Praise for Michelle Diener and her “imaginative”* Tudor novels, In a Treacherous Court and Keeper of the King’s Secrets “Richly detailed historical setting and intrigue-filled plot.”
— Chicago Tribune
“Taut suspense. Diener enlivens history.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A masterfully spun tale!”
—Fresh Fiction
“Compelling … fast-paced.”
— Publishers Weekly
“The characters are going to hook you first, and the intrigue will keep you turning the pages. Diener’s writing style is beautiful, to the point, vivid, and exciting. This author is one to watch.”
—Reader’s Entertainment “Packed with unexpected twists and turns, solid prose, always-fascinating court intrigue, and a unique story.”
—Diary of a Book Addict “Dramatically original with imaginative scenes of suspense and one mystery after another.”
—Single Titles*
“One fast-paced historical fiction novel! It reads like a thriller.”
—Girls Just Reading
“The characters in this book are wonderful and believable… . An interesting, emotional, and dramatic story.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“An action-adventure-mystery-historical that grabs the reader on page one and doesn’t let go.”
—Kate Emerson, author of The King’s Damsel “An enormous talent! I was absolutely enthralled and thoroughly enjoyed every last page of this story!”
—Affaire de Coeur
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Author’s Note
Readers Group Guide
About Michelle Diener
To Mom, for everything
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks as always to my editor, Micki Nuding, her assistant, Parisa Zolfaghari, as well as Lisa Litwack and her staff for the amazing cover and layout of the book. Jean Anne Rose and Jillian Vandal make sure my work gets as much exposure as possible, and thank you to Simon & Schuster’s sales team for all they do to get my books into readers’ hands. My amazing agent, Marlene Stringer, is always the best advocate for my work, and I thank her for always being so supportive.
Liz Kreger and Edie Ramer, my trusty critique partners, help me make my work the best it can be. Thanks to Celeste Truran and my sister Jo for their help in giving the manuscript another pair of eyes, and to Bridget Ryan for answering all the medical questions I had.
And to my husband and children, you are the best.
1
“What seems to be the matter, Mr. Ashcroft?” Catherine, Lady Howe, watched as Ashcroft reversed out of the fireplace, where he’d built a little pile of kindling. The thin man’s knees scrabbled a little on the soot-covered dust sheets.
“My sweep’s stuck in your chimney, is wot, mi’lady,” he said angrily. “Blighter’s got too big.”
“That’s surely your fault for sending him up, not his for growing,” she said crisply, the first sparks of anger licking up inside her.
Ashcroft huffed. “Well, got to come out, and the only way’s to light a fire under the little beggar.”
Catherine’s mouth fell open. “Light a fire under him?”
“’Mazing what the ’uman body can do, when there’s a fire under it. They lose a bit o’ skin, but they’s out, and that’s the main thing.”
“Mr. Ashcroft.” Catherine spoke slowly. “Under no circumstance at all will a fire be lit under a little boy in this house while I am drawing breath in my body.”
“Well,” Ashcroft said, affronted, “’ow’s youse expect to get ’im out? Starving’s hardly better. And my Charlie’s no little boy, anyways.”
Catherine breathed deeply. “Starving is out of the question, too. There must be a more humane solution.”
“None I know.” Ashcroft started packing up his things. “I got work to do, and the blighter’s no good to me anymore anyway. So pre’aps you can think on it, mi’lady.”
Catherine’s mouth dropped open. “You’d abandon a child who’s worked for you for what, a year?”
“Eight, actually. Charlie’s been wi’ me since about four years old.”
“He’s worked in chimneys since he was four years old?” Catherine tried to keep hold of her composure. What a naive fool she was. Of course he had. “And his life means nothing to you?”
“It’s a ’ard world, mi’lady. No one gave a toss about me at that age; why should I give a toss about anyone else?”
“Why indeed?” Catherine looked him straight in the eye.
Undaunted, he gave her a cheery wink. He walked to the fireplace and called up, “Mind ’ow you go, Charlie. Good luck.”
A muffled cry came from within, panic-stricken.
“Good day to you, then, mi’lady.” Ashcroft touched his cap and was off, leaving Catherine standing in the drawing room amid the dust sheets.
The muffled calling continued, and she pulled herself together. She rang the bell for Greenfelt, then leaned into the fireplace.
“Charlie, I’m Lady Howe. I wouldn’t let Mr. Ashcroft light a fire under you, so he’s left. But I’m going to get you out of there as soon as possible, I promise you.”
The little voice fell silent.
“My lady?” The butler appeared at the door. “Is there something—”
“Greenfelt, call on Dr. Pennington without delay. Have the carriage brought round and bring him here yourself.” At Greenfelt’s blank look, Catherine stamped her foot. “Well, hurry! There isn’t a moment to lose.”
“My lady?”
