“Yes, makes sense. He was a man of great beauty and plagued by young ladies, and because of it no doubt eager to wed and save himself the embarrassment of being hunted by ambitious mothers and unsuitable daughters thrust under his nose.” Mrs FitzroyPalmer’s overly powdered plump face had begun to craze due to spilt tears, her expression warmer, tender even, in a motherly way. “Sit down.” She furthered, patting the chaise. “You miss him, I can tell.”
“I do and I don’t.” She sat down, the splendour of the ornate red sitting room having passed them by as topic of conversation. “I did love him. In fact thought I could never fall out of love with him, until we went to St Petersburg. Once there I barely set eyes upon him. He was up and gone before I awakened and rarely returned until I had fallen asleep.”
“Where did he go?”
“To pay court to Catherine. He was her master of the horse, and court duties prevailed.”
“And the lady herself an eye for a fine stallion, if we are to believe many things essayed of the woman.
“I did wonder myself at first, if Valetin and the Empress were lovers, but on hearing from others of her exploits, it seemed he was far from her chosen one. She was after all old enough to be his mother at that time, and died herself a year later.”
“Then why long absences from the marital bed?” Mrs FitzroyPalmer shifted awkward, less about posture than perhaps discomfort at inner thoughts. “If I am still able at seventy years and a young stud is willing I’ll not turn him away.”
“Oh Valetin came to my bed, but always so late and he was up and away by dawn.”
“And you feigned sleep, because you mistrusted him.”
“Perhaps, a little, and then it became habitual. I felt I no longer knew him.”
“But the marriage was consummated, was it not?”
“Oh yes, initially.”
“Initially,” exclaimed Mrs. FitzroyPalmer. “Fool, utter fool. What kind of man leaves his wife wanton and wonting in the affections stakes? Good God, girl, did you not consider taking a lover?”
“I loved Valetin then, but later I thought his abandoning me was perhaps because I had not fallen with child as quickly as hoped for.”
“Lordy lordy, my husband and I indulged ourselves for three years of bliss before the first bairn made itself known to us. And damn the little hides that followed, for I swear a mere look of desire passing between us became our downfall and another on the way before the year was out. Five of the devils on the trot and all boys at that.” Mrs. FitzroyPalmer, laughed, winked. “And two going spare if you fancy your chances.”
Therese could not help but smile, a burning question on the tip of her tongue, and Mrs. FitzroyPalmer obliged without question, and not a bashful glow to cheeks or hint of discomfort. “Alas, Mr. FitzroyPalmer has developed a little problem on the lower deck, and not as able in keeping me satisfied. He’s quite sweet about my fancies, for he knows I love him most dear.”
“How sad.” What else could she say?
“It is not uncommon, you know, and although Emma loves William most dear and he adoring of her, she does have a sparkle in eye not seen in a long while. And mark my words, young Nelson has Emma within his sights, if not his grasp as yet.”
It was wise to hold her tongue and refrain from mention of Lt Herne’s observations, and she was glad she had, for the door opened and Emma Lady Hamilton swept into the room, ravishing in silk lavender coloured gown dotted with miniscule white lilies.
“Dearest May,” she said, naturally addressing Mrs. FitzroyPalmer whose gown clashed violently with Emma’s: being of gold and black stripes and blace lace frills adorning a shockingly low neckline. “I am so sorry but it seems the thief has escaped detection. I cannot for the life of me understand any of this. I am absolute sure in mind a guest would not indulge such roguery.”
Mrs. FitzroyPalmer bestowed a smile upon Emma, and sighed deeply. “As I said to Therese, here . . .My darling husband will replace it with something equally beautiful.” She then puckered her nose. “I am, after all, his most treasured possession.”
