We are comfortably situated in a manor house not far from the Cobb, with lovely views and the invigorating scent of the sea air. After our stay in Bath, with its round of social engagements, I confess to a feeling of relief at the slower pace of life in this seaside town. Some might call it dreadfully flat, but we were so busy in Bath that we had barely a moment to ourselves. Many were eager to ingratiate themselves with Dominic—and with me, if you can believe it. I suspect some were being polite for his sake, but I’m pleased to say that most people were nothing less than gracious and welcoming.
Still, this is our wedding trip, and I was longing to spend time with my new husband—without distractions!
There is another reason why I’m relieved to be quietly situated. I have been suffering from a slight stomach indisposition. There was never any real cause for concern, but Dominic insisted I see a physician. Such a fuss over nothing, or so I thought. You see, my son, it would appear that I am increasing, and sometime around Christmas I will be presenting you with a little brother or sister! You can imagine my astonishment to find myself with child at my age. Dominic was rendered entirely speechless for almost two minutes—a rare event, as you know. After I recovered from my own surprise, I admit to having felt some concern as to his reaction. But I needn’t have worried. The dear man is overjoyed, as am I. He says it is a just reward from Providence after our many trials.
I now count myself as the luckiest of women, with great blessings in my life—you and Justine, my dear husband, little Stephen, and now this unexpected joy. The doctor assures me that I am disgustingly healthy and have nothing to worry about. We discussed returning to London, but Dominic wishes me to rest for a while longer before starting the journey. There is no need, but I’m happy to let him coddle me.
You should see our return to Camberwell by the end of the month, at the latest. I will write before our departure, and I look forward to seeing you, Justine, and Stephen very soon.
With love,
your excessively happy mother,
Chloe Hunter
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading Tall, Dark, and Royal, the second novella to be included in my four-book series, The Renegade Royals. Dominic’s story began in Lost in a Royal Kiss and continued through Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard and Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom. I enjoyed writing about his determined search for Chloe Steele, and finally giving this star-crossed couple their happy ending.
But in addition to finding Chloe, Dominic has always had a second mission in life: tracking down the illegitimate children of England’s royal princes and helping them find their rightful places in the world of the English ton. He succeeded with Aden St. George and Griffin Steele, the heroes of Secrets and Confessions, but Dominic’s work is not yet completed. So even though he’ll be retiring from the Intelligence Service, he’s not giving up on the remaining Renegade Royals.
Book Three, How to Plan a Wedding for a Royal Spy, features William “Wolf” Endicott, the son of the Duke of York. Will is a military spy who believes in duty, honor, and always doing the right thing. Now that the war against France is over, Will has plans, which include finding a socially acceptable wife to help foster his career ambitions. But there’s someone standing in his way and it’s Evelyn Whitney, his former childhood sweetheart and ardent do-gooder. Evelyn is suspected of treason, and Will is determined to prove her innocence. He faces another problem, too: Can he resist falling back in love with Evelyn, even though he’s convinced she’s not the right woman for him?
Book Four is How to Marry a Royal Highlander. The hero is Captain Alasdair Gilbride, Will’s best friend and fellow spy, and the son of the Duke of Kent. He’s also heir to a Scottish earldom, which is not something he ever wanted. In fact, Alasdair ran away at the age of sixteen to seek adventure, and he hasn’t been back to the Highlands since. But the old earl has fallen ill and Alasdair’s been ordered home to Scotland. To make matters worse, Eden Whitney, Evelyn’s twin sister, will be joining him. Eden is nothing like her quiet, serious twin—she’s outspoken and outrageous, and has a knack for getting into trouble. Alasdair has always been the wild one, but Eden is nothing less than a walking scandal!
How to Plan a Wedding for a Royal Spy will be released in January 2015, and How to Marry a Royal Highlander will be out in July 2015. I’ll be updating my website with news, contests, and excerpts from these new Renegade Royals books over the next few months, so be sure to stop by. You can find me at www.vanessakellyauthor.com.
