The Faithful Siren
Merry Farmer
THE FAITHFUL SIREN
Copyright ©2019 by Merry Farmer
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)
ASIN: B07ZG3MPV8
Paperback ISBN: 9781704216676
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Created with Vellum
For Jess and Mike
Yay! At last!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
London – Autumn, 1816
“This is a tragedy. An utter tragedy of Shakespearian proportions.”
Lady Imogen Marlowe stared at her image in the long mirror propped in a corner of her bedroom, miserable to her core. Too much of her life had been misery, ever since her mother’s death nearly a decade ago. But things had gone from bad to worse at the summer house party hosted by Lord Rufus and Lady Caroline Herrington in Shropshire six weeks before.
“At least you look beautiful,” Imogen’s sister, Alice, said, coming to stand beside her. “I am shocked that Father allowed you to buy a new gown for the ball tonight.”
Imogen’s heart sank further. “Father didn’t buy it for me, Lord Cunningham did.” She spoke as though Lord Cunningham had purchased the ax that would lop off her head soon.
Alice slipped a supportive arm around Imogen’s waist and the two of them stood there in silence, regarding their gloomy reflections. Their fates had been sealed at the Herrington house party. Their father had managed the coup he’d been talking about for years. He’d engaged all three of his daughters to men of title and wealth, or at least reputation and wealth, in the case of their eldest sister, Lettuce. Poor Lettuce had been all but abducted by the odious Mr. Pigge—a merchant with grand plans and disgusting character—who had already forcibly married Lettuce and carried her off on a ship bound for America.
Imogen’s and Alice’s fates were no less horrific. Alice was betrothed to the Aegirian Count Fabian Camoni—who had abandoned her almost as soon as the engagement was final, promising to come for her at Christmas. Alice was lucky to have the reprieve. Imogen, on the other hand, wasn’t so fortunate. Her father had shackled her to Lord Cunningham—a lascivious bounder who was as old as her father and who had made no secret about the reasons he wanted Imogen. She was fated to spend her marriage on her back, being used in ways she shuddered to imagine, until she was too worn out for the purpose. And then who knew what would become of her?
“Come on,” Alice said at last, shaking herself and drawing Imogen away from the mirror. “This is practically your first outing since returning to London after the house party. You should enjoy it.”
Imogen sighed and walked with Alice to her bed. The sisters sat together, shoulders drooping. “It won’t be the same without you,” she swallowed, “or Letty.”
“I know,” Alice hugged her from the side, leaning her head against Imogen’s shoulder. “Father is beyond cruel for locking us in the house and forbidding us to go out.”
“I never would have been so happy to attend Lady Malvis and Lord Ainsley’s wedding if we’d had any other opportunity to so much as go outside and take a walk,” Imogen added.
Alice snorted with surprise laughter. “That was an event, wasn’t it?”
Imogen cracked a weak smile as well. The one and only time she and Alice had been let out of the house in the past six weeks was to attend the wedding. Lady Malvis was Lord Cunningham’s daughter, so of course his fiancée was required to attend the ceremony and wedding breakfast afterward. And Alice was right, it was an event. Lord Ainsley was the most eccentric man she’d ever known. He’d insisted that he and Lady Malvis should wear matching outfits of lavender and puce and that the flowers should follow the same color scheme. He’d doted ridiculously on Lady Malvis and recited sugary poetry to her several times throughout the day. As soon as the wedding was over, they’d departed for America on the same ship as Lettuce and Mr. Pigge—neither of whom attended the wedding.
More than the silliness of the wedding, Imogen was grateful that Lady Malvis’s big day meant that Lord Cunningham had been forced to delay his own marriage until a suitable amount of time after his daughter’s wedding. Imogen had had a reprieve, but that was now over.
And there was one other element to the whole farce, one giant, painful twist that made a rotten situation even more disastrous.
Alice glanced mournfully at Imogen and asked, “Have you…have you heard from Thaddeus at all?” in a quiet voice.
Imogen heaved a sigh and shook her head, her tears flowing at last. “No,” she admitted with a wet sniffle, not even trying to brush away her tears. “But I’m certain it’s not because he hasn’t tried to contact me.” She squared her shoulders and attempted to be strong as she went on. “Lord Thaddeus Herrington is the most wonderful man on the planet. He is dashing and brave and so handsome. The way he kissed me at the house party and the way he promised to care for me always was glorious and heartfelt.”
“But you haven’t had so much as a letter smuggled in by the servants since then?” Alice’s voice went even quieter.
Imogen dropped her shoulders. “No,” she moaned. “But I don’t believe for a moment that it is Thaddeus’s fault. Father must be preventing him from contacting me. Father and Lord Cunningham.”