“There’s a small boy stuck in our chimney and he’s scared witless, so stop dithering and go. We need Dr. Pennington’s advice on how to get him out.”
She was aware that she sounded … not herself. Wild, almost, much as a mother would, it suddenly occurred to her, if one of her children were in danger.
“Greenfelt.” Her voice was sharp. “Close your mouth and get Dr. Pennington right away.”
Greenfelt fled, and Catherine went back to the fireplace.
“How about I tell you a story until the doctor gets here, Charlie?” Catherine sat down, leaned against the hard, cold stone of the fireplace, and put her arms around her knees.
“Once upon a time …”
2
1811 … TWELVE YEARS LATER
Charlotte Raven recognized Lord Frethers the moment she laid eyes on him. It was very long ago, but she never forgot a face. Especially not the face of a person trying to do her harm.
She’d been introduced to him by Lady Holliday, and she’d wanted to gag when he took her hand. For the first time, she was grateful for the gloves she always wore, so that she wouldn’t have to feel his skin on hers.
She liked to think herself beyond fearing the past, but the sight of his face so close, his breath, smelling of cigars and liquor, took her back to the day when he’d beaten the living daylights out of her for not being a boy.
Since her first season three years ago, he was the third man she’d been introduced to whom she remembered in a dark light, and he was by far the worst. She’d toyed with the idea of revenge since she’d seen the first one, and seeing the sly gleam in Frethers’s eyes it suddenly occurred to her, like an unexpected stinging slap across the cheek, that she had been remiss in letting things go.
How many victims had Frethers had in his grasp since she had escaped him? She felt sick to her stomach at her delay.
Her gaze returned to Frethers, now on the far side of the room. He was talking to Lady Holliday, their hostess, and a few other guests. All thrown together for diversion from the heat of London and the ennui of having too much.
She enjoyed watching the power plays and the flirtations, the deals struck and the liaisons begun or ended. But something darker was behind Frethers’s eyes as he laughed with a man as rotund and bald as himself. Something that sent a spike of fear and rage down her spine.
He was up to something.
She started making her way across to the group and arrived just as Frethers turned to speak to Lady Holliday.
“Your husband says your boys are welcome to come back with me to Worthington,” he said, his face pink with excitement. “Boys love a working farm, don’t they?”
Charlotte saw Lady Holliday frown. “When did my husband say that?”
“Oh, just a moment ago, my dear lady. You don’t mind, do you? Just a short little visit—be nice to have some young things about the place for a bit.”
Caught in the trap of politeness, Lady Holliday demurred. “Well, no, it’s just I had planned to take them—”
“Nonsense. Got to cut those apron strings some time, eh? Do them good, a bit of bracing country air.”
Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek. So that was his game.
There was plenty of bracing country air right here, and Frethers sounded a little too jolly. She knew what he wanted with the Holliday boys. If she didn’t stop him, she’d be an accomplice to the crime.
Charlotte laid a hand on her hostess’s arm, the touch of her satin-gloved fingers on the fine silk sleeve of her hostess’s dress the first step to possible ruin. She straightened her spine and tapped a little more firmly. “Lady Holliday, might I impose upon you for a moment?”
“Certainly, Miss Raven.” Her hostess turned toward her.
Charlotte drew her away from Frethers and, tucking her arm through the other woman’s, murmured in her ear.
“Could we go to my chamber? No one will interrupt us there.”
“Can we not talk here, Miss Raven? I have so many guests …”
“Please, my lady. I think you will very much want to hear what I have to say, and want to keep it as private as possible.”
Charlotte wondered what secrets Lady Holliday had that she blanched at her words and then gave a short, tight nod, allowing herself to be led upstairs to Charlotte’s bedroom.
“I’m sorry to be so melodramatic.” Charlotte walked to the window, leaving her hostess standing by the closed door of her small guest chamber. “Not many people know what I’m about to tell you, and believe me, I do not tell it lightly. However, I saw a look on Frethers’s face when he spoke of having your sons to visit, and that look persuaded me I must share the full story, so that you are never tempted to leave them alone with him. Ever.”
Lady Holliday gasped. “This is about Frethers? I thought—” She stopped abruptly and sat down on the armchair in a corner of the room. “You know something … bad about Lord Frethers?”
Charlotte nodded. “When I was four years old, my mother, who was a rookery whore, died.”
Charlotte made sure she was looking at Lady Holliday as she said it, and she saw the surprise on her hostess’s face. But the lady didn’t bluster, and she didn’t leave, so perhaps Charlotte’s instincts were right. They often were.
“She was very ill, my mother, and I can only imagine what she died of. The thing was, she was barely cold in her bed when the other women in our tenement began talking about how much they could sell me for. There was apparently a demand for very small girls at brothels. For men with … peculiar tastes.”
“Oh.” Lady Holliday could not help her exclamation, sitting rigid in her chair, her back ramrod stiff.
