by Lynn Kerstan
Promo Page
Will what they find on Christmas Eve bring them closer together this holiday season?
Fallon struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. Jane Ryder! Seconds later he was outside and running down the path. She had resumed her journey but stopped again when she saw him pounding in her direction.
As he drew closer, he realized that she was wearing a scarlet cape and carrying a small portmanteau. The snow reached almost to the tops of her brown half boots. To his horror, she curtsied as he approached.
For some reason, that made him angry. “Why are you on foot?” he demanded. “Where the devil is the curricle? The driver? Where is my valet?”
She dropped the portmanteau and stretched her cramped fingers. “Perhaps with the devil, sir, for I certainly wished them there more than once this morning. Well, not the curricle, which was an innocent bystander. It is currently mired in a snowbank, poor thing, with a broken something-or-t’other.”
“I see,” he said, not seeing at all. He was too astonished by this extraordinary female who seemed not the least bit put out by her ordeal. Her nose, cheeks, and lips glowed pink from the exertion of her walk, and her hazel eyes positively sparkled. She looked healthy and energetic, like a young doe romping in the snowfields without a care in the world. “You came to no harm in the accident, I apprehend.”
“None whatever. Which is surprising, because I landed directly atop Mr. Latmore, who is excessively bony. He maintains that I crushed the very life from his body.” She laughed. “It must have been his ghost went on fretting after his demise.”
In Fallon’s own experience, Latmore never ceased complaining.
The Novels of Lynn Kerstan
A Regency Holiday (anthology)
The Golden Leopard
Heart of the Tiger
The Silver Lion
A Midnight Clear
by
Lynn Kerstan
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-273-6
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-215-6
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 1997 by Lynn Kerstan Horobetz
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
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 permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book was originally published as a Fawcett Crest Book by Ballantine Books in 1997
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Couple (manipulated) © Razzdazzstock | Dreamstime.com
Background (manipulated) © Unholyvault | Dreamstime.com
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Dedication
For my beautiful goddaughters—Carly, Sidney, Kendall, and Maddie Hoshko—and for their wonderful parents, Margaret Ann and Michael.
I love you all!
Prologue
WHEN THE parlor door opened, seven pairs of eyes gazed curiously at the white-faced woman who emerged, pressing a handkerchief to her brow.
“Oh,” she mumbled. “Oh dear. Oh dear.” She staggered across the entrance hall and out the main door.
The elderly lady who had introduced herself as Felicia turned to the remaining applicants, ensconced on wooden benches set against the walls. “Which of you is next?”
A stiff-backed, reed-thin woman stalked to the parlor door. “Miss Blimpstone,” she announced imperiously.
Felicia scuttled ahead of her to make the introduction, and the door closed again.
My heavens, Jane Ryder thought, tugging her shabby portmanteau closer to her knees. Since her arrival, four other applicants had stumbled away in similar fashion. The mysterious employer must be a tyrant of the first order.
“What do you suppose is going on in there?” whispered the nervous young woman seated beside her. “I thought this was to be an interview for a secretarial position.”
“Of course it is,” Jane assured her. “Were you sent by the Farbes Agency, too?”
“I came from Simon and Sillaright. They have always placed me well before, but only in temporary positions. Not many employers will take on a female for more than a fortnight.”
Jane nodded. She had yet to find a position for even so brief a period and still owed Mrs. Tucker for a week’s lodging. The widow had turned her out that very morning in favor of a boarder with ready cash.
She glanced at the women sitting on the bench across from her. All were staring fretfully at the parlor door, as if expecting it to burst into flames.
Jane rather wished that it would. A bit of fire and brimstone would send the others scampering, leaving the field to her. She’d been the last to arrive, after lugging all her worldly possessions for three miles in a sleet storm, and feared that another candidate would secure the job before it was her turn to be interviewed.
At this point she didn’t care if it was Satan himself holding court inside that parlor. Better a warm night in hell than the one she faced on the icy streets.
She sat a little straighter on the hard bench, willing steel into her spine. Perhaps it had been a mistake coming to London, but there was no going back now. And surely she was overdue for a helping of good luck.
The Farbes Agency had not sent her out for a single interview since she registered with them a month ago. Nor did they have one for her today, until she bullied her way past the clerks and bearded Mr. Farbes in his office. A kindly, rather befuddled man, he apologized profusely for neglecting her.
“But, Miss Ryder, there are so few positions to be had in December,” he had said. “With the gentry gone to their country estates for the holidays it is quite impossible to turn up anything appropriate. Could you come back in a few weeks, when Parliament is seated?”
“No I could not,” she replied. And when she refused to be budged, demanding that he search his files for even the most inconsequential of openings, he reluctantly pulled a folder from his drawer and spread it open on the desk.
