Stirring Up the Viscount

by Marin McGinnis

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for Marin McGinnis

  Stirring Up the Viscount

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  She watched, mesmerized, as the grease flared and flames began to lick the seasoned wood of the counter.

  She blinked, as much from the smoke beginning to sting her eyes as from the realization she didn’t have to swim in the Thames. She hurried to the hole in the wall where she had stashed the satchel. She removed it and replaced the brick. Her gaze darted around the room as the smoke grew thicker. She spotted the cookery book her mother had given her when she married, and on an impulse she grabbed it, clasping it to her chest as she began to cough.

  Theodora rushed toward the door and grabbed a light wrap off a peg. She stowed the book in her satchel and adjusted the wrap around her shoulders. When she opened the door, the fire behind her roared with the added oxygen. She closed it quickly and inhaled great gulps of air.

  Her eyes burned, her head ached, but she walked quickly around the house to the street. Fortunately Christopher Street was nearly deserted at this late hour. She stole a glance at the house behind her and saw smoke starting to curl around the windows. She spared Lucien a thought. It wouldn’t be long before someone noticed the smoke, and he wasn’t a particularly heavy sleeper. The chances were excellent he would wake in time to escape.

  She shook her head to clear her thoughts. There was no time for regret, and certainly no room for compassion. Not for him.

  As she rounded the corner onto Back Hill, she heard someone cry, “Fire!”

  Praise for Marin McGinnis

  STIRRING UP THE VISCOUNT won two contests in 2013—the historical category of The Lone Star Contest and the Romancing the Lakes Contest.

  Stirring Up

  the Viscount

  by

  Marin McGinnis

  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.

  Stirring Up the Viscount

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Marin Ritter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-729-0

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-730-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my NEORWA sisters:

  Thank you for your unflagging

  encouragement and support,

  your friendship,

  and for making me laugh more in the last three years than I have in decades.

  I could not have done this without you.

  Acknowledgments

  I could not have written, let alone published, this book without the support of many, many people.

  So, I offer my humble gratitude to:

  My critique partners, near and far, for their input,

  support, and humor.

  The attendees of the 2012 NEORWA Annual Retreat, who did the happy dance with me when I typed “the end” of this book and brainstormed the title.

  The judges of the 2013 Lone Star Contest, for seeing this book’s potential and making me believe in it too, and especially to Patti MacDonald, who went so far above and beyond the role of Category Coordinator to champion this book. I more grateful than I can say, and I owe you a big drink when we finally meet!

  Mindy McGinnis, who patiently answered all my newbie questions even when I’m sure I was really annoying.

  My editor, Allison Byers, for her tireless professionalism and brilliant suggestions to get the book in tip-top shape, and the wonderful garden of staff and authors

  at The Wild Rose Press.

  My friends and family, who always told me I could do this, even when I didn’t believe it.

  And most importantly, my husband, who puts up with my distractedness and a very messy house when I am writing (and, okay, even when I’m not writing), and eagerly assists with my research. I love you.

  Chapter One

  Advertisement in The Times, 10 July 1866:

  GOOD COOK wanted for country estate. Good character indispensable. Apply to Longley Hall, Durham.

  ****

  London, 12 July 1866

  Madam,

  Having seen your advertisement in The Times of the 10th inst., I beg to offer myself for the place. I am a thorough cook. I can make clear soups, entrees, jellies, and particularly fine roasted meats. I am of quiet, respectable character, and a widow, aged twenty-six.

  I am unable to leave my present position as Cook to travel to Durham for a personal interview, as I am loathe to inform my employer of my desire to leave at this time. After many years in London, however, I am anxious to return to the Northeast, where I was raised. I hope you will accept this letter and the enclosed references as evidence of my good character.

  I am,

  Madam,

  Your obedient servant,

  Mrs. Matilda Milsom

  ****

  Longley Hall, 15 July 1866

  Dear Mrs. Milsom,

  I thank you for your application for the position available at Longley Hall, and for your letters of reference. Although it is unusual in the extreme for a household such as ours to hire a cook without a personal meeting, I am nevertheless pleased to engage you as Cook at Longley Hall. Your salary will be forty pounds per annum.

  I have enclosed funds for the fare from King’s Cross to Durham. If you will write to say which train you will take, our coachman will be there to collect you. We would like to see you by the first of August at the latest, or our housekeeper will likely have poisoned us all with her cooking.

  Yours truly,

  Judith Tenwick,

  Countess of Longley

  ****

  London, 16 July 1866

  My lady,

  I am very pleased to accept your offer of employment. I will travel to you as soon as I arrange my leave from my present place, which I hope will not be more than a fortnight hence. I shall write again soon with the particulars of my travel.

