by Jenny Brown
Star Crossed Seduction
Jenny Brown
Dedication
To Peter
Best friend, muse, and so much more.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
A Word to the Reader
About the Author
By Jenny Brown
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
London
November 1820
Captain Miles Trevelyan sank with relief into the worn armchair toward which his host had beckoned him. He’d never been gladder to see a brother officer. He’d known the older man most of his adult life. They were officers in the same cavalry regiment. But during the long journey back from India, they’d slowly gone from being acquaintances to friends, and, just now, he really needed a friend. The dreams had started up again, and there was no one else within two thousand miles who would understand.
“So what is it, Trev?” The major put down the newspaper he’d been reading.
No point beating around the bush. “I’ve been on leave for only a week, and already I wish I were home.”
“This is home.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
The older man’s eyes were thoughtful beneath his bushy brows. “You’ve been in India, what? A decade?”
Trev nodded. “I joined up at fifteen, just after my father died.”
“He was a fine man, your father. I was fortunate to serve under him. But that explains it. The first leave is always the hardest. England takes some getting used to. The customs of the natives—quite peculiar at times, even to a man who’s seen the Nizam’s court. But you’ll get used to it. There’s no place like London, once you get your bearings. You’re rich, my boy, and your pedigree is impeccable. You’ll soon be up to your eyeballs in champagne, delighting the fair maidens of Mayfair with tales of your adventures among the heathen, while their mamas contend to determine which one of their daughters will wed you.”
The thought did not charm. Trev’s mother’s not-so-subtle matchmaking was a large part of what had brought Trev back to his comrade’s door this evening. But as his eye caught the frayed edge of the lodging chamber’s carpet, he remembered that Major Stanley did not have a family fortune to rely on as he did and might long to participate in the rituals of the haut ton he was able to reject.
Hoping his friend didn’t think him a spoiled puppy, he explained, “I let my mother drag me to one such affair. But I hadn’t the stomach for it. It was easier to storm the Peshwa’s palace than it was to listen to lisping beauties exclaim, ‘Oh tell me all about the battle you fought. It sounds so exciting,’ as if I had just returned from a ride in St. James’s Park. I swear, one day I will tell them all about it, the killing and the looting—and be barred from polite society for life.”
His friend nodded. “They can’t help it, poor things. And it would do no good to try to enlighten them.”
“And the way they display themselves! Nipples peeking out of their low-cut gowns, acres of pale white flesh put on full display, but God help you if you respond like a healthy male. It’s enough to drive a man mad.”
“There’s something to be said for veiling,” his friend agreed. “At least with the Nizam’s people, when they show you the goods, they expect you to sample them. But you were wise to come to your Uncle Stanley for help, and help you shall get.”
Major Stanley lifted his bumper of red wine by the stem. “You see, your problem is that you aren’t drunk enough. That’s the scientific explanation. Cold slows the activity of atoms of the body, and this infernal English chill has slowed the molecules of your brain to where they are incapable of proper functioning. Fortunately, there is a cure.”
He called for his servant and told him to fetch some of his best claret, adding, “Alas, my ‘best’ is merely the best that half-pay officers can afford. Wretched stuff, but it gets the job done.”
Trev took a sip from the brimming glass the major’s batman brought him. Stanley hadn’t lied about its quality or its efficacy. He drained it rapidly, encouraged by the warmth that began to radiate throughout his body. He would never get used to how devilishly cold it was in England. His blood, thinned by the years in India, couldn’t adjust to it. But as he drank, his mood began to lift. Perhaps there was something to his companion’s theory.
“Wine warms the molecules of the brain quite nicely,” the major said complacently. “But I fear that the rest of your corporeal molecules are still dangerously cool. To warm the entire man, we must, paradoxically, venture out into the cold once again.”
“Out?”
“On a brief journey to those delightful creatures who specialize in warming the hearts—and other organs—of chilly Englishmen.” He waggled one bushy eyebrow suggestively.
Trev hesitated. Strong as his passions were, he avoided indulging them. But his friend looked so happy at the thought of having his company on such an expedition that he didn’t have the heart to disappoint him. “I’m game,” he said. “Though I trust you have gathered intelligence about the terrain ahead of us.”
“Have no fear, I’ve scouted it out and determined the best point of attack. The girls at Mother Bristwick’s will get the atoms in every limb rushing about ’til you’re as warm as Calcutta the day before the monsoon. You’ll feel like a new man. ’Pon my honor. Shall we have another bumper before we go? They water the wine at Mother Bristwick’s, and a man must plan ahead.”
The major led Trev down the gaslit streets that formed the fringe of the fashionable part of town. Though the yellow flames glowed brightly within their fixtures, they barely pierced the thick fog that swirled around them, its smell a rich mixture of river mist and the reek of burning coal. At the crossings, coaches appeared suddenly out of the mist, their horses’ breaths turning into steam as they met the cold air, and more than once the officers had to jump aside to dodge the splashes of filth sent up from the gutters by the heavy wheels of the rough carts of humble tradesmen.
