by Jo Beverley
She went down the stairs with her attendants and put on the warm cloak lined with chinchilla, which was Randal’s outrageous bride-gift to her, especially outrageous in view of the note accompanying it: “I recommend, sweet coz, that sometime you wear this, and nothing else, to bed.” Even now, Chloe knew she was blushing at the thought, and that part of the heat was anticipation, not embarrassment.
Accompanied by her dignified father and the two bridesmaids, she went out to the coach and off to her wedding.
It was a quiet affair, attended only by family and friends, both by choice and because of the expected death of Princess Amelia. The latter had, as anticipated, plunged the King into terminal madness.
Justin smiled as she walked down the aisle toward him. He held out his hand and she placed hers within it. There was no awkwardness or nervousness in either of them. Everything was so completely right, she thought. Even Stephen was doubtless approving.
Afterward they rode back together to the Towers, but not alone. The bridesmaids rode in the coach. Cressida was tongue-tied as usual, but not Lady Sophie.
“A wedding, and to be out of school two weeks early for Christmas! I can’t believe what luck.” She smiled at Chloe. “I can’t wait to be married myself. Sometimes it seems I will be looked upon as a child forever. I intend to have a Season as soon as may be, because then gentlemen will have to take me seriously.”
Chloe saw Justin’s lips twitch, and leaned against his shoulder. Sophie reminded her of herself six years ago, but happier. The girl’s father was dead, and Chloe had not met her mother. Sophie’s brother, however, the new Lord Wraybourne, seemed to be an excellent guardian, loving but firm. She doubted Lady Sophie would be tempted to a runaway match. She would doubtless be a handful, though, for some man some day.
“Do you have admirers yet, Lady Sophie?” asked Chloe idly.
“Dozens,” said the minx, probably truthfully. She was very pretty. “But I have set my sights high. When I marry, it will be to the most handsome, most marvelous man in the world.”
Chloe looked up at Justin. “He’s already taken, Lady Sophie,” she said softly.
They had arrived at the Towers, and they climbed down. Chloe was glad of her cloak, for a cold wind whipped across the courtyard. She didn’t care, however, about the season for her wedding. It was done, that was all.
She looked up at Justin and he smiled. His hands slid around her beneath the fur, and he drew her into his arms for a kiss of total passion. She felt his body against hers, and the warmth of his skin was a foil for the cold air. Knowing there were watching eyes, however, Chloe struggled free.
Justin released her and kissed her hand. “Tonight,” he said meaningfully.
“In the Duchess’s bedroom after dinner?” retorted Chloe with a wicked smile.
He laughed out loud and kissed her again, but quickly.
“Inflammatory games being the order of the day . . . or night,” he added, then tore his gaze away. More carriages were pulling up to the Towers.
He looked around for their attendants, who were tactfully studying a stone griffin. Cressida’s face was flaming red. Lady Sophie was merely amused. For a moment she looked older and wiser than she should be, but then she was all child again.
“Come along, do. It’s freezing out here, and there’s Monsieur Fraquette’s special lemon tarts, Devonshire syllabub, and puits d’amour as well!”
Laughing, Chloe and Justin followed the young ladies into the warmth of the great house.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE STANFORTH SECRETS is set in my corner of England—North Lancashire. I was born at home in a room overlooking Morecambe Bay, and grew up in the same house. Like Chloe in this book, I spent many hours watching the sea, the birds, and the ever-changing sky. This wasn’t exactly the same view, however, for this book is set in the ancient village of Heysham (pronounced Heesham—the natives insist on it), a few miles down the coast from my hometown of Morecambe (pronounced Morcome).
In fact, Morecambe didn’t exist in 1810. It was still the village of Poulton. It only grew, and received its name, during the holiday-making boom of the Victorian era. It is now a typical English seaside town, but a block from my old home there is Poulton Square, the old center of the village, which has on one side the New Inn dating back to the eighteenth century.
The historical details of Heysham are correct. There is a ruined chapel, said to have been built by St. Patrick, and a 1,200-year-old church—St. Peter’s—which is still in use. The church is surrounded by a beautiful graveyard that overlooks the sea and a hogback stone was dug up there in 1800. When I was a child the stone was in the churchyard, and we children, knowing no reverence for antiquity, would sometimes climb on it. It was moved not long ago into the church for protection from the elements—and perhaps from little monsters.
Heysham is a charming and fascinating place. If you find yourself in North Lancashire, perhaps on your way to the Lake District, do try to visit there.
Apart from Lord Liverpool and the Duke of York, the people who appear in the book, and the homes they live in, are totally my own invention. There never was a Delamere Hall or a Troughton House. Chloe and Justin, Randal and the Duchess and all the other characters live only in my imagination.
And now, I hope, in yours.
Jo Beverley Ottawa, Canada
Dear Readers,
I hope you are enjoying these reissues of my traditional Regency romances.
