by Louise Allen
London, 1814
A season of secrets, scandal and seduction!
A darkly dangerous stranger is out for revenge, delivering a silken rope as his calling card. Through him, a long-forgotten scandal is reawakened. The notorious events of 1794, which saw one man murdered and another hanged for the crime, is ripe gossip in the ton. Was the right culprit brought to justice or is there a treacherous murderer still at large?
As the murky waters of the past are disturbed, so servants find love with roguish lords, and proper ladies fall for rebellious outcasts until, finally, the true murderer and spy is revealed.
Regency Silk & Scandal
From glittering ballrooms to a Cornish smuggler’s cove; from the wilds of Scotland to a Romany camp—join with the highest and lowest in society as they find love in this thrilling new eight-book miniseries!
Praise for Louise Allen’s
Those Scandalous Ravenhursts
THE DANGEROUS MR. RYDER
“Allen’s latest adventure romance is a roller-coaster ride that sweeps readers through Europe and into the relationship between a very proper baroness and a very improper spy. The quick pace and hold-your-breath escape plans turn this love story into a one-night read that will have you cheering for the appealing characters.”
—RT Book Reviews
THE OUTRAGEOUS LADY FELSHAM
“Allen’s daring, sexy and, yes, outrageous spin-off of The Dangerous Mr. Ryder gently borders on erotic romance because of the manner in which she plays out her characters’ fantasies (including a marvelous bear rug!) without ever losing sight of Regency mores.”
—RT Book Reviews
THE SHOCKING LORD STANDON
“Allen continues her collection of novels centering on the ton’s scandalous activities with another delightful and charming Ravenhurst story of love and mayhem.”
—RT Book Reviews
THE PIRATICAL MISS RAVENHURST
“With a cast of dangerous characters, an honorable hero and a courageous young heroine…Allen sets the tone for a lively adventure and immensely entertaining read.”
—RT Book Reviews
Louise Allen
THE LORD AND THE WAYWARD LADY
Dear Reader,
It was a thrill to be asked to contribute to the Regency miniseries Silk & Scandal, but unlike so many things where the initial thrill wears off when reality hits, this experience just got better and better.
Not only were there five other authors to get to know—and what a joy that was—but then we had the delight of creating our Regency world with a mystery and a scandal at the heart of it. We had our own characters to discover but we also had the cast of eight books to work with, all interacting together to advance the plot or intensify the mystery.
This, the first book, introduces the Carlow family—Marcus, Honoria, Hal and Verity. Each of the siblings has a story in this series and it is Marcus, the elder son of Lord and Lady Narborough, who first realizes that the shocking secrets from his father’s past have come back to haunt them all.
Interwoven with the Carlows’ lives and loves are three other families along with their friends, enemies and unlikely allies. I hope you enjoy meeting them all and following them on their journey to find vengeance, redemption, the truth—and love.
But now meet Marcus, a man with a lot on his mind, and Nell, a milliner with a pistol in her reticule, and enter a world of silk and scandal.
With best wishes,
Louise
For my fellow Continuistas—Annie, Christine, Gayle, Julia, and Margaret—with love. What a wonderful way to meet!
Look for these novels in the Regency miniseries
Silk & Scandal
The Lord and the Wayward Lady
by Louise Allen—June 2010
Paying the Virgin’s Price
by Christine Merrill—July 2010
The Smuggler and the Society Bride
by Julia Justiss—August 2010
Claiming the Forbidden Bride
by Gayle Wilson—September 2010
The Viscount and the Virgin
by Annie Burrows—October 2010
Unlacing the Innocent Miss
by Margaret McPhee—November 2010
The Officer and the Proper Lady
by Louise Allen—December 2010
Taken by the Wicked Rake
by Christine Merrill—January 2011
Contents
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
Chapter One
January 5, 1814. London
‘Just look at that blue sky, guv’nor. Mornin’ like this, all’s right with the world and no mistake.’
‘You must be in love, Dan.’ Marcus Carlow, Viscount Stanegate, observed as he looped his reins and took the corner from Piccadilly into Albemarle Street at a brisk trot.
A waft of onions from behind him accompanied an indignant snort from his tiger. ‘You won’t find me shut up in parson’s pound, guv’nor. Nah, just look at it: all crisp and sunny and fresh. A perfect day—proper lifts the spirits. Nuffin’ could go wrong on a day like this.’
‘After a remark like that, a superstitious man would take to his bed, order the doors to be bolted and expect disaster.’ Marcus grinned, steadying the pair as they took exception to a large party proceeding along the pavement in a flurry of bandboxes and fluttering scarves.
It was a damned good day, Dan was right. The sun shone, the air was crisp, the fog had lifted and the intriguing Mrs Perdita Jensen was showing unmistakeable signs of a willingness to accept his carte blanche.
Yes, if one disregarded a father whose poor health was wearing down his mother’s spirits, one sister whose aim in life appeared to bring him to an early grave with worry, another whose sweet innocence was equally conducive to anxiety, and a brother who, when he was not putting life and limb at risk on the battlefield, was set on becoming the wildest rake in town, then one might, indeed, believe that nothing on earth could go wrong.
