* * *
The Rogue's Revenge
A Regency Romance
By Lucy E. Zahlne
Published by Awe-Struck E-Books
Copyright ©2002
ISBN: 1-58749-138-9
Electronic rights reserved by Awe-Struck E-Books, all other rights reserved by author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.
* * *
* * *
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1:
Chapter 2:
Chapter 3:
Chapter 4:
Chapter 5:
Chapter 6:
Chapter 7:
Chapter 8:
Chapter 9:
Chapter 10:
Chapter 11:
Chapter 12:
Chapter 13:
Chapter 14:
Chapter 15:
Chapter 16:
Chapter 17:
Chapter 18:
Chapter 19:
Chapter 20:
Chapter 21:
Chapter 22:
Chapter 23:
Chapter 24:
Chapter 25:
Chapter 26:
Chapter 27:
Chapter 28:
Chapter 29:
Chapter 30:
Chapter 31:
Chapter 32:
Epilogue: March 1736
Chapter 1:
In Which a French Monseigneur is an English Milord
Paris, 1735
Clutching a crumpled paper with an address on it, London solicitor Cornelius Gleason straightened his coat and knocked at the elegant door of a fine mansion in the Rue de le Roi, Paris. When a butler opened it, the solicitor handed him a calling card, saying, "Good morning! Cornelius Gleason to see -- " He paused, uncertain. His law firm had discovered Robert Amberley's current address, but knew nothing of his social status, economic situation, or present identity. Perhaps Amberley was not the master of the house. What if he were a servant? A footman or a groom? His fortunes could have gone in any direction in the ten years since he had disappeared.
Chattering impatient French, the butler tried to close the door. Unable to speak his language, Gleason planted a firm foot in the entryway and spoke English all the louder. "Robert Amberley! I must speak to Robert Amberley! I have come all the way from London to..."
"Robert Amberley?" The butler raised an eyebrow.
"Yes! Oui! Robert Amberley!" Mr. Gleason's voice grew more frantic. "He is also known as Robin Amberley!"
The Frenchman shook his head. "Il n'est pas ici. C'est l'hôtel de Châteaugris."
Gleason pushed against the door. "Now look here! I know that Robert Amberley lives here!"
Disturbed by the noise, a gentleman emerged from the depths of the house, his full-skirted, blue velvet coat gleaming as a diamond nestling in his lacy cravat winked in the sudden sunlight. Lace fell over his slim, white hands and a black velvet riband secured his unpowdered auburn locks. Glancing at Gleason, he addressed a curt French query to the butler.
The butler's answer ended with 'Robert Amberley' and the gentleman's eyes locked with Gleason's for a long, tense moment. He gave a sudden command to the butler and disappeared through a pair of carved oaken doors. The butler bowed Gleason into the house, collecting his hat and gloves.
He was ushered into a library. Books covered most of three walls, but the fourth was comprised of tall windows that looked out onto a garden. At the far end of the room, overstuffed leather armchairs clustered before an empty fireplace.
Bowing, Gleason introduced himself. Standing by a desk at the near end of the room, his host answered him in perfect English. "Please be seated, Mr. Gleason. I would know what business you have with Robert Amberley."
Gleason sank into a chair by the desk. "Is he in your employ, Monsieur?"
"Etiénne de Châteaugris," the gentleman supplied, seating himself. "If you tell me your purpose, I will tell you if Monsieur Amberley can see you." He waited, studying the solicitor.
"Well, milord, well," Gleason licked his lips. "The fact of the matter is Lord Amberley's... the Marquis of Norelton's grandfather is -- dead."
The gentleman stilled, his granite grey eyes boring into the solicitor's soul. Then he leaned forward abruptly. "I am Robert Amberley, Mr. Gleason. Do you come all the way from England merely to tell me that my brother, Clayton, has succeeded to the title?"
Gleason's eyes widened as he glanced at his fine surroundings.
"No, Mr. Gleason, I've not done badly for a penniless, cast-off younger son," Amberley said. "When did my grandfather die?"
