by Ava Stone
Stalbridge chuckled. “No need to get so worked up, Berkswell. No one else need know she wasn’t innocent when you married her. I’m certain we can come to an agreement of some sort.”
“An agreement?” Berks hissed, not at all appreciating the gleeful glint in Stalbridge’s eyes in the least.
“Well—” the man picked at a piece of lint on his jacket “—for the right price I will happily forget I ever met Lady Berkswell. But only for the right price.”
For the right price? After everything the blackguard had done to Theresa, he now thought to hurt her again, or blackmail Berks? In a flash, Berks pushed away from his desk, bolted to his grate a few feet away, and grabbed his fire iron in his fist. He enjoyed the look of surprise flickering in the villain’s eyes, and Berks thrust the fire iron towards Stalbridge’s face.
“Don’t for one moment think you can blackmail me, you insolvent reprobate.” He pressed the weapon against man’s throat and threatened, “If you so much as mutter my wife’s name, I’ll skewer you. If you breathe one word about her to another living soul, I’ll stick your head on a pike at the entrance of Hyde Park as a warning to other blackguards in Town.”
Stalbridge gulped, his eyes round as saucers.
“And your mother and sisters will be well relieved to be rid of you,” Berks sneered. Even so it was the truth. The unfortunate women in his life would be much better off without Stalbridge making their lives miserable. “Do I make myself clear?”
Stalbridge nodded, as well as he was able, with the fire iron pressed against his throat.
Berks lowered his weapon. “Then leave and don’t ever come back.”
An honorable man would demand satisfaction for the insult, but Stalbridge was far from an honorable man. As though a mouse who’d just been freed by a cat, Stalbridge bolted for the corridor without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.
Shaking, Berks dropped the fire iron to the floor, which landed with a dull thud. He took a breath and tried to calm his pounding heart. It wouldn’t do for Theresa to learn of the villain’s visit, so he needed to collect himself before—
“Everett Casemore,” Theresa said, standing in his threshold. “What was that about?”
Damn it all, she’d seen the bastard. Berks feigned a smile for his sweet wife. “Nothing at all, darling. Just a meeting of the minds.”
“You threatened to kill him.”
And she’d heard the exchange too. Bloody wonderful. “I won’t allow that man to ever hurt you again, Theresa. Not in words, not in deeds.”
“Because I’m your wife?” she asked, stepping further into his study.
“There is that.” Berks shook his head. “But I won’t allow him to hurt you again because you don’t deserve it. Because of you shouldn’t have to live in fear or shame for the rest of your life. Because you are the most wonderful woman in the world, and nothing bad will ever be said about you. Not by him, not by me, not by anyone.”
She seemed to blink back a tear as she threw her arms around his neck. She shook slightly in his arms, but she held him tightly. “I do love you.”
“And I will always love you.”
The author of several Regency Noir Romances, Ava Stone first fell in love with Mr. Darcy, Jane Austen and Regency England at the age of twelve. And in the years since, that love has never diminished. If she isn't writing Regency Era romance, she can be found reading it.
Her bestselling Scandalous Series is filled with witty humor and centers around the friends and family of the Machiavellian-like Lady Staveley, exploring deep themes but with a light touch. A single mother, Ava lives outside Raleigh NC, but she travels extensively, always looking for inspiration for new stories and characters in the various locales she visits.
Ava can be found at www.avastoneauthor.com and at Lady Jane's Salon Raleigh-Durham, where she is one of the salon's directors. You can also find her at Facebook and on Twitter.
For Suzie Grant ~ Without your knowledge and assistance, Hélène’s duel wouldn’t have been the same. Thank you!
~Jane
December, 1814
“Yorkshire?” Hélène Mirabelle Trent glanced around the parlor decorated in pale blue and gold in the Acker London Townhouse.
“Yes,” her sister-in-law, Elizabeth Trent, answered. “We are to leave at the end of the week.”
“Why?”
“For Christmas, of course.” Elizabeth smiled. “Because the roads are unpredictable this time of year, we want to make sure we arrive before the twenty-third.”
Why must they travel to Yorkshire? Hélène wanted a simple, quiet Christmas with just her sisters and Maman, which was impossible. Maman had been dead for five months after succumbing to consumption, and Juliette, her older sister, was now married to Lord Acker. Neither she nor Hélène’s twin, Genviève, lived with Juliette and Acker, but with their recently discovered half-brother, the Earl of Bentley and his wife. Hélène would prefer to live in the home on Henrietta Street in Covent Garden near the theatres, but her brothers wouldn’t allow her to do so. The lot of them thought it unseemly.
Hélène hadn’t known her four half-brothers and half-sister even existed until seven months ago, yet it hadn’t stopped the gentlemen from taking over and dictating her life. At least Bentley and the brothers were allowing her to stay with Juliette during their short visit in London. She had missed Juliette terribly over the last few months.
“My grandfather insists my sister and I come home for Christmas this year,” Elizabeth explained.
“I don’t understand why we need to be there as well.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “Because my husband now has his three brothers and four sisters with whom to share the holiday. He has not had everyone before,” she explained. “When he said as much to my grandfather, it was decided that the entire family would go to Yorkshire for Christmas.”
