His declaration rang through the stairwell and entry. Aunt Helen stepped back, hand to her throat. Clara gripped the banister. He would not make her cry. And she would not allow him to win.
“Viscount Maynard has been so good as to accept my invitation to supper and cards.” Uncle David’s voice, while quieter, surrendered none of its authoritative ice. “We both agreed that not every immediate refusal equates to an absolute no.”
Again her knees threatened to deposit her, this time onto the white marble. And this time was far worse. She would not cry, no matter what he said.
“You will go to your room and consider the viscount’s proposal in greater depth.” He turned and clattered down the stairs, the tails of his claret-colored coat fluttering with each step.
No tears. And he would not win.
****
Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. “Take that rag away, Nan, please.”
The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands folding and refolding it. “Shall I have it cleaned, miss?”
“No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse. Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I’ll never wear it again.”
Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he’d leered at her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she’d met during the too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd manner. It was not to be borne.
The marriage market. That was Diana Mallory’s term for it, this desperate seeking for a powerful, rich, fashionable husband, and Diana had seen enough of it in London to not complain when her parents moved her to Plymouth. So long as they returned to London for the season, of course. And oh, the horrifying stories she’d told; poor Harmony Barlow’s jaw had hung open like a fly trap. It had seemed so hilarious from that safe distance. Now, her giggles were quite gone.
Hands trembling still, Clara pulled on a clean shift — Nan could have the old one, as well as the dress — short stays that tied in front, and a petticoat. When she reached into the wardrobe, it wasn’t to her other morning gowns, on the left, but to the walking gowns, in the center. She crushed her favorite grey sarsnet to her bodice. Uncle David had told her to go to her room and think. He hadn’t told her to stay there. And she was finished thinking, at least as far as the viscount was concerned. Yes, she’d vanish for a while, until the household’s broiling emotions cooled and soothed. Too bad she couldn’t simply vanish and return, happily married to the perfect man, on the day before her nineteenth birthday, five months hence.
She tugged on the round dress, the colorless color of diffused shadows and trimmed with light dove crepe, added the matching bonnet, silk wrap, and kid gloves, grabbed her lace-making kit for luck, and snuck down the back stairs. The housekeeper and Nan bustled past in the hallway, gossiping in such low tones that all Clara could hear was her name; indeed the blasted woman had listened outside the drawing room door for quite long enough. Once the horizon was clear, Clara slipped out the back window, guilt and smug naughtiness fighting for dominance. She hurried across Ker Street in the face of an oncoming hackney coach and joined the pedestrian flow toward Plymouth Dock.
The fresh breeze tried to snatch her shawl away, billowing the silk behind her, and she tightened it about her arms. The bonnet’s brim shaded her eyes from the noonday light, but welcome summer warmth reached her face when she tilted up her chin. Behind her, the assembly hall and shops tempted, a promising source of news and fun. Perhaps the latest fashion plates had arrived from Paris, and if so, Harmony and Diana would have something droll to say about them. But it was likely the viscount had discussed his intended marriage with his friend, Colonel Durbin, who would of course tell Mrs. Durbin, which meant Miss Dersingham and therefore everyone else in town knew about it, too. Better to avoid the popular places until she felt more capable of speaking rationally on the subject; Harmony and Diana would consider her scrape just as worthy of their wit. While there was a ridiculous side to the affair, she wasn't yet prepared to discuss it.
It was impossible to think on private woes while walking a public street. She hurried on, determinedly keeping her mind and features a composed, sociable blank. As she neared the Dock, the ocean’s scent counterbalanced the horses and coal-smoke. The houses crowded together and the streets narrowed. But before respectability deteriorated too far, a mews opened to the side. Clara ducked inside, away from the lane. Halfway down the long, low building stood a faded yellow door, locked, of course. But Paul, Papa’s stable boy, had taught Harmony and her how to open it during their long-ago hoyden days. A shake of her wrist while turning, one hard push, and the door clacked open in defeat.
