The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection

by Dorothy McFalls

  Damn, he thought as darkness enveloped him. Damn and blast.

  * * * *

  “Lord-a-mercy! What havey-cavey is this?” Joshua peered down on the bloodied and crumpled body sprawled out on the wet grass and shook his head. No one in the tiny village of Purbeck ever expected the Marquess to gain his thirtieth year. His father hadn’t accomplished such a feat. Nor had his grandfather. And his lordship, on the dawning months of nine-and-twenty, was growing close to surprising the members of the village.

  “Who’s his heir?” the stranger standing next to Joshua asked. He was a messenger dressed in full livery who’d recently arrived on horseback, demanding to see the Marquess without delay. His mount was still blowing hard. “Considering the urgency I was told to treat this task, I believe this message should go to his lordship’s heir straightaway.”

  “Aye,” Joshua agreed. “His lordship was a bachelor. He produced no children, least none that weren’t bastards.” He shrugged. “His uncle, Lord Purbeck, is his lordship’s heir. God save him.”

  “Take me to him. I was given orders that this letter be given the highest priority.”

  The messenger’s cold demand momentarily stunned Joshua. He tilted his head, still staring down at the immobile body that once was his master. “His lordship was a good man, he was. Always treated his servants kindly.” Joshua dragged his cap from his head and clutched it against his chest. “He will be sorely missed, he will. God deliver him.”

  The corpse moaned.

  Both men jumped back as Lord Edgeware, eyes still tightly sealed, slowly sat up.

  “The devil!” Joshua shouted.

  “Don’t be too quick to deliver me up to the devil, Joshua,” Edgeware said. “I have yet a few more breaths in these lungs.”

  * * * *

  Nigel’s head menaced him. The pain, sharp and unmerciful, tried to draw him back to unconsciousness, but he wouldn’t allow it. By sheer force of will, he pried his eyes open.

  “You’re alive, m’lord!” Joshua, his head groom, cried.

  “Of course, I’m alive. I hope you planned to have me checked over more carefully before sending for a casket maker.”

  Joshua stumbled a step back and looked as pale as if being forced to stand before the devil himself. “F-forgive me, m’lord. It-it’s just that everyone expects you to—”

  “I’m soaking wet,” Nigel mused aloud. “Did you douse me with water?” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and wiped the liquid from his brow and looked at it.

  He puzzled over the ruddy cloth until his sluggish mind realized what he was seeing. Water shouldn’t stain a handkerchief. But blood did. Goodly amounts of it, which was never a good thing.

  “Help me stand.” He reached out to Joshua while fighting a wave of panic. “Damn man, don’t just stand there gawking. I will bleed to death if you don’t help me.”

  With some effort, Joshua and the messenger helped Nigel get his wobbly legs underneath him. Joshua fastened Nigel’s cravat tightly around the crown of his bleeding head and had tucked several handkerchiefs against the wound for good measure.

  “That should staunch the flow, m’lord,” he said, drawing a deep breath. His groom’s senses seemed to be returning. Joshua jammed his cap back on top of his head and turned to the messenger. “Go fetch a litter to carry his lordship back to the manor.”

  “Wait, I’ll ride back. I’m not dead yet. I refuse to be transported as if I were.”

  “But, m’lord, your head.”

  “Damn my head. I want to have a look at Zeus. He tossed me as if I were a bee in a woman’s bonnet and I want to know why.” He quickly spotted his ill-mannered stallion happily feasting on wildflowers no more than a few yards away.

  Joshua offered his shoulder for support. Leaning heavily on him, Nigel limped over to inspect his horse. Every muscle in Nigel’s body screamed with pain. He needed to get into a tub of hot water before his muscles tightened into a set of impossibly stiff knots. But first he was determined to tend to Zeus. It had been years since he’d seen his horse panic so forcefully. There had to be a reason.

  “Gads, m’lord,” Joshua exclaimed, when they lifted the saddle and blanket from the horse’s flank. A metal burr was embedded in Zeus’s tender skin.

  “The harder I tried to control him, the deeper I drove this cursed thing into his back. Zounds, how did this happen? Who saddled him this morning?”

