The Duke’s Daughter - Lady Amelia Atherton: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 3)

by Isabella Thorne

  Aunt Ebba reached across the table and took Amelia’s hand. Her face softened.

  “I know you are frightened by what happened to your mother. I do not blame you for that, but you cannot let that fear control you, nor stop you from doing the things you must. She was a frail woman, often sickly, you are in the prime of health,” said Aunt Ebba. “You will not die in childbirth.”

  The words were as much a slap in the face as they had been from Patience. Having one’s fears laid out on the table was never a comfortable thing, especially when one believed them to be well hidden.

  Amelia lifted her chin. “Very well. I am, however, banished to the country and have been given a meager allowance. I am hardly in the best position to be accepting visits from suitors. On top of that, I have no chaperone to make such visits acceptable.”

  “We will sort that out,” Aunt Ebba said, releasing Amelia’s hand and leaning back in her chair. “First things first, finding a suitor. Are there any men who have caught your eye? I could discreetly look into their interest when I am back in London.”

  “I will have to think about it,” said Amelia. She would not inquire about Commander Samuel Beresford. He was a curiosity; she had danced with at the last ball she attended. Nothing more. “I will write to you, Auntie”

  Aunt Ebba rose from her seat. “Very well, but do not dally.”

  They embraced and then Aunt Ebba was gone, leaving Amelia alone again. She watched the carriage fade into the distance, then turned and went into the house.

  “Draw a bath for me, please,” Amelia said to the maid. She needed a long hot soak and time to think. Find a husband, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Oh, why could she not be like Patience and fall for the first man that smiled at her? If she were in love, marriage would not seem such a daunting thing. But Amelia had never felt that particular rush.

  ~.~

  Amelia sunk into the bath to her chin, watching the steam curl up from the surface of the water. Father was gone now, and she had only herself. It would be enough. Find a husband, because it was the only way to ensure her happiness. She would do it, and she would do it quickly, before her uncle ruined her life. She waved the maid away and bathed herself with the bergamot-scented soap, scrubbing until the plan came together. There was no need for bright clothes, she was pretty enough to ensnare a man without ornamentation, and she would not settle, just because she was going through a troubled time. She was still Lady Amelia Atherton and she would get what she wanted, just as she always had.

  She wrapped herself in a dressing gown and went to her desk, trailing water on the floor. The first note she crumpled and threw behind her. It was the third attempt that pleased her, and she rang for a maid to take it to be delivered at once. Her uncle would provide her with answers. Amelia deserved to know the depth of the scandal that had brought her father down, to do otherwise would be to go into battle unprepared. She also demanded he allow her to entertain suitors at the house, promising him it would take her far less time to find a husband if she did not have to run back and forth to London, unless he wished to give her use of the townhouse. That idea would be shot down, of course, he had been adamant about keeping her in the country. Though her blood was heated, she wrote dispassionately and persuasively, trying to capture her father’s coolheaded manner that had served him so well. Oh Father, what did you do?

  Every man had secrets, a private life. Amelia did not expect her father to have revealed all the sides of himself to her, but that she had had no inkling of any financial trouble whatsoever now made her fear the worst. Had he been involved in betting, or opium, or some black market trade? It was impossible to reconcile that picture of her father with the one she knew and treasured. Whatever had happened, she was positive it had not been his fault.

  That evening, after dinner, Amelia did something she had never done before. She went upstairs and into her father’s study. The room had always been off limits to her, a place for her father to retreat to and not be disturbed, and she had never questioned it before now. Now, he was gone, and there was nothing to stop her from going in there. Still, a thrill of nerves shot through her when she stepped inside for the first time. She had seen it only through a cracked door before, a glimpse stolen when her father was entering or leaving. The scent of him hung here, and she could almost believe he was still alive. It gave her a start. She took a breath and looked around the office.

  It had two windows, and the curtains were drawn over them. Amelia lifted her candle higher and edged into the room. At the center of the room was a desk, still covered in papers as if her father had just stepped out for a minute, and might return. The walls were lined with bookshelves.

  “He would not have minded,” she told the empty room, as if it were judging her.

  She hurried over to his desk before she could lose her nerve. She lit the tapers and set the candlestick down upon the desk. There was so much to go through, stacks and stacks of papers and leather-bound binders of ledgers. After an hour of searching through them and finding nothing out of the ordinary, she began to feel foolish and invasive, guilty that she had ever doubted her father. Then, when she went to slide one of the desk drawers closed, she felt something beneath her fingers on the side of the drawer. She pressed it, and heard a click. Out of the side of the regular drawer, a smaller drawer slid open. At first, she just stared at it. Her heart beat loudly in the silence of the room, an unsteady thumping she could feel in her ears.

  “What is this, father? What were you hiding?”

  She pulled the candlestick closer. The drawer contained only a few pieces of paper and a book. It may have once been cream-colored, but time and dust had turned it brown. Amelia felt, rather than saw, the embossed markings on the cover and held it up beside the light of the flame. A strange symbol was set into the surface, half of a circle struck through by two knife-like lines. If she had not touched it, she would never have known it was there. But what did it mean? And why was it hidden in a secret drawer, in a room no one but her father was allowed to enter?

