His Dark Enchantress (Books We Love Regency Romance)

by Chatham, Victoria

  HIS DARK ENCHANTRESS

  By

  Victoria Chatham

  ISBN: 978-1-77145-069-0

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Books We Love Ltd.

  (Electronic Book Publishers)

  Chestermere, Alberta

  Canada

  http://bookswelove.net

  Copyright 2013 by Victoria Chatham

  Cover Art Copyright 2013 by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PROLOGUE

  Belgium. April, 1815.

  She rushed into a small room still echoing with the sound of a pistol shot. Crockery, swept from a table, lay in scattered shards beneath overturned chairs on the floor. A stray beam of sunshine pierced the grimy windowpane and filtered through a thin film of smoke.

  She wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell of smoke and stared in disbelief at the slim man who held the pistol.

  “He killed my father.” Her voice, barely above a whisper, drifted between them over the slumped body on the floor. “He should have died by my hand.”

  “Revenge is not as sweet as you may think.” The owner of the pistol lowered his arm. “This one deserved to die, not just for what he did to your father but all the others too. Come, mademoiselle, we should leave.”

  She shook her head. “No. I have to stay. It will appear suspicious if I am not here when the troop returns and, if needs be, I can create a diversion for you.”

  Her sharp ears caught the faint sound of a steady drumbeat, the sharp rat-tat that marked time for soldiers on the march.

  “They’re coming. You must leave. Now.” She stepped forward and caught his arm. “If you do not get this information to Wellington, all we have done will be for naught.”

  “I don’t like leaving you here.” A stubborn expression settled on the man’s face.

  “We have no choice.” She pulled him towards the door. “Now go.”

  “One day, mademoiselle, you will be recognized for your bravery.”

  “Go.” Exasperated with the delay, she pushed him again and listened as his footsteps echoed in the corridor. She breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the door at the back of the house open and close,.

  For a moment, she leaned against the doorjamb, trying to gather her wits as she surveyed the wreckage around her. What should she do first? There was nowhere she could hide the body, even if she were strong enough to do so.

  The drumbeat sounded louder, coming ever closer until she could hear the shuffling tread of booted feet as the troop of tired French soldiers reached the village.

  A sudden flicker of shadow at the corner of the window caught her eye and with a start, she realized someone was peering in. That someone tore his gaze away from the dead man on the floor and let it rest on her. A boy, eyes round and face pale, gaped at her. He looked at her for a mere whisker of time before he fled.

  She heard him yelling as he ran into the street and she knew any diversion would now be impossible. Her thought processes were too slow, she had been too dimwitted. There was only one thing for her to do and that was to make her own escape.

  Taking her shawl from its peg in the corridor, she hurriedly grabbed a baguette and piece of hard cheese from the kitchen and let herself out of the house. The boy’s voice, high and excited, the rumbling shouts of discovery from the adults he brought with him, all reached her ears as she closed the door.

  She sped across the cobbled yard and into the stables where two sturdy draft horses looked up from their hay with mild curiosity.

  She slipped in beside the horse in the end stall, soothing it with a soft word and gentle touch before dropping to her knees beside it. The horse gently nuzzled her back as her frantic fingers searched beneath the straw for the knothole, which pulled up a trap door.

  Finding it quite by chance one day when cleaning the stalls, a quick investigation had revealed a shallow cellar with a door that led to an underground passageway. Whoever built it meant it to last, judging from the lantern she found hanging from a nail in the doorpost and several dusty canvas bags on the floor.

  Without a sound, she lowered herself into the cellar, carefully pulling straw around the opening as she did so. The clamour of excited voices followed her as she closed the door above her head. A slim finger of light filtered through the seam alleviating the darkness. She allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom and willed her wildly pumping heart to steady.

  The horse above her shifted and she hoped the straw bedding would only show signs of its restless feet and not her means of escape. She waited, steadied her breathing and tried to determine who was above her.

  “There is no one here, mon capitaine,” she heard a man say.

  Hard-heeled boots struck the stone floor as someone walked to the end of the stable and turned around again.

  “She is here. I know it. Search again.”

  She froze. Even though it was a voice she expected to hear, a voice she would recognize anywhere and hated above all others, her gut clenched and the smell of her own fear rose in her nostrils.

  “Mon Dieu!” the voice above her roared. “She will not escape. 5,000 francs to the man who finds her. I want her alive, but if she resists, kill her. Corporal, get these horses out of here and torch these buildings.”

  The sound of hurrying feet and clomping hooves filled her ears. Panic gripped her, closing around her heart like a vice. They were going to use fire to flush her out of hiding. She reached behind her and her fingers connected with the door handle. Dare she turn it? Would the rusted hinges creak and give away her hiding place? She couldn’t risk it.

  Thin tendrils of smoke were already filtering through the seams of the trap door, blocking out any glimmer of daylight. She waited, knowing her timing had to be right before she dared open the door that led into the passageway.

  She heard the crackle of fire followed by a more pronounced pop as the straw above her caught alight. Heat filled the small space. She drew her shawl over her face to keep out the pungent, thickening smoke. Fire engulfed the building and the space above her exploded into flames.