  “I did, m’lord. You know I did, m’lord. No one else would dare touch your horse.” Joshua grew pale.

  “Then how did this happen?” A new wave of dizziness hit Nigel as fresh anger made his blood race. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. He rounded on his groom. “How did this happen?”

  “I-I don’t know, m’lord. You know I take great care with the blanket and saddle. I check the blanket for burrs every time, m’lord. You know that.” His ruddy cheek bloomed red with anger. “Someone purposefully injured Zeus.”

  “A chilling thought.” Nigel accepted Joshua’s innocence for the moment. His groom sung to the estate’s horses and treated them as if they were his children. He wouldn’t harm a horse as a means to kill a man. But if not Joshua, then who? Who would be interested in his death?

  “My lord,” the messenger stepped forward. “Begging your pardon. But my master insisted I not hesitate to deliver this note to your hands. I am to await a reply.” The lanky messenger held out a folded piece of foolscap.

  “Joshua, take care of Zeus. I’ll ride Hera back to the manor.” Nigel stumbled a step. “In a moment.”

  He took the message and studied the red, wax seal. The seal, a growling beast surrounded by a circle of flowers, was a mark he quickly recognized.

  Matters had to be dire for Severin to contact him. Nigel peeled back the wax and opened the letter.

  Lord Edgeware, it read, a certain situation in London requires your immediate attention. I dare not explain more. But I must impress on you the urgency in which this is written. I only pray you make every effort to attend to this catastrophe with utmost haste. The message had been signed with an elaborate letter “A”.

  Nigel blinked several times as his vision swam in and out of focus. The timing of this new crisis could not be any worse. He swore an oath beneath his breath as he crumpled the foolscap clutched in his bloodied hand. He knew he could not ignore the plea for help. Severin would not write without desperate cause. There could only be one reason he’d send this note.

  Dionysus.

  Chapter Three

  Lord Baneshire ground his jaw as he paced the green-hued parlor, the muscles in his reddened cheeks visibly straining. A day after the scandal and his anger had still not cooled.

  Word of the scandalous painting had reached the Baneshire household even before Elsbeth could usher Olivia and Lauretta into the carriage and rush home. Lord Baneshire, grim-faced, had waited for them at the front door. His arms crossed and his legs spread wide, he made quite a menacing picture. He’d taken one look at the three girls and pointed the way to their bedrooms. They had silently obeyed.

  Late the next morning, the earl summoned Elsbeth and her cousins into the front parlor. Elsbeth sat primly in her favorite chair. An uncomfortable calm filled her as she watched her uncle pace.

  Lord Baneshire had every right to be angry. His family was a model of propriety. Such a scandal wouldn’t only mortify him and harm his children’s chances at finding husbands, but it would also touch his political career. A career in which he took great pride.

  She should have never accepted his invitation to live with them. She should have known her dream of returning to London and settling into a quiet, unassuming life had never been possible in the first place.

  “Strumpets pose for artists,” he said without altering his stride. “Whores pose for artists.”

  “The children, my lord,” Lady Baneshire, paler than usual, scolded softly with a quick glance in the direction of Olivia and Lauretta who sat huddled together on a small sofa, their heads lowered.

>   “When did you do this?” he shouted with a great wave of his arm. “You were supposedly observing a period of mourning this past year. Or did this happen before your husband’s death? Were you unfaithful? Were you seeing another man while he was fighting—dying—for our Mother England? That’s what the gossips will think, you know. Is it true?”

  He stopped pacing to tower over Elsbeth.

  She clasped her hands in her lap, squeezing them tightly together to keep from trembling. She reminded herself she’d never seen him strike anyone, but then again she’d never seen him so angry, his cheeks so red.

  Surely, he wouldn’t strike her.

  “You must tell me who this—this Dionysus is,” he demanded. “I will call the cove out if I have to.”

  “Nooo,” Lady Baneshire wailed.

  He waved away his wife’s distress. “He will do the right thing by you. I will insist upon it. He will marry you if that is what society demands.”