  Your most grateful servant,

  Mrs. Matilda Milsom

  ****

  Theodora Ravensdale raised her pen and read through the last letter. Satisfied, she blotted the ink, folded the lette
r, and wrote an address on the back. She dripped wax from a candle onto the letter and stamped it with a seal. It was not proper sealing wax, but it would have to do. She licked her last Red Penny stamp and affixed it neatly to the paper.

  Leaving the letter on the table, she tucked the newspaper clipping, the countess’ letter containing the money she had sent, copies of her own letters, and the seal into a satchel which also contained a skirt, bodice, and stockings, then stashed it into a hole in the wall. She gently shoved a brick into the opening, rendering the hiding place unnoticeable.

  She inched open the door to the alley that ran along the back of the house. Sticking her head out, she spotted a young boy. He scampered over when she whistled.

  “Yes, miss?” His eyes glistened in his eager, filthy face.

  “John, please post this letter for me. Here is a ha’penny for your trouble.”

  John nodded once and smiled, only three teeth visible. He reached for the letter with grimy hands, and she snatched it back.

  “Please, John. Tell no one.”

  “ ’Course, miss. Do I ever?” He patiently held out one hand for the letter and the other for the coin.

  She dropped them in his palms and smiled weakly. “You’re a good boy, John. Thank you.”

  The boy nodded again, a streaky lock of hair falling across his face. Resisting the urge to brush it out of his eyes, she only watched as he grinned once more and ran off.

  Theodora retreated into the kitchen and closed the door. She looked at her reflection in the window glass and allowed herself a small, hopeful smile. She would have the courage to go through with it, to leave him. To start a new life, with a new name. She had two weeks to make her escape.

  Chapter Two

  The dining room bell rang just as Theodora was dishing up the consommé. She placed the ladle in the soup tureen and the lid on top. Then she removed her apron and fluffed her skirts. Taking a deep breath, she carried the tureen into the dining room.

  Lucien Ravensdale was already seated at the head of the table. Theodora regarded him closely as she entered the room, attempting to gauge his mood. Even after six miserable years, she was still struck by how extraordinarily handsome he was. She remembered for a moment how astonished and pleased she had been that he had chosen her. Now he regarded her with cold, gray eyes that could look as hard as diamonds, and she rued the day she had attracted his notice. She put the tureen on the table in front of him and gave a shallow curtsy.

  “Ah, Theodora, my dear.” His voice was steady, calm. “Did you have a pleasant day?”

  “Yes, thank you, husband.” She leaned toward him for a peck on the cheek, as she had done nearly every night for six years. It was an absurd pantomime, but he required it, and she had learned to do what he required. She removed the napkin from his place setting and gently draped it over his lap. She ladled the soup into the bowl and stepped away. He tasted, nodded, and gestured for her to sit at the other end of the table.

  She ladled soup into her own bowl and sipped slowly, waiting.

  “The consommé is delicious, Theodora.” He smiled encouragingly, and she nodded.

  She raised her napkin to her lips and watched him out of the corner of her eye as he ate. She had learned to be alert to the signs of his displeasure. It made no difference whether she knew of them in advance, but somehow it helped to be ready. Now, however, he smiled and gave every appearance of enjoyment of the soup.

  “So what did you do today, my dear?” he asked, as he always did. She wondered why he bothered. Her days were all the same. Since he had fired all of the staff, save for a maid who came in once per week, at best she was no more than a housekeeper. At worst she was the miserable object of torment for one of the most prominent barristers in London. A prisoner in her own home.

  “I kept busy with my usual activities, husband. I think you’ll find the roast that was delivered today is particularly fine.”

  His thin lips formed into what passed for a smile of approval. “Excellent. I am sure it will be delicious indeed.”

  Silence descended upon the room, the only sounds the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the gentle clatter of Lucien’s spoon against the bowl. Finally he placed the spoon in his empty bowl and leaned back in his chair, regarding her expectantly. She sighed to herself and quietly placed her own spoon into her unfinished soup. Rising from her chair, she removed both bowls and utensils to the sideboard, just out of sight of Lucien. He did not like clutter, nor did he wish to see her handle the soiled dishes before bringing the next course. She would come back for them after he retired. Picking up the tureen, she hurried downstairs.

  A burned smell assaulted her nostrils as soon as she entered the kitchen.