  Picking up the lantern she opened the door, knowing that no one could hear any noise that the hinges or anything else could make. Her pulse raced, perspiration beaded her brow.

  A surge of heat followed her along the tunnel like a hound on a scent. Keeping her left hand on the wall, she stumbled along in the dark, her heart pounding, her breathing shallow. She needed to see where she was going, didn’t dare stop to light the lantern until she had no choice.

  There was no wall beneath her hand, only emptiness. She felt on her right side. Nothing there either. She dared not move for fear of what lay ahead of her. Now she knelt down, fumbled with the lantern, lit it and held it up.

  “Oh, my.” She gasped as she looked around her.

  The lantern light flickered over massive stone columns that supported a graceful vaulted ceiling. She had come too far for this to be beneath the village’s only church. It must be belong to the small chateau she knew lay nearby. This crypt must be under its chapel. She sank onto the floor and rested against one of the columns.

  For now she was safe. For now this place could provide what she wanted.

  Sanctuary.

  CHAPTER 1

  London. May, 1818

  He could be hea
ven or he could be hell, thought Emmaline Devereux.

  She steadied her breath and willed her heart to regain its regular steady beat, thankful for the solid support of the library table she leaned against as she looked at the Earl of Avondale.

  Standing in the doorway, gripping the handle tightly, the Earl’s knuckles showed white. Lines of discontent seamed the corners of his mouth. His brows formed two black slashes above a pair of piercing grey eyes and made the lean features above his down-turned mouth appear even more formidable.

  Thick, dark hair hung loose about his collar but it was the lock of dark hair falling across his forehead that caught Emmaline’s attention, a lock that she would dearly love to reach up and push aside.

  That would be an impossible sentiment but, Lord, why had Juliana never thought to reveal how handsome her brother Lucius was? Or, as his sister, did she simply not see it?

  Emmaline watched him walk towards her. His boots made no sound on the brightly patterned Persian carpet as he closed the distance between them. He said nothing, but his continued scrutiny of her made her wish she had not chosen to dress so shabbily.

  As he approached, she closed the book she perused. She saw the surprise on his face when he noticed she held a well-worn copy of Plato’s Republic. Forcing herself to remain calm she replaced it on his table.

  “You read Greek?”

  His cold, curt tone could have frozen water in a pitcher but there was an underlying timbre of interest that played on her senses as sweetly as a bow on a violin.

  “Latin too.” Emmaline made her reply cool and steady with some difficulty. Difficulty because her pulse raced and her breath felt trapped in her chest. She tilted her chin and looked up at him. “Shocking is it not?”

  “Perhaps not shocking, but certainly unusual, Miss...?”

  “Devereux, Emmaline Devereux, my Lord.”

  She dropped a more perfunctory than polite curtsy and held his gaze as steadily as he held hers. He paced around her, moving with the lithe grace of an athlete. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated.

  “So, Miss Devereux, what may I do for you?”

  He pulled a chair out from a rosewood drum table and indicated she should sit down.

  “Nothing, my Lord.” Emmaline took the seat he offered and looked him in the eye as she did so.

  “Nothing?” He quirked one of those thick, black brows. “How very novel. Most persons arriving at my house require something of me.”

  Emmaline shook her head as she straightened her skirts and folded her hands together in her lap. “It is your sister, Juliana, I wish to see.”

  She could not help but notice the doubt with which Lucius eyed her, and suspected he intended her to.

  “And if you, my Lord,” she said with some acerbity, “think like your butler that I am a ‘female of uncertain lineage’, I can assure you my lineage is perfectly respectable.”

  “So, you eavesdrop do you?” Lucius’ lips narrowed into a thin line of disapproval.

  “Certainly not.” Emmaline lifted her chin a little higher. “But your butler has a rather loud voice and I could not help but hear his opinion of me.”

  “And what else did you overhear?”

  “Not a word more, my Lord, for I simply closed the door.”

  “Very commendable.” Linking his hands behind his back, Lucius strolled to the fireplace and took a stance in front of it. “However, you surely can understand the dilemma you placed upon Mr. Tubb, arriving here as you did unknown and with no chaperone?”

  “Indeed, I do,” Emmaline assured him. “And that is why I must see Juliana.”

  “I thought myself familiar with all Juliana’s friends.” Uncertainty rang clear in his voice and his brow remained furrowed. “How came you to be acquainted with my sister?”

  “We met at Miss Fotheringay’s School for Girls in Bath,” she responded.

  “Ah, that explains Plato,” Lucius said. “Miss Fotheringay was, by all accounts, a somewhat forward teacher. But yours is not a name I immediately recall.”

  “Since leaving school my friendship with Juliana has, of necessity, been maintained through correspondence,” Emmaline explained.

  “Devereux, Devereux,” Lucius muttered, as if speaking the name aloud would bring it to mind. Suddenly he snapped his long, slim fingers. “Ah. I have it. Devereux. Old campaigner. Estate in Devon.”

