Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Praise for the Novels of Allison Chase Her Majesty’s Secret Servants
Most Eagerly Yours
“This romance has an intelligent heroine and sexy hero, plots against the queen, intriguing twists and surprises. . . . All of this makes Chase’s first Her Majesty’s Secret Servants novel a page-turner.”
—Romantic Times
“A perfect balance of history, mystery, and romance that promises further adventures in this series.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A wonderful beginning, leaving me eager to know how the other sisters may act as the queen’s ‘secret servants.’ ”
—Romance Reader at Heart (a Top-Pick Rose)
“Fast-paced. . . . Fans will enjoy the opening act of Her Majesty’s Secret Servants as dueling investigations lead to a traitor and love.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Chase creates each scene of this historical novel with vivid and precise words that fill each page by painting the intricacies so well that the reader feels as if they are revisiting an old friend.”
—Romance Junkies (4 ¾ Blue Ribbon rating)
“I’m going to be eagerly awaiting her next book.”
—Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author of Some Like It Wild
“I thoroughly enjoyed Most Eagerly Yours. Allison Chase is a masterful storyteller. Her plots are intriguing, her talent for crafting a mystery unparalleled, and her love stories are touching as well as sensual. I am now a fan! She is a writer who delivers a book that delights me in every way, interlacing sensuality and romance with stunning detail, gripping mystery, and intrigue, plus fabulous characters who steal into my heart and keep me turning the pages. If you yearn for a story that engages all your senses and makes you sigh with satisfaction at the end, I highly recommend an Allison Chase book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Catherine Anderson
“Vivid and evocative, the voice of Allison Chase will whisk you away to a thrilling and sensual world of historical passion and intrigue.”
—Julianne MacLean, USA Today bestselling author of Captured by the Highlander
“This book was a delight from cover to cover! I can’t wait to see what happens with the rest of the Sutherland sisters and the adventures they will have as this series continues.”
—Historical Romance Writers
The Blackheath Moor Novels
Dark Temptation
Winner of the Romantic Times Award for Best Historical
Romantic Gothic
“An enthralling adventure. Sophie is a spirited, witty heroine and Chad is a tortured hero who truly has some heavy crimes on his conscience. . . . Allison Chase takes the classic gothic romance style of Victoria Holt or Daphne du Maurier and brings it into the twenty-first century with her addition of some spicy love scenes . . . makes an enthralling read.”
—Romance Junkies
“In Dark Temptation, the reader will want to go all the way to the end . . . an interesting read for both mystery and romance fans. Get cozy and prepare to have an adventure.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Contains a strong amateur-sleuth suspense subplot that enhances the lead couple’s romantic relationship. The story line is filled with warm passion and terrifying events that will keep readers on the edge wondering who is chasing whom in this dangerous search for the truth.”
—Midwest Book Review
“The windswept, forbidding coastline is the ideal location for Chase’s second Blackheath Moor gothic, where fear, deception, and passion dwell together. She sends chills down your spine as she heats up the pages with passionate love scenes and frightening incidents. Chase’s name is fast becoming synonymous with delicious, heart-stopping thrillers.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
Dark Obsession
“Dishes up a wonderful story in a charming, romantic tradition, complete with a handsome and tortured hero, real conflict, and a touch of mystery! Anyone who loves . . . a well-written historical romance will relish this tale.”
—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham
“This wonderfully moody and atmospheric tale, with its brooding hero, troubled young child, unquiet spirits, and unfriendly housekeeper, has many of the accoutrements of the classic gothic of the sixties. In fact, except for the ramped up sensuality . . . it is reminiscent of Victoria Holt.... The solid writing, riveting opening, and clever plot twists recommend this worthy debut.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“A compelling and exquisitely written love story that raises such dark questions along the way, you’ve no choice but to keep turning the pages to its stunning conclusion. Allison Chase is a master at touching your heart.”
—Jennifer St. Giles, author of Silken Shadows
“A dark tale of danger and desire.”
—Eve Silver, author of Dark Prince
“Set in 1830, the book moves at a spanking good pace. Readers who relish the passionate interludes will enjoy it all the more.”