Hélène clenched her teeth and bit back a retort. She was highly tired of others deciding what she would be doing, without once inquiring if she wished to participate. She wasn’t a child, incapable of making her own decisions, and hadn’t been treated as such for several years. Hélène wanted to tell them all to go hang and she would do what she very well pleased.
Elizabeth reached over and grasped Hélène’s hand. “There is an estate that borders Grandfather’s and stands vacant. He was able to rent it through Twelfth Night, and we will all stay there together.” She grinned. “As long as we are at the castle during the day and early evening, Grandfather will be happy. As long as we have the privacy of our own home, John is happy, which means I’m happy.” John was the youngest of four brothers.
“Grandfather has also taken control of the situation,” Elizabeth added. Hélène knew the particular situation in question was sorting out how to let society know that her now-late father, the former Earl of Bentley, had married and sired a daughter when he still had a wife who was very much alive. He had let society believe she had been dead, along with his daughter, for nearly twenty-two years. “I don’t know how His Grace can change anything. It will be a scandal whether anyone likes it or not.”
“Grandfather is The Duke of Danby,” Elizabeth reminded her. “He has more power than any of us like to acknowledge. If anyone can defuse a situation, it is Grandfather. I can almost guarantee that when spring arrives, nobody will dare shun anyone in the family. ”
Hopefully the rented estate was large, and the castle even bigger.
“When Twelfth Night has passed, we will return to London. While Bentley returns to the manor, we will spend our days shopping and preparing you and Genviève for your coming out,” Elizabeth announced.
Just the thought of being presented to the ton as if she were eight-and-ten was enough to make Hélène break out in a rash. She was not a debutant and never had been, nor would she ever be, yet her brothers would not accept that fact.
Hélène wasn’t even sure she wanted to remain in London and knew she didn’t wish to go to Yorkshire. She wanted to return to
Milan where she could continue acting, making costumes, and experimenting with different makeup and wigs. She belonged in Milan. She had to find a way to come up with the funds to buy passage, rent a room, and buy food until she could work again. And she needed to find the money before the Season began.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Acker announced as he walked through the door with Juliette.
Acker thumbed through the post and dropped an envelope into the waste can.
“What is that?” Juliette asked.
“Another invitation to Dagger’s Haven.” Acker shook his head. “I don’t know why Stanwick keeps sending me vouchers. I am already a member, though I don’t visit often.” He smiled down at Juliette, who was apparently the cause of Acker not visiting this particular establishment.
Dagger’s Haven. It sounded slightly dangerous. “Is it a gaming hell?” Hélène asked.
Acker nodded. “No cheating, no women, and Stanwick always comes out ahead.”
Mr. Sebastian Stanwick lifted a silent toast to his departed friend, then tossed back the brandy. It was a bloody shame Arrington was gone from this world at such a young age and in such an inconceivable manner.
He reached behind his desk in the office of his gaming hell, Dagger’s Haven, and grasped the bottle of brandy to refill his glass. The shock of Lady Arrington killing her husband still lingered. He poured a large amount of the warm, brown liquor into his glass and set the bottle aside before taking a sip. One never knew what to expect from a woman. After all, they were the more fragile of the genders. Heaven knew that their dispositions could change with the wind, but to take a fire iron to one’s husband’s skull was rather extreme.
Stanwick didn’t blame Lady Arrington for being angry. Her husband had been dipping his wick in another woman, but to hit him over the head with a fire iron? And she hadn’t stopped there; she’d hit him several more times. At least, those were the rumors.
Had she beat him first and when he didn’t die, she struck him in the head? Or had she struck him in the head first and then proceed to beat his lifeless body until her anger was dispelled? Surely one whack against the skull was quite enough.
Stanwick shuddered at the thought.
Regardless, it was a horrible way to die. There were certainly less gruesome ways that Lady Arrington could have punished her husband.
Stanwick leaned back, tipping the chair so it balanced on the back two legs. He cradled the snifter of brandy as he tried to think of a reasonable punishment. Denying him access to her bed would do no good since he preferred another’s anyway. She didn’t hold the purse strings, so she couldn’t cut him off.
He stared up at the ceiling. The candles cast a bright light that dimmed into shadows, leaving half of the ceiling in near darkness. There really were no ways a lady could punish her husband. A gentleman had many options, such as denying her pin money, sending her to the country for life, or refusing to spend time with her. Really, a gentleman’s options were endless. No wonder ladies felt helpless in these matters. It might just explain much of their behavior.
Stanwick righted the chair, the front legs hitting the wooden floor with a thud. Women were unable to respond to uncomfortable situations with a reasonable emotion, Lady Arrington being a perfect example. Why didn’t gentlemen understand that women, as a whole, were delicate creatures in mind and in body, and great care should be taken so they were not distressed?
He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk, staring ahead at the closed door of his office. Were all women prone to madness if not taken care of properly?
The thought gave him pause. It was a frightening thought indeed, and all the more reason he was glad he never planned to marry. The pact he’d made following Arrington’s funeral only solidified that vow.
