Lady Be Reckless
Page 1
Dedication
To Myretta, because I can’t imagine being where I am without you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
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
An Excerpt from Lady Be Bad Chapter 1
About the Author
By Megan Frampton
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
Illegitimacy in Victorian England was a great stigma for both mother and child. An illegitimate child would have no claim on its father, and the Bastardy Clause of the 1834 Poor Law set law that said children would be the sole responsibility of the mother.
Of course, there are examples where a father would take care of his children; perhaps the most famous example just prior to this era is the Duke of Clarence, whose mistress, the actress Dorothea Jordan, bore at least ten of his children. The duke ensured his illegitimate children did well in the world, either through marriage for the daughters or occupations for the sons.
Chapter 1
It is not proper for a young lady to propose to a gentleman. Unless, of course, the gentleman has a deep and abiding (and silent) love for the lady, and he is not aware she reciprocates.
Lady Olivia’s Particular Guide to Decorum
1847, London
A Polite Drawing Room Currently Being Used for Sewing of a Dubious Quality
“Olivia!” The duchess’s call could probably be heard from two floors away. And Olivia was seated in the same room, in full view of her mother.
“Yes, Mother?” she replied in an aggrieved tone. She had promised to deliver no fewer than ten shifts within a month’s time to the Society for Poor and Orphaned Children, and she was only on the second one, since her needle skills were not as good as her skills in promising things she might not be able to deliver, apparently.
Not for the first time, she wished that things were as she wanted them to be, so she wouldn’t have to constantly be trying to improve things. Her needle-pricked fingers would no doubt wish that also.
“I cannot deal with Cook today. You will have to,” her mother announced, not paying attention to what Olivia was already occupied with. As was usual.
Olivia merely nodded. Her mother had often said the same thing, or a variation thereof, in the year or so since Olivia’s eldest sister, Eleanor, had married Lord Alexander Raybourn. The Duchess of Marymount hadn’t always been so helpless; but once Olivia’s sister Della had run off with the dancing master and Eleanor had refused to marry the gentleman their parents had chosen for her, the duchess seemed to have given up all the duties she’d previously handled, leaving her remaining three daughters to handle everything. And since Olivia’s twin, Pearl, was shy and preferred to be outdoors, and their sister Ida was too busy reading and looking down her nose at everyone else, it was all left up to Olivia.
Olivia did not flinch from doing what was necessary to make things right. Hence the shift making.
“Olivia, are you listening to me?”
“Of course I am,” Olivia replied, frowning at the knot in her sewing. She had to admit to being a terrible seamstress. “You want me to speak with Cook, and you probably also want me to review the guest list for next week’s dinner party to be certain all the invitations went out properly. And to remind Cook that the Marquis of Wheatley does not like green beans.”
“Hmph. Well, yes,” her mother replied in a grudging tone.
The guest list for the dinner party included Lord Carson, who was the marquis’s son and the gentleman Eleanor had refused to marry.
Leaving him free to marry Olivia, something she had wanted since the first moment she saw him. Her parents had wanted the same thing since Eleanor had married the man she’d fallen in love with instead of Lord Carson.
Lord Carson. She sighed as she thought about him. He was handsome and kind and very, very busy. Olivia wanted to help him, and she could tell, from how he spoke to her, that he wanted her to help him also. It would be a perfect match. Even though her parents thought the same thing, and she seldom agreed with the elder Howletts.
Not to mention it would mean she would be able to run more things as she wished to. Including Lord Carson.
But it wouldn’t be a match at all if the dinner party wasn’t absolutely perfect, which meant she should go straightaway and speak to Cook.
Olivia dropped the fabric and thread onto the table beside her as she prepared to take care of things. Again.
The door to the sitting room was flung open and her twin, Pearl, launched herself inside, her eyes wide. “Olivia, you have to come quickly!” Pearl said in an urgent tone.
“What is it?” she asked as she rose to her feet.
“The gardener next door, he’s—” And then Pearl stopped, shaking her head.
Olivia marched out of the sitting room, Cook and sewing forgotten, shoulders squared, as she went to right whatever was wrong that was making her twin so upset.
“He found some kittens in the shed and now he says he’s going to—oh, Livy, you have to save them!” Pearl said, her voice wavering with emotion.
“Indeed I will,” Olivia declared, brushing past a few startled servants to the back of the house.
She felt herself start to burn with the righteous fury that had become her constant companion over the past few years, since she’d realized that the world was not entirely just and that there were, indeed, terrible people who existed in it.
She hadn’t been able to eradicate all the terrible people in the world, but she could acknowledge to herself—privately, not wishing to draw attention to her deeds—that she had made the world a slightly better place in the time since she’d come to her senses.
