Too Dangerous For a Lady

by Jo Beverley

  “The decades of neglect linger, don’t they? But it improves every day and our latest treasure is an excellent cook. Are you able to manage the stairs without help?”

  “Aye, though it’ll be slow. I won’t get stronger by letting people mollycoddle me.”

  She accompanied him on his slow progress up the stairs, half listening to the conversation below. She didn’t know Braydon well, so she was only trusting that he’d help brush away the dark. She knew he’d be bound to bring news from London, but she couldn’t cosset Thayne from wider events, much though she’d like to.

  She settled Edgar in his bedroom and went to be sure Braydon’s was in order. His valet was there, looking rather sour. “Is something amiss?”

  “No, my lady. We have everything we need.”

  She remembered then that Thayne said Braydon’s valet disliked rural living as much as his master. A few days would kill neither of them. She went down the back stairs to check on matters below. With so many new servants she kept a firm hand on everything. She was tempted to warn them about Braydon’s valet, as she feared he’d be a discordant element, especially as she had no lady’s maid of similar status. She’d tried to persuade Nolly to train into the position, but the maid had wanted to return home.

  “It’s been grand, milady, but home’s home, isn’t it? I have ambitions now, though.” Hermione had worried about that until Nolly added, “Reckon I could be a housekeeper one day if I put me mind to it. In a big house, even.”

  Hermione thought she could indeed. The housekeeper who’d just started work here was a very down-to-earth woman.

  She tracked the men’s voices to the drawing room and found Thayne had provided them both with ale. She was suddenly glad the room was rather shabby, for they both looked at ease in their sagging chairs, legs stretched out, smiling at something.

  They both rose, but she waved them back to their seats. “At ease, gentlemen.” Grasping the nettle, she asked, “How are matters in Town?”

  “All calm,” Braydon said. “Perhaps in part because they keep delaying Parliament. It’s put off now until mid-December.”

  “Thus shortly after assembling,” Thayne said, “everyone will disperse for Christmas. No chance for the reformers to make their case.”

  They hadn’t yet spoken of Christmas. She was determined to celebrate it here, but not quite sure how when any local traditions had been broken for so long.

  “I can’t regret your not having to leave to take your seat yet,” she said.

  “And I’m blessedly free of all such obligations,” Braydon said. “In addition, it seems the world holds its breath as it awaits the birth of Princess Charlotte’s baby, all hoping it will be a son.”

  “A daughter will do,” Hermione pointed out. “Charlotte herself will be queen in time, and before either of you say anything, remember the Elizabethan age was glorious.”

  Thayne smiled and Braydon toasted her. She could feel improvement already.

  In a while she took Edgar around part of the estate in her gig, talking of improvements in hand and those to come. “Much of this work is done with your money,” she said. “Soon the estate will be earning more, but for now we’re plowing money back to redress the wrongs and neglect.”

  “He should have taken more care.”

  “He knows that now. He was driven by his purpose, and it was for the good. Without him that woman might have achieved a great disaster and might even have stirred the mob into revolutionary violence.”

  “True enough. Now her lot are finished and insurrection is largely in the hands of that Arthur Thistlewood, who’s a dangerous man but not nearly as cunning, so I doubt he’ll achieve his end. There’s Orator Hunt and his sort, who should stop stirring up the mob, but they don’t intend revolution. Are you happy, my dear?”

  It was no time for provisos. “Yes. And you? What will you do with the decades to come?”

  “Enjoy London. I’ve joined the Curious Creatures for a start, and I’m looking into leasing a house. Reckon I might hold the meetings there. Be a bit of a center for adventurers and curious minds.”

  “I’m sure Nicholas Delaney will be delighted.”

  “Interesting man. I’ve agreed to house that chemist, too.”

  “Isaac Inkman?” she asked, startled. “He’ll blow you up.”

