Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  Feeling slightly better about his inheritance, especially because his plans for it would have both his callous brother and indifferent father spinning in their graves, he ran his finger down the Bs, taking in the company names and trying to recall what they all did.

  Bright & Knowles £100

  Broughton Imports £750 10s

  Burstead Shipping £423 9s 6d...

  Luke flipped to the next page.

  Crocker & Co...

  He laughed without humour.

  So that was where he had got that blasted name from! He apparently owned a quarter-share in the company. Who knew? Not that he had any clue what the blighters did still.

  Crudgeley, Whippet and Runt...

  A ridiculous name for a company if there ever was one.

  Davis Lamp Oil...

  Finally, one whose name made perfect sense. His eyes took in the huge chunk of Ds and he frowned. So many Ds but only two Cs? How peculiar.

  Assuming he had missed a page, he flicked backwards and huffed because he had.

  Caledonian Canal Company...

  That was a company name he fully approved of.

  Cattons £40 2s 6d

  Century Holdings...

  It was anybody’s guess what they held on to.

  Charteris Insurance...

  Citizen Bank...

  And then he saw it.

  Slap bang in the middle of the page.

  Cooper and Son £624 4s 9d

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was shortly after breakfast that Mr Cooper’s note arrived saying that he had had a change of heart. As much as it delighted her to know Phantasma would now be published with the name Hope Brookes on the front, her heart was too full already to care quite as much about this achievement as she thought she would. While her parents crowed and congratulated her, her fingers kept touching the precious letter she had stowed in her pocket and her thoughts kept drifting to the man who had left it on her balcony with another bunch of handpicked yellow roses.

  Because Lucius Nathaniel Elijah Duff, the Seventh Marquess of Thundersley, had quite a talent for prose himself, albeit not the most romantic sort by any standard. But more so to her because they lacked the flowery and poetic sentiment she had always distrusted. Luke’s words had, either intentionally or not, touched the most soft and guarded part of her heart, and she was most definitely going to treat it as her first official love letter which she would treasure for ever.

  On the pretext of chasing more tea, she escaped to the quiet of the hallway and read it one more time, just to be certain she hadn’t imagined the wonderful implications she had gleaned from the text.

  My darling Hope,

  Sometimes I am a ham-fisted clod with straw for brains.

  Yesterday was one of those times.

  I am still kicking myself for unintentionally demeaning your achievements and spoiling what should have been a celebration by charging in and assuming I knew best when clearly I do not.

  Know that I am sorry and that I am inordinately proud of you. I wish I could promise faithfully that I will never behave with such supercilious cloddishness again but, alas, I fear that we both know such a miracle is unlikely to happen.

  As the years go by there will doubtless be many, many, many more occasions when I put my clumsy big foot in it. When you chide me for being an overbearing idiot, as you inevitably will, because I’ll doubtless deserve it.

  Know too that, however misguided, it always comes from a good place. As my mother will attest, I am intrinsically prone to be overprotective of those I adore the most. Unfortunately for you, I now include you in that tiny and exclusive circle, and suspect, rather alarmingly, I already adore you the most of all.

  Your own devoted clod for ever,

  Luke

  P.S. Apologise to your mother for me, for stealing her precious roses again. In my defence, it was an emergency. I shall endeavour to find another plentiful supply forthwith as we both know I shall inevitably need them.

  It wasn’t an outright admission of love. He hadn’t actually used the heady words I love you at all—but she could read between the lines. ‘For ever’ and ‘adore’ certainly implied a depth of feeling similar to hers. And as the years go by also suggested they were stuck with one another for the duration. She had read the missive at least thirty times this morning already and was quite convinced there could be no other way to take it.

  The sharp rap on the door snapped her out of her dreamy revelry and she quickly slipped the precious missive back into her pocket before anyone spotted it. ‘I’ll get it!’ Because it might well be him and she might well need to fling her arms around his vexing neck and kiss him. But as she pulled the door open expectantly, there wasn’t a tall, contrite and sinfully handsome pirate on the front step, only another messenger.

