Nearly a Lady (Haverston Family Trilogy #1) Read online

  Nearly A Lady

  Alissa Johnson

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  NEARLY A LADY

  Copyright © 2011 by Alissa Johnson

  All rights reserved.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Marquess of Engsly was not quite so bitter as to believe duplicity the exclusive domain of women. At the moment, however, he was just bitter enough to entertain the notion it was a realm inhabited primarily by women, and ruled, most effectively, by the grand duchess of artifice herself, the Dowager Lady Engsly . . . his dear stepmama.

  And if that idea held a touch more of the dramatic than was becoming for a man of his station, well, he rather felt he was entitled to the lapse.

  It was hotter than Hades in that room.

  In concession to the southern Italian sun, both he and his man, Kincaid, had stripped down to shirtsleeves and bare feet. They’d thrown open windows and doors, but the papers covering the small desk and littering the floor lay still, untouched by even a hint of breeze. It was heat alone that poured into the close room and had sweat beading on the marquess’s forehead and sliding down his back.

  “Have a look at this, Kincaid.” The marquess wiped a damp hand on a handkerchief before holding up the letter of receipt he was reading. “Seventy-five pounds to St. Agnus’s Asylum in East London.”

  Kincaid glanced up from where—after what the marquess was sure must have been a substantial internal battle between pride and practicality—he was seated on the floor, half buried in twenty years’ worth of journal entries penned by a mad woman. “I am unfamiliar with that particular charity, my lord.”

  “Of course you are,” the marquess replied. “There is no St. Agnus’s Asylum in East London.”

  He tossed the letter aside and grabbed the next, the contents of which had him laughing despite the miserable atmosphere.

  “Eighty pounds annum for the care of one Miss Blythe, daughter of Mr. Robert Blythe, and legal ward of the Marquess of Engsly.” He waved the paper in a flourish. “A ward. My father, who could scarce stomach the sight of his own offspring, agreed to take on a small girl? What an audacious lie. How is it none of us noticed the woman’s perfidy before this?”

  “Your father was quite enamored of your stepmother.”

  The marquess moved to toss the paper with the last. “As far as he was capable of such an emotion, at any rate.”

  “A moment, my lord. What was the child’s name?”

  The marquess frowned across the desk. “Miss Blythe,” he repeated, certain Kincaid had heard him the first time. “Is the heat getting to you? Perhaps a brief respite—”

  “A respite would be welcome but unnecessary. I was inquiring after her given name.”

  “Ah.” He scanned the lists detailing the purchases associated with the clothing and housing of a small girl. All of them fabricated, no doubt. “Here we are—Winnefred. Miss Winnefred Blythe.”

  “Winnefred.” Kincaid blinked, realization and a bright smile of humor lighting his aging face. “Freddie. Heavens, I’d quite forgotten.”

  “Are you telling me this child exists?”

  “She does, or did a dozen years ago. The vicar’s daughter, little Annabelle Holmes, wrote of her shortly after we left your father’s house. Charming child, Annabelle, such a developed sense of the absurd for one so young.”

  “And a favorite of my brother’s for that very reason,” the marquess added, remembering how Gideon had never seemed to mind having Anna follow him about the estate, peppering him with questions. But that had been before Gideon had gone to war. He was a different man now. A very different man. He would no longer welcome the adoration of a small child. “What did the letter say?”

  “If I recall correctly, your father and Mr. Blythe were both in attendance at a large, and by all accounts very festive, hunting party during which a drunken guest set the stables on fire. Mr. Blythe was brave enough, it seems, to have charged in and pulled out the horses, and foolish enough to be mortally wounded in the process. Moments after collapsing on the lawn, Blythe made a deathbed request of the man standing nearest him, your father.”

  “To take his daughter as his ward,” he guessed.