“You are exceedingly gracious in your loss,” said Emma, expression one of amusement blending with incredulity at Mrs FitzroyPalmer’s declaration as her husband’s most treasured possession. “Well, if you’re sure there’s nothing more I can do, I shall return below. It is vital I try to make amends to those whom thought William and I were accusing them of theft.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Horatio . . . I mean Lord Nelson suggested the doors be closed and all guests then prevented from taking leave of the residency. It was thought we might have had an uninvited guest, and perhaps that person would then be discovered.”
“Hmm, I wouldn’t have put it past one or two of the invited guests to have robbed me given the chance. And that fine looking Neapolitan in gold breeches made mention of the necklace, his eyes constant in focus upon it, and I have it on good authority he’s somewhat asset rich and cash poor.”
“Oh no, not Count Almafi,” said Emma, most defensive of the man. “He’s too much of a gentleman and richer than he wishes known to a soul. Rather wise don’t you think? He is after all on the hunt for a wife. Although he wishes to engage in a love match, he . . .”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. FitzroyPalmer, dismissively, “wise man in seeking a wife to love him for him not his wealth.”
Seeming dismissed by Mrs. FitzroyPalmer’s outburst, Emma said, “I shall take my leave now, but you must rest a little while longer. You’ve had a most terrible shock.”
Therese snatched the opportunity to escape as well. “As the gathering seems to have reached its close, I think I’ll retire to my chamber.”
Mrs. FitzroyPalmer waved them away. “Go, go, the pair of you. I have Juno for company, and shall away to my bed soon enough after a tipple of brandy.”
Once the page had closed the door, Emma said in a whisper, “Sleep well, and sweet dreams. I shall see you at dinner tomorrow, for I am not given to rising early.”
Whilst watching Emma flee, Lt Herne leapt to mind.
No, no, no. Put him from your thoughts, Therese.
She too fled, straight to her guest chamber.
~
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~
Infamous Rivals: A Regency Romance & Murder Mystery
~
Once the darling of the beau monde, Georgette Lady Beaumont’s reputation lies in tatters after the apparent suicide of Lord Brockenbury’s heir. Shunned by society she embraces a secretive lifestyle in which she endeavours to evade Adam Brockenbury, whom she loathes as much as he desires her. Believing him capable of murder to gain his heart’ desire, she is not alone in thinking his elder brother’s death as somewhat suspicious, and whilst on a clandestine visit to her dearest friends she encounters a stranger of note.
Her travelling companion, although of charming disposition and of considerable handsomeness, something about him airs dark and secretive but unmitigated mutual attraction exists that neither can deny. Unfortunately he’s a Brockenbury too, and as love, jealousy and hate take precedence, three murders are committed and Georgette quite believes she will be the murderer’s next victim, but who is the real murderer?
~
Chapter One
~
Georgette drew her velvet cloak tight about her and glanced out at the forbidding moonlit landscape. She was rather glad the horses were keeping to a steady trot, for her previous sense of excitement was now overshadowed by angst and dread. She knew the private drag to be passing close to Monkton Abbeyfields: the locale all too familiar.
It was so silly to be feeling anxious, for Adam Brockenbury could not be in residence at Abbeyfields. After all, he was spied at White’s Chocolate Hous
e only yesterday, and luckily her grandfather had overheard news of Adam’s engagement at a dinner party that very evening. It was also common knowledge he was due at Blenheim Palace for a grand masque ball of Friday next.
Nevertheless, of all the men in London, Adam Brockenbury remained the one man she wished never to set eyes on ever again. Such avoidance was easily accomplished within the great metropolis. In the City of Bath everyone knew everyone else and it was less easy to travel about incognito. Should Adam for any reason return to Batheaston on the Saturday she would be long gone from Fenemore Cottage by then. But, Abbeyfields itself remained a disquieting reminder of her last trip to this part of the Avon Valley.
