by Eva Devon
The Beast’s
Bluestocking
by
Eva Devon
The Bluestocking War
Book 3
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
The Beast’s Bluestocking
Copyright © 2021 by Máire Creegan
All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
For my my loves. The three little ones who give my life joy and meaning.
Special thanks to:
Christy and Monica
You two always come through.
And you. My gratitude knows no bounds.
Chapter 1
A roar of pain choked past Lord Anthony’s parched lips.
He writhed on the swinging ship bed, his hands folding into fists as he bit down on a piece of wood.
The laudanum wasn't even coming close to touching his bent brain and he felt as if he was in a fever dream of hell.
His friend, Sir Thomas Merrill, stood beside him, his face gray with worry.
Anthony turned his head to the man who had also survived the battle, but thankfully he was unscathed.
Anthony unclenched one of his hands, reached up and grabbed Merrill's lapel, which was smeared with blood. As was his stubbled face.
“Did Joe make it?” Anthony rasped.
Merrill's face tensed but he did not look away. His crystal blue gaze was searing.
Anthony looked back towards the rough wood wall, his hand dropping to his side. He’d tried so hard to save the boy, the boy who had suffered so much for months at the hands of their brutal captain.
He'd done everything he could, but the cannon had lurched from its moorings, and the rope snapping. It had raced across the deck with the power of a loosed boulder.
Anthony had shoved the nine-year-old boy out of the way, trying to make certain he wouldn't be crushed by the mammoth piece of iron and wood and wheels.
He'd been so certain he'd gotten the boy out of danger.
So certain, in fact, that the cannon had struck him, crushing his leg, lashing his back, and leaving him a pile on the deck.
It had been in the final moments of the battle of Trafalgar, or at least that's what the men were calling it.
They were victorious, of course, crushing the French, but hundreds of men were dead, their mangled bodies left in the sea. Never to be found. Never to be buried. Or seen or held by their mothers again.
And at this moment he wished he was one of them.
Fate had chosen differently for him.
The pain drifting through him was more than he could bear. Oh God, Joe had been such a bright damn little light. So funny and kind and willing to help, bringing him tea on nights when he had to hold the watch, overseeing the men. Those cold nights had been made better with Joe’s cheeky smile and is undaunted spirit, even though many tried to crush him.
But not ever again. Joe’s light had gone out.
And he? Likely, he wouldn't hold the watch again himself. A blessing, surely. It mattered not that he’d been a successful officer. The viciousness of the Navy and the way their captain ruled like a god? It was not for him.
From the way his leg throbbed with breath-stealing agony and the pain lacerated his back? He was going to be lucky if they didn't cut his leg.
As if his own thoughts brought the sawbones in, the surgeon crossed over to his bed, which swung from the ceiling. The sea rolled beneath them, mixing with the roll that the laudanum brought his mind.
“We're going to have to take your leg, Lieutenant,” he said flatly.
Anthony wrenched his gaze from the wall to the sawbones. Blood spattered his face. Sweat beaded his brow. His shirt hung limp and stained over his resigned shoulders. And his apron? His great apron was stained with the blood of countless men.
Anthony ground his teeth. “You take my leg and I don't care what it takes, I will find a way to choke the life out of you myself. I've survived this. I can survive a mangled leg. Leave it.”
“But,” the surgeon countered with surprising banality, clearly unbothered by Anthony’s
fierce warnings, “your leg could rot.”
“Let it,” Anthony demanded though clenched teeth. “I care not.”
Merrill winced. He leaned over his friend and said softly, “You should care. I have news for you.”
Anthony grimaced as he swallowed, nausea rising in his throat at the laudanum and pain. “What?” he demanded. “What news could you have for me? We have won the battle and that Joe is...”
His voice died off.
Merrill tensed. “This is not news from the battle or even the Navy.” He hesitated and then rushed, “This is news from home.”
Home?
Was it one of Philippa's letters, he wondered? Had something happened to her? His drugged mind lurched with new concern.
Philippa's letters had gotten him through the last two years of battles.
As a second son, he’d had to choose a profession. The church had not been active enough. What a fool he’d been.
He’d been such a bright-eyed young man, so full of hope and optimism when he'd first joined the Navy. But years on the ships of the line had turned him hard.
After all, seeing what he had seen, it was impossible to believe in the kindness of this world. Not when young people were crushed to death under the boot of such an unyielding world of command and to add to that? Serving under a captain who could be crueler than any devil?
He swallowed.
He hoped that Philippa was writing to tell him that all was well.
Or perhaps that she had shucked the yolk of her father's cruelty and found some sort of joy.
He had sometimes allowed himself the thought that joy would be with him. He'd often fantasized about returning home to England, offering for her hand, and whisking her away to some world far from the rules and strictures that they both had been controlled by.