“In the normal course of things,” he said, “I’d not wish to be involved with this matter. You may be sure I have sent no one to apply for the position. Disreputable business!” Shuddering, he dipped his pen in the ink pot. “But if you insist, Miss Ryder, I shall give you the direction. For all I know, the position may have been filled long since, but this is all I have to offer at the moment.”
Now she was here, and the position had obviously not been filled. Whatever that position was. She had rushed off before thinking to ask for details. Impulsiveness has already got you in a great load of trouble, she scolded herself. One day it will be the death of you, my girl.
The parlor door opened with a groan of metal hinges, and Miss Blimpstone stomped out, her narrow cheeks clenching and unclenching as if she were sucking on a lemon. “Leave now if you know what’s good for you,” she advised contemptuously. “Spare yourselves the indign
ity I have just endured.”
Two applicants, including the girl who had spoken to Jane, leapt to their feet and followed Miss Blimpstone. Jane crossed her fingers for luck. Only three to go, and then she would have her chance.
In the next half hour, Felicia called them in one by one. All emerged whiter than paper or blushing furiously. They shook their heads at Jane as they walked past, a silent warning to escape while she could.
She straightened her skirts, waiting eagerly to be summoned. It’s only the two of us now, she told the mysterious figure behind the door. Whatever it requires, I must find a way to make you keep me.
Felicia beckoned then, inquired her name, and led her into a large, cluttered room lit only at the far end by two braces of candles and a flickering fire. Heavy tapestries lined the walls, and curtains of deep crimson velvet hung over the window. Jane wove among chairs, sofas, and claw-footed tables strewn with knickknacks, following Felicia on shaky legs.
Near the hearth was a small figure huddled in a Bath chair. Rather like a spider in its web, Jane thought, able to distinguish only a shape outlined by the flames behind it. A long-fingered hand with painted nails raised a lorgnette.
“Jane Ryder, is it?” The voice rang clear as a brass bell. “Not much of a name, Jane Ryder.”
“No, ma’am. Were it left to me, I’d have chosen better.”
She barked a laugh. “You’re the one who brought her luggage, Felicia tells me. Planning to stay?”
“Only if I meet with your approval, ma’am. I trust you to tell me how I may do so.”
“To begin with, do cease wringing your skirt. I ain’t going to bite you. And come closer, where I can have a good look at your face.”
Hands straight as sticks by her sides, Jane moved into the circle of light in front of the chair. The woman had arranged the candelabra so that she could see her victims while her own face remained in the shadows. Jane admired the tactic.
The woman peered through her lorgnette. “Ah. Plain as your name, I see. But just as well. I prefer to be the most beautiful woman in any room. Now tell me about yourself.”
Jane cleared her throat, wondering what it was this exceedingly odd woman wished to hear. Her work experience, she supposed, and an accounting of her skills. She had acquired a great many in her four-and-twenty years, but few were the sort to be relevant in this place.
“I read and write in Latin and Greek,” she began. “Also English, of course. I am used to taking dictation, have excellent penmanship, and my work habits are exemplary.”
“Oh, exemplary, are they?” The woman chuckled. “Hoity-toity.”
“I also possess an extensive vocabulary,” Jane acknowledged, wishing her knees would cease knocking together.
“Useful. I wonder if you are acquainted with the specific words you will require for this project. But never mind that. It appears you lack the ability to answer a simple question. The subject at hand is you, gel. Who are you, where do you come from, and how came you to land in my parlor?”
Oh, Lord. How can it matter, you atrocious old biddy? Jane mustered a polite smile. “My life story is a tedious one, ma’am. If you don’t mind, I prefer to keep it to myself.”
“Well, I do mind,” the woman shot back. “How am I to know you are not a burglar? Or an ax murderer?”
“Were I any such thing, I would hardly say so,” Jane replied. “But if it reassures you, the constables are not on my trail, nor have they reason to be. I am simply a woman who must work to support herself, and I have come here in search of employment.”
“And wondering what you got yourself into, I daresay. Oh, very well, missie. Since you refuse to give over at the moment, I’ll answer a few of the questions you’ve been aching to ask me. Draw up a chair, Jane Ryder. Make yourself warm.”
Jane pushed a heavy Egyptian-style chair across the thick carpet, lifted her worn brown cloak, and perched on the edge of the padded seat. For the first time, she was able to clearly see the woman’s face.
Her skin was astonishingly white—coated with rice powder, Jane decided—and wrinkled like an elephant’s hide. Her cheeks were garishly rouged, as were her lips, and long ruby earrings dangled from her earlobes all the way to her narrow shoulders. A helmet of lacquered ebony hair sat atop her head, two red ostrich feathers planted directly in the center.
