The Unraveling of Lady Fury

by Shehanne Moore

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Warning

  ~ Dedication ~

  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

  ~ About the Author ~

  More Historical Romance from Etopia Press

  The Unraveling of Lady Fury

  Shehanne Moore

  Copyright Warning

  Copyright © 2013 by Shehanne Moore

  ISBN: 978-1-939194-76-3

  Edited by Lauren Triola

  Cover by Amber Shah

  ~ Dedication ~

  To John, for all his love and support. And to Mum and Dad, who didn’t always believe but who always hoped.

  With extra special thanks to Lorraine, who did both; Irene and Joan, who listened; Coreen and Eilis for being there; Incy for being a great writing buddy; Annie Melton for making it possible; Amber Shah Designs for bringing Fury to life; my wonderful editor Lauren Triola for knocking all the rough edges off.

  Chapter One

  Genoa 1820

  Malmesbury would father the heir to the Beaumont dukedom. Count Vellaggio wasn’t a contender. What she had logged in her book about him this afternoon said it would be a huge mistake anyway. The same for the Duke of Southey—Byronesque handsome, but a drunk with disconcertingly filthy fingernails and ring-laden hands. No, Malmesbury was the best. The only. Intelligent without being painful, fashionable yet not a dandy, and retaining enough of his looks at the age of fifty not to be outright repulsive.

  Of course it would have helped if Thomas could have fathered the Beaumont heir himself. But as he lay dead in a box in the cellar, that wasn’t likely.

  “Gentlemen, you know as well as I do, this is an unusual evening.” Delicate shivers chased up and down Lady Fury Shelton’s spine as she stood in the center of her darkened bedchamber.

  With its festooned corners and gold scrolled furniture, the red-painted room was the best place for such an assignment, although the tiled floor and the cool clang of evening bells snaking in through the parted shutters made it chillier than usual. As did the candlelight glinting on the pale oval of Messalina’s face on the hanging above the bed. Earlier the air had felt so stifling she changed twice in the space of an hour.

  “Here, here.” Southey raised his crystal glass. Where else, but to his lips. A toast to her or the transaction would be too much to expect of him. Or for him to sit facing her too, as the other men were, their drinks untouched on the tiny tables beside them.

  “My interviews are complete. Shortly I will make my choice. Then, having done so, I will invite the said gentleman to this bedroom, where he will perform his duty as often as necessary.”

  “All in one night. That’s a tall order for a man, I must say.”

  For Southey, yes, it would be. The state he’d arrived at her door this afternoon and what he’d sunk of her amaretto and limoncello in the meantime, it was a miracle he could still stand there against the marble fireplace. Never mind anything else. But she wasn’t about to debate the subject. She kept her face a studied mask and her voice calm, but her hands clenched to snap the spine of the tooled leather book she clutched for support.

  “I say, Fury, how the blazes are you going to tell right away?” Southey hiccupped. “Don’t them things take weeks and weeks to find out?”

  “The one chosen will be here for weeks. Those not chosen will leave within the hour. I think we may be clear that at any time in the future, should any of you breathe a word to anyone about this, I will find out. I have sufficient information in this book here to ruin each and every one of you. Make no mistake, I will use it.”

  Malmesbury, who had so far watched the proceedings with an amused smile, swore. “By God, Fury, you don’t need to talk like that about any of us, I’m sure. You want to get one over on Thomas; I, for one, don’t blame you. We all saw him sneaking about with that Porto Antican tart when you first arrived.”

  “Yes.” Who hadn’t?

  “And do you think we’re unaware what his illness has done to him? The rages? The drinking? The way he keeps you here like a poodle?”

  That too. Thomas was not who she was getting one over on, but she daren’t say it here. She held in her hands every dirty little secret concerning these men. All documented there in the yellow, dog-eared pages. The leaves also contained letters, bills, testimonies, transactions. She kept it all beneath lock and key. Therefore they obeyed her, and she was safe for another hour, another day. She couldn’t countenance losing that necessary balance of control for a second by admitting that.

  She could have paid a Porto Antican organ grinder to father her child and walk away, no questions asked. The one at the end of the harbor looked handsome enough. But Lady Margaret would smell an organ grinder’s bastard at twenty paces. Hadn’t the woman scented Fury?

  Malmesbury shifted in his chair. “Where is he, by the way?”

  “Who? Thomas? Thomas is visiting his father.”

  No lie. Had any of these men facing her in the flickering candlelight known whether Thomas’s father lived or died, she would not have chosen them.

  “Even were he not, Thomas wants you to know me well. That is why he has gone.” She hesitated. Thomas would have spared her this next lie, although she supposed there was more than one grain of truth in it now. “Sadly it is more than he can do himself these days. Now, I must ask you all to return to your chambers and wait. My mind is almost made up. Susan, here, will call in due course for the chosen one to return.”

  “Dash it, that’s good to know.” Southey clanked his glass down on the marble mantelpiece.

