An Interrupted Tapestry

by Madeline Hunter

  penguin.com

  She was trained in the art of pleasure,

  but she’s about to get her first lesson in love . . .

  From New York Times bestselling author MADELINE HUNTER

  Sinful in Satin

  The daughter of a famed London courtesan, Celia was educated in the art of pleasure—destined, it seemed, to follow in her mother’s footsteps. But instead, Celia ran away, taking refuge with friends far from society’s debauched circles.

  Her quiet life comes to an abrupt end when her mother dies. Celia has inherited all of her property, which includes massive debts and a small house in town. She has also inherited Jonathan Albrighton, an enigmatic gentleman who has lived in the house as a tenant . . . a man Celia soon admits she is in no hurry to evict, no matter how deliciously unsettling his presence.

  With mounting debts threatening everything she had hoped to build, Celia is forced to consider embracing the scandalous profession for which she was groomed. But now there is only one man for whom she wants to put her erotic training to use . . .

  penguin.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Madeline Hunter has published twenty critically acclaimed historical romances. Her books regularly appear one New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists. More an four million copies her books are in print, and her books have been translated into twelve languages. She has won two RITA awards and is six-time RITA finalist. Madeline holds a PhD in art history, which she teaches at the university level. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted through her website: www.MadelineHunter.com.

  If you enjoyed An Interrupted Tapestry, look for Madeline Hunter’s delicious new novel, DANGEROUS IN DIAMONDS

  On sale April 26, 2011

  No one could distract im from following pleasure’s path to hell—until now . . .

  Outrageously wealthy, the Duke of Castleford has little incentive to curb his profligate ways—gaming and whoring with equal abandon and enjoying his hedonistic lifestyle to the fullest. When a behest adds a small property to his vast holdings, one that houses a modest flower business known as The Rarest Blooms, Castleford sees little to interest him . . . until he flays fees on its owner. Daphne Joyes is coolly mysterious, exquisitely beautiful, and utterly scathing toward a man of Castleford’s stamp—in short, an object worthy of his most calculated seduction.

  Daphne has no reason to entertain Castleford’s outrageous advances, and every reason to keep him as far away as possible from her eclectic household. Not only has she been sheltering young ladies who have been victims of misfortune, but she has her own closely guarded secrets. Then Daphne makes a discovery that changes everything. She and Castleford have one thing in common: a profound hatred for the Duke of Beksbridge, who just happens to be Castleford’s relative.

  Never before were two people less likely to form an alliance—or to fall in love . . .

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM MADELINE HUNTER’S

  DANGEROUS IN DIAMONDS . . .

  Chapter One

  The death of a duke is cause for many people to mourn, but none so much as those dependent on his patronage. So it was that the passing of the fourth Duke of Becksbridge left many a relative and retainer in tears. A few had to swallow the inappropriate inclination to smile, however, in particular several persons named in his testament as recipients of gifts or pensions.

  One such beneficiary neither wept nor rejoiced. Rather, on the Tuesday following the duke’s funeral, he finally attended to the oddity that he had received any gift at all.

  “I hope he did not expect me to maintain the mourning rituals in his memory because of this,” Tristan, Duke of Castleford, muttered.

  He examined the deeds of the properties he had just inherited. If his head did not ache from the sobriety he adopted once a week on Tuesdays, he might muster some grief or nostalgia for this recently departed fellow peer. It would take considerable effort on the best of days, however.

  Becksbridge had been a collateral relative, some distance removed, and most of the bequeathed holdings appeared to be distant as well. Also small. So small and insignificant as to hardly be worth the ink used to record the gift in the will.

  “You do not intend to mourn? He was an important man and much esteemed.” Mr. Edwards, his bespectacled secretary, spoke from his paper-covered desk in the study where together they labored on Castleford’s business affairs.

  “He was an ass. Worse, a boring, self-righteous ass. The boring part was only tiresome, but the self-righteous part unforgivable.”

  The latter had been an inherited turn of character, but in Castleford’s opinion, that hardly absolved Becksbridge from being tedious in executing the tendency. That entire side of their complex family tree was so smug in their goodness that it made one want to puke. All the same, if Becksbridge had lived and let live, he might have been tolerable.

  But, of course, he couldn’t “let live.” The Becksbridges of the world believed it was the duty of paragons of virtue to remind others they should strive for equal dreariness. In fact, in anticipation of his inheritance, Becksbridge’s son and heir, Gerome, Earl of Latham, had been publishing popular screeds on morality. The next Duke of Becksbridge had already taken his scolds to the world through print and had forged a reputation as an arbiter of morals with his damned essays.

  Castleford was inclined to sneer at the irony, but thinking much on the topic would only make his head hurt worse. Still, he knew Latham better than anyone else in the world did. Of similar age, they had raised hell together in years past. Even perfectly tended branches of family trees produce a few wormy fruit. The boring ass was about to be succeeded by a dangerous hypocrite.

  “You have that sniveling expression you wear when you are choking on swallowed words, Edwards. Do you disapprove that I speak ill of the dead?”

