by Lucy Wild
“This does not concern you,” the man said, placing the pistol on the nearest table. “It concerns me and Isabella there. Come on down Isabella. Let’s have a civilised conversation, shall we?”
William pressed his hand to the wound, wincing as pain lanced through him. He tried to stand but fell once more, a wave of dizziness washing over him as Eleanor knelt beside him. “William,” she gasped. “Are you all right?”
“He will not be if you continue to ignore me,” the man shouted up at her.
“He has not yet recognised you,” William hissed in Eleanor’s ear. “Keep him talking until Isabella gets here.”
“What do you want from me?” Eleanor asked, standing up and moving to the front of the stage.
“I want to know where your sister is,” the man said. “I would love us to have a family reunion.”
Family,” Eleanor spat. “What do you know of family? You care only for money.”
“Not true,” the man said. “You do not even know who I am. Who are you to make assumptions about me?”
“I know who you are,” Eleanor replied. “Your name is Vincent and you killed my parents.”
“I was not even in the country at the time,” Vincent replied. “How could I have killed them?”
“The same way you intend to deal with me, get your hired animals to do it for you.”
“I tried that,” he said with a smile. “She kept getting away. But I know she came to you. Where is she?”
“She gave me a letter for you,” Eleanor said. “It has her address on it.”
Greed flashed in Vincent’s eyes. “Give it here,” he said, waving impatiently at her.
“Of course,” she replied, jumping down from the stage and walking slowly over to him.
“Come on, come on,” he said. “Hand it over and I might let you live.”
“It’s not just from Eleanor,” she replied, reaching into the pocket of her dress, the pocket she had insisted was sewn in before she was willing to wear it, the one William had wondered about, the one she had refused to explain. “It is from Isabella and Georgia and most of all, it is from my mother.”
From her pocket she brought out the knife and before Vincent could react, she had plunged it into his neck. He staggered backwards, a spray of blood spurting from the wound, stinging Eleanor’s eyes. He grabbed at the knife but his hands were already weakening and he was only able to get his fingertips to the handle.
William watched in shock as Vincent staggered backwards, crashing into a table before falling to the floor. Hearing a noise to his left, William looked at the wings in time to see Isabella appear. She had brought with her a veritable silent army and the sounds of the Jones family being taken by surprise filled the air.
Eleanor looked down at the unmoving form of Vincent for a minute before turning and climbing back on stage, running to William. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Do not try and move.”
“Now I know how the Marquis felt,” he said, managing a smile as he got slowly to his feet.
“You are a bloody fool,” Eleanor said, scowling at him. “Getting yourself shot like that.
“I’ve never heard you swear before.”
“I never watched the man I love get shot before.”
“What about the Marquis?”
“I never loved him, you know that. Though you talk about him a lot, are you sure you do not love him?”
“If I could use this arm, I would spank you for such insolence.”
Eleanor reached up and whispered in his ear, “You will just have to spank me when you’re better then, won’t you?”
“Is it over?” Isabella asked, walking out onto the stage.
“I believe so,” Eleanor replied. “Your plan worked. He was sure I was you.”
“I am glad,” Isabella said, embracing her sister. “We can return home at last.”
“I do not want to return home.”
“What? But Vincent is dead. You are safe. Why on earth would you not want to return home?”
“I want to remain here with my fiancé first of all.”
“Your fiancé?”
“Indeed. But there is another much more important reason to remain here in Whitby.”
“Which is?”
“I would hate to let down my audience.”
Epilogue
Eleanor and William married a month later. It was a quiet ceremony, unbefitting a woman of noble birth but entirely in keeping with her new life. The staff and regulars of the Jet Club attended the ceremony and a wondrous time was had by all. Martin did not attend, he was last seen running from a gaming club with several I.O.Us being waved in his direction. Eleanor kept performing at the club until the impending birth of her first child prevented her.
The Duke of Ryedale never did return home, preferring the anonymous life of the small town to that of high society. The descendants of Eleanor and William still live in Whitby, though the Jet Club has long since faded from memory. Isabella returned to the family seat soon after the wedding in order to set about the arduous task of restoring the fortunes of the Risbys. But that, as they say, is another story.
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Lucy’s Amazon author page
Lucy Wild
Lucy Wild writes what she loves, Regency and Victorian romances that feature dominance, spanking, and submission with an occasional dash of age play. She is a recommended read on lushstories.com, was voted a ‘hot’ author on literotica.com and has topped the Victorian erotica charts in the USA and the UK.
You can always find her most recent titles on her Amazon author page. To be the first to hear about her new releases, sign up for her email newsletter here. You’ll get the latest Lucy news and also receive an exclusive free romantic novel as a thank you for signing up.
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Lucy lives in the UK with her partner, their two dogs, the world’s laziest cat, and an ever-growing collection of Victorian memorabilia.
BONUS STORY
SEDUCED BY THE SCOUNDREL
Prologue
Caroline squirmed as she fought to free herself from his grip. Her cheeks burned with shame at the sheer injustice of it. How dare he hold her in place on his lap like this? Had he forgotten who she was?
“You will take your punishment,” he growled whilst pulling up the hem of her dress. “And you can wipe that bratty look off your face or I shall make it a dozen.”
He would not do it, surely. He would not strike the backside of the daughter of a Lord. It was inconceivable. A second later, his hand whipped through the air and smacked her left buttock, leaving it stinging with burning heat. The humiliation hurt far more than the physical sensation possibly could. He had done it. The fiend had actually done it.
If it were not for the pained singing of her nerves where he’d struck her, she would have struggled to believe it had really happened.