Inside was dark as the darkest night, quieter than the streets, and the slice of brilliant sunshine cutting through the open door revealed dust cloth-covered lumps — long sofas and loungers, high-backed, old-fashioned wingchairs, stubby little tables for teas long gone. She and Paul used to peer beneath the white sheets at the fine old furniture, giggling and sneezing as dust flew about them, Harmony worrying her fingernails and hanging on her heel in the doorjamb, ready to run at the first hint of trouble and adamant no dust would touch her white gossamer gown. No one had ever come near, though.
They’d had so much fun together. But then Papa had died, all the horses but two had been sold, Paul had been let go, Harmony had convinced her to turn up her hair and attend to fashion, and high-society Diana had taken Paul’s place in their little trio. When Uncle David had written Paul’s reference, he’d printed finis to her childhood.
Without her consent, tears blurred the mounded shapes around her. She left the door on the latch for what little light it offered and slipped through the silent aisles, her wrap catching on a dressing table and raising dust that tickled her nose toward a sneeze. In the nearest corner, a large, cone-shaped bundle hung from the rafter, covered from hook to bottom with aged canvas and bound with cleverly knotted ropes. Clara slid beneath the canvas’s folded and stitched edge, twisted beneath the binding — tighter than it used to be, or was she larger? She squeezed inside anyway. Beneath the covering, rippling softness slid across her cheek and clavicle, and she settled cross-legged within the hanging chair’s satin draperies. Here, in her secret place, gently rocking, away from everyone, with no sights or stray sounds to distract her, finally she could think.
Why, why had Papa written that odious clause into his will? She wanted his money, of course she did — it was her inheritance by birthright. But she would only inherit if she married before her nineteenth birthday, less than half a year away, and that meant she had to marry with Uncle David’s permission and approval. Her time was running out. And the only man she’d ever want to marry was so far out of her reach, he might as well be dead.
Sobs broke through and she crumpled her handkerchief to her face. Phillippe. Captain Phillippe Levasseur, beyond elegant in his pristine white breeches and blue uniform coat trimmed with bullion and lace. Those careless auburn locks, cut short in the modern Brutus manner, had cascaded over his smooth-cream forehead and his commanding dark eyes had never left hers as he bowed over her hand when Diana’s older brother introduced them in the assembly room. She’d been weak-kneed then, oh, indeed. If he’d commanded her to wed him at that moment, she’d have taken his arm without hesitation.
Everyone in her set knew he was perfect, had said so time and again. He’d danced the first six with her at the Mallorys’ ball, setting tongues wagging throughout the three towns, and Uncle David had scolded her for the imprudence. Phillippe had taken to calling on the Barlows every Tuesday, when he knew she’d be there, too, and they hadn’t been able to claim their meetings at the assembly room were accidental for long. Of course his political views were
odd, republican and democratic and so on, but surely his charm and delightful manners made up for all that. And the possibilities once she owned a chateau and vineyard in France!
But the peace had collapsed more than a year ago. She’d heard nothing, nothing from him since then. Fashion plates could cross from France, Royal Society fellows traveled back and forth as they pleased. But the tear-stained notes she wrote him could only be burned.
How could an odious viscount, or even a duke, compare with perfection? And how could Uncle David expect her to marry that brute? Uncle David had been so kind when he’d first arrived in Plymouth to care for her, sitting quietly in the music room while she’d poured out her heart through the harp and pianoforte. He’d told her stories of Papa’s years at sea, during the American war and the early days of the revolution in France. But he’d grown quieter during the brief year of peace and as she’d neared her penultimate birthday, he’d set himself to select her husband. As if he couldn’t wait to be shot of her. And as if she couldn’t be trusted to select her own husband perfectly well.
She wiped her eyes and fought the tears. Viscount Maynard was out of the question. But she did need a husband. She could pray for peace, final, blessed peace, and wait for Phillippe. But if peace took too much time, she’d lose Papa’s home, the rooms where they’d played and watched ships in the harbor, everything he’d intended for her.