"Almost a year ago, Your Grace," Amberley's eyes grew wide at the news that he was now a duke, "but your brother died two years before him, leaving you the heir. My firm has been looking for you since the marquis's death."
"Clay too!" Amberley's voice softened. "What happened?"
"A carriage accident, Your Grace."
"And the duke?"
Gleason shook his head. "The marquis's death devastated His Grace. When you could not be found, his grief turned to madness. Often, when he was alone in a room, he would rail at you as if you were with him. He said that you -- " The solicitor halted, flushing.
"I can easily imagine what His Grace had to say about me!" Amberley said.
"Then, suddenly, His Grace stopped talking altogether," Gleason said. "He just sat for hours, staring at nothing. Finally, he summoned me to Lynkellyn Castle to make out a new will. He died three days later."
"So I am now the Duke of Lynkellyn!" The new peer laughed. "I'll wager that didn't set well with Grandpapa. I don't suppose he settled any of the estate debt after I left?"
"No, Your Grace," Gleason said.
"No, of course, he didn't!" Amberley shook his head. "The Lynkellyn holdings have been mortgaged to the hilt for three generations, but even though his fortune was vast, my grandfather couldn't see past his own tight-fistedness to remove that embarrassment."
Gleason flushed. "His Grace felt that since the ducal lands were entailed, the mortgages need not be discharged in haste. He also believed the debts should be paid with the ducal rents rather than his personal fortune."
"Ah, yes! His personal fortune! The whip that drove us all!" Amberley's eyes glittered with contempt. "I suppose my cousin Giles inherited that money? The old duke would have left him the title and estates, too, if it had been possible."
"No."
"No?" Amberley's brows rose.
"No, Your Grace. Along with all the titles, honors, and estates you naturally inherit, the late duke also left you his personal fortune, provided you meet the terms of his will."
"Which are?"
"That you be married to a lady of good family within one year of His Grace's death; said year to end at midnight on March 28, 1735, the anniversary date of the late duke's demise. Also, that you produce a child from this union within two years of His Grace's death."
The ticking of the mantle clock filled the room for some time. "And if I don't meet these stipulations?" Amberley finally asked.
"Ah! Then the deceased's entire personal fortune goes to your cousin, Lord Mountheathe."
Amberley stared out the window, silent for a full minute. "How much money is involved?"
"An income of one hundred thousand pounds per annum, stocks, bonds, a large amount of real estate, a shipping firm... I would venture to suggest, Your Grace, that if you are not already married..."
"I am not."
"Then you had better wed quickly. It only lacks a fortnight until the anniversary of His Grace's death. If you do not hurry, everything will go to Lord Mountheathe."
Resting his elbows on
his desk, the duke pressed his fingertips together. "Lady Luck has been exceedingly kind to me in the last few years, Mr. Gleason, and I have sufficient funds for my needs. I doubt that, considering my grandfather's stipulations and the time constraint, I shall be claiming my legacy. Giles shall have it! And why not, pray? He's taken all else from me!" Bitterness tinged Lynkellyn's voice.
Gleason rose and reached into his pocket. "Here is my card," he said, bowing. "If Your Grace should change your mind, send word to my firm. I must witness your wedding."
"très bien. Won't you stay for luncheon, Mr. Gleason? 'Tis good to hear an English voice again."
"No, Your Grace, I'm sorry, but I cannot. I sail for home tonight and I've still got some personal commissions to which I must attend."
The solicitor had almost reached the door when Amberley halted him. "One more question, s'il vous plâit, Mr. Gleason. How did your firm find me?"
"'The merest chance, Your Grace. A month ago, the Earl of Malkent saw you riding in the Bois de Boulogne. His companion did not know you or your direction, but recognized your horse as one his neighbor had sold the day before. We received your direction from the Comte de Montville who sold you the horse. Good day, Your Grace." Mr. Gleason bowed and was gone.
For a long time after Gleason left, Amberley sat in his sunny library, black and bitter regrets crawling through his mind. Visions of Mountheathe's smirking features taunted him and he leaped up to pace, all the frustration and resentment he thought he had banished after ten years consuming him again as if he had left England only yesterday.