  ‘I’ve a message for Miss Charity Brookes.’ The boy held a small letter out. ‘I’ve instructions to wait for her reply.’

  Intrigued, she rushed it to her sister and then stood over her as she read it. Never usually speechless, Charity blinked back at her dumbfounded and passed it to Hope to read aloud to their parents.

  ‘It is from Mr Kemble at the Theatre Royal.’ She scanned for the pertinent details. ‘After Charity’s virtuosa performance on the last night of Così fan Tutte, he has decided he must have her for the role of Susanna in The Marriage of Figaro in the new year!’

  ‘An audition?’ Her mother’s jaw fell open as she hurried over to read it for herself.

  ‘No, Mama—his letter is quite specific. See...’ She underscored the pertinent sentence with her fingers, checking it for herself too as she repeated it slowly. “I cannot think of a more perfect fit for the Countess’s maid Susanna than you, Miss Charity, and would therefore like to offer you the role.” He goes on to say that nobody else has been cast yet but that his mind is quite made up!’

  Her mother snatched the letter to show their father, who had also stood. ‘Oh, my goodness! Oh, my goodness! It is one of the leading roles in Figaro and Susanna has four arias! Four, Augustus! More than any of the other characters.’

  ‘Mr Kemble has asked the messenger to await your response, Charity.’

  Her sister nodded blankly.

  ‘Shall I tell him you will think upon it?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Her mother dashed over and shook Charity by the shoulders. ‘You have to say yes! This is an enormous role... Mr Kemble does you a tremendous honour in offering it to you. Only a fool wouldn’t bite his hand off for the opportunity.’

  Tears swam in Charity’s eyes as she sucked in several calming breaths, then she screamed as she sprang up to hug their mother, then Hope, jumping up and down and beaming from ear to ear. ‘Tell him yes! Of course it is a yes!’ Then she stopped and clutched her stomach. ‘Oh, good gracious I can barely breathe!’

  Her father left them squealing and paid the messenger, then hugged Charity tight as he grinned at Hope. ‘Well done, dearest. What a day this is turning out to be, ay?’

  ‘Ay indeed! We are blessed, Augustus!’ Her mother was beaming from ear to ear. ‘A singer, an author and an artist! What did we do to deserve such talented daughters?’ She hugged Hope again for the twentieth time and then did the same to Charity. ‘I declare not another family in Christendom can boast of three more accomplished, beautiful and brilliant young ladies than my Faith, Hope and Charity.’

  ‘We are blessed indeed,’ said her father with a subtle roll of his eyes towards his daughters because she had been saying much the same since last night when Hope had originally told them her news.

  ‘It is bound to make you both more eligible.’ It never took their mother long to remind them that they still weren’t married. For Roberta Brookes, a happy marriage topped all other achievements by a country mile. ‘Accomplished ladies are a much more attractive proposition to the opposite s
ex.’

  Now it was her turn to roll her eyes at her mother. ‘Good grief I hope not as I have quite enough propositions from them already, and most of them are quite scandalous.’

  ‘When I said eligible, I meant for marriage, not for T-H-A-T.’ Being a complete prude, her mother even managed to conjure up a blush for the innocuous word she couldn’t bring herself to say. ‘Why did you have to lower the tone?’

  ‘Because you brought up the prospect of men, Mama, when you know Hope is allergic to them.’ Charity blinked at her innocently, still beaming at her own unexpected good fortune. ‘With perhaps just one notable exception.’

  ‘I’d be happy with just one,’ said her mother in her most exasperated tone, ‘as I would hate for her to condemn herself to a life of spinsterhood. Of all my daughters, your standoffish sister has always been the one who worries me the most.’

  ‘Would we call her standoffish?’ Charity was clearly back to her old self again. ‘I’ve always thought waspish was a better adjective.’

