by Winter Fire
Jo Beverley is “one of the great names in the genre…”*
Five RITA Awards
The Readers’ Choice Award
The Award of Excellence
The Golden Leaf Award
Two Career Achievement Awards from
Romantic Times
Member of the Romance Writers of America
Hall of Fame
Member of the Romance Writers of America
Honor Roll
*Romantic Times
Praise for Jo Beverley’s Malloren novels
“Beverley beautifully captures the flavor of Georgian England…. Her fast-paced, violent, and exquisitely sensual story is one that readers won’t soon forget.”
—Library Journal
“Jo Beverley has truly brought to life a fascinating, glittering, and sometimes dangerous world.”
—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney
“Delightfully spicy…skillfully plotted and fast-paced…captivating.”
—Booklist
“Delicious…. [A] sensual delight.”
—New York Times bestselling author Teresa Medeiros
“A fast-paced adventure with strong, vividly portrayed characters…. Wickedly, wonderfully sensual and gloriously romantic.”
—New York Times bestselling author Mary Balogh
“Romance at its best.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A fantasic novel. Jo Beverley shows again why she is considered one of the genre’s brightest stars.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Intricately plotted, fast-paced, and delightfully wicked.”
—Library Journal
“Storytelling at its best!”
—Rendezvous
“A page-turner…a breathtaking and powerful love story.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
Don’t miss these Malloren romances!
Devilish
Secrets of the Night
Something Wicked
My Lady Notorious
ALSO BY JO BEVERLEY
St. Raven
Dark Champion
Lord of My Heart
My Lady Notorious
Hazard
The Devil’s Heiress
The Dragon’s Bride
“The Demon’s Mistress” in In Praise of Younger Men
Devilish
Secrets of the Night
Forbidden Magic
Lord of Midnight
Something Wicked
Winter Fire
Jo Beverley
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, November 2003
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3
Copyright © Jo Beverley Publications, Inc., 2003
Excerpt from Secrets of the Night copyright © Jo Beverley, 1999
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-21174-8
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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Winter Fire
Table of 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 Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Author’s Note
Secrets of the Night
Chapter One
December 1763, in Surrey, en route to Rothgar Abbey
“M any people pray for tedium,” Genova Smith’s mother had often said to her as a girl if she complained that she was bored. It had not convinced her then, and didn’t now. Two long days in a slow-moving coach, no matter how luxurious, had tested her tolerance to the breaking point.
Her companions were not dull. The elderly Trayce ladies could be excellent company. Fat Lady Calliope Trayce was gruffly insightful. Thin Lady Thalia was charmingly eccentric. They could play three-handed whist forever.
However, being eighty-four
and seventy-seven, they slipped into a doze now and then, as now. Tilted against the sides of the coach, they looked like mismatched bookends, one snorting, one whistling.
Genova’s books had worn out their appeal, and she couldn’t do needlework in the swaying, jolting coach. Though she’d never say so, even cards had become tedious. Dear Lord, send a diversion. Even a highwayman!
The coach stopped.
Genova looked out with alarm. Surely prayers like that weren’t answered. Heart beating faster, she slipped her pistol out of her carriage bag. She had to admit that her rapid heart was caused by excitement rather than fear.
Action, at last.
She’d checked and cocked the gun before she realized that highwaymen would make some sound. Didn’t they shout, “Stand and deliver!” or some such?
Besides, no sane highwayman would attempt to stop an entourage of three carriages and four armed outriders, not even if tempted by the gilded ostentation of this vehicle. The Trayce ladies were ensconced in the personal traveling chariot of their great-nephew, the Marquess of Ashart.
Genova had a low opinion of the marquess from a portrait of him that hung on his great-aunts’ wall in Tunbridge Wells, showing a vapid, powdered, and primped creature. This coach had confirmed her opinion. No true man needed deep padding, silk-lined walls, and ornate, gilded candle sconces—not to mention paintings of nubile nymphs on the ceiling.
The coach was still stationary. Genova was sitting with her back to the horses, so she couldn’t see the cause. She leaned forward and craned.
Ah. A coach was in the ditch, and the stranded traveler, a lady, was talking to Hockney, the chief outrider. The sky was low and trees whipped in a sharp wind. With the icy temperature out there, the poor lady must be freezing. They would have to take her up to the next inn.
Genova glanced at the Trayce ladies, wondering if it was within her powers to decide that. They’d asked her to come on this journey as their lady companion—“For you’ve had such adventures!” Thalia had exclaimed—but her precise duties had never been specified.
Anyway, Genova knew her “employment” had been an act of charity as much as necessity. The ladies had known she was uncomfortable in her stepmother’s house, and offered escape. She wanted to reward them with good care, however, so what should she do here?
Her neck was protesting the angle, so she straightened. Perhaps Hockney, too, wasn’t sure he had the authority. She shrugged and gathered her cloak from the seat beside her. She despised ditherers, and what choice was there?
She opened the door and climbed out, gasping as the icy air bit. She shut the door quickly before too much of the warmth escaped, then swung her cloak around herself, pulled up the hood, and fastened it.
The thick blue cloak was a gift from the Trayce ladies, and the most luxurious Genova had ever owned. It was even lined with fur. Rabbit, to be sure, but fur, and in this situation, she appreciated that. She wished only that she’d remembered the matching muff.