As they strode toward the poorer neighborhood where their quarry lay, Trev linked arms with his friend. What a fine show they must make, two tall officers, made taller still by the plumed shakos that crowned their heads, resplendent in their gold-laced uniforms, their tasseled Hussar boots shining. But there was more to them than just show. The scabbards that hung by their sides hid sabers sharp enough to slash through leather. It was impossible not to feel pride in what they represented: England’s strength. England’s defenders.
The streets they passed through were thronged with vendors. Wandering hucksters cried out their age-old chants as they peddled handkerchiefs and cat’s meat, used clothes and pies. Others hawked their wares from barrows and tables set up on the pavement. No bazaar could offer more. And everywhere were the beggars, as thick as in Calcutta. Some lay curled in doorways, half-asleep, while others, more desperate, held out their mutilated limbs in an appeal for alms.
“Chap tells me they have their own club,” the major said.
“Who?”
“The beggars. Quite exclusive. Up by Seven D
ials. Gather there after hours, take off their disguises, fake wooden legs and all, and show off their wealth. Make a lot of money begging, he told me.”
Trev had heard the same tale told by the wealthy in Calcutta. It made it easy to ignore the misery of the poor who thronged around them. But it wasn’t true. The wizened baby who clutched at the breast of a ragged woman huddled in the shadows wasn’t a prop. As its bony hand tightened convulsively on her flat dug, Trev handed its mother a few shillings. She took them, but her dull eyes were devoid of gratitude.
What little joy he’d felt when they set off had drained away. He’d always imagined that England would be so much finer than the courts where he had spent his years in India. He’d pictured its people as being so much nobler, so worthy of the sacrifices demanded from those who gave up their lives to defend them.
He swerved to avoid a rat that scampered across the pavement.
“Mother B’s is just around the corner,” Major Stanley said, interrupting his gloomy train of thought. “Though the neighborhood is rougher than I remembered. A man does well to carry a sharp blade in such a place. And the bloody chill! Have to drink like a fish to keep alive in this climate.” He reached into the deep pocket hidden in the tail of his jacket and withdrew a silver flask. “Care for a nip?”
Trev took a pull. Brandy. Its welcome warmth briefly lit up his veins. But there wasn’t enough brandy in the world to keep him warm on this frigid island. The cold was already seeping back into his bones. As they neared the major’s favorite bordello, he began to think he might have done better to spend the night huddled over the fire at his mother’s house on Keppel Street. Mother Bristwick’s girls wouldn’t warm him any better than the brandy.
He took little pleasure in coupling with slaves—he’d had his fill of such encounters when Sir Charles had sent him on those missions to the Nizam’s court. And though her girls might not display hennaed hands or be draped in transparent muslin scented with patchouli, the poverty all around him ensured that any woman he would use at Mother Bristwick’s would be just as much a slave as any of the Nizam’s houris.
He took another swig from the major’s flask.
The corner ahead of them was guarded by a crossing boy, who materialized out of the fog as they approached, hunched over his battered broom. He looked no older than eight or nine though he was so stunted it was unlikely he’d live to see twelve. As Trev and the major neared him, the boy roused himself and began making a show of sweeping the raised cobbles to clear a path for them. Trev reached for another shilling but stopped when a tall woman emerged from the shadows.
She was dressed all in black, and her head was covered by a large straw hat of the same color, from which waved a single scarlet feather. Because of the way its brim obscured her features, he couldn’t guess her age though the grace with which she moved suggested youth. The woman—or was she a girl?—whispered a few words to the crossing boy and handed him a small sack. A bright smile lit up his thin face. She put her arm around his narrow shoulders and hugged him gently. When she released him, the boy headed for a recessed doorway, where he carefully laid his broom against the side of the door, seated himself on the stoop, and opened the sack.
After swallowing a bite he said, “Temmy, yer a rare one, to bring me bub and grubby. I was so hungry, me guts had began to think me throat was slit.”
“You’d have done it for me. And what are friends for but to help each other?”
The girl’s concern sent a burst of warmth through Trev’s midsection—the first this night that didn’t owe its existence to alcohol.
“Care for a bite?” The boy offered his friend what appeared to be a pasty.
“Don’t mind if I do.” But she broke off only a tiny corner, perhaps to preserve his pride and keep him from feeling like a beggar.
“Ta then,” she said. “I’ll be off.”
“Did you come up with the ready for new digs for you and your crew? I heard as how they’ll be tearing down the snug this very week.”
“Not yet.”
“Then it’s off to nim the plummie’s fogle, an’t it, Tem?”
What could that mean? Probably something illegal, or the boy wouldn’t have switched to what sounded like thieves’ cant.
The girl shrugged. “Whatever’s on offer. But you always bring me luck, Danny. You know that.”
“Aye, well I do, and I’m glad of it. If anyone deserves luck, it’s you.”
