Dedication
For Andrew and Holly
May you set the world on fire.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Happily Ever After
An Excerpt from The Match of the Century
Invitation
Chapter One
About the Author
By Cathy Maxwell
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
London 1780
“HAVE YOU TAKEN leave of your senses, man? Do you know who she is?”
Fyclan Morris shrugged off his friend John Bishard’s astonished questions. “She’s a goddess,” he replied, moving after the heavenly creature who had passed them as they had come out of the watchmaker’s shop.
The young woman, a vision in blue ribbons and lace from the top of her pert brimmed bonnet to the trim of her hems had not noticed him, as a proper young woman should not. Accompanied by a manservant and maid, she’d weaved her way through the crowded street, her attention on a piece of paper in her hand, unaware that she’d changed his life forever.
It was her. Fyclan did not doubt the fact.
“You’ll recognize her immediately,” his Gran had said. “She’ll be fair to your dark, a light to your step, a force you will not deny.”
His Gran had claimed to see the future. She saw it in dreams, she said. The Irish believed in prophecy and accepted what they could not understand, but even among them, his Gran’s gift was special. She was Romany-born, a gypsy until the day Fyclan’s grandfather claimed he’d woven moonbeams into a rope and captured her to keep her.
Fyclan had never doubted the story. There had been something magical about her. She had a knowledge of things that no one could explain. Even the priest claimed to be puzzled, and it was whispered that a few times, he’d asked her a question or two himself.
From almost the day of his birth, his Gran had cooed in his ear that he was destined for great things, something she’d never said to his brother—and her words had proven true. How else could a poor lad from County Cork find himself on the brink of being named a director to the powerful East India Company?
But it wasn’t just money his Gran had offered. “When you meet this woman, hold on to her,” she’d said. “Your children’s children will be dukes and princes. They will stride the world. But first, you must meet the woman.”
“Why will I need her?” he’d asked. “Mr. Fralin says I’m the smartest pupil he’s ever taught. I don’t need a lass to help me be important.”
His Gran had cupped his chin with her cold, frail hand. “You are right, my chava, but she will not be just any woman. She will be your destiny. Your purpose.”
To a boy, such talk was gibberish. Like every other Irish lad his age, Fyclan was mad for horses and adventure. This talk of “purpose” had been beyond his understanding—especially when it involved lasses. He was going to be a military man. He would win honor and glory and own a stable of a fifty horses, and he wasn’t going to share one of them with a lass.
However, now he was a man, and wiser to the ways of the world. He’d proven he understood money. He’d made fortunes for his superiors as well as a fortune for himself. There was no telling how far he could climb, especially since many whispered that Fyclan’s smart leadership had saved the Company from another bankruptcy. It was commonly allowed that if he kept to his current path, he would someday be knighted.
And certainly, many of the current directors had their eye on him as a husband for their daughters, but Fyclan had not been tempted. No, he’d been waiting for her, the one his Gran had promised—the lady in blue with golden hair and creamy skin whose path had just crossed his.
Most gently bred young ladies of her age would be just finishing the morning toilettes after a night of balls and routs. Not this one. Crossing the street ahead of Fyclan, she walked with purpose. She glanced at her scrap of paper repeatedly, as if searching for an address. Her maid had to scamper to keep up with her. Her aggrieved footman held out his arm to protect her from the heavy traffic and unwarranted advances.
Fyclan crossed the street as well, wanting to keep her in his sights.
He didn’t quite know how he would approach her or gain an introduction, but reach her he would—
His friend, Bishard, laid both hands on his arm and swung him around. He kept hold of Fyclan’s jacket as he waved his hand in front of his face. “Are you not listening to me? Damn it all, Morris, I’ve never seen you chase a woman before, and now you charge off like a hound on the trace of a scent.”
Fyclan laughed. “Only yesterday you chastised me for not being more aware of the fair sex. Well, now I am aware. Very aware. And I’m about to lose her, so excuse me—”
Bishard held fast. “She’s not for you.”
Those were fighting words. “And why not?”
His friend glanced around as if those on the pavement around them would be keenly interested in what he was about to say. His voice lowered. “Stowe has spoken for her.”
He referred to the Marquess of Stowe, one of the wealthiest men in London. The directors of the Company were keenly interested in him. Not only did they want his money for investment, they also needed his political patronage.
Bishard’s warning did give Fyclan pause. He looked in the direction of his goddess. She was moving steadily away, a bright blue gem weaving in and out amid a sea of drab, hardworking men and women, people whose lives held no room for such a lively color.
And he knew he must not lose her. “Who is Stowe to me?” he said, and would have charged off again in pursuit, but his friend held on.
“She is also Miss Jennifer Tarleton, Colonel Russell Tarleton’s daughter.”
