Regency Wolfe: A de Wolfe Pack Connected World collection of Victorian and Regency Tales

by Mary Lancaster

  “They were born here. They have more right to be here than you do.”

  Over her left shoulder, Kenton could see Conor fighting off a smile. Gerik and Ackerley stood well off to the side, shocked that the lady prisoner should speak to their liege so. Kenton sighed softly and crooked a finger at her, beckoning her towards him. Wary but unwilling to disobey, Nicola moved forward, stopped, then kept walking when he motioned her closer. She brushed up against his massive thigh when he finally stopped beckoning. Inches from him, she could feel his hot breath in her face and it was wildly intimidating and strangely curious all at the same time.

  “Madam,” Kenton’s voice was low and quiet, “I have battled the most powerful armies this world has to offer and I have no intention of fighting with the likes of you. I will tell you this one time only; you will cease this insolence or I will toss you and your children in the vault and throw away the key. Is that, in any way, unclear?”

  She struggled between fear and indignation. “Forgive me if I have been insolent, my lord,” she said. “But I would like to know when the truth has been considered insolent.”

  “You’re doing it right now.”

  “Am I? I was not aware.”

  He gazed into her pale green eyes, again feeling that strange tingle in his chest, only this time it was a warm, tightening sensation. It was not unpleasant but he thought perhaps he was becoming ill. The sensation unnerved him.

  “You are, indeed, aware,” he growled. “And this type of behavior will cease.”

  His tone was enough to make her back down. “As you say, my lord.”

  He stared at her, trying to discern if she was lying. He read nothing but fortitude and truth in her eyes. He almost read a challenge. Unbalanced, his jaw began to flex in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.

  “You and your brood will keep to the apartments until I decide what’s to be done with you. Under no circumstances will I see your children in the great hall or anywhere outside of the keep. If I catch one of them, he shall be mine.”

  “For what purpose?”

  He couldn’t believe she was being combative after what he had just told her. “How’s that?”

  She was quite serious. “I asked you for what purpose, my lord,” she repeated. “If you catch one of my boys, what will you do with him? Surely you don’t intend to make use of him in the midst of your mighty military installation.”

  He just stared at her in amazement. He swore he could see a twinkle of sarcasm in her eye and it nearly drove him mad. The woman was toying with him. He knew he had to tend to her attitude here and now, or all would be lost.

  “Throw her in the vault,” he commanded.

  The twinkle fled from Nicola’s eye. Conor came up and grasped her by the arm, tugging her back towards the door to the kitchens.

  Kenton couldn’t even watch the expression on her face as she was taken away; he was far too angry, but he realized he was very close to immediately countering the order. He had done it purely from spite.

  He heard the door to the kitchens slam and that strange tug in his chest started again.

  Titles by Amanda Mariel

  Ladies and Scoundrels series

  Scandalous Endeavors

  Scandalous Intentions

  Scandalous Redemption

  Scandalous Wallflower

  Coming soon to the Ladies and Scoundrels series

  Scandalous Liaison

  Fabled Love Series

  Enchanted by the Earl

  Captivated by the Captain

  Enticed by Lady Elianna

  Delighted by the Duke

  Lady Archer’s Creed series

  **Amanda Mariel writing with Christina McKnight**

  Theodora

  Georgina

  Adeline

  Josephine

  Scandal Meets Love series

  Love Only Me

  Coming soon to the Scandal Meets Love series

  Find Me Love

  A Rogue’s Kiss Series

  Her Perfect Rogue

  Stand alone titles

  Love’s Legacy

  One Moonlit Tryst

  Wicked Earls’ Club

  **Titles by Amanda Mariel**

  Earl of Grayson

  Coming soon to the Wicked Earls’ Club

  Earl of Edgemore

  Connected by a Kiss

  **These are designed so they can standalone**

  How to Kiss a Rogue (Amanda Mariel)

  A Kiss at Christmastide (Christina McKnight)

  A Wallflower’s Christmas Kiss (Dawn Brower)

