The Lady's Legacy (Half Moon House Series Book 3)

by Deb Marlowe

  The Lady’s Legacy

  Deb Marlowe

  Deb Marlowe

  Copyright © 2017 by Deb Marlowe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Lily Smith

  Created with Vellum

  For Kim H

  with many thanks for shared laughter, griping, tears and the soothing smell of bleach

  Contents

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Also by Deb Marlowe

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  London, England

  Many of you witnessed it—the moment when I knew for certain that my greatest secret was out. Your eyes touched on me even as I felt my blood drain away. The whispers followed, the conjectures—but rest assured, none of what you might have said or thought could have hurt as much as my first view of that sculpture, of the sight of that toddling marble boy reaching for the woman in the painting and her outstretched arms . . .

  from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  White. Francis Headley sighed. Why must it be white? She took up her gloves and smoothed a hand over her skirts, pausing to touch the coral flowers and green leaves embroidered as trim. The fitted bodice and capped sleeves served to emphasize the modest curves that time and nature had finally pulled out of her. It was a lovely gown and she looked good in it.

  But to a girl used to the stews and warrens of London, white didn’t carry the same meaning as it did to the rest of the world. To everyone attending today’s event, white represented gentility, innocence and means. But Francis was no debutante. To her, a girl in white had for a long time meant a mark. A victim. One to be plundered and pitied.

  She wasn’t that street urchin any longer. But neither would she ever be a delicate, young bloom of Society. Little wonder that grey was her normal, favored color.

  Grey would not do today, however.

  She set out, moving carefully down the stairs. No one waited in the entryway, here at Half Moon House. Was she the first one down? She stepped out toward the bench by the door—

  Oof!

  “Nestor!” She swatted at the youth who had bowled into her. “Can’t you let me stay clean for five minutes together?”

  “Cor, Flightly!” the boy answered, his eyes gone round. All of the street kids still called her by her old name. “What are you doing, all dressed to the nines?” Not waiting for an answer, he threw back his head and sniffed deeply. “Smell that? Rosemary bread! Callie’s back!”

  “I know she’s back,” she answered sourly. “We’re going out this afternoon. That’s why I’m dressed like this.” Her old friend Brynne, now Duchess of Aldmere, was coming along, too, and bringing several of the most promising protégés from her orphanage program.

  But Nestor wasn’t listening. The call of fresh bread pulled him toward the kitchens. Francis rolled her eyes, and continued on her way, but she still hadn’t advanced far when a group of girls poured from the classroom hallway.

  “Oooh, Francis,” breathed Molly. “Don’t you look a treat?”

  They surrounded her, offering up a chorus of compliments, making her feel . . . restless. It was a feeling that had plagued her over the last couple of years, since Hestia Wright had removed her from the ranks of runner/messenger/watchers and begun to train her in other duties. It wasn’t that she missed the streets, not really. But she did long for the certain knowledge that she was being useful.

  She would sacrifice far more than that, however, at Hestia Wright’s request.

  “I heard Callie say that you were all going to the Royal Academy of Arts Exhibition,” said Molly. “How exciting!”

  “Well, I heard that Marcus Moore is planning on attending today as well,” someone said with special emphasis.

  “It’s open to the public,” Francis replied. “Anyone may go.”

  “Why would the butcher’s boy want to go and gawk at a bunch of boring old paintings,” Jesse scoffed.

  “It’s art,” she replied. “And a great deal of it. There is sure to be something for everyone. I really think some of you should plan on taking it in, as well.”

  “What? Go and stare at other people’s relatives?” sniffed Jesse.

  “Beautiful studies of interesting people,” Francis corrected her. “And there’s more—historical subjects, gorgeous landscapes—”

  “Places I’ll never go,” the girl interrupted.

  “Well, I think you’re just mad because Marcus is going to see the pretty young ladies, not the paintings,” said Molly with an arch of her brow in Francis’s direction.

  “Well, perhaps I’ll just go and do the marketing while you are out.” Jessie tossed her head. “Marcus may find he doesn’t need to go down to Somerset House, after all.”

  “Yes, do that.” Francis had had enough sniping. “Be sure to compliment his hearty haunches. It may just give you the edge you need.” She moved off just as Isaac, Half Moon House’s intrepid butler, opened the front door.

  “Lady Truitt and her young companion are in the carriage already,” he told her. “They ask if you are ready to go?”

  “Of course.” She bid the girls a good day and followed him out.

  The crowds lay thick all through Somerset House, and the stairs to the exhibition room were stifling. Society had come out en masse to view the Royal Academy’s Exhibition, to see and be seen, to gossip over popular works and over which artists had found their work placed to advantage ‘on the line.’