Only a few years ago she’d been equally consumed with parties and balls and pretty dresses. And Bennett, Lord Carson, whom she had to admit to still being consumed with.
She continued to enjoy those things, of course, but they couldn’t derail her from her purpose in life—to help people.
And, apparently, kittens.
It had happened gradually, making it feel as though she had awoken from a long, slow sleep. She’d started noticing things, things that were not immediately in her world, and she’d started questioning.
Why were people so cruel? And what could she do to help?
It was that urge that drove her more than anything now.
“Sir!” she said as she stepped outside into the garden. She glanced around, Pearl on her heels, until she spotted the man in the Robinsons’ garden, who was holding a small, wriggling thing in his hand.
“Sir!” she said again, louder, so that he turned and looked at her across the fence that separated their properties.
The two families had been neighbors for as long as Olivia could remember; the children had grown up together, but now the only Robinson left in the house was Lady Robinson, the matriarch of the family, a terrifyingly proper woman who always looked at Olivia as though she knew she was thinking of parties and balls and dre
sses when she should be thinking of better things.
I’m thinking of better things now, Olivia thought as she stomped toward the fence, swinging her arms furiously. Namely saving small, helpless animals from your ogre gardener. “What are you doing?” she asked. Then she shook her head as she planted her fists on her hips. “Never mind, I know what you are doing. Although I can’t fathom why you would want to harm such precious little creatures,” she continued, her voice softening as she saw the tumble of kittens at the man’s feet.
There were three more down on the ground, all looking small enough to fit in her hand, all bumbling in and around each other in an adorably confused way. Their mother was nowhere in sight, which likely meant these kittens would be dead if they weren’t taken care of soon.
That furious anger heated.
“These precious creatures are living in the shed, making a mess everywhere,” the man said, shaking the kitten in his hand for emphasis.
The kitten in question was a grey tabby with, it seemed, one bent ear and whiskers that were nearly as long as the kitten itself was wide.
Olivia unlatched the gate separating the properties and launched herself through until she was able to remove the kitten from his hand.
The kitten promptly clawed her, but it was all part of the ongoing battle. Every war had its wounds, she’d told Pearl often enough. Usually when Pearl was complaining of a hand cramp after Olivia had wrangled her into helping with her latest charity project. Pearl was a much better seamstress than Olivia, after all. Something Pearl pointed out more often than Olivia liked, though Olivia might have mentioned a few times that she was taller than her twin. Most people assumed Olivia was the older sister, since the two of them were not identical.
“I will inform Lady Robinson of your behavior today, and I will be removing these animals myself,” she declared, holding the struggling kitten up to her chest.
The man shrugged. “The lady don’t care. And as long as they aren’t living in my shed, I don’t care either.”
Olivia opened her mouth to tell him just what she thought of his behavior, but decided it wasn’t worth it to waste her breath. Not when she could be speaking out about injustice or helping poor families find a better way in the world or sharing her most fervent desire with Lord Carson. Bennett.
She would act instead. Solving the immediate problem was more important than stating her opinion, correct though it was.
“Pearl,” she said instead, turning her head back to address her twin. Pearl had already anticipated what she was going to say and had retrieved a basket their own gardener used for roses, its handle slung over her arm.
“Good, take this one,” Olivia said, putting the kitten into the basket and then bending down to gather up the remainder in her arms. They were so tiny they all fit, their tiny claws shredding the fabric of her gown, not strong enough to draw blood, but stinging. The three looked similar enough to the first one to be siblings, and Olivia felt a swell in her heart as she thought about what would happen if she and her sisters were just as lost as these little mites, one of whom had just begun to bite her wrist.
“If you find any other helpless creatures,” she said as she marched back over to their property, four kittens mewing in the basket, “please send word so I can rescue them from your evil clutches.”
The hero in The Notorious Noose, the latest penny dreadful she and Pearl had read, had used those same words. Olivia found it useful—not to mention entertaining—to read those books for language she could borrow to make her points. She had found people responded better to hyperbole than plain facts.
Besides which, wrongs were always righted, and then were suitably punished, which left her with a satisfied feeling after reading them. Not like in real life, where rights were often left unright, and people kept suffering.
But at least, she thought as she glanced into the basket, these four kittens wouldn’t suffer any longer. Not if she had anything to say about it.
Which she did. And she always would. It was what drove her now, even more than wanting to find her own happiness. She needed everyone to have happiness.
“Did you pay no attention at all?” Bennett asked as he glared at Edward. They stood in the enormous ballroom of the house Edward’s father had rented in London, a soft rain falling outside, the inside silent save for Bennett’s practically vibrating outrage.