  “Marriage?” Elsbeth’s head turned icy cold at the horrifying thought. The green urns sitting on shelves in the alcove swam in and out of view. “I cannot marry.” Lord Baneshire appeared to have floated away.

  Elsbeth drew a fortifying breath and straightened her shoulders. All she could seem to think about at that moment was the first time her husband had flown into a rage. He’d tossed her onto his bed, twisted her long hair in his hand, ripped at her gown, and—

  “No! I will not marry again!” Never again.

  Her uncle crouched down beside her chair. “You will if I demand it. As your closest living male relative, I’m responsible for your actions.” He took her hand in his. His blue eyes, eyes so much like her mother’s, softened just a touch. “This is the only way to protect your name and to keep the ton from turning against my family. So tell me, Elsbeth, who painted that portrait of you?”

  It was difficult to look her uncle in the eye and say what she had to say. It was even harder to keep the tears from falling. Somehow she managed both.

  “I—don’t—know,” she said with great care.

  Lord Baneshire’s expression darkened. He dropped her hand and stood with a rush. “You refuse me? It’s a fool’s folly to protect the blackguard who did this to you—who did this to your family. He has brought ruin upon us all.” He prowled the green parlor like a tiger in the depths of a jungle. “Everyone out.” He pointed to the closed double wooden doors. “I must speak to Elsbeth alone.”

  Olivia and Lauretta’s faces drained of all color.

  “Papa,” Lauretta cried, “it’s not her fault.”

  “She honestly didn’t know about that painting. I saw her. She appeared as shocked as the rest of us,” Olivia wailed.

  “Out!”

  “Come girls.” Lady Baneshire led the two teary-eyed girls toward the door.

  “Please, Papa, please. Don’t send our Elly away.” Large tears dropped down Olivia’s pretty, round cheeks.

  The parlor door closed with a loud clank. “Send the chit away,” he grumbled as he marched back toward Elsbeth. “If only a scandal could be so easily snuffed. Girls!” He waved an angry arm in the air. Elsbeth winced as if he’d dealt her a blow. “I’ve been cursed with girls! Not a blasted son in the bunch!”

  “I will leave your home if you wish it,” she offered bravely. Truly, she had no other place to go other than out into the chilly London streets, but she would leave if he asked it of her.

  “And then what would you do?” he asked. The redness of his cheeks deepened. “You would run away from your responsibility? From protecting my children’s futures? You would abandon them to the worst of the gossips?”

  “No! No, I would never abandon Olivia and Lauretta. I only wish to—”

  “Then tell me his bloody name!”

  Lord help her, he was going to hit her. She slipped from her chair and rushed for the door only to have her uncle grab her arm and spin her around.

  “You won’t escape so easily,” he warned, and tossed her back into the chair. “And I had such high hopes for you. I had thought you had bloomed into a gentlewoman much like your mother. Now there was a lady with a steadfast and trustworthy head on her shoulders. A model. A paragon. Henrietta never hesitated to scold me till I feared my ears would bleed should I dare step over the line of propriety. Even when my father was willing to look the other way, my sister wouldn’t.”

  Baneshire closed his eyes and moaned.

  “For you to stand here and lie to me without a shiver of remorse, it chills my blood. It’s impossible for me to believe that you wouldn’t know the man’s name. He wouldn’t have been able to paint such a painting unless you’d willingly posed for him…like a bloody whore. Damnation, I can’t abide to be in the same room with you.”

  He marched toward the door and stopped just before his hand touched the knob, his shoulders cinching with tension. “Your husband,” he whispered. “Were the rumors about his perversions true?”

  “No,” she said. Not precisely a lie. Her husband’s rages were sadistic, much worse than what any of the gossipy members of the ton could ever imagine.

  “Then why, Elsbeth? Why did you do this?”

  To that she had no answer her uncle would be willing to believe. She had lied too well for too long to expect him to believe the truth now.