  ‘Or just plain rude?’

  Hope glared at her father for joining in. ‘I am here, you know.’ Then she grinned. She couldn’t help it. The happiness was fizzing inside her. ‘Not that I shall allow any of you to spoil my good mood today. Not when my annoying baby sister is going to be the toast of Covent Garden and I am going to be in Hatchard’s.’ And a certain exception had let slip that he adored her.

  In honour of the occasion, her mother called for more tea and some of their cook’s delicious queen cakes even though they would likely spoil luncheon, and were in the midst of eating them when there was a knock on the front door, and moments later, Maria was shown in with Clowance with Luke a few steps behind her.

  ‘I hear congratulations are in order?’

  ‘They are indeed!’ Hope’s mother preened. ‘Both of my brilliant daughters are celebrating! Hope is finally going to have her work published and we have just this second learned Charity is to be a lead in my absolute favourite Mozart opera. Isn’t that marvellous?’

  ‘I adore the opera!’ Clowance beamed at Charity. ‘In case you missed it, that was my subtle way of hinting at a free ticket.’

  ‘You shall all come to opening night!’ Charity spun a giddy circle. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our debuts collide, Hope? You on the shelves and me on the stage!’

  ‘I couldn’t be more thrilled for you, Hope, as Phantasma is a truly outstanding book.’ Maria took both her hands smiling, then winked. ‘Or should I say H. B. Rooke? What a clever nom de plume that is.’

  ‘Oh, that was yesterday’s news.’ Her mother gestured for them all to sit with one hand while simultaneously using the other to signal for more teacups and another fresh pot of Darjeeling. ‘It is all changed for Hope this morning, now that the publisher has seen the folly in his insistence she have a pen name.’

  ‘Does that mean that the androgynous H. B. Rooke is dead?’ Luke managed to look both contrite and delighted when he smiled at her, and was obviously still wondering if his apology had been accepted or if she was going to smash the roses he had stolen out of her mother’s garden unceremoniously over his head.

  She put him out of his misery with a begrudging half-smile over the rim of her cup. ‘Dead and buried, the poor thing. Shot in the paddock before the race started.’

  ‘Good... Good. I am glad that Crocker fellow finally saw reason.’

  ‘He did. And all on his own too.’ She couldn’t resist one dig while Maria was congratulating her sister. ‘And his name is still Cooper, Luke, exactly as it’s always been.’

  He slapped his forehead as he sat beside her on the sofa. ‘Cooper! Yes...’ Then his eyes locked with hers and they were filled with apology. ‘What an idiot I am... I do hope you will forgive me for it.’ It was clear he was talking about yesterday.

  ‘I find your idiocy endearing. Annoying of course, but part of your charm.’ While nobody was looking she hooked her little finger through his. ‘But I dare say I shall knock it out of you...eventually.’

  ‘Oh, good heavens above!’ They hastily jumped apart at her mother’s shriek. ‘I have to write to Faith immediately!’

  ‘Please don’t! Hope and I will see her in a week.’ Charity’s plea suddenly reminded her about their imminent visit to Bath. A whole month without Luke stretched before her. ‘I want to see her face when she hears our news! Don’t you, Hope?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes lifted to his and saw that the same realisation had dawned. ‘Of course I do.’ As much as she was desperate to see her older sister, leaving him would be unbearable.

  ‘I hear absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ His whisper was for her ears only. ‘And there is nothing to stop me taking a detour to Bath if I can find some time to go back to Cornwall.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There are few events in the social calendar, Gentle Reader, that are as fruitful for purveyors of the finest gossip than any entertainment organised by the Countess of Renshaw. We wait with fevered anticipation for tonight’s scandalous titbits, and will have reliable ears posted everywhere to be sure nothing salacious escapes us...