I wrote six such books in the early days of my career, and they’ve now become expensive and hard to find, so I’m delighted that NAL is reissuing them, and with such lovely covers, too. Two of the novels came out in 2008 in a single volume called Lovers and Ladies. For complicated reasons those were the last two books, The Fortune Hunter and Deirdre and Don Juan. The remaining four are coming out in sequence.
The first, Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed, was republished in October 2009, and now you have read the second, The Stanforth Secrets. The Stolen Bride will be out in October 2010.
These books don’t form a tight series like my Company of Rogues or the Mallorens, but Lord Randal Ashby forms a link. He’s a handsome young devil nicknamed the Bright Angel in school, largely in contrast to his friend the Dark Angel, Piers Verderan—a troubled boy who would turn into a dangerous man.
He becomes entangled with Lady Sophie Kyle in Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed when dramatic events lead them into a compromising situation. Sophie is not at all displeased, for she’s adored Randal for years. Randal, however, is more ambivalent.
The Stanforth Secrets goes back a few years to when he helped his cousin Chloe cope with murder and mayhem and find her own true love. In The Stolen Bride, we’re in the period after the Wraybourne wedding, and Randal and Sophie’s own wedding draws close, but all is not well in their Eden. Sophie thinks Randal is behaving strangely, and fears it’s because he’s been trapped into marrying her. She wants him for her husband more than anything in the world, but she knows an unwilling groom will be disastrous. Into this fraught situation comes an old enemy.
This novel also tells the love story of Jane Wraybourne’s old governess, Mrs. Beth Hawley. Jane has asked Beth to come to Stenby Castle to assist with the wedding preparations. Beth considers herself a practical woman, and at thirty-three too old for romance, but as she gets to know Lord Wraybourne’s sporting friend, Sir Marius Fletcher, her world begins to turn topsy-turvy.
In The Stolen Bride, we also meet the Dark Angel, Randal’s friend Piers Verderan, and discover exactly why people are always warning Randal to stay far, far away from him. However, in Emily and the Dark Angel (October 2010) Verderan will meet no-nonsense Emily Grantham in a cloud of violet-scented talcum powder and his life will never be the same. This book won a RITA award.
I hope you are enjoying all these classic stories, whether for the first time or again.
If you visit the page for these books on my Web site—www.jobev.com/tradreg.html—you’ll find more about the books, plus a
place to sign up for an e-mail reminder when the books are arriving on shelves. Those are the only e-mails you’ll get from there, so don’t worry about spam. You can also sign up for my occasional e-newsletters. There’s a separate sign-up box for this, but again, no chat, no spam.
All the best wishes,
Jo Beverley
BETH HAWLEY was on her way to Stenby Castle to visit her ex-pupil, now Lady Wraybourne, and to assist at the upcoming wedding of Lord Wraybourne’s sister. At a halt they encountered Sir Marius Fletcher, a friend of Lord Wraybourne’s, whom Beth had met before. As his curricle was broken down, she felt obliged to offer to share the carriage to their nearby destination.
Sir Marius’s baggage was transferred from his curricle to the boot of the coach, his man was given instructions for the care of the equipage, and then the baronet climbed into the coach to take the seat opposite hers.
It was not as bad as Beth had imagined, though his size did dwarf the compartment.
“I don’t much care for closed carriages,” he said dryly as the coach rolled out of the inner yard. “I always feel as if I’m going to put an elbow through the wall.”
She remembered Jane had found this man rather forbidding when they had first met, then had come to call him a friend. Beth could certainly understand the first part. “Harsh” was the word that came to mind. Like granite. The bones of his jaw and skull were solid beneath the flesh.
She realized she had been staring. “It must certainly be a problem at times, being so large,” she said hastily.
“No more of a problem than being so tiny, ma’am,” he drawled.
Beth sat up straighter. “Well, really, Sir Marius. There is no call for personal remarks.”
There was a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “It was no more personal than the remark you made about me, dear lady.”
“It was you, as I recall, who began the topic with talk of elbows. . . .” Beth trailed off as she realized she was arguing, in a rather childish way, with a virtual stranger. “I—I do beg you pardon,” she stammered, knowing she was turning a fiery red. She was a redhead with very indiscreet skin.
“Now, don’t spoil it,” he said with a grin. “I was looking forward to sparring all the way to Stenby.”
“I could not contemplate such a thing, Sir Marius,” Beth said stiffly, regretting the charitable impulse that had prompted her to invite him into the carriage. She didn’t even feel able to remove her bonnet and be comfortable.
He looked at her consideringly, and then smiled in a more natural way. “I apologize. It is not good of me to be teasing you when we’re in such a situation.”
For some reason these words made Beth feel only more flustered. “What do you mean, ‘such a situation?’ ”
He leaned back at his ease. “Why, in a closed carriage, Mrs. Hawley. You can hardly escape me, short of risking life and limb by leaping into the road. We’re going a fair speed too. Kinnock must be keen to be home.”
Grasping a safe topic with relief, Beth said, “You must know Stenby well, Sir Marius.”