  Coming soon to the Connected by a Kiss series

  Stealing a Rogue’s Kiss (Amanda Mariel)

  A Gypsy’s Christmas kiss (Dawn Brower)

  A Duke’s Christmas Kiss (Tammy Andresen)

  Box sets and anthologies

  Visit www.amandamariel.com to see Amanda’s current offerings.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you so much to my beta readers and editors, Raven, Mary Anne, Ashley, Jamie, Liette, Elizabeth, Karen, and Christina. I could not have polished and shaped Love’s Legacy into the wonderful story it is without your help. Also a big hug and lots of thanks to my friends Nina, Anna, Kathryn, Raven, and Victoria for helping with the title and blurb. And a big thank you to Kathryn LeVeque for inviting me to write in her world.

  About Amanda Mariel

  Amanda Mariel dreams of days gone by when life moved at a slower pace. She enjoys taking pen to paper and exploring historical time periods through her imagination and the written word.

  Visit Amanda’s website for more information on her and her books. While you are there, sign up for Amanda’s newsletter and receive a free eBook!

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  A Voice on the Wind

  Laura Landon

  Chapter One

  Ginny Wattersfield knelt beside her mother’s final resting place in the graveyard behind St. Dunstan’s Church, and moved her hand over the place where her mother was buried. The connection Ginny felt to her mother was as strong today as when her mother was alive, the guilt that gnawed at her as painful today as ever. How could it be otherwise? It was Ginny’s fault her mother was dead. Her fault that her mother had escaped their rooms during her watch, and run out into the street to be struck by a delivery wagon.

  “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  Ginny swiped her hand over the damp grass one final time, then rose to her feet. She’d stayed here longer than usual and the little sun that had struggled to peek through the foggy London day was nearly gone. It was nearing dusk and the fog was thick and heavy as Ginny took her first steps back to the shop she and her two sisters owned—Wattersfield’s Emporium. Her sisters would be concerned if she didn’t return before dark and could be counted upon to reprimand her for being out so late.

  Instead of taking the usual route from the graveyard, she took a shorter, less traveled path. She was anxious to make her way home as quickly as possible. The fog had settled over the city like a soggy blanket, making it difficult to see where she was going and chilling her bones.

  She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head to keep the dampness from her face and hair, then clutched it tightly beneath her chin as she scurried down the path.

  Ginny wasn’t superstitious. Neither was she afraid to visit the graveyard after dark. Coming to St. Dunstan’s to see her mother didn’t frighten her as it did her siblings.

  Her older sister by two years—Ardella, who to most of the world was just Della—made as many excuses as possible to avoid visiting their mother’s grave. Lucy, two years younger than Ginny’s twenty-five years, was terrified of visiting the cemetery. She refused to come on all but the sunniest of days. And seldom even then.

  Ginny was the only one who came regularly. Della was of the opinion that visiting their mother’s grave reopened wounds each of them should be trying to let heal. She didn’t want the constant reminder of what a tortured soul their mother was, and how t
ragically her life had ended.

  Yes, their mother was a tortured soul, Ginny thought as she made her way through the heavy fog. Their mother’s mind and memory had failed her to the point where in the end she didn’t even recognize her daughters. She didn’t know where she was. Even more agonizing were the conversations she had with her long-dead husband, and even longer-dead mother.

  Ginny couldn’t imagine the torture her mother had suffered thinking that she’d been abandoned by everyone she’d loved. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for her mother to live in a world of strangers.

  Ginny brushed at an errant tear that spilled over her lashes. The gate to St. Dunstan’s graveyard was within sight. She would be glad to reach the street and make the familiar twenty-minute walk past Leadenhall Market to Cornhill and the rooms where she and her sisters lived above Wattersfield Emporium.

  “Help me!”

  The pleading words of a female voice slicing through the fog stopped her midstride.

  “Help me.”

  Ginny whirled about, struggling to see through the dense fog. But it was impossible to see more than a foot in front of her face. She looked a moment longer, but seeing no one she turned to go.

