She’d better go and sit on the stairs, though, so when Tibby returned she could signal her to come straight up to their bedchamber. Papa didn’t want females around when he was entertaining a guest. Emily liked to think it was because she was only fifteen and Papa was being protective.

  Suddenly her father’s voice rose loudly in the angry bluster he employed when she needed money.

  Emily leapt out of bed and snatched up her shawl. If Tibby walked into an argument she’d be frightened and Papa would start shouting at her as well.

  Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders she ran out of her bedchamber and stood in the shadows at the top of the staircase. A bend halfway down made it impossible for her to see who had come calling at this late hour, but the parlor door was open and she could hear quite clearly.

  Papa was speaking again as she tiptoed down the stairs and sat on the half-landing, just out of sight of the parlor. She wrapped the hem of her nightgown around her bare feet and listened.

  “You’ll get your money, damn you! I just need a few days.”

  “That’s what you said last time, Captain Proudfoot. The last few times. A reluctance to pay your debts seems to be a habit with you.”

  The visitor spoke very softly, very politely, but every word was a jagged shard of ice.

  Emily shuddered. For some reason, her heart started pounding. She clenched her fingers around her shawl, holding it closer for warmth, but it wasn’t the cool night air raising goose bumps on her arms. It was the utter lack of feeling in the stranger’s voice. There was no anger, no impatience or contempt; just a chilling, merciless recital of the facts. Like a judge about to pronounce sentence.

  “Look, I’ll come about,” Papa said, lowering his voice. “I always do.”

  “You owe me a great deal of money, Proudfoot, and this time I don’t intend to wait on your convenience. If you don’t redeem your IOUs by the end of the week, I will take payment in another form.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “You have a daughter, don’t you? I saw her in the market place a few days ago. Pretty little thing. It would be a shame if she disappeared.”

  “What—”

  “That sort of thing happens, you know. Especially in wartime. Girls go for a walk and vanish. They enter the wrong shop and disappear. Some of them are sold to brothels. Not here, of course. It wouldn’t do to have your daughter servicing your fellow officers, but rest assured she will fetch more than enough to cover your debt.”

  “For God’s sake, man, there’s no need for threats.”

  “I’m not threatening you, Captain. Just letting you know what can happen to a young girl. I hope she speaks the language. She’ll understand what is happening to her, which is always entertaining.”

  Papa must have been struck dumb by that statement because there was silence for several seconds. Then, without another word, the visitor walked out of the parlor.

  No, not a visitor, Emily thought. A man who could destroy an innocent young girl over a gambling debt was a monster.

  She listened to his footsteps cross the tiny entrance hall. If he looked back when he reached the front door he might see her sitting there in the darkness. But she was so frozen with shock, so paralyzed by fear, she couldn’t move.

  The monster didn’t look back. He opened the front door and left the house, closing the door behind him. His footsteps disappeared into the night.

  She hadn’t seen his face. She didn’t know who to guard against.
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br />   The thoughts slammed into Emily’s mind, freeing her from her paralysis. Her first instinct was to dash down to the hall and lock the front door so the monster couldn’t return. But her legs were trembling so badly she wasn’t sure she could stand. She swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat but she still couldn’t breathe. A loud buzzing filled her ears.

  It took a moment before she realized the buzzing was her father ranting again.

  Papa. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She would tell him what she’d overheard and he’d fix everything. He’d order the monster to stay away from her. That’s what fathers did. They took care of their daughters.

  Bracing one hand on the wall beside her, she managed to get to her feet and descend the stairs. She reached the hall just as her father slammed out of the parlor.

  “I’m going out,” he snapped, barely glancing at her.

  “No! Papa!” Emily seized his sleeve as he went to walk past her. “Please don’t go. I heard what that man said to you. About making me disappear into a brothel if you don’t pay your debt to him.”

  “What?” Papa stopped and looked down at her. He’d been a handsome man once, with his upright bearing, fair hair and hazel eyes. But though he was still personable, still a good officer, drink was beginning to take its toll. She could see it in his bloodshot eyes and the slackness around his jaw.