Tucking her hands under her cloak, she hurried over, feeling the cold already nibbling through her thin-soled shoes.
The woman turned, showing a pretty but sharp face framed in rich, dark fur. She looked Genova up and down. “Who are you?”
Well! No wonder Hockney was hesitating. There was a saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Of course, the sable-trimmed woman probably knew rabbit fur when she saw it.
“This is Miss Smith, ma’am,” Hockney said in a flat tone. His long face was chapped with cold, and an icicle was forming on the end of his nose. “Companion to Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope Trayce. Miss Smith, this is Mrs. Dash, whose coach has come to grief.”
“Trayce!” Mrs. Dash exclaimed, transformed. “How kind of the ladies to stop! I am quite overwhelmed by the honor.”
Perdition. A toadeater, and just the sort to presume on this encounter.
“Oh, would you possibly, could you possibly…”
How in the stars could she say no?
“…take my baby on to warmth?”
Genova gaped. “Baby?”
Shining smile was replaced by piteous pleading.
“The dear one is in the coach with the maid. It’s so cold. If you could…” Mrs. Dash brought gloved hands out of her muff to clasp them in prayer. “I’m to meet my husband at the Lion and Unicorn in Hockham. He will take charge of everything, I assure you. I will not mind waiting here if only my poor infant is safe and warm.”
There could be no question now. “Of course, Mrs. Dash. Please, I’m sure we will be glad to help.”
Mrs. Dash hurried over to the tilted carriage and shouted at someone inside. A bundle was tossed out, then another passed with care. The baby.
Then, Mrs. Dash’s coachman virtually hoisted out a bulky maid. The mother thrust her baby back into the maid’s arms and urged her over toward Genova. It took some urging. The maid’s round face expressed sullen anxiety.
The poor creature was probably freezing. She wore a hooded cloak, but it wasn’t fur-lined, and Genova doubted that Mrs. Dash’s coach was kept as warm as the Marquess of Ashart’s, which had regularly refreshed hot bricks. The baby, at least, was so bundled up it was scarcely visible.
“Go with this lady!” Mrs. Dash yelled, pointing, then added in a normal voice, “She doesn’t speak much English.”
“Then what does she speak?”
“Irish. What they call Gaelic. Please, Miss Smith, get my poor baby into shelter!”
Genova stiffened at the shrill command, but the woman was right. That was the most important thing. Genova picked up the bundle and steered the maid toward the gilded coach. It was easy as dragging an ox, almost as if the woman didn’t want to go.
She must be afraid. She was in a strange country among people who didn’t speak her language. She’d been tossed around in an accident, possibly hurt, and now was being handed off to strangers.
Genova began to explain to her in a gentle, soothing voice. She herself had spent most of her life traveling with her mother and her naval-captain father, often in places where she didn’t know the language. She’d learned that even when people didn’t understand words, they could often understand tone.
Perhaps it worked. The maid turned her round freckled face up to Genova, then quickened her steps.
Another outrider had dismounted and stood ready to open the door. Genova passed him the maid’s bundle, which gave off a sour smell. “I don’t suppose anyone here speaks Gaelic, do they?”
“Not that I know, Miss Smith.”
“Pity. Ask anyway.”
He opened the door and Genova hefted the maid into the warmth, then scrambled after so the door could be shut again.
Thalia stirred, then her eyes opened brightly. “What have we here, then?”
Despite her years, Lady Thalia Trayce could be called pretty, with her fluffy white hair and big blue eyes. It was unfortunate that she insisted on dressing in a very youthful style, but she was invariably kind. She and Genova had become good friends, which was why Genova was on this journey.
“A traveler requiring succor,” Genova said, realizing that not all the smell had been from the maid’s bundle. “Or two, really. Maid and baby. Maid only speaks Gaelic.”
“My, my!” Despite the stale, cheesy smell, Thalia looked as if she’d been given a treat. With the tedium of traveling, that was probably true.
The coach jerked into movement, and Genova looked out at Mrs. Dash, intending to wave or give some gesture that all would be well. She should have said that they would send help. It was obvious, but she should have said it.
However, the woman’s expression stilled her.
The bright smile could be relief that her child was in good hands, but it did not look like that at all. It almost looked gleeful.
Was that because Mrs. Dash now thought that she had the entrée to the grand Trayce family? Geneva’s instincts said no—that it was something else, and that she might regret this act of charity.
Three hou
rs later, she knew her instincts, as usual, had been correct.
Chapter Two
I t had not taken long to reach the Lion and Unicorn Inn at Hockham, but there’d been no sign of Mr. Dash.
It was a simple establishment, not at all like the grand ones carefully planned on their itinerary, but the early winter dark had been settling as they arrived, and the temperature plunging, and the place had rooms. Thalia had insisted that they stop for the night.
“I know you,” Genova said. “You want to see the end of this story.”
“Well, why not, dear? Oh, brandied tea. How very nice!”
The crafty innkeeper had done his best to tempt the rich guests, and Genova had not tried to interfere. She worried about the Dashes presuming on the acquaintance, but she worried more about the tired old ladies, and it would be cruel to force the outriders to spend more time in the bitter cold.
Mr. Lynchbold showed them two good sets of rooms, but on different floors. Lady Calliope took the ground floor because she couldn’t climb stairs, and in fact could hardly walk. Her menservants carried her there in her sturdy chair, her personal maid following.