  “Oh, no,” she moaned. “The roast!” She rushed to remove the meat from the oven and barely noticed knocking over a can of grease. She surveyed the hunk of beef. It was black on the edges, and undoubtedly dry as dust in the center. She had already told him they were having a roast, so she could not replace it with something else.

  Standing up straight, she steeled herself for what was to come. She cut off the worst parts and placed the roast on a platter. After painting it with gravy, she surrounded it with boiled potatoes and carrots, then sprinkled everything with the fresh herbs she had minced earlier. She stood back and examined her work. It looked delicious, but there was no escaping her punishment when he discovered it was not. A pleasant expression pasted on her face, she picked up the platter and returned to the dining room.

  Lucien was patiently sipping his claret. She presented the dish to him for inspection and stepped back from the table, eyeing him warily from beneath dark lashes.

  “It looks wonderful, Theodora. I am sure you have outdone yourself again.” He gave her a real smile then, the kind that used to dazzle her. Then he took up the carving knife and cut into the meat.

  He stopped and calmly placed the knife and fork on the table. He regarded her coldly. “Theodora. Did you know that this roast is dry?” His eyes were hard as they bored into her.

  She looked down at her feet. “Yes, husband. I am sorry.”

  “You tried to conceal it under a pool of gravy?” His voice was quiet, thick with contempt.

  “Yes, husband. I am sorry,” she repeated meekly, hating herself more with every utterance.

  Suddenly he upended the platter, and she jumped. A splatter of gravy and a potato landed on her skirts. She cringed but kept her eyes directed at the floor. His chair scraped the floor. Even sensing him coming closer, she was still startled when he grabbed her chin with one hand and squeezed, forcing her head up. She met his gaze with a new defiance and willed her thoughts away, to the letters she had hidden away in the kitchen.

  As if sensing her rebellion, he turned her around more roughly than usual and shoved her face onto the table. Her cheek pressed into a spoon, and she welcomed the discomfort of the cold metal digging into her skin as it distracted her from what he was doing. He stood behind her, lifted her skirts. She felt the switch he always kept close at hand cut into her bare bottom. She winced with every lash but did not cry. She never cried.

  Eight. Nine. Ten. Always ten. He dropped her skirts, then turned her again to face him. He gently stroked her cheek and picked up a serviette to wipe away the spots of gravy.

  “Theodora, darling.” The silky voice that had once made her wet with desire now filled her with loathing. “Why do you make me do that? I was so looking forward to our dinner together.” He pulled a red cravat from his coat pocket, and she shuddered. He stroked her face with it, the silk cool against her heated skin, and she could not restrain a moan, even though it would further enflame him. He tied the cravat tightly around her neck and pulled her toward him with it. He led her out of the room like a dog on a leash, up the stairs, to their bedchamber.

  He used her then, in ways that in the first weeks of her marriage had given her immense pleasure. Now they filled her with disgust, both for him and for herself. She let Lucien do what he wishe
d, and let her mind drift, to Durham, to earning enough money to get far away, to finding her brother and reclaiming her life.

  Afterward, she lay beside him. She waited, eyes tightly closed, until she heard the rhythmic breathing that told her he was asleep.

  ****

  Hours later, Theodora was still awake. She had removed the hated cravat from around her neck and flung it to the floor. She had put her chemise back on but had not left the bed, not even to clean up the mess downstairs, something she knew she would suffer for tomorrow.

  She knew it was wrong, of course, the way he treated her, but she could not divorce him. His abuse was not a sufficient ground, and he was a lawyer. She would never prevail against him in his own world. He would kill her first.

  Her parents were dead. Her brother had sailed for America the day after she’d married, and she had not heard from him since. The letters she had sent him had been returned unopened, until one day she had stopped writing. She was alone, except for Lucien.

  He grunted in his sleep, making her jump. Turning away from him, she held her breath, praying he would not wake. After a moment he snuffled and was quiet again.

  Lucien ordered all the household food and goods himself. Everything was delivered to the house, and she had very little contact with the outside world. She had snuck out of the house only twice, both times to sell a piece of her mother’s jewelry to put a bit of money away, just in case. The second time she contemplated running away, but Lucien had caught her as she was leaving the house, and his punishment had been terrible. She did not try again.

  Instead, she fantasized about ways to fake her own death. In her darker moments, she imagined just doing away with herself. Nothing would irritate Lucien quite so much as having her kill herself to get away from him.

  But then she had seen the advertisement in The Times and realized perhaps all those fantastic plans could become a reality. So she had hatched the elaborate scheme to make up an identity, to forge references from nonexistent people, to escape him. If she could remain hidden long enough, she could earn enough money to book passage to America, to search for her brother.