His Dark Enchantress (Books We Love Regency Romance)

by Chatham, Victoria

  She rushed to the bedside, saw that the strain etched lines around her grandfather’s mouth and eyes, the wrinkles on his brow that had been so pronounced a day earlier, were now all gone leaving his face relaxed and almost young looking.

  Tenderly Emmaline straightened the sheets over him, brushed the hair back from his forehead and cheeks. Taking his limp hands she laid them on his chest then sank to her knees, rested her chin on her folded hands and whispered rapid prayers.

  Lucius, looking in a few moments later, paused and then went to her. He helped her to her feet and put his arms around her, stroked her hair but said nothing, for what was there that one could say?

  Together they went down to the kitchen. Peggy took one look at them, immediately covered her face with her apron and noisily sobbed into it. The doctor and Reverend Tucker were summoned and the day went by in a blur for them all. Amidst all the necessary arrangements being made for the funeral, Emmaline’s luggage arrived, prompting her to put pen to paper and immediately send the news to her aunt.

  August was no month for a funeral Emmaline thought as, two days later, they set out from Baymoor for Sidmouth parish church.

  The sun was already high in the sky, the heat beating down on them although it was not yet noon. The pair of black horses drawing the hearse, plumes decorating their bridles and black velvet tasselled cloths thrown over their backs, already had a fine sheen of sweat on their necks.

  Advised by Mrs. Partridge that as a new bride she need not wear full mourning, Emmaline was thankful for her dove grey muslin gown worn with a black silk bonnet and gloves. She and Lucius walked in silence behind the hearse, Emmaline lost in her own thoughts and unaware of the growing procession. Villagers, waiting beside the road joined the mourners, their shuffling feet raising the dust around them.

  The tolling of the church bell brought many more people to the service. Emmaline shook hands and said ‘thank you’ to those who offered their condolences without knowing who many of them were. That her grandfather had been well respected was obvious but she was still thankful when the day was over.

  She and Lucius took their customary evening walk, neither feeling the need to talk, neither wanting to broach the subject of where Emmaline would sleep that night or when they should leave. The air cooled. A fitful gust of wind off the bay played through the tree tops and rippled the grass as it whispered past. Night clouds as heavy and purple as ripe plums, their edges burnished by the setting sun, formed on the horizon.

  Emmaline sighed and looked up at Lucius.

  “We should go back,” she said softly. “I have my boxes to unpack and repack and...”

  “Leave it if you wish.” Lucius shifted her hand from the crook of his elbow and closed his long fingers around hers. “We will stop in Bath for a few days before going on to Avondale. I know of several modistes and milliners who will be delighted to furnish you with their wares at my expense.”

  For a moment Emmaline digested this information. Then she peeped up at Lucius from under her lashes.

  “Yes, but are they reputable?”

  Lucius laughed. “Very saucy of you, my dear. But, as you know something of Bath, perhaps there are shops you would prefer to frequent?”

  “None that I know of, for I was very young when I was at school and paid no attention to such things.”

  “And now you are such an antidote.”

  She appreciated the teasing gleam in his eyes and when they reached the stile gripped his hand a little more tightly as Lucius assisted her over it. She turned to him and even in the gathering gloom he could see the question in her eyes.

  “Not until you’re ready, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

  Emmaline nodded her thanks, wished him a good night and went to her room. This must be a dream, she thought as she removed her clothes. She had married one of the richest men in the ton. Not only rich, but kind and understanding to a fault.

  How could she be so lucky? And when would it all come crashing down around her ears?

  CHAPTER 21

  Lady Rosemary Darnley surveyed herself in the mirror. She tweaked a curl in to place and looked carefully for any signs of silver in her titian hair. One or two strands showed occasionally and were quickly taken care of with the lightest touch of henna to hide them.

  Although above forty, her skin was still smooth and free of wrinkles other than the fine lines that fanned out from the corners of her emerald green eyes.

  Green eyes that captivated the elderly Earl of Barkwith who swept her from the itinerant life she led with a troop of performers into the equally itinerant life of the ton.