“Very well. David and I have been friends since we were boys. I’ve spent many a happy summer at the castle. Is this your first visit there?”
“Yes. Jane invited me during the summer but I felt she and her husband should have time together. Now she has asked me to come and help with Sophie’s wedding.”
“Well, if you were giving them peace and quiet,” said Sir Marius, “you should have taken that minx Sophie out of their orbit. She has a natural antipathy to tranquility.”
Beth was beginning to understand the large gentleman and did not miss the fondness behind the comment. “Lady Sophie is lively,” she responded, “but she has a kind heart. I’m sure she has done her best not to be a bother to her brother and Jane.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “It’s certain she hasn’t sought their company if Randal’s been available.”
Beth smiled. She remembered Lady Sophie Kyle and Lord Randal Ashby at Jane’s wedding, always together, always smiling, always in some way connected. Even though their betrothal had not been officially announced until recently, no one who saw them could be in any doubt as to the state of affairs. “It is only natural for young people to want to be together when they’re in love, Sir Marius. And Lady Sophie and Lord Randal are very much in love.”
“Sickening, ain’t it?”
Beth chuckled. “I can quite see you are not of a romantical disposition, Sir Marius, but you should not begrudge your friends their happiness.”
“Why not?” he replied, but with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s spoiled a perfectly good summer. My two closest friends have wasted it on mere women.”
Beth shook her head. “I fear you are a cynic, Sir Marius. One day you too might come to that dreadful fate.”
“Marriage, maybe. Love, never. It ain’t in my disposition.”
Beth felt the conversation was becoming a little too intimate, and in a way she found strangely disconcerting. “Could you tell me a little more about Stenby Castle?” she asked quickly. “Jane has conveyed some of its history in her letters but I have a very unclear picture. Is it truly medieval?”
He settled in his seat and stretched his legs. Beth had to move slightly to ensure her skirt was not in contact with his boots. When she thought of her previous journeys on crowded stages, her unease with the slightest contact seemed ridiculous, and yet . . .
“That’s difficult to say, Mrs. Hawley,” he said easily. She knew he had noted her move and was amused. A truly infuriating man. “Most of the external walls date back to at least the fourteenth century but the Kyles haven’t done without their comforts. Arrow slits have become windows; fireplaces have been improved. Walls have been covered with tapestries, panelling and wallpaper. Apart from the Great Hall, which is hardly used, the house appears very like any gentleman’s seat.” He leaned forward, and she hastily leaned back.
He was merely gazing out the window.
“If you look carefully,” he said, “you can catch your first glimpse of the place through those trees.”
Forgetting her concerns, Beth quickly moved forward to share the view.
“Over on that rise,” said Sir Marius, close to her ear.
Then Beth saw Stenby Castle in the distance, crenellated gray stone walls softened by greenery and set with glittering windows. As the coach bowled along she sat and watched the place gradually fall behind a screen of trees. She became aware of Sir Marius’s breath, warm on her cheek.
Startled, she turned to face him and was surprised to see a look of enigmatic amusement. She drew back into her seat feeling far more flustered than was reasonable.
“A charming prospect,” she said hurriedly.
“Decidedly,” he drawled. “But not in the common run.”
“Of course not. Most earls do not have castles for their principal seats.”
“Certainly most people prefer the younger, the more fashionable standard of beauty,” he said in a manner she could take only as teasing, though she could not see what there was to joke about.
“Do you think so?” she queried. “I thought there was a decided taste for the Gothic these days.”
“Gothic?” he echoed with a grin. “Do you really think that description fair?”
Beth could not remember ever having been so off balance. She was used to handling events with calm competence and yet this man, in some way, was making her feel dizzy. He was also talking nonsense.
“I know some people use ‘Gothic’ in a pejorative sense, Sir Marius,” she said sharply, “but surely it can be used more exactly. A medieval castle must have elements of the Gothic.”
“Time will tell,” he drawled. “It certainly promises to be an entertaining visit—” He broke off as the horses were suddenly pulled up.
As soon as the coach stopped, he swung open the door. “What’s amiss?”
“Coach off the road, Sir Marius,” said Kinnock. “Grigson’s just gone to see if they need help.”
Not at all unwilling to stretch her legs, Beth followed. Sir Marius turned back and moved to help her down.
Beth felt a decided reluctance to allow him to swing her to the ground, but it would be a long jump for her and she could hardly order him to let down the steps. Two strong hands nearly spanned her waist and she was lifted down as if she were a feather. She was used to being small, but this man made her feel positively childlike and she didn’t like it one bit.
JO BEVERLEY is widely regarded as one of the most talented romance writers today. She is a New York Times best-seller, a five-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s cherished RITA Award, and one of only a handful of members of the RWA Hall of Fame. She has also twice received the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. Born in England, she has two grown sons and lives with her husband in Victoria, British Columbia, just a ferry ride away from Seattle. You can visit her Web site at www.jobev.com.