  “Ah, no. To take his ‘Freddie,’ I believe were his exact words. Your father and Mr. Blythe were little more than acquaintances, you understand, and his lordship assumed “Freddie” to mean a son. Apparently feeling magnanimous toward Blythe for saving his prized horseflesh, he agreed—in front of witnesses—to see the child cared for . . . There was quite a fuss when little Winnefred arrived on the front door step. His lordship flew into a rage, certain Blythe had purposely misrepresented the situation. It took your stepmother’s agreement to personally see the girl settled elsewhere to calm him down.”

  “She was the only person who ever could, I’ll give her that. I’m almost sorry I missed it.” The marquess read over the numbers again. “Eighty pounds annum. If Lady Engsly followed her usual pattern of stealing half the funds from causes that actually exist, that would give the girl forty pounds a year. Not much, is it?”

  Kincaid dug his way out from the journals to stand. “Payment would have ceased when Lady Engsly disappeared.”

  A sick weight settled over the room. “More than six months ago,” the marquess said softly. “Bloody hell. There’s an address here.” He tapped the paper. “Murdoch House, Enscrum, Scotland. That’s near the border, isn’t it? I’ll send word to Gideon. With any luck, the allowance was paid annually and Miss Blythe will still be in residence. We can make this right.”

  “Your brother is handling the estate in your absence. Perhaps it would be wise for us to return—”

  “No.” The word came out harsher than the marquess intended and had him dragging a weary hand down his face. “I beg your pardon. Between the heat and the lack of progress, I am a bit out of sorts. Gideon passed on the responsibly of the estate to our secretary almost before I requested he take on the task. He needs something to do. Something to accomplish.”

  Something, the marquess thought, that might lighten the shadows his brother attempted to hide behind a cheerful wit and careless smile. “Playing knight-errant will be good for Gideon.”

  Kincaid gave a slight nod in acknowledgment but hesitated before speaking. “Have you considered that . . . some of the information you seek might not be here?”

  The marquess chose to ignore the obvious implications of what was being suggested. “If it is not, it is with the dowager marchioness. When we find her . . .
” Then they would find everything the woman had stolen over the years. “When we find her . . . we’ll find Rose.”

  When Kincaid spoke again, his voice was soft and laced with the compassion of an old friend. “It has been more than twelve years, my lord. Twelve years without word. Please. You must resign yourself to the possibility that Rose is not to be found. There is every possibility that the lady is simply gone.”

  “I’d know.” The marquess refused to look up from the desk, refused to give in to the doubt that had sat side by side with hope since he’d discovered his stepmother’s betrayal. “Rose is not gone. She is merely . . . lost for the moment.”

  Like Lady Engsly, he realized, and Miss Blythe.

  “It occurs to me, Kincaid, that this family has an unfortunate habit of misplacing its women.”

  Chapter 1

  Move so much as a finger, and I’ll blow a hole clean through you.”

  Well . . . Damn.

  During the long, long ride from London to Enscrum, Scotland, Lord Gideon Haverston had envisioned his reception at Murdoch House playing out in any number of ways. By most accounts, he was an optimistic—occasionally even fanciful—man, and so it was only to be expected that the vast majority of those ways had included the barest minimum of recriminations and tears, and an astounding amount of gratitude and rejoicing.

  Use of the word “hero” had not been ruled out.

  Not once, however, had he imagined at the end of his journey to find a house devoid of life, a stable sheltering a brigand, and the phrase “blow a hole clean through you” being whispered in the dark while a gun muzzle pressed uncomfortably into the small of his back.

  Still, he’d had colder welcomes.

  “If it’s money you’re after, you’ll find it difficult to obtain unless one of us reaches for my pocket. Although, they say there’s a man in Russia who can move objects with mere thoughts. There’s a fine talent. Perhaps you’re familiar with it?”

  A short silence followed that statement.

  “You’re a cold one, aren’t you?” the voice finally hissed. “And I’m not the thief here.”

  Young, Gideon thought, very young, and afraid. He was well acquainted with the boyish habit of hiding fear with bravado. He’d heard it often enough on the deck of the Perseverance—the false deepening of the voice, the underlining tremor, and that quality of thickness as words forced their way past the ball of terror lodged in the throat.

