by Regina Darcy
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
BONUS CHAPTER 1:THE DUKE’S SECRET DESIRE
BONUS CHAPTER 2:CAPTIVATED BY THE EARL
KEEP IN TOUCH!
Copyright © Regina Darcy 2016
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
For queries, comments or feedback please use the following contact details:
reginadarcy.cleanandwholesomeromance.com
info@cleanandwholesomeromance
ONE
The Earl of Markingston knew he was being followed. Two quiet men, with their rather out-of-fashion tricorn hats pulled low over their eyes, had whispered, glanced, and nodded in his direction for the entirety of the voyage across the choppy, grey English Channel. Lord Bartholomew Markingston did not know which faction they hailed from — the Bonapartists, the anti-Bonapartists, English rabble-rousers, common thieves, enemies from some past mission, or even representatives of a mysterious criminal element he had yet to identify.
Now, as the Earl strolled down the icy, crowded dock in the port city of Calais, they continued to cling to him, as blank-faced shadows. Together with the Earl, they had been the only passengers of the ship (an ostensible Dutch trading vessel used to transport certain passengers more interested in sneaking across the cold water into France than the cargo of pitch and tar from the Baltics).
As Lord Markingston moved past a mob of red-faced, grumbling sailors, he tried to keep the two men in his peripheral vision. Sure enough, they kept a careful distance at all times.
Walking down the slippery wooden planks with the help of his silver-knobbed cane, Markingston regretted his choice of clothing. Instead of his usual, crisply cut navy ensemble, he ought to have gone with the more faded garments of a struggling sea captain or a careworn merchant. He would have grabbed less attention that way. The Earl of Markingston had simply not expected to be pursued this early on in the game.
Then again, it might be a simple robbery attempt. The Earl was a tall man, but he was quite thin, with dark green eyes, delicate features, and an easy smile. His eyes were sombre, but the 27-year-old’s cheerful, almost haughty expression made him look like any affably gullible young Englishman looking to gallivant across the Continent — an easy mark for two pickpockets.
The dock was coming to an end, flowing straight into a street, empty aside for a few heaps of grimy snow. If Markingston had to guess, the two men would wait until they were out of sight of the noisy dockyard to seize him. He turned onto the most deserted avenue he could find, where the street twisted and narrowed and rambled. At times, the port of Calais felt a bit like some sort of dingy medieval labyrinth; criss-crossing alleys, rain-soaked byways, and shadowy pockets. If his memory served him right, he would soon be in an almost abandoned spot — just out of earshot of the dockyard.
Turning back briefly, he saw the taller of the two men produce a pistol from his jacket.
Markingston stopped, leaning on his cane. His bad leg throbbed. The old injury from one of his first missions always pained him when there was danger in the air. He supposed that this was in fact due to his own physical reaction to peril, but he liked to think that it was a bit more supernatural than that.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” the Earl asked, keeping his tone clipped but bright. He could see his breath in the air in front of him. It was growing quite cold outside.
“Yes sir,” the man with the gun said. “Might we see your papers? It’ll only take but a moment.”
“Papers? Why should you need to? I don’t think either of you are Frenchmen. Therefore, I see no need for you to be at all curious about my papers.”
“That may be, sir,” the man with the gun sneered. “But we are concerned citizens. Hand them over—”
At that, Markingston lashed out, whacking both men across the face with his cane. The pistol clattered to the ground. Before the taller man could crawl over to retrieve it, the young, English nobleman unsheathed the hidden sword from his cane and pointed it at his exposed throat.
“Just like a turncoat to have something like that. Imagine, a sword in a bloody cane. Cowardly… of all the dastardly, foreign contraptions!” the taller man sputtered. “Go ahead and kill us, you yellow-bellied traitor.”
“He doesn’t mean that, sir. Don’t kill us,” the shorter man whimpered, rubbing his jaw. “We were just trying to… to rob you…”
The Earl stepped away a bit, but he did not sheath his blade. “Who exactly are you working for and what do you want with me?”
“Go right ahead and slice us up into little bits,” the taller man growled. “We’ll never talk to the likes of you. You can’t get us to spill a thing. You make me sick, you bloody traitor! I’d rather die than talk to you.”
“We work for the British government,” the shorter man said, quietly. “We’re agents.”
“Williams!” his companion barked. “You pathetic squeaker!”
“I’m sorry Stuart. I don’t want to die. Not like this.”
Smiling, Markingston slid the sword back into his cane and leaned on it again. “British government? I guess we have something in common, in that case.”
Williams and Stuart both gaped.
“Liar,” the latter barked. “You’re a traitor, that’s what you are. All of London’s talking about it. ‘The Earl of Markingston, the biggest lover of the Frenchies in all the world.’ It’s positively vile. One day, you’re in the inner circle of the top people in London. The next day, you’ve renounced your home in favour of the Continent. It’s all over the papers!”
“My dear man, do you really believe everything you read?” Lord Markingston asked, with a smile.
“Well now I certainly do,” he snapped. “Seeing you here in France and whatnot. After all England’s given you, you decide to bugger off across the Channel?”
