by Mia Vincy
A Dangerous Kind of Lady
Mia Vincy
Inner Ballad Press
A Dangerous Kind of Lady
Copyright © 2020 by Inner Ballad Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
E-book ISBN: 978-1-925882-04-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-925882-05-6
Cover: Studio Bukovero
Content notes: Male character (secondary) physically assaults female character; past death of a child by illness (main character’s sibling); death by fire; controlling parent (now deceased)
Also by Mia Vincy
Longhope Abbey
A Beastly Kind of Earl
A Wicked Kind of Husband
www.miavincy.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgments
The Longhope Abbey Series
About the Author
Wit is the most dangerous talent you can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good-nature, otherwise it will create you many enemies. …
Be even cautious in displaying your good sense. It will be thought you assume a superiority over the rest of the company.—But if you happen to have any learning, keep it a profound secret, especially from the men, who generally look with a jealous and malignant eye on a woman of great parts, and a cultivated understanding.
A man of real genius and candour is far superior to this meanness. But such a one will seldom fall in your way…
* * *
A Father’s Legacy to his Daughters
Dr. John Gregory
London, 1808 edition
Chapter 1
Fifteen minutes into the Prince Regent’s costume party, and Arabella was reaching the conclusion that she would not make a very good spy.
Which was unfortunate, as “become a spy” topped her list of things to do if her father disinherited her. For the most part, she surely qualified for the job—she excelled at knowing things she ought not know, at dissembling, and at guessing others’ misdeeds before they’d even had a chance to commit them—but she now suspected that being a spy required patience, and patience had never been her forte.
Already her patience had reached its limits. If only she could order people to arrange themselves as she pleased! But no, she had to conceal her vexation beneath polite greetings and gracious nods, as she drifted through the crush of guests spilling out into the gardens.
It was a fine, fresh evening, the late-summer sky as clear as one could hope for in London, and the expansive lawns were ablaze with flaming torches and hanging lanterns. If the party’s organizers had intended an atmosphere of carnivalesque chaos, they had succeeded: Colorfully dressed acrobats cartwheeled among the costumed guests, fire-eaters breathed out flames, troubadours sang and jugglers juggled and tightrope dancers leaped and twirled.
A dazzling spectacle, certainly, but it rather frustrated Arabella’s secret, simultaneous missions: hunting Lord Hardbury, avoiding Lord Sculthorpe, dodging Mama, scaring away the fortune hunters who had multiplied after Hardbury jilted her, and pointedly eyeing every other Minerva so they maintained an appropriate distance.
Arabella had ordered the Minerva costume—comprising a draped Roman-style robe and red-plumed helmet—knowing it was not unique, but, as she had said to Mama, “If one must face society’s scorn at a costume party with the Prince Regent and three thousand of his closest friends, one ought to do it dressed as a warrior goddess.”
“It is not like you to exaggerate, Arabella,” Mama had scolded in her serene way. “Lord Hardbury has not actually jilted you. He was correct in saying that an agreement between your fathers when you were infants is not a binding engagement, and everyone knows that. No one will mention it.”
True, no one was mentioning it. In every conversation, Arabella could hear them Not Mentioning it. How dreadful people were, the way they went around Not Mentioning things.
If only someone would mention it! What a relief if someone were to say, “Well, Miss Larke, Guy Roth has finally returned to claim the title of Marquess of Hardbury, after an absence so long some feared he was dead, and his first announcement is that he will not marry you. Tell me, Miss Larke,” this wonderful person would say, “how fares your famous pride now? Shall we prepare a poultice for it, fetch it some bandages, or is it time to send for the vicar?”
Arabella would look down her nose at them, in the imperious manner she had perfected by age twelve, and say, “Pray, do not trouble yourself. It will take more than a set-down by Lord Hardbury to finish off my pride.”
Yes, her blessed pride, her most loyal companion these twenty-three years. Always stepping in to save her, taking control of her mouth, and making her say things she didn’t mean. It was a wonder she could stay upright under the weight of all that pride, though sometimes she doubted she would stay upright without it.
And now her pride had brought her to this: After a lifetime of boasting that she would become the Marchioness of Hardbury, while secretly praying she would never actually have to marry that detestable Guy Roth, she needed to ask him a favor.
That Arabella Larke asked a favor of anyone was enough to make the sky crack and tremble. That she was asking it of Guy Roth would surely make the heavens collapse onto their heads.
But ask it she must, when the alternative was—
Lord Sculthorpe.
Arabella froze.
