Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters)

by Wylde, Anya

  Seeking Philbert Woodbead

  The Fairweather Sisters Series: Book 2

  By

  ANYA WYLDE

  Copyright 2013 Anya Wylde

  Acknowledgement

  Thank you, Magda, for the beautiful cover. Thank you, Anne, for your invaluable help.

  John, I can't believe that even after all these years, we are still not sick of each other.

  Portia, you are my little stress buster.

  Table of Contents

  Seeking Philbert Woodbead

  Acknowledgement

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Prologue

  In the latter part of March of the year seventeen hundred and something, a large schooner rested on calm blue waters off the coast of England.

  It was mid-afternoon, the water was unruffled and crystal clear, while the sky above had sent its grey clouds to London.

  The sun beamed down on the deck where gentlemen with missing toes, feet, teeth or hands lay draped around the schooner attempting to snooze away the day.

  Now, this schooner was no ordinary schooner (as you might have guessed from the hint above referring to missing limbs and such) but a piratical schooner, and the gentlemen were not really gentlemen but looters, marauders and plunderers.

  Yes, sir, they were murderous, unscrupulous adventurers and stinking water rats.

  They were all pirates. Each one of them was a pirate. The whole blasted lot of them were pirates. In fact, they couldn’t be more piratical if they tried. And they tried. Oh, how they tried to be more devilish than the devil himself.

  And one of them came close to being the devilishest … if that is a word. If it is not, then it should be because it perfectly described the tall, muscular, grey eyed man with his long silver streaked black hair and cruel mouth. This man was so wicked that the mere reference to him caused the afternoon light to dim, the wind to blow more urgently, the men to wake mid snooze, the tea to jump out of the cup … Where were we?

  Ah, yes, the captain of the ship, the head pirate, the Black bloody Rover, whose name was enough to frighten the children of the world into behaving, was the owner of this piratical schooner called The Desperate Lark and the leader of these dim muscled men.

  He stormed now onto the middle of the deck sending the seagulls screaming into the air. His appearance caused the men to scatter while his frown had them cowering in the bilge. While they cowered, the Black Rover grabbed the cuff of a one legged man, his most trusted aide, and in low, clipped cultured tones asked, “Who stole it, Tim?”

  “George Rodrick Irvin, the future Earl of Devon currently holding the courtesy title of Viscount Elmer,” squeaked Tim. “The one we call Lord Wicked.”

  “Kill him.” The Black Rover was a man of few words.

  Tim bowed in response.

  “And kidnap the cooks,” the Black Rover continued.

  Tim dared to frown, “Cooks?”

  The Black Rover glowered. “And the chefs. I want every single person who can cook to be kidnapped and tortured until we get it back.”

  “Torture?” Tim asked uncomfortably. “Can’t we simply kill them and be done with it? I don’t like torturing. It is a messy job, and I don’t like it when they cry and they all cry.”

  The Black Rover smiled harshly. He leaned closer to Tim and whispered in his half bitten ear two words, “Pigeon feathers.”

  “Arr.” Tim’s sparsely lashed eyes widened in admiration. He shook his head at his captain’s intelligence. The most learned man, Tim thought proudly, was right here.

  Pigeon feathers … The Black Rover was a blooming genius.

  Chapter 1

  It was the first of April and an unearthly hour of seven in the morning. Finnshire was bathed in a dull grey light and the wind was blowing cold, misty and fetid. The bees and the grasshoppers were gloomily sitting under sodden leaves while the birds were chirping and tweeting miserably.

  The farmers of Finnshire lingered over their breakfast hoping for the sun to break through the clouds, while the children of these farmers snuggled under covers turning a deaf ear to their mothers shrieking at them to wake up and milk the cows. As for the cows themselves, they too sniffed unhappily at the chill in the air, their tails swishing half-heartedly at the few enthusiastic flies fluttering about.

  It was supposed to be spring.

  It was also one of those days that tried one’s spirit, and the world felt sucked dry of vitality. It was the sort of day when no one in their right mind would venture outdoors for the sake of enjoyment. It was certainly not a day to take a walk, but Miss Celine Fairweather was out doing just that.

  To be fair, Celine was not enjoying her walk. It was more a duty, a habit and a matter of discipline. Mrs Beatle’s book for accomplished English ladies clearly stated that a lady must rise early and go for a ride or take a walk. A spot of exercise was supposed to be good for the constitution.

  Which was why Celine was trudging now through the familiar country path, her brown half-boots sinking into the muck and her normally attractive face flushed an unsightly red.

  And as she walked, her cheeks inflating and deflating like two tiny scarlet balloons, she failed to notice the beautiful bird with a shiny green neck perched up ahead on the branch or the silver half-moon still glittering in the pink sky. Nor did she stop to admire the handsome farmer hacking away at some wood, his muscles rippling and sweat gleaming on his skin.

