by Cindy Anstey
“It would have to be a lot of suitors.”
“Evelyn, this is no time to be so morbid,” my mother interrupted, simultaneously poking my father awake. “And it is certainly not suitable conversation for dancing. You must enjoy yourself tonight.”
“You’re ordering me to enjoy myself?”
“Yes, it’s a ball, not a funeral.”
A funeral might have been preferable. In fact, there was a long list of things I would rather do than attend tonight’s monotonous event: thoroughly clean the stables, travel the Continent, have tea with my mother’s ten closest friends, travel the Continent, eat my hat, and—oh, yes, of course—travel the Continent. At this moment, my best friend, Catherine Harding, was undoubtedly watching some fabulous new opera in Vienna with an empty seat by her side, meant for me. But when I had modestly, logically suggested to my mother the importance—no, the necessity—of a young woman seeing the world, expanding her mind, and finding her passion, she remained utterly unconvinced.
“Catherine tells me Vienna has grand balls,” I put in.
“This isn’t the time to discuss that, either,” Mother replied.
“But what if tonight, in my sheltered naïveté, I accept a proposal from a pitiless rogue who takes all my money and confines me to an attic?”
“Then better it happens here than on the Continent.”
I bit my tongue, for it was quite useless to argue further. Mother would not be swayed and let me leave the country. Instead, she was determined to see me to every ball in England. But what was the point of all this? Was anyone truly satisfied with seeing the same people over and over again, mouthing the same false words, feeling nothing, and saying less? Even my London season felt like I was in a prison, trapped in the same routine of balls, dinners, theaters, and concerts that all seemed to blend together, just like the shallow people in attendance. They were so eager to confine themselves to a role and make the correct impression that they’d forget to have any actual thoughts of their own. How would I ever figure out what exactly it was that I wished to do, stuck here in sleepy Bramhurst?
Gazing out the window, I wondered if I should try very hard to have a horrible time tonight to spite my mother, or if we were still close enough to home that I could just throw myself out the door and roll back down the hill. But since we had left, the light pattering of rain had become an angry barrage, while the lightning flashed and the thunder raised its voice in warning. Hopes for an impassable flood took root within me as our carriage swerved and slowed along the slick, muddy road. Suddenly, it jerked to a dead stop, and I believed my prayers answered until the driver shouted down to my father.
“Sir! There’s a carriage stopped up ahead! Reckon they’re stuck! It’ll be just a moment!”
We lurched forward until we saw the outline of a carriage crookedly tilted halfway off the road. Our driver’s voice carried: “Hello there! Can we be of assistance?”
Rose and I crowded to her tiny window and found three drenched men—a driver, a passenger, and a near giant—all attempting to push the vehicle back out of a muddy ditch. They paused upon hearing us, and the large man tipped his hat toward our window, the carriage light illuminating his tanned skin and pale lips.
Their driver wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he approached. “Thank you, sir!” he yelled, panting as he waved us along. “It’s quite all right! Get your passengers to their destination! We shall manage—” The rest of his words were sucked up by another growl and crackle of thunder.
Whether it was the man’s words or the storm that was convincing, our driver decided not to argue and sent the horses forward. As I turned back, watching the three men fade into the blackness, a flash of lightning unveiled them for one last glimpse, their shapes stark against the bright white rip across the sky. But it wasn’t any figure that caught my eye. It was their carriage, which seemed to be lifted entirely off the ground by the giant man and heaved onto the road before they were swallowed by the darkness again.
“Did you see that?” I asked Rose.
Her raised brow answered the question, but then it furrowed as she considered the matter. “Is the fair in town? Perhaps he’s one of those strong men we always see advertised.”
“But … still, to lift an entire carriage by himself?”
“Evelyn,” Mother interrupted. “I don’t wish to hear another story about hallucinations rendering you too ill to attend—”
“Rose saw it, as well!”
“Oh. Excellent. Then we need not risk the health of any of our footmen to fix that driver’s foolish mistake,” my mother said, in her infinite kindness.
