HENRY WOKE TO A COOL breeze running up his side where Isabella’s warm body should have been. Someone had extinguished all the candles in the room, and for a moment he feared she had left. But then his eyes found her standing in the moonlight by the open window. Henry watched Isabella as she watched the night, her lovely body beautifully outlined by the silvery light. It must have been the early hours of the morning, for the moon was almost full and bright, setting to the west on the other side of the square.
Henry slowly rose, pulled the blanket from his bed, and gathered it around himself, intent on sharing its warmth with the stunning naked woman before him. He moved closer, but stopped short to admire her for a little longer.
“She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”
Isabella looked at him over her shoulder with a soft smile. “Byron again.”
“Yes, it seems apt, seeing you standing there.” He closed the gap between them and wrapped the blanket around them both.
Leaning her back to his chest, they enjoyed the beauty of the night together.
Isabella eventually broke the silence. “He was wrong, wasn’t he?”
Henry instantly knew who she was talking about. “Yes, he was.”
“It’s like my body is finally mine again, and it’s a good strong body, complete and all woman.” Her voice was quiet but powerful, in the same way her body felt soft as well as strong in his arms.
Henry kissed her neck and stroked his hand over her belly where he had planted his seed earlier, and hoped it had already taken root. He wanted everything with this woman, a lifetime of doubled joys and halved woes.
“Marry me, please.”
Isabella turned her head to look up at him and offered her lips for his kiss. He bent down to her, but let his mouth hover right above hers, waiting for her answer.
“Yes.”
Smiling his pleasure, he kissed her tenderly to seal the bargain. They stood there for some time longer admiring the night, until Henry draped the blanket over Isabella’s shoulders to go get the armchair. He placed it right behind her and settled them both in it, she on his lap and both of them covered by the blanket, to watch and rest in warmth and comfort.
THE NEXT TIME THEY WOKE, it was to the sound of a coach arriving in the square, and the first rays of dawn lighting the sky. The coach stopped outside Henry’s house, and soon the sound of insistent voices confirmed the presence of visitors.
“I believe your mother just made her entrance on the scene. And by the sounds of it, she’s brought your father along. Shall we give them the good news now, or would you prefer the back door, and I bring them to Lady Greyson’s in an hour or so?”
Isabella giggled into his neck, unwilling to give up her comfortable spot in his arms. “The back door, I think. No point in giving my mother an apoplexy. She would never understand why we did what we did.”
Henry grinned and snuggled her close for a little while longer before he helped her into her shift and rang for William.
THE END
THE STORY CONTINUES IN…
THE MEMORY OF HER
CHAPTER ONE
JANUARY 1823, SOMEWHERE ABOVE SEVASTOPOL ON THE CRIMEA
THERE WERE STARS ABOVE HIM, CLEAR AND bright in the velvety night sky. Why could he see stars? How come he was no longer in Henry’s breakfast room, watching the morning sun on her dark curls?
Cold air made him shiver. Christ, they’d taken the lid off the hole.
Allen hastily tucked the memory of her into the furthest corner of his mind. They could never know about his love; they would use her against him, threaten her with harm, and that would surely break him.
Above him the ladder appeared and was secured against the rocks, then the customary bucket of water hit him square in the face. It was meant as a prelude to the horrors to come, but Allen had learned to anticipate and use the clean spring water they threw down on him. His Russian captors tossed down a loaf of bread once or twice a week, too, but never bothered to actually give them water. They had the rivulets of water skipping down the rocks to the soft bottom every time it rained, and it rained frequently in winter on the Crimea. Not as much as in England, but enough to make an abandoned well a miserable place to live. Luckily, the water they caught in the two buckets they had in the hole was enough to survive on. Allen had no reason to believe the Russians had brought down the buckets for their prisoners to collect water with. It was far more likely they had gotten drunk before deciding to interrogate one of their captives, and had flung the entire water-filled bucket into the hole. Be that as it may, there was now clean water in the drinking bucket and he was wet from head to toe. He rubbed his mangled hands together as best he could. Best to get as much of him as clean as possible before they inflicted more wounds. Hygiene was not the most pressing concern, but it was a concern, right after their weakened state and the demented demons above.
Judging by the stars winking down at him, four days had passed since the Greek had been thrown back into the hole, and left to die. It had been horribly cold since the poor soul breathed his last. It occurred to Allen he should refer to himself in the first person singular, since he was currently the only live prisoner in the hole.
One of the Russians must have climbed down while Allen was busy cleaning his hands. He was roughly yanked up by the scruff of his neck and hauled out of the hole. Once above ground, he was dragged to a fire further down the hill. The light was almost blinding after the almost-complete darkness of the hole, and Allen rejoiced for a moment, thinking he would be able to warm up while he took his beating. But then he recognized the tall figure of the Russian colonel and knew today would be more than just painful. Allen didn’t actually know the man’s rank, he never wore uniform and none of the others addressed him as such, but he was clearly in charge and everything about the man spoke upper crust and military training.
