by Hatch, Donna
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Guise of a Gentleman original copyright© 2009 by Donna Hatch
Second copyright© 2013 Donna Hatch
Cover Art by Lex Valenine
Originally published by The Wild Rose Press
Publishing History:
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2010 Print
ISBN 1-60154-701-3
Re-published by Mirror Lake Press, 2013
Digital ISBN 9781301364480
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Published in the United States of America
Other books by Donna Hatch
The Rogue Hearts Series:
The Stranger She Married
The Guise of a Gentleman
Historical Anthologies:
Regency Hearts: “The Reluctant Bride,” “Constant Hearts,” “Emma's Dilemma”
A Timeless Romance Anthology: Winter Collection “A Winter’s Knight”
Regency Short Stories:
Mistletoe Magic, Constant Hearts, Emma's Dilemma, The Reluctant Bride, Troubled Hearts
Fantasy:
Queen in Exile
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
Other Books by the Author
A word about the author
CHAPTER 1
Tarrington Castle, England, autumn 1801
Six-year-old Christian Amesbury stood in the churchyard, trying not to crush the flowers he’d brought to put in front of the family crypt where they’d laid his brother to rest, the brother he loved, the brother he killed. Alone in every way, he stood, shaking, as his last taunting words to Jason echoed in his head. Christian had wanted to prove he was brave and strong. Instead, his brother, best friend, and advocate, was dead.
His throat tightened and tears blurred his vision. “I’m sorry, Jason,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I miss you.” He knelt and placed his offering of wildflowers in front of the crypt.
A drop of rain landed on his cheek and mingled with his tears. He stood, unmoving, embracing the desolation. He had no one to blame but himself. He’d never be happy again.
That horrific day three months ago had started out innocently enough, with Christian running with all his might after his older brothers, desperate to prove he wasn’t a baby who should have stayed in the house with his sisters. As usual, he couldn’t keep up as they raced to the tree. But one day he’d outrun them all.
Christian’s brothers disappeared around a corner in the gardens, the shaking of shrubbery all that bespoke their passing. Drawing from some inner well of speed he didn’t know he possessed, Christian darted around the corner and skidded on loose gravel. His feet went out from underneath him and he crashed to the ground. Pain burst from his thigh and elbow. Now, he would be last. Again. But he wouldn’t quit.
Blinking back hot tears of humiliation, Christian scrambled to his feet and charged down the stone path toward Zeus’s Garden. He flew headlong through the arch of roses, past statues, dodging fountains and flowers and shaped shrubbery.
His brothers’ voices led Christian to their tree. Perfect for climbing with low, strong limbs spaced as evenly as a ladder, he’d imagined it as a pirate ship or sometimes a navy ship, a castle where a dragon lived, and a deep, dark dungeon filled with ogres.
Hanging from a branch, Grant mocked Christian. “Sorry, Chrissy, you’re last. Go back home and sew and draw and play music with the girls.”
Christian stuck his chin out. “I don’t sew.”
“Rules are rules,” Jared said with a taunting smile. “Last one here has to go back and play with the twins. Maybe they’ll put bows in your pretty blond hair.”
“Aw, come on, let him stay.” Jason’s voice broke in. “Look, he fell and scraped up his leg and arm and didn’t even cry.”
“ ‘The perfectly perfect Christian’ is too perfect to cry,” Grant sneered.
Christian clamped his mouth shut as Grant taunted him with that all too familiar, sing-songy phrase that never failed to make his blood boil. He wasn’t perfect, but he did try to be good for Mama’s sake. Which was the only reason he didn’t climb up the tree and punch Grant in the face.
“Let him stay,” Jason urged again. “He’s not bothering anyone.”
Grant let out a snort. “You’re too soft on him.”
Cole, highest in the tree and holding a paper he’d rolled up into the shape of a spyglass, let out a long-suffering sigh. “You can be the cabin boy. Ahoy there!”
A ship, today.
From his perch on one of the lower tree limbs, Jason leaned down and held out a hand. “Come on up, Chris. I’ll help you.”
Christian shook his head. “I can do it by myself.”
He would prove he could climb just as well as they could—without help. He stood below the lowest limb and jumped, his fingers curling around the branch as he caught it. After swinging his legs, he hooked his ankles around the limb and hoisted himself up.
“I’ll bet you can’t reach that one,” Jared said to Cole, their voices filtering down from above like falling leaves.
“Watch me.” Cole inched away from the trunk and tucked his feet below his body. After shifting into a crouch, his legs wobbling a little, he jumped toward an upper limb, and caught it. Within moments, Cole, Grant and Jason began leaping from limb to limb like sailors climbing the rigging of a ship.
Eyeing a branch far away from the others, Christian climbed. He’d jump to that far one, and prove he was as strong and able as the big boys. He ground his teeth against the throbbing pain in his elbow and leg, and hauled himself upward.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Jason put up an arm to block Christian’s climb.