  “Please. Help me.”

  Ginny stopped again and turned in the direction of the voice. She pushed her hood from her head and looked around. “Who’s there?”

  The voice didn’t answer but remained silent.

  “Who’s there?” she repeated. But she was answered only by eerie silence.

  Ginny’s heart raced in her breast. The fog had thickened dangerously. The voice couldn’t be real. She’d no doubt imagined it. That was the only logical explanation.

  Ginny waited as she stared into the foggy darkness. Shivers raced down her spine and she felt a harsh spike of fear that someone who was in the cemetery with her would play such a cruel trick on her. She was desperate to leave and took the next steps almost at a run.

  “Please. Find my killer.”

  “Stop it!” Ginny cried out. She was no longer frightened. She was angry. Angry that a trickster was playing such a cruel joke.

  “Where are you? Show yourself!” she said as she stomped in the direction of the voice. “I’m not afraid, you know. But I am getting angry.”

  She continued toward the voice.

  “Don’t let him go free,” the voice said through the fog. “Find my killer.”

  Ginny’s heart skipped a beat. A painful knot fell to the pit of her stomach.

  “Please, help me.”

  Ginny followed the voice until there was no place for her to go. She looked down at the tombstone she’d nearly stumbled across and knelt down to read the name inscribed on it.

  Elizabeth de Wolfe

  Beloved sister of Moira, Constance and Katherine

  b. 1835 – d. 1855

  “Elizabeth? Oh, dear lord! Elizabeth! Who killed you?” Ginny asked.

  “He did,” the voice answered.

  Ginny bolted to her feet, then staggered. She’d never been so frightened in her life. Someone was talking to her from the grave. “W… who did?” she asked.

  “Him.”

  “Tell me his name!”

  “Be careful. He’s not what he seems.”

  “Not what he…who are you talking about?” she asked. But her question was met with a terrifying silence.

  When no more words were forthcoming, Ginny rose, then stumbled from the grave.

  This couldn’t be happening. She had to have imagined that someone spoke to her. No one was there. It must have been a combination of the near darkness and the fog and her imagination. It had to have been.

  Ginny clutched her cloak tighter around her and raced through the gate then on to Fleet Street.

  She was out of breath by the time she reached the thoroughfare and only slowed twenty minutes later as she neared her destination. She knew Della would be furious with her for being away for so long. It was dark now. Nearly time to lock up their shop and retire for the evening.

  Ginny stopped to calm herself, then walked casually through the shop door. Della looked up when the bell over the door tinkled to announce her arrival.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been at the cemetery all this time,” Della said. There was annoyance in her sister’s voice and accusation in her words. She paused from her task of putting away several colorful pair of gloves she must have removed to show a customer.

  “Very well,” Ginny said as she walked past her sister to hang her cloak on a hook near the fire in the back room. “I won’t tell you that’s where I’ve been even though it was.”

  Ginny tried to keep her voice calm and hoped she succeeded.

  “When will you realize that Mother’s death was not your fault?” Della said following her to the back room.

  Ginny halted with her cloak midway to the hook. “I know her death wasn’t my fault, Della. I regret that I wasn’t attentive enough to stop her from leaving her room, but I know she was no longer in charge of her actions. For some reason none of us understands, she was desperate to go to the house where she grew up. Even though that house is no longer there.”

  “Mother was ill, Ginny. She had an illness of the mind. She heard voices that weren’t there, and there was nothing any of us could do for her.”

  A shiver ran down Ginny’s spine. She finished hanging up her cloak and fanned it out so it would dry more easily, then turned to face her older sister. Since she’d heard the voice in the cemetery, she’d been consumed with a sense of panic that perhaps she, too, suffered from the same illness as her mother.

  “I know that’s true, Della. But what if she isn’t the only one of us who suffers from that same—”

  Before Ginny could finish her sentence, Della closed the distance that separated them and clasped her fingers around Ginny’s upper arms. “Don’t you dare think that. You may look the most like Mama, and resemble her in many ways, but you are not her.”

