by Sophia James
Her father dismissed her remark with a casual wave of his hand. ‘Tremblay knows the real business of matrimony is conducted with the father. Asking you is just ceremonial window dressing.’
‘What a lovely notion.’ Audevere speared him with a sharp tone and a sardonic gaze that conveyed all she thought of such an arrangement. ‘Why should my opinion matter? It’s only the rest of my life that is being arranged.’ He’d been arranging men for her since she was sixteen. It should have been the first sign of his corruption, but she’d been too naive and too flattered at the beginning to understand, desperate as she had been back then to earn her absent father’s approval. He’d been at sea most of her life and suddenly he was the only family she had.
‘Damn right, gel.’ Her father pointed the tines of his fork at her. ‘A life that is being arranged to great satisfaction. You will be a lady, the Viscountess of a peer of the realm. Not bad for a man who only made his money a few years ago. Look how far and how fast we’ve risen. Have I not done well?’ Her father flung his arms outwards as if to embrace the room and every last one of its expensive, if not tasteful, trappings.
‘Yes, you’ve done well,’ Audevere offered a polite smile. There was no use arguing with him when he was like this—obstinate and confident, assured of his own inviolability. He had achieved much in just seven short years since acquiring his knighthood, but at what cost? Five years ago, her first fiancé, Collin Truscott, second son of the Duke of Hayle, took his own life in the wake of her father’s avarice. Now, a viscount was in her father’s sights, waiting to be devoured in the same way—through a marital alliance. History was repeating itself and it was time for it to stop.
‘Look what five years have bought us, Daughter.’ Her father refilled his plate. No matter how much money he had, he still ate like a man who wasn’t sure where the next meal was coming from. ‘Perhaps this is Providence’s recompense for losing the Duke’s son. Truscott was never going to have a title, but Tremblay is already in possession of his. A viscount is a much better trade than a duke’s second son. Of course, my own title was new back then. Truscott was the best we could have hoped for back then, but now we’ve attained even better.’
Audevere pushed her plate away, her appetite dampened by her father’s callous disregard for Collin and for her own feelings. She’d cared for the young man. She’d genuinely mourned him. She still remembered with vivid accuracy the day she’d heard the news. Cassian Truscott, the heir, had ridden to Truro in the wind and the rain to tell them the news. She’d been summoned to her father’s office where Cassian had waited, drenched, water streaming in rivulets from his greatcoat on to her father’s expensive carpet, his expression devastated as he told her.
‘Collin is dead. He drowned off the shores of Porth Karrek.’
Cassian had imparted the words with a stern, condemning stare which she had understood implicitly. Collin had drowned deliberately. She’d broken with her fiancé and he’d taken his own life. This was her fault. No one went swimming alone in the cold Cornish seas in April. Cassian left shortly after. The moment the door closed behind him, she’d broken into tears, but her father had cursed. ‘Damn it all, a Season wasted. We’ve lost the Duke.’
That day she’d seen him plain, for the first time in his entirety, for what he truly was: an unscrupulous opportunist, ready to rise on the back of anyone who could lift him higher. Even his own daughter. She’d known it in her heart for a few years, but had not wanted to admit it. What daughter did? Life was not sacred to him and in the wake of Collin’s death she had hated him for it and had taken no pains to hide it, prompting his disclosure of a secret that devastated what remained of her life.
A secret that would keep her tethered to him.
A secret that meant she would never be free as long as she stayed.
She’d come to understand in hindsight that his damning disclosure had been revealed out of fear she would run. Now she not only hated him, she feared him. In truth, she hated herself for letting that fear rule her, for being powerless to change that fear, powerless to stop him; for being afraid of what would happen to her or anyone she was close to if she tried. But no more. It was time to set aside her fear and take her chances.
‘Might I be excused, Father?’ A footman came to hold her chair and she rose. ‘I have correspondence to see to. So many people are not in London these days.’ It was a subtle reminder that for the truly fashionable, the Season had closed long ago, and they ought to be at the town house in Truro.
Her father waved her off and she escaped up to her rooms, gladly shutting her bedroom door behind her. She could have written letters in the lady’s parlour at the back of the house, but she felt safer up here, away from the prying eyes of the servants who were instructed to watch her every move, away from her father who endlessly plotted his social ascent, and away from the ‘gentlemen’ who called on him for business. Out of sight was out of mind and she preferred to be as far from her father’s thoughts and friends as possible—although today’s news about Tremblay proved that there was nowhere far enough from her father’s machinations.
The years since Collin’s death had bought her time, but not much else. During her second Season, his death had been a protective shield. No one had approached her out of respect for her mourning and there’d been nothing her father could do about it without looking like a cad. Her third Season had been clouded by rumours of her father’s underhanded business dealings regarding the Blaxford Mining Corporation in Cornwall. He’d clashed with the Cornish Dukes and come out the lesser for it. No one had been interested in courting her then, much to her father’s chagrin. But tonnish memories were short. This year, she’d caught the eye of Viscount Tremblay and her father had entrenched, running roughshod over her efforts to quell the Viscount’s attentions, knowing full well that she would be worth less to him next year. A girl in her fifth Season was as good as on the shelf; everyone would be wary of a girl who hadn’t taken yet.