Happy reading!
Best,
Vanessa
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Vanessa Kelly’s
HOW TO PLAN A WEDDING FOR A ROYAL SPY,
coming in January 2015!
Prologue
Waterloo
June 18, 1815
Death clawed at his boot.
Swiping away grit and sweat from his eyes, Captain William Endicott peered at the man crumpled at his feet. It was a French cuirassier, one of Bonaparte’s elite cavalry officers. A dead officer, Will had assumed when he’d swung down from his horse a few moments ago, doing his best to avoid the tangle of broken bodies on the uneven ground. The battle had piled them up like a wave, one that had pounded relentlessly against the break wall of a British infantry square.
But this cavalryman, face down in the sodden earth, was alive. His gloved hand scrabbled desperately at Will’s foot.
Breathing out a weary curse, Will pulled his sword from its scabbard and gingerly nudged the officer over with his foot. The Frenchman jerked as if he’d been kicked, then his entire body convulsed as he struggled to cough out clots of mud from his mouth.
Christ.
The poor bastard, obviously too wounded to move, had been drowning in the mud that washed ankle deep all around them from last night’s torrential rains. His throat must be clogged with blood, dirt, and God only knew what else that had been trampled into a fetid stew over the course of the day.
Hours of untold violence had bludgeoned Will into a state of insensibility. He’d seen hundreds of men and horses blown apart, trampled, or hacked to bits on the battlefield. But this new horror blasted through his emotional fog. He knelt beside the wounded cuirassier, acting on instinct as he pushed the man onto his side and thumped his back, supporting him as he spat out the foul black sludge. Once the man was able to draw breath Will carefully rolled him onto his back.
The officer stared blearily up at him, his eyes clouded with pain and the approach of death. Blood seeped from a hole in his chest, darkening the wine-red fabric of the distinctive uniform of the French 13th Regiment, now barely distinguishable under its coating of mud.
The officer’s cracked lips parted, his voice whispering out a single phrase. “Merci, monsieur.”
Will had thought himself beyond feeling—outrage, regret, and even sorrow buried under the broken bodies of countless friends and men he’d known for years. Only survival mattered, and doing what needed to be done to carry out his commanders’ orders. But now emotion battered its way up from somewhere deep inside him, surging in a black tide that threatened to close his throat. The target of his rage wasn’t the officer lying before him, or even the enemy he’d fought so desperately all day. No, it was the tortured slide into death for this lone man, a soldier who had only been doing his duty, just like all the other unlucky souls this day—English, Irish, Scots, French, Prussians. They’d all simply followed orders to pound the other side into annihilation.
At what cost, Will couldn’t begin to even fathom.
A moment later, the Frenchman coughed again and blood gushed from his mouth. He struggled once more for breath and then finally stilled, his gaze going fixed and glassy. Will closed the man’s eyes then wearily hauled himself to his feet as he tried to hold back the disturbing emotions caused by this enemy soldier’s death.
But he couldn’t. The tide had been breached and everything he’d been holding at bay for hours came roil
ing up, making him lightheaded. He tried to tell himself it was simply exhaustion, lack of water and food, and days of unrelenting tension and punishing physical and mental demands. It was more than that, though. He’d survived battles before and weathered the dangerous life of a spy in the Peninsula. And he’d done it with little fear and almost no doubt about his mission. But something had shifted today in a monumental upheaval that threatened to reorder his world. He imagined a pit opening under his feet, one that was dark and filled with too many unknowns.
Unconsciously, his hand reached out to grasp the mane of his charger. He leaned against the huge animal, taking comfort in its stolid strength and even in the acrid scent of its sweat. It felt like a miracle that something close to him was still alive.
You fool, get a bloody grip on yourself.
Now was not the time to fall apart like some untried lad. The battle was won, but the day wasn’t over. Napoleon’s retreat had turned into a rout, with the Allied cavalry regrouping and heading out in pursuit. Will needed to find and rejoin what was left of his regiment as soon as possible.