  In the face of Della’s denial Ginny couldn’t bring herself to tell her sister what had happened a half hour earlier in the graveyard.

  “It’s not healthy for you to visit Mama as often as you do, Ginny. Promise me that you will not go to the graveyard again for at least a week. Or even two.”

  “Oh, Della—”

  “Please, Ginny. Promise me. I don’t want you to go there again for a long while. I can’t think it’s good for you.” Della looked at her with a sincere expression on her face. “Please, Ginny.”

  Della’s earnest plea moved her and at last Ginny nodded several times. “I promise, Della. I’ll stay away from St. Dunstan’s for at least a week.”

  “No. Two.”

  “Very well. I’ll try for two.”

  Della gave Ginny a sisterly hug. “Thank you, sweet. Now, let’s close the shop and go upstairs. Lucy will undoubtedly be waiting dinner on us.”

  Ginny helped Della turn down the lamps, lock the front door and shutter the windows. When Wattersfield Emporium was secure for the night, she and Della climbed the stairs to the rooms they shared above the emporium.

  A hearty stew simmered atop the stove, and Lucy filled a bowl for each of them once they were seated around the table.

  Ginny was glad when talk of her trip to the cemetery changed to the large sale they’d made while Ginny was gone. Business was thriving, and that eased their financial burden. Ginny didn’t need more worries. After her trip to St. Dunstan’s, she had enough straining her nerves.

  Ginny took several spoonsful of the warm stew and realized how chilled she still was. And how frightened. She tried to tell herself that she’d imagined the voice that had called out to her. But she knew she hadn’t. The voice had been real. The plea for help real.

  A shiver overtook her when she considered what she should do. There wasn’t an answer, other than that she should try to forget what had happened. Perhaps in a week she wouldn’t remember the voice. Or the cry for help.

  But Ginny knew that wouldn’t happen.


  It had been a week since she’d heard the voice in the graveyard. A week of long days and endless nights in which she hadn’t slept. She didn’t know how much longer she could continue like this before she became ill.

  Ginny sat in the floral cushioned chair beneath her bedroom window and stared out at the slowly lightening sky. Her head throbbed from lack of sleep and the nightmares that plagued her when she did fall asleep. She hadn’t been able to eat or sleep or even rest since she’d returned from the graveyard. The voice cried out to her each night as soon as she closed her eyes. And the cries didn’t ease, but became more desperate each time Elizabeth de Wolfe called out to her.

  Ginny rubbed her hands up and down her arms, then bolted to her feet when she couldn’t sit in the chair any longer. She tried to be as quiet as possible as she dressed, then made her way down the stairs. She didn’t want to wake either of her sisters. Della especially was concerned about her. Yesterday she’d even suggested Ginny go to see a doctor, but Ginny had only laughed. A doctor couldn’t heal what was wrong with her. No more than a doctor had been able to help their mother.

  She descended the stairs as quietly as possible. When she reached the back room of the emporium, she put a kettle of water on to boil. Hopefully, a cup of tea would help the throbbing of her head. She steeped the tea, but turned when Della’s voice interrupted her.

  “Can’t sleep again?” she asked.

  Ginny turned back to her task. “I simply woke early and decided to get up. Would you care for some tea?”

  “If you’ve made enough.” Della walked to the small workroom table and sat.

  “Yes, I’ve made enough.”

  When the tea was ready Ginny poured them each a cup, then took it to the table and sat beside Della. “I’m sorry I woke you,” Ginny said as she added milk to her cup.

  “You didn’t. I was awake. I was waiting for you to rise.” Della took a sip of her tea, then set down her cup. “What’s wrong, Ginny? What’s bothering you?”

  Della’s words raised the cruel fears she’d hoped to keep in check. Ginny struggled to keep the tears at bay, but failed. She shook her head as the first tear spilled from her eyes. More followed no matter how desperately she tried to keep them from streaming down her cheeks.