As a second son, he couldn’t offer much. But he’d assured himself he would find a way.
That was an impossibility now. His body was broken. He would have no future and no way to make one. Certainly not in the Navy.
It had been the strangest of miracles which had brought him and Philippa it together.
She'd written to his sister, Clara.
They were friends, quite good friends.
And one day, one of her letters had somehow managed to get into a satchel of things sent to him. He'd opened that letter. He knew that he shouldn't have, but he did. And he'd read the sprightly. intelligent words upon the page. He’d been taken in by her cheerful wit and her honesty about her own family situation.
He'd been unable to stop himself and he'd written back. Ever since then, they had exchanged letters and those bright notes. Even though they were sometimes filled with her own difficulties, they had gotten him through the years of hell upon the Indomitable.
Now, he wondered what might she have to say if she saw him? No doubt she'd recoil in horror. He was going to look like a monster after this and he'd have nothing.
Merrill lifted his hand, as if he was going to place it atop Anthony’s but then he stopped and rushed, “Your brother is dead.”
&nb
sp; Anthony blinked and tried to focus, unable to fathom the words just spoken. The laudanum was truly twisting his mind.
“I beg your pardon?” he breathed.
“Your brother, the duke.” Merrill’s gray face only grew more harrowing. “He's dead. He died in a freak riding accident. His horse bolted, your brother was thrown, and his neck was broken. You are the duke now, Your Grace.”
Anthony gaped at Merrill. His mind rolled on that sea of laudanum. He shook his head. Swallowing back the nausea roiling inside him.
“No—”
“Yes,” Merrill replied firmly. “It’s true. It is official news.”
Anthony groaned inwardly. He did not know what to feel. He’d barely spent any time with his elder brother, who had been several years older and dogged in his duty. And his distance.
No, no, this wasn't possible.
The last thing he wished was to be a duke.
Anthony wanted to remove himself from the hierarchy that ruined men’s lives and strike off to parts unknown, to never be a cog, an important cog but a cog no less, in the British Empire again. He would not take part in the cruelty of the great machine or its sprawling force.
If he was a duke? Duke of Grey? He was integral to it.
A power of it.
One of the ruling forces.
The reality was too much to take in at this moment.
The power and wealth now at his fingertips. His brother had shaped governments, influenced the royal family, and in his own way was just like Captain Adams, a god to the peasants that depended on his good will.
His brother had been raised for that role and was considered by his peers to be superb at it—unfeeling, strong, unyielding, capable of ruling at least a quarter of England.
Anthony himself? He had been raised to rule too, but to rule in a different way, to command men to go to their deaths without shirking, to fight, to ensure victory for England.
Now he wasn't so sure that victory was worth the cruelty and loss of small boys that he'd seen.
Except there was no changing it, for it was the way of the world.
Unless. . .
Perhaps if he was a duke. . . He could make change.
He swallowed and nearly gagged on the dryness of his throat. He felt little for the passing of his brother, but it caused him a different sort of pain.
He'd barely spent any time with him and his brother had been very different than he, hard, cold, astute, unwilling to spend much time away from his works.
He had left Anthony alone when their parents had died. From nanny to boarding schools for years and years, his brother had left him alone, then he’d left him to the Navy too.
They had not talked in at least five years' time, except through exceptionally brief missives.
Yet, his brother did boast about him. That information had come to him through their various similar acquaintances. Tales of him lifting a glass of wine to salute the might of England and his brother’s bravery.
After all, Anthony was often mentioned in dispatches and that seemed to please the duke to no end, to have a successful military man in the family.
But he had shown no actual interest in Anthony as a person. Still, it was hard to believe that his older brother was. . . dead.
That left just himself and his sister, of course. A sister he loved dearly.
And his brother had done his duty by Clara, ensuring she was raised to be a lady, allowing her to live with him in London.
Clara, he thought. Her heart must be breaking. For though she had always been at a distance from her eldest brother, she had cared for him. Now, she no doubt felt alone in England.
He could not imagine the sorrow that she was going through. And no doubt, she would get news soon that he was in dire straits. And all thoughts of wanting to die suddenly left him. He could not do that to his Clara. He wouldn't leave her alone in the world. It was far too hard for a woman, especially a young lady, to be left without the assistance of a male relative, no matter what their position or wealth.
No, he had to fight to ensure that he at least lived for her to ensure that they could become established and safe. They had all the money in the world, it was true, but it was difficult to navigate this world alone as a woman.
And he thought of Philippa.
As a duke, could he. . .
No, he snapped his brain away from that thought.
The pain lacing through him was making him think mad things. He was going to be absolutely destroyed and there was no point in uniting with Philippa.
