Praise for A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby
“Smart and witty . . .Vanessa Riley delivers the perfect historical read.”
—Julia Quinn, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Riveting from the first sentence to the last. Vanessa Riley’s lyrical voice shimmers in this emotional, uplifting tour de force. One of the best historicals I’ve read in years.”—New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins
“With strong heroines, swoon-worthy heroes and deeply emotional stories, Vanessa Riley is a magnificent voice in historical romance—one not to be missed! A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby is Vanessa at her finest.”—New York Times bestselling author Sarah MacLean
Praise for Vanessa Riley
“Riley’s novels are lush with historical detail and they shine a light on history that has often been obscured. Her romance novels offer a different kind of escape from the contemporary titles that dominate this time of year.”—Maureen Lee Lenker, Entertainment Weekly
“Riley always keeps the focus on the love and passion blossoming.”
—Maya Rodale, NPR
“Riley does a fantastic job of subverting mainstream historical romance tropes while giving readers everything they could want in one and more.”—Redbook magazine
A DUKE, THE LADY, and A BABY
Vanessa Riley
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2 - A MOTHER’S RESOLVE
CHAPTER 3 - WINNING OFF THE FIELD
CHAPTER 4 - THE WIDOW’S GRACE
CHAPTER 5 - A TRUE GUARDIAN RISES
CHAPTER 6 - WHEN WOMEN PLOT
CHAPTER 7 - A MAN’S BEDCHAMBER
CHAPTER 8 - THE WRONG MOVES
CHAPTER 9 - A VALET AND A VISCOUNT KNOW
CHAPTER 10 - THE NURSERY
CHAPTER 11 - SIXTH DAY ON THE JOB
CHAPTER 12 - THE DRAWING ROOM
CHAPTER 13 - STORMY NIGHTS
CHAPTER 14 - PLANS FOR MY LIONEL
CHAPTER 15 - BACK IN THE SADDLE
CHAPTER 16 - A PARADE WITH LEMONADE
CHAPTER 17 - IN THE CORNER WITH YOU
CHAPTER 18 - THE LAST LETTER
CHAPTER 19 - BE A LITTLE WEAK
CHAPTER 20 - A KISS CAN SET YOU FREE
CHAPTER 21 - THE PROBLEM WITH CRAWLING
CHAPTER 22 - WATCHING AND WAITING
CHAPTER 23 - GAMBLING STAKES
CHAPTER 24 - LESSONS OF A RAKE
CHAPTER 25 - A RAKE’S SURRENDER
CHAPTER 26 - A LAST-MINUTE STOP
CHAPTER 27 - CARING FOR THE DUKE
CHAPTER 28 - OLD DREAMS, NEW DREAMS
CHAPTER 29 - A CEREMONY OF CONVENIENCE
CHAPTER 30 - A MARRIAGE OF INCONVENIENCE
CHAPTER 31 - TRUST AND OBEY
CHAPTER 32 - THE COMMANDER’S STRATEGY
CHAPTER 33 - THE DIARY TELLS ALL
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
RECIPE
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Teaser chapter
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Vanessa Riley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Zebra Trade Printing: July 2020
ISBN: 978-1-4201-5223-4
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-5224-1 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4201-5224-6 (ebook)
To all who’ve loved and lost and are brave enough to start again—you are blessed and beautiful. I wish you happiness.
To all the wounded warriors—thank you for your service, your bravery, and your hearts filled of love. I wish you joy.
CHAPTER 1
February 1, 1814
London, England
It was a universal truth that no matter her background, face, or charms, a widow in possession of a fortune would be targeted for theft. In my circumstance, I’d been cheated of everything, even my greatest gift. Now was the time to defy authority, to strike and win.
I’d almost been caught.
My breath came in waves as I leaned against the closed nursery door. I squeezed my stomach tight, as tight as my shut lashes, and waited for someone to push inside.
So close, only to be captured . . .
My heart ticked, numbering the follies of my life. So full of memories—sliding down a sloping banister, the chatter of silly sisters, a stranger’s whisper at sunset, a blur of signatures on a marriage contract, then a well-written note of love . . . of suicide—my soul was about to explode.
Laughter filtered beneath the door, then the haunting footsteps moved away. Maybe a maid entered a bedroom down the hall. I swallowed the lump building in my throat. The knot of bitterness went down slow. It burned.
This was my house. Those servants once worked for me. Now, I was reduced to sneaking inside Hamlin Hall.
With a shake of my head, I stopped thinking of my failures and focused on my mission, my sole purpose, my Lionel. Feet slipping in my borrowed boots, I tiptoed to his crib and peeked at my baby.
His wide hazel eyes seized me.
Tiny hands lifted, but he made no sound, no cooing or crying. I pacified myself thinking my smart boy didn’t want more trouble dropped on my head, not that he’d learned to soothe himself from neglect.
