Wages of Sin (Regency Rebelles Book 1)

by Jen Yates

  ***

  Had she really thought a week long enough to change her father's mind? A lifetime would make no difference. There was no one more stubborn than Papa—unless it be herself.

  And all that had got her was locked in her room, like a recalcitrant child.

  She’d show him recalcitrant.

  It was difficult to remember now that she'd actually enjoyed Lord Earnslaw’s company and way of talking to her and listening to her as if he cared about her opinions and thoughts. He'd treated her as an intelligent companion and had seemed to enjoy her company as well.

  Because the man had been courting her.

  Such an anomaly hadn’t even registered as a possibility—because it simply hadn't been.

  He was old enough to be her grandfather.

  The book she'd been trying to distract herself with, flew across the room to smack against the door through which Papa would shortly enter and demand her acquiescence.

  That it was aimed at his head was not in doubt, but now a perfectly good book lay broken on the floor.

  Dear Lord, she was wicked—and defiant—and hot tempered.

  Five days she’d been incarcerated in her room on the second floor with its window-seat view over Stannesford’s home park and down to the lightning tree by the river—and beyond.

  She'd spent hours sitting in the window dreaming of two small children running free through the meadows, hiding in the tree, riding their ponies with the wind in their faces and leaving their siblings far behind.

  Two children, who even then, had counted the world well lost if they could escape together.

  That had not changed, would never change.

  If she couldn't be with Levi—she didn't wish to be.

  Only the topmost branches of the tree were visible from her window but it was a morning ritual when she was at home, to check the view from her window—to be sure the tree still stood, steady and tenacious, regardless lightning had split a huge section off the south side of the trunk, leaving it misshapen and wounded.

  The tree had spoken to her that day. She’d been but eight and Levi ten. Hiding in their beloved tree, lost in their world of make-believe, they’d been oblivious until a crack of thunder overhead preceded the first heavy drops of rain. They'd huddled together against the trunk, halfway up the tree, thinking to stay sheltered until the storm passed, for their ponies had taken off for home at that first violent rumble from the sky.

  A sudden rush of wind shook the tree and Liberty had known a compelling urge to reach the ground and follow the horses.

  Levi had wanted to stay sheltered but Liberty argued.

  ‘The tree wants us to get down. It—it feels like it can't hold us up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don't know but we have to get down.’

  He’d known her well enough even then, to understand such statements should not be ignored. They’d barely scampered out from under the violently waving branches when lightning bolted behind them, striking the tree with a terrible cracking sound Liberty would never forget.

  They ran. Staggered. Ran some more.

  Levi grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, his longer legs moving much faster than hers. She’d stumbled, almost fallen, but his momentum had pulled them beyond the falling section of trunk where they’d been sitting only minutes before. As a huge part of the tree crashed behind them they ran like they’d never run before until they reached the rise where they could see the house.

  Then they’d stopped to stare back at their stricken oak, hearts racing in their chests, eyes wide with fright. Liberty had had tears running down her cheeks. If Levi did, he’d never admitted to it and she’d have never known anyway, for the rain fell in a steady grey curtain all about them.

  Papa and Mr. Gloames, the gamekeeper, had ridden out to find them, Papa in a towering rage because of the panic caused by their riderless horses galloping back to the stables.

  The key rattled in the door, jarring her thoughts back to the present stand-off with her father. Her heart lurched like the tumblers in the lock.

  Papa. No doubt as grim as the weather beyond the windows. They were in the last week of November and already there was snow on the ground and a leaden sky promised more before nightfall.

  It was too cold to sit in the window and she’d returned to the bed even though she was fully dressed. Who cared if she crushed her gown? She certainly didn't.

  ‘Good morning, daughter.’

  He bent to pick up the book from the floor, smoothed out the creased pages and set it on her writing desk with no comment.

  Then his dark blue gaze speared her from across the room.

  ‘Do you have the answer I want this morning?’

  When would he hear what she was saying?

  ‘No. It will always be no.’

  Instead of leaving with a furious locking of the door behind him as he’d done every other morning, he considered her with a gravity she'd never seen in him before.

  Then he crossed to the window and peered down to the snow-covered lawns below.

  ‘Then you'd better come and see this.’

  Portentous dread blazoned across every nerve ending.

  ‘I—don't want to see anything.’

  Thoughts scurried about her brain with the startled panic of chickens disturbed by a fox.

  ‘You will want to see what your recalcitrance will cost you.’

  Liberty stared at her father, unable to remember that once she’d thought she loved him—and he her. It was grimly possible she would never feel such an emotion towards him ever again.

  Climbing off the bed, she stalked to the window, her body rigid with fury and denial.

  The tableau on the snowy ground far below was startling in its crisp outlines of black horse and dog against the stark whiteness of the snow.

  The sight lifted Liberty’s heart—for the second it took for the wrongness to register. Gloames, the gamekeeper, held Contessa's bridle, the gun he always carried, broken across his arm, the muzzle directed down to where Jess, her old black Labrador, crouched in the snow at his feet.

