Almost Yours (Ladies of Scandal Book 3)

by Hilly Mason

  Almost Yours

  Ladies of Scandal Book Three

  Hilly Mason

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2018 Hilly Mason

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Melody Simmons.

  Visit the author’s website at www.hillymason.com.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Philadelphia, 1834

  “You damn idiot.”

  Jackson Craig knew his brother couldn’t hear him. The night before his arrest, Milton had drunk himself stupid at the Green and Fiddle down by the harbor and had yet to regain consciousness. Once the barkeep had finally kicked Milton out of the tavern, his brother settled himself on the street and waited until the sheriff came and dragged him to the jailhouse. And there he remained in his whiskey-induced state, and would no doubt wake up some time in the afternoon wondering where the hell he was.

  Jack was a damn idiot, too. What the hell were they doing here in America in the first place? They didn’t need the money, but they both had it in their heads that dipping their hands in the fur trade would be much more exciting than sitting on their inheritance at their decently-sized estate in Northern England.

  But now that his brother was in jail, Jack wondered if it all had been a mistake.

  Is this the excitement that we both craved? he thought sardonically as he listened to the man snore.

  Jack dropped his head into his hands. Despite Milton’s questionable life choices, he was still his brother and Jack would continue to protect him. But Lord, how he wanted to go back to Berkshire and pretend like this had never happened.

  “Why did you do it?” he murmured to the prone lump lying on the cot. His brother snored in response. Jack gripped the iron bars tightly like he was going to break them in half, then sighed and turned around. The only chance he had to get his brother out of jail was to talk to the family Milton stole money from, elite fur traders called the Murrays.

  The very same people Jack and Milton worked for.

  “You owe me, brother,” he muttered before turning around to leave.

  Three weeks later he was sailing across the Atlantic—or rather, some captain was sailing the ship—Jack was hanging halfway overboard and spilling his lunch into the ocean.

  “You all right, mate?” one of the sailors, Roger, a portly man he had befriended on the journey over, asked sympathetically.

  Jack had never been seasick before in his life. And had done just fine until about a week ago when suddenly he wasn’t able to keep anything down.

  “Just throw me over now and put me out of my misery, Roger. Please.”

  “Oh, come now. It’ll only be three more weeks, if we’re lucky.” Jack cracked his eyes open to see the sailor squinting at the dark clouds drifting their way. He groaned and hung his head again. Just the slightest of movement in the ship made his stomach churn. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like during a storm.

  Jack had been at sea for close to four weeks now. Back in Philadelphia, he had talked to the Murrays—well, honestly it was more like pleading—to get them to drop the charges against his brother. They said that they would remove all charges of theft on one condition: that Jack travel back to London and oversee the safe transport of one African lion from the soon-to-be defunct Tower of London Menagerie. On top of that he was to retrieve their daughter, Isla St. George, who was a famous female pugilist in London.

  “What do you mean, retrieve her?” Jack had found himself asking. “Is she lost?”

  “Of course not. She just doesn’t know we still exist,” Mrs. Murray said flippantly. She was an older woman of about fifty or so, with graying hair tied in a severe bun, with no curls or flounce to soften her angular features. Her husband, Mr. Murray, sat beside her on the sofa, holding his glass of brandy and swirling it absentmindedly, avoiding his wife’s gaze. Jack had only heard Mr. Murray speak perhaps a total of five times since his time working with the couple. It was obvious who ran the company—and the relationship.

  Jack decided he didn’t care about specifics. He was already indebted the Murrays as it was, and there was no possible way he would say no—and they knew that, too.

  “Just tell me where to find her.”

  Mrs. Murray told him that Isla lived near Covent Garden, but had ties to the St. Georges—who were wealthy owners of gaming parlors. Isla would frequent the parlors to compete in their fighting tournaments, drawing crowds of thousands—and probably making a decent sum of money for both herself and, the families’ patriarch, Alexander St. George.

  “Not that he needs the money,” Mrs. Murray had said distastefully. “He is filthy rich already.”

  It was so unusual for a woman to be a pugilist. It was even rarer for a woman to be incredibly skilled at the sport. Isla St. George had defeated a large list of renowned male pugilists, and news of the peculiar woman traveled fast across the sea to America, where she was both raved about and ridiculed in newspapers. After reading about her in the papers, and seeing her portrait, the Murrays recognized Isla as their daughter who had ran away in Scotland years ago.

  With parents like the Murrays, it wasn’t hard to understand why this girl would escape. But it didn’t matter what her story was; he would retrieve the woman, give her back to the Murrays and then ultimately set his brother free. It was more than what Milton deserved, and he hoped that his brother would appreciate the offer given to him and not get himself into trouble yet again.

  Jack doubled over and vomited.

  “Yup. That’s a bad storm comin’,” Roger said, his voice almost gleeful.

  “You sound like you want it to happen.” Jack muttered after he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “It breaks up the monotony,” Roger shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to be a sailor if I didn’t have a few days where I’m testing fate.”