Or she could marry someone less than perfect.
Hinges creaked, not nearby. A hollow boom echoed in the warehouse’s cavern. Clara gasped. Even her tears froze as footsteps approached. No one had ever interrupted before, in all the years she’d visited the warehouse. It almost seemed a sign.
“Right, that one there.” The Cheapside voice made no pretension toward being anything but mercantile. “And these. They’re to go to the Topaze, out in the Sound. Oh, and that hanging thing. Be careful with it, clumsy Joe.”
The chair swung, rocked, rocked again, jolted up and back. Clara grabbed the wooden frame, her heart pounding so loudly it seemed impossible they didn’t hear it.
“Heavier than it looks, mate.”
And then the hanging chair floated free, the unseen footsteps’ owners carrying it — and her — away.
It would be humiliating, but she had to say something before she wound up on board a ship. She opened her mouth.
No sound emerged. Her voice refused. She closed her mouth, rolling her lips together.
A ship. A ship could take her anywhere. Including France. Across the seven seas, in search of her perfect Phillippe.
She could vanish for more than a few hours, indeed for as long as it took. She could find him, marry him, bring him home to Uncle David, a fait accompli.
Uncle David. Aunt Helen. They’d worry when she vanished, when they discovered she was gone. It would serve them right. How could they imagine they knew what was best for her when they refused to even consider her wishes?
It was a wild, a desperate gamble. But her situation was dire.
And she wouldn’t have to see the viscount again.
Simply as that, she had a third option.
Also from Astraea Press:
Prologue
Samuel wrapped his arm around the slim waist of his latest conquest. He licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come next, when he took her to the nearest bed. He was so foxed her name escaped him. Carlotta? Celina? He shrugged as he leaned in to nuzzle her soft neck. No matter. His memory faded soon after he tired of each woman he bedded, but there was always another waiting in line. Oftentimes, he brought them here, to one of his favorite inns.
The woman giggled when Samuel closed his eyes, nipping at her earlobe with his teeth. Pulling her closer still, he took possession of her ripe lips, not caring who stood nearby to watch them.
He'd done this before. Many, many times.
As quickly as Samuel placed his lips on the woman's, she was gone, leaving him to pucker up only to the stale air. His eyes popped open. "What the…?"
Another man, dressed in expensive breeches and coat, now had his arms around Samuel's woman. Samuel gritted his teeth, the very teeth that had only moments ago been clasped on soft feminine skin. Now, they bit down hard. On his tongue.
Cursing loudly, Samuel lunged at the other man, pushing the woman aside in the process. "Get your filthy hands off of her. She's mine!"
The man narrowed his eyes, knocking Samuel's hands away from his person. "You are of no consequence to me." He glanced at the woman, his eyes roving over every voluptuous inch. "I like what I see. She is now mine."
Samuel's blood boiled. Heat flooded his face. Vision now blurred from anger and ale, he lowered his head and raced forward, intent upon knocking the other man senseless.
Strong hands once again pushed Samuel away, hard. Staring up at the dirty ceiling, Samuel shook his head, trying to force the room to stop spinning.
Clump. Clump. Clump. Footsteps… that last quite close to his ear. Turning his head, Samuel gasped. How easy it would be for the other man to kick him in the face! He forced himself to a sitting position. Perhaps his swirling vision would calm. Surely he could stand. He must. There was no way he was letting his woman walk away with someone else. And away from him. Yes, there had always been another waiting for his favor, but suddenly it was important he possess this woman, on this night. It was a matter of pride that he not let her be taken away.
Samuel braced his hands on the floor until he had steadied enough to get his feet under him. Silence in the room had replaced the bawdy laughter of but a few moments ago. Of course, that would be the case. The patrons loved nothing better than to bet on a fight.
The sound of coins being exchanged all about him couldn't peel his eyes from the man standing in front of him. It was now or never. Any show of fear on his part might diminish future chances with other women if word got out that he'd acted the coward. A quick glance to his right showed the woman smiling, eyes gleaming, excited to be the object of such a feud.