  Edwards flushed. Only twenty-five years of age, he had not yet learned to keep his own counsel on Tuesdays, especially when his employer invited him to speak freely. “The duke was unparalleled, and he was very generous. It is said he endowed an orphanage in his will.”

  “Unparalleled? Are you saying outright, to my face, that I am not his equal? That is ungrateful for a secretary who may have to labor on the one day a week when I tend to my estate, but who otherwise has more freedom of movement than any servant ought.”

  “I—that is, you are unparalleled as well, Your Grace. Everyone says so, and—”

  “I do not hold with the notion that asses should be fondly remembered just because they have the means to spread around gifts to make others beholden. As for his generosity to me, I neither need nor want these small landholdings. The man has managed to be a nuisance beyond the grave.”

  “The properties all have tenants. Managing them will not create more trouble.”

  Castleford peered at the deeds. “It is too peculiar that he gave them to me at all. We were not fond of each other. We had not spoken civil words in years.” That was an understatement. Their few meetings had been marked by reproaches on Becksbridge’s part and ridicule on Castleford’s.

  A letter had been delivered with the deeds. Castleford tore it open.

  Castleford,

  You are no doubt surprised by the legacy that I left you, since you of all men need nothing from me. Neither the lands nor the money would form more than a tiny drop in your ocean of wealth. Therefore I assume that you will not care that it was never my intention for you to enjoy the fruits of either. Rather, I am depending on what little is left of the better side of your character, and requesting that you discreetly handle a matter for me that I prefer not to address through my testament.

  The landholdings that I left you are currently used by tenants in whose welfare I have a committed interest. It is my wish that the tenants be allowed to remain indefinitely at the current rent of one pound a year. Furthermore, the money left to you should be used to ensure that the tenants’ families are never in want of the basics of life.

  I trust this is a small matter th
at your stewards can execute without troubling you. It should in no way interfere with the inebriated fornications that normally occupy your time. (And which, I am obligated to remind you, bring disrepute to your name and blood, a likely early death to your person, and inevitable damnation to your everlasting soul.)

  Becksbridge

  Castleford shook his head. Even in this letter—in which he placed an unwelcomed obligation on a distant relative with no fond memories of him—Becksbridge could not resist scolding.

  “I suppose I will have to visit these spots of land soon, or I might forget about them entirely. Get maps and mark them, Edwards. I will deal with it before summer ends.”

  “That might not be possible, sir. There are not enough Tuesdays left for such journeys along with attending to your usual affairs.”

  “Calm yourself, Edwards. I do not have to be sober to visit my estates.”

  Daphne Joyes flipped through the mail that Katherine had brought to her. She masked her disappointment when it became apparent that the letter she awaited had not arrived.

  Foreboding sickened her. If that letter had not come by now, it probably never would. She would have to turn her mind to what that meant about the future. Plans had already begun forming. None of them were pleasant to contemplate. Worse, goals that she had thought herself finally close to achieving would now be put off indefinitely. Perhaps forever.

  That possibility pained her heart. She held her composure and mourned privately, secretly, the way she had done for years now.

  Katherine took a chair facing the large window in the back sitting room where they shared some coffee. Dark hair neatly dressed and apron crisp despite a morning tending to plants, Katherine waited patiently to hear any news in today’s letters that Daphne chose to share.

  She appeared a little foreign, Daphne thought, not for the first time. Katherine’s high cheekbones and dark, almond-shaped eyes were not typically English in appearance, but it was the light brown of her skin, caused by the summer’s sun, that really created the impression. Even the biggest-brimmed bonnet could not entirely protect a woman’s complexion if she spent hours every day in a garden.

  “Audrianna writes to say that she and Lord Sebastian will be going to the coast today, to escape the town’s summer heat,” Daphne offered.

  “That is probably wise, in her condition. Will she remain there for her lying in?” Katherine said.

  “I expect so, although she does not say.”

  Daphne opened and read the next letter. Katherine sipped her coffee and did not ask after this letter’s sender either, even though Katherine had a special bond with the dear friend who had written it.

  Katherine held strictly to the rules of the house. The most important rule was that the women living there were never to pry into each other’s lives or personal business, past or present. In the years that Daphne had been sharing her home with women alone in the world like herself, that rule had served its purpose of ensuring harmony. However, some of the women who had lived here also found relief and safety in the right to keep their own counsel. Katherine was one of them.

  The members of the household had fallen into two groups, Daphne thought, her mind distracted from the letter by the notion. They either belonged to the haunted or the hunted. A few seemed to suffer both afflictions. Like Katherine.

  It was hard not to be curious. Hard not to believe that if one learned the history and the truth, one could help. Daphne knew better, however. After all, she was a bit haunted and hunted herself, in ways that no one could ever change.

  “Verity mostly writes about the doings at her home in Oldbury,” she said, passing the letter to Katherine. “Lord Hawkeswell journeyed north to assess whether the trouble up there will affect her iron mill.”