  Instead, her eyes were trained on the muddy ground, her small, delicate feet carefully circumventing the worms, beetles and blobs of manure in her path. And while her body marched ahead battling the chilly wind and fetid scents, her mind was busy planning the day, for Celine Fairweather was not a fanciful sort.

  She was also not ninety years old with loose skin and white hair. She was a young woman of marriageable age whose days were spent in being good and dutiful and cultivating the refined and gentle manners of an accomplished English lady.

  In short, Celine was dry, dull and dusty, and something needed to be done urgently before she progressed from being mildly pedestrian to excruciatingly proper.

  That something happened to occur right at that very moment when Celine turned the corner that led to her house and found a handsome carriage emblazoned with the crest of Blackthorne hurtling towards her from the other end of the road.

  Both she and the carriage halted at the sight of the other. She was stunned, while the carriage felt nothing for it was an inanimate thing.

  The driver recognized her and leaped down from his seat.

  “Is all well?” Celine asked worriedly.

  The driver shrugged. “The duchess sent this lett
er for you, Miss. Tis’ urgent.”

  “Go to the kitchens, the cook will have something for you,” Celine replied. She took the letter and nervously traced the duchess’ seal.

  The Duchess of Blackthorne was her beloved friend and stepsister Penelope Radclyff. Celine quickened her steps. Penelope was eight months pregnant … Surely nothing had gone wrong?

  She pushed open the gate and strode down the path towards the house. Her mind was filled with questions. Why had Penelope sent the letter in this manner? Why send the carriage?

  She should have waited until she reached indoors to read the letter. It was what Mrs Beatle would have advised, since patience was a virtue all ladies must cultivate.

  Celine decided to cultivate it later and slit open the envelope.

  She quickly scanned the contents and came to the end of the page. She turned it over and then back again. She was reading it for the third time when a cold drop of rain fell on her nose.

  She lifted her head, her eyes dazed.

  Another icy drop snapped her back to the present.

  She opened her mouth and disregarding for once Mrs Beatle’s advice on how a young lady must never raise her voice yelled like a crazed tribal warrior, “Pack your bags, Dorothy. We are leaving for London in an hour.”

  ***

  The clouds parted and the bright sun blazed in its full golden glory upon the inhabitants of Finnshire. The warmed up birds, bees and grasshoppers sang more cheerily, and the breeze turned sweet and pleasant. Spring had finally decided to flutter down and grace England.

  Celine and Dorothy smiled widely. It was a beautiful day for travelling.

  “It will rain the moment your journey begins,” Lily remarked.

  Both Celine and Dorothy ignored their sister. Instead, they focussed on the footman, maid and carriage driver, who were busy shoving travelling cases into the back of the carriage.

  “Mark my words,” Lily continued ominously. “A deadly tempest is on the way. I suggest you delay your journey by a few months.”

  “Penelope needs us now,” Celine said shortly. She directed the driver to place the smaller bags under the seat. The longer ones were strapped onto the roof.

  “How many years are you planning to spend in London?” Lily asked as yet another bag was squeezed under the seat.

  “A little less than two months,” Celine answered.

  “I fear the carriage won’t hold,” Dorothy spoke up. “The long bags are going to break through the roof and land on our heads, and the ones under us will explode, for we had to have three people sit on each one of them before they could be fastened.”

  “I hope they do explode,” Lily said.

  Celine scowled at her. Lily had made a pest of herself from the moment she had found out that she and Dorothy were heading to London without her.

  “Twenty one bags,” Dorothy remarked, “is a little excessive, Celine.”

  “Every one of them is essential,” Celine replied firmly.

  “We should be going with you,” Lily whined suddenly. “We are eighteen years old, while that imp Dorothy is only thirteen.”

  “We?” Celine asked in confusion. No one else present was eighteen except Lily … unless … She grabbed Lily’s hand and gently stroked it. “Lily,” she asked carefully, “how many people live in your head?”

  “The royal we,” Lily sniffed. She snatched her hand back. “Truly, Celine, you can be dreadfully dim at times.”

  “You are not royal,” Dorothy sniffed back.

  “I could be royal,” Lily said. “After all, if Penelope managed to snare the Duke of Blackthorne, then I can surely find a prince.”

  Celine pressed her lips together and refrained from comment. She had told everyone that Penelope had requested that she bring Dorothy along when quite honestly Penelope had done no such thing.

  The truth was that Lily was a facsimile of her mother. Celine could have overlooked Lily’s greed, biliousness and temperamental liver, but what she could not ignore was the fact that Lily was not only all these things but she was also nosy, and that was simply unacceptable.

  “Dorothy, ask Gunhilda to hurry,” Celine said turning her back on Lily.

  “Can’t we leave her behind?” Dorothy asked hopefully.

  “Afraid not, my love, your governess has to come,” Celine replied, patting her sister’s head.

  “Taking care of the duchess is not going to be fun,” Lily said watching Dorothy race towards the house.

