Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  “Love is a thief, Rhiannon. If you allow a man to steal your heart, rest assured he will break it, and probably more than once. You just make certain the thief is man enough to mend it.”

  As she stood before the rector in her itchy, borrowed clothes and spoke the vows she now understood with so much more clarity, she realized his mother was right. And no matter the reason all those years ago, Rhiannon had married the only man for her, the only man who could mend her broken heart. And if it took a lifetime, she vowed to be the woman to mend his.

  ###

  Ballad of Discord

  Songs of Rebellion

  Book One

  Tarah Scott

  &

  Summer Hanford

  Ballad of Discord Book One Songs of Rebellion

  Copyright © 2019 by Tarah Scott & Summer Hanford

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: dreams2media

  Editor: Kimberly Comeau

  Chapter One

  Giggles and rapid footfalls sounded in the corridor outside the sunny parlor. Elizbeth smoothed a stitch in her needlework while she waited for the bittersweet prick of tears to subside. It had been two years since their mother died. Laughter and joy were long overdue in their household.

  “You know we ought to chide her for running,” Aunt Davina said.

  Elizbeth glanced at Davina, who sat across the parlor.

  “She’s nineteen,” Davina went on. “A child no longer. When the two of you come out this autumn, we can hardly have her running about in company.”

  Elizbeth nodded as her strawberry-haired little sister charged into the room. Elizbeth wouldn’t reprimand Margarette, and she doubted their aunt would, either. Only four years Elizbeth’s senior, Aunt Davina was more an older sister than a matronly aunt and was as apt to join in their schemes as curtail them.

  “The mail came,” Margarette cried. She slid to a halt in the center of the Kidderminster carpet and waved a handful of letters.

  Aunt Davina smiled down at her book, her bowlike lips pressed closed, her only censure to ignore the display.

  “Oh?” Elizbeth looked up with feigned disinterest even as she tried to discern familiar handwriting on the flapping envelopes.

  Her dear friend, Mister Robert McFarlan, was away on business for their father. Their three-week separation was the longest they’d been apart since…she fought down a blush…since he’d kissed her a month past. Although writing her was inappropriate—they weren’t officially engaged—she considered a letter far less scandalous than his single, decidedly unchaste, embrace. So, she’d wheedled from him a promise to write. Though he was due to return that evening and she’d searched the mail for such a letter every day, he had been remiss thus far.

  Smile wide, Margarette twirled on her toes, letters held aloft. Somehow, she’d noticed Elizbeth’s recent interest in the mail and was determined to tease.

  “Margarette, dear, shouldn’t you be at your lessons?” Aunt Davina asked sweetly.

  With a final spin, Margarette twirled over to the settee and plunked down beside their aunt. “After I see who’s written.” She began shuffling the envelopes. “Father,” she said, and tossed two in a pile. “Father again.” Another followed. “And again.”

  Elizbeth returned to her stitching. Attempts to contain her sister would only fuel her teasing. Perhaps Aunt Davina was correct and they should try to instill more decorum in Margarette. What man wanted a wife who ran giggling up and down the corridors of his home?

  An intelligent one, she decided, who wanted a home full of joy. Not the same sort of man who would marry their aunt, but similar. She suppressed a grin. Little did Aunt Davina know, but as Elizbeth had already settled on a suitor, she planned to use her delayed season to find a man for Davina. It wasn’t right that one disastrous romance, undertaken nearly a decade ago when Davina was just seventeen, should prejudice her against all gentlemen.

  Margarette’s sudden silence caused Elizbeth to look up. Her sister’s blue eyes sparkled, her grin full of mischief. She’d finished her sorting and held two letters back from the pile for their father. Seeing she had captured Elizbeth’s attention, Margarette pried one open and unfolded the pages within.

  “Now, this one is interesting,” Margarette drawled. “Great Aunt Saundra writes that she’s returned from Italy for another visit.”

  “Has she?” Aunt Davina raised one delicate brow. “What is she now, eighty? I am surprised she made the journey.”

  “She says she wishes to see us, when we can.” Some of the joy left Margarette. “She’s of the opinion this will be her final visit to Scotland.” Margarette blinked rapidly. “She means then to return, to die in Italy and be laid to rest there.”

  Aunt Davina plucked the letter from Margarette and scanned the page. “I know she’s pious, but I will never understand how a good Scottish noblewoman grew so enamored of Italy.”

  “She is not even our real great aunt,” Margarette said with a sniff. “It’s not as if we will lose a real family member.” Margarette’s unspoken words echoed through the room: as we did when mother died.

  “True enough, but our families were close, and she has never forgotten that.” Aunt Davina folded the letter. “She’s been Great Aunt Saundra since before I was born, and we shall visit her as she asks.”

  “Yes, of course, we shall,” Elizbeth said. “What is the final letter, Margarette?”

  As hoped, her sister’s frown disappeared and mischief lit her eyes. “This?” Margarette held up the envelope, careful not to reveal the handwriting. “This letter must be an error. I shall have it returned. After all, only an engaged miss would receive a letter such as this one.”