“It makes sense that they would,” Alice sighed. “You would run off with Lord Herrington at the drop of a hat if you had a chance to.”
It wasn’t a question. Alice knew full well that Imogen had given her whole heart to Thaddeus at the house party. He was everything Lord Cunningham was not and then some. He was young—too young, some might say. As the youngest son of an earl, he wasn’t much better than a middle-class tradesman, but Thaddeus had ideas and he had ambition. He’d spoken to Imogen about his plans to defy convention and go into trade. He’d gone on and on with rhapsodic elegance about the opportunities open to young men of insight and boldness, thanks to the mechanization of industry and the vast increase in sea trade. He’d painted such a beautiful picture of the future the two of them could have, if Imogen was bold enough to escape her father’s and Lord Cunningham’s clutches.
But since they were heartlessly torn apart at the end of the house party, since Imogen had been locked away in her father’s house, as though it were a prison, she’d had no contact with Thaddeus at all.
“He will find a way to reach you,” Alice reassured her with a hug. “He loves you, and doesn’t our book say that love conquers all?”
Alice leapt off the bed and crossed to the bureau to retrieve part of a bro
ken book. She carried the book back to Imogen, thrusting it into her hands.
Imogen smoothed her hands over the already worn pages of the book as though it were an old friend. “The Secrets of Love,” she sighed the title of the book. “Wouldn’t it be grand if these pages contained exactly the sort of secret that could save us?”
“Perhaps they do,” Alice said, a faint note of hope in her voice. “That is to say, look right there.”
She pointed to the heading on the page Imogen had opened to: Daring to Love. Imogen stared at the words, wondering if she had it within her to dare at all anymore.
“Here,” Alice said, taking the book from her. “I’ll read it aloud to cheer you up.” She cleared her throat. “Love can seem unattainable to those who live in a cruel world, but that should not prevent you from dreaming of amazing possibilities. Anything is possible with love. Even the shepherdess can dream of marrying the prince and make it possible if she is willing to embrace boldness. She will find that the man she loves becomes the prince in her eyes and in her heart.”
Imogen huffed a defeated laugh. “The author of The Secrets of Love must not have been part of our London society. If she were, she would know that we must be resigned to our fates.”
“But are you?” Alice asked. “Are you truly resigned to the fate of marrying Lord Cunningham? Do you hold out no hope that Lord Herrington will rescue you in the end?”
Imogen bit her lip, gently taking her section of the book from Alice’s hands. “No, I am not truly resigned,” she whispered. She was certain that hope filled her eyes as she went on with, “I know Thaddeus. Even though he has been unable to contact me since Shropshire, I know that he is thinking about me and I know he is looking for ways to take me away from all this.”
“Then you must remain faithful to him in your heart,” Alice insisted. “You must believe in him.”
“I do. I most certainly do. But—”
Imogen was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. A moment later, one of the maids opened it and said with a look of pure regret, “Lady Imogen, your father and Lord Cunningham are waiting downstairs.”
Imogen exchanged a look with Alice, then stood. She walked her section of the book back to her bureau, put it down as reluctantly as could be, then headed for the door.
“Pray for me, dear sister,” she said as she reached the door. “And pray for Thaddeus to find a way to reach me.”
“I will,” Alice vowed. “You know I will.”
Part of Imogen wished that Alice could accompany her downstairs to face Lord Cunningham, but in truth, she didn’t wish the awkwardness of being in Lord Cunningham’s presence on anyone. And sadly, Lord Cunningham did not disappoint.
“Ah, my sweet. You look every bit as delicious as I knew you would be in that gown,” the horrible man said, eyeing Imogen up and down as she reached the bottom of the stairs, where Lord Cunningham and her father were waiting.
Imogen glanced down at her dress, feeling far more self-conscious than she had regarding herself in the mirror. The gown had been made in a style that would raise the eyebrows of even the most daring members of the ton. The bodice was cut so low that the tops of her nipples were in danger of peeking out if she moved too suddenly. The box in which the gown had been delivered contained no fichu to protect her modesty either. An alarming expanse of her breasts was visible for anyone to see. The gown was made of the thinnest of muslins as well. Imogen had the sinking feeling that if she stood in the wrong sort of light, her entire form would be visible.
Lord Cunningham seemed to confirm her suspicions as he edged his way around her, backing her toward one of the lamps. “Yes,” he said, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I think you will do quite nicely.” He underscored his statement by blatantly reaching for his breeches to adjust the growing bulge there.
Imogen lowered her head, feeling as dirty as if he’d stood her on a dais in a public square and stripped her naked for a crowd of men to look at. Her insides shriveled at the thought that this would be her future if Thaddeus was unable to reach her. She’d heard rumors about how men like Lord Cunningham shared their wives with their friends once they grew tired of them. The very thought was enough to bring her to tears again.