Williams interjected, his tone a bit less aggressive.
“Stuart, I’m sure this is all just an honest mix up. You see, sir, we had orders to meet a certain gentleman…”
“And you found me instead?” the Earl guessed. “Instead of the anonymous contact you were meant to assist on a dangerous mission to Paris, you discovered the deplorable Earl who recently fled London under a cloud of scandal due to his French sympathies? I commend your caution and your patriotism, gentlemen. Let me set your mind at ease — I believe the code we were supposed to have exchanged is ‘The Siege of Sparta.’ Is that correct?”
“How’d you…” Williams trailed off.
“Oh,” Stuart sighed. “You’re not lying, then.” Lord Markingston helped both of the men to their feet. Together, they began walking down the deserted street. “Why all the… why all the talk in the papers, then?”
“The rumours of my acute onset of Francophilia were actually the idea of the prime minister himself,” the Earl explained. “I certainly do not think I would be able to infiltrate any French conspiracy worth talking about if I did not have such a disgraceful reputation back home.”
“My apologies, my lord. We… I guess, with all the stuff t
hat’s been in the papers about you, I got suspicious when you showed up instead of… well, instead of anyone else who might’ve been our contact.”
“No apologies necessary, Mr. Stuart. You and Mr. Williams were merely being cautious. I would far prefer that in my colleagues than impetuousness.”
“That’s certainly true, my lord,” Williams agreed, nodding. He rubbed his stubby fingers together. “Might we continue this conversation indoors? I think I saw a tavern a few streets back. I feel frozen solid.”
Lord Markingston and Stuart acquiesced and together, the trio of English spies ambled to the public house in question. It was packed with tipsy townsfolk, who largely ignored the newcomers as they shoved their way into seats in the most deserted corners of the room. The people of Calais were used to all sorts of foreigners.
“Drinks, messieurs?” The rotund, smiling proprietor called to them, once the men were seated.
Williams and Stuart ordered some wine, but the Earl passed for the moment. He had travelled long and far and did not want to knock himself out just yet. He wanted to be fresh and ready in the morning, when he hoped to make first contact with the group he was sent to infiltrate.
“‘The Siege of Sparta,’” Lord Markingston mused.
“That’s quite a code. Have you ever seen the painting itself?”
“Painting?” Stuart asked, sipping from his cup of red wine.
“It’s by François Topino-Lebrun — the man that has caused all this trouble. It’s quite good. Not my taste, perhaps — I consider myself more of a landscape enthusiast; I don’t have much use for mangled bodies and ancient fellows with swords and robes. You can definitely tell he’s the favourite of that David gentleman. You can also see the Jacobin influence.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “So, he wants to kill old Napoleon. That’s the rub?”
“That’s it,” Williams nodded.
“Just so we’re all clear, we’re not getting embroiled in this thing,” Stuart interjected. “You’ll be infiltrating this little clique of plotters and seeing what the situation is. If we can offer them passive support, we might — but we need to just see where it goes. We certainly can’t have an English citizen getting publicly ensnared in this. It could set off an already tense situation.”
“Of course,” Lord Markingston nodded. “So Topino-Lebrun is our in, our point of entry into this little murder club. Who else? Demerville, that old clerk of the Committee of Public Safety, Arena, a Corsican whose not so fond of his fellow countryman’s rise to power, and Ceracchi, a sculptor fellow. I recognize his name! He’s done some magnificent busts ”
Stuart rolled his eyes at this, but Williams looked pleased.
“My lord, you’ll fit right in! It’s quite an artsy bunch, you see. We have reason to believe that they’re using a legitimate cover to meet — mutual interest in artistic pursuits. They convene and plot at the salon of a lady at the top of Paris society. Her name is the Marquise De Sange.”
For the first time during the whole journey, a crack appeared the Earl’s mask of calm. “De Sange?”
Stuart picked up on the subtle note of alarm in his voice.
“Is that a problem, my lord?”
“Sorry… I just… what was that name again?”
“The Marquise De Sange,” Williams repeated. “She’s quite a pretty English girl. Before she married she was Miss Annabelle Emmerton. Her father’s a country gentleman — she’s the heir to quite a fortune. Somehow got wrapped up with a brute of a French aristocrat. Now that he’s out of the picture, she’s blossomed into quite the patroness of the arts.”
“Annabelle,” the Earl whispered. Williams and Stuart exchanged a glance. Then, Lord Markingston held up his hand to wave to the proprietor of the tavern. “You know what? I think I will have that drink, after all.”
TWO
Beneath the alternatingly piney and succulent aromas wafting about Baroness Dumont’s Christmas party, Marquise De Sange could taste something in the air. Something smoky. Something dangerous. She tried to relax and enjoy her friend’s festive bash, but the scent was bothering her. She could not quite determine what it was or where it was coming from, but it frightened her.