  Elizbeth smiled before she could stop herself. Robert had written? Her soon-to-be betrothed cared more for her than for propriety, and more than he feared her father’s wrath. Not that Father had ever indicated displeasure in their courtship…assuming he’d noticed.

  Margarette popped to her feet. The pile of letters for their father toppled in her wake and spilled across the settee toward Davina. “In fact, such a letter as this is so scandalous, could do such harm to a lady’s reputation, that I say we must burn it.” Margarette whirled toward the tall fireplace at the far end of the room.

  “Margarette,” Elizbeth cried before she could help herself.

  Her sister turned back with a victorious grin. She thrust the letter behind her back and took two steps backward toward the hearth. Elizbeth didn’t know if she should laugh or shriek. She felt caught between the girl she was at twelve, tormented by her little sister, and the woman she’d become at twenty-two.

  “For Heaven’s sake.” Aunt Davina laughed, her chocolate-colored curls a jumble as she shook her head. “Give me that letter and take yourself off to your lessons, Miss. I believe ‘tis Italian today.”

  “French,” Margarette said, then clamped her lips closed with a grimace. She crossed to their aunt and proffered the envelope, which Davina accepted with a smile.

  Although she still didn’t have her letter, Elizbeth couldn’t contain a smirk. Margarette hated French.

  “Well, off you go to the library.” Aunt Davina made a shooing gesture. “I will quiz you later.”

  “Yes, Aunt Davina.” Margarette made a great show of becoming somber before she smiled and skipped from the room.

  Aunt Davina gathered the scattered letters, placed Elizbeth’s
on top, and held out the stack. “Will you take these to your father? He likely wishes to have his mail.”

  Elizbeth set aside her needlepoint and stood. Eyes on the top envelope, she took the pile and hurried from the parlor. She reached her father’s office to find the door closed. The thick wood panel shutting him away meant he didn’t wish to be disturbed, so Elizbeth deposited his mail on the small table outside his office door. She couldn’t help but recall a time when their golden-haired mother had been alive and his door was always open. Elizbeth sighed. Mother was not alive, and their father’s office door was nearly always closed.

  She turned from the door to find Mary hurrying toward her. The maid took in the closed office and proffered a card. “There is a Frenchman here to see your father, Miss. Claims he’s a lord of some sort, or I wouldn’t have let him in.”

  Elizbeth took the card. Etched on the surface was simply Seigneur Faucon.

  Lord Hawk, she thought, her French considerably better than Margarette’s.

  She looked at the maid. “Do you think he truly is a French lord?” A lord would be worth disturbing her father.

  “Well, Miss, he seems quite fancy, to be sure, and very French.” This last, Mary delivered with a wrinkle of her nose.

  “Show him to my office,” came her father’s clipped voice behind the closed door.

  Elizbeth winced. She’d forgotten about her father’s keen hearing. She offered the card back to Mary. “Bring him to Father.”

  “Yes, Miss.” Mary took the card and scuttled away.

  Elizbeth stood for a moment, gaze on the door. Should she ask her father if he needed anything? He had a bell pull, and servants to fetch for him, but since their mother’s death, he’d taken to skipping breakfast. Now, they rarely saw him outside the dinner table, if then. She shook her head. He knew she was there. If he wanted to see her, he would ask her in. Besides, she had Robert’s letter to read.

  Elizbeth turned on her heels. Though guilt assailed her, she went to the little room that had been her mother’s office. She withdrew the key from her bodice—a key none knew she possessed—opened the door, and slipped inside.

  Stuffy heat warmed her arms. Her mother had kept the window open nearly year-round. Elizbeth preferred the fresh air, as well. Today, however, she dared open the curtains and beveled panes just enough for a sliver of light and a flicker of breeze. She couldn’t risk being caught. Her father, who thought he had the only key, would be livid.

  Elizbeth understood his feelings. He wished this room, where Mother was once so often found, to remain undisturbed, in some fruitless hope to preserve a glimmer of her spirit. But it didn’t. When mother was alive, light poured in through the open window. Her household notes and correspondences lay scattered about the desk and the second table, which overcrowded the little room. Father had pressed her to take one of the parlors for her office, but Mother liked her cramped little space with its lavender walls and flowery upholsteries.

  Now, desk and table were bare, their papers long since sorted by Aunt Davina. After Mother’s death, Aunt Davina arrived with their wayward, unpredictable Uncle Graham, and she’d taken over running the household. While Elizbeth appreciated Aunt Davina and was daily grateful for her competence, she had no real notion why Uncle Graham was there. All he did was soak up Father’s whisky—when he could pry himself away from his harlots long enough to come home.

  Shrugging off her now-grim mood, Elizbeth settled into the armchair by the window. She ran a finger along Robert’s concise handwriting then, carefully, she opened the envelope. This was her first letter from Robert and she wished to cherish every word.

  Elizbeth:

  As promised, I am writing. I comply only because I abhor breaking a promise. However, I must remind you how inappropriate it was for you to ask me to write. Your father would be displeased not only that you asked me, but that I allowed you to extract my promise to write. Be warned, in the future, I will not give in to your pleading.