Audevere sat at the delicate, white writing desk at her window overlooking the town house gardens. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, the beginnings of a headache starting to take root as the blood in her veins thrummed another urgent tattoo: time to go, time to go. It was past time to put a stop to her father using her in his manoeuvrings. Time to stop doing his bidding. She was twenty-two years old, no longer a seventeen-year-old girl whose youth and naivety could excuse her for not having acted sooner. Time to stop being helpless. No one was going to ride to her rescue. She would have to rescue herself.
If she meant to act, the time was certainly now, before another man fell victim to her father. If she did nothing, she’d be married to Tremblay by New Year and, perhaps worse than that, she’d be complicit in her father’s schemes this time, knowing full well ahead of time how he intended to use her. But how could she stop her father, when he had a list of men in his pocket who owed him favours, another list of men who feared blackmail, when he had ruthlessly amassed favours and fortunes that no one dared contest?
The answer was that one person alone could not. There was no hope there. She had done all she could to put Tremblay off without her father finding out, but it seemed he was intent on proposing. She could do nothing there, so she would have to prevent the wedding itself. One could not marry what was not there to be wed. If she were gone, Tremblay at least would be saved. And—a desperate part of her reignited the forlorn hope—you would be free. At last.
Freedom would come at a cost, though. Where would she go? There was no one to turn to, no safe place to go. On the one hand, the world was her oyster; she could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything. On the other, the world was a dangerous place for a woman alone with limited resources, a woman who would have to give up everything—even her name—and disappear. She supposed she could give the servants the slip. She could go for a walk and never come back. She could slide out into the world with nothing more than the clothes on her back and wh
atever she could shove into her pockets. But that was an ominous beginning that begged for failure.
Audevere gazed out over the gardens, finely manicured to perfection even in autumn by her father’s gardeners. It would take courage to leave this. Her father’s ill-gotten gains had surrounded her in luxuries not easily given up. She’d been enjoying them long before she’d realised people had suffered to create this lifestyle for her.
She drew a steadying breath. She would not let uncertainty hold her back any longer. She could not go on like this, her inaction making her complicit in her father’s schemes. Evil prospered when bystanders did nothing but watch and in her mind she was more than a bystander. She could no longer use the excuse that she hadn’t known what he was about. She needed help; she needed a friend. But perhaps she would have to settle for an ally. Just one person who would help her get away. One person who wouldn’t betray her to her father because they knew what he was and they would believe her when she said her father made her life a living hell, hellish enough to turn her back on it entirely.
Audevere took out a sheet of paper and drew a line down the centre. On the left side she wrote down the characteristics she needed her ally to have: trustworthy, brave, sympathetic and crucially able and willing to keep her secret. On the right side she made a list of friends. When it proved to be short, she added acquaintances. When that also proved to be a rather limited list, she added anyone she knew who wasn’t in business or beholden to her father. Totalled, even with those efforts, her list only tallied twelve people and one of them was dead. That left eleven.
She put the first four through the criteria, each failing on some ground in turn. The last seven had something in common. They’d all known Collin: his family, his mentors, his friends—and for a time they’d been her friends, too, by association. For a while, she’d been part of his close-knit, loving circle. She’d known what it was like to be part of the circle of Cornish Dukes. Would they still acknowledge her? Take her in as their own even though she’d broken her engagement with Collin? She had not seen them since Collin’s death. She’d had no contact with them and they had not reached out to her. It seemed ludicrous to think they’d do anything for her, but this was a desperate hour.
Audevere studied the remaining names, hesitating. Eaton Falmage had a family; her father had been a party to an attempt on Eaton’s wife’s life last year. She could not ask him. She struck a line through his name. Cassian Truscott was out of the country on his honeymoon. Another name from the sacred circle gone. Vennor Penlerick, the new Duke of Newlyn, was still grieving the loss of his father. That left one name: Inigo Vellanoweth, the man who’d once told her quite plainly to her face she wasn’t good enough to marry Collin. It wasn’t exactly a rousing endorsement for an ally, but it was all she had.
Inigo Vellanoweth met all her criteria and he was rumoured to still be in town. He’d faced down her father over the Blaxford Mines last year and he’d won. Perhaps his desire for continued revenge against her father would win out over his dislike of her. She’d never know unless she asked. She took out another sheet of paper and began to write, a simply worded request to meet tomorrow night at the Bradfords’ ball. It would be an innocuous occasion. Now all she needed to do was slip into the back garden and hand a few pence to a street urchin to have the note delivered.
Courage started here. Courage started today.