  Whispers from Behind the Fan

  July 1814

  Five days later, and Hope was in the highest of dudgeons thanks to the useless fichu which adamantly refused to stay put, no matter how much she stuffed the edges into her neckline. As much as she hated to make Charity right about anything, she was starting to realise the red gown she had hastily donned for the Renshaws’ Summer Ball on the spur of the moment, was altogether the wrong sort of gown to adapt. The tightly fitted bodice, which sat daringly off her shoulders, was too low and the delicate watered silk was just too slippery.

  Yet as much as she knew the frothy addition she had added really didn’t suit the austere cut of the garment, exactly as her maid had said, giving up on it was giving her palpitations. Because apparently Faith’s infamous scarlet gown, as her youngest sibling had dubbed it owing to it being the very dress that she had first twirled breathless with the man who went on to be her husband, which had looked so bold and elegant on her slimmer sister, was doomed to be an outrageous scandal on her.

  From her hiding place behind a potted palm, she stared down at the good four inches of robust cleavage standing much too proud out of the top of it, and cursed herself for being so stupid as to don the dratted thing in the first place.

  She was going to wring her meddling sister’s neck for suggesting it and their maid Lily for promptly having it pressed and laid out on her bed to tempt her.

  Instead of feeling bold and beautiful for Luke tonight to give him a dazzling lasting memory of her before she left him for a month, and feeling confident about her new status as an official author under contract to the best publishing house in the land, she was now severely doubting her flawed logic. As well as feeling hideously self-conscious because she had left herself wide open to the predatory stares of the very gentlemen she abhorred while the one she had specifically worn it to entice was nowhere to be found.

  The last she had seen of Luke, he had been twirling breathless with Charity who had purposely commandeered him almost as soon as he had stepped foot in the ballroom. It was obvious she had grabbed him simply to goad her, knowing full well Hope never danced as a point of principle. Which left Hope to fend off Lord Harlington and then Lord Ealing in quick succession before her wretched fichu had given up the ghost and deserted her too.

  She was about to attempt one last try at repairing it, when she spotted Luke’s mother hurtling towards the French doors, her face quite ashen and her eyes wild, yet no sign of the ever-present Clowance anywhere.

  Fearing for her, and mindful that Luke was concerned that she was throwing herself too quickly back into society on his behalf than she could cope with, Hope hurried out of the French doors behind her. This early in the evening, the torchlit terrace was still empty, but Maria had made a dash for the dark l
awn beyond and was several yards down the path when she called her.

  ‘Maria! Is everything all right?’

  The older woman stopped short but didn’t turn around immediately, seemingly doing her level best to calm herself before she did. ‘I thought I might take a turn around the garden. I needed some fresh air. It is so warm in there.’ Tiny beads of perspiration dewed her upper lip as she smiled and there was an agitation about her which Hope had not seen in the three weeks she had been in the capital.

  ‘I am not surprised. It is such a crush. I swear half of London is currently crammed in that small ballroom. I wouldn’t mind a turn about the garden myself if you would appreciate the company?’

  Maria hesitated as she fought for composure, then nodded. ‘Your company would be nice...thank you.’

  They set off deeper into the garden at a more sedate pace, Maria taking measured, slow breaths as she did so and Hope pretending not to notice to spare the woman her dignity. After several minutes, she was visibly calmer and back to her normal colour.

  ‘I am assuming my son has confided in you all my troubles?’

  She schooled her features to not give him away. ‘Troubles?’

  ‘Oh, come now, my dear, I know that he has told you because my son is quite besotted with you and he is as honest as the day is long. He would consider himself disingenuous in pursuing his affections if he concealed the sorry truth from you, and quite rightly too. If you are marching headlong into marriage, which I can plainly see you both are, it is only fair you know what you are walking into. If he hasn’t, I will.’ Dark eyes, so like her son’s, dared her to deny it. ‘For you have a right to know, even though I would rather nobody ever knew the terrible truth at all and it shames me to have to admit to it.’