“I wasn’t too keen on being sold, as you can imagine.” Charlotte realized she was gripping her hands, and forced them to relax. “I stole some boys’ clothes off a washing line, dirtied my face, and found work as a chimney sweep’s boy. Charlie, I called myself.” She smiled. Shrugged. “Not that I kept my gender a secret. My employer didn’t mind, so long as his clients didn’t know. Some didn’t care, but others objected to girls working in their chimneys. I didn’t grow as fast as the boys, which he liked, and while he called me a lad, and dressed and treated me like the others, he knew I was a girl.”
“You were a sweep?” Lady Holliday’s voice was incredulous, and Charlotte looked down at her sky blue silk dress, touched the pile of dark curls on her head, and nodded. “Hardly seems possible, doesn’t it?”
She sat on the edge of her bed.
“When I was twelve, or thereabouts, I got stuck in a chimney at the home of Lady Howe. My master wanted to light a fire under me, to force me out, and Lady Howe wouldn’t hear of it. So my master packed up and left me to her. I’ve been warm, safe, and cared for ever since.”
“An amazing story, Miss Raven.” Lady Holliday leaned back in her chair. There was no sign of scorn or disbelief on her face. “But what has this to do with Lord Frethers?”
“I needed to tell you my background, so you would believe the story I’m about to tell you of Frethers.” Charlotte got up and began to pace, running her fingers along the pale yellow wallpaper.
“Once, when I was up a chimney, I popped out into a fireplace on the second floor of a mansion. The room I’d arrived in was Lord Frethers’s bedroom, and he was sitting in an armchair … pleasuring himself.”
Charlotte looked sidelong at Lady Holliday, hoping she wasn’t the kind of woman who affected horror at blunt talking, but she did nothing but incline her head for Charlotte to continue.
“When he caught sight of me, he leaped to his feet, hands still on his … er … nethers, and said something about my being a gift from above.”
Lady Holliday made a strangled sound.
“I know,” Charlotte agreed. She sat on the bed.
“Anyway, I tried to back into the fireplace, and get into the chimney, but it was a tight fit and he was able to get hold of my foot and haul me out. He grabbed the top of my shorts and jerked them down.” Charlotte thought back to that moment again, and managed to laugh. “It was the one and only time being a girl was ever to my advantage. The look on the old lecher’s face when he saw I wasn’t a boy.”
She sobered up at Lady Holliday’s expression. Decided not to tell her about the beating she got from Frethers afterward.
“Don’t let your boys within ten foot of the old goat, Lady Holliday. Don’t even let them in his sight.”
“Geoffrey.” Emma Holliday claimed her husband with a sweet smile from the men he stood with, but she dug her fingernails into his arm like claws as she dragged him off into her private drawing room.
“What’s the matter?” He shook off her hold, rubbing where she’d gripped him. His quick frown and wary eyes told her more than words how far things had slipped without her realizing.
“Lord Frethers says you told him he could take the boys with him after the weekend.”
The uncomfortable way his eyes cut away from hers started a chill deep in her core.
“My God.” There was a faint roaring in her ears, and she held out a hand to
steady herself on her portmanteau. “You know.”
“I have no idea what you’re wittering on about, Em. Know what?”
He must be very sure she couldn’t know, or he was a far better liar than she realized. She had a terrible feeling it was the latter.
“Know that Frethers is a predatory lech who molests little boys like James, Ned, and Harry whenever he can.”
“Where did you hear that?” he asked, aghast.
“One of our house guests overheard Frethers telling me you’d said he could have the boys for a few days, and told me all about it.”
“What, rumor and speculation?” Geoffrey scoffed.
“Oh no.” Emma shook her head, her heart still trying to come to grips with the evidence before her. “This guest had a run-in with Frethers at the age of twelve. I was listening to a firsthand account, and I know every word was true.”
“Who is the fellow? I’ll tell you if he’s sound or not.”
“I don’t need you to tell me who I can and can’t trust,” she said sharply. She drew in a shuddering breath. “Your own children, Geoffrey? We can’t survive this.”
“What do you mean?” His face was working, trying to find outraged innocence, and failing.
“What deal did you make with the devil?” Anger kept her upright and together. Her boys needed her and she would not fail them. “When I told you to put an end to that other business, I had no idea you’d go off and find some even worse way out of the debts you’ve managed to accumulate.”
Again, he wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“Oh heaven help us,” she almost moaned. “You didn’t end the other business, did you? You’ve gone ahead with it, and you’ve made a deal with Frethers.”
“We’re on our skids, dear girl,” Geoffrey said sadly. “About to reach the end of the purse strings.”
“What have you done? Why are we having this weekend if we have no money?”
“Already planned it, hadn’t we? I’d hoped the investment I made a few months ago would pay off. I backed a merchant ship to the East, and the bloody ship went down off the Cape of Storms. I’d put everything into that ship, Em. Everything.”
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