She cast a fleeting glance at her travelling companion, a perfect gentleman in every way and conversation en route proved most convivial: silence having descended for the last mile or so. It was inappropriate to watch a sleeping man but rather pleasing; his head slightly forward and chin resting on lace-trimmed cravat, his shoulder wedged against the window. He seemed none the worse for the odd jolt or two as the coach swayed and rattled over ruts, and in all their conversations she had not established his name, nor thought to ask.
He was as she had seen a man of broad shoulders yet slim of form and of goodly height: the latter belied when seated. His handsome face although a tad grave whilst in argument with the booking agent had soon creased with smiles most charming upon her suggestion they might care to share the drag, despite both having assumed private hire of said coach.
It was all rather strange how a mistake could have occurred with the booking in the first place, for the coaching company had gained excellent reputation for discretion and efficiency. Nevertheless a mistake had occurred, and as they were travelling to almost the same destination it had seemed only polite to offer him a seat even though he had said he would give sway to her and wait another day. Such grace had seemed contradictory when in heated exchange at the inn his grey eyes had implied murderous thoughts toward the booking clerk, though manner alluding otherwise.
She glanced again through the window: frost glittering on hedgerows and grass of fields. Jack Frost had now begun to paint beautiful pictures on the glass as though embalming them in his icy grip. Barely able to feel her toes despite fleece-lined rug about her knees, she moved each foot in turn and rubbed gloved hands together and all the while her breath lingered on the ether.
How foolhardy to have undertaken the journey at all, but too late now to turn back. Fenemore lay no more than a mile hence, and at least her arrival so late in the evening would likely pass unnoticed by villagers. Once safe within the confines of Fenemore, who could possibly know she was there? Her travelling companion was bound for Bath not Batheaston, so encounter with each other again was most unlikely for she had no intention of parading herself in public places. And if she again departed undercover of darkness come Friday, her stay would bring no shame to bear on the Knightleys.
With her reputation sufficient ruined in the County of Somerset, invitations to houses of note would never come her way again. Yet for several seasons prior to her disgrace her presence had been sought quite regular by wealthy parents eager to see their sons wed to a lady of high rank and substantial dowry. She had her dowry as before, but who would wed her now?
Thankfully her grandfather had never believed a word put about by Adam Brockenbury at her having had a hand in his elder brother’s untimely death. It was all so unfair. She had barely known James Brockenbury other than as acquaintance of her lady friends, and had had no inkling he was going to declare undying love and ask for her hand in marriage. Such was his drunken enthusiasm he dragged her into the garden at Abbeyfields, and thence to the stable yard for a so-called elopement. Utter madness.
With no recourse but to say she did not wish to marry him she had asked him to go away. What else was there to say to a man so inebriated he could barely stand upright? With his brother in attendance and several other young men gathered around it was plain to see he was in no fit state and better they had put him to bed. But no, they had set about to tease and taunt him and it all became quite frightening to be penned in by them all, and his younger brother all the while aiding and abetting in their silly game.
She had not flirted with James on that fateful night, nor with Adam whom she hadn’t much liked once his rakish manners known to her. Nor had she had a hand in their drunkenness. Blame of that kind fell solidly on the shoulders of Adam, who became heir apparent to the Brockenbury fortune on that very black night. If not for the shock of it all she would have accused Adam of murder, for he was the last person to see James alive.
She shivered, the memory of James fate too awful to dwell upon and her own equally unbearable. Oh yes, Adam Brockenbury was the very devil incarnate, and his father would forever remain unaware of the truth because Adam had brutally induced a pact of silence and allegiance between him and the other young men in his attendance.
How dreadful it all was, for whilst James lay dying in the arms of one of Adam’s friends, she then dragged to the stable loft in pretence at hiding her to save her from outright shame of being caught un-chaperoned in the company of so many men. But it was all a ploy, and Adam soon astride her with intent. If not for the head groom roused from his bed due to ribaldry of Adam’s friends and that of a pistol fired, her fate might have been far worse than that of escape from the loft with just her hair in disarray.