  “Nonsense!” he said curtly. “You’re hysterical. You misunderstood. And why were you listening at the door, anyway, missy?”

  “You were shouting so I got up and… Papa, I’m not hysterical. That man is evil. He means to sell me into—”

  “No such thing, I tell you!” Papa shouted. When she flinched he made an obvious effort to hold onto his temper. “I’ll pay the chap and all will be well. He knows I’m good for it. Just got a bit impatient.”

  “He wasn’t impatient, Papa.”

  “Rubbish! You don’t know what you’re talking about. You misunderstood the fellow, as I said.” He shook off her hand and strode over to the front door.

  “Papa, please…”

  “All right, all right! I won’t play cards with the bastard again. Will that make you happy? God, a man can’t call his soul his own around here anymore. Go up to bed. I’ll have the money in plenty of time, you’ll see.”

  The door slammed shut behind him.

  Emily stood in the hall, shaking uncontrollably. Tears welled in her eyes, spilled over, ran down her cheeks. Stupid, useless tears, but she couldn’t stem the flood.

  Papa had lied to her. He had fobbed her off as if the threat to her safety meant nothing. Did he think she was too young to know what that monster intended to do to her? Her very life was at stake, for she’d seen village girls made old before their time by prostitution to know she would not survive in a brothel or on the streets. And Papa had brushed her fears aside.

  Worse, he’d walked out of the house without a thought for her safety. He hadn’t even locked the door.

  She had known he couldn’t be trusted with money. Now she knew she couldn’t trust him to protect her.

  Emily walked over to the door to turn the key in the lock. Her fingers were shaking so badly it took several tries before she succeeded in the small task. She would have to remain down here until Tibby returned so she would hear her knock, but that was all right. At least no one else could get in.

  She turned, walked into the parlor, and sat down on the threadbare sofa. Gripping her hands together, she stared at the empty fireplace until a numb sort of calm came over her.

  It was no use falling apart because she’d just discovered how terrifyingly vulnerable she was. Perhaps Papa was too obsessed by the next turn of the card or roll of the dice to be able to care about anyone, but she wouldn’t think about that now, couldn’t afford to make excuses for him. She needed to plan. Until her father paid his debt to the monster she would have to be very careful never to go anywhere alone. She would ask someone to teach her how to defend herself. One of the village boys perhaps; they were always happy to earn a few pennies and they seemed to know what they were about when it came to fighting.

  And the first thing she was going to do tomorrow was buy a sturdy bolt for the bedroom door, even if it took the last of her money.

  She thought of the small sums she’d been taking from Papa’s purse whenever he won, so she had a reserve to pay for food and other necessities without relying on his pay. That was going to change, she thought, clenching her hands until her nails dug into her palms. If Papa wouldn’t allow her to work, she would find some other means of keeping herself and Tibby safe.

  She would create a secure future for them, even if she had to steal every penny.

  She would never allow herself to be vulnerable again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  England, May, 1815

  The wharf-side tavern currently enjoying his patronage was not the most salubrious of meeting places. Grease stains marked the pitted wood of the tables, paint was peeling from the walls, and the baseboards looked as if rats gnawed on them on a regular basis. The customers were even less appealing. Some looked as if they were related to the rats.

  Then again, Luke thought, he’d seen worse.

  He watched a drunkard lurch into the path of one of the tavern girls and send her tray of drinks flying. The resounding crash caused several men to leap to their feet, shaking their fists and shouting out a stream of obscenities. Not to be outdone, the girl cursed back at them and kicked the tankards in the general direction of the tap. No one hurried to mop up the pool of ale spreading across the already odiferous floor.

  Luke eyed the brandy in front of him and took a cautious sip. His still-healing leg was aching; it was worth risking the odd noxious life-form to get a little relief.

  Under cover of the uproar over the spilled drinks, he passed a pile of coins across the table toward the burly man seated opposite. “Your payment, Jenkins.”