Marcus contemplated the day ahead. Luncheon with the family, a meeting with Brocket, the estate manager, up from Hertfordshire with a bulging portfolio of estate business, dinner at his club and then a visit to Mrs Jensen’s discreet apartments to agree terms. Calm, ordered, satisfactory and predictable, just for once.
‘Take the curricle round to the mews, Dan. I won’t be—’ The door of the double-fronted town house burst open as a footman emerged at the run. ‘Peters?’
‘My lord.’ The man pulled himself up at the foot of the steps. ‘Lord Narborough—it looks like another heart stroke, my lord. Mr Wellow said I was to take a hack and fetch the doctor, urgently.’
‘Dan, take the reins.’ Marcus thrust them into the tiger’s hands as the young man scrambled round and into the seat. Marcus vaulted down and pushed the footman up beside Dan. ‘If Dr Rowlands isn’t at home, find where he has gone and bring him.’
He took the steps two at a time and caught the closing front door. The hall was in turmoil. Richards, the youngest footman, was wringing his hands and declaring that it wasn’t his fault, the young lady looked respectable enough and how was he to know she was a murdering hussy? Wellow, the but
ler, was demanding of Felling, the earl’s elderly valet, where his lordship’s drops were, and at the foot of the stairs three young women were engaged in a noisy argument.
Or, at least, Honoria, his elder sister, was arguing. Verity, the younger, was in tears. Marcus shrugged off his caped driving coat and strode across the black-and-white chequered floor to the one person who appeared to be calm. ‘Miss Price, what has occurred?’
His sisters’ companion turned, relief at the sight of him clear on her face. ‘Lord Stanegate, thank Heavens you are returned. No, Honoria! If your mama says the young woman is to remain in the library until Lord Stanegate says what is to be done, then that is where she stays and you are not to speak to her.’ She put an arm around Verity and gave her a little shake. ‘Now stop crying, Verity. What good is that going to do your papa?’
‘None.’ Verity threw herself onto Marcus’s chest. ‘Marc! Papa is dying!’
‘Nonsense,’ he retorted with more assurance than he felt, disentangling his sister and setting her firmly on her feet. ‘Verity, Honoria, go and help Felling find Papa’s drops. Miss Price, where is Lord Narborough?’
‘In his study, with her ladyship,’ she said. ‘Mrs Hoby should be up at any moment with some sweet tea.’
‘Thank you.’ Marcus opened the door to the study and went quietly inside. His father was stretched out on the big leather chaise, his wife seated by his side, patting his hand. Marcus stopped dead, shaken despite knowing what to expect. The earl, always in poor health, was only fifty-four, but with grey hair and stooped shoulders he looked twenty years older. Marcus could barely recall his father as well and active. But now, with blue lips and his eyes closed and sunken, he looked a dying man.
‘Mama?’
Lady Narborough looked up and smiled.
‘Marc, I knew you would not be long. George, here is Marc.’
The hooded lids fluttered open and Marcus let out the breath he was holding. No, his father was not going to die, not this time. The dark grey eyes, so like his own, were focused and alive.
‘Father, what happened?’
‘Some girl…brought it. Don’t know why.’ His right hand moved restlessly. Marcus knelt by the chaise, taking his father’s hand in his as his mother got up and moved aside to give him room.
His father gripped his fingers. ‘There.’ He turned his head towards the desk where a brown-paper parcel lay undone, something heaped in its midst. ‘My boy.’ His voice dropped to a whisper and Marcus leaned close to hear. ‘That old business. Hebden and Wardale. Dead and buried…I thought.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘Don’t fuss. Shock, that’s all… Damn this heart.’
Lady Narborough met Marcus’s eyes across the room, her own wide and questioning as he curled his fingers around his father’s wrist and felt for the pulse. ‘He’ll do,’ he murmured as the housekeeper came in with the tea, the valet at her heels with the belladonna drops.
Between them, they got the earl propped up and sipping his tea. Certain his mother was occupied, Marcus moved to the desk and examined the parcel that had caused all the trouble. Ordinary stout brown paper tied with string and sealed with a blob of red wax. The Earl of Narborough and the address in a firm black hand, probably masculine. Marcus bent and sniffed: no perfume.
And lying in the centre, beside the knife his father had used to slash the string, a length of coiled rope. It was perhaps an inch thick and a strange colour, a mix of fine soft threads—blues, reds, yellows, white, brown and black.
Frowning, Marcus lifted it and it slithered, snakelike, in his grip. The feel as it moved was somehow alive. Silk? Then he saw the loop and the knot in the end, and recognised it. A silken rope, a luxurious halter to hang a man. The privilege, if such it could be called, accorded to a peer of the realm who was sentenced to death.
Hebden and Wardale, his father had said. One a victim, the other his murderer. Two dead men. And now, after almost twenty years, this rope delivered to their closest friend. Coincidence? He did not think so and neither, it was obvious, did his father.
With a glance to reassure himself that the earl seemed stable enough, Marcus slipped from the room. Raised female voices could be heard from the White Salon, but the hall was empty save for Wellow, on the watch for the doctor.