  They were, she remembered, always on the move and, although the coaches were better sprung and much more comfortable than the actors’ wagons, it was not the life she had envisioned.

  An overwhelming concern for his health meant they journeyed from London to Tunbridge Wells for Lord Darnley to take the iron rich Chalybeate spring waters. This, it was reputed, cured infertility, hangovers and obesity. The first was undoubtedly a consideration, the second and third of no consequence as Lord Darnley never touched alcohol and ate sparingly as recommended by his doctor.

  Rosemary cursed the infernal doctor who also recommended Brighton for the bathing and sea air. So bracing and healthful.

  From Brighton Lord Darnley insisted on visiting Bath for its hot springs and pump room, followed by a stop at Cheltenham spa for the alkaline waters there. Next on the itinerary was York to visit an elderly aunt before retiring at last to his country seat in Lincolnshire for the winter.

  But, bitter though she was at the constant upheaval, she did not complain. She dared not, remembering her childhood in the workhouse. Had it not been for a troop of actors requiring a small child for one of their plays, she might still be there.

  Her vow never to return to a life of poverty always in her mind, she smiled and simpered and agreed with her husband’s every whim, until she learnt how to divert him from one idea to another all the while letting him think it was originally his plan.

  Olivia resulted from their infrequent and decidedly unsatisfying forays in the marital bed and, although it was not the hoped for male heir, her birth ended all conjugal visits to Rosemary’s room. From then on she took an occasional and very discreet lover and had, at one point, almost succumbed to the idea of seducing Lucius, good looking devil that he was.

  And that had been a fleeting thought. As he was some years her junior she knew it would have been a very brief affair. But his wealth was a strong attraction and Rosemary quite liked the idea of being the mother-in-law who resided at Avondale Park. If only Olivia had the wit to intrigue Avondale, to beguile him and bewitch him as the Devereux girl had.

  Rosemary looked past her own reflection and studied that of her daughter’s with some distaste. The girl had inherited all of her father’s attributes and none of her mother’s. And what a disappointment that was.

  Olivia’s hair was a non-descript colour between a very light brown and blonde with an occasional strand of true auburn. Her eyes were a weak, watery blue and Rosemary suspected that it would not be long before the child resorted to wearing spectacles. Her chin, just like her father’s, receded into her neck with no hint of character at all.

  And, just like her father, she read constantly. If it were not books it was the newspaper which she now perused with avid attention with her little spaniel, Pepper, curled at her feet.

  “Olivia, I told you I did not want that dog in the drawing room,” she said in a cold tone.

  “But Mama, we are not expecting visitors today.”

  “That matters not, Olivia. Please do as I bid you.”

  Olivia was not paying attention to her mama, an item in the newspaper having caught her eye.

  “Oh, how romantic and tragic,” she said, continuing to read.

  Rosemary took a deep, controlling breath in an effort to contain her temper. “Either one or the other, Olivia, it cannot be both.”

  “But it is, mama,” Ol
ivia insisted. “Lord Clifton and Miss Devereux were married at her grandfather’s bedside and then he died.”

  Rosemary froze.

  “Married?” she shrieked. She turned so quickly to face Olivia that her skirts almost tripped her. “Did you say married?”

  Ripping the newspaper from her daughter’s hands Rosemary read the item for herself. As she scanned the print she began to shake with fury. How could Lucius have been so stupid? After all her efforts, how could he have been so taken in by that chit?

  “What is wrong, mama?” Olivia asked.

  “Wrong?” Rosemary shook the newspaper in Olivia’s face. “I’ll tell you what is wrong! Avondale did not marry you!”

  “B-but I d-did not w-want to m-marry him,” Olivia stuttered, an expression of confusion on her face.

  “Oh, you stupid, stupid, girl!” Rosemary closed her eyes as if to banish Olivia from her sight. “It would not have taken much more persuasion after we discredited that wretched chit. And get rid of that damn dog!”