  Francis helped Brynne and Callie keep a close eye on their group of girls. Hard to believe that her friends were now the Duchess of Aldmere and Lady Truitt Russell—but very easy to accept that they both were doing their best to help those less fortunate than themselves.

  Brynne and her husband, the Duke of Aldmere, had founded an orphanage that took in young girls. They trained them for independent and happy lives, in business or service or even marriage, whichever way their inclinations led them.

  Callie ran an inn, and also, very secretly, took in young women of all walks of life, often abused or compromised, who found themselves in the family way. In memory of her mother, she tucked them safely away, treated them well until they were delivered—and helped them and their children start life anew.

  “Who is following today?” Brynne asked quietly in an aside meant only for Callie and Francis.

  “Cade,” answered Callie. She gave a little shiver.

  Francis was entirely sympathetic. The wicked Marquess of Marstoke had men set to watch Half Moon House on most days. When Hestia’s principal assistants went about Town, they often acquired unwanted followers. Cade, a tall, slender man, was one of the most disturbing. Not a discontented younger son
like most of Marstoke’s lackeys, no one knew where he came from. They all knew, however, that he was fast, mean and ruthless.

  One of the young girls approached. As one, the three of them turned to greet her. “Your Grace,” she said in an excited whisper. “Look at that group of young girls over there.” She tilted her head in a perfectly discreet manner. “Their waistlines—they are lower! It is just as we heard from the modiste last week!”

  Today’s group was comprised of mostly Brynne’s girls, and nearly all were interested in becoming a lady’s maid, a dresser, or a seamstress. They’d been brought to Town to meet prospective employers—and to be taken out a bit to see the sort of results they would be expected to achieve.

  Nodding, talking, Brynne herded them into the main room of the display. They all started out admiring the art. But the crowds grew, and they drew back, huddled together, more interested in discussing the attendees and what they were wearing. They perked up as the fashionable young Countess of Hartford entered, and Francis raised a brow as Brynne took her arm and again pulled her a little out of the way.

  “The girls are all aflutter over the society ladies,” the duchess said, low. “But I notice that you are watching the young men.”

  “Yes, well, apparently I have an assignation with the butcher’s boy,” she answered wryly.

  “Good heavens, leave that young Moore boy alone, will you?” the duchess laughed. “He’s not nearly so tough as his father’s stew meat—and Half Moon House’s kitchens will get the worst of it if you break his heart.”

  “Fine—then I’ll leave him to Jesse. She appears to be interested.”

  “Far more his caliber,” Brynne said approvingly. “But don’t think to distract me. I know what you are doing. You are looking for him, aren’t you?”

  Him.

  They exchanged glances. Brynne knew that for the last six months there had only been one him hovering in Francis’s mind. A man she’d worried, fretted and obsessed over.

  A man she’d never met.

  Hestia Wright’s son.

  Almost nothing was known of him. Hestia had kept his existence a closely guarded secret for years. She’d done it to protect him from his father, her old enemy, the Marquess of Marstoke. But the madman had somehow discovered the truth. He’d found the young man and then sent a public message that had been clear only to Hestia.

  It had happened at a ball. Marstoke, wanted for treasonous acts, had come out of hiding, risking capture in order to perform the flashy introduction of a new artist—and an unveiling of a sculpture that had pierced Hestia’s heart to the quick.

  But then both men had disappeared. The traitorous Marquess had vanished from his prison cell in Newgate to parts unknown—and the young man had faded back into obscurity.

  Half the world had been looking for Marstoke ever since—or at least a good part of the Prince Regent’s government—and a few foreign nations as well. Society was continually abuzz with news of a latest sighting. He’d been spotted in Paris, in Naples, or he’d bought an island in the Caribbean from which he would plot his revenge.

  Of Rhys Caradec, in contrast, there had been no word and almost no talk. Her son was the artist, Hestia told them. She’d known that much about him and the sculpture that Marstoke had unveiled right before his capture had clearly cemented the fact.

  “It was brilliant of you to sniff out his work in Yorkshire,” Brynne began.

  Francis nodded her thanks. It had been a coup, discovering the only further bit of information about the man—and a bit of a lucky break too. Hestia had sent her north to Yorkshire over the Christmas holidays—to assist one of the young women who’d come seeking help at Half Moon House—and to gain a bit of experience in dealing with the peerage. The mission had been a success on both fronts.

  But her focus had taken on a whole new slant when the formidable old Duke of Danby had noticed how taken she’d been with the new, unusual pair of portraits of his twin granddaughters. He’d offered to show her the more informal, companion piece the artist had gifted him.