—The Historical Novels Review
“In this first book in the Blackheath Moor series, Allison Chase delivers a gothic tale complete with a house filled with secret passages and a ghostly presence. Impending danger permeates the tale, capturing readers’ attention as the dramatic struggles between Nora and Grayson escalate. The tale ends in a dramatic and thrilling conclusion on the cliffs where it all began.”
—Fresh Fiction
OTHER BOOKS BY ALLISON CHASE
Her Majesty’s Secret Servants Series
Most Eagerly Yours
The Blackheath Moor Series
Dark Temptation
Dark Obsession
SIGNET ECLIPSE
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, December 2010
Copyright © Lisa Manuel, 2010
All rights reserved
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eISBN : 978-1-101-47660-4
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To Dr. Yakira Frank, who recognized the romance writer in me years before I did, and whose parting words to me as I graduated from the University of Connecticut have proved prophetic. Thank you, Dr. Frank, for your wisdom, your encouragement, and your uncanny insight into what the future held in store for me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the exquisite job NAL’s art department did on this cover . . . and for that matter, on all my covers so far. You have consistently gotten each one perfectly, beautifully right.
My gratitude also goes out to the unsung heroes in copy-editing. Your skills and remarkable eye for detail have more than once saved me from some rather embarrassing errors.
To my editor, Ellen Edwards; her assistant, Elizabeth Bistrow; the marketing and publicity departments; and all the others at NAL who believe in this series and have lent their invaluable support, my sincerest thanks.
Finally, this book could not have been written without the support of my husband, my family, and my intrepid critique group. I’m grateful to have all of you in my life.
Chapter 1
London, 1838
Ivy Sutherland slapped the morning edition of the Times onto the counter in front of her. Her shocked gaze darted over the books lining the walls of her family’s tiny shop. Had she read correctly? She snatched up the paper again and reread the headline:
PRICELESS JEWEL STOLEN FROM BUCKINGHAM PALACE
Her eyes skimmed over such phrases as “without a trace,” “no clues,” and “queen distraught.”
The rap of knuckles against the shop door made her flinch. She had locked up not ten minutes ago, shortly after her two sisters, who helped her run the Knightsbridge Readers’ Emporium, left for the opening of a new play across town. Ivy hesitated. Ever since her eldest sister, Laurel, had returned from Bath last spring, there had been changes in the Sutherlands’ lives. Laurel’s new husband, the Earl of Barensforth, saw to it that his three sisters-in-law enjoyed heretofore unattainable luxuries like plays and new frocks and more books than Ivy could ever hope to read.
There had been other changes, too . . . such as a pair of servants, the Eddelsons, who lived in the third-floor garret. With his previously broken nose and tree trunk of a neck, Mr. Eddelson seemed, in Ivy’s estimate, more suitable for prowling London’s back alleys than carrying in deliveries and driving the sisters about town in their shiny new phaeton.
Then there was that morning not long ago when Ivy had spied Mrs. Eddelson sharpening the kitchen knives in their tiny rear garden. As Ivy had watched, the woman had cast a circumspect glance over her shoulder before grinning and sending the meat cleaver sailing end over end to sink some two inches into the trunk of the stunted birch tree growing in the corner.
It hadn’t taken Ivy long to conclude that their brother-in-law’s precautionary measures stemmed from more than mere prudence. Something had happened during Laurel’s adventures in Bath to warrant stringent safety measures . . . such as never opening the door to strangers at night.
Another knock resounded, louder and more insistent than the first. Slipping off her stool, Ivy went to the window and peeked through the gap in the curtains. A coach-and-four of the finest quality stood at the curbside. No identifiable crest adorned its sleek panels. The plain livery of the three attending footmen gave no clue as to the individual they served.
No clue, that was, to anyone but the Sutherland sisters, who had seen this coach before. Recognition rushed through Ivy; with a gasp, she hurried to the door and turned the key.
A figure draped from head to toe in black wool stepped over the threshold. “Quickly, shut the door!”
Once Ivy had complied, a pair of softly plump hands flipped back the cloak’s hood and then reached for Ivy’s own hands. “Something dreadful has happened.”