The Marquise felt heat flicker against her pale forearm and realised that she was leaning up against one of the rosy gold candelabras hovering throughout the room. She had singed the flowing, translucent sleeve of her pallid blue dress. She patted out the small flame and sighed. Looking in the large, burnished mirror, she decided that the burnt fabric was not too noticeable if she held her arm in a certain way. Otherwise, she looked fine. Her halo of fine, blonde hair — done up in the curly style that was fashionable — was beginning to droop a bit.
Her sapphire eyes were dulling a bit — a consequence of the wine and her own inexplicable fatigue. But otherwise, she blended in with the horde of colourfully dressed, cheerful partygoers.
Seeing her distress, two of the Baroness’s maids flocked to her side.
“Milady— may I fetch you anything?”
“Shall we ask the Baroness to lend you a new gown?”
“Let us help you, Marquise!”
“Thank you dears,” she said, smiling tiredly.
“Nevertheless, I will be leaving soon so no need to fuss.”
As they scattered, she thought about her title. Marquise, wife of Marquis de Sange, French aristocracy.
She was 24-years-old. Four short years ago, she would have swooned and twirled and carried on at the thought of having such a title. Just the word itself — so elegant, so regal, so French.
She had been quite stupid, she realised now. After all was said and done, the Marquise De Sange still felt more like Miss Annabelle Emmerton. Even more so than before. Perhaps, now that she had developed a sense of pride and nostalgia for her old, simpler life back in England. Paris was glorious and beautiful, and she loved her life at the moment, but she knew in her heart that she would have to eventually return home.
For all her childhood yearning for a cosmopolitan existence, fate held it that her perpetually drunk, mean-spirited brute of a first husband would leave her, rather disenchanted with the trappings of decadence and sophistication. All the diamonds, balls, and silk in the world could not cover up a dishonest or cruel heart. The close, winding streets and political intrigues of Paris often made Annabelle yearn for the uncomplicated openness of her rural estate.
“Madame.” A familiar voice interrupted her pining. She turned around to face François Topino-Lebrun. “François!” She extended her hand, which he kissed profusely. “How are you on this cold winter’s evening?”
“My heart is warmed now that I have seen you, Madame,” the painter smiled, winking at her. He was a slender, wild haired man in his mid-thirties, with an angular face and dark, piercing eyes.
The Marquise gestured out the window, which was coated with frost. “I have been thinking, François. You ought to paint a nice scene of the streets in winter, with snowflakes falling. Ooh, or maybe a Nativity scene. That would be charming!”
François rolled his eyes at her. Annabelle loved to tease her artistic friend, suggesting all sorts of quaint and sentimental subjects that she knew he would loathe. She was his primary patroness. He had been a fixture of her famous salon for quite some time. François was a snob about his art, but not about those he associated with.
He was a rarity in the city. Annabelle knew that Parisians liked to scoff at her a bit behind her back. She had come from enormous wealth, but she was ultimately nothing more than a country gentleman’s daughter to this snobby society. She hardly had anywhere near the sort of pedigree required to impress in Paris. Still, through her own enthusiasm for the arts and good-natured willingness to take on all kinds of friends, she had managed to acquire one of the most impressive, powerful salons in the entirety of the city.
“Madame, you mock my art!” François cried, in a good-natured overdramatic way. “I would rather stab my eyes out with my own brush than paint a Christmas scene.”
>
“Spoken like a true Jacobin,” Annabelle teased.
“Adieu, Madame,” François said, with an overly exaggerated bow. “I’ve enjoyed far too much of the Baroness’s fine Christmas mead. I must flee your presence before you wrangle one of those horrific cheery snowscapes out of me.” He threw his hands up. “Bah! This party has far too many of your countrymen!”
Annabelle giggled and waved the artist away. His statement confused her a bit: Too many of her countrymen? Who else was here from England? Perhaps François was just seeing double from all that wine.
Then, she lowered herself into the rich, green ottoman by the window. Through the ice, she could see the dark blue night outside. The colour reminded her of an old dress she had used to wear — she must have left it in the manor house in England, now that she thought about it. She had not worn it since another Christmas party, one that happened four years ago on a similarly frigid night.
That night had been a whirl at the time, but now she remembered it with a more sober, steady mind. She had been 20, and intoxicated with balls, dancing, and handsome gentlemen. She had had so many admirers in those days; her mother, father, and younger sisters would often tease her about the hoard of men simply dragging around after her; peppering her with marriage proposals. Some of these suitors had been nice gentlemen who she wished the best for; others had been nothing more than desperate, pushy fellows who saw her as little more than a glimmering prize to compete over.
Only one had stood out to her, out of the whole bunch.
One gentleman in particular that caught her eye at a dance — a ball held at the assembly rooms of Blairdale, the village closest to Annabelle’s family’s estate. This particular gentleman, Lord Markingston, had been in the area visiting some close relations.
The Earl had been different from the other men. He was quite handsome, tall, auburn-haired, with a brilliant smile. He had not pestered her but had made time for her. With her father’s permission (and a few chaperones trailing along for the journey), they had spent many an hour on chilly sleigh rides, walks through the frosted grounds of their respective estates, and trips to the weekly services.
