by Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Elizabeth Essex, Anthea Lawson
SCANDAL’S DAUGHTER
Five Award-Winning
New York Times and USA Today
Bestselling Authors
Christi Caldwell
Only for Her Honor
Eva Devon
Sleepless in a Scandal
Elizabeth Essex
A Fine Madness
Anthea Lawson
A Lady’s Choice
Erica Ridley
Lord of Chance
ONLY FOR HER HONOR
by Christi Caldwell
Chapter 1
Wye, Kent
Spring 1811
The Rayne family was cursed.
Legends told through the years by members of that family helped perpetuate the rumors. And stories whispered about by servants in their employ. The dark tales of strife and struggle went back years and years before even the shipping rival Captain Tobias Ormond’s theft and sale of the Rayne family’s Theodosia Gladius.
As a boy, Captain Lucas Rayne had scoffed at the silly legends. Until his capture from the fields of Talavera at the hands of the French. From that point, he’d found just how blighted he, in fact, was.
Lying in his bed, Lucas’ lips twisted up in a pained rendition of a smile. He’d been home nearly a year and, in that time, his family had praised his return as a miracle. Proof that the curse had been lifted. They were all cracked in the head, every last one of them, if they saw the empty shell he’d become and believed the twaddle about hope and happiness.
The loud scurry of footsteps sounded in the hallway as servants rushed back and forth, cutting across his musings.
Mayhap there were some miracles, however, because his parents and siblings were, at last, taking themselves off. His eldest brother, Richard, heir to the earldom, would be married. The whole happy family was off for the formal betrothal ball.
He closed his eyes, weighted with relief. There would be no frequent footsteps of concerned kin lingering outside the doorway. No more tentative knocks on his bloody door. No visits from his foolish mama and sister, who’d occupied a spot at the side of his bed, with false smiles plastered on their faces.
After almost one year returned home from fighting, Captain Lucas Rayne would, at last, be free.
That was, in the only ways he could hope to be. The irony was not lost on him. After he’d been dragged from a Spanish battlefield, he’d spent one hundred and eighty-seven days a prisoner of the French. In that time, he’d hungered for company in any form. Only to now find himself longing for solitude.
A quiet rapping sounded at the front of the room.
Soon he would be free. As soon as his parents and siblings took themselves off to London for the Season. Then he could be content with only his miserable self for company.
And the nightmares. There were those, too. ...Please. I beg you...oh, God...do not...
Nausea roiled in his gut and he squeezed his eyes shut as the memories assailed him. Screams ricocheted around his mind. His screams. Desperate pleas, as they dragged him, in chains, face down, along the gravel path. The scorching Spanish sun beat on his back and Lucas’ chest heaved.
PopPopPop!
The quick staccato of gunfire pierced his madness. His eyes flew open, and he stared blankly up at the ceiling, and then blinked slowly. I am here. Not on the harsh Talavera de la Raina soil. But on a four-poster bed, atop a soft mattress.
Rapraprap!
Nor was that incessant beat a gunshot. Lucas angled his head toward the front of the room.
“Lucas?” His mother’s voice emerged, haltingly.
For the love of Christ. Even their bloody knocking was tentative; revealing more than words the real truth—his family wished to be visiting with him as much as he wanted them here. Which was not at all.
At his protracted silence, the door opened and his mother, the Countess of Lavery, stuck her head around the wood panel. A painfully broken smile hovered on her lips. “May I come in?” she asked cautiously. She took his lack of response as an affirmative, as she always did, and slipped inside the room. Closing the door behind her, she proceeded to wring her hands.
When he’d been a boy climbing too-tall trees on this very property, she’d wrung her hands in that same manner. As she had when he’d gone off to war and then was carried home on a litter. Just as she did now. For, apparently to a mother, a child’s antics were no different than a grown man’s follies.
His mother tiptoed over, her pale blue satin skirts faintly rustling in the absolute stillness of the room. She hovered at the edge of his bed and, invariably, her gaze went to his legs. As it always did. With sadness pouring from her eyes, she slid onto the edge of the King Louis XIV chair that had been placed at his bedside nearly a year ago, when he’d returned—from hell. “It is the Season, Lucas,” she said softly.
At one time, that would have mattered. At one time, he’d been the charming rogue and handsomely decorated captain with adoring ladies and countless friends. He was no longer that man. That man had died on the fields of Talavera as if he’d physically drawn his last breath there. Now, if only his family would leave him to what bloody peace he might have as this monster.
His mother stretched a hand out to his and he flinched at that near touch. She quickly yanked her fingertips back and curled them into a fist on her lap. “And I would remain here,” she said softly, “but Richard’s betrothal ball...” Ah, yes, his roguish, wholly intact brother was soon to wed and there was, of course, no expectation that Lucas should be there. A recluse, shut away, scarred by war, he had no place being with family—or anyone. “I will return as soon as he is—”
“No,” he rasped. And her words died. I wish you would go away. You and Theo and Father. With their forced cheer and miserable smiles. At least his brothers, Aidan and Richard, had taken the cue six months ago and never set foot inside these chambers.