Pity my heart knew the truth, that Lionel was a prisoner.
And these circumstances were my fault.
I stole a breath and pinned a smile to my lips. I was grateful to see my boy’s face.
“My little man. Hungry?”
I unbuttoned the placard of my borrowed nankeen shirt, then unwound the bandage I’d wrapped about my bosom. This made my charms appear flat, manlike.
Scooping up Lionel, I put him to my breast. “Hamlin Hall is different tonight, Master Jordan. Is that your doing?”
My little man’s suckle was so strong. Those distant concerns about how often he’d been fed crept forward.
My insides broke into more pieces. “I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t smart, and now my Lionel suffered.
He made an extra slurping noise as if he’d spooned runny porridge. The funny notion calmed my frets . . . for now. “Tonight, you eat big.”
Our change was in the offing. I felt it. I knew it would be so.
“Your mama’s a spy again. But tonight, I was almost discovered trying to retrieve my trust documents. I had to scurry back to the catacombs, running at top speed through the secret door at the stairs. The old butler was too drunk—”
Something
heavy dragged outside in the hall.
The new carpet? It would be ruined.
Hushed whispers bubbled.
Did I hear something about ruin or ripping?
That carpet was imported from the East Indies.
My hands flushed. My cheeks followed.
The fine tapestries of woven rust and gold silks I’d installed to give this two-hundred-year-old house new life would be torn up, discarded . . . like me.
A loud curse soared, then a clear complaint about a guest—a Rep? Reynolds? Remington?—his arrival, the servant said was imminent.
Was this a constable from London?
A magistrate from Bow Street?
Or an administrator from the lunatic asylum?
Any of these men could be coming for me.
I shook from the sole of my boots to the collar of my coarse shirt.
They dragged me, the mistress of Hamlin Hall from this place, from Lionel. My jet bombazine mourning gown, once so proper and refined, was wrinkled and stained as they hauled me away.
The servants and Markham, my late husband’s uncle, said I looked crazed, a yellow-eyed loon. I remember sobbing like a lunatic, but the hope in my heart said, Cooperate, all would be well.
All lies. All tricks. All meant to crush me.
I wasn’t going this time, not without a fight.
I was at war—one made for mothers, especially foreign-born women. I had Papa’s knife in my waistband. Forged in gold and white topaz, the pretty thing would be drawn to wave at them. I’d hurl threats and put on a menacing, crazy face.
But could I actually harm or kill anyone?
My father, the Sugar King, should’ve forged a golden gun. Something I could use with slight effort and at an unfeeling distance, not up close, not inches away where I’d see a man’s eyes.
Eyes, like my Lionel’s, were my undoing. They took my battered heart on adventures, somewhere good, where folks were decent, where I was loved for being me.
Blam.
Something fell and broke. It sounded steps away.
A vase?
An ugly sculpture that came with this house of secrets?
“Get the last of her stuff below without breaking anything else. He’ll be comin’ any day. Repington will . . .”
The knocking and man-talk sounded closer.
“Finish up, Lionel. Feed faster.” I whispered this to his thin curls. I bolstered my spine with lass-talk. “My boy, I’ll leave out like I’ve done all week. Another day closer to getting my trust documents to finance our boat trip. Safety, my son. We’ll have it soon.”
A shadow slid across the sill at the door’s bottom.
My lass-talk abandoned ship. My panic rose like the evening tide. There was no other way out of this room. I’d be discovered.
“Law and order, Repington. He’ll take care of the problem.”
That voice, a roguish Scottish tongue—the drunk butler, one of the many servants who worked at Hamlin these past four years. Was he toying with me? Had he recognized me yesterday and sprung a trap?
The insolent man needed to be flogged with a good island switch, a thick palm frond.
I looked down at the boy suckling at my bosom. “We will win. We’ll be together.”
My babe released a yawn.
“I’m glad you’re excited about this.”
Lionel’s mouth stretched, and he burped. His eyes closed.
“Done with me, aye? Just like your father.”
If he had lived and returned with his mouth full of sorries—could we have started anew?
I lowered Lionel into the crib, then started buttoning up my disguise. I had to look like a man to leave Hamlin. “I’m going to regain custody, and that nice countess, the leader of the Widow’s Grace, she’s helping me.”
Thumb in mouth, my boy looked so peaceful.
Maybe he believed me, but since his birth, he hadn’t known much freedom. This was how it had been for me these past four years in England.
Colin’s unsocial wife.
Colin’s foreign wife.
Colin’s distant flower couldn’t withstand the scrutiny of the ton.
My baby cried out. The short outburst blasted like a loud off-key trumpet.
I looked at the ledge outside the window. If I climbed out, I could avoid detection, but this was crazy, even for a girl good at climbing. If I fell, the Morning Post would read, Crazed widow dressed like a man jumped from a third-floor window.
