by Deb Marlowe
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
An Unexpected Encounter
Copyright 2013 by Deb Marlowe
Cover Design by Lily Smith
Smashwords Edition
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Books in the Half Moon House Series
For Ava Stone, with many thanks for her laughter, her generosity and her incredible ability to do a thousand and one things and do them all spectacularly well.
For Claudia Dain, who talks me down, props me up and understands connecting the dots.
For Michelle Marcos. I am so glad that an accidental butt bump turned into a lasting friendship!
Prologue
British Museum, London
1810
Hestia Wright—formerly known as First of England’s Fashionably Impure, once crowned Queen of Europe’s Courtesans—was more than passing familiar with the evils of man. In her long and notorious career, she’d witnessed a disheartening number of the tactics men used to rain ruin and destruction down upon each other, and every one they habitually brought to bear against the fairer sex. These experiences had unerringly altered her fate. Now she was in the business of altering the fate of others.
She found great satisfaction in offering shelter and opportunity for women left with neither. She relished her reputation as a champion for all women suffering under society’s often harsh and unjust tyranny. But the burdens that came with such a life were heavy. They could, if unchecked, skew her toward a woeful imbalance of spirits. She countered the effect with the occasional rare day to herself—and she often spent those days here, in the British Museum.
Here she could experience the other side of the coin. Here she could forget her worries and indulge in the strange and the wondrous. Anonymous amongst the crowds she could enjoy history, art and artifacts, and let herself wallow for once in the beauty wrought by man.
Today was meant to be such a holiday.
Today, though, her vocation had followed her to the museum. And not once, it appeared, but twice.
The first case had come to her attention early in the day. Several times throughout this visit she’d encountered the little girl, usually in and about the natural history rooms. Reasonably well dressed and shod, she showed no tendency to be loud, to run about weaving amongst the throngs as other children did. No, this appealing little scholar studied the displays intently, seemingly fascinated with anything related to exotic and foreign animals. And always she appeared to be utterly alone. Right now she stood at the top of the grand staircase, focused on the ragtag trio of preserved giraffes standing guard over the landing—and still there was no sign of a parent, sibling or even a servant tasked with the watching of her.
Hestia’s second concern had also come to roost on the landing. Quite an unusually pretty young woman, she’d also wandered the museum alone today. In contrast, though, Hestia had never seen her pay a moment’s attention to any of the treasures in the buildings. All of her awareness remained centered on the people moving through the many rooms, and as the afternoon faded, so did the young lady’s countenance. She stood now at the top of the stairs, examining faces as they moved up and down, passing to and from the entrance hall below. A pendant watch, fairly expensive, hung from her waist. She checked it often, her shoulders drooping further as each newcomer failed to be the person she so obviously awaited.
Hestia’s instincts told her that both of these females needed her. She moved forward, her mind already awhirl, conjuring the right words, and options for the future. But something gave her pause. She looked between them once more. Perhaps what they needed . . . was each other.
Hestia had long ago learned the wisdom of listening to her inner promptings. Smiling, she stepped forward again.
Chapter One
Lisbeth Moreton was a listener.
True listening was, in fact, a harder feat to accomplish than most people realized—and a far more valuable asset. Really listening when someone talked gained one more than knowledge. It allowed Lisbeth to see more than others wished to reveal. It gave her insight into intent, motivation, and occasionally even truth. She tried to truly listen as often as she could. Which was why she now had to stop putting off the inevitable and listen to the truth that had been trying to make itself heard for the better part of the afternoon.
He wasn’t coming.
Lisbeth stopped watching the faces of the people moving around her. She leaned against a great window and let the awful certainty wash over her with the late afternoon sun. She’d put all of her faith in the Honorable James Vickers, heir to Lord Bridgeford—and he had failed her.
The steady stream of visitors moving up and down the Grand Staircase slowed to a trickle, as did the blood in her veins. Three hours ago they were to have met. Another bit of excited hope and expectation died with each tick of the clock since.
She clutched numb fingers about her portmanteau. Her hands had gone freezing, despite her best gloves, despite the fact that the rest of her was flushed hot and perspiring beads of fear, anger and panic.
Silently she cursed the one person she had steadfastly refused to listen to. Her wretched stepfather disguised insult as concern, even as he labeled her as headstrong, impetuous and too forward in her ways. She let out a long, shuddering breath. Now she’d gone and proved that he’d been right all along.
She’d known it was a gamble, writing to James for help. But she’d been frantic, and it had largely been a symbolic gesture. Even as she’d posted the letter, she’d expected it to go unanswered, as had nearly all of her earlier communications. His swift reply had been a shock, but his outrage on her behalf had been a balm to her soul. His precise instructions—to meet him here, on this landing, on this day, at noon—well, they had felt like an answer to her prayers.
So she’d tossed aside a lifetime of sensible, practical behavior. She’d followed her flighty mother’s example, ignored the needs of others and thought only of herself. She’d rolled the dice. Packed her things, taken her pin money and a bit extra from the household accounts—she’d more than earned it—walked to the next village and hired an enterprising farm boy and his wagon to carry her through the night and deliver her to London.