  His finger rested on the trigger.

  The certainty of horror sliced deep into her belly, as sudden and powerful as the knell of fate.

  ‘I ask you again, Liberty—’

  Scrambling onto the window seat, Liberty threw the casement open and tried to scream. What came out was a harsh cry.

  ‘No! Oh God, no!’

  Hearing her mistress’s voice, Contessa surged forward, thumping the gamekeeper's elbow with her shoulder. While Liberty watched in helpless unbelief, the gun snapped into cocked position and the blast as it went off reverberated over and over in her ears.

  And then she realized she was hearing her own screams.

  Jess, her beautiful loyal Jess, lay motionless in the snow. Gloames, stared helplessly up at the window, stark white horror on his face.

  Clearly the threat was meant to have been enough.

  ‘Oh God, Jess—’

  She struggled up onto the window seat, frantically looking for a way down the ancient stones of the Elizabethan edifice.

  Her father's hand at the back of her gown pulled her back from the window and into the room. She turned on him, hands beating at his chest and ugly imprecations hissing from her mouth.

  ***

  That was not supposed to happen!

  Jagged blades of ice cold horror sliced through Henry.

  Why hadn’t he told Gloames to disarm the gun? The man always had a bullet up the spout. It was his damn job.

  And the responsibility for this outcome was his own.

  Fuck!

  Jess, the family pet, who’d grown up with the children, lay dead in the snow. It felt as if he’d pulled the trigger himself.

  Liberty’s small fists battered against his body but he’d gone numb from the inside out and felt nothing.

  He’d likely earned the vituperation of not just one, but all his children with this monumenta
l act of folly.

  He, who’d once blackened his cousin’s eye for pulling the wings off a butterfly.

  What the hell could he do now?

  Let her flailing fists do their damage. He’d earned it.

  He couldn't blame Gloames. It was a freakish accident.

  He’d not considered this. He'd believed the threat to her beloved animals would be enough to force Liberty’s acquiescence.

  And somehow, he still had to achieve that end. Where the fuck would it all end?

  But he’d promised Helena.

  No scandal.

  What Liberty wanted for her future was impossible and the only way he could keep her safe and avert such a mésalliance was to get her married as quickly as may be accomplished.

  Focus. On the goal. Things always work best when you follow the plan.

  He dragged in a fortifying breath.

  The first priority was to get Liberty immediately and suitably married.

  With young Longfellow nearby, she was not safe until the vows had been said and she had Earnslaw’s ring on her finger. He was old, but personable, and he was besotted with his betrothed. He’d treat her well, she’d have a title and never want for anything, even as his widow.

  Henry could only hope the man remained fit enough to last until Longfellow gave up and married someone more suited to his station.

  But this day’s work had likely lost him his daughter's regard—forever. She'd not forgive him. He wasn't sure he'd forgive himself.

  But it didn't change his goal.

  Couldn't.

  He’d promised Helena. Scandal would not touch their family. He’d always delivered on his promises.

  She was a lot like him, this daughter battering his chest with her pummeling fists.

  But now the dog was dead the situation had escalated.

  He couldn't bring the animal back to life. Best he made sure the poor creature’s death at least achieved the desired outcome.

  If he knew Liberty, right at this moment she would refuse point blank to heed him ever again.

  If he didn’t follow through he would forfeit any advantage he’d gained.

  He caught Liberty’s flailing wrists and held them still against his chest.

  Fire and passion, mischief and mayhem.

  His spirited first born had always been a challenge. She had his stubbornness, love for all creatures and loyalty.

  But he'd never really understood the mercurial brightness of her, the way she had of dancing lightly through the facets of her life. One moment she was the responsible, protective older sister and the next she’d be scrambling up a tree playing out some fantastical game of make-believe.

  Please God, he’d not dimmed that brightness forever.

  Henry also knew himself. Obsession should have been his second name. Nothing would stop him following through on a course of action.

  Except death.

  Dread, ominous and fateful, coursed down his spine.

  The only capital to be made out of this situation was to take the advantage cruelly gained.

  Unaccustomed to showing, or even feeling, excessive emotion, Henry ground his jaw and fixed his daughter with a stern eye until she finally ran out of vicious terms of vilification.

  ‘Do I have to order Gloames to shoot the horse too, Liberty?’

  There was no sense of elation when he finally gained her acquiescence, just the knowledge he’d kept his vow to Helena, to protect her and their family from scandal, always.

  Nor was there any joy in watching Liberty’s bowed head and slumped shoulders as she dropped to the bed and hid her face in the pillow.

  For a moment he even had the fanciful notion he heard her heart breaking.

  Ignoring the pounding of doom behind his temples, he turned for the door.

  There had been no chance he would not persist until he’d achieved his desired outcome. He'd already posted the banns. He'd known he could leave Liberty no loophole. She was as stubborn as he was.

  Which in any other circumstance would have made him proud.

  Fuck it all to hell.

  ***

  What a difference a name made.

  Had she been giving up the right to title herself Lady Liberty to become plain Mrs. Longfellow, she’d have been ecstatic.