  In addition to his drinking, his casual mistreatment of the Murano goblet, while not worth an entry in Fury’s book, made him all the more unsuitable. What careless traits might a child inherit? Besides, his odor as he staggered past her made her stomach heave. It took every ounce of her self-control to remain where she was, inhaling of the citrus-scented candle Susan had lit to disperse the gloom.

  He paused and turned toward her. “All this cloak and dagger stuff is killing, you know.”

  Malmesbury got to his feet. “I shall wait then.” His murmur was to himself more than anyone else in the room.

  There was no doubt his palms itched to touch her, but she shrank from letting him brush his lips across the back of her hand. It did not bode well for later, but at least he didn’t smell. His silver frock coat was immaculate, possessing not a single crease. And his shoe buckles not only shone, they sparkled. His valet must be remarkable, whoever he was.

  Only Count Vellaggio said nothing. Speaking limited English—and Italian—he never did, unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Thank God. It was one mercy at least.

  * * *

  “Will I now fetch the chosen one, madam?” Susan issued her demand the instant the door closed.

  Fury walked three paces forward and sank down at her dressing table. “Just cover the bruises, will you?” She tossed the book into the open drawer. “I can’t have them on show. It might affect the conception. At least it might affect their ability to perform. They see that and God knows what they’ll think.”

  “Madam—”

  “I know. I know. But you know I believe in looking my best, regardless of the situation.”

  “For a bunch of drunken o
ld coots. Sadistic old coots. Do you know what I heard about Vellaggio today?”

  “You shouldn’t have been listening.”

  “It was at the market. He uses boys. Young boys. Whether they want to or not. He whips them too.”

  For a moment Fury rested her forehead on the marbled surface of the table, as if she could draw strength from its veins to hers. Of course, she had expected this. Susan didn’t approve. To feel so strongly was good of her, but all very well. Susan wasn’t in the mess Fury was in. It was difficult to think of anyone who was.

  “Really? Well I heard he used girls. But whichever it is, we both know it’s this or nothing. I can’t…I won’t be cast off without a penny. Not again. And anyway, it’s no more than Lady Margaret deserves.” Wincing, she swept the dark fall of hair back from her neck. “Now, please, a little powder—”

  “A little powder?” Susan made no move to accede to her wishes. “It will take more than a little powder to cover that mess.”

  “Just think like Lady Macbeth, will you? And stop arguing.” Fury raised her head; a gust of wind blew in through the open shutters. “You’ve done it before. Anyway, they’re not all of them old. Or coots.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  Fury almost ceased breathing as Susan secured the shutters and bustled across the room to help her. She just wished everything else that was going to happen tonight would be over as gently. She tilted her head further as Susan swept Fury’s hair over her shoulder. The scent of beeswax polish that permeated Susan’s plump fingers reassured her somehow.

  “Have it your own way, madam. You always do. But I’m not thinking of Lady Margaret. I’m thinking of you.”

  “Then don’t. You know I don’t require it.”

  “I’m thinking you should just tell that old toad where to stuff her money. You could find a protector here in Genoa. A woman like you.”

  A woman like her? Fury met her reflection in the not yet paid for glass. And what was that exactly? Long ago she’d stopped wondering, buffeted by fortune’s changing winds. Forced to snatch what she could to survive. Always knowing one false foot would bring her down. However, she was certain of one thing.

  “I don’t want a protector.” Thomas had been that at the start. Now look at her, without a penny to her name. Again. “I’ve had my fill of them. I want to guarantee my future. The future of…” her voice trailed off, eyes dulling in the glass. “Anyway, things that are dear.”

  Susan knew the dire nature of her predicament. When Thomas had first taken Fury to meet his mother, the dislike had been instantaneous. It had flourished down the years, until now, it consumed her.

  Fury imagined that at night Lady Margaret lay awake thinking of new ways to torture and humiliate her. But poisoning Thomas’s father against her? Cajoling him on his deathbed into insisting Thomas must provide an heir before succeeding to the dukedom? It was one blessing at least that Lady Margaret lived in England and Fury here.

  “You know what I must guarantee and why.”

  Susan sprinkled a dusting of powder onto the dressing table as if she were measuring the ingredients for a cake and then wiped her hands down her apron. “Indeed I do, madam, I just—”

  Despite herself, Fury touched what glittered around her neck. The single midnight blue pendant Thomas had given her two Christmases ago. The copy of it, rather. Because that, like this, was also burning necessity. Her Hatton Garden jewel-maker had served her well, though. Thomas had never once suspected a thing of her need for that kind of money and how it ran to more than blackmail.

  “Before you say another word, Susan, even this jewel here wouldn’t pay for that. It’s like me. Fake.”

  “Undervalued is what I’d say. What about blackmail then? That book—”

  Fury shook her head. “Blackmail is messy, which is why I’m locking the book away again.”

  “It’s not my business, but when I think of all the years you’ve bribed dressmakers and housemaids and coachmen to get what’s in it.”

  “Out of necessity. Knowing that at any time this could all tumble down. No. This is the best way. Besides, think how good it will feel outfoxing Lady Margaret. She insisted on an heir. She gets one. Do you think I care if she coos over some child that’s not Thomas’s? No. What I want is for you to make me irresistible, as you always do.”