Staring into the fire burning brightly behind the grate, Stanwick relaxed in his chair again and took another sip of the brandy. He had yet to witness a woman behave the same as another woman would in a similar situation. Where Lady Arrington took a fire iron to her husband, his mother had retreated into herself until she was only a shell of the woman he had known as a child. After father lost everything they owned gambling he turned to drink. That is what killed him in the end. It was a shame he didn’t have the decency to die at home, but in his mistresses bed instead.
That had been the fatal blow to mother. She had given up. Too humiliated to go into public and too hurt to eat. His uncle, Earl Walcutt, did nothing to help mother, which probably angered Sebastian more than his father’s activities. Uncle could have easily seen that the debts were cleared, but did not feel they were his responsibility. However, he made certain Stanwick got an education that would rival any lord’s son but that was only because Stanwick was the heir. His uncle had only daughters and it was unlikely there would be a son in the future. Unfortunately, the neglect his uncle showed toward mother would be his downfall. Never would Stanwick marry and he most certainly would not sire the required heir. The title could go hang and disappear in to oblivion for all he cared. His younger brother might do the necessary duty, but Stanwick was not compelled to do so himself.
Besides, even if Stanwick felt the urge to procreate and provide a future for the family, he didn’t want to be saddled with a wife. There were too many instances where it do not go well for the husband.
The firelight reflected off the fire iron standing in its holder as the flames danced. He had never thought of it as a deadly weapon before, but it looked lethal from where Stanwick sat and nobody was even holding it. Beside it was a glass case filled with a variety of weapons. He could use the knives, swords, and guns with deadly accuracy, not that he ever had despite the rumors. Stanwick simply kept them on display to discourage anyone who thought to threaten him when called to the office to discuss gambling debts.
Stanwick looked from the case, back to the fire iron, and then to the small but heavy figurine of a child sitting at the corner of his desk. It had been a favorite of his mother’s, yet even that innocent object could be used to harm someone. In fact, almost any object could be used if the lady was in the frame of mind to kill her husband.
Just the thought of some woman, upset and bordering on madness, coming at him with a weapon sent a trickle of fear through him. If it were a man, Stanwick wouldn’t hesitate to use his dagger, but he could never physically harm a woman, no matter what she did. If he ever was the cause of scarred or bruised skin, Stanwick wasn’t quite sure he could forgive himself.
He took a drink, and the liquid burned down his throat, warming his belly.
If only women were more like men, life would be much easier.
Stanwick finished his drink and placed the glass on his desk. At least he was safe in Dagger’s Haven where no women were ever allowed.
Hélène glanced at her reflection in the mirror one last time. Nothing was out of place or odd. Had she not heard the tale of Miranda Casemore’s foray into a gaming hell, it would have never occurred to her to even try such a feat. Yet, when Acker tossed his invitation into the trash, she knew it was fated that she attend.
“Are you sure this is something you should do?”
Hélène glanced at the reflection of her sister, Genviève in the glass. “How else are we going to come up with the funds to return home?”
Genviève’s grey eyes met her blue ones, concern marred her brow. “It is risky.” She shrugged. “What if you are caught?”
Hélène snorted. “I won’t be.” She returned her attention to her appearance and patted down her cravat. Juliette and Lord Acker had left early that afternoon for a dinner with Acker’s cousin in the country and didn’t plan on returning until morning. This gave Hélène the opportunity she had been hoping for, and she and Genviève went to the house Acker had once purchased for Juliette on Henrietta Street to prepare. She left a note for Acker and Juliette, telling them she and Genviève were going to review the renovations so they would know where the two of them were if they didn’t make it back to Acker’s townhouse before he and
her sister returned the next day.
Hélène turned to the side to make sure everything that proved she was female was hidden. Her breasts had been bound tightly, past the point of comfort, but she could still breathe. She had also added a small pouch to her belly so it appeared thicker. She turned and looked over her shoulder. Thank goodness the jacket was long so it covered her behind. Sometimes disguising a feminine bottom was harder than anything else.
Hélène faced forward once again. She had added padding to the jacket to make her shoulders a bit broader, and everything fit perfectly. After all, she had tailored it herself nearly two years ago for a production. The wig was the same mahogany color as her own hair so it wasn’t in contrast to her eyebrows. Women usually had thinner eyebrows, and so she had bushed hers out as well as drew them further in toward her nose. As a final touch, she’d glued a slight sideburn at the front of each ear, and this seemed to pull her face down, making it longer instead of round. Other than that, her face was devoid of any makeup. Hélène learned a long time ago that the more you do to change your appearance, the more likely someone will notice something is not right. Even if someone looked at her closely, they would not suspect she was a female, as long as she didn’t give herself away with gestures.
Hélène didn’t fear that happening. She had played the part of a man too often in the theatre and had studied men often. She could make her voice low, though she intended to talk only when necessary and move with confidence and masculinity.
She sighed and pocketed the twenty pounds she had been able to save. It was more money than she could afford to lose, but not enough to get her and Genviève back to Milan and support them until they worked again.
She turned to Genviève and did a slow circle. “How do I look?”
Genviève lifted an auburn eyebrow and studied her from head to toe. “I see nothing out of place.”