Edward couldn’t help but smirk at his friend. Bennett was as vehement about this as he was on the Parliamentary floor, and this was about—
“You’re asking if I paid attention during dancing lessons,” Edward said, emphasizing the last two words to show his disdain.
Bennett flung his hands up, hands that had been trying to put Edward into the correct position for the waltz just a few moments ago.
“Yes. You do know that polite society deems it important to dance, don’t you?”
“Ah, and that’s the problem.” Edward bent into a deep bow, spreading his arms wide. “Have you been introduced to Mr. Edward Wolcott, the most notable bastard of your acquaintance?”
Bennett rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to constantly be rubbing the fact into everyone’s faces all the time, you know.”
Oh, but I do, Edward thought. Because if I don’t make reference to it, remove the sting of its mention from anyone who might say something, they will think they’ve hurt me when they mention my dubious parentage. Most people assumed being illegitimate indicated a lack of character, as though being born on the wrong side of the blanket made someone simply wrong.
But he didn’t tell his friend any of that. Bennett knew precisely why Edward did what he did, he just didn’t understand how much it did hurt. The sidelong glances that had supplanted the outright fights his schoolmates had baited him into. Fights that Edward took pride in winning, even though winning meant he was called to the headmaster’s office after each fracas. Mr. Wolcott, the headmaster would say pointedly. Making it clear he knew just why Edward didn’t share his father’s last name.
School was where he had met Bennett, and Bennett had stuck with Edward ever since, no matter how many times Edward pointed out that the son of a marquis should not be friends with the bastard son of a financier. Even though—remarkably—the financier had claimed his son, something very few gentlemen did. Most natural-born children were never acknowledged by their fathers, for fear of ruining their reputations.
But Edward’s father had done what few men would, and now Edward could ruin his own reputation when he appeared on the dance floor.
“Why can’t I just speak with people about horses and hunting and the things I actually like to do, rather than dance or make irritatingly banal conversation?”
Bennett did not deign to reply, instead holding his arms out. “Let’s try this again. I cannot believe that someone so athletic can be so terrible a dancer.”
“It’s not the same thing,” Edward grumbled. Mostly because he’d concentrated on athletics as a way to circumvent the cruel talk; he figured if he was stronger than any of his potential tormentors, he could keep their comments at bay with the very real possibility of physical violence. And his strategy had worked; very few men dared to mention anything now, not after appraising Edward’s physique.
“I do know,” Bennett said as he adjusted Edward’s hands, nudging his feet into the right place and heaving several exasperated sighs, “that you loathe dancing. I am well aware, nearly as much as you, of how much you hate all this rigmarole. But I also know you have to do it. You told me what your father said.”
Edward felt his chest tighten at the mention of his father. Mr. Beechcroft. The man who, inexplicably, had loved and raised him as well as if he had been legitimately born. The man who wanted nothing more than to see his son take a position in Society, a position that he himself could never take, thanks to his merchant upbringing. Edward wished it were enough that he had learned the business and enjoyed doing it. But his father wanted more.
“Fine,” he replied in a grouchy tone.
“And if you cannot bear it for another moment, there is usually an unused library or another type of room you can go to escape for a bit.”
Edward made a harrumphing noise, indicating his thoughts on that idea.
Running away from a problem was not his way; he usually did the opposite, running headlong toward it without considering the consequences.
Bennett, who was accustomed to Edward’s grumpiness, ignored his friend, instead instructing him on how to count out the rhythm of the waltz.
If only Bennett could teach him how not to see mockery in everyone’s faces when he attended his first Society function, introduced with his mother’s name though everyone knew who his father was.
But that would be even more difficult than his mastering the waltz. And he was currently smashing all ten of Bennett’s toes.
“Stop!”
Edward paused as he heard the woman’s voice, even though she wasn’t speaking to him.
He had left the town house about half an hour after Bennett, knowing he just had to walk somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t inside.
It had started to drizzle, and people were scurrying about, most dressed moderately well. He’d wandered toward his father’s London office, which was situated just a few streets over from where London’s most fashionable people shopped and mingled.
The woman who’d spoken was clearly one of those most fashionable people—dressed in a long coat that appeared to be as warm as it was exquisitely detailed.
A maid stood nearby holding an umbrella over her mistress’s head, but the lady herself paid no heed to the rain, stepping out from the cover to stretch her hand forward to a merchant who had hold of a small, struggling child.
The child looked to be about ten, perhaps older, since he or she was rail thin.
He stepped forward to intervene, but by now the lady had extricated the child from the merchant’s hold and was holding her hand out to her maid, who was dropping a few coins into the lady’s gloved palm.