“Up there.” Christian pointed to the isolated branch near the top. “I’m gonna jump to it.”
Jason looked up. “That one up there? You’re mad.”
“I’ll show you. Bet you can’t jump to it.”
Jason let out his breath slowly as he looked up. “That’s a long way from the other branches.”
Christian nodded. If Jason admitted he could never do it, even on a dare, and Christian did reach it, they’d see how big and brave he was. “I dare you to try.”
Jason hesitated.
“You’re too scared,” Christian taunted. “But I’m not. I can do it.”
Grant’s voice cut in. “Jason’s not scared of anything.”
A bead of perspiration trickled down the side of Jason’s face and his hand trembled as he
wiped it away. He jumped. His body made a graceful arc, his legs straight, his arms reaching outward. The tip of his fingers grazed the coveted branch.
And slid off.
Jason fell.
Christian stared in horror as down, down, down Jason’s twisting body plunged, slowly, like one of Christian’s nightmares when it becomes impossible to run even when a monster is in pursuit. Someone screamed—a terrible keening noise that rent the air. Jason landed on the ground below with a thud that tore through Christian’s body like a lightning strike. Jason lay unmoving.
All sound faded away except for the wild pounding of Christian’s heart, and that terrible, terrible scream. Christian reached the ground without knowing how he got there. Faintly aware of searing pain in his hands, he collapsed on the ground beside Jason, reaching for him but terrified to touch him. Dizzy and out of breath, he gulped in air and the screaming stopped.
“Jason?” he rasped.
Other noises, other shapes, swarmed around him in a fog of confusion, but his vision fixed on Jason’s chest struggling to rise.
Christian put his forehead on Jason’s brow and wrapped his arms around his brother. “Jason, wake up. Open your eyes.”
Jason’s breathing grew more labored. He made a terrible rattle, then fell silent. All motion in Jason’s chest stopped. Christian’s own heart stopped. All the world stopped.
Someone peeled Christian off Jason and shoved him away. Voices, frantic and shrill, poured in all around him but he stood alone in a sea of horror. Adults shoved past him, crowding around Jason’s motionless form. A dull roar built up in Christian’s head drowning out everything but the image of Jason lying so still. Not moving. Not breathing. Not living. Somewhere the far reaches of his mind registered the knowledge that Jason would never open his eyes, never play, never laugh.
Someone shook Christian so hard that he bit his tongue. “What happened?”
Christian pushed back the suffocating fog. “He fell.” His voice sounded far away as if someone else were talking through the other end of a hollow log. The truth wrenched out of him. “I dared him to jump. And he fell.”
The ground had rushed up then, smashed Christian in the face, and had hurled him into darkness.
Another raindrop fell, jarring Christian back to the present. A moment later, the soft ping of raindrops pelted the roof of the crypt. Wiping his tears, he turned away, and stopped up short. Grant, as silent and dark as a shadow, glowered at him from the gate of the churchyard.
Christian glanced at the family coach waiting on the side of the road. The sound of Mama’s weeping scraped against him like sandpaper on bare skin. Father’s low voice as he tried to console her burned like lemon juice on an open sore.
He’d done this. He’d torn apart the family. It was his fault. Mama cried constantly and some days didn’t get out of bed. Father never smiled. Two months later, Cole and Jared left for the sea. Jason was gone forever. Grant never spoke to him, only shot him murderous glares that left Christian constantly looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see a knife plunging toward his back.
Christian squared his shoulders and strode with dignity he didn’t feel past gravestones and monuments. As he passed Grant at the gate, his brother spoke his first words to Christian in three months.
“I wish you were the one who had died.”
CHAPTER 2
Bath, England, Summer 1818, seventeen years later
Genevieve Marshall waltzed into the foyer of the home her family had let for the summer, humming dreamily, her lips tingling from Christian’s kiss when they’d ducked between buildings and shared a private moment that would have raised her papa’s brows and made her mother begin making wedding plans. Christian promised tonight he would formally seek Papa’s permission for marriage. They’d be wedded by autumn and at last, she’d be Christian’s in mind, body, and spirit.
From the moment she first saw Christian Amesbury, Genevieve knew she’d never love another man. It wasn’t merely the shy, sweet smile he gave when their eyes met across the room, or the intensity of his gaze as they were introduced, or even his stunning good looks akin to the mythical Adonis. No, there was something supremely familiar about him, and when he finally asked her to dance and she placed her hand in his, an almost audible click sounded from inside Genevieve, as if fate had placed a key piece into the puzzle of her life.
By the end of the evening, she’d vowed she’d marry him and no other.