Bone smashed bone as a fist knocked his head back, once again setting the room to a twirl. Samuel shook his head, blood now pouring from his nose. More blood ran down his throat. He coughed and spat. Red now colored the dirty floor.
Clenching his fists, Samuel attacked the other man, pounding him again and again about the face and chest. Now they'd find who would win the woman. No way he would give up. It was do… or die.
The man cursed, wiping blood from his chin. Enraged, he grabbed Samuel's shirtfront, propelling them both toward a grouping of rickety wooden tables. Samuel broke their fall, his back smacking onto the nearest tabletop. Pain lanced through his spine, jarring every bone and muscle. A firm grip lifted him from the table and threw him on the floor in a dusty, bloody heap.
Samuel turned his head. A black boot pulled away from his head, then propelled forward, smashing into his temple.
His world faded to black.
Chapter One
Outside Hammersmith, 1807
Pain. Pain lanced through her entire body. Her ankle throbbed as if her heart pulsed in that exact spot. And cold, so cold, as if she lay upon damp, raw ground. Sasha Douglas clenched her hands into fists. Her stomach roiled with nausea. Where am I?
Were her eyes open? In the near darkness, it was impossible to say. She squinted against the headache pounding behind her eyes and glanced up. And up. A tiny shaft of sunlight fell across the opening of wherever she was. Dots of fluffy white clouds hung lazily in the blue sky.
She sat up, despite the pain in her head and leg, and tugged her cloak tighter against the chill. Water trickled along from somewhere beside her. A few inches of water splashed around her boot and seeped into her dress. What happened? Think, Sasha!
A sharp cry echoed from way above the opening. Sasha dug her nails into her palms. Was it the red-footed falcon she'd watched earlier? Why did the bird's call cause panic in her heart? It had never bothered her before. She closed her eyes and slumped forward with her head and arms over her knees. Her ankle thr
obbed again. Perhaps if she rubbed it… no, it didn't help.
Wait. Where was her left boot? She checked her other foot. Leather and lacings, just as it should be. Her left foot was cold. And wet. The pain throbbed again, from her knee to her ankle and toes. Her stomach knotted in response and she shivered.
Her fingers caught on a large tear in her old walking dress. When she pulled back her hand, something sticky seeped through her gloves. Blood? She must have scraped her leg when she fell into this cold, black hole.
Her teeth chattered in the chilly dampness. Breathe, Sasha, just breathe.
Memories of earlier in the day flashed across her mind. She'd been walking along a valley as the green expanse of grass swayed in the breeze. Crickets had hummed their peculiar tune. The air was crisp and cool even though the sun shone. The red-footed falcon had cried overhead. She'd not been paying attention to where she was going as she watched the falcon dip and sway in the wind, its feathers gleaming in the sun's reflected rays. Then she'd stepped forward into empty air, and she gasped again as her stomach lurched from the memory.
Fear had flashed through her like icy water. She'd grabbed for support… at nothing. She'd screamed, and it had echoed as she'd hurtled down the shaft. Had she bounced from the stone surface before she'd crashed against the cold, wet ground? Sasha remembered nothing else. Nothing at all until the first, pain-wracked moment when she'd woken. What have I fallen in to? The hole hadn't been visible from a distance in the tall grass. She hadn't noticed what must have been a fairly large opening for her to go through, as she'd watched the hawk. How would she get out? What if she couldn't get out? Will I die down here in this dark, damp place? Please, no. No!
Surely someone would be along to find her, wouldn't they? Please let someone find me. "Help! Someone! Please help me!"
Silence answered.
Sasha glanced up again at the small patch of sky. I need to get out of here! But the distance was too great, and there wouldn't be anything to grasp onto, since the cobblestones along the wall were slick. Unless someone found her, she would die here, hurt and alone. Thoughts of starving or freezing to death caused new chills to wrack her body.
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