“The fool who cost us Konkan?” Fyclan referred to the battle the Company had fought against the Maratha rulers over the northern provinces. Fyclan had been the Company officer in charge and had removed Tarleton from his command. Fyclan had then been forced to lead the counteroffensive himself, barely saving the Company from a humiliating defeat. The scales had weighed in his favor that day but Fyclan had been well aware matters could have gone the opposite way.
“The same. And still just as foolish. From what I understand, he is in dun territory. His only hope is to marry his daughter to a trunkful of gold. Trust me, Morris, you don’t want this one.”
“I have money.”
“But not as much as Stowe,” Bishard answered.
Fyclan wasn’t certain he was correct. However, before he could argue the point, Bishard continued, “There is bad blood between you and Tarleton. You cost the man his commission. You ruined him. He’d never sell his daughter to you. And you are aware how much power the marquess has? How crossing him might not be a wise choice?”
“Until a lass is married, she is fair game.”
“True, unless there is a sizeable wager in the betting books of every club in this city that Stowe will win her hand. ’Tis said Stowe made the wager himself. He won’t appreciate competition. You know they’ve charged Tillbury with bringing Stowe on board.” Tillbury was the Company director to whom Fyclan and Bishard reported. “You have a lot to lose, my friend, if you earn Stowe’s wrath.”
The beauty in blue had stopped at a corner. Again, she checked her paper. Miss Tarleton had found the street she’d sought and
in a blink would be completely out of Fyclan’s sight.
Out of his life.
“Perhaps,” he allowed to his friend. “Then again, some risks are worth the costs.”
With that, Fyclan shook off Bishard’s arm and began running to catch up.
Chapter Two
SHE NEEDED A book. She had to have something to read. She was desperate for it.
Any book could be an escape. A good book, especially so. And books had saved Miss Jennifer Tarleton’s sanity on occasions too numerous to count. A good hour of reading always eased her troubled mind and revived her spirits. A well-told tale put matters in perspective. This was how Jenny had coped with the challenges in her life, provided she could place her hands on something to read.
Her family didn’t understand. They were not readers. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for Jenny’s sickly childhood and a kind and caring nurse, she would not have valued books as much as she did, either.
At home in Lansdown, Jenny borrowed books from her neighbors or Mr. Wheeler, the minister. Unfortunately, here in London, there was not one book to be had in the house her family had let for the season, and most of the people she’d met in London looked at her cross-eyed when she said she enjoyed reading. One young buck had even questioned, “Books? You read books?” He’d even shuddered as he spoke.,
However, after the angry scene she’d just witnessed between her parents, she was forced to take bold measures. At the gaming tables, her father continued to lose money that they just didn’t have. When the amount of his debts were finally admitted, her mother had called for her smelling salts and taken to her room—in spite of her father’s assurances that Jenny’s future husband would save all.
Would her father ever learn? And why must it rest on Jenny’s shoulders to marry a man wealthy enough to save him from debtor’s prison? What if she failed? Her family would be ruined.
She was now grateful that she had learned the address of Sir David Littlefield, a renowned explorer and the owner of what was reputed to be one of the best libraries in the city. The other evening at the Barnhart rout, she’d overheard two gentlemen discussing their visit there. Apparently, Sir David opened his library to others.
She prayed he would allow her to borrow a book this afternoon. Just one book. Such a small request.
Jenny had been forced to sneak out of the house. Her father disliked her reading. “Reading will give you the squints, Jenny, and mar that lovely face of yours. Of course, marry the right man,” he was fond of saying, “and you can have many books as you wish. But I’m not paying for them out of my pocket.”
Marry the right man . . . there was the root of the problem.
Jenny had been born with the looks that men appreciated. Even when she was younger, doors that others found closed were opened for her. Favors were always pushed her way, while other lasses struggled to receive the simplest of courtesies. Since Jenny had matured into her looks, suitors had fought battles, both verbal and on rare occasion with fists, for her attention, but not one of them had captured her interest, let alone her heart.
Jenny had not asked for this trip to London. Fate was fickle. She of all people knew that. She had done nothing to earn the pleasing arrangement of her face. It was a gift from her Maker. Indeed, when men were too effusive about her looks, she found herself suspicious of their motives. They praised her, but they didn’t know her. They weren’t interested in her opinions or even in light banter. Her father had taken her aside several times over the past weeks, and said, “Just smile; don’t yammer.”
Only books didn’t constantly weigh her value to them.
For a second, Jenny experienced one of her dizzy spells. She paused on the street, her footman, Lorry, hovering anxiously over her. “Do you need to return, Miss Jenny?”
She shook her head. “I will be fine.” She hoped it was true. It had been over a year since she’d had one of her “spells.” Usually, she paced herself, taking a bit of time every afternoon to rest. She had no desire to faint on such a crowded, busy street. She forced a smile and continued. She was so close to Sir David’s address.