  A noise outside the door made Amelia bolt to her feet, heart pounding. She felt as guilty as a child caught sticking her finger into a fresh-baked pie. One of the servants banking the coals for the night, nothing more, she knew, but still she could not convince herself to calm down. Amelia gathered the papers hastily and snugging the book beneath her arm and her candle held in her free hand she left the room, pulling the door shut silently behind her.

  The hallway was empty. Had she imagined the sound, just the product of a guilty conscience? She went straight to her bedroom and shut herself inside, tossing the contraband onto her bed. Setting the candle on the bedside table, she coaxed the fire in her room back to life then sat down beside the book. It would be a long night. She intended to read the thing cover to cover, only it was nonsensical. Each page had a list of words on it, words that were of no particular sensibility; words that did not even seem to belong in the same book.

  Father, she wondered, what were you doing? Did it get you killed? A chill ran through her. She could no longer believe the falsehood that he had simply died in a carriage accident. It made no sense, and with the addition of these strange books, she felt a shiver of apprehension. She must find out the truth, but to do that, she needed to be in London.

  ~.~

  “How can you miss London?” Samuel asked Percival, glancing up from his chart. “One can hardly breathe from the fog, move from the crowds, or think from the noise. Out here at least there is room and the air smells of grass rather than, well, you know.” He wrinkled his nose thinking of the smell of offal in the streets.

  At times it was hard for Samuel to temper his language. A lifetime on a ship did not produce the gentle language, and the words he used so casually would shock his lordly brother to the tips of his toes.

  “I suppose there is something about it that pleases me, the same way life at sea pleases you. You cannot think I would enjoy that life. Living on dried, salty meat and spending my
days at the mercy of the weather. It gives me the grippe to think about,” said Percival. He was lounging on a chaise. The excursion in the fishing punt had shaken him. Despite Percy’s assurances that he felt fine Samuel could see the strain, and he had eaten little, only taken a bit of tea.

  Samuel tapped a finger on the thick parchment of the navigational chart. “This right here is a life of adventure, of opportunity. I do not need Father’s approval or money. You will see. I only need a bit of luck and daring.” said Samuel. “I only need a chance.”

  “You only need war,” said Percival, “Although I suppose those happen often enough.”

  “I will make my own fortune. Once I am a captain, of course.” Though the destruction of ships in the war did not make that future look promising. There were a number of commanders sent home on half salary and others on larger ships. Looking at an extended time under a captain instead of being given their own command; this was why Samuel was so determined to make captain himself.

  Samuel looked back down at the chart. In his gut, he knew he would be a successful captain; all he needed was the opportunity.

  “And if a storm comes along and sinks your ship, what good will a fortune do for you then? Gold sinks, my dear brother. Right to the bottom of the sea,” said Percival, peering at Samuel through blurry eyes. “For that matter, a cannonball in the right spot could take you down just as easily. Will gold block a cannon shot? I do not think it will.”

  “It almost sounds as if you worry about me,” said Samuel, with a grin.

  But Percival was sober-faced as he replied in a soft voice, “I do, Sam, I do. Every day that you are gone I pray for your safety, but not for your return. I know that you are happier out there, that you belong out there, and so I pray for you to be the best damn commander the Royal Navy has ever seen.”

  “Language, Percival,” said Samuel, but he was laughing. “What if Father were to hear you?”

  “From London? That would be a feat,” said Percy, weakly.

  Percival was still thin but visibly healthier from when they had first retired to Stanherd Residence. At present Percival could only stomach the lighter fare of soups and porridge that the doctor had recommended. He seemed to be improving, but would revert back to his sickened state if his digestion was taxed by anything more substantial.

  Samuel rolled up the chart and slid it back into its leather case, setting it beside the others. His father’s library had an extensive collection of geographical charts, though Samuel had never figured out why, as the Earl had little interest in nautical affairs beyond what a gentleman was expected to know.

  “Speaking of Father, now that we have escaped the clutches of our nanny, what sort of mischief shall we get up to out here?” Samuel flopped down beside Percival on the chaise, nudging him over his hip. “Carousing, pillaging—“

  “Samuel—“

  “Gambling, racing—“

  “Sam!” Percival broke in, snorting with laughter. “You may get up to whatever sort of trouble you wish. I will not stop you, nor tattle to Father. But I do not think my health is up to any of those activities, nor my spirit.”

  “Very well,” said Samuel with a sigh. “We will just lounge about then, reading books and sipping tea like a gaggle of old widows. Shall I send for an embroidery hoop and silk thread? My cuffs could use a bit of sprucing.”