“I know.” Ivy pointed to the newspaper angled across the countertop. “I just read about it.”
“Yes, well, there is more to the story than the papers, or anyone for that matter, knows. Please, Ivy, I need your help. May I count on you?”
Ivy gazed down into the solemn eyes and sweet features of England’s nineteen-year-old queen and smiled. “I am your servant, Your Majesty. Now, please, dearest, come up to the parlor and tell me everything.”
The hired caléche jostled laboriously along the weather-pitted highway north of Cambridge. Inside, the single passenger, dusty, hungry, and exhausted from the three-day journey from London, entertained grave doubts about the rash decision that had brought her here.
Lady Gwendolyn de Burgh had done a very, very bad thing, and now she didn’t know how to set about making it right. Borrowing the queen’s mysterious stone hadn’t seemed so terrible when the idea had first occurred to her. It was really nothing but a rock, after all, not shiny and faceted and richly hued, but a jagged, granitelike hunk speckled with bits of silver. Other than the odd, tingling energy that emanated from its surface, there was hardly anything remarkable to be said for Her Majesty’s stone.
Except that it had been a gift from that German gentleman, the one the queen strictly forbade her ladies-in-waiting from discussing outside the private royal chambers. That man, Albert, believed the stone held special properties—electromagnetism, the queen had said—which was what had prompted Gwendolyn to steal . . . borrow . . . the stone in the first place.
Gwendolyn’s gaze fell to the ornate box on her lap. Even through the carved wood with its inlaid design of jade and ivory, she thought she perceived a faint vibration beneath her fingertips. Or did the sensation originate from her jangling nerves? She couldn’t refrain from noting that the dimensions of this particular box could neatly accommodate a human head—her head. A century or two ago, that very well might have been the unhappy outcome for anyone foolish enough to steal . . . borrow . . . from his or her monarch without permission.
Oh, dear.
In the distance, beyond the flat, boggy fens streaming past the carriage window, a lingering splash of sunlight turned Cambridge University’s loftiest towers to amber. As the vehicle rambled farther away from the city, a box hedge sprang up along the roadside, replaced all too soon by familiar high stone walls topped by a wrought iron railing with lethal-looking spikes.
Gwendolyn was almost home. With a rap on the coach ceiling, she called out, “Stop here.”
Here was the base of the curving drive that snaked through a heavy growth of oak and pi
ne planted nearly a hundred years ago by the first Marquess of Harrow. That the iron gates stood open did not make the shadowed entrance of Harrowood any more welcoming. Clinging to the safety of the open road, Gwendolyn hesitated in ordering the coachman to turn in. Would the present marquess, her brother, welcome her back after all these months?
A chill of doubt crept across her shoulders as the last of the sunlight seeped away, plunging the road into sudden darkness. The box on her lap seemed to give off a cautionary tremor.
Above the trees, a fiery burst of light illuminated the house’s sloping rooftops. Gwendolyn gasped. From Harrowood’s central turret, an angry conflagration of sparks shot upward. The caléche jolted as the pair of grays whickered and tugged at their traces. In the stillness that followed, a crack like thunder echoed down the drive, rousting a flock of blackbirds from their nests to scatter in a panicked flurry across the twilit sky.
Both sights fueled Gwendolyn’s growing misgivings. The sparks served to remind her of her brother’s rage and the blistering words they’d exchanged the last time they had seen each other. Like those scattering birds, her courage flitted away.
“Ma’am?” The coachman’s voice rose an octave and caught.
This was a mistake, Gwendolyn concluded, a foolish, dreadful, ill-advised mistake. She should not have come here alone. How silly of her not to seek help from someone who was capable of talking sense into that brother of hers. A new idea occurred to her, one that, with luck, just might work.
“Drive on,” she cried as another flash lit the night sky.
Simon de Burgh, Marquess of Harrow, cursed the cinders that showered back down into his laboratory through the turret’s open skylight. With an exasperated sigh, he seized the woolen blanket from the table behind him and smothered the tiny flames dancing amid his equipment. Then he stamped out each glowing ember to prevent the oaken floor from catching fire.
Outrageously Yours Page 1