When she was born, her mother claimed Jenny’s skin was so blue, no one thought she would live a fortnight . . . but she had. Granted, she’d had many spells when she was a child, but she had grown stronger with age. And while she sensed her days on this earth were carefully numbered, she was determined to live her life fully.
So, was it wrong to hope to meet a man like the ones she read about in novels? Adventurous men, daring men, empathetic and compassionate men? Men who were not like her father or most of the others she had met? She could envy her sister Serena’s Evan, the squire’s son . . . but, please God, she would appreciate it if this imaginary man, born out of her reading and dreaming, was a great deal more intelligent than her sister’s plodding beau.
And was it too much to ask that he be handsome, articulate, and somewhat younger than the Marquess of Stowe or any of the other gentlemen toward whom her father pushed her?
She and her servants reached Sir David’s address. The neighborhood was eminently respectable. The façade of his house was marble and well tended.
“Lorry, stay here and wait on the step,” Jenny instructed her footman. She knew he understood he must serve as lookout. He would warn her if he saw any signs of her father.
“Yes, Miss,” Lorry answered, his glum tone pricking her conscience.
“I know I put you in a terrible position by threatening to leave without you. If I am caught, I will tell Father you had no choice.”
“I’ll still receive the sack.”
That was true. “I shall return as quickly as possible. Come, Mandy.”
The maid had accompanied her from Lansdown and was always intimidated to be out and about in London. She followed meekly as Jenny climbed the steps and lifted the knocker on the impressive black-lacquered door.
She didn’t even have a moment to draw a breath when the door opened. The servant who answered was slender and tall. Very tall, and Jenny was a good height for a woman. He wore a turban around his head, and his features appeared to be cut from brown stone. “Yes, ma’am, may I help you?”
Jenny skewed her courage. London was different than Lansdown. People were not friendly. But she wanted a book.
“I would like to speak to Sir David.”
“Sir David is away for the year.”
“Oh.” Her heart fell. Her anticipation had been high. She’d not considered what she’d do if her benefactor was not at home. “I see,” she murmured, then, determined, said, “I wished to borrow a book from his library. I hear it is one of the finest in London.”
“Are you a subscriber?”
“Subscriber?”
“Sir David’s library is open to subscribers. If you wish to become a member—”
“A member?” She drew a breath and released it. Of course. How naïve of her. She’d heard of private lending libraries. “I should have realized,” she said, speaking more to herself than the servant. Nor would she ask after the costs of the subscriptions. She had no money of her own. Not even pin money.
She was now glad Sir David was not at home. Indeed, she should remove herself from this doorstep with all haste before someone on the street recognized her—except she found it hard to move. Disappointment made her desperate.
“I need to borrow only one book,” she said, as if hoping the servant could pull a tome from the pocket of his dark green livery and hand it to her. “I must.”
“I’m sorry, Miss, the library is for subscribers only—”
“Childs,” a deep male voice said from behind her, “let this gentlewoman use my subscription as my guest.”
Jenny whirled in surprise. She could not accept such a gift from a strange man. She had been so caught up in her setback, she’d not even been aware of his approach.
However, onc
e she turned, her polite protest died on her lips.
Standing on the stop below her was the most attractive man she had yet to meet. He was what a poet should look like—curling black hair, intelligent brown eyes dark with mystery, a lean jaw, and a wide and sensitive mouth.
There was a confidence about him, a certainty. He was looking at Jenny in the same manner she was taking him in, and he liked what he saw. She knew, because she was pleased as well. They were both obviously caught in the same spell.
The gentleman’s standing with her was also boosted by Childs’s eager change of attitude. “Hello, Mr. Morris. It is good to see you again, sir.”
“Thank you, Childs.” Mr. Morris’s eyes did not leave Jenny. “You will accept my offer,” he said to her. “It would give me great pleasure.”
Jenny knew she shouldn’t. However, lost in the dark amber depths of his eyes, she was having difficulty finding words to speak.
Childs saved her from trouble. “You know I can’t do that, sir. Sir David doesn’t approve of subscription holders loaning their privileges to others.”
“Then I shall buy a subscription for this lady. Sir David will approve of that, no?”
“As you say, sir.”
Jenny found her voice. She had no idea how much subscriptions cost, but any amount would be too much. She did not want Mr. Morris to form the wrong opinion of her. “I can’t accept such a gift.”
He raised his hand as if denying her claim. “I noticed you walking toward this house. No, I noticed you marching toward this house. You moved with great purpose, and I knew you would not be happy until you had achieved your goal. When I overheard you asking to see the library—well, few people surprise me, Miss—” He paused, waiting for her to fill in the introduction.
A Little Thing Called Love Page 1