Jane might have dismissed her as a dotty old eccentric, if not for the canny blue eyes that pronged her like a butterfly staked out on a blotter. Wise eyes, she knew immediately. Whoever she was, this woman was not to be trifled with.
“My name is Lady Eudora Swann,” she said. “Ever heard of me?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am. But I’ve only been in London a few months.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Are you a famous ax murderer?”
“Not yet, you impertinent chit. Don’t tempt me. Did the agency tell you nothing of me or this position?”
By now Jane was certain only that Lady Swann had no patience with milk-and-water misses. And a good thing, too, since Jane Ryder was nothing of the sort. If she got this job, please God, she would not have to pretend, as she often had, to be compliant and dim-witted. “Mr. Farbes said only two words to the point, ma’am. As I recall, they were disreputable business.”
“Didn’t keep you away, I see. But he was right. Or at the least, a great many people would agree with him. I care nothing for that. At five-and-eighty, I’ve long since learned to ignore the opinions of idiots and Methodists.” She tugged her lap robe around her bony knees. “It is my intention, Miss Ryder, to compile a history of the English aristocracy.”
“Good heavens! There are a great lot of aristocrats, ma’am.”
“And most are dull as dust balls. I’ll not waste a drop of ink on anyone it would bore me to talk about, so set your mind at ease. This will be a carefully selected history, from my own viewpoint, and I mean to concentrate on the scandals.” She pulled out a lacy handkerchief and began polishing the glass on her lorgnette. “It will also be uncensored.”
“Will someone publish this?” Jane asked. “Sell it in the bookshops?”
“Oh, indeed. But that is not the point. What I know—and I know a great deal—ought to be recorded. I expect to live another fifty years, but there will come a time when the stories I have to tell will die with me unless I write ’em down. And as I’m too lazy to do that, I want a secretary to listen to my tales and put them in order.” She smiled. “People come to me every day for information, you know. They call me The Tongue. Since Farmer George took the throne, I have been the source of the most accurate information to be had. I’ve a retentive memory and have known everyone of importance for seventy years. The information must not be lost.”
“Some information is better lost, ma’am. Most particularly the scandals.”
Lady Swann’s eyes narrowed. “If you believe that, young woman, this position will not suit you. Nor will you suit me.”
“If you please, I fail to see why. I am perfectly able to take dictation on any subject, and the content of your book is wholly yours to select.”
“I’ll tell you why, Miss Sobersides. The book will never be completed if I fail to enjoy myself, and the last thing I need is a censorious secretary huffing as she scribbles and making sour faces at me when she thinks I’m not looking. But I am always looking. Nothing escapes me.”
Jane could readily believe it. “What you do need, I apprehend, is someone capable of doing all the unpleasant parts, like the writing and editing, while you simply tell your stories. You may be sure I shall keep my thoughts to myself, Lady Swann.”
“Which only means that I’ll be wondering all the while what it is you are thinking, wretched gel. But let us put you to the test, shall we? You’ll find writing materials on the secretaire. Seat yourself there and record every word I say.”
Jane noticed a trash basket
beside the small desk, overflowing with crumpled sheets of paper. The remains of previous dictation, she thought as she removed her gloves. Then she quickly checked the pen for sharpness, dipped it in the inkwell, and nodded to Lady Swann.
For the next five minutes, she wrote as fast as she could, abbreviating words in her self-devised shorthand and paying no attention whatever to their meaning. Lady Swann spoke in a steady flow, likely repeating the same story she had told several times that afternoon.
“Do you not heed me?” Lady Swann asked sharply.
Jane glanced at the last words she had inscribed. That will do, Miss Ryder. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I do not listen as I write, if you take my meaning.”
“Ah.” Lady Swann tapped her long fingernails on the arm of her chair. “That explains a great deal. Well, let’s see if you got it right. Read it back to me.”
Jane lifted the first sheet of paper closer to the light and began to recount the exploits of the sixth Marquess of Fallon. Lord Fallon had a great many exploits to recount.
About halfway through, she glanced up at Lady Swann, who was regarding her with a curious expression.
“What think you?” she demanded. “Are you not offended? Horrified? So aquiver that the stays on your corset are rattling?”
Above all things, Jane wanted to laugh. But she was not at all sure how Lady Swann would react to that. “Am I meant to be shocked?” she inquired mildly. “His lordship is a depraved sort of fellow and excessively vulgar, but thus far he has engaged in no activity more imaginative than what barnyard animals do as a matter of course.”
Lady Swann’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Read on, m’dear.”
“It’s a-amazing,” Jane managed to say when she was finished. Her eyes were beginning to water. “Perfectly dreadful, of course.”
“But amusing?”
“Oh y-yes.” She burst into laughter. “I’m sorry, Lady Swann. You must know that I don’t understand the half of it. Nor can I begin to think why, let alone how, he did that business with the—but surely you are making this up?”