  Tremors of alarm, like ripples on the surface of breeze-ruffled water, ran under Emmaline’s breast at his recollection. Panic threatened to swamp her lungs and fill her throat. Did he know? Was she discovered before she had barely set foot in London? But no, Lucius simply turned to her as if awaiting her response.

  “Indeed, my Lord. The very one.” The brim of her bonnet dipped a little as, with some relief, she gave him her answer. “I have the honour of being the grand-daughter of Sir Miles Devereux, now retired Colonel-in-Chief of the 3rd Light Dragoons.”

  Lucius looked thoughtful as he paced the floor. “South Devon,” he murmured softly, “if I am not mistaken.”

  “You are quite correct, my Lord.” Emmaline said carefully. “Are you perhaps acquainted with my grandfather?”

  “No, Miss Devereux, but I believe my elder sister may be. Her husband’s country seat, you see, is at Chulmleigh in North Devon. Is it known to you?”

  Lucius, having noticed her slight start as he mentioned her grandfather, regarded her from beneath carefully hooded eyes for other signs of unease but could detect none.

  “I have heard of it, my Lord, as it is said to have a very fine manor house. However, I am not familiar with it for I never was in that part of Devon.”

  Her well-modulated voice fell easily on his ears but he could not place the slight inflection he heard in it.

  “There is perhaps no reason that you should.”

  Lucius continued to pace behind the chair where Emmaline sat. She showed no distress at his restlessness, no curiosity at his silence.

  Damn Tubb, he thought savagely.

  Had it not been for his butler’s remark that his sister’s visitor was ‘somewhat pretty’, he would have supposed her to be one of Juliana’s totty-headed friends and ignored her. But Tubb never voiced opinions on visitors to the house, and for him to consider this visitor worthy of comment roused Lucius’ curiosity. And Tubb’s assessment was an understatement.

  At his entrance, she looked at him with an unhurried, cool ease. For a moment his vision was sharper, more clear. The colours around him appeared brighter, more richly hued. An instant and unexpected tug of desire swept over him and took his breath away. His grip on the door handle tightened while he recovered himself.

  Her eyes were blue.

  Not a sapphire or cornflower blue, but a most astonishing shade of deep, velvet-soft violet. The promise of passion he saw in those depths stirred a long held memory, one that still stung with betrayal and was instantly dismissed.

  It was lust, pure and simple lust, he told himself. But he felt himself laid bare all the same by the sensations that raged through his veins as he studied her.

  Slightly above average height, her half boots scuffed and down at heel, the hem on her pelisse frayed and a plain fabric reticule hanging from her wrist, she had little to commend her.

  And yet, and yet... There was an aura of quality about her he could not quite grasp, could not put a name to and which completely intrigued him.

  Black curls peeped from beneath the brim of her dusty bonnet and framed her face. Her skin tone, the colour of coffee with a hint of cream, gave her an air of the exotic.

  Why had Juliana never mentioned this fascinating young woman? And how much more could he discover of her before his sister made her appearance?

  “Well, Miss Devereux, I have to tell you that I am quite shocked to find a young lady of your stamp abroad in London unaccompanied by maid or chaperone.” The look he gave her would have quelled someone less bold and her unabashed gaze evinced in him a twinge of admiration. “I would have hoped
that my sister’s friends would observe all social proprieties.”

  “I do entirely agree with you, which is why I am here.” She looked up at him from under a sweep of thick black lashes and Lucius caught his breath. “My maid turned her ankle as she stepped from the kerb in Jermyn Street. The only conveyance I could procure to take her home had seating for just one. It would have been quite unconscionable of me to keep her standing while we awaited another. Knowing your Lordship’s address and that Juliana is not only your sister but also your ward, I thought it likely she would be under your roof. I came straight here to beg her assistance.”

  “And how do you suppose Juliana might be able to assist you?”

  “By favouring me with her consequence,” Emmaline replied promptly. Her eyes still held his and Lucius had the troubling sensation of sinking, of being swept by unseen currents into an endless ocean. “If she and her maid, or perhaps her chaperone, could accompany me home, all town proprieties will have been met and I will not be considered,” she paused, “a female of uncertain lineage.”

  To regain his composure at the defiant light in her eyes, Lucius covered his sudden amusement by pretending a light cough behind the shield of his hand.

  “Do I conclude from this statement, Miss Devereux, that when you are at home you do not aspire to meet those same proprieties?”

  “Indeed, my Lord, for when I am at home I am used to walking and doing much as I please, whether I have someone to accompany me or not.”

  From what he had seen of her thus far, Lucius could well imagine it. Inexplicably reluctant to leave her, he went to the door and opened it but looked back over his shoulder.

  “Please, Miss Devereux, remain seated and I will send Juliana to you.”

  The sound of the front door hastily opening and closing echoed through the hall and Lucius recognized the swift patter of his sister’s footsteps.

  He stopped in the doorway. “Juliana? Is that you?”

  “Oh, pooh!” his sister exclaimed, vexation at being discovered clear on her face. “Now I am scotched.”