by Claudia Dain
Three miles southwest of Cairo – May 1817
Lucy leaned back on the camel, resting her head on Drew’s shoulder. Her husband placed a kiss on her temple and his arm tightened around her waist.
“Almost there,” he said against her hair.
And they were almost there. A trio of pyramids had captured her attention as soon as she had spotted them against the desert landscape. She’d watched them grow closer and larger as the sky turned pink and then orange against the horizon off in the distance.
Awe inspiring. There wasn’t another way to describe the view before her. What an incredible sight to witness, one so few got to see.
“As good as you hoped?” Drew asked.
Lucy nodded fervently. “Before I met you, I never would have dreamt to see something like this.”
The flap of a tent, white against the darkening sky caught Lucy’s attention and she smiled. Their bedchamber for the night was just inside, and in the morning, she’d wake up in his arms to the most spectacular sunrise over the pyramids.
“There’s a lot to see in the world,” he said, breaking her reverie. “And when you want to be anywhere other than home, you tend to see a lot of it.”
He wasn’t running now, not like he had been for so many years. Lucy’s heart squeezed at the memory of Drew’s confession to her along the way to Delhi. Holding her in his arms aboard a ship somewhere near the Cape of Good Hope, he’d told her every horrid secret in his past, who his father really was, what his childhood had entailed, the awful things he’d said to Rupert.
As strict as her mother had been, as distant as Rupert was now, as perfectly horrid as her sister-in-law would always be, they were nothing in comparison to Drew’s family. A mother afflicted with madness, an angry uncle more likely to be found partaking of opium than not. Fear and anger had apparently consumed him in those lonely days and nights, and her heart broke for that boy who’d had no one but himself for companionship.
If Lucy hadn’t already loved him, she would have fallen for him that night. He’d trusted her with his most guarded secrets, he trusted her to keep them, and he loved her too, something he’d realized which had precipitated that confession. She’d never felt so close to anyone as she did her husband that night, and their bond had only grown stronger in the months since.
“It’s truly breathtaking, Drew,” she whispered in awe.
He chuckled, a sound that never failed to send warmth coursing through her. “I thought you’d love it.”
Not that she loved anything or anyone as much as she loved him, and it had been that way ever since their hasty marriage in Scotland, their honeymoon in the Azores, and their trek across India on the back of an elephant.
Every day with Andrew Yeats was one adventure after another, and she’d love him the rest of their days.
AVA STONE is the author of several Regency Noir Romances. Her best-selling Scandalous Series is filled with witty humor and centers around the friends and family of the Machiavellian-like Lady Staveley, exploring deep themes but with a light touch. A single mother, Ava lives outside Raleigh NC, but she travels extensively, always looking for inspiration for new stories and characters in the various locales she visits.
Ava loves to hear from fans. You can find her at www.avastoneauthor.com
Blackheath, England
1872
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. It's lethal." Isha Elmwood snatched the jar of Granville's Rouge Pomade from her mother's hand.
"Isha, for heaven's sake, give that back to me," Lady Elmwood replied, barely disguising the note of despair in her voice. She tapped her ring finger onto the dark pink cream, and leaned forward over Maryan's face. "We haven't much time. We have to get your sister ready for tonight's ball."
Isha adjusted her spectacles. "But Mama, rouge is poisonous."
Maryan latched onto her mother's wrist, leaving a smudge of color swathed across her cheek. "Poisonous?"
Lady Elmwood expelled an irritated sigh. "It's not poisonous. Ladies have been using rouge since the days of Pharaoh."
Isha cocked an eyebrow. "They've been dying since the days of Pharaoh too, haven't they?"
Maryan pushed her mother's hand away. "I don't want any of that on my face."
"Don't listen to your sister, Maryan. There's nothing wrong with rouge. It's all just nonsense she reads in those books from your father's library."
