Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  My other recent books have been set in the Regency period-1811–20-and center on a group of young men who met at Harrow School. They called themselves the Company of Rogues. There are already novels about some of the Rogues, and also books that spin off to deal with friends and other contacts. That series runs as follows.

  An Arranged Marriage, An Unwilling Bride, Christmas Angel, Forbidden, Dangerous Joy, The Dragon’s Bride, The Devil’s Heiress, Hazard, St. Raven.

  Fans of the Rogues want to know if they’ll all have stories in the end, and the answer is yes. I get many letters asking when there’ll be a book about Lord Darius Debenham. I can’t say for sure, but there will be one. He needs a bit of time to recover from his adventures. I won’t say any more so as to avoid a “spoiler.” I think (no promises) that the next book will take Stephen to the altar.

  Forbidden will be reissued in December 2003, so keep an eye out for that if you need a copy. Also, for something different, I have a science fiction romance novella in a collection called Irresistible Forces, which will be out in February 2004. This is SF, and you will probably find it in the SF section of the bookstore, but I hope many will cross-file it with romance, because the stories do all have a strong love story. You’ll know that when I tell you that one of the other authors is Mary Jo Putney.

  I enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact me by e-mail at jo@jobev.com, or by mail through my agent. Write to me c/o Margaret Ruley, 318 East Fifty-first Street, New York, NY 10022. Please include an SASE if you would like a reply. You can also ask to be on my e-mail list for my monthly newsletter.

  My Web page, www.jobev.com, provides a booklist and background information about my novels. Please visit and explore.

  All best wishes,

  Jo

  Hailed as “captivating” (Booklist) and

  “exquisitely sensual” (Library Journal),

  Jo Beverley’s Malloren novels have enchanted

  legions of readers.

  Now the fiery passion, the unforgettable

  adventure, the utterly delicious romance of one

  of her fans’ favorites

  is back in print and available

  in a gorgeous new edition….

  Secrets of the Night

  A Signet paperback on sale in March 2004

  North Yorkshire, August 1762

  I t was a simple matter to sin, wasn’t it? Didn’t they call it the “primrose path of dalliance”?

  In the swaying, rumbling coach, Rosamunde Overton sat at equal distance from all panes of glass, fleeing back home, cowardly virtue still intact.

  She’d been afraid of coach windows since the accident that had scarred her face, but she hadn’t realized how afraid of everything she had become. A person confined to bed loses the strength in their legs. She, huddled away for eight years in the quiet of Wensleydale, had lost all strength when it came to meeting strangers.

  Especially when it came to sinning with them!

  Sagging in her seat, she gazed at a landscape that seemed to reflect her mood. Scrubby sheep runs on rising ground were hung over by dismal clouds, remnants of the storm that had slowed her journey. Daylight was only a crimson memory, moonlight a pale promise, so she moved ponderously in the corpse-gray time between.

  Sin had seemed straightforward enough when she and Diana had planned it. Her husband, her home, and all the people at Wenscote needed a child, but her husband couldn’t give her one. So, she would wear a mask and surrender to the anonymous wildness of a Harrogate masquerade. As Diana had promised, there had been men interested in sinning with her. Interested—though none realized it—in helping her get with child without the man involved knowing who she was.

  She closed her eyes. It should have been so easy!

  Yet instead of encouraging any of them, she’d flitted from partner to partner, nervously seeking a seducer more to her liking. What on earth had she expected?

  A handsome prince?

  A dashing Lovelace?

  A noble Galahad?

  As the evening whirled on, she’d realized such dream lovers didn’t exist, but by then she’d become too aware of the real men’s faults. Fat bellies, bad teeth, lascivious eyes, wet lips, dirty hands, knock knees….

  Even with a number of glasses of wine firing her blood, she’d lost her nerve and fled. At first light, before Diana stirred, she’d ordered her carriage to take her back into the dales, to safety, to Wenscote.

  Wenscote, a sanctuary she didn’t deserve since she wasn’t willing to save it. Without a child, the estate would one day pass to Edward Overton, her husband’s nephew. Edward would immediately turn it over to his severe religious sect. Her husband was not a well man, and her failure might even hasten his death. Might kill the kindly man who’d given a wounded sixteen-year-old shelter. Dr. Wallace said that the worry was aggravating Digby’s internal problems and dizzy spells.

  It should have been so easy!

  Rosamunde surrendered to an idyllic picture of a happy Digby, enjoying watching the child grow and learn about its inheritance. Perhaps with a child to think of, he’d even follow the doctor’s orders about plain food and little drink. Tears stung her-eyes, but tears of longing. The key, however, was not wistful dreams but sin and consequences, and there she’d failed—

  Snapping out of her useless thoughts, she let down the window. “Stop!”

  “Stop, milady?” asked the coachman.

  “Yes, stop! Immediately!”

  The coach jerked to a halt, coming to rest at a slight angle, so that Rosamunde’s maidservant, bonelessly snoring opposite her, almost toppled her considerable bulk onto her mistress. She braced to hold Millie off, then eased her back onto her own seat.

  “Is there a problem, milady?” Garforth shouted down.

  “I thought I saw something lying by the road. Perhaps a person. Send Tom back to see.”

  The coach lurched as the young groom leaped down. Leaning out, Rosamunde followed his progress in the gloom. “A little farther, Tom. No, farther out. Near that gorse!”

  “Heck, it is an’ all,” the groom said, sliding down a slight dip and crouching. He looked up. “It’s a man, Mr. Garforth!”

  Rosamunde opened the door, held up her wide skirts, and jumped down to the road. “Is he dead?” she called as she ran over.