  “He promises not to. Odd young man, but I’ve known some like him. Never be normal, but can be very clever. Delaney’s of the opinion that he only does what he intends to do, so I’ll keep his intentions on the right things. I like the idea of exploring greater use of gas. And steam. Steam engines for transportation. It’s a grand world, Hermione, and I hope to live to see even more wonders.”

  They turned back toward the house and he peered ahead. “What’s that conical turret on the house?”

  “That’s the French Wing, built for Thayne’s mother.”

  “The place she threw herself off? Demolish it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. I’ve little patience with this clinging to old stuff, but especially poisonous old stuff. Would you cling to a thicket of deadly nightshade because it was old?”

  She gave a little laugh. “I like your way of looking at it.”

  That night as she joined Thayne in bed, she shared the conversation.

  To her surprise he agreed. “I hadn’t quite reached that brutal point, but he’s right. Better it goes before there are children.” He put a hand on her belly. “There’s still hope?”

  “And more with every day. A summer baby, perhaps. We’ll have Faringay ready for him or her.”

  He gathered her into his arms. “We will. You were right. Having guests here is clearing so many cobwebs.”

  “Right?”

  “Are you claiming not to have that plan?”

  She chuckled. “You know me so well. The next step is a dinner for the local gentry.” It seemed the moment. “And then we must plan for Christmas. I’ve been told that when your father was young, it was held in grand style.”

  He kissed her nose. “Which might be a local tale, hoping for largesse.”

  “It might be, but I want it anyway.”

  “Then you shall have it, and anything else you desire.”

  “Which at the moment,” she said, shifting, “is only you.”

  Later, on the edge of sleep, she murmured, “Is it folly to think that for this little while the world is perfect?”

  “Probably,” he said, “but I share your belief. May it be so for everyone.”

  But next morning the postbag brought a letter for Braydon. He apologized, saying, “I didn’t direct that any post be sent on.” He opened it and read it. “From a lawyer insisting it’s urgent. What impudence.” But as he read on, his expression changed and he muttered something that might not be suitable for a lady’s ears.

  “Sad news?” Hermione asked.

  He looked up. “The worst. I’ve inherited a title. And an estate to go with it. Probably a decrepit estate. The wretched man’s suggesting I make haste to take up my duties. It’s taken months to find the heir. There are implications of chaos and,” he added direly, “dependents.”

  Thayne’s humor escaped in a laugh. “There are worse fates.”

  “I’ll be damned if there are. Johns will desert me.”

  “Once settled in rural contentment, what need you of perfectly polished boots?”

  Braydon raised a fist and Hermione, laughing, rose to stand between them. “Gentlemen!”

  Thayne stood to put an arm around her and hold her close. “What you need, Braydon, is a wife. I assure you, she will much improve your life, no matter what challenges await.”

  Author’s Note

  I’ve been saying to friends that I’ve been writing a Regency antiterrorism undercover cop, and that’s pretty close to the truth, isn’t it? It’s
a passionate love story as well, of course.

  Antiterrorism is part of the Regency, because the postwar period was one of economic depression, which led to great unrest and fear, some of it fed by the French Revolution only a generation earlier. Many people were connected to victims. For example, one of Jane Austen’s relatives was the widow of a French aristocrat who died on the guillotine. It’s not surprising that the government was willing to take drastic measures to oppose the threat.

  Much of the unrest and demand for reform was justified, but it was also exploited by those intent on a violent overturning of law and order. Waite and the Crimson Band are my own invention, but I took my inspiration from Arthur Thistlewood, a true character. In 1820 he and his co-conspirators were hanged for the Cato Street conspiracy to murder the prime minister and the cabinet as trigger for a violent insurrection. The event in Ardwick was my own invention, but it was modeled on the earlier one mentioned in the book, the Blanketeers’ March. Unfortunately, that didn’t fit with my Rogues timeline.

  The Company of Rogues books have a clear timeline, and it’s not a very long one. Though there are now fifteen books, the first one, An Arranged Marriage, opens in April 1814, and this one in September 1817. The men are in their mid-twenties, a prime time for marrying and “starting a nursery” as they said, especially those with titles and fortunes to pass on.