"It's not nonsense!" The crease between Isha's eyebrows smoothed over as she accessed her flawless memory to the precise words she gleaned from Pickett's Guide to Modern Chemistry. "The red pigmentation found in rouge is derived from different sources, the safest of which comes from vegetables such as safflower or sandalwood. But the cosmetic unguent is typically compounded with vermilion, which is composed of mercury and sulfur, two elements which have been known to be lethal to people and animals." She picked up the little pot of rouge like it was an arching scorpion. "I couldn't be able to guess what sort of red pigmentation Granville's uses."
"You can't believe everything you read in books, Isha. Those dusty old pages were written by dusty old men who had very little interest in real life. I don't wonder whether most of it is all just made up."
Isha pursed her lips, a familiar grief spreading through her heart. "Dusty old men? Is that what you thought of Papa?"
"If your father were here today, I'm certain he'd agree with me."
Maryan bolted from the bench, the pale yellow ruffles on her dress flouncing in equal petulance. "Well, I don't care," she said, awkwardly wiping the magenta streak from her cheek. "No more cosmetics."
Lady Elmwood pinned her fists to her hips. "No more cosmetics? Have you gone mad? This is your coming out! Do you have any idea what kind of competition you'll be up against? There will be dozens more young ladies at the ball with far more money than we have to spend on costlier cosmetics and dresses. Tonight is the most important night of your life, Maryan. When you're standing next to any one of those other girls, I want you to glow."
Isha stood beside her sister, her own indigo dress grayed with age. "It's not as if she needs it, Mama. She's seventeen. Maryan is already very beautiful, even au naturel."
Lady Elmwood shot a withering look at Isha. "I've heard quite enough from you today, Isha. If you had used a daub or two of rouge when you'd had your coming out, perhaps you'd be married by now and we wouldn't find ourselves in such ominous straits. As it is, Maryan is all we have to keep us from the almshouse. So if you don't want to lose your home, let alone all your precious old books, you'll learn to be more help than hindrance."
Isha cast her face to the floor. It was a familiar shame, one she wore like an old, comfortable dress. She had failed to secure a husband when she had her best chance, back when she was Maryan's age. In the stretch of years since her own coming out, she had doffed the gown of debutante and donned the shawl of spinster. There wasn't a man alive now who would want to marry a woman over twenty-nine with bad eyes and a plain face. Not to mention a disreputable hunger for knowledge in subjects that others consider a yawning bore—biology, zoology, and yes, chemistry.
Isha's lack of a husband and children was the crowning defeat of her life—probably the worst shame any woman could carry. As her mother was fond of saying, the only thing that remembered childless spinsters was a lonely and untended gravestone. Even if Isha's life was a failure, she could live with that. After all, she was much more inclined to a life of academic pursuits, like her father, than to household management, like her mother. But the real disgrace was that she had also failed her mother and her sister, who were forced to live in genteel poverty since Papa's death two years ago. Though he was a scholar of considerable fame, Sir Rupert's renown never brought him much wealth. Financially, they were comfortable during the grieving years following his death. But without a man to look after them, the money had just about run out. Maryan's Season—this ball—was their last and best opportunity to be looked after in Mama's dotage.
And her own, Isha noted wi
th despair.
The ballroom at Hough House was spectacular. The gilt-edged tray ceiling hovered over the bustling room, a swirl of pastel-colored gowns and dark tailcoats. The fragrance of flowers and of champagne filled the room. The air was alive with the sound of tinkling conversation, and of the jaunty music from the quartet playing at one end of the room.
Despite the elegant brilliance before her eyes, Isha felt momentarily uncomfortable. At events like this, there was always an immense pressure—mostly exerted by Lady Elmwood—to make herself comely and available on the unlikely chance that a nice gentleman decided to ask after her. Sometimes she'd be asked to dance, usually by some well-intentioned older gentleman who just wanted to pluck her from among the wallflowers. But mostly she would be left in a corner, seated beside some dowager lady, forced to feign interest in a detailed account of her foot ailments.