Nothing said in her own defence had lessened outrageous accusations she was little more than a trollop. Her host, Lord Brockenbury, had asked her to leave with immediate effect. The shame of her episode in the hayloft then recounted and exaggerated upon throughout the county, her reputation in tatters.
She had every reason to loathe Adam Brockenbury for he had ruined her life, her only friends now the Knightley girls. Both had refused to believe his account of her having jilted James and thrown herself at Adam, and neither believed James had had any reason to take his own life. It was all so terrible, so shocking and so unexpected.
Aware the horses had begun to slow their pace she surmised they were on approach to the bridge, the Avon before them. She braced herself, for it always felt as though her stomach collided with heart when crossing humpback bridges. As the horses once again settled to a steady trot the coach suddenly lurched as though its wheels had passed over something in its path.
Thrust sideways her companion’s head banged against the window, she likewise thrown to her left and now stretched out across the seat opposite to his. “Damnation,” he said, clutching at his head. “What happened?”
She pushed herself upright, terrible thoughts milling in her head of someone lying hurt and injured. “I think we shall know soon enough, for the coach is slowing down.”
Indeed it finally came to a standstill and within seconds her companion had the door open and shouted up to the coachman. “Why have we stopped?”
The coachman’s reply, “We rode o’er somethin’ on the highway back a ways.”
“Did you not see what it was?”
“Nah, not a thing for ‘tis dark, sir, but Jim is a going to see what it were.”
“Good God, man. A moonlit night, frost on the ground and almost as bright as day. How could you not see whatever in your path?”
“I tells yer I didn’t see nothin’ so it must have come at us from them there trees back away, by the bridge, ‘cause twer rear wheel as run o’er it. What’er it be.”
Her companion alighted from the coach and walked back along the highway, and although curious she decided it was best to stay in the coach and await news of what had caused the coach to lurch so badly. It seemed an age before he returned along with the armed guard who immediately clambered up beside the coachman. In silence her companion stepped aboard, and upon closing the door and retaking his seat he shook his head in the manner of no hope afforded the victim of the collision.
“I can only guess it was not a person, for surely we would not drive on with someone left lying dead or wounded on the highway.”<
br />
“We lay it on the verge, and I shall arrange for it to be picked up first thing in the morning.” The coach lurched and then proceeded onward. “Little harm will befall the poor creature on a night such this.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“A hound, and why it was out and about strange indeed. I cannot recall its ever deserting my father’s side.”
Her stomach tightened. Breath caught in her throat, as dread and fear gripped her. Oh no, not a son of Abbeyfields. “You live near here?”
“Indeed I do,” his reply, his grey eyes levelled on hers. “I fear I have been somewhat lax with introduction, despite our having conversed in genial spirit. May I say the tinkling ring of your voice is most delightful and sweet music to the ears, unlike the caustic tones of erstwhile colleagues and clients.”
If not in fear of who he might be she could well have laughed in coquettish manner at his bold inference, for he’d fallen asleep whilst she talking to him, instead her tongue rallied quite sharp, “And you are?”
“Edwin Brockenbury.”
Her heart began to race, bile rose in her throat and silence became deafening. She could not muster a word, her thoughts collided with memories, yet try as she might she could not recall Edwin Brockenbury’s face as one of those present on the night of James Brockenbury’s tragic death.
“Does the name Brockenbury distress you?” He leaned forward elbow to knee, hesitant in stance, his face rigid calm though genuine concern etched thereon. “Reaction such as yours is not so uncommon. My brother it seems is wont to leave a trail of broken hearts countrywide, which has rather tarnished the name Brockenbury. Hence Ranulph and I are forced to suffer the consequences of bitter tongued beauties when introduced at social functions.”
“Broken heart . . . I with broken heart, and left in Adam’s wake? I think not.”
“Forgive me, please. I had no right to suggest or imply you might harbour bad feeling toward a Brockenbury.”
Her Favoured Captain Page 7