The Baron Sculthorpe stood not five yards away, conversing in a small group, his face mercifully turned away. He was dressed as an old-fashioned highwayman, in a tricorne hat, black cape, and lacy cuffs. The costume made him look every inch the dashing, athletic war hero that society so admired. He was approaching thirty-six, but that didn’t matter, not for a man as hale and hearty as he.
A few more steps and he might have seen her. Under her helmet, Arabella’s scalp prickled, her heart pounding from the close call. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself, and glanced around to assess her avenues of escape.
Sidling toward Sculthorpe’s group were a pair of jesters, their medieval costumes a riot of red and yellow, from their three-pointed fool’s hats to their long-toed shoes. They danced close to Sculthorpe and the matron at his side, grabbed their wrists, and briskly tied man and woman to each other with a length of pink ribbon.
Arabella could not hear the words over the crowd’s merriment, but she knew this game, slightly risqué but not uncommon at such gatherings: The jesters announced his lordship had only to kiss the fair lady to be released. Sculthorpe clutched at his heart with exaggerated delight, bestowed a peck on the lady’s round cheek, then made
a show of fanning himself, as their little audience cheered. The jesters cut the ribbon and skipped away, and the group resumed their chatter, enlivened by the interlude.
What a performance! What charm! No wonder wealthy, handsome Lord Sculthorpe was one of the most eligible bachelors in the land.
And lucky Arabella, she was the one he had chosen.
That was how Papa had put it, when he announced that, after Lord Hardbury had written to confirm that he would not marry her, Lord Sculthorpe had written to confirm that he would. Arabella did not feel lucky. This past spring, when Sculthorpe first displayed an interest in her, she had realized within three conversations that she could not bear to be his wife. With society speculating about Guy’s return, she had insisted on waiting for him instead. She had counted on Guy not returning, at least not before Sculthorpe married someone else. Wrong on both counts.
“You’re fortunate Sculthorpe still wants you, so don’t spoil this too,” Papa had said to Arabella, his eyes on his beloved Queenie as he stroked her bright-green feathers, while the portrait of her dead brother Oliver smirked from its prize position on the wall.
“If Lord Sculthorpe is so eager to marry me, Papa, I don’t see how I could spoil it.”
“Heiress to a grand estate, yet men fall over themselves to avoid marrying you. Lord Luxborough jilted you, and now Lord Hardbury has jilted you, so make sure Lord Sculthorpe doesn’t jilt you too.”
“A wiser course would be to dispense altogether with this tiresome parade of lords,” she had argued.
“Are you saying you refuse to marry Sculthorpe?”
“I told you, I have a viable alternative, if you would only wait. I have written to—”
“I am tired of waiting! No more talking. I’ve been patient with you, my girl, but it’s past time you married and provided me with grandsons.” Then Papa had concluded with a definitive statement: “When you come back from the Prince Regent’s party, you will be engaged.”
“Or?”
“Or you need not bother coming back at all.”
Once more unto the breach, Arabella thought, and melted into the crowd before Sculthorpe could see her. A juggler, hands a blur, winked at her as she slipped past. She felt like a juggler herself, juggling potential husbands. Of course she had a plan to avoid marrying Sculthorpe—Arabella always had a plan—but it would take months to come to fruition, and with Papa stubbornly issuing ultimatums, she needed to buy time. Her resolve hardened. If her only way to avoid losing everything was to get engaged tonight, then get engaged she would.
For which she must find Guy.
How was Arabella to identify Guy Roth, Marquess of Hardbury, in a crowd this size, after an absence of nearly eight years, with everyone in costumes?
Easy: Look for the cloud of sycophants buzzing like gnats around a useless, self-satisfied dandy.
He would be preening at their flattery, no doubt, failing to see, as always, that he would be nothing if not for his money and name. As children, on those all-too-frequent occasions when their families had gathered at the same country house, Arabella would watch, amazed, as the other boys let Guy win whatever game they played, and he was too conceited to realize it. Arabella was the exception, of course; she never let anyone win.
To be fair, Guy had been a gracious winner. He never boasted, but he never needed to: There were always toadies eager to do the boasting for him. Neither was he a sore loser when Arabella defeated him. Publicly, he would congratulate her and laugh off jibes about being beaten by a girl, especially the one he was meant to marry, but they both knew. Privately, he would say, “I’ll defeat you next time, Arabella,” to which she would retort, “You’ll never defeat me, Guy,” and they’d exchange glares and not speak again.
He was dazzling society years before Arabella made her come-out, and she had to suffer through glowing reports of how he had won this footrace and that debate, how he danced so elegantly and wore the latest fashions to perfection. Then the final reports, of course: that he had fallen in love with a lady who spurned him, and so, when he didn’t get his own way for the first time in his life, he had run away from England for an eight-year sulk.