  Percival was not too weak to plant a well-aimed elbow in Samuel’s ribs. “You are incorrigible.” He said with a smile

  ~.~

  Chapter Three

  The effects Amelia had stolen from her father’s office had raised more questions than they had answered. Both the book was encrypted in some manner. While the words on the page were legible and understandable individually, they meant nothing as a whole. They were only lists of words, periodically broken up by that strange symbol. The pages which she had originally thought were letters were actually a recopying of the book itself. There was only one letter. The page bore no signature, but a hastily drawn version of the symbol marked the at bottom. It was dated a week before they had gone to London for the Season and included a poem. Had her father been writing poems for a lady? Though it gave her a queer feeling to think of it, she could not begrudge him the comfort of a woman …or would not if he could…Oh bother. She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her handkerchief. However on closer inspection she realized the poem was not written in her father’s hand. Why would he hide this? And more importantly, did the date mean that more poems were present at their townhouse, and if so, had her uncle found them? Did he know what they were? Though she had no reason to believe it, Amelia was positive that the bizarre collection had something to do with her father’s debts, and perhaps even his death. While she read them by candlelight, a sense of unease had filled her; there was something wrong with the words, some disturbing meaning hidden behind them.

  It had been almost dawn when she had tucked the book and papers beneath the mattress and climbed beneath the covers for a few restless hours of sleep. Her dreams were troubled. She briefly considered writing her Aunt Ebba and enclosing a rendition of the symbol. Aunt Ebba knew many things and if anyone were to know the meaning of it, it would be her. But something stayed her hand. Some impulse told her to keep it to herself, or risk… something. The puzzle was yet another frustration.

  Amelia had not received a response from her uncle, and it had her quite on edge. She was dreading him showing up on the doorstep to respond in person, but was dreading even more so a lack of a response entirely. Perhaps she should write him again and ask about the symbol. He might have known about it, perhaps that unknown handwriting was his. Or would that annoy him and cause him to refuse to respond out of principle? It was the not knowing that was driving her mad.

  On top of her frustration, she was growing terribly bored. Though she spent hours at her piano and the rest of the time in the garden, she was a social person and this lack of interaction with any humans apart from the servants was intolerable. She had grown desperate enough to attempt to strike up a conversation with a chamber maid, but the girl was either too dumb or too startled to make anything intelligible come out of her mouth and Amelia had given up at once.

  She felt caged here in the country, but even caged animals in a menagerie had onlookers to break the boredom. She tried to pass the time gardening although she had no talent for it. She pruned some of the larger rosebushes herself, and gathered some blooms in to brighten the dining room, but it did not brighten her mood. The next week of rain added to her melancholy and even her piano could not cheer her. When the rain finally passed, it left a chill in the air.

  ~.~

  A bright morning a few weeks later, found Amelia in the garden once again. She shivered and thought she should have brought a shawl. The sun meant the weather to be warm, but the morning still held a chill, or was the chill only in her mind? She wondered.

  It was with tremendous relief, that she heard the sounds of a carriage pulling up the drive. She rose from the garden bench and went at once to see who it was. Perhaps Aunt Ebba had returned.

  “Amelia!” Lady Patience cried, as she stepped out of the carriage and saw her friend on steps of the manse.

  Amelia’s heart ached with happiness. She had not realized how much she had missed the red-headed girl, not until she had seen Patience there with all of her usual easy emotion on her face. Here was her true friend. With none of her usual poise, Amelia gathered up her hem and raced down the stairs, catching Patience in a hug.

  “Oof,” said Patience, into Amelia’s shoulder. “Are you quite all right, Amelia? This is most unlike you.”

  Amelia forced a big breath of air into her lungs and straightened, releasing Patience. “I am not myself of late, I confess. I hope I did not alarm you.”

  Looping her pinky finger around Patience’s, Amelia walked back up the stairs and into the house. A dowdy older woman, Patience’s maid, Amelia guessed, followed behind while two other servants carried in Lady Patience’s luggage.

&nb
sp; “I hoped to stay for some time,” said Patience, catching Amelia’s surprise, “If you do not mind. I would have written but I was worried you would say no. Of course you still might, but I thought it less likely if I were already here.”

  She said this all in a rush, as if she had to get it out before she lost her nerve. There was a new boldness to her, a streak of spirit Amelia had not seen before.

  “I would not have refused you in a letter,” said Amelia, though she was not certain she was telling the truth. Her embarrassment and shame may have caused her to do just that. It was hard to be seen by those who had known you before, once you were shamed. “But, Patience, you must know. My uncle has cut me off. I have barely sixpence to scratch together.”

  “Do you think I would no longer be your friend because you find yourself on hard times? Shame, Amelia. I am not so shallow.”

  “I am happy that you are here, Patience, so very happy, and I hope that will you stay for as long as you wish. To be honest, I have been lonesome out here in the country.”

  “It is very quiet.” Patience admitted

  Amelia directed the servants to put Patience’s belongings away in one of the guest bedrooms, and then instructed them to set out tea on the patio. It was a perfect day, shining sun, blue sky, and many flowers were blooming. Sitting there, with the delicate china cup in her hand and a sweet citrus cake on the table, Amelia could almost pretend that nothing untoward had happened; that she was still the same Lady Amelia Atherton that she was before her father had died. Then Patience spoke, and the illusion shattered.

  “Do you wish to hear what people are saying?” Patience asked gently. A slice of glaze cake sat untouched on her plate, and her cheeks were pink from nerves.

  Amelia considered. She pushed a stray strand of hair out of her face. “It is all slum; I am certain. People believe the silliest things, especially when it involves a member of the Peerage or their kin. They are so eager to see us brought low.”