One look into the man’s cold pale eyes and Allen also knew today would be the last time, his last chance to earn himself a quicker death by telling the Russian what he wanted to know. But his tormentor didn’t understand Allen’s objective. He would face death on his terms, back in the hole, where he could remember her one more time.
The ogre who had dragged him out and down the hill dropped Allen on the dirt by the fire and kicked him viciously. Allen heard the rib crack, all breath wrenched from him, and wondered how many more would break before they left him to die.
“Why are you in Sevastopol?” The colonel wasn’t just an aristocrat, he was cultured. His French was flawless and his English only slightly accented. He was tall, blond, clean-shaven and wore a gentleman’s suit that looked like it may have been tailored on Bond Street. By contrast, his men were in local garb consisting of breeches, wool shirts, fur vests and heavy boots. All of them wore their hair long in various shades of dirty blond, their beards were unkempt, and they smelled no better than their prisoners. The two holding Allen down periodically passed a bottle containing strong spirits back and forth.
Allen breathed heavily through the pain. “Business,” was all he got out between his teeth.
“Who do you work for?”
The questions weren’t exactly original. Allen had been asked the very same ones several times a week for three months now and his answers were always the same. “Myself. I import fine leather.”
Allen knew he had made a mistake the moment the words were out of his mouth.
“I didn’t ask what you did, spy. Spare me your rehearsed answers.” He ordered in Russian, “Left hand.”
It was a Herculean effort not to react. Letting on he understood Russian would further convince the man he was a foreign agent. Allen’s arm was yanked to the side and his hand placed on a flat rock. That alone was painful enough with all the broken fingers. Allen panted with the panicked anticipation of having yet more bones broken in his hopelessly mangled hand.
The colonel placed his bo
ot on top of Allen’s hand and applied some of his weight as he ground his heel. Allen whimpered when half-healed bones broke once again, his eyes streaming hopelessly.
“What were you doing on the hill above Sevastopol?”
Allen had to focus to answer the question. This was not the time to slip up. “Walking.”
The colonel lifted his foot and a moment later his heel smashed down onto his prisoner’s hand. Allen’s agonized screams tore through the frigid mountain air, his whole being an inferno of pain. Eventually the wave of agony subsided and he sobbed: “Just walking.”
The kick to his head was swift and painful, but nothing compared to the throbbing in his hand.
“Stop lying to me!” the Russian thundered. Then in Russian he added, “Take off his boot, let’s see how much he likes his toes.”
This was new. So far they had left his feet alone, and none of the others had ever had any missing boots after an interrogation. None of the others had lasted a whole three months either, but that was all the more reason for the Russian to want to crack him before he died. This was it. This was where he finally proved himself as an agent. This was where he gave his life for the sake of the mission. If he cracked now, then three months of agony would have been in vain and Rick would be next in that miserable hole. Rick didn’t know all he had uncovered, but enough so the Old Man would be able to draw the right conclusions, enough so the Russians would kill him for it. There was a chance his man and friend had sent a report to England, but there was no chance whatsoever he had taken that report home himself while his master was missing. Rick was still looking for him. Just like Allen would be still looking for Rick if the situation had been reversed.
Allen’s continued sobbing convinced his tormentors he was still fully occupied with the pain in his hand as the colonel’s two hell-hounds held him down and pulled off his boot. The wool socks he had carefully washed and dried after each rain to avoid foot-rot were next. One of the brutes joked in Russian how his pretty little toes were the cleanest part of him, wondering if he kept his cock whore-ready, too. That got a big laugh from his companion and the two guards who were supposed to watch the woods in case someone stumbled upon them. They were instantly admonished to keep their minds on their respective tasks.
The colonel pulled a short sword from his dainty mahogany walking stick and tested the blade against the tender part on the inside of Allen’s foot.
What came out of Allen’s mouth could only be described as a shriek. The Russian smiled, satisfied with the sharpness of his weapon and wiped the blade against Allen’s pants.
“Lets try this again. Who do you work for?”
The gush on his foot stung horribly, but Allen did his best to breathe through it. “Independent merchant. D-don’t work for anyone.”
The colonel shrugged, then motioned to the man holding the bottle. “Let’s set the cut on fire.”
The demon with the bottle grinned and tipped the liquor over the injured foot. Allen had little time to brace for the hurt to come and hissed frenzied pants until the wave of pain subsided. He was reaching the limit of what he could take. His mind was beginning to wander and there was no guarantee on what he would tell the bastards if he didn’t keep himself under control.