But her toss had come up empty. James was not here. She was alone, in London, without friend, family or a place to go. She’d risked all and lost. Her legs trembled, but she looked down and past them to her boots, now set firmly on the path to ruin. She could not, would not go back. She must come up with an alternative.
James’s rambling letter had mentioned his mother. It would have been lowering enough to allow James to present her as a charity case, in need of support against her miserly, manipulative stepfather. She’d have done it, though, to escape his plans for her. No chance of that now. She could hardly present herself on the woman’s doorstep without even the dubious sponsorship of her son.
What else was there for her to do? Her mind wandered to the other, unanswered letter she’d posted. Now there was a London address that should have been a refuge. But darkening that doorway would only gain her a speedy trip back home. She shook her head. She had James’s address, but did
she dare go to his rooms? A lone young woman, showing up at a gentleman’s bachelor’s quarters—she would truly be sunk beyond reproach. But was she not already? What choice did she have?
“Excuse me?”
Lisbeth started and turned. She knew it was not James behind her, but still her breath caught as her eye fell upon the stunningly beautiful woman, standing close and smiling at her. Late sun streamed over her, highlighting porcelain skin and burnishing her hair to angelic gold. Lisbeth’s mouth dropped open. Surely no real female had ever looked so perfectly . . . perfect. She suffered the foolish notion that before her stood one of the museum’s pieces of art, come to life.
The vision frowned—and the appearance of a small wrinkle in that flawless brow relieved Lisbeth of her fancies.
“I do beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help noticing that you appeared to be looking for someone.” Shifting, the woman gestured to the other side of the landing. “You wouldn’t happen to be searching for that young girl, would you?”
“No.” Lisbeth craned her neck to look. “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with the girl.” She clenched a fist. “And it appears that the person I was to meet has forgotten our appointment.”
“Oh, dear. I was hoping that you were the one responsible for her.” The other woman offered a friendly smile. “Forgive the presumption, but I’m Hestia Wright.”
Lisbeth curtsied. “Miss Elisabeth Moreton.”
Lowering her tone, the woman leaned in. “I have an appointment myself shortly, one that must be kept, but I can’t help worrying about the child. It seems she’s been left alone here for the entire afternoon.”
A flash of sympathy jolted through her. “Oh?” She glanced over at the girl again. She stood very close to the rail separating viewers from three massive, stuffed giraffes. “That is worrisome.”
“I knew you would understand!” Hestia Wright beamed at her. “I wish I could take the child with me, but I cannot bring her to a business appointment. And yet, neither can I just leave until I know she has not been abandoned.” The woman raised her brows. “I know it must be a dreadful inconvenience, but perhaps you would keep an eye on her . . . just until I can get back?”
Lisbeth bit her lip. “I . . . I hardly—”
“Oh, do say yes?” the other woman pleaded. “I fear if I come back and find her gone I’d be haunted, wondering if she’d been found by her people or if she’d come to some harm. But if you will just watch over her, then I’ll come and take her over when I’m free. And if you agree, and if I were to return and find you both gone, then I’ll know that you saw her safely seen to.”
Lisbeth hesitated. She had her own troubles. She should be making plans, trying to find lodgings for the night, attempting to figure out where she could go from here. But the thought of the girl’s plight stiffened her spine. Who better than to protect the child than she, who knew how damaging neglect could be? It was strange that the child had been left here, on her own, where anyone could take note of her vulnerability. Where it was possible she might encounter any number of unsavory people.
She winced. Likely the girl’s family would consider her one of those unsavory numbers, now that she’d gone and nearly ruined herself. But what sort of family were they, allowing her to remain alone for hours in such a place? An indignant wave of empathy drowned out her sensible objections. She gave a nod. “Of course, Mrs. Wright. I’d be happy to help.”
“Oh, thank you, my dear.” The other woman flashed a bright smile. “But it’s not Mrs. Wright.” She held up a hand to stall Lisbeth’s stuttered apology. “No, nor Miss, either. I’m just Hestia. And you may call upon me for help at any time, dear.” She began to move toward the stairs before Lisbeth could ask what she meant. “I shall see you shortly, shall I?”
Lisbeth saw a porter give the woman a nod as they passed at the bottom of the stairs. Climbing up, he took Hestia’s place upon the landing. “Make way!” he called, with a clang of a small bell. “Finish your tours and make way toward the exits. The museum will close shortly!” He moved on and Lisbeth heard him take up the cry further down the main passageway.
A quick glance showed the girl unmoved by the call, but Lisbeth suffered a moment’s panic. What if they were forced to leave before Hestia Wright returned? Where would the child go? Lisbeth had no wish to follow her through the unknown streets of London. A chill went down her spine. Worse, what if the streets were the only place either of them had to spend the night?
She crossed over to stand behind the child, who had reached a hand through the rails to tentatively stroke a giraffe’s patchy hide. The delicate little face bore a serious mien and an intense focus better suited to someone well beyond her years.
