Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright 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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
AN UNEXPECTED DELIGHT
Taking a seat on the front steps, she bit into her pastry. Custard. Oh, she’d just known it would be custard.
It was a very good thing she’d not been tempted to purchase one until now, she thought. As it was, the treats would cost her . . . nothing, she realized.
They’re a gift.
It was true, she hadn’t any experience receiving gifts. Certainly not from men. Most certainly not from handsome men whose presence made her feel strangely restless, as if she wasn’t quite comfortable in her own skin.
It was the oddest sensation, the way her heart had tripped and her skin had prickled when he’d unbuttoned her gown that morning, and it was both unsettling and intriguing to remember how pleasant it had been to lean against the rail of the pasture with him, laughing and talking and standing in companionable silence. There had been a pleasant tightening in her belly and an unexpected temptation to shuffle her feet closer until they were standing arm to arm. And she no longer had an excuse to deny the obvious.
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NEARLY A LADY
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Alissa Johnson.
Excerpt from An Unexpected Gentleman by Alissa Johnson copyright © by Alissa Johnson.
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For Maamin,
because if we had been banished to Scotland,
she would have packed salami sandwiches for the trip.
Prologue
The Marquess of Engsly was not quite so bitter as to believe duplicity the exclusive domain of women. At the moment, however, he was just bitter enough to entertain the notion it was a realm inhabited primarily by women and ruled, most effectively, by the grand duchess of artifice herself, the Dowager Lady Engsly . . . his dear stepmama.
And if that idea held a touch more of the dramatic than was becoming for a man of his station, well, he rather felt he was entitled to the lapse.
It was hotter than Hades in that room.
In concession to the southern Italian sun, both he and his man, Kincaid, had stripped down to shirtsleeves and bare feet. They’d thrown open windows and doors, but the papers covering the small desk and littering the floor lay still, untouched by even a hint of breeze. It was heat alone that poured into the close room and had sweat beading on the marquess’s forehead and sliding down his back.
“Have a look at this, Kincaid.” The marquess wiped a damp hand on a handkerchief before holding up the letter of receipt he was reading. “Seventy-five pounds to St. Agnus’s Asylum in East London.”
Kincaid glanced up from where—after what the marquess was sure must have been a substantial internal battle between pride and practicality—he was seated on the floor, half buried in twenty years’ worth of journal entries penned by a madwoman. “I am unfamiliar with that particular charity, my lord.”
“Of course you are,” the marquess replied. “There is no St. Agnus’s Asylum in East London.”
He tossed the letter aside and grabbed the next, the contents of which had him laughing despite the miserable atmosphere.
“Eighty pounds annum for the care of one Miss Blythe, daughter of Mr. Robert Blythe and legal ward of the Marquess of Engsly.” He waved the paper in a flourish. “A ward. My father, who could scarce stomach the sight of his own offspring, agreed to take on a small girl? What an audacious lie. How is it none of us noticed the woman’s perfidy before this?”
“Your father was quite enamored of your stepmother.”
The marquess moved to toss the paper with the last. “As far as he was capable of such an emotion, at any rate.”
“A moment, my lord. What was the child’s name?”
The marquess frowned across the desk. “Miss Blythe,” he repeated, certain Kincaid had heard him the first time. “Is the heat getting to you? Perhaps a brief respite—”
“A respite would be welcome but unnecessary. I was inquiring after her given name.”
“Ah.” He scanned the lists detailing the purchases associated with the clothing and housing of a small girl. All of them fabricated, no doubt. “Here we are—Winnefred. Miss Winnefred Blythe.”
“Winnefred.” Kincaid blinked, realization and a bright smile of humor lighting his aging face. “Freddie. Heavens, I’d quite forgotten.”
“Are you telling me this child exists?”
“She does, or did a
dozen years ago. The vicar’s daughter, little Annabelle Holmes, wrote of her shortly after we left your father’s house. Charming child, Annabelle. Such a developed sense of the absurd for one so young.”
“And a favorite of my brother’s for that very reason,” the marquess added, remembering how Gideon had never seemed to mind having Anna follow him about the estate, peppering him with questions. But that had been before Gideon had gone to war. He was a different man now. A very different man. He would no longer welcome the adoration of a small child. “What did the letter say?”