“Please, sir. I need to check on the babe. Might need to clean him up a bit.”
A feminine voice with clear, proper syllables.
The door cracked open.
A tall girl like me couldn’t fit into the wardrobe. I turned back, opened the window wider, balanced on the old rocking chair, and climbed out onto the ledge.
“Mrs. Kelly, the little mongrel will keep. But you need a strong man to protect you from the ghost of Hamlin Hall. Come put me to bed.”
This deeper speech, smug and amused—Markham’s. His gloating voice repeated through my nightmares. He chuckled again. The blood in my veins chilled, the pain worse than an island girl’s first snow.
Hiding from his wrath had to be done. Boots dangling, I steadied myself and scooted to the right. The jagged edges of the hewed stones tugged on my breeches, but I’d made it. I stretched and shoved the leaded glass, closing it to within an inch.
The nursery door creaked, the hinge whining as if it had opened wide. Markham might have joined the nanny.
Stiff and silent against the wall, I waited and hoped not to see his face. Thought to pray to Agassou, the Demeraran god of protection, but I didn’t know if he had dominion on English soil . . . or stone ledges.
A woman’s hand draped in frills clasped the window latch. “One moment, Mr. Markham. The night air’s not good for the baby.”
My pulse fluttered. If Mrs. Kelly stuck her head out, I’d be discovered.
But the woman stood there, not moving, her elegant fingers resting against the frame.
“Mrs. Kelly,” Markham said. “What are you staring at? Not more snow.”
My heart thumped hard like a street singer’s drummer, one whooping on his instrument to excite the crowd or rouse a rebellion.
“No. Nothing, sir. I see nothing.”
The window slammed shut.
The door whined.
Except for my panicked heart, all was silent.
I loosened my death grip on the ledge and clasped my thumping chest.
Not caught.
Not mocked by Markham again.
Not falling or tipping over . . . yet.
Breathing in and out, I swung my feet as if I sat on the docks watching ships come into Demerara. For one moment, the air smelled fresh like the sea. To go home with Lionel, that was my dream now. And we would be happy and safe, no longer sneaking and hiding, no longer living under rules that made no sense.
Elated, relieved, I laughed. I’d accomplished tonight’s mission. Lionel was fed, and there was still time to head back to Lady Shrewsbury’s before she discovered her wayward widow missing. I reached over to the window, but the pane wouldn’t budge.
It was locked.
No! No! No.
No?
Three stories up. What to do?
Break the glass and be caught? Bedlam.
Stay here and be caught in the morning’s light? Bedlam.
Jump and be caught dead? The notion deserved Bedlam.
Wait for the ghost of my dream or one of Hamlin Hall’s to come and float me down? Yes, Bedlam again.
Staying here was impossible. I’d have to get help or turn myself over to Markham.
My stomach clenched at the thought of being at his mercy again. If my mother were alive, she’d put a root on Markham so that bad luck would be his and only his.
But West Indian magic nonsense was as bad as English ghost lore, and none of it could explain why Markham kept winning—he had my house, my son, my dignity.
I slapped the
ledge. My fingers stung, and my resolve wavered. Better to live and fight another day. “Lionel, your mother’s not crazed. I tried.”
I readied my knife to break the glass, but a flash caught my gaze.
I squinted toward the woods outside Hamlin’s stone gates and saw the light again. I put down my knife and used both hands to cup my eyes.
The pattern repeated, bright to dark, bright to dark.
A signal?
It was steady, like the ones on the big ships slipping through the fogged bay. Could that be Jemina St. Maur sending a warning? My friend insisted on coming and keeping watch tonight. Brave woman.
My risk-taking had endangered my friend.
I couldn’t surrender and save Jemina, too. Markham wouldn’t let me help her.
Sweating through my shirt, I opened my livery. My flailing elbow brushed leaves, the thick English ivy, the long vines I’d admired from the first day Colin brought me to Hamlin. I reached over and pushed at one. It was solid and gnarled like a tree. Like a coconut tree.
Would it hold a reformed tomboy? It was now or never. I wedged a boot into the mortar joint between the limestone bricks.
On the count of three, I’d grab the fat tree trunk.
One.
Two.
Two and a half.
Two and a third.
Three. I started and clung to the vine like it was Papa’s waist. The ivy swayed but bounced back like a spring.
Heaving, I climbed down, foothold after foothold.
The herbaceous fragrance of the leaves mingled with my perspiration. The scent reminded me of summer—of sneaking from my bedchamber window to escape chores, to hide from endless dress fittings, to avoid the suitors coming to sway the Sugar King’s daughters.
It meant a couple of hours of not hearing Mama’s critiques, her coughs, or the awful moment when she’d cough no more.
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