  “Dead drunk more like, milady. Though what he’s doing way out here…”

  Rosamunde peered into a boggy dip. “He’ll catch his death. Can you get him up?”

  Tom shoved his big hands under the man’s arms and lifted. He was a strapping fellow, but wet as his load was, and a dead weight, it took even him a while to drag the man onto the road. Rosamunde fell to her knees beside the bundle that reeked of wet wool and gin.

  Grimacing, she felt his chilly wrist for a pulse. Alive, at least. Muttering at the dismal light, she checked by feel for wound or injury, but found none. As Tom said, dead drunk, even though they were miles from the nearest inn.

  “What we going to do with him, milady?” Tom asked.

  “Take him with us, of course.”

  “Nay, you don’t want to do that. Who knows what he is? Not from these parts, and that’s a fact.”

  And that pretty well consigned him to the devil. Rosamunde looked Tom in the eye. “Are we of the priests and Levites, then, to pass by on the other side of the road? Or are we Good Samaritans? Tell Garforth to back the coach to here.”

  With a shake of his head, the groom trotted off. Despite her biblical references, she was sure he was anxious to confer with the senior servant about her mad behavior. It wasn’t mad, however. She couldn’t abandon this man, even if he was a “furriner” and a drunk. Nights were cold up here, even in summer, and soaking as he was, he might not survive.

  As the coach began to creak backward toward her, the horses having to be coaxed to this unusual maneuver, Rosamunde studied her living parable in the fading light. Could he, like the man on the road to Jericho, have been set upon by thieves?

 
Unlikely. Even the dim light would have shown bruises or blood. No, he was doubtless just a wretch who’d drunk too much.

  Not a vagrant, though, despite the stink and the stubble on his jaw. With careful fingers she assessed his sturdy cloth breeches and jacket. Respectable clothes with a modest trim of braid and horn buttons. His waistcoat was plain, his neckcloth untrimmed by lace.

  It all spoke of a steady man with employment and responsibilities. That puzzled her. In her experience, drunkards came from the lowest and highest ranks of society, not from the hardworking, middling classes she knew best.

  He was wearing riding boots. Perhaps that explained things. Perhaps he’d toppled drunk from his horse.

  “A proper mystery, aren’t you?” she muttered, and gingerly checked his pockets. She felt particularly awkward about sliding her hand down the ones in his snug-fitting breeches. She couldn’t help but touch the shape of his flaccid manly parts. It was all for nothing. Apart from a plain handkerchief, his pockets were empty. Perhaps he had been robbed at that, or had drunk down to his last penny.

  She used his handkerchief to gently wipe some of the mud off his face. As the coach slowly eased beside her, the lanterns threw a pool of flickering light on her task.

  Oh my.

  Despite stubble, scrapes, and a minor bruise on his cheekbone, he was doubtless some woman’s darling, this one. Not a glorious face, but a pleasing one, with regular features well arranged, features that even in unconsciousness hinted at smiles rather than frowns.

  Suddenly tender, Rosamunde cradled his stubbled cheek in one hand, pleased she’d be able to return him to the people he smiled for. She could only hope he’d be wiser for his experience. He wouldn’t have a chance if he caught an inflammation of the lungs.

  “Hurry, Garforth!”

  “I’m doing my best, milady.”

  She could tell he was no better pleased with her charity than Tom had been. Would they really have left the man here to die?

  Once the coach was in position, Garforth tied the ribbons and risked leaving the horses long enough to help hoist the man in. No easy task, with him six foot and well-built. The procedure managed to wake Millie—a miracle in itself!—and after spluttering and exclaiming, she pulled out the blankets kept for colder journeys and wrapped them around him.

  “He’ll be ruining the seats otherwise, milady,” she complained.

  Rosamunde had the man put on her seat, then settled herself next to him, easing his upper body across her lap. That way she could stop him from being thrown about. Her hand touched his neck and she gasped at how cold he was.

  “Is there somewhere nearby where we can find help?”

  “Next place without going off the road is Arradale, milady,” Garforth said, “and by then you’re only five miles from home.”

  “Stop there.” Rosamunde tucked the blankets tighter. “An hour could make the difference. In fact, stop at the dower house. It’s the closest.”

  Arradale House was the home of her cousin, Diana, Countess of Arradale—that rarest of creatures, a peeress in her own right. The dower house was almost their playhouse, the place they still went to relax and be girlish for a day or two. It was always kept ready.

  Garforth touched his tricorn, and soon the coach creaked into motion again. Speed would get the wet man to warmth sooner, but because of the accident, Rosamunde could no more insist on speed than she could have sex with a masked rake. She’d been telling herself that she could try again to sin, that next time it would be less of a shock and she’d do it. Now, however, she had to wonder if some fears could never be conquered by will alone.

  Rejecting thoughts of failure, she concentrated on something she could do, laying her hand again on the man’s chilly neck. His pulse was there, but weak. People could die of cold.

  “What do you think, Millie?”

  The maid had her arms folded over her huge bosom. “I think he’s gallows bait, milady. You’d better be out of reach when he comes out of his stupor.”

  “But what if he doesn’t? Could he die?”

  Millie wasn’t really hard-hearted, just ill-tempered about this disorganized journey, about them being on the road at night instead of tucked up in a cozy inn somewhere. She leaned over to peer. “Looks strong and healthy enough to me, milady. Happen he’ll live, unless he gets a lung fever.”

  Rosamunde held him closer. He was a stranger and probably a wastrel, but she had found him and she would see him safe.

  She had to be able to do something right.