He could offer her nothing but a cold position of duchess. And that didn’t seem to be her dream. Position.
Beyond that, he could offer her absolutely nothing but agony and perhaps the role of a nursemaid.
That was nothing to offer a young, bright woman like her. He turned to Merrill. “I’m Grey now?”
Merrill’s gaze softened, though there was still understanding there. “Yes, my friend, indeed you are. And it's time we got you home. No more battles for you.”
Anthony looked at Merrill.
He wanted to laugh. No more battles? he thought to himself. Oh, the battles were just beginning, but they would be of a very different kind. For the ruling classes of this world would want nothing to do with his ideas or his plans, but fight he would, even if he had to do it from his castle. Even if he could never leave Cornwall again. Somehow, he would make change because he could not allow things to go on as they stood.
And Captain Adams was not going to get away with the cruelty he’d perpetrated. And he wouldn’t let him perpetrate more. Even if it was the last thing he did. Somehow. It didn’t matter how, he was removing that man from his position of power.
“I want Joe's body,” he grated. “I want Joe's body to be brought home with me to Cornwall, and I want to give him a good burial.”
Merrill took his hand and replied gently, “We have not found it. I'm so very sorry, my friend.”
Anthony swallowed and looked back to the wall, his bed still swinging as the ship crashed over waves in the storm.
He squinted and, through the laudanum, he noticed the lantern overhead swing back and forth, casting shadows and his stomach turned.
Usually, he felt no illness upon the water, but today with his body in agonies, the laudanum racing through his blood, and the pain pounding through him, he felt sick. He felt sicker than he had ever been. For all hope seemed gone from him, even though he was a duke now, one of the most powerful men in the world.
What was he without Phillipa?
Revenge. That’s what he was. He was walking revenge.
Chapter 2
Wind whipped in off the seas swirling Phillipa's pale linen gown around her legs.
Cornwall was a wonder with its wild cliffs, hidden beaches, and water so blue she could hardly countenance it.
She stood on the cliff's edge staring out at the horizon, trying to let go of the tension holding her frame.
It had been quite a year.
Her sister was now the Duchess of Blacktower.
It was a feat that she had fought for and arranged herself. Oh, what plans she had had for her sister. She'd been so sure of her own triumph in the making of them. She'd made serious errors in her quest, and she was lucky it had not all gone terribly wrong. It almost had. Not in regards to Augusta, thank goodness!
As Phillipa knew she would be, at least Augusta was happy. That had worked out well. Thank goodness. Otherwise, she did not think she would be able to live with herself. But in freeing Augusta and giving her happiness, she had put Felicity into a terrible situation.
It had seemed so essential to find her eldest sister a good husband so that Felicity might at long last be allowed to marry the man that she loved.
Much to her shame and horror, that man had turned out to be a terrible bounder and now as Phillipa stood by the sea on the cliff's edge, tears stung her eyes.
She should have felt triumphant in Augusta’s happy ending, for she and Blacktowe
r truly loved each other.
But Felicity?
She drew in a great breath, focusing on the salty taste.
What a great failure that had been.
Her sister had nearly been ruined and their father had been exposed to be the truly awful person that he was.
They'd all known him to be selfish, a spendthrift, a gambler, someone who cared for no one and nothing but himself, willing to sacrifice his daughters to questionable husbands to gain his own comfort.
But the extent of his willingness to use his daughters and cooperate with a man of a truly duplicitous nature?
Well, the debacle of Felicity’s near escapade had surprised and horrified them all.
No, Felicity, poor thing, had gone off to Europe to get away from it all. She was now at a mountain resort town taking in the Prussian air, made perfect by its endless forests.
There, she was trying to escape all of England and the almost never-ending gossip. It had died down a bit in the last several months. Perhaps, she’d eventually be able to return.
But most important? She'd been saved by the Duke of Blacktower before she'd married a complete and total villain, a villain who would have used the connection to take money from their brother-in-law, the duke, and no doubt make Felicity’s life a living hell.
They were all trying to heal from that infamous moment. She closed her eyes, turning her face into the wind. The Duke of Blacktower had saved them all from terrible lives. It had been her instinct that he would do so, despite the claims that he was a bounder and a rake.
Now she wondered at her own future and her own internal instincts. For the man that she cared so much about had stopped writing months ago.
She had not heard a single word from Anthony, Duke of Grey, since before the Battle of Trafalgar.
Of course, when she had begun writing to him, he hadn't been a duke at all.
He'd merely been Lord Anthony, brother of the Duke of Grey, but oh, how he had filled pages and pages of letters with fascinating pieces of information about the war, his life aboard ship, and his own personal musings about life and how he believed the world should actually be.
And he had listened to her troubles with such care. The loss of that? It was agonizing.