His mother sighed and traveled her stare over the room, lingering on the drawn curtains. “I might open your curtains,” she offered, coming to her feet.
A low snarl lodged in his throat and brought her back to sit. “No,” he repeated, his voice scratchy from ill use.
She gave a juddering nod; terror and pain melded in her eyes. And the man he’d once been would have bowed his head in shame at so wounding his mother. But that was just another piece of his soul he’d left in the makeshift French prison. Along with his pride, his dignity, and the memory of all that was once good. “Very well,” she said, her voice faint, and then she cast a desperate look at the door. Did she seek her escape? Or did she dream of stepping outside these chambers and returning to London and forgetting about the empty excuse of a man who’d returned to her; a shadow of the strong son he’d once been? Then, she spoke on a rush. “You’ve run off each of the...” High color flooded her cheeks. “Servants,” she finished softly.
If he could have managed a smile, this would have been the moment for one of those bitter expressions of empty mirth.
His mother continued to wring her hands. That nervous habit had always been a source of humor among the Rayne siblings. As a man, having that telling gesture displayed in response to Lucas filled him with disgust—with her for not knowing how to be around him and with himself, for not being who he once was. “That is, with the exception of the butler and the housekeeper and Cook and the kitchen maids and footmen.”
And she’d essentially listed a whole household staff that could serve as an infantry.
As though she’d followed his very thought, she wrinkled her brow. “That is, servants who will come inside your chambers, Lucas. The staff refuses to step inside your rooms.” With good reason. He’d run off enough cowering men and young women w
ho’d been assigned to his chambers. “But you do require assistance.” An empty humor filled him. He’d moved beyond help, long, long ago. She stared at him pointedly. Surely she didn’t expect anything of him, there. Then, she tugged her chair closer, the hardwood scraping the floor. “I am leaving for London, along with your father, and we cannot be here when the servants are not.”
Like a bloody child. I am like a bloody child they’d coddle. Then, isn’t that what he’d become? His insides twisted with an agony he’d believed himself long past feeling.
“I have hired a servant, Lucas,” his mother continued, bringing him back. “A servant whose role it will be to attend your rooms, and bring your food, and empty your...chamber pot,” she finished on a scandalized whisper. If her cheeks turned any redder, she’d burn fire.
If talk of emptying his body of waste and piss set her to blush, what would it do were she to learn he’d skinned and cooked and ate his regiment’s dog to survive? Having enough of her gentle admonishment and the ever-present pity in her eyes, he closed his own and shut her out. For all the hell he’d endured, it had been one of the gifts he’d managed to take back with him—the ability to drown out life and retreat within himself.
“Lucas,” his mother said softly. In a surprising show of strength, she touched his hand.
His body reflexively stiffened at that touch. And his brow beaded with sweat. All human touch had ceased to matter, except to enact pain and suffering. Please, God, release me...
“You cannot run this person off. I will not be able to find you a constant stream of servants until I return.”
He opened his eyes and stared blankly up at the awful cheerful mural overhead. Fields of green pastures and deep blue skies and puffy white clouds. All bucolic with no hint as to the evil in the world.
“Unless you’d rather I remain behind,” she murmured. “Because I will,” she continued quickly. “If you’d rather I remain here, instead, and care for you, then just—”
“Go,” the command ripped out of him, gravelly and sharp as a captain’s directive. Go from this room, and off to London, and let me be.
She took that for the assent she sought and climbed reluctantly to her feet. “I will return shortly and perform introductions.” She sailed off in a whir of skirts, retreating with greater speed than Boney’s forces through the frozen Russian roads.
As she closed the door behind her, Lucas rolled onto his side and stared at the drawn brocade curtains. He welcomed the hum of the familiar silence and his own tortured thoughts.
Chapter 2
They said Castle Rayne was haunted.
They said the ghosts of the lords and ladies who’d once dwelled within the sprawling estate roamed the halls and that was why no sane man or woman would take work there now. But then, most people, sane or otherwise, were not as desperate as Miss Eve Ormond.
From somewhere deep within the Earl of Lavery’s stone manor, better suited a medieval keep than a country estate, a door slammed. On a gasp, she jumped.
Heart racing, she focused on drawing in smooth, even breaths. It is just a door. Of course there were no ghosts here. At seven and twenty years of age, she’d long ceased fearing ghosts and goblins and shadows in the night. Time had proven there were far greater perils among the living.
She heard the rapid footfalls of people rushing through the halls and then silence once more fell. Eve stared at the closed door, tension thrumming inside her. She’d no place being here.
By the dark history that stretched between her family and the Raynes, these people would sooner see her to the devil than in their employ. Even if they did require reliable staff. Any staff, given the reports she had inadvertently been handed at the agency where she sought employment.
They’ll never know you as an Ormond. To the family she’d soon serve, Eve would exist as nothing more than a dutiful maid, overseeing whatever tasks they charged her with. They’d not know that she shared blood with the same ancestor who’d robbed them of an ancient artifact and then sold it off to their rival family.
She thrust aside the unwanted guilt in being here. The problem with being an unwed woman past the bloom of youth was that there were few options. For security. For work. For really, anything. It was that truth which brought Eve to the Earl of Lavery’s Kent estate. That...and also, the need to escape.