“If I recall correctly, your father and Mr. Blythe were both in attendance at a large, and by all accounts very festive, hunting party during which a drunken guest set the stables on fire. Mr. Blythe was brave enough, it seems, to have charged in and pulled out the horses, and foolish enough to be mortally wounded in the process. Moments after collapsing on the lawn, Blythe made a deathbed request of the man standing nearest him, your father.”
“To take his daughter as his ward,” he guessed.
“Ah, no. To take his ‘Freddie,’ I believe were his exact words. Your father and Mr. Blythe were little more than acquaintances, you understand, and his lordship assumed ‘Freddie’ to mean a son. Apparently feeling magnanimous toward Blythe for saving his prized horseflesh, he agreed—in front of witnesses—to see the child cared for . . . There was quite a fuss when little Winnefred arrived on the front doorstep. His lordship flew into a rage, certain Blythe had purposely misrepresented the situation. It took your stepmother’s agreement to personally see the girl settled elsewhere to calm him down.”
“She was the only person who ever could, I’ll give her that. I’m almost sorry I missed it.” The marquess read over the numbers again. “Eighty pounds annum. If Lady Engsly followed her usual pattern of stealing half the funds from causes that actually exist, that would give the girl forty pounds a year. Not much, is it?”
Kincaid dug his way out from the journals to stand. “Payment would have ceased when Lady Engsly disappeared.”
A sick weight settled over the room. “More than six months ago,” the marquess said softly. “Bloody hell. There’s an address here.” He tapped the paper. “Murdoch House, Enscrum, Scotland. That’s near the border, isn’t it? I’ll send word to Gideon. With any luck, the allowance was paid annually and Miss Blythe will still be in residence. We can make this right.”
“Your brother is handling the estate in your absence. Perhaps it would be wise for us to return—”
“No.” The word came out harsher than the marquess intended and had him dragging a weary hand down his face. “I beg your pardon. Between the heat and the lack of progress, I am a bit out of sorts. Gideon passed on the responsibly of the estate to our secretary almost before I requested he take on the task. He needs something to do. Something to accomplish.”
Something, the marquess thought, that might lighten the shadows his brother attempted to hide behind a cheerful wit and careless smile. “Playing knight-errant will be good for Gideon.”
Kincaid gave a slight nod in acknowledgment but hesitated before speaking. “Have you considered that . . . some of the information you seek might not be here?”
The marquess chose to ignore the obvious implications of what was being suggested. “If it is not, it is with the dowager marchioness. When we find her . . .” Then they would find everything the woman had stolen over the years. “When we find her . . . we’ll find Rose.”
When Kincaid spoke again, his voice was soft and laced with the compassion of an old friend. “It has been more than twelve years, my lord. Twelve years without word. Please. You must resign yourself to the possibility that Rose is not to be found. There is every possibility that the lady is simply gone.”
“I’d know.” The marquess refused to look up from the desk, refused to give in to the doubt that had sat side by side with hope since he’d discovered his stepmother’s betrayal. “Rose is not gone. She is merely . . . lost for the moment.”
Like Lady Engsly, he realized, and Miss Blythe.
“It occurs to me, Kincaid, that this family has an unfortunate habit of misplacing its women.”
Chapter 1
Move so much as a finger, and I’ll blow a hole clean through you.”
Well . . . Damn.
During the long, long ride from London to Enscrum, Scotland, Lord Gideon Haverston had envisioned his reception at Murdoch House playing out in any number of ways. By most accounts, he was an optimistic—occasionally even fanciful—man, and so it was only to be expected that the vast majority of those ways had included the barest minimum of recriminations and tears, and an astounding amount of gratitude and rejoicing.
Use of the word “hero” had not been ruled out.
Not once, however, had he imagined at the end of his journey to find a house devoid of life, a stable sheltering a brigand, and the phrase “blow a hole clean through you” being whispered in the dark while a gun muzzle pressed uncomfortably into the small of his back.
Still, he’d had colder welcomes.