  Rosemary lashed out with a well-aimed kick that sent Pepper squealing under the sofa.

  “Mama!” protested Olivia. She sank to her knees, hooked the shaking dog from its retreat and lifted it into her arms.

  Rosemary strode to the fireplace and pulled hard on the bell rope but it was some moments before a footman appeared.

  “Send for Sir Peregrine Styles. Immediately.” She continued to pace the floor. “And do not return without him. It is imperative I speak to him.”

  The footman bowed and left the room.

  “What do you w-want with Peregrine?” Olivia, still cuddling her dog, looked up at her mother whose green eyes were filled with fury.

  “Never you mind,” Rosemary said sharply.

  “Well, of all things,” huffed Olivia, her eyes filling with indignant tears. “You s-snap at m-me because L-Lord Clifton is m-married, you won’t tell m-me why you want to see P-Peregrine and, and you k-kicked my dog!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Rosemary ground out. “Stop being such a child.”

  “I did,” announced Olivia. “Stop b-being a c-child, that is. I turned t-twenty-one t-two days ago, n-not that you remembered. P-Papa would have done. He w-would have held a b-ball for me, or some s-such thing and would no d-doubt have given m-me a piece of precious jewellery to m-mark the occasion.”

  The truth of it sank in to Rosemary’s crowded brain but before she could utter a response, Olivia swept past her.

  “And Mama,” Olivia threw over her shoulder, “it was you who wanted t-to discredit Miss Devereux, not I.”

  Rosemary stamped her foot. Everything she had done, all the subterfuge in discovering Emmaline Devereux’s history, the efforts to lift the veil from Lucius’ eyes for him to see the truth, all for nothing.

  There would now be no comfortable suite at Avondale Park. No chance of advancing herself in the house in Berkeley Square as she assisted Olivia in the management of it. No accounts with modistes and milliners, for Lady Clifton and her mama must dress in the first stare of fashion. The carriage and pair she had envisioned for her daughter and herself, the carriage with gleaming black door panels emblazoned with the Avondale crest, the cream coloured ponies that drew it wearing black harness to match the carriage, remained just that. A vision.

  She balled her fists, her inner turmoil making her feel quite sick. And where was Peregrine?

  It seemed an interminable time before he strolled, unannounced, into the drawing room to join her.

  He bowed low, but not before Rosemary saw the sardonic expression on his face.

  So he had already heard the news as, she suspected, had the rest of London.

  “My dearest Aunt,” Peregrine drawled. “You demanded my presence and here I am. To what do I owe the honour?”

  “I am only your dearest Aunt as long as I have coin in my pocket to transfer to yours and neither of us is honoured, Peregrine, and well you know it,” Rosemary hissed. “I have a task for you.”

  “Ah.” Peregrine draped himself across the sofa. “Well, Aunt, as you know, tasks do not come cheap and require yet another transfer of the coin you mention. What do you require of me this time?”

  Rosemary folded her hands together and took a deep breath.

  “I want you to make Emmaline Devereux disappear.”

  Peregrine did not shift his position, but his face sharpened and his eyebrows twitched as he stared at his aunt.

  “Dear lady, sunk below reproach I may be, but murder?”

  Rosemary shook her head. “I did not say that. But if it suited you, I don’t doubt it would be something you could accomplish one way or another.”

  Inspecting his manicured nails as if that was the only item of importance to him, Peregrine finally looked up at his aunt with hard, dark eyes. He got to his feet with a languid carelessness, strolled to the window and looked out.

  “Well?” Rosemary could barely contain her impatience.

  “What you are asking is cold, calculated and carries the most enormous risks, not least of all to me.”

  “But can you do it?”

  A sneer fixed itself on Peregrine’s face. Emmaline Devereux, if anything at all like her best friend Juliana Clifton, would show him no regard, no respect. He thought of ways in which he could punish her for that. Ways that would have her squealing and begging for mercy.

  When he spoke his voice was soft, insidious.