  “Who are you considering? Southey? He’s handsome in his way, I suppose.”

  “I was thinking… I was thinking…Malmesbury actually.”

  “Malmesbury?” Susan’s fingers didn’t falter, but Fury sensed the surprise in her voice. And not in admiration of Fury’s sense of judgment either.

  “Probably Southey would be less trouble. But Malmesbury’s not one-legged and toothless, is he? So long as he’s—not like Thomas—what does it matter?”

  She felt guilty for saying it. Truth to tell, if anyone understood her predicament, Thomas would have. For her sake, he had tried ensuring an heir. But these last six months, since what had pressed on his brain swelled, well…she didn’t want any man treating her like Thomas.

  “That would be hard, madam, given the things His Grace did to you.”

  “I know. But he wasn’t always like that. No. I think Malmesbury, and I…think I should just get it over with. The sooner the better, don’t you?” Fury smoothed a smoky curl into place on her forehead. Anything to quell the tremor rising in her hands now the hour approached and she felt sicker than ever before. “Besides, my reckoning is he positively expects it.”

  “What? Malmesbury?”

  “Oh, yes.” She reached toward the open trinket chest. “What do you think? Sapphire earrings or plain gold?”

  “I don’t see either matter since they’re not going to be on very long.”

  “Pragmatic as ever.” She fastened on the sapphire drops. “But really, didn’t you see the way he stared just now? I don’t think he can contain himself.”

  “The old goat.”

  “Yes. Who knows? If he’s a randy one, it might even be fun.” She marveled at herself for laughing when a leaden weight sat in her chest. Maybe that was the way to get through this.

  Susan’s hand rested on her shoulder. “Then I’ll get him for you, madam, if that’s your choice.”

  “No.” Fun or not—and she thought not—the notion of admitting him here, to the bed she’d shared with Thomas, seemed wrong, even if she managed to conceive the Beaumont heir. “I—I’ll do it. I need to calm my nerves. What bedroom is he in again? I confess I’ve forgotten.”

  “The Blue Chamber.”

  “Well then, think of England, as they say. Wish me luck. And remember to lock the drawer. However I choose to use it, that book is still the world to me. We must see it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

  She rose, smoothed her dress, and took the candlestick. If she did this, she forfeited forever her claim to be a respectable woman. Although, as the deed was more than likely to remain another secret of this villa, she failed to understand quite why her indigo gown clung tightly to her shaking form, for all it was so loose. Her stays confined so, and she struggled to breathe.

  If she didn’t execute this task, then she faced being in the same position as she had been in seven years ago. It was fine at eighteen. But now, she needed to secure some things. Once she had, she would be free of men and all their machinations. Women too.

  The Blue Chamber stood at the far end of the landing near the stairs, and she padded there noiselessly in the arc of the flickering candle, past the disapproving busts of Signor Santa-Rosa’s ancestors and the draped apertures, which she sometimes imagined hid more secrets than she did.

  Malmesbury would be surprised to see her. Irresistibly dressed, jeweled, and, hopefully, willing—as much as she could make herself anyway. Who would know that beneath the rustling indigo silk, the heady, intoxicating jasmine she had bathed in earlier, she was like a skittish colt, ready to bolt? This was how Marie Antoinette must have felt going to her execution. Another woman Fury admired, if
not for her ideals, but her courage.

  Still, surprise could sometimes be the best method of attack. A man was, after all, a man. And, as she’d said to Susan, it might even be fun, although she doubted it. The sooner, the better. Then she could retire to her own bedroom and bolt the blasted door. And lie with cool lavender scented cloths on her head, for that matter, just to remove herself from the jarring awfulness of this.

  Drawing a breath to quell her hammering heart, she raised her quivering hand to tap on the door. A low, American Southern voice drawled. Not from the other side of the door where she expected to hear something, but close by in her ear.

  “Hello, sweetheart. Imagine seeing you here.”

  Fury jerked up her chin and swung around, the candle flame sputtering.

  “You.” Imagine, indeed.

  Flint. Not just a voice in her ear. A voice from that place she had locked it, locked him, and thrown away the key. A voice from memory’s dark swamp.

  But as if it were yesterday, he stepped toward her and she fought the swell of panic. She couldn’t help it. She parted her lips in shock.

  “No. Don’t scream.” He held up a warning hand.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.” She had had seven years of acknowledging this man did not exist. She did not want to see him now. Not when she stood on Malmesbury’s doorstep, on the very trembling edge of—this. Go away, she nearly hissed. She must be mistaken. He couldn’t be here. It wasn’t possible.

  He loomed over her, and her whole body stiffened. He was here.

  “Because I doubt you want your guests out their chambers any more than I do right now, sweetheart, with what you got sitting down in your cellar.” His voice was a rich baritone.

  She fumbled with the candlestick, almost dropping it. “Did no one ever tell you it’s rude to go poking your nose around in other people’s houses? No. I think they forgot. Of course. You never had a father.”