She pulled her black shawl closer, but not before Trev caught a glimpse of the sharply angled eyebrows that gave her almond-shaped eyes a wide-awake look. Then she hastened away with strong, decisive steps.
What could her business be, here on the darkening street? Was she one of the streetwalkers who plied their trade in the open? The streets teemed with them. But her black gown and shawl seemed too sober for such a calling, looking as they did suspiciously like full mourning. Still, some men had strange tastes, and perhaps there were those who found her funereal garb exciting. He picked up his pace to keep her within his line of sight.
“Saw something that took your fancy?” the major asked, poking him in the ribs with one elbow.
“Could be.”
“She’s a fine piece, but you have to watch yourself on the street, my boy. A man can’t be too careful. Remember what they say: ‘A night with Venus, six days with Mercury.’ ”
“I’ve been in the service for a decade, Major. No need to give me the health lecture. Besides, my mother tells me Mars is my ruling planet, not your Venus or Mercury, for I was born under the sign of Scorpio. I shouldn’t have survived that last battle had the God of War not made me his special favorite, so I must trust him to protect me now. Give me but another moment to satisfy my curiosity about the girl, then we’ll be off to your precious Mother Bristwick’s.”
“Fair enough,” the major said as he lengthened his long stride to match Trev’s. “Her house is just down that street. Perhaps your charmer’s destination is the same as ours.”
Trev’s pulse quickened. If only it were true. He’d seen enough to know the woman in black was no one’s slave, however she made her living on these unforgiving streets. If she were for Mother Bristwick’s, by God he’d have her. For the first time since they’d set out on their mission, his cock swelled.
Major Stanley pointed out the doorway of the bordello a few moments later, but the woman continued past it, striding down the street until she reached a small gathering a few hundred paces farther on. Trev fought back his disappointment and stepped up his pace so as not to lose sight of her. Beside him, Major Stanley chuckled at his haste but had the grace to say nothing.
At her destination, a couple of dubious-looking urchins were feeding broken barrel staves into a bonfire. Its flickering light revealed the high cheekbones, pert nose, and surprisingly even white teeth that confirmed what Trev had suspected. The woman in black was a beauty. She stopped to exchange words with a tiny girl who’d been warming her hands by its flames, then moved away into the crowd.
When she had passed out of sight, he noticed for the first time what had drawn it. An older man stood on a crude box amid the throng. His face was craggy, he was missing teeth, and his hair was long and unkempt. Though it wasn’t his appearance that had attracted the crush of onlookers but his harsh, piercing voice.
He was a ballad singer, one of the many who plied their trade on the city streets, though it would have been closer to the truth to call the man a ballad shouter, for like the rest of his kind, he bawled out the crude, rhyming lyrics that brought the latest news to people like these, too poor to afford newspapers or too unlettered to read them.
Trev wondered what the man could be shouting about to have attracted so many people. But he hadn’t put off his visit to Mother Bristwick’s to learn what the poor considered news. Though the woman whose small act of kindness had done so much to lighten his mood had melted into the crowd, he could still see her red feather waving above it. So he pushed his way through the assembled workmen,
hoping to close the distance between them, and as he did, got close enough to the ballad singer to hear his words.
To his relief, they weren’t about the latest scandal on everyone’s tongue, the king’s failure to get Parliament to convict his wife of treason and keep her from being crowned. If they had been, he’d have had no choice but to leave. His regiment, the King’s Royal Irish Light Dragoons, was famed for its loyalty to the crown. But, to his relief, the man’s verses were about a battle—a glorious battle.
The stock phrases he bellowed praised the courageous English and damned their cowardly foes, bringing alive the clash of swords and the roar of the cannon—battle as it had always been presented to folk at home. But it was hard to tell which battle the man was romancing. He might have been describing any from the Crécy to Waterloo. The English were brave, the foe craven. And no ballad told of the screams of the dying or the stench of intestines slashed through and exposed to the sun.
“It appears you’re being honored,” Major Stanley said.
“Me?”
“Didn’t you hear him mention the Pindaris? He’s singing up your battle, Trev. Puff out your chest, man. You’re the hero of the day.”
Trev’s ears perked up. It was, indeed, his battle the man was offering up as entertainment to his audience with his garbled account of Baji Rao’s treachery and the rout of the Pindaris, though in the ballad singer’s version, those brave Maratha warriors were reduced to brigands no different from the highwaymen who infested Hounslow Heath.
The singer dwelled with relish on the numbers who had died on either side, and the crowd roared their approval upon hearing how the eight hundred Europeans and their native allies had held off eighteen thousand enemy horse with only eighty-six men killed or wounded on the English side.
It was glorious indeed. So very glorious. But as the man’s chanted flow of stanzas drew toward the end of the story, Trev braced himself, knowing as the crowd did not, what had come next: the rest of the deaths, the ones that had not been added into that paltry eighty-six: the deaths of the wives of their native allies, the sepoys, the innocent women who’d been raped and murdered by a troop of enemy raiders just as the armies had massed for the final battle.