  Katherine frowned over the letter while she read it. “I am glad that she did not go with the earl. The papers are full of dire predictions and warnings about violence.”

  “They often exaggerate. As you can see, her husband did not think there is any danger to their property or people.”

  “It could be different come August. There is that big demonstration planned.”

  “Plans are not certainties.” However, it could be very different come August. One more thing to contemplate while reassessing the future.

  Daphne turned to the paper itself. In addition to news about all those doings up north, the Times had other political stories, as well as correspondent letters from the Continent. One caught her eye. The new Duke of Becksbridge had been honored at a dinner a fortnight ago, attended by the best of Parisian society. It was, from the telling, a party to say good-bye prior to his imminent departure for London to take up the duties of his inheritance.

  Would he live in England now? Or would he, hopefully, do as some other peers had since the war ended, and return to the Continent to make his home permanently in France?

  “Who is that?” Katherine said.

  Daphne looked over to see Katherine sitting upright, peering out the window behind Daphne’s sofa.

  Daphne turned around. “I see no one.”

  Katherine stood and moved closer. She squinted at the tapestry of flowers and plants outside. “A man just walked through the garden, not fifty feet from this window. He is near the rose arbor now.”

  Daphne’s sight followed Katherine’s pointing finger. She glimpsed the movement of a dark form near the arbor.

  Just then their housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, entered the sitting room with a frown on her birdlike face. “There is a horse in front. I did not hear it approach on the lane, but there it is, with its rider gone.”

  “The rider is in the garden.” Daphne could not see him any longer. She removed her apron. “I will go out and invite him to leave.”

  “Will you be wanting the pistol?” Katherine asked.

  “I am sure that this person was only curious about a property named The Rarest Blooms that he found himself passing. He probably ventured up the lane to see just how rare the flowers might be.”

  Katherine remained tense, staring at the garden. Hunted, Daphne thought again.

  “I suggest you watch from the greenhouse, Katherine. If our trespasser behaves in a threatening manner when I address him, you come out and brandish the pistol. Just try not to shoot him unless it is absolutely necessary.”

  Daphne left the house as if going for a midday turn on the property. She strolled past the kitchen garden, then followed paths through beds displaying summer flowers.

  The greenhouse flanked the plantings on her right, and a brick wall with espaliered fruit trees hemmed in the garden on her left. Two portals on either side of the house gave entry to the gardens. The intruder must have come through one of them.

  She meandered left, toward the arbor near the wall. The climbing rose that provided shelter from the sun there had not yet blossomed, but its leaves created a dense, shadowed sanctuary. As she approached, she saw the man sitting on the bench within.

  He saw her too. He cocked his head a little, as if her presence fascinated him. He did not appear the least disconcerted at being found trespassing like this. He remained sitting there—sprawled, really—his shoulders resting against the arbor’s back slats and one leg fully extended, so the sun shone on the foot of his boot.

  A very nice boot, she noted as she drew near. Expensive. Expertly crafted of superior leather and polished within an inch of its life.

  Her intruder was a gentleman.

  She came to a halt about twenty feet from the arbor. She waited for him to speak. An apology, perhaps. Or an expression of interest in the gardens. Instead he silently regarded her as if he studied a painting in which, unaccountably, a figure had moved through the oiled colors.

  The moment grew awkward. She looked back at the greenhouse, scanning its small panes of glass for Katherine’s dark head. Not that there would be any trouble, of course. Yet she experienced a surprising amount of relief when she spotted Katherine.

  Deciding that grace would achieve more than accu
sations when it came to boots like that, she smiled in acknowledgment of his presence. “Welcome to The Rarest Blooms, sir. Did you come to admire the gardens? Do you have a particular interest in horticulture?”

  “I know nothing about horticulture, although this garden is worthy of admiration.” He stood, as etiquette required. He did not leave the arbor but remained within its dappled shadows.

  He was tall. Taller than she was, and her own unfashionable stature often left her nose-to-nose with men or even looking down from an elevated prospect. He had dark hair and dark eyes and appeared quite handsome from what she could see. Young, but not very young. Thirty years of age, thereabouts, she guessed.

  “Perhaps you seek to purchase a selection of special blooms for a favored lady?”

  “It never entered my mind.”

  He did not appear inclined to share what had entered his mind and led him to intrude like this. He behaved, in fact, as if she had no right to know. She was beginning to dislike this man. She found his manner conceited and his relaxed attitude condescending.

  “Perhaps you should consider it. Ladies consider flowers romantic. They love receiving them as gifts.”

  “They only pretend that they do. They are actually disappointed. They prefer jewels to flowers, no matter how rare the blooms might be. I daresay the thinnest silver chain would be favored over the most exotic plant.”

  “You speak with secure authority, as if you know the mind of every woman on earth.”

  “I have sampled enough to speak with confidence.”

  She was very sure that she did not like him now. “I am very fond of flowers, as you might surmise from the quantity here. It appears that your experience with women’s minds has been incomplete.”