  On to explosions. I had fun researching this! Gas-lighting was rapidly spreading throughout London’s streets, and was being introduced for indoor lighting as well. As mentioned in the book, the smell of coal gas was a problem. You might remember that in The Rogue’s Return, Simon and Jancy made a rapid retreat from their town house because gas had been installed. Shops using gas-lighting kept their doors open.

  The gas was produced by private companies that stored it in huge gasometers and pumped it through the pipes. It’s true that making coal gas explode isn’t simple. It will flame, but for explosion there needs to be the right blend of gas and air in a confined space. Just like the chemists in the book, I couldn’t come up with a way to make that happen, so I devised the plan to attack a gasometer with a missile. Very likely it wouldn’t have worked, even if Isaac had really tried, because of needing that mix of gas and air. Which Isaac knew.

  I’ve put up pictures connected to the book on Pinterest, including a map of the area around Great Peter Street, showing the Chartered Gasworks. You can find the photographs by going to Pinterest.com and searching for my boards. There’s one for Too Dangerous for a Lady.

  As for the exploding letters, I found a mention in a period record that the insurrectionists were experimenting with them. I couldn’t resist. I’m not a chemist, but I found a few chemicals known at the time that might do the job. I deliberately didn’t give any details just in case they would work!

  Now, medicine. Edgar suffers from kala-azar, which is a real disease and still exists in the tropics. It’s now called visceral leishmaniasis. It was thought to be caused by bad air, but in fact it’s caused by protozoan parasites and spread by insects, like malaria. Antimony was the standard treatment and could work, but treatment improved when it was discovered that vanadium enhanced its effectiveness. I discovered that some fungi draw up vanadium and store it and ran with that. This isn’t a scientific novel, after all, and I only needed to feel some plausibility for my own satisfaction. As the vanadium connection wasn’t discovered until recently, I fear poor Dr. Grammaticus is going to have the threatened stroke before he can reveal his secret.

  And the Curious Creatures? Did you recognize the name? I tossed them into a book years ago as yet another odd thing Nicholas Delaney was involved in. When I needed a philosophical society for this book, I knew there’d been something and it would be a perfect fit. Thank heavens for my readers, because some of them remembered the details for me.

  Dear Reader,

  If this is your first Company of Rogues book, I hope you’ve enjoyed it without feeling you were missing much. I always try to write my books that way. It is, however, the fifteenth, so if you’re intrigued by Nicholas Delaney, Lord Arden, and the rest, a feast awaits. You can find out more about them on my Web site at jobev.com/rogues.html. There’s even a video to enjoy.

  All my novels and novellas are now available as e-books, and most are still in print. There’s a full book list on my Web site, and much more, including a sign-up box for my occasional e-newsletter. You can also keep in touch by clicking the Like button on my author page on Facebook: facebook.com/jo.beverley.

  Yes, the next book, The Viscount Needs a Wife, will be about Beau Braydon’s unexpected and unwelcome inheritance and the wife he chooses in a very coolheaded way to lighten the load. The problems he finds at his new estate are enough to ruffle even his smooth feathers, and then his wife is revealed to be not quite the woman he thinks she is.

  Too Dangerous for a Lady is my thirty-ninth book, which means that The Viscount Needs a Wife, out in 2016, will be my fortieth! Perhaps I’ll buy myself a ruby! Read on for an early taste.

  All best wishes,

  Jo Beverley

  Read on for a sneak peek at Beau Braydon’s story in

  The Viscount Needs a Wife

  Available from Signet Select in April 2016

  November 7, 1817

  “Kathyrn, your dog is looking at me again.”

  Kitty Cateril looked up from her needlework to see that indeed her King Charles spaniel was sitting in front of her mother-in-law, eyes fixed on her face. She bit the insides of her cheeks as she patted her leg. “Sillikin. Come.”