CHAPTER TWO
Courage, it appeared, required patience. She’d not bargained on that. And patience required nerves of steel in order to act as if nothing had changed. Only a day after sending the note to Inigo, she was already having difficulty with both. She paced her room ceaselessly and found herself jumping at the slightest sound. Her senses seemed fine-tuned to the smallest nuance. Even now she heard the front door open downstairs. Her father was home. She had not seen him since breakfast yesterday. He was sure to have news. She braced herself against what the news might be and the bellow that was sure to come. Once a sea captain, always a sea captain. She counted down: three, two, one. And on cue…
‘Audevere!’ Her father’s voice boomed up the grand staircase of Brenley House, echoing off the wainscoted ceilings, as if he were still on the deck of a ship. Audevere cringed against the invasion of the noise and what it might portend. She glanced at her little clock. If only time went faster! It seemed an age until tonight’s ball. She was ready for that at least. She’d rehearsed her words, the lines she wanted to say; she’d anticipated each argument Inigo might make. And he would argue.
They’d been good at arguing. Once, she’d looked forward to sparring with Inigo. He had a quick wit and a sharp mind, though with a darker shade compared to Collin’s light. The remembrance of those arguments brought a faint smile to her lips even as her father’s voice bellowed up the stairs again. ‘Audevere, come down here at once!’ Her father might wear the mask of a gentleman, dress in a gentleman’s clothes and live in a gentleman’s house, but he would always be a sea captain. He expected to be obeyed instantaneously. She’d learned quickly not to ignore a summons from her father, even though one was seldom summoned for good news.
She found him in his office, standing before the massive, polished mahogany desk from which he conducted all his business, legs spread apart, shoulders straight, hands behind his back. ‘Father, what has happened?’ She put on a mask of interest to cover her nerves. She hoped her note had not been discovered, that she’d not been called down here to be punished.
He smiled broadly and some of her fears eased. Her little subterfuge was safe. ‘I’ve brought you a gift, that’s what’s happened.’ He gestured towards the large dressmaker’s box, sitting on the low table before the sofa. It was tied with a trademark ribbon of pale-pink satin attached to a black card trimmed in gilt, marking the box as coming from one of the finest drapers in London.
‘For me?’ Audevere fingered the soft satin lovingly even as her mind was already on alert. This was an expensive and unexpected gift. The ribbon alone cost a worker’s wages for a month. She’d been fifteen when her father had begun his rise to fortune, old enough to remember life before the knighthood, before wealth permitted her to forgo counting pennies and questioning the need for fripperies, too young to realise the price of her father’s fortune.
‘Well, go on, girl. Open it and see if it suits.’ Her father waved at the box impatiently, and perhaps with a bit of pride in being able to shop at such an establishment. Even after seven years, that particular thrill had not faded for him, although it had for her. No matter how pretty the ribbon or the box, no gift from her father or his friends came without strings attached. She’d learned that lesson the hard way—through painful experience.
Ever wary, Audevere untied the ribbon and carefully laid it aside. There were yards of it, enough for her to do something clever with and still have some left to give her maid. Patsy was perhaps her one friend within the walls of Brenley House. She would be in alt over the ribbon. Audevere lifted the lid and reached into the depths of white tissue paper. Despite her caution, her breath couldn’t help but catch as she drew out the gown. ‘Oh! It’s lovely!’
She held the gown against herself, shaking out the skirts. Lovely was an understatement. Cranberry silk shimmered beneath an overskirt of soft ivory lace, a wide cranberry ribbon banded the waist. The gown was a tribute to autumn. Audevere could only imagine the hours that had gone into making the yards of lace for the overskirt. Once, she’d never dreamed of owning such a fine gown.
She spun in a quick circle, letting herself pretend for a moment that she had a normal father who would spoil his daughter because he loved and cared for her, that this gown was a gift she could enjoy without shame, without guilt, without fear. ‘I’ll wear it tonight at the Bradfords’ ball.’ The words had barely left her mouth when the fantasy was over.
‘I was hoping you would. I had ordered it in expectation of announcing your engagement—’ condescending disappointment edged his wor
ds ‘—but now we need the gown to do battle or we’ll lose the Viscount.’ Ah. The agenda at last. She’d suspected nothing less. But the news behind it was a surprise.
‘Lose him?’ Audevere looked up from admiring the dress. ‘Did something happen at Tattersall’s?’ She put the pretty dress back in the box with a sigh—a beautiful gown in exchange for an ugly favour that would advance his plans. She was pleased the Viscount seemed to have slipped her father’s hook, yet now she was needed yet again to grease the gears of her father’s advancement.
‘Tremblay didn’t come. Can you imagine that? He sent a note saying he was delayed by business matters.’ Her father’s features were hard. ‘Of course, I wanted to know why when he knew very well what the point of today’s meeting was. I discovered what those business matters were: afternoon drinks with Inigo Vellanoweth at White’s. Now he refuses to receive me. I asked for an appointment this morning and was denied. He insults both you and me with this behaviour.’ His fist came down hard on the surface of his desk, the inkpot jumping. ‘All summer we worked on this and this is how Tremblay treats me? I am a knight of the realm!’ It always came back to this. His title, his wants. Audevere had never known a more self-focused individual or a more dangerous one.