“Five more to go,” he said with a smile as she fought ever more intensely to free herself from his grasp. “And by the devil, I shall enjoy each one. You have been asking for this since the moment I met you.”
She snarled up at him, attempting to put her fury into words but barely able to speak, the shock too much to handle. Never in her life, had she been struck. And now, this…this wicked scoundrel had taken it upon himself to spank her. How had this happened?
Chapter 1
The vase hung in the air for the briefest of seconds, breaking free of the effects of earthly gravity. Time slowed down for Caroline as she stared at it, her mouth slowly falling open as the vase hung motionless in the hallway of Brentwood Manor, hovering without falling.
She blinked and that was all it took for time to return to normal. The vase flew downwards, smashing into polished wooden floor and shattering with such a noise that Lady Brentwood emerged from her boudoir an instant later.
“What on earth was that?” she asked, looking from her daughter to the countless fragments of blue and white china scattered across the floor at her feet. “What have you done now?”
“Margaret did it,” Caroline replied.
“Did she indeed? And where is Margaret now.”
“She ran to the kitchens. I am sorry mother, She was dusting and it fell. I tried to catch it, I swear.”
“Indeed,” Lady Brentwood said, sweeping imperiously past her daughter and vanishing into the kitchen, the domain of the servants.
Caroline listened to her mother’s yells. There was no doubt that Margaret would lose her job over this. Served her right.
A less steadfast person might have felt some guilt at the thought of an innocent person being punished for a crime they had not committed. Not Caroline. She held firm in her belief that the ends always justified the means. Margaret had seen her in the garden with Edmund Winchester’s hand up her dress. Therefore she had to go. It was that simple.
That evening, Caroline sat at the dining room table with her parents seated at either end of the polished wooden monstrosity that filled the room. Her father sat at the head of the table, sipping at his soup with the air of one who may expire at any moment. His eyes drooped, his hand trembled, his complexion seemed to grow paler by the moment.
To her left, mother was not eating, she was tapping the table with the fingers of her left hand, waiting for her husband to answer.
“Well dear?” Lady Brentwood asked after an entire minute of silence, the only sound that of the peacocks calling outside on the lawns. “Have you nothing to say about the matter?”
Lord Brentwood looked up at last, smiling weakly across at his wife. “I am sorry my dear, I must not have heard you.”
“You heard me perfectly well. I will have to let Margaret go. She broke the Ming.”
Lord Brentwood shrugged. “If she was responsible for this soup, I will not repent her passing. I have drunk thicker water.”
“You have nothing else to say?” Lady Brentwood asked, nodding pointedly towards Caroline.
Lord Brentwood set his spoon down. “What do you want from me, Jane?”
“I want you to stop this foolish charade and tell our daughter what you saw today.”
Caroline stiffened in her seat. What were they talking about?
Lord Brentwood turned towards her, the miserable look on his face deepening until it appeared much as if he had just dined upon a solid lump of arsenic. He winced, then coughed, and then winced again. “Caroline, my dear,” he said, attempting a smile but soon giving it up as a bad job. “I love you very much as you know.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Reginald,” Lady Brentwood sighed. “You have the backbone of an earthworm. Now, Caroline, tell us what happened this afternoon. Be sure to speak the truth, mind.”
“Of course mother,” Caroline said with a smile, launching straight into her well rehearsed speech. “I was walking from my bedroom to the library to fetch another of your superb works of moral value, for it is often my wont of an afternoon to educate myself in the proper ways of living a good Christian life. I have taken many a book from there to elucidate my learning and today was no exception. Upon my return, I spied Margaret dusting the ornaments in a most slovenly manner.”
She paused for breath and Lady Brentwood nodded towards her. “Continue.”
“Certainly, mother. To my eternal shock and surprise, Margaret’s duster swept off the vase from its stand and she ran without looking back. Margaret, I mean, not the duster.”
“And then?”
&nb
sp; “Then you emerged, mother.”
“You are certain that is what happened?”
“I swear it is true, may I be struck down dead if I tell a lie.”
Lady Brentwood leaned back in her chair, pressing her fingertips together under her chin in that infuriating way of hers. “Perhaps then, you might explain how you were able to enter the library when your father unlocked it at noon today for the first time in three days?”
Caroline did not pause to think, the words coming out without conscious effort. “Did I say library? I meant I was collecting a book from the study, the collection in there by the portrait of Grandfather is most educational.”
“The study?”
“Yes, mother.”
“The study where your father was writing all morning?”
“Yes, mother. He was asleep when I entered and I remained silent to ensure I did not disturb him.”
“He was asleep?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me how your sleeping father was able to write four letters during his slumber?”
Caroline opened her mouth to answer but her mother silenced her with the wave of a hand.
“Also, you might wish to consider the fact that your father can see the Ming from his desk, as he could see you.”
“Ah.”
“As he saw you push the vase to the floor.”
“He is lying.” Caroline realised she’d gone too far as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
Lady Brentwood blinked in shock. Lord Brentwood burst into a coughing fit as she stood up, her hand pointing at Caroline. “You would accuse your own father of lying rather than admit the truth?”
“I have told you the truth. He must have been mistaken, perhaps he was dreaming. And you know what his vision is like.”
Lady Brentwood drew herself up to her full height as her husband shrank into his seat in response. “You would have us rid of a good servant,” Lady Brentwood said, her voice growing in volume as she spoke. “You spin tales of nonsense to your parents, you have smashed an ornament of not inconsiderable value, and you have just accused your father of lying. Have I missed anything?”