Lisbeth looked the worn specimens over, but could find no good reason for such dedicated attention. Nevertheless, she felt she had to make a connection. Breathing deep, she plunged in. “These markings are wonderfully distinctive, are they not?”
The child jerked her hand back, but after a glance askance at Lisbeth, she poked it through the rail again. “None of the other animals has them.”
That answer had a definitive ring to it. “Have you checked them all? The ones the museum has on display, I mean?”
The girl nodded, still solemn. “I’m not all the way through the prints. Yet.”
Lisbeth recalled the densely packed books in the Print Room and blinked. “Do you come here often, then?”
Her shrug was noncommittal. “I like the days when no tour guide is required, like today.”
“I hadn’t realized they were ever required,” Lisbeth confessed. “This is my first visit. There are so very many interesting things to see.”
The child went back to her contemplation of the animals. After a moment, Lisbeth tried again. “You must live nearby, to come so often?”
“Not so far away,” the girl answered with a shrug. She cast a single, lingering glance at Lisbeth’s portmanteau and let the conversational ball drop once more.
Lisbeth rocked back on her heels and hoped that Hestia Wright’s business would conclude quickly. Surreptitiously, she watched the girl, her curiosity growing.
The child was a puzzle. Dress of a quality wool, but in an unflatteringly pale grey, and in need of letting out a good inch. Shoes sturdy, but scuffed. Long chestnut hair that needed a good brushing. She spoke well and though her face was thin, she did not display that peaked, pinched look that hunger so heartbreakingly lent. Clearly there was a story here. But how to learn it?
Lisbeth pursed her lips and looked up into the glassy eyes of the nearest giraffe. “Do they have names, I wonder?”
Relief coursed through her as the child suddenly lit up.
“They do have names,” the girl answered, her words colored prettily with an air of confession. “Not real ones, I guess. At least, not officially real. But my mama gave them names.” Her smile faded a bit.
Lisbeth found herself wanting to see it come back. “Can you share them? Would your mama mind, do you think?”
The girl bit her lip. “This one is Stubb. She pointed overhead. “Because of his stubby antlers. Do you see?”
Looking up, Lisbeth smiled. “I do see them, now that you’ve pointed them out.”
“And that is Swivel.”
“Because of the position of his ears?”
The child nodded, pleased. “And this one,” she reached out and touched the largest specimen. “This is Stretch.”
“For obvious reasons,” laughed Lisbeth. “Your mother has quite a talent for names.” She grimaced. “Unfortunately, I’m terrible at it. It’s a terrible confession to make, but once, when given a chance to christen the family cat, I chose to call him Puss.”
No reaction.
Lisbeth valiantly continued. “But I admit, I’m marvelous at guessing games—and I’ll wager your mother gave you a lovely name as well.” She grinned. “Shall I try and guess it?”
There it was, a spark of interest in the child’s eyes. She worried her lip again, but n
odded.
“Fine. Let me think a moment.” Lisbeth frowned and stepped back. She made a show of narrowing her eyes and searching the girl from head to toe. “Yes. I think I have it. You look like your name must be . . . Ermengarde.” She announced it triumphantly. There, I’ve guessed correctly, have I not?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Dash it—I should have gone with my first instincts. They tell me that your name is . . . Hortense?”
She surprised a girlish giggle out of her audience. “No!”
“Oh. I’ll get it this time. You simply must be named . . . Theodora. That is it, isn’t it? You look just like a Theodora.”
“No!” The child laughed outright. “That isn’t right either!”
“Oh, fiddlesticks. I must be losing my touch. Will you tell me your name, then?”
“My name’s Aurelia!”
Lisbeth basked in the sudden light shining through the child’s whole countenance, and let it chase some of the chill away from her heart. “I was right about one thing. Your mother has a wonderful talent. That is the perfect name for you.” She summoned up a mock frown. “But only the one name? How unusual!”
“I’ve more than one,” Aurelia assured her. “I’m Miss Aurelia Fredericka Tierney.” Belatedly, she gave a quick, credible curtsy.
Lisbeth returned it. “Fredericka? That was going to be my next guess—and I would have been partially right, at least.” She heaved a sigh. “Alas, my own mother, who is fanciful in nearly every other way, gave me quite the plainest name imaginable. I am Miss Elisabeth Mills Moreton.” She leaned close. “But as I count you a friend, you may call me Lisbeth.”
But a good deal of the brightness had faded from Aurelia’s face. “Where is your mother?” she asked. And as the question emerged on such a ginger note, Lisbeth knew to answer carefully.
“She is at home, in Sussex.” Likely flitting about the house like a deranged butterfly, berating her eldest daughter for her duplicity and callous disregard of her own feelings. Her sister Celia, on the other hand, would be stomping about in a fury, throwing random objects and reducing the servants to tears. And her stepfather? Lisbeth hoped the tempest had driven him from the house. She wanted to picture him alone and miserable in the barn, staring forlornly at his prized roan Shorthorn bull and dreaming of calves that would never be.