  Elizbeth rolled her eyes. If there was one little flaw in Robert, it was that he was too serious, but that was also what she cherished about him. His seriousness drew her in. To call forth his laughter made her heart sing, and she knew, when Robert spoke, he meant each word. Still, he could stand to be a touch less severe.

  Her eyes went to the final line.

  With the very greatest affection, yours always, Robert.

  Elizbeth pressed the letter to her chest. Those words made the rest of the letter worthwhile. Her gaze caught on the quill sitting on the desk. The quill had been her mother’s favorite. Tears unexpectedly pricked. It was terribly unfair that she had died without seeing Elizbeth fall in love. Elizbeth recalled the delight in her father’s eyes whenever her mother walked into the room. Elizbeth wanted a love like that. She’d found a love like that.

  “You would have loved him as much as I do, Mother,” she whispered.

  Elizbeth held the page back in the line of sunlight to reread the short missive.

  “This request to speak in the garden is ridiculous,” her father’s voice, speaking French, emanated from somewhere outside, near the window.

  Elizbeth snapped her head up.

  “Not ridiculous, but necessary,” a man replied in the same tongue. “The manor has ears.”

  “I assure you, none of my staff speak your language,” her father snapped back. “Half of them barely speak English.”

  Movements slow, least the chair creak, Elizbeth grasped the window and drew it back toward the sill. Father would not appreciate being made a liar of.

  “Humor me, Seigneur, for my news is life shaking,” the Frenchman said. “Any who hear it will face mortal danger.”

  The window clicked quietly closed, muting her father’s reply into unintelligibility.

  Face mortal danger? Elizbeth would have laughed had Seigneur Faucon’s tone not been deadly serious. What news could possibly be of such importance? Her fingers tightened on the latch. She hesitated a heartbeat, then drew her hand back.

  Eavesdropping was unacceptable. Doubly so when the two men were going to great lengths not to be overheard, and especially if the information they shared was truly somehow dangerous. If the Frenchman’s words were for Father’s ears alone, Father alone should hear them.

  A thought struck. The library windows also opened onto the garden. Margarette!

  Elizbeth surged to her feet. She folded and tucked Robert’s letter into her skirt pocket as she crossed the room. She poked her head into the corridor—empty, as hoped. She slipped from the room and hurried down the hall.

  Halfway to the library, she came up short. Lord, she’d forgotten to lock the door. Elizbeth hurried back and secured her mother’s office, then again headed toward the library. She pushed the door open, stepped in, and nearly collided with Margarette. Elizbeth stumbled back.

  Her sister recoiled. “Elizbeth,” she cried. “You cannot believe what I heard.”

  Elizbeth contained a sigh. She leveled a frown on her sister. “You listened in on Father’s private conversation.”

  Margarette gaped. “How do you know?”

  “I heard them talking and came to stop you.” Elizbeth grasped her sister’s arm and pulled her into the center of the large room, away from windows or door, then realized the Frenchman’s words had truly rattled her. “It is wrong to eavesdrop.”

  Margarette yanked free. “I do not care. ‘Tis a good thing I heard. I don’t want to go.” Margarette’s voice broke off in anguished tears.

  Elizbeth stared. “Go where?”

  “To France,” Margarette cried.

  “Why would you be going to France?” Elizbeth asked, unable to follow Margarette’s tearful declarations.

  “The Frenchman said we must.” Margarette rubbed at her eyes. “He said we are to marry Frenchmen so Father can have an army.”

  “What under Heaven are you talking about?” Elizbeth demanded. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  “You, me and Aunt Davina,” Margarette sa
id. “Father is going to send us to France so they will send back an army to help him become king of Scotland.”

  “Margarette,” Elizbeth hissed. “Do not say such things. That is treason. Stop making up stories.”

  Margarette lifted her chin. “It is not a story. The Frenchman said Father is the secret descendent of the Jacobite kings, and so we are princesses—which would be great fun—except that France sent him with a ship to take us away.”

  Elizbeth planted her hands on her hips. “Did you fall asleep over your lessons?”

  Margarette grimaced. “Aye, because French is so boring, but that is not the point.”

  “It is exactly the point,” Elizbeth corrected. “That is what you get for eavesdropping—and for not studying properly. Your French is terrible, which is why you so badly misunderstood their conversation.”

  Despite her admonition, a thread of unease wound through Elizbeth. Margarette might not speak French well, but Elizbeth did, and she hadn’t misunderstood the Frenchman’s warning about mortal danger.

  Margarette’s gaze sharpened. “You heard something, too.”

  Elizbeth groaned inwardly. Margarette eschewed books, but she was too intelligent for her own good.

  “If I am wrong, why were they talking in the garden rather than Father’s office?” Margarette demanded.

  “There could be many reasons,” Elizbeth said, but doubt persisted. While Margarette’s story was obviously a mad mixture of dream and miscomprehension, the meeting was odd. Why was a French lord speaking with their father to begin with?

  “My French may be atrocious, but I comprehend much more than I speak,” Margarette said. “I know what I heard. We cannot let Father send us away to France. Especially you. What about Robert?”