But today was special. Maryan was being introduced to all as a grown-up young lady ready for marriage. Today, Isha could talk with zeal about a topic she was very fond of—her sister. For once, Isha looked forward to speaking with gouty and bunioned dowagers, for they would surely know an eligible young bachelor or two for Maryan. After all, Maryan was a charming girl, fluent in fashion and the arts, and a devoted romantic. She'd been dreaming about her coming out since she was a young girl, and she continually fantasized about meeting a handsome man who resembled Tom Cavanaugh or John Stanton, two stage actors she idolized. Maryan had a fluffy and outgoing personality, and she would surely dazzle all the men at the ball. And hopefully do the one thing that Isha couldn't…save their family from penury.
Lady Elmwood stood outside the ballroom and adjusted the bows on her cobalt blue dress. She lifted a glass of champagne from a passing salver, and took a long drink to steady her nerves.
"Now don't forget, Maryan. Eyes bright. Smiles wide. Curtseys low." Lady Elmwood gave Maryan an assessing inspection. "Oh, I do wish you had taken a little rouge," she muttered, pinching her daughter's cheeks.
"Mama!" Maryan protested, crinkling her face.
"Mama, she's lovely," Isha said. "Don't worry about a thing."
Lady Elmwood took one look at Isha and her jaw dropped. "Isha, for heaven's sake, remove your spectacles before anyone sees you!"
Isha's bad eyesight was burden enough, but more so when her mother forbade her to appear in public bespectacled. A woman wearing spectacles makes a spectacle of herself, her mother was fond of saying. Isha slipped off the round frames and tucked them inside her reticule. The world now went out of focus. Every face was now awash in blurry distortion.
"Come, girls. I think I see young Lord Sharply's great-aunt. Let us go and see if we can arrange an introduction to him."
Isha and Maryan fell into step behind their mother, who approached a stooped woman with a deflated face.
"Your Grace," called out Lady Elmwood before executing a handsome curtsey. "What a delight to see you here."
"Lady Elmwood," responded the older woman with a smile that made her wrinkled cheeks look like parting curtains. "I'm so glad you could come. It was only yesterday I was talking to the admiral about your sainted husband, Sir Rupert. He was a fine man, your husband."
"He was indeed, Your Grace. Thank you for remembering him as fondly as we do. Oh, may I present my daughter, Isha?"
Isha pinched her skirt and dipped perfunctorily. "An honor, Your Grace."
"My dear," she responded with a gracious smile.
"And this is my youngest, Maryan. We are presenting her to Society today."
"Enchanting!" The duchess wrapped a papery hand around Maryan's chin. "The very first young man you should meet is my grand-nephew, Lord Sharply."
Lady Elmwood's eyebrows lifted. "Oh? Is he home from university?"
"Indeed. He begged us to let him go abroad to the East for the summer, but I don't expect it's safe for a young man to travel through India yet, do you? Too soon after the war."
"I am in perfect agreement, Your Grace. But if Lord Sharply must be confined to England, perhaps we can help to find something to amuse him. We must start by having him over for tea. Mustn't we, Isha?"
Isha perked up. "Of course, Mama. Perhaps Lord Sharply could give us his assessment of Maryan's paintings. My sister is quite the artist, Your Grace. One of her landscapes is hanging in Viscountess Renfield's private salon."
"Good heavens. Pretty and talented. A rare combination. I shall endeavor to pass along your gracious invitation to my grand-nephew when—"
The conversation came to a sudden halt as a loud crash echoed in the hall outside. Isha turned toward the startling noise, which sounded like a cacophony of cymbals. All eyes turned to look at the footman who'd tripped and sent a large tray of gold charger plates and fine crystal shattering upon the marble floor.
Impulsively, Isha went to help the unfortunate man, whose face darkened to crimson with shame.
"My goodness!" Isha said, crouching before him. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm terribly sorry," he stammered, hardly lifting his face as he began to collect the plates, which were still spinning noisily upon the cold white floor.
Baroness Windigate, the hostess of the party, wound through the crush of guests in a race to the hall. The baroness pursed her lips and turned to face her guests. "I do apologize for this disruption, ladies and gentlemen. Please help yourselves to more champagne as the servants clear away this upset."