  If she’d thought the formal portraits vivid and alive—well, then she wouldn’t have been surprised if the giggling girls in the third piece might have stepped right out of their garden setting. But it was the pair of tiny figures in the background that had her gasping out loud: far-off, a blonde lady walking away, holding the hand of a tow-headed toddler.

  It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Another depiction of a faceless blonde and a small boy? Just like in the sculpture? A flurry of questions had revealed only that yes, the artist who had painted the girls had been Rhys Caradec—and no, no one knew precisely where he had gone once the commission had been completed. They’d obtained a good description of him, at least—tall, blonde with hair on the longish side, mostly good natured, strong willed and eccentric in his habits, but no further hint to help find him.

  “But there’s been no sign of him since. Clearly he doesn’t want to be found,” Brynne continued.

  Of all of them, this concerned Brynne the most. Because everyone in Hestia’s circles knew the evil that Marstoke was capable of, but Brynne had once been betrothed to the man. And having had the most exposure to the marquess, she feared the man’s ability to turn Hestia’s son against her.

  “I know you are worried,” Francis told her again. “But I just cannot believe that he would conspire against Hestia.” How to explain? The man who had captured the essence of those laughing girls had treated them with . . . joy and reverence. “You’ve seen the sculpture—and you saw that painting. In both instances he created a blonde lady and small boy—and doesn’t it feel wistful to you?”

  “It was crafted to make us feel wistful,” Brynne said darkly. “Who knows what the maker really feels?”

  “I just can’t believe the worst of him,” Francis said with a shrug.

  “I know,” Brynne answered with a sigh. “And you are the most level-headed of us all. Your opinion is the only thing giving me hope.”

  She flushed a little, more pleased than she could admit. Reaching out, she gripped Brynne’s hand in silent gratitude.

  And that was why she was here today, was it not? She’d been given so much. It was what lay behind her fierce determination to solve this mystery—her fervent need to balance in some way her greatest debt.

  There were so many kinds of debt in the world, and she’d seen them all. Money owed. Favors owed. The simplest of exchanges.

  Family debts, moral issues. More complicated matters.

  But what Francis had accumulated were life debts—two of them, in fact. She’d heard from a gypsy once, of an Eastern tradition—about a life saved forever becoming your responsibility.

  It was worry about the reverse that kept her up during the nights. What if you were the one saved? That must surely become the biggest debt of all.

  The first one she owed she would never be able to settle. Hatch was dead and gone. Francis liked to think that the work she did at Half Moon House, helping women of every class and situation, might tilt those scales.

  But the debt she owed to Hestia Wright?

  How to repay someone for giving you a life worth living? Shelter, safety and a purpose? A large, loose, oddball family of sorts and work worth doing? Care, concern and a path forward? She longed with her every fiber to be able to offer something in return.

  And she knew Hestia well enough by now to know that there was a way. One thing she could give her that could come close to equalizing the balance between them.

  Her son.

  “Hestia doesn’t think we’ll find anything today, does she?” asked Brynne.

  “I think she’s afraid to hope,” Francis sighed.

  “Is that why she suddenly found such pressing business in the Lake District, of all places?”

  “No, she wouldn’t say what the business was, but I suspect it’s something to do with Marstoke—and the government’s search for him. Lord Stoneacre has been hanging around lately, and I think she was summoned before
some members of the Privy Council.” Her mouth quirked. “I don’t believe she and Isaac know how much I can hear when they whisper together.”

  Brynne grinned. “Ah. I did wonder that she would leave when both Callie and I were in Town for a visit.”

  “Well, I know she hated to miss both of you. But I do think she was relieved to miss all of this.” Francis waved a hand to indicate the crowd, the paintings . . . and the hope and expectation she could not suppress.

  “Well, if anything is to be found of the missing young man, it would be here, would it not?” Brynne gestured around at the paintings mounted floor to ceiling around them.

  “Exactly.” Determination stiffened her spine. “We cannot leave any stone unturned. I’ll talk to every artist, examine every painting, if I have to.”

  Brynne sighed. “Very well. Take Callie’s girl along with you as you start, will you? She’s a brewer’s daughter and we’ve arranged an interview for her tomorrow here in the city. She’s the only one along with us today who is not enamored with the hemlines and coiffures of the attending ladies.”

  Neither was the girl, Martha, interested in the art about them. Instead, she frowned thoughtfully around at the crowd as she followed Francis. “How many of these people already have suppliers for their household ale, would you guess?” she asked as they made their way through the crowd.

  “All of them, I would imagine,” Francis answered absently.

  “And how would you convince them to shift to a new brewery, I wonder?” the girl said, almost to herself.