The colonel motioned for the two brutes to hold him down “Again, English. Who do you work for?”
“Just me,” Allen insisted, knowing it was not what the Russian wanted to hear and therefore would mean more pain. The two helpers held him down so tightly, he couldn’t move a muscle, but he had an unfortunate full view of the colonel’s hate-filled eyes as he raised his sword-arm, and the incredible speed with which it came down on his big toe.
The howl Allen sent into the night was barely human. Then the pain overwhelmed his brain and he fainted.
ALLEN AWOKE TO SOMEONE HEAVING him onto a donkey and cried out as his foot hit something, probably the donkey’s belly. The man tying him to the donkey instantly put a firm hand over his mouth.
“Allen, sir. If you have any sense left in that brain of yours, use it to keep quiet. The Ruskies only left about half an hour ago so they aren’t far in front of us going down the trail, but I’ve got to get you to the doctor, you’re bleeding out.”
Through the haze of pain and a profound weakness, Allen registered two things: the person talking to him was Rick. And he wasn’t in the hole. His mouth was as dry as a desert wind, so it was hard to get the words out.
“Did I tell them anything?”
A reassuring hand came to rest between his shoulder blades, and Allen had never before been so glad for a kind touch from another human.
“No, you didn’t.”
Allen breathed a sigh of relief and drifted back into unconsciousness.
THE MEMORY OF HER
COMING 2022
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Whenever it comes to writing my acknowledgments for a book I’m reminded of how writing really isn’t the solitary activity we are led to believe. Yes, I write my stories by myself, but you wouldn’t be reading them without all the people who support me.
I’ll be forever grateful to Michelle Halket at Central Avenue Publishing for taking on the Gentleman Spy Mysteries and letting me tell this story my way.
My profound thanks to Molly Ringle for editing The Gentleman’s Daughter. Thanks for gently prodding me in the right direction and corralling my wayward commas and word choices.
A huge thank you goes to my writer friends. Let me begin with my lovely friend Carmen Chancellor whose surname you will no doubt recognize; thank you for all your support and story advice.
This book and the whole series might not exist if it wasn’t for the encouragement from my Book Besties: Kelly Cain, Cathie Armstrong, Jamie McLachlan and Amanda Linsmeier. Thank you for always being there when I need you and for your spot-on suggestions for The Gentleman’s Daughter. You truly are the best.
A shout-out to Annemarie Levitt. I miss bringing you pages and sharing a glass of Adams wine.
I also want to acknowledge my husband and son who share me with my stories. Thank you for understanding how important writing is to me.
Bianca M. Schwarz was born in Germany, spent her formative years in London, and now lives in Los Angeles with her husband and son. She has been telling stories all her life, but didn’t hit her stride until she started writing books she would want to read for fun. The Gentleman Spy Mysteries are those books.
Coming in 2022 - The Third Book in
The Gentleman Spy Mysteries
CLICK FOR MORE INFO
The Artisan Heart by Dean Mayes
Hayden Luschcombe is a brilliant paediatrician living in Adelaide with his wife Bernadette, an ambitious event planner.
When an act of betrayal coincides with a traumatic confrontation, Hayden flees to Walhalla, nestled in Australia’s southern mountains, where he finds his childhood home falling apart. He stays, and begins to pick up the pieces of his life by fixing up the house his parents left behind.
A chance encounter with a precocious and deaf young girl introduces Hayden to Isabelle Sampi, a struggling artisan baker. While raising her daughter, and trying to resurrect a bakery, Isabelle has no time for matters of the heart. Yet the presence of the handsome doctor challenges her resolve.
As their attraction grows, and the past threatens their chance at happiness, both Hayden and Isabelle will have to confront long-buried truths if they are ever to embrace a future.
CLICK FOR MORE INFO
Heart of a Dove by Abbie Williams
The Civil War has ended, leaving the country with a gaping wound. Lorie Blake, a southern orphan sold into prostitution at fifteen, has carefully guarded her aching soul from the disgrace forced upon her every evening. Two years have passed, leaving her with little hope of anything more. Meanwhile, three men – longtime friends – and a young boy with a heart of gold are traveling northward, planning to rebuild their lives in the north and leave behind the horrors of their time as soldiers.
> Fate, however, has plans of its own, causing their lives to collide in a river town whorehouse. Forced to flee, Lorie escapes and joins them on the journey north. But danger stalks them all in the form of a vindictive whorehouse madam and an ex-Union soldier, insane and bent on exacting revenge. At last, Lorie must come to terms with her past and devastating secrets that she cannot yet bear to reveal.
Heart of a Dove is the first book in a gripping, sweeping romantic saga of pain, unbearable choices, loss and true love set against the backdrop of a scarred, post-Civil War America.
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