‘Wellow, what the devil has been going on here?’
The butler tightened his lips, his face once more impassive beneath the imposing dome of his bald head. ‘A young woman called—at the front door, my lord. Richards answered it. He says she appeared a lady, despite carrying a parcel, which is why he did not send her to the tradesmen’s entrance. She asked to speak to his lordship, insisted that she must deliver the package into his hands.
‘Richards showed her through to the study.’ The butler’s expression boded ill for the junior footman. ‘I regret to say he has now forgotten the name he was given to announce. He left her alone with his lordship. A few moments later the young woman came out of the room, calling for help. His lordship was in a collapsed condition. I told Richards to shut her in the library and lock the door until your return, my lord, considering that the entire affair had a most irregular appearance.’
‘Very wise, thank you, Wellow. I will speak to her now. Call me when the doctor arrives.’
The key was in the lock. Marcus turned it and went into the library, braced for almost anything.
The woman who turned from her contemplation of the street was tall, slender to the point of thinness and clad in a plain, dark pelisse and gown. Her bonnet was neither fashionable nor dowdy; the impression she gave was of neatness and frugality. As he came closer and noticed the tightness with which her hands were clasped before her and the rigidity of her shoulders, he realized that she was under considerable strain.
‘The butler told me to wait for Lord Stanegate. Are you he?’ Her voice was a surprise. Warm and mellow, like honey. Hazel eyes watched him, full of concern. Feigned?
‘I am Stanegate,’ he said, not troubling to blank out his feelings from either his face or voice. For whatever reason, she had made his father very ill. ‘And you?’
‘Miss Smith.’
Why couldn’t I have thought of something more convincing? Nell stared back into the hard eyes, as dark as wet flint. He was too big, too serious, too male. And far too close. She locked her knees against the instinct to edge backwards as she read the anger under the control he was exerting.
‘Miss Smith?’ No, he didn’t believe her. There was scepticism in the deep voice, and one corner of his mouth turned down in the reverse of a smile as he studied her face. ‘Why, exactly, have you delivered a silken rope to my father?’
Nell made herself withstand the compelling dark eyes. ‘Is that what it was? The parcel seemed innocuous enough. I saw no harm in it.’
‘The rope looked like a snake. You are fortunate that he did not die of the shock. The earl is not a well man, his heart is weak.’ There was the anger again, like fire behind the flint. A man who loved his father and was afraid for him.
‘I had no idea what it contained. It was only a parcel to be delivered.’ Just let me go…
‘Indeed? You hardly look like the sort of female to be employed delivering parcels.’ The viscount—she supposed that was what he was; her grasp of the ranks of nobility was escaping her under stress—folded his arms across his chest and looked her up and down. She knew what he was seeing. Shabby gentility, neatness and decency maintained by sheer willpower and a refusal to give in and allow her standards to slip.
‘I am a—’ Lie, her instincts shouted ‘—dressmaker. I deliver garments for fittings to clients’ homes on behalf of my employer. One gentleman asked, as a favour, if she would have me deliver that parcel here. He has spent a good deal of money at the shop recently. Madame did not like to refuse such a good customer.’
‘His name?’ He did not seem to actually disbelieve her despite the sceptical line of that hard mouth. And it was true. Almost.
‘I do not know it.’
‘Re
ally, Miss Smith? An excellent customer of your employer and you do not know his name?’ He moved closer, just a little, just to the very edge of discomfort for her, and narrowed his eyes.
Nell lifted her chin and stared back, letting him see that she was assessing him in her turn, refusing to be cowed. Almost thirty, she guessed; six foot, give or take half an inch; fit; confident, used to getting his own way. Was that because of his station in life or his inherent qualities? All she could tell of the latter, just now, was that he was an angry man who loved his father.
‘No, I do not know his real name, my lord. I know the name he gave: Salterton.’
‘And how do you know that is false?’
‘I assumed by the style of what he chose that he was buying items for his mistress. He spent a lot of money. Money, I deduced, that he would not want his wife to know about. I was there when he first came into the shop and I heard Madame ask him his name. He hesitated, just a fraction, and then there was something in his voice. He was lying; one can tell.’
‘Indeed, one can,’ Lord Stanegate said, that mobile corner of his mouth twitching up into a fleeting smile that held no humour whatsoever. Nell felt her cheeks grow hot and stared fixedly at the cabochon-ruby pin in his neckcloth. ‘What does he look like?’
‘I hardly saw him and I think that was deliberate on his part. I do not think even Madame has fully seen his face. He always seems to come in the evening and he wears a slouch hat, his collar is turned up. He pays in cash, not on account.
‘But one can see he is dark.’ She struggled for remembrance and to assemble her impressions into a coherent description. ‘He is foreign perhaps, because there is something in his voice—not quite an accent, more of a lilt, although he speaks like an English gentleman. He looks fit, he moves well.’ She frowned, chasing the elusive words to describe the shadowy figure. ‘Like a dancer. He is not quite as tall as you and of slighter build.’