  “I rather like the monotony,” Jack murmured, and then promptly threw up again. When he recovered, he squinted his eyes and peered hopefully at the horizon, although he knew it would be weeks before he caught sight of the Liverpool docks.

  The storm came with a fury.

  Jack was not lithe and agile like some of the crewman of the ship, but solid like a rock, and he rolled like one too. He went almost overboard after the first massive wave hit, but Roger managed to grab him by the leg and pull him back on solid ground before the ocean took him.

  “Whoa, he almost got you there, didn’t he?” Roger exclaimed, clapping his hand on Jack’s back.

  “Who? You mean the ocean?” Jack asked, after he coughed out a bucket’s worth of salt water.

  “No, the kraken.” Roger waved his arms about him dramatically. “A big, squid-like monster that lives in these waters. You’ve never heard of him?”

  “I don’t pay attention to fairy tales.”

  “It’s no
t a fairy tale. Men have died by the beast. Just ask the captain. He’s been through enough voyages to get well acquainted with him.”

  “No, thank you.” Jack figured that spending so much time out in the sun as made all of the sailors’ brains addled.

  “For half a second I thought about letting you go overboard, but your weight is a nice counterbalance to the ship,” Roger went on in his usual humor that only he thought was funny.

  Jack stopped listening to him. The storm was dispersing, the clouds began to part, and the sun shone on the harbor about two miles from their ship.

  Liverpool.

  He turned to Roger furiously. “You told me it would be weeks.”

  Roger gave him an innocent smile. “Yeah, well, I lied.”

  Never had he been so glad to see such a dingy, dirty, smelly place. It had been over five years since he last set foot in England, and under different circumstances he would never leave again. At least next time he sailed back home to England, he would have his brother and his wife with him and they could return to Berkshire and start their lives over.

  For our entire lives, we’ve always been running away. What happens if we just settle for once?

  It was hard to think about. Neither of them had stayed in one place for longer than a year in their adult lives, and in America, they were traveling constantly to sell and trade fur for the Murrays.

  During those lonely nights in the American wilderness, as he lay under the stars, he would daydream about finally settling down, and finding an American wife to start a family with. There were more than a few families who worked with the Murrays that had eligible daughters, and if he told them that he had money and property, he would get offers in no time.

  But whenever a man did offer his daughter’s hand in marriage to him, he always refused. Getting married and starting a family felt safe, but it never felt right, at least, not for him.

  What would feel right, then? He was unsettled, and had been for a long time. More so after the unfortunate circumstances involving the Murrays and some of his closest American friends.

  Jack shook his head, as though to clear it. He did not want to remember that night. Not now. Not when he could do nothing about it.

  The ship docked at the harbor, and immediately Jack was bombarded with the sounds and smells of the city. Seagulls cried out above him, as the fishmongers shouted their wares to a throng of people. The docks smelled sharply of fish and salt, and the smoke from the chimneys warmed the houses during the cool, early spring day.

  Never one for goodbyes, by the time the ship’s crew started unloading the cargo, Jack quietly slipped off the vessel before anyone could notice and stalked through the streets of Liverpool.

  A draft drifted through the streets, and Jack pulled his old felt hat further down onto his head to obscure his features. Ever since that fated night in Philadelphia he always had a panicked feeling that someone would recognize him by the sins written on his face.

  It felt like all the eyes of Liverpool were watching him. Sweat trickled down his back and his underarms as he weaved through the crowded streets. He let out a breath of relief as he found a vacant carriage that would take him straight to London, and further away from his painful memories.

  Chapter One

  London, 1834

  Fighting was the only thing that made sense to her.

  And after Patrick died, it was the only thing that kept her mind off of him.

  But she was getting sloppy, careless, and had almost lost her last match because her emotions took over. The last fight sent her straight to the doctor with a concussion and two black eyes. She hated going to the doctor, because he would always say the same thing:

  “Women are not meant to fight.”

  The last time he said that to her she couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

  “How do ye explain all of my wins, then?”

  That shut the man’s mouth, for a little while, at least.

  Lady Sophia St. George, her old schoolteacher who was basically her adopted older sister, came with her that night, and to Isla’s dismay, she agreed with the doctor.

  “Perhaps it’s time to take a break,” she said to Isla, once Dr. Daniels left the examination room. “You can come back to Ramsbury and stay for a while.”

  “Not ye too,” Isla moaned, dropping her head into her hands. She forgot about the bump on her head and grimaced with pain.

  Sophia rested a gloved hand on Isla’s knee. “I just don’t like seeing you out there beaten half to death.”

  “Ye don’t have to come and watch,” Isla muttered, then cringed at her impudence. “I’m sorry, Sophia.”