Giles had stolen or ruined every good thing in his life. His name was irreparably blackened; his youth wasted wandering the sewers and stews of the world; the love and respect of his family lost forever. After all he had suffered at Mountheathe's hands, he would be damned if he let that lying cur have the Amberley fortune as well!
The butler entered. "The Marquis de Valiére requests an audience, Monseigneur."
"You may admit the marquis," Amberley said. "He'll be staying for luncheon."
A few minutes later de Valiére entered the library, grinning as he held out his hand. "Etiénne! It has been an age."
"Georges!" Amberley clasped his hand, smiling. "Pray be seated. Will you have a brandy?" Without waiting for an answer, the duke filled two glasses and handed one to de Valiére. "You'll stay for luncheon, of course."
"I never pass up a free meal, Etiénne. You know that!" Still smiling, the marquis took a seat. "So, mon ami, what new scandal has tantalized Paris while I have been buried in the country?"
The butler announced luncheon soon after and the gentlemen sauntered into the dining room without a lull in their conversation. Over the soup, however, Robin began to brood once more upon Gleason's visit and his features hardened.
"Is anything amiss, Etiénne?" Georges asked, lowering his spoon. "You seem -- distracted."
"I've had a most unpleasant morning," Lynkellyn said, shoving his soup away.
"I apologize if I intrude, mon ami. You have only to say 'Georges, be gone!' and I will vanish!"
"I welcome your company, Georges," Robin said, signaling the butler to clear the table and serve the second course. "'Tis just that, well, I have had disturbing news from home."
"Oui?" Georges raised a brow. His friend had always been curiously reticent about his background and family.
Amberley served himself from a platter of chicken. "Georges, do you consider me a close friend?"
"One of my closest." Georges said as he accepted the platter.
"Would you go with me to England?"
Piling chicken onto his plate, De Valiére looked up in surprise. "England? Pourquoi?"
"I shall explain in the library after luncheon. We have too many ears here," Amberley said, glancing at the servants. "If, after you have heard me out, you still count yourself my friend, we will talk more of England."
Later, in the library, the gentlemen settled into comfortable chairs, port in hand. The room was silent for several minutes as Amberley decided how to begin. He swirled the last of the wine in his glass, then tossed it down and sprang from his chair to pace across the patches of sunlight that dappled the parquet floor. "First of all, Georges, I'm an Englishman, not a Frenchman..."
"How can that be, Etiénne? What about your houses, your lands, your title, and, most of all, mon ami, your manner!"
Amberley searched Georges's face. "My title I made up out of whole cloth. I acquired my wealth through gambling and deceit. As to my manner, I have a gift. I can assume any nationality, any social class I wish. I've been Italian, Spanish, Austrian, Hanoverian even a gypsy! I know a dozen languages and cultures, for I've been part of all of them at one time or another."
"Then -- then you are an adventurer! A charlatan!" Georges could hardly credit his own conclusions.
"Oui, mon ami. That is exactly what I am." Amberley gazed out at the garden, frowning. "I've engaged in countless unsavory occupations -- actor, gambler, highwayman, pirate, mercenary, pick-pocket, also a whoremaster." He was silent for a moment, his eyes bleak. With a flutter of his hand, he swept his memories away. "Naturellement, I prefer to live like a gentleman when I can and my luck has been extraordinary these last few years. I've accumulated a respectable fortune and, until this morning, I had thought to settle here in France."
"I cannot believe what I am hearing! You are, perhaps, amusing yourself at my expense, Etiénne?"
"I only wish I were," Robin said, pouring more wine, "and the name is Robert Amberley. I had a visit from an English solicitor this morning. He told me that my brother and grandfather are dead and that I am now the Duke of Lynkellyn."
"I am more confused than ever, mon ami! How -- why has all this come about?"