“Shut up,” her father snapped, even though she didn’t say anything. “You’re going to a ball. Young ladies adore going to balls. Lord Cunningham is going to announce the time of your wedding this Friday. I will be triumphant at last. So stop your sniveling.”
“Yes, Father,” Imogen managed to squeak, though she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Where was Thaddeus and when would he finally come to rescue her?
At last, the moment had come. Thaddeus adjusted the jacket of the footman’s livery he’d dawned in order to infiltrate Lord Mapplethorpe’s ball and fell in line with the other extra footmen that had been hired for the evening.
“I still can’t believe you want to do this, my lord,” Oliver, the legitimate footman who had slipped him into the ranks of the hired help for the evening said as they collected trays of cakes and tarts to take up to the refreshment room. “A nobleman masquerading as a footman?”
Thaddeus sent the young man a mischievous grin. “I’m barely a nobleman,” he said, taking one of the trays. “And I’m doing it for a good cause.”
“What cause would that be, my lord?” the man asked as they carried their trays along the busy downstairs hall to the servants’ stairs.
“Best not to call me that where anyone might overhear,” Thaddeus whispered as they started up.”
“Sorry, my—um, sir.” Oliver’s face went bright red with embarrassment.
“It’s nothing,” Thaddeus went on. “I’m here because it’s the only chance I’ve had in weeks to see the woman I love.”
They reached a bend in the stairs and Oliver turned to Thaddeus, his brow lifting in surprise. “The woman you love? How does a toff like you—begging your pardon—not get to see the woman he loves, or any other woman for that matter?”
“Her father is an ogre,” Thaddeus explained, deep hatred for Lord Marlowe welling within him. “And he’s shackled her to an even worse ogre.”
“Your lady is married, then?” Oliver looked uncertain.
“Not if I can help it,” Thaddeus said, bristling with determination. “The marriage hasn’t happened yet. Her father’s kept her locked up tight. Everything I’ve tried to get word to her has failed, so here we are.”
“Playing the part of a footman at a ball so’s you can speak to her?” Oliver asked. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
“Love makes us do strange things,” Thaddeus agreed with a humorless laugh.
“That it does, my—um, sir.”
Their conversation ended as they passed through the doorway that separated the world of the servants from the world of their masters. It had always amazed Thaddeus that the two worlds could exist side-by-side with barely any interaction. He was ashamed to say that he hardly knew anything about the lives of the men and women who had served him and his family for years. But in the painful weeks since his brother and sister-in-law’s house party, his entire attitude about the world had changed.
If there was one thing that Thaddeus’s father—and even his brother, Rufus—criticized him the most for, it was being young and complacent, taking things for granted. As little as six weeks ago, he would have argued that he wasn’t taking anything for granted at all. He knew he wouldn’t inherit the sort of wealth and title his brother was in line for. Their father might have been an earl, but their family was newer than some and didn’t have the historical roots that much of the aristocracy had. He would have to make a life for himself and he’d known that for years. That was what had led to his interest in business and the growing industries that were transforming the country from a rural idyll to a modern, mechanical marvel. He had wanted to find a way to capitalize on that for years, though his father considered his interest in business scandalously beneath h
is class.
What Thaddeus had taken for granted for so long was the idea that he would be able to marry whomever he wanted whenever he wanted and that there would be no impediments to their union. He’d fallen in love with Lady Imogen Marlowe at first sight. They had slipped off to spend more than a little time together during his brother’s scandalous house party. But then Lord Marlowe had announced Imogen was to marry the horrific Lord Cunningham.
Well, Thaddeus wouldn’t have it. And that evening, he intended to do something about it.
“This way, um, sir,” Oliver murmured, drawing Thaddeus with him into the large refreshment room set up near the heart of the house and the ball. “You can set those things down on that table.” Oliver nodded to a table to one side of the room.
Lord Mapplethorpe had gone to great expense to have the treats for his party made by the famous confectioner, Mr. Jonathan Foster. The tables looked like something out of a fairy story the way they were laden with cakes that looked like flowers and mushrooms. An entire tray of sweets had been designed to look like small woodland creatures, which was magnificent…until a particularly rotund and red-faced lord bit the head off a small squirrel and laughed uproariously. Mr. Foster was there himself, along with his wife, Sophie—who was, perhaps fortunately, fully-clothed and not covered with sugar for this particular event. Thaddeus had attended a party in the spring where Mrs. Foster was the centerpiece of the refreshment room wearing nothing but sugar paste. He was embarrassed to remember how he’d “entertained” himself later that night while remembering the sight of her luscious body. That was before he’d met Imogen, though. In the last few weeks, Imogen’s image was the one he’d imagined while getting himself off.
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