Isha stooped at the foot of a marble column to collect some of the chargers which had slid across the floor. As her head came up, something peculiar caught her eye. A man dressed in black bent over and picked up his walking stick from the floor—from the very place where the footman had tripped.
A spark of anger ignited inside her. If the footman had indeed tripped over that man's walking stick, the very least the gentleman could have done was to help the poor servant up.
Isha squinted at him, trying to make out his face. All she could discern was that he had black hair, a black tailcoat, and most unusual of all, he was wearing a red cravat.
Baroness Windigate approached her. "Please don't trouble yourself, Isha. The servants will look after this. I simply don't understand why my footmen have been so clumsy of late."
The baroness was a cousin of Isha's mother, and she had organized this party especially to showcase Maryan.
"I'm sure this was not your servant's fault, Cousin. Accidents will happen. Even intentional ones," she muttered to herself.
"Intentional?" The baroness blinked her brown eyes.
Isha shook her head. "Pay me no heed. Tell me, who is that man over by your footman?"
"Which man?"
"Him." Isha notched her chin in his direction, but the man had disappeared. "Oh. He's gone."
"Who, dear?"
"There was a gentleman standing there. A gentleman with a red cravat."
"A red cravat? I don't remember seeing anyone wearing such a disagreeable article."
The embarrassed footman drew near to collect the chargers from Isha's hand, and the baroness whispered to him in an angry tone. "I'll have no more of your clumsiness tonight, Jenkins. Just look at all this broken glass! Send one of the maids to sweep it all up. You're to stay below stairs for the rest of the evening. I shall have words with you later."
"Yes, Madame," he whispered, silently disappearing through a door.
"My dear Isha, I can't begin to tell you about all the outrageous fortune there's been. Last night, my husband lost a large wager, and he threatened to cancel tonight's party. This afternoon, the coach carrying my lady's maid suffered an accident and she broke her arm. Then there was some bother with the greengrocer who delivered late, and consequently we'll be compelled to push dinner back for at least an hour. And that lovely five-tiered gateau that I commissioned Chef to make for tonight? The cat pounced on it! I shudder to think what will happen next. I'll count myself fortunate indeed if the guests make it out of here with their lives."
A flash of red appeared in the corner of Isha's vision. Sh
e turned to look and saw him.
"There, Cousin! The man I was talking to you about. Behind the statue of the lion at the far end of the hall. Who is he?"
Baroness Windigate turned to look. "I don't see anyone."
Isha shot the baroness an incredulous glance and openly pointed at him. "There…leaning against the lion's mane. The man with the red cravat!"
"My dear, your eyes are playing tricks upon you. There is nothing there but shadows. It's utterly unkind of Cousin Jessamine not to permit you to wear your spectacles—or at the very least employ a quizzing glass. Come, let us return to the ballroom. Maybe the gentleman you're looking for is in there."
Despite the baroness's streak of bad luck, the ball went on rather successfully for Maryan. Lady Elmwood worked tirelessly to arrange meetings with the wealthiest gentlemen she could find, while Isha arranged to fill Maryan's dance card with the handsomest bachelors who were still not old enough for gout. Despite the flurry of activity, Isha had never seen her sister so happy. Especially after Isha encouraged young Andrew Harkness to approach Maryan.
"He did it, Isha!" Maryan cried excitedly. "Mr. Harkness asked me to dance the quadrille!"
Andrew Harkness was not the royal peer their mama would have preferred, but he was certainly the young man that all the girls were giggling over. Thick eyelashes, a square jaw, and an irreverent sense of humor made him the talk of the party among the debutantes. Plus, Mr. Harkness stood to inherit a considerable fortune.
Satisfied, Isha watched her sister twirl beneath Mr. Harkness's hand on the dance floor. They certainly looked perfectly matched. His burnished auburn hair was just a few shades darker than Maryan's copper, and their gaze never left each other for a second. Each made the other laugh with their bold flirtations. Maryan's joy broadcast loudly that young Mr. Harkness was the one who'd most captivated her heart.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Isha's neck stood on end. A foreign sensation snaked through her, one of silent unease, as if something was out of place but she knew not what. She turned around.