  * * * *

  Dionysus lit a solitary candle before turning the brass key in the cellar door’s heavy lock. He used his shoulder to jar the swollen door from the rotting jam and then raised the candle, shedding a flickering light into the cavernous space. Not enough light for someone unfamiliar with the uneven stairway. Yet he knew each stone step well. With a quick stride he nearly flew down the last steps. He’d come, not to paint, but to gaze on his latest work—his obsession—his madness.

  Her smiling lips, her haunting eyes, her golden hair were forever imprinted in his mind. Those delicate features, perfection in the form of womanhood.

  And still he didn’t know her name.

  She was the Earl of Baneshire’s niece. But Baneshire came from a rather large family, and so did his wife. She could be the daughter of any number of the respected families populating the ton.

  She’d been married and must have loved her husband dearly. The pain shadowed in those eyes could only be borne from great suffering. Terrible sadness.

  Dionysus knew such pain. If only she could peer into his eyes, she’d recognize a fellow, suffering creature. And perhaps, her soft, upstanding gaze could heal.

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. The lovely image of her—the one he called Perfection—swirled into view.

  A flash of a memory.

  Nearly a decade ago he was a young man just completing his studies at Oxford, tall and lanky, still shy and uncertain of his own power. When the weather was pleasant, he would escape Merton College just as the sun rose and hide among the trees near the Iffley water mill, trying to capture in oil and canvas the elusive slant of light of the sun’s golden rays as they skidded off the mill pond’s glassy surface. With the wooded hills and lush pastures forming a gentle bucolic backdrop, he once believed he’d never find another subject that could keep his artistic attentions so enthralled.

  But that was before she walked into the scene.

  A young woman still dressed for the schoolroom, she’d gathered her wide skirts into her hands and dashed across the grassy field. Two matrons, one clearly a lady aunt or mother, chased after the child. The girl’s golden locks tumbled free from the pins and flowed freely in the gentle breeze.

  His breath caught in his throat. It took no great feat of artistic talent to recognize the budding woman, hovering oh so near to sweet ripeness, in the schoolgirl. Given a year or two, she would be married.

  He gulped at the thought and swung away with those uncomfortably long arms of his and crashed into his easel. His paints and brushes scattered onto the dew-moistened grass.

  “Damn and blast,” he muttered as he dipped to his knees and started gathering up his mess, all the while pra
ying the women wouldn’t spot him, praying that if they did, they wouldn’t come over to speak to him.

  If that young beauty came over and turned her sapphire gaze toward him…His heart hammered painfully enough in his chest at the mere thought of speaking to her.

  He glanced up. The girl was still sprinting across the field, her long legs carrying her as gracefully as a young doe. She waved a bouquet of yellow flowers in the air and danced circles in front of her harried-faced guardians.

  “So this is where you sneak off to every morning, Pole.” Hubert, a thick bully who lived for the day he’d be able to take his father’s title, punched Dionysus in the arm with such force the paintbrushes tumbled to the ground again.

  Dionysus rose. He wiped at the grass stains on his breeches and maneuvered himself in front of the painting he’d been laboring over. “Leave off, Hubert. A man’s entitled to some time away.”

  Hubert tossed back his head and boomed a laugh. “What are you trying to hide there, Pole?” He pushed Dionysus aside with a meaty paw and crossed his arms as he studied the painting.

  Dionysus gasped when he saw it himself. In the center of the unfinished landscape the beginnings of the dancing schoolgirl’s face had appeared. His hand, without his mind’s permission, had captured but a fraction of her beauty.

  Hubert looked out over the field and quickly spotted the sensuous phantasm. She was laying out a blanket among a throng of wildflowers. His lips quirked up into a grin.

  “I didn’t realize you indulged in, in—what would your uncle call it?—in a female’s talent, Pole,” he said as his gaze remained trained on the young woman. He licked his wide lips. “I certainly can’t fault you in your choice of subjects, though. Zounds, that chit would make a man of my ilk a mighty fine wife.” His grin grew by wolfish proportions.

  “I-I can’t imagine what you mean. I only paint landscapes. The child intruded into my work, that is all,” he protested, though Hubert’s interest had already been turned.

  “Child? She’s sixteen, if not a day,” Hubert said, and snatched the wet painting from the easel.