He’d spent hours riding the line, relaying Wellington’s orders to various commanders. He’d had two horses shot out from under him and his right arm ached like the devil from cavalry charges earlier in the day when he’d relentlessly hacked his saber through milling ranks of French infantrymen. Will had been one of the lucky ones, surviving with only a few cuts, a minor slash across his back, and a knock to the head when he’d been thrown from his horse by an exploding shell.
And since he had survived, it was time to find what was left of the 1st Royal Dragoons and get on with his duties. The Union Brigade—three cavalry regiments including the 1st Royals—had suffered devastating losses in the first charge of the day, with the officer ranks decimated in the carnage. Major Dorville, Will’s regimental commander, would be looking for him to help remuster the unit and harry the enemy on its retreat.
For a few moments, he stood quietly with his horse by the side of the road as a regiment of Rifles—or what was left of it—trudged by. Once they passed, he was about to swing up into the saddle when a familiar voice called his name. Relief washed through him as he turned and raised his hand to the officer cantering up to him on a gargantuan black charger.
The rider was a brawny young Scotsman, clad in the mud-smeared dress uniform of the 42nd Royal Highland Regiment of Foot. Clearly, Captain Alasdair Gilbride had gone directly from the Duchess of Richmond’s ball to join his regiment at Quatre Bras. The 42nd Highlanders had taken a fierce pounding in that battle but had still managed a quick march to Waterloo where they had acquitted themselves with great distinction. But their ranks had been decimated, and Will had lost sight of Alec earlier in the day. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks that his best friend had been spared.
The Scotsman swung down from his horse and pulled Will into a hearty embrace, thumping him on the back in what was, for Alec, an extravagant display of emotion. Will was not a small man by any means, but his friend was built like a brawler. Few could best the broad-shouldered warrior in a fight. But oddly enough for a man his size, Alec was self-contained and graceful, able to move with a lethal stealth that had been the downfall of many a Frenchman. He was also one of Wellington’s most effective spies, and had been Will’s partner in a number of Peninsular War missions.
Like Will, Alec was one of the illegitimate sons of England’s royal princes. They were cousins, drawn together by inclination and duty, and by the fact that their status as royal bastards sometimes set them apart from their fellow officers and other members of the ton. Will had learned long ago to ignore the whispers of gossip—even if the crude, callous jibes still sometimes stuck in his craw—but the same could not be said for Alec. He’d fought often to defend their reputations over the years, pushing back at the sneering comments that questioned their parentage. Will tried to tell him it didn’t truly matter what others said about them, but he and Alec both knew that wasn’t true.
After the horror of today’s battle, who or what their fathers were barely seemed of any consequence.
“Jesus, I’m glad to see you’re still on this side of the dirt, Wolf,” Alec growled, using Will’s nickname. Fatigue and worry sharpened his normally subtle brogue, making him sound every inch the Highlander. “I haven’t seen you since you went ass over tea kettle off your horse in that last barrage. I tried to get to you, but Napoleon’s blasted Guard regiment got in my way.”
“I was lucky with that one. I just got a knock on the head. Took me a few minutes to get my bearings after that, but I ended up right next to the line. Two Welsh fusiliers pulled me out of harm’s way.” Will eyed his cousin’s battered uniform with a missing epaulette and cuffs sliced to shreds. “Uniform aside, you don’t look much worse for wear.”
Alec’s expressive mouth pressed into a hard line as he glanced down at the dead Frenchman at their feet, and then at the dozens of bodies scattered by the side of the road. “Aye, luck was with me as well. Hardly a mark on me, and that’s something of a miracle after the last few days.”
He didn’t sound particularly grateful. That was understandable, given the grievous losses his regiment had suffered in not one but two battles. Will knew it wouldn’t be long before guilt would begin to creep in for both of them. Guilt that they’d survived when so many others had not.