Our conversation died in the din of the storm, but the unnatural image of those four wheels suspended in the air stayed with me as we rolled up the narrow dirt path to the congested entrance of Feydon Hall. Though there was surely a rational explanation, my nerves were now on edge, making Feydon’s familiar details seem sinister. At the crest of the hill, the mansion loomed over the rest of the country, and thick clouds roiled menacingly over the magnificent estate. Cracked stone statues of Hades and Charon welcomed visitors in, while gnarled trees reached out to capture all who dared to veer off the path. Towering gargoyles stretched upward as if to attract an ominous flash of lightning. This was ridiculous. Was my mind so tired of Bramhurst that it was conjuring up these gothic images? This must be how girls go mad: It’s the only alternative to boredom.
Shaking the absurd thoughts away, I followed Rose and my parents out of the carriage. Umbrella-wielding footmen led us to the front door and into the bright, breathtaking vestibule that set the tone for the rest of the mansion. Though our home was rather large and well kept, Sir Winston’s home of Feydon was still awe-inspiring. Vivid paintings glowed in the gaslight against the dark wood paneling. Lush oriental rugs covered the floor, and the ceiling reached toward the sky, providing room for the second-floor balcony—a place where guests wanting for conversation topics had a steady supply of people below to scrutinize.
Still, in spite of the main hall’s enormous size, the waves of fashionable men and women rendered it impossible to navigate. This looked to be by far the biggest ball our small town of Bramhurst had seen in years, which unfortunately meant I didn’t have to worry about a sea of suitors, but an ocean. We had not gone three steps when my mother fixed her eyes on a boy frozen in perfect imitation of the bronze statue beside him.
She leaned in confidentially. “Evelyn, see there. The eldest from the Ralstons. I hear they have a lovely collection of stained-glass windows.” Ah, yes, just my type: a stiff, prideful lord-to-be with impeccable, cold deportment to prove his perfect breeding.
“Set a date,” I declared solemnly with a wave of my hand. “I shall marry him immediately.”
Acknowledgments
Publication has been a dream held close to my heart since I was in grade school—yes, grade school. At best, the dream was elusive; at worst, it seemed impossible. And yet, through the years, I have never stopped writing, never stopped dreaming. This dream would not have been realized without many special people whom I would like to acknowledge for support and inspiration.
First, thank you to my husband, my walking encyclopedia and unswerving believer. Thank you to my sister, my steadfast companion on this journey, for her counsel and moral support; she helped me hone my craft. Thank you to my daughter, who keeps my plots honest and dragged me (kicking and screaming) into the world of social media. Better beta readers would be difficult to find. Thank you to my mom for being a devoted fan from day one and to my son, whose enthusiasm is always contagious.
A hearty thanks to my friends—they are always positive and encouraging. Many thanks to the RWA for great advice, topical information, and the voice of experience.
And last but not least, thank you to the Swoon Reads crew, especially Holly, Christine, and Lauren. You helped me lift Love, Lies and Spies out of the cloudy waters of A Modest Predicament—all bright and shiny. But more than that, you made a dream come true.
Cindy Anstey spends her time writing and adventuring around the world. She has lived on three continents, had a monkey in her backyard and a scorpion under her sink, dwelled among castles and canals, enjoyed the jazz of Beale Street, and attempted to speak French. Cindy loves history, mystery … and a chocolate Labrador called Chester. Love, Lies and Spies is her debut novel. She currently resides in Nova Scotia, Canada. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Feiwel and Friends ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
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
Glossary
Swoonworthy Extras
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Cynthia Ann Anstey
Excerpt from These Vicious Masks © 2016 by Tarun Shanker and Kelly Zekas.
Swoon Reads
An Imprint of Feiwel and Friends
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010
swoonreads.com
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Anstey, Cindy, author.
Title: Love, lies and spies / Cindy Anstey.
Description: First edition. | New York: Swoon Reads, 2016. | Summary: In the early 1800s, when her father sends her to London for a season, eighteen-year-old Juliana Telford, who prefers researching ladybugs to marriage, meets handsome Spencer Northam, a spy posing as a young gentleman of leisure.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015026917| ISBN 9781250084033 (paperback) | ISBN 9781250084064 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Love—Fiction. | Spies—Fiction. | London (England)—History—19th century—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—1789–1820—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Love & Romance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Historical / Europe.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.A59 Lo 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015026917
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by e-mail at [email protected].
First paperback edition 2016
eBook edition April 2016
eISBN 9781250084064