  The prospect of becoming Lady Earnslaw burned like acid in her stomach and scorched her throat with bile.

  Not all the beautiful gowns in the world, promises of status, wealth and good fortune could bring a smile to her lips, let alone to her eyes or her heart.

  Some vital part of her had died with Jess in the snow that day and would never be revived. It might have gone by the name of ‘hope’.

  Whatever it was, it had stolen the life force from her.

  ‘You look like a princess in that gown, Libby.’

  Verity gazed up at her with stars in her innocent eyes and Liberty knew an aching desire to be that young again, facing nothing worse than separation from her dearest playmate, a separation that had never-the-less allowed them to hope.

  But this. This must be what death felt like. As if she was being fitted for her shroud.

  A very elaborate shroud in palest green silk and Brussels lace.

  No expense was being spared.

  She'd have run in rags and bare feet to wed Levi, if only she were given the chance.

  For this, Jess had given her life.

  For this, Contessa still lived.

  For this, scandal was averted.

  Verity’s hand slipped into hers.

  ‘Charity and Hugh will be home today and we'll all be together again. That’ll be good, won't it, Libby?’

  The plaintive words tugged at a heart Liberty was sure had ceased to beat. But if anyone could find it, Verity could.

  Liberty squeezed her hand, but didn't answer. If her little sister unearthed that missing organ she wouldn't be able to continue, would probably fall in a heap where she stood and dissolve into a storm-ridden ocean of despair.

  ‘Could you turn a little more, please, m’Lady?’

  Dutifully she turned one step to the right so the Misses Walton, dressmakers from the village, could continue pinning the flounce of Brussels lace to the hem of her gown. She’d never worn anything so fine, didn't think she'd ever seen anything more beautiful.

  And she hated it.

  Longed to attack it with the large pair of shears Miss Alice had left on the table.

  But she'd learnt a painful lesson the day Jess died. Caring about something, anything, hurt beyond bearing. She'd not just lost her faithful pet that day, she'd lost Levi, and she'd lost hope.

  What else was there?

  The only feeling she could find within her was something dark, ugly and sinful. She examined it a little more deeply and as if it had been waiting for her awareness, it sprang into full consciousness with the vicious snarl of a rabid wolf.

  It felt satisfyingly like revenge.

  With Verity's hand enclosed in hers, she shut her eyes to block out the magnificence of the gown in which she would be wed to Justin Dilmore, Earl of Earnslaw.

  In four more days.

  In the privacy of her bed that night, Liberty let her mind return to that one word that had invaded it while she stood for the endless fittings of the wedding gown and all the other gowns that made up her trousseau.

  She'd never had so many new gowns all at once. Not one of them had excited her to any degree.

  Not as that one word had.

  Revenge.

  ***

  Levi was losing his mind. It slipped further from his grasp with every minute that passed, with every day nearer Liberty’s wedding.

  To another man.

  Never had he felt so helpless. So worthless.

  He worked like a body possessed in and around the stables, leaving his grooms and stable boys little to do but stand around and gossip.

  In the evenings he haunted the mill house until his mother had finished recounting to Granny Joan all the wedding
shenanigans at the Hall.

  Nights found him pacing about his loft above the stables, swearing, muttering, and suffering the torments of the damned for knowing Liberty had finally been coerced into accepting marriage to Lord Earnslaw.

  The nature of that coercion broke his heart all over again for his bright and beautiful Lou.

  To imagine her brilliant spirit dimmed was to slice himself raw with a blunted knife.

  How the devil could he ever ease her pain?

  His mind was a constant rabid tangle of desires and wild schemes that all ended at the same ugly knot of impossibility. If he made one move it would sacrifice his family. He was the head of that family now Da was gone.

  Vitals ripping apart within him, he threw aside the chisel he’d been working with, and began prowling the confines of the three rooms in the loft. Again.

  Liberty Lou. If only he could say to her all the things flying around in his mind. If only there was something he could do to ease her pain.

  His no longer mattered. That was his life now. But his Liberty Lou should never have to suffer such bitterness.

  What sort of parents demanded such a sacrifice of their daughter?

  The clanging of the knocker downstairs reverberated through his body, his heart, and propelled him down the staircase two steps at a time.

  Who was calling at—it had to be after midnight?

  His heart knew before he shot the bolt and flung the door open.

  ‘Lou! What—?’

  Not another word did she let him utter before she was in his arms, her mouth melded with his, as if by that one act they were joined, united, for ever more.

  ‘Levi, oh God, Levi.’

  She was gasping and sobbing against his mouth, her gloved hands, clamped around his neck and her body climbing his—as if—as if she was desperate to climb right inside him.

  If only.

  He wanted to snatch her up and run—and not stop until there was just the two of them, alone together, and no one to say them nay.

  God, he had to quell these incendiary thoughts.

  He could never leave his mother and siblings to face Stannesford’s wrath.

  No matter what he'd said to Edie, he could not grasp his own happiness at the expense of theirs.