For a minute or so, they gazed silently over the battlefield, watching the chaotic retreat of French troops in the distance as they fled south toward Charleroi with the British cavalry hard on their heels. What had once been farmland, with gentle green valleys and fields full of ripening rye, had become a nightmare landscape of mangled bodies of horses and men, the once-beautiful countryside a charnel house of death. And God only knew how many soldiers were still breathing. Too wounded to move on their own, they could only wait helplessly for aid that might never arrive.
“Picton didn’t make it,” Will said, referring to the commander of the 5th Infantry Division and one of Wellington’s top officers. “He caught it during the attack by d’Erlon’s corps.”
“I heard. Hamilton got it, too,” Alec grimly replied, “as did Hay, Brudenell Forbes, and Gordon. I can’t even begin to count all the rest.”
“Christ, what a disaster,” Will growled. Bitterness choked him at the thought of young Hay. The lad was only eighteen years old, barely out of leading strings.
“At least we won the bloody thing, although we’d best get going if we’re going to help finish the job.” Alec peered at the chaotic movement of men and animals heading away from them. Dusk was coming on rapidly now, casting long shadows over the battlefield. “I don’t fancy chasing down Boney’s Imperial Guard in the middle of the night, Wolf. Not if I can help it.”
Will nodded. Getting the job done was what they did—no matter how ugly or pointless it seemed.
As they prepared to mount up, Alec glanced over, his gray eyes shadowed and somber. He looked hesitant, as if afraid to voice his thoughts. Will cocked an enquiring brow.
“Do ye think it was worth it?” Alec finally asked, unconsciously slipping into a heavier brogue. “After today, do ye think there’s anything left worth saving? A good life, I mean, for us. For any of us.”
“There’d better be, mate,” Will grimly replied. “After the hell we’ve been through these last six years, there’d bloody well better be.”
Chapter One
London
August 1815
After paying off the hackney driver, Will glanced up at the elegant town house on Upper Wimpole Street. He’d been to Sir Dominic Hunter’s home three times in the last four years, when he’d been in London on Wellington’s orders to share intelligence with the powerful spymaster. Although Dominic had initially recruited Will into the ranks of the Intelligence Service, it hadn’t been long before he’d facilitated Will’s transfer to the duke’s staff of exploring officers—military men with the skills to draw maps, gather intelligence, work with local guides, and avoid capture by t
he enemy.
Dominic had selected Alasdair, too, plucking him from the 42nd Regiment and transferring him to Wellington’s staff. Alec had been a perfect fit for the job as a military intelligence agent. He spoke fluent Spanish and Portuguese, could sketch like a bloody engineer, and was as crafty as the devil himself. The spymaster had also suggested to the duke that Will and Alec partner on the majority of their missions, even though the usual way of things was for exploring officers to work with Spanish guerillas who knew the terrain and the local politics. But Dominic had been insistent that Will and Alec work together, and Wellington had eventually agreed.
Why Dominic had been so intent on the partnership was a bit of a mystery, but the spymaster was known for taking a close interest in the lives of the illegitimate children of the royal princes. Aden St. George, for one, a former captain in the Royal Dragoons and one of Dominic’s best spies, was a by-blow of the Prince Regent. It hardly seemed coincidental that three royal bastards had been recruited into England’s spy service. Will often thought that Dominic had a secret purpose in store for him, and for Alec and Aden, too.
Of course, the war was now over, so what Dominic wanted hardly mattered anymore. No more skulking behind enemy lines, wearing absurd, filthy disguises, and taking risks that could have landed Will in a French prison. No, that part of his life was finished. He had other ambitions now, ones that would not be served by continuing his work in espionage. While men from good families had served in the Intelligence Service during the war, it was hardly looked on as a respectable profession for an officer and gentleman.
Will wanted a respectable life and career, one that would allow him to overcome the stigma of his parentage and, more importantly, his modest financial situation. In order to do that, he had to leave his current life far behind.
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