Seated in one of the earl’s parlors, Eve took in the room. The mahogany piano and gold satin wallpaper adorning the walls were at odds with the jagged stone mantel that harkened to long ago times. Everything in this property exuded wealth and influence. It was not vastly different from the world she’d once known, a world she’d been neatly and deliberately snipped out of. Her insides twisted in a vicious knot.
The elaborate gladius, glimmering in the morning light snagged her notice. Restless, Eve shoved to her feet and wandered past the broad piano, over to the mantel to take in that great weapon. The metal shone bright and mocking. The ornate hilt and marked carvings bespoke its origins. This was the piece that families had fought for. The gladius that her late ancestor, Captain Tobias Ormond, had stolen and sold. This same sword had seen the Ormonds ruined and now made them outcasts throughout England.
Not that Eve held Society, polite or otherwise, at fault. After all, welcoming the daughter of a traitor, hanged for treason, would take a wealth of generosity, she’d not expect of them, or anyone.
She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, as the shock and horror revisited her as real now as it had been the day she’d discovered her father’s treachery. Nay, his evil. For her father, the late Lieutenant Colonel Ormond, who’d proved a man could sell more than his soul, even now burned for his crimes against his country. Her gaze wandered once more to that gleaming sword.
Then, hadn’t the Ormonds proven their greed years earlier when they’d wrestled control of an ancient gladius from the Rayne family and sold it off to another, all to increase the size of the Ormond purses?
Eve balled her fingers into her skirts, welcoming the hate rolling through her. Hate for the father who’d betrayed his country and sold battlefield secrets to the French. She allowed that hate to calm her. Hatred for her late sire was good. It was safe. It kept her from thinking about her own precarious circumstances, as the fates rightly found her serving penance for her family’s sins.
“An impressive weapon, is it not?”
She gasped and spun around.
A young gentleman, tall with dark hair, stood in the doorway. With his sharp, angular features and broadly muscled frame, he’d be considered handsome by any Society standards. Yet, there was a jaded quality to his brown eyes that put Eve in mind of those unyielding marble statues; beautiful, but icy and unfeeling.
“Forgive me,” she said on a rush, sinking into a curtsy. “I did not hear you enter, sir.”
He ignored her greeting and came forward with a cocksure arrogance. Then stopped abruptly at the fireplace—beside her. His gaze lingered on the heart-shaped birthmark at the right corner of her lip. She held her breath until her lungs ached.
The Ormond mark, her father had once called it. And yet, any lord, lady, or servant in between could bear such a mark upon their skin.
When he again met her eyes, there was no hint of knowing. There was nothing more than that jaded hardness, before he looked again to that blade. “Men have fought and died for this sword, Mrs. Nelson,” he said suddenly, unexpectedly.
He had her at a disadvantage. “Gladius,” she automatically corrected.
Those piercing eyes made narrow slits that threatened to see inside her soul to all the darkness and lies there.
He knows. My God, he knows. How could he know?
“Aidan!”
They looked as one to the entrance of the room. A small, plump lady stood in the doorway, studying her. At the interruption, a wave of relief so strong gripped Eve, her shoulders sagged.
“I’m merely giving the young woman a lesson on the importance of the gladius,” the younger man groused.
>
The lady glared at him in return and then turned to Eve. “You are Mrs. Nelson, I assume?” she asked, coming over.
“I am, my lady,” Eve replied, attempting to place her. Surely she was too young to be the Countess of Lavery and, yet, she commanded respect and attention of a room with an ease, the queen would envy.
The other woman favored Eve with a smile. A real smile. So unlike the dark-frowning stranger before her. Or the glares and glowers that had greeted her almost two years earlier, upon her return to England. She fought to formulate a proper word or reply. Would the young woman be smiling now if she knew my identity?
After all, from a bad crow a bad egg.
“Mrs. Nelson doesn’t require a history lesson,” the young woman said dryly. “You must forgive Mr. Rayne.” She continued over Mr. Rayne’s glower. “I am Captain Rayne’s sister.” Oh, bloody hell. The duchess. “The Duchess of Devlin and this,” she waved to her brother, “angry, mistrustful man is my youngest brother.”
Eve’s skin pricked under Mr. Rayne’s scrutiny. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Eve murmured, sinking into another flawless curtsy befitting the ballrooms of Europe. “I did not realize—”
“She was staring at the gladius,” Mr. Rayne put in through tight lips.
Eve balled her hands. Granted, the Rayne kin were deserved of their protectiveness of that long fought-over relic. Yet the last thing she wanted was to touch the sword that had so cursed her ancestors.
“It is an impressive piece that anyone would be hard-pressed to not admire,” the duchess countered and she gave Eve another supportive smile. “Aidan, if you’ll excuse us. Mrs. Nelson doesn’t need to begin her tenure here with you questioning her motives.” The gentleman frowned. “Go,” his sister said firmly.
The pair remained locked in a silent battle. Ultimately the kind-eyed duchess triumphed and her brother took his leave, but not before he favored Eve with a warning look.