  “It will be hard work,” Celine agreed.

  “Is she going to yield up the ghost?”

  “Penelope is perfectly healthy, Lily. She is going to give birth within two months and she simply needs someone to help her run the mansion for a while.”

  “She has the dowager to help her.”

  “The dowager has broken her leg in Bath. She and the duke’s sister Anne had gone there to visit an ailing relative.”

  Lily smirked, “You won’t have a minute to yourself. ”

  “True.”

  “You know nothing of how to run a duchess’ household.”

  “The steward, housekeeper and Penny can guide me.”

  Lily smiled more widely. “It sounds tedious. I doubt you will get a chance to visit the sights or attend parties.”

  “Penelope cannot leave Blackthorne, and I cannot possibly go exploring London on my own.”

  Lily leaned on her parasol looking far more smug and pleased with the situation. “I wonder how you convinced mother to let you go. It is no secret that she dislikes Penelope.”

  “She may dislike her stepdaughter, but she does care about her own children.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I reminded her that the duke has plenty of friends.”

  “Male friends?”

  Celine nodded.

  “Unmarried friends?”

  “Looking for wives.”

  The dark glower returned to Lily’s face.

  Thereafter, the two sisters waited in silence until Dorothy came skipping back towards them. The governess and Celine’s lady’s maid followed close behind.

  The next ten minutes were spent rearranging the bags inside the carriage to make it more comfortable, and another twenty minutes were spent detaching Lily from the carriage wheel.

  Finally, goodbyes were said and the carriage with the Blackthorne symbol emblazoned on its doors rolled out of the Fairweather household and onto the road that lead to London.

  Chapter 2

  Blackthorn, the shrub, is as its name suggests a thorny species with a bark that is almost black in colour. The leaves of this plant masquerade as good old tea leaves while the fruits are mostly useless.

  This shrub is generally used to create a sharp, warning hedge to contain animals within a particular area or to prevent pests from sneaking in from the outside.

  The Blackthorne Mansion shared many of the characteristics of this plant. Its formidable grey walls protected its inhabitants by keeping out unscrupulous men while keeping in the balmier members of the household.

  Nestled squarely in the middle of London and surrounded by lush manicured lawns, the mansion was like a beautiful cactus sprouting boldly from the ground.

  The mansion itself had been built in the fourteenth century, and as the years went by and the residing families lived and died so did the original structure grow, flourish and expand. And since fashions change with the ages and tastes differ from one family to another so did the mansion grow and evolve until it had Roman, Greek, Gothic and Oriental elements in its structure.

  When so many beautiful styles of architecture are squished together, the result is bound to be petrifying, and Blackthorne was no exception.

  The Blackthorne Mansion was undoubtedly an unsightly structure. A forthright person was often tempted to say that it wasn’t just unsightly. It was, in fact, a monstrosity and a blight upon the good English soil. But the Radclyff family which currently resided in this building defended their beloved home by saying that ‘It may be f
rightful to look at, but no one can deny that the Blackthorne Mansion has character.’

  Celine wished it had less character. In fact, she would rather it had no character whatsoever, for the mansion was not only large with cubby holes that were difficult to clean, but walking through its corridors at night was a daunting prospect. She had been here for a week and she still needed the occasional help of a maid to find her way around its long meandering passageways.

  She hung now over the ledge of a window in the breakfast room contemplating life. The London lifestyle, she mused, was so different from her own country world. Her days in Finnshire had been like a wooden boat bobbing down a tranquil stream, while here a whole week had sped by as fast as a frog hurling its sticky tongue out to catch a tasty fly.

  The fresh cold morning air bathed her face as she watched clear skinned milk maids fluttering their lashes at the mansion’s male servants. A few lads dared to wink at the blushing maids and still others hung around to leer for a bit.

  Celine was told that this flirtation between the milkmaids and the servants had become a custom of sorts and not a morning went by when this mating dance was not performed.

  She started to roll her eyes at the men and their foolishness when she spotted something odd from the corner of her eye and froze mid roll.

  She gasped and squinted leaning further over the ledge.

  “Are you trying to kill yourself? Do you want me to push you over the ledge?” Dorothy asked helpfully.

  “You should be asleep,” Celine said whirling around.

  “It is time to feed my pet. I was going to the kitchens to ask the cook for some milk,” Dorothy replied trying to slip under Celine’s arm to look outside the window. “What were you looking at?”

  “Pet?” Celine asked, deftly pushing Dorothy away from the window and moving towards the Grand Staircase. “When did you procure a pet, and did you ask your governess Gunhilda or the duke for permission? This is not our home, Dorothy, and—”

  “Why are you running, Celine?” Dorothy interrupted.

  “I am not running. I am walking quickly,” Celine panted as she leaped over a housemaid scrubbing the marble floors. She continued bounding up the stairs making the parlour maid and the housekeeper, Mrs Cornley, spring apart to let her through.