  Jenkins covered the coins with a grimy hand before making them disappear into his coat pocket. “That’s right generous of ye, gov’nor. So, ’tis for a wager, ye say?”

  Luke gave him a cool stare.

  “Aye, well—” Jenkins shifted uncomfortably and took refuge in his tankard. “I wish ye luck then. Ye’ll need it, workin’ for that little shrew.”

  “You haven’t enjoyed your employment with Miss Proudfoot?”

  “Enjoyed it!” Jenkins emerged from his tankard and thumped it down on the table. “I’d sooner be pressed into the Navy. Nothin’ but orders and complaints all day long. And always at me to wash and shave and put on a clean shirt. For a man-o’-all-work? What does she think I am? A ruddy butler?”

  “Very unlikely.”

  Jenkins was too well away on a sea of righteous indignation to notice any irony. “As for havin’ a drink now and then, anyone’d think I’d committed bloody blue murder. A man’s got a right to a dram at the end o’ a day’s work, I says. She says when I do a day’s work, she’ll consider it.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  Encouraged by this response, Jenkins leaned forward in a confiding manner. “It ain’t as if she’s so right and proper, neither.”

  Luke raised a brow. “Indeed?”

  “Aye. Sneakin’ out through the garden after dark, wrapped up in a cloak so’s no one could tell it were ’er.”

  “How did you know it was Miss Proudfoot?”

  Jenkins grinned. “I were coming back from this ’ere tavern, gov’nor. ’ad to duck behind a bush real quick when she come out o’the ’ouse, but I seen ’er face before she put up ’er ’ood. And what I’d like to know is, where was she goin’ so secret-like?”

  “An interesting question, Jenkins. Where was she going?”

  But Jenkins shook his head mournfully and slumped back in his chair. “Now that I can’t tell ye. I followed ’er to the end of the lane, but she got in a carriage and it drove orf.”

  “Hmm. Well, that’s neither here nor there.” Luke pushed his brandy aside and lowered his voice. �
��If you wish to keep that money in your pocket, Jenkins, this is what I want you to do.”

  Two minutes later, Jenkins was chuckling into his tankard. “Yor a right one, gov’nor, and no mistake. I’d give a lot to see that little shrew’s face when she be forced to hire ye.”

  Luke got to his feet, braced his fists on the table, and leaned over it. He waited until Jenkins glanced up. The man’s eyes widened when he met Luke’s gaze.

  “Once your task is done, Jenkins,” he said very softly and very evenly, “you will not go near Gresham Street again. And if we do chance to encounter each other in the town, you haven’t seen me, you don’t know me, you’ve never heard of me. Is that clear?”

  Jenkins buried his face in his tankard again. “Aye, sir. Whatever ye say, sir. And we ain’t never ’ad this conversation, neither.”

  “Excellent.” Satisfied that his instructions were understood, Luke turned on his heel and strode out of the tavern. He was careful not to limp. No need to give the cut-throats in there any encouragement to follow him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The exterior of Number 12 Gresham Street looked like every other residence in the street of genteel residences. Its red brick façade had mellowed to a soft rusty-rose, the curved iron railings flanking the three steps leading up to the front door gleamed with fresh black paint, and the door itself, also black, was adorned with an elegant brass knocker in the shape of an anchor.

  Several other doors along the street were similarly decorated. Anchors, whales, and shells proliferated. There was even a ship, brass sails billowing in an invisible breeze. Everyone in the fashionable part of Lymingford seemed to have run mad over the seaside theme.

  Only logical, Luke decided, shifting his brooding gaze to the esplanade at the end of the street. Lymingford was a seaside town. On a sunny day, the wide graveled path running parallel to the beach would provide a pleasant walk for those residents who enjoyed taking in the salt-tanged air along with their exercise.

  Today, however, under a lowering May sky, the sea was a sullen grey and the promenade empty. A lone gull swooped above the sand, shrieking in protest at the lack of humans dispensing crumbs, before it swerved in the direction of the harbor.