  But Sophia was made of sterner stuff. She had been around bratty girls long enough to learn how to deal with them—and Isla was probably the brattiest in all of Ramsbury School. “This is about Patrick, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

  Isla swallowed against a lump in her throat. Patrick was her sweetheart. He worked at the stables at Ramsbury Estates until he was promoted to a footman for the St. Georges, Lord Alexander and Lady Sophia. Last year, he died from cholera—a horrible, wasting illness that had been sweeping through much of Europe.

  “How do ye move on from something like that?” Isla whispered. It was the first she had spoken to someone else about his death ever since he was taken from her six months ago. She had been at his bedside every night since he fell ill. And when Dr. Daniels told her that there was nothing they could do for Patrick, she didn’t believe him at first. After all, something that tragic only happened in the novels she read, surely it was not supposed to happen in real life!

  “You don’t really move on from it,” Sophia told her gently. She had recently lost a dear friend—the ancient herbalist Miss Baxter—who had died from old age. Isla estimated her at being well over one hundred when she passed. At least she had a full life. Patrick was only twenty-five!

  “At some point you begin to accept that you will never see that person again, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have bouts of sadness. It’s all just a part of life. Besides, a part of them will always remain inside your heart,” Sophia told her.

  Isla sniffled and turned her head the other way. Although the older woman had seen her at worse, she didn’t like to cry in front of people. It made her feel weak. And when she felt weak, she didn’t feel in control.

  “Are you going to fight tonight?” Sophia asked her as they walked out of Dr. Daniel’s office and towards the awaiting carriage.

  “I have to. People expect it.”

  “You don’t have to do anything, Isla, especially for the sake of people you don’t even know.”

  “It’s all I ken to do,” Isla whispered.

  Sophia pursed her lips and looked like was struggling with the words she wanted to say. At the end, she only shook her head. “Well, the offer still stands. You still have a room at Ramsbury House. My husband and I are still in London for a few more days for business, if you change your mind.”

  “Aye, I ken.”

  Isla was used to being taken care of by the St. Georges at the drop of a hat. They had even offered to pay for the room she rented at the Camden Hotel by Covent Garden, although Isla had refused, telling them that she made enough money with her prizefights to pay for the rent herself. At one point in her life, she appreciated and accepted their support, but now that she was a grown woman, she wanted to do things her own way. Sophia St. George understood that, thankfully. The older woman had also paved her own way in life despite society’s expectations.

  And even if she didn’t agree with it, Sophia understood why she needed to fight tonight.

  “Would you like to come to Widley House for lunch?” Sophia asked her.

  Isla shook her head. “I’m going back to my room to get ready for the fight,” she told the woman. “But I’ll call on you if I change my mind.” She embraced the older woman before Sophia stepped into the carriage.

  Isla watched the vehicle depart down the street before she turned on
her heel and walked the opposite direction of Camden Hotel.

  The Tower of London was one of her favorite thinking spots. Well, it wasn’t actually the tower itself with all of its gory history that made it such a great place for Isla to think; it was the lesser known aspect of the historical site, the Tower of London Menagerie, where the royals housed the exotic animals. Some animals they had purchased, and others were given as gifts and then thrown in the small, fenced-in area of the Tower, without taking consideration of the animal’s natural habitat.

  Isla had been coming to the menagerie for years. The peaceful quiet of just her and the animals helped her focus before her prizefights. It broke Isla’s heart to see the animals treated such way, yet she felt powerless to do anything about it.

  Luck was on her side; the menagerie was to be dismantled, and the animals transported to hopefully better owners than the Hanoverians.

  Some of the animals were still on display for public viewing before they were to be sold off. A tall black fence separated Isla from her favorite sight: a lion named Golden that arrived from the African savannah a few months ago. Golden seemed to enjoy Isla’s company as well, and would lounge nearby whenever she noticed the woman watching her.

  What surprised her wasn’t that a man was already there, watching the animal, but that when he turned to glance her way, he didn’t seem to recognize her.

  Almost everybody knew who she was in London; her red hair was a big indication, as well as her height. She stood taller than most women and a decent amount of men. Furthermore, almost everyone had either seen her fight in person, or had read about her in the newspapers.

  This man looked at her once, and then turned right back around to the lion, who was grooming herself with a massive pink tongue.

  At first Isla felt insulted, but that feelings turned suddenly intro intrigue. How was it that this man did not know who she was? She assessed him out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t a bad looking man; he had dark brown hair with eyes to match and a defined jaw with a surprising amount of stubble on his cheeks. He was not wearing the clothes of an aristocrat, but that of a traveler or a sailor. Even from where she stood she could see that the hem of his clothing was worn and slightly stained. What also set him apart from the usual Londoner was the floppy felt hat he was wearing, and the trousers, which seemed to be made from some animal’s skin. Also, he was big, and tall, even by her standards. Standing at just six feet, there weren’t many men she had to crane her head up to look at. But this man was at least six and a half feet, if not more. He was broad around the shoulders and reminded Isla of the big brawlers that she would sometimes fight. They were the easiest because they fell over quickly. Yet unlike some of the men she had fought, this man held a certain kind of intelligence in his eyes.