"How?" Amberley laughed. "Through my kinsman's scheming lies and my grandfather's doting blindness." He tossed off his port, grabbed the decanter, and refilled both their glasses. "My cousin Giles, my older brother Clayton and I, orphans all, grew up in Grandpapa's household at Lynkellyn Castle. Grandfather absolutely adored Giles, his favorite for reasons I have never fathomed and he showed great affection to Clay who always said 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and kept his own counsel in a way I never could, but the old duke and I argued constantly."
"At nineteen, Giles and I went to London for a little Town bronze. The reigning beauty among that Season's debutantes was Valeria Ashwell. We both courted her, but she accepted an offer of marriage from the Earl of Malkent. When their betrothal was announced, I declared my heart shattered and foreswore women forever! Forever lasted about a day and a half.
"But Giles left my pitiful theatricals in the dust. One night, well into his second bottle, he ranted that Miss Ashwell was his and she would never wed anyone else. He swore he would kill any man who took her from him. Alas, I dismissed his ravings as mere drunken boasts. No one was ever so wrong!
"The next day, when I went around to Giles's lodgings, he was out. Standing in the street, I read the note he had left me and my blood chilled. He intended to force Miss Ashwell to Gretna Green. I rushed to the lady's house, but a footman told me the family was out.
"Determined to catch Giles, I raced to my lodgings for traveling money, then guided my mount north out of London, knowing that since Gretna Green and Lynkellyn Castle lay along the same route, I would have no trouble using my grandfather's name to procure fresh horses. Worried, I rode through the night and all the next day, inquiring after the fleeing pair at every inn along the way. At dusk, I finally had news of Giles at a small inn not generally frequented by gentlemen. I was mere hours behind him and the landlord said his companion was ill. Ignoring hunger and fatigue, I gulped down a quick tankard of ale while changing mounts and pressed on into the second night.
"At dawn, I arrived at the Crown and Thistle, an inn some ten miles from Lynkellyn Castle. While I was questioning Tulley, the landlord, I glimpsed Giles crossing the taproom and rushed after him into a private parlor, demanding to see Miss Ashwell.
"Furious, Giles cursed me for interfering, then drew his sword and lunged at me. I barely unsheathed in time to parry. My blade rasped against his as I blocked his attack and we began to duel in earnest.
"My mind and body sluggish from lack of food and sleep, I hadn't a chance of victory. My weapon grew heavier, my responses slower with every move. Above our ringing swords, we heard noise of new arrivals in the taproom. My grandfather's voice drifted back to us and then Lord Malkent's. Giles's blade whipped in and out, testing my defenses. Clay's voice sounded nearby and the door opened just as Mountheathe's blade pierced my shoulder. Starving, exhausted, and in agony, I collapsed."
Amberley swallowed half a glass of wine, then gulped down the other half. He fell into a chair, closing his eyes against the pained memory. "Eager to preserve his worthless skin, Giles told our grandfather the greatest tangle of lies ever uttered! While I lay unconscious, he accused me before my family and Lord Malkent of drugging Miss Ashwell and spiriting her away to a forced wedding in Gretna Green. Giles had kept Miss Ashwell sedated during the journey and when she finally revived, she could remember nothing except that, on leaving Lady Ford's house with Giles, she had become ill and fainted. Giles claimed that I took her from him at gunpoint and that it was he who had chased me across England night and day."
"To avoid a scandal, Grandpapa arranged to have Tracy and Valeria married quietly at Lynkellyn Castle the next morning. Nevertheless, the tale leaked out with a little help, sans doute, from Giles. Consequently, I was not received anywhere."
"And did you not tell your grandfather the truth?" Georges asked.
"I tried, but he didn't believe me. No one did. You see, I was a wild, rakehelly young buck while Giles was, to all outward appearance, a sober, worthy gentleman. Grandpapa would hear nothing against him. My protestations of innocence only incensed the old duke. Furious that I would not confess my 'crime', he disowned me! Gave me an hour to pack my belongings and be gone. Mon Dieu! That awful day!" His hands shaking, Amberley poured more wine.
The Rogue's Revenge Page 1