  “For the right price, Aunt, I can do anything.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Rain ran down the window panes like slow tears.

  Emmaline, driven indoors by the sudden change in the weather, stalked Avondale Park’s long gallery from one end to the other and back again.

  Damn him! Where was Lucius?

  She had barely seen him all day and was sure he was keeping out of her way. She tightened her hands into fists and stamped a foot in frustration.

  Just over two weeks a bride and he had still not touched her. What was wrong with him? Or was it her? Or was it simply the fact that this really was a marriage of convenience?

  He had not pressed her to share his bed, or come to hers. Instead, he had comforted her and supported her, allowing her to grieve in her own fashion, respecting her silences and offering nothing but his strength when she needed it.

  During their few days in Bath he had, as promised, furnished her with an entire new wardrobe. It impressed her that he did know which shops were the most fashionable and amused her to see how quick their managers were to show off their best wares.

  Unused to such extravagance she objected as each new dress, cape, cloak and shawl was ordered to be delivered to Avondale Park. Bonnets, gloves and shoes followed as did ruby earrings and necklace to match her wedding ring.

  “One would think I had no wardrobe of my own,” she objected.

  “Just think of it as enhancing what you already possess,” Lucius told her with a satisfied grin.

  Those enhancements now hung in a lavender scented wardrobe in her bed chamber, unpacked and put away by Bessy, the maid she selected from the household staff.

  This promotion came with the blessing of the housekeeper, Mrs. Hammond, whom she had won over at the first by refusing the offered house keys and requested instead help in learning to manage Avondale Park.

  She made another ally in the cook, Mrs. Swift, by asking if she made good custard and that lady, beaming with pleasure, professed it to be her speciality. Emmaline further pleased her by asking for her custard to be served in a large bowl, and not a dainty custard glass.

  She sighed and pressed her hot forehead against a cool window pane.

  Her first view of the house, set at the end of a mile long avenue of horse chestnut trees had, quite simply, entranced her with its grandeur. Built of mellowed, yellow stone, its many windowed facade and pillared entrance looked out on a graceful ornamental fountain erected in the centre of the carriage sweep.

  But, when Lucius led her in through the doors to the entrance hall Emmaline
had stopped.

  Wide eyed with astonishment, she had taken in the painted ceilings and heavily ornamented and gilded furnishings, the portraits on the walls and the sheer scope of it all.

  “It is rather overwhelming, is it not?” Lucius said, grinning at her reaction.

  “Lucius, this is enormous!” she had gasped. “I shall never get used to this being my home.”

  And there was the cause of her unease.

  Avondale Park was not yet her home.

  She tried to make it so by arranging to spend her mornings with Mrs. Hammond who promised to take her, room by room, through the whole property. They had already inspected the Blue Room and the Chinese Room, but Emmaline was drawn to the library because that was where Lucius was usually found.

  Except for today.

  Unaccustomed to indecision and inaction, Emmaline lifted her skirts and ran downstairs. Wherever he was, she was going to flush him out.

  She checked the library again, looked into his office but he was in neither room. She followed the sounds of voices and laughter to the kitchen which all fell silent at her entrance.

  “My Lady.” Mrs. Swift and the kitchen staff all curtsied or bowed.

  Swallowing her temper, Emmaline apologized for the intrusion. It galled her to ask if they knew where his Lordship might be and it was Fred, one of the footmen, who finally offered that he might be in his wood working shed.

  “And where will I find that?” Emmaline asked.

  “I’ll show you, my Lady, if you’ll come with me but the quickest way is through the servants’ quarters.”

  “Then that’s way we’ll go,” Emmaline said, trying to keep her excitement at finding Lucius out of her voice.

  She followed the footman along a dim corridor with closed doors on either side. At the end of the corridor, they came to a large utility room where Fred handed her an umbrella and suggested she select a cloak.

  “You’ll get fair soaked otherwise, my Lady,” he said.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, Fred.” Emmaline swung the cloak around her shoulders and prepared to open the umbrella as Fred opened the door.