“If it’s money you’re after, you’ll find it difficult to obtain unless one of us reaches for my pocket. Although, they say there’s a man in Russia who can move objects with mere thoughts. There’s a fine talent. Perhaps you’re familiar with it?”
A short silence followed that statement.
“You’re a cold one, aren’t you?” the voice finally hissed. “And I’m not the thief here.”
Young, Gideon thought, very young, and afraid. He was well acquainted with the boyish habit of hiding fear with bravado. He’d heard it often enough on the deck of the Perseverance—the false deepening of the voice, the underlying tremor, and that quality of thickness as words forced their way past the ball of terror lodged in the throat.
’Fraid? Not me, Cap’n. Not me.
But they had been. He’d not suffered fools on his ship.
The lad behind him was running, like as not, and thought to spend the night in a pile of hay. Better all around if he was put down before he did something they would both regret.
Gideon shifted his weight to his good leg, pivoted, knocked the barrel of the rifle away with one hand, and threw his other out in a fist.
A sliver of moonlight cut through the open door, and in the space of a heartbeat he saw trousers, bosom, and a long braid.
A woman.
Instinct had him pulling his fist back before it connected with flesh. No good deed goes unpunished, and for this particularly stupid act of chivalry, Gideon’s penalty was swift, painful, and humiliating. He doubled over when the butt of the rifle slammed into his stomach, yelped when a sharp knee plowed into his nose, then slipped into blackness when something hard bounced off his head with a whopping crack.
Is he dead, then? Did we kill him?”
Winnefred leaned over her friend Lilly, who, in turn, was leaning over the man they’d just done their best to beat senseless. As their best had proved remarkably successful, she couldn’t help but feel a touch of smugness along with relief and lingering terror. He should have kept his thieving to the house, the blighter, instead of coming after the animals.
“Because if we did, we’ll need to hide the body straightaway. What if someone comes looking for him?”
“Then they will no doubt wonder how his horse came to be in our stable.” Lilly crouched down in front of the prone man. “And we did not kill him. I struck him with the pan. You merely kicked him about a bit.”
Though it was too dark to be seen, Winnefred felt that comment merited a roll of the eyes. “I’ll be sure to ask the vicar to make that distinction at our respective funerals. Hanged murderesses are allowed funerals, aren’t they?”
“With any luck, we’ll never know. He’s still breathing.”
“Oh.”
Winnefred felt rather than saw her friend’s gaze. “Your regard for the sanctity of human life is most touching.”
“You’re the one who thumped him about the head,” Winnefred reminde
d her. “Besides, a dead body is easier to hide than a live one . . . Shall we tie him up, do you think?”
“I suppose. His coat feels . . . rather expensive.”
“I imagine there are some monetary benefits to being an outlaw. Would you ever consider—?”
“No.”
“Pity. No one would ever suspect you.” With hands that still wanted to shake, Winnefred retrieved two small lengths of rope and set about tying the man’s hands while Lilly worked on his feet.
“He’s wearing good boots and trousers of superfine,” Lilly said. “I want to see him in the light. Fetch a candle—”
“No. We’ve only a few candles left. I’ll not waste one on the likes of him.”
“Freddie.”
“Grab his feet, then. I’ll take his shoulders. We’ll drag him outside.”
Years of physical labor had left both women with strong backs and capable hands, but it was an awkward business hauling a grown man out the stable doors. There was a great deal of huffing on Lilly’s part, and no small amount of swearing on Winnefred’s.
His feet hit the moonlight first, and Winnefred couldn’t help but notice that Lilly had been right about the boots—they were very nice indeed. She saw the trousers next, then the tailored coat. At last his face came into view—dark hair and long lashes, aquiline nose and hard jaw. His mouth was wide with—
“Oh, sweet heaven!” Lilly’s horrified gasp seemed unnaturally loud in the dark.
“What? What is it?” Winnefred hastily readjusted her grip as the man’s feet slipped from Lilly’s hands and fell to the ground.
“It’s him. It’s him. It’s . . . Wait . . .” Lilly bent closer to his face. “It isn’t him.”
“For pity’s sake, Lilly—”
Nearly a Lady Page 1