Yet it was one thing for him to go missing for years; it was quite another—and vexingly inconvenient—to go missing at the party held to celebrate his return. Arabella worked her way through the crowd, exchanging nods and gliding on, inspecting and dismissing a man dressed as a bear, a knight, a hangman. Then an acrobat back-flipped across her path; Arabella swerved just as a fire-eater blew flames into the air.
When her vision cleared, she found herself blinking at a tall man dressed as Caesar, with a red cape thrown over a leather breastplate and knee-length skirt. A small space surrounded him, for even in this crowd his imperial presence kept others at a respectful distance, save for the middle-aged man chattering at his side. Arabella let her eyes drift over Caesar’s bare arms, and was absently examining the pteruges that ended inches above his boots when she remembered herself and pivoted away.
Mid-turn, her legs stopped; a heartbeat later, her mind caught up.
No. Surely not.
And yet…
Twisting, Arabella looked over her shoulder. Then turned her whole body. And blinked again.
For while the man dressed as Caesar was definitely Guy, he was not Guy as she knew him.
This version of Guy seemed… Well… He had… Guy was…
Good grief.
Guy had grown up.
He was bigger than she remembered, broader, more solid. He had always been athletic, but only in relation to gentlemanly pursuits; if this man were a stranger, she would not take him for a gentleman, let alone a lord. Perhaps it was the way he was weathered, as no English lord ought to be, with the ends of his thick hair turned nearly gold by the sun and his complexion unfashionably tanned. His narrow nose bore a bump; perhaps that imperfection was what unsettled her. Once upon a time, no person in England would dare break that lordling’s nose. Indeed, nothing about his features was smooth. The hollows in his cheeks provided a counterpoint to the sharp definition of his jaw, and he had a furrow in his brow, as though the world posed too much of a conundrum to give him a moment’s peace.
But it was something more that arrested her, something about the way he held himself. As a youth, Guy had strutted unseeingly through the world, secure in the belief that no harm would come to him. Now, an alertness thrummed beneath his confident ease, as if he anticipated an attack.
Where have you been, Guy? Arabella wondered. What have you been doing, to make you like that?
Yet despite his watchfulness, he had not seen her, and she let her eyes travel over him again. More pteruges hung over his shoulders, the leather strips caressing the muscular lines of his bare upper arms. His forearms, too, were bare, the tanned skin stretched over corded muscles and veins.
Really, Guy. Arabella’s gaze lingered on his forearms. What have you been doing, to make you like that?
The way his eyes roamed, it was only a matter of time before he saw her. Arabella felt unusually ill prepared. The Guy of the past would have been easy to manage, but this man… This man was someone new.
As she watched, his eyes drifted over a trio of young gentlemen who loitered nearby. Their attitudes sharpened, their smiles beckoned—but his eyes kept traveling as if they were not there. Had he made eye contact, that would have been the cut. As it was, it barely skated over politeness. The gentlemen knew it too, for they stiffened and launched into an animated discussion as if they had never sought Guy’s attention.
Arabella slipped back into the crowd. If Guy did that to her—and given their history of mutual antagonism, there was a good chance he would—others would be sure to notice. The humiliating gossip would never end. Curse him. He could too easily dismiss her without even hearing her proposition, while she stood like a petitioner begging an audience with a king. How society would snicker at her, for Arabella was prideful and outspoken, and everyone loved to mock a woman who thought too
much of herself.
Then she must find a way to approach him without risking her pride. If her plan failed, her pride would be all that remained.
As she considered her options, she again spied the jesters with their pink ribbons. She thought of Guy’s bare, muscular forearm and the contents of her reticule.
Within a minute, Arabella had a plan.
Yet another fellow was babbling at Guy about something, another of his late father’s cronies hoping the son would pick up where the father had left off. How adorable they were, the way they clucked at him about their corrupt schemes, like so many eager hens. And how amusing, the way their clucking grew more insistent the longer that Guy acted obtuse.
But at least while this chap clucked on, no one else approached, so Guy let him talk while he scanned the carnival party for Freddie, hoping he would recognize her; there would be a big difference between the eleven-year-old girl he had left behind and the nineteen-year-old lady she would have become. Fiendishly clever of them, to put everyone in costumes, thus making the game of Find-My-Sister-In-A-Crowd-Of-Thousands that bit trickier.
“Does that not strike you as ridiculous, my lord?” the man was saying, with a chortle.
Guy glanced at him. Speaking of ridiculous: The fellow, a politician of some description, had inexplicably chosen to wear a badger costume, although, to be fair, it went nicely with his thick white hair. His deceptively boyish face was bright with conspiratorial glee, as if certain of Guy’s agreement.