  The dog cocked her head, then trotted over as if expecting a reward for a job well done. Kitty didn’t know why she had the habit of staring at some people, but her mother-in-law couldn’t stand it. Perhaps Lady Cateril knew that Sillikin stared only at people she thought suspect.

  What secret sins could lurk in the soul of straight-backed, gray-haired Lady Cateril? She was the sort of woman who had always been described as “beyond reproach.” Now, dressed permanently in mourning black, she was canonized by the heroism and death of her younger son—Kitty’s husband, Marcus.

  Had Sillikin caught her wishing that the heroism and death had come together? That he hadn’t lived, wounded and broken, for eight more years and married someone like Kitty? That devotion to Marcus’s memory hadn’t required her to offer Kitty a home? Kitty and her irritating dog.

  “I will say again, Kathryn, that you should rename that creature.”

  And I will say again, Kitty supplied silently. “She’s too used to the name by now.”

  “She’s a dumb creature. She cannot care.”

  “Then why do dogs respond to their names as people do, Mama?”

  Names. So powerful and sometimes poorly considered. She’d named a wriggling ball of fluff Sillikin, but she herself had been a mere eighteen. When she’d married at seventeen, she’d called Marcus’s mother “Mama” in the hope of pleasing the disapproving woman.

  If she began to call her mother-in-law “Lady Cateril,” would Lady Cateril begin to use “Kitty”?

  Unlikely. “Kitty,” she had remarked at first meeting, was a romping sort of name. There’d been a clear implication that Kitty was a romping sort of person. Better that than being starchy as a frosted petticoat on a winter washing line!

  The weather today wouldn’t freeze cotton as stiff as board, for it was unseasonably mild. Abundant roses still bloomed, and some spring primroses were already in bloom. Kitty would take Sillikin for a long walk if it weren’t raining. She might soon retreat to her bedroom, but she’d hear complaints later. In Lady Cateril’s domain, bedrooms were not sitting rooms. They weren’t dining rooms, either. The only time anyone was served food in their bedroom was in cases of illness.

  Despite the name, Kitty had rubbed along well enough with her mother-in-law when she’d first come to live here. She’d been Marcus’s widow and they’d been united i
n grief. As the six-month point drew closer, however, she’d prepared to put off her widow’s weeds. When Lady Cateril realized Kitty had ordered new gowns in gray and violet, she’d reacted as if she’d spit on Marcus’s grave. When reproaches and then tears hadn’t changed anything, Lady Cateril had taken to her bed and sent for the doctor. Kitty had been badly shaken, but the rest of the family hadn’t seemed alarmed, so she’d stuck to her guns.

  The first gown had arrived and she’d worn it, quaking. The next day Lady Cateril had emerged. Nothing more had been said, but a frost had settled. Kitty had realized then that in Lady Cateril’s mind her only worthwhile purpose was as Marcus’s inconsolable widow. She was as much a monument as the marble plaque in the village church.

  CAPTAIN MARCUS EDWARD CATERIL

  OF THE 29TH

  HERO OF ROLICA

  1784–1816

  The words were inscribed on a large alabaster bas-relief that included a shrouded, mourning woman drooping over a plinth. The figure was carved out of black marble and Kitty had assumed that it was a symbolic representation of grief. At that point she’d realized it was supposed to be her. Fixed in drooping black for all eternity.

  From then on, she’d sought a way to escape, but here she was, nearly a year later, with no realistic option. She had hardly any money and no possibility of desirable employment. She picked up Sillikin, her dependable source of comfort. . . .

  The door burst open and Lord Cateril entered, eyes wild. “The most dreadful news!”

  Lady Cateril put a hand to her chest. “John? The children?”

  “The princess! Princess Charlotte is dead!”

  There was a moment of stillness as they tried to accept the impossible. Princess Charlotte, heir to the throne, who they’d heard had been confined for the birth of her first child, was dead?

  “No!” For once, Kitty and her mother-in-law were in harmony.

  “The child?” Lady Cateril asked desperately.