Genevieve hugged herself and pirouetted on the gleaming wood floor. “Mrs. Christian Amesbury.” She let out a giggle that belonged in the schoolroom, not on the lips of a grown woman, but she didn’t care. She was just too happy.
Surely Papa would have no objection for a match with such a fine, honorable gentleman. Not to mention, she’d been verbal about her affection for Christian Amesbury during their courtship, and Papa always smiled and patted her hand and told her he enjoyed seeing her so happy. As a youngest son, Christian wouldn’t have a title or a great deal of money, but he came from a respected and powerful family. Besides, Grandfather had provided her a substantial dowry that would easily supplement whatever Christian received every year.
Could there ever be a more wondrous time to be alive? Love made everything perfect.
“What?” Papa’s voice echoed through the foyer, jarring her from her daydreams.
Genevieve paused. Her father seldom raised his voice. Whatever could be amiss? The edges of the cloud of bliss surrounding her faded. She shook it off and gathered her happiness back around her like a protective cloak. Papa’s problem was clearly not the concern of women or nosy daughters. He would handle it as he always did.
Another voice answered in a smooth tenor, “That is my price for silence.”
Though the second voice’s accent identified him as a member of the upper class, something about the tone sent a shiver galloping down her backbone. The voice was too smooth, too practiced, like the glib tongue of an accomplished liar. And it sounded familiar.
Genevieve tried to grasp the tattered edges of her sweet bliss and burrow down inside it. Besides, if she were the obedient daughter Papa often teased her he requested at her birth, she’d stay out of the concerns of men, go upstairs, dress for dinner, and remain wrapped in the joy of love.
Papa spoke again, desperation dripping off every syllable. “I cannot give you that kind of money.”
Genevieve almost put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear this. Yet the hopelessness in her father’s voice caught at the heart. Her attention focused on the door of her father’s study at the far side of the foyer. She nervously fingered the locket around her neck. Why was this horrible man demanding money from Papa? He was responsible with their money and never excessive.
She pressed a hand to her brow. What kind of trouble had found her dear father, and how could she help him? She sighed, unable to help herself. Once again acting as the ‘little mother’ her sweet Mama often called her, Genevieve tiptoed across the parquet floor, moving carefully so as not to cause her silk gown to rustle.
At Papa’s partially open study door, she halted and glanced back, searching the great hall for servants or her mother. She appeared to be alone. Good. The fewer who knew about Papa’s trouble, the better. She peeped in through the crack, trying to remain out of sight. Papa stood staring at someone out of her line of vision. His ashen face and drawn mouth revealed his strain.
The other voice replied, “I don’t care how you get the blunt. Just get it. You have three days before I take this letter to the admiralty.”
A slow chill like the melting of ice ran through her veins. That voice sounded a great deal like Lord Wickburgh. The viscount appeared everywhere, always watching her with narrowed, hungry eyes. He made her feel exposed, vulnerable. She had almost dared hope her obvious preference for Christian had finally made her disinterest in Viscount Wickburgh clear.
Her father’s voice grew more agitated. “How can you be so heartless? I—”
; “Have a care, Captain Marshall, or I might take exception to your words. Consider carefully: Refuse me, and you’ll never see your family again, not to mention the scandal that would follow them once your crime is revealed.”
Genevieve’s hands shook but not in fear—anger coursed through her. How dare he accuse her father of crime and scandal! Unable to keep silent when this villain threatened her beloved Papa, Genevieve thrust open the door and marched in.
A thin, dark haired man stood waving a walking stick at Papa. Lord Wickburgh, as she had feared. The tension between the two men contrasted with the comfortable furniture and airy curtains blowing in the breeze coming through the open window. Despite her revulsion for the man, she refused to allow him to speak in such a manner to her dear father.
Genevieve drew herself up and leveled an icy stare at the intruder. “Lord Wickburgh, I believe my father has made it clear that your business here is unwelcome.”
The stranger’s face relaxed into an icy smile. “Ah, Miss Marshall. Such a pleasure to see you again.” His gaze moved slowly down her body in a clear message. Genevieve’s skin crawled but she glared at him. He would not intimidate her. Christian’s love had made her bold.
Papa flicked a brief glance at Genevieve, his chocolate brown eyes which mirrored her own filled with agony. He quickly donned his propriety. “This is none of your concern, Jenny.”
“Of course it’s her concern.” Wickburgh began swinging his walking stick, narrowly missing a flower-filled vase atop a Chippendale side table. “You see my dear, your father was about to find the means by which to settle a debt with me.”
Genevieve narrowed her gaze. “I doubt very much my father owes you a gambling debt since he seldom gambles.”
“Oh, but he did, a wager of the worst kind—with fate.”
Papa said more forcefully, “Genevieve, leave us.”
Genevieve offered an apologetic smile to her father and cast an open glare at Wickburgh. “I assume you have vowels to prove this gambling debt?”