  ’Fraid? Not me, Cap’n. Not me.

  But they had been. He’d not suffered fools on his ship.

  The lad behind him was running, like as not, and thought to spend the night in a pile of hay. Better all around if he was put down before he did something they would both regret.

  Gideon shifted his weight to his good leg, pivoted, knocked the barrel of the rifle away with one hand, and threw his other out in a fist.

  A sliver of moonlight cut through the open door and in the space of a heartbeat he saw trousers, bosom, and a long braid.

  A woman.

  Instinct had him pulling his fist back before it connected with flesh. No good deed goes unpunished, and for this particularly stupid act of chivalry, Gideon’s penalty was swift, painful, and humiliating. He doubled over when the butt of the rifle slammed into his stomach, yelped when a sharp knee plowed into his nose, then slipped into blackness when something hard bounced off his head with a whopping crack.

  Is he dead, then? Did we kill him?”

  Winnefred leaned over her friend Lilly, who, in turn, was leaning over the man they’d just done their best to beat senseless. As their best had proved remarkably successful, she couldn’t help but feel a touch of smugness along with relief and lingering terror. He should have kept his thieving to the house, the blighter, instead of coming after the animals.

  “Because if we did, we’ll need to hide the body straight away. What if someone comes looking for him?”

  “Then they will no doubt wonder how his horse came to be in our stable.” Lilly crouched down in front of the prone man. “And we did not kill him. I struck him with the pan. You merely kicked him about a bit.”

  Though it was too dark to be seen, Winnefred felt that comment merited a roll of the eyes. “I’ll be sure to ask the vicar to make that distinction at our respective funerals. Hanged murderesses are allowed funerals, aren’t they?”

  “With any luck, we’ll never know. He’s still breathing.”

  “Oh.”

  Winnefred felt rather than saw her friend’s gaze. “Your regard for the sanctity of human life is most touching.”

  “You’re the one who thumped him about the head,” Winnefred reminded her. “Besides, a dead body is easier to hide than a live one . . . Shall we tie him up, do you think?”

  “I suppose. His coat feels . . . rather expensive.”

  “I imagine there are some monetary benefits to being an outlaw. Would you ever consider—?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. No one would ever suspect you.” With hands that still wanted to shake, Winnefred retrieved two small lengths of rope and set about tying the man’s hands while Lilly worked on his feet.

  “He’s wearing good boots and trousers of superfine,” Lilly said. “I want to see him in the light. Fetch a candle—”

  “No. We’ve only a few candles left. I’ll not waste one on the likes of him.”

  “Freddie.”

  “Grab his feet, then. I’ll take his shoulders. We’ll drag him outside.”

  Years of physical labor had left both women with strong backs and capable hands, but it was an awkward business hauling a grown man out the stable doors. There was a great deal of huffing on Lilly’s part, and no small amount of swearing on Winnefred’s.

  His feet hit the moonlight first, and Winnefred couldn’t help but notice that Lilly had been right about the boots—they were very nice indeed. She saw the trousers next, then the tailored coat. At last his face came into view—dark hair and long lashes, aquiline nose and hard jaw. His mouth was wide with—

  “Oh, sweet heaven!” Lilly’s horrified gasp seemed unnaturally loud in the dark.

  “What? What is it?” Winnefred hastily readjusted her grip as the man’s feet slipped from Lilly’s hands and fell to the ground.

  “It’s him. It’s him. It’s . . . Wait . . .” Lilly bent closer to his face. “It isn’t him.”

  “For pity’s sake, Lilly—”

  “It’s the other one. It’s Gideon.”

  “Gideon?” Winnefred echoed. “Lord Gideon Haverston, do you mean? Brother to our generous benefactor? Here?” She bent forward for another, more narrow-eyed look at his features. Then let his head drop to the hard earth.

  “Winnefred, what are you thinking?” To Winnefred’s bemusement, Lilly hissed the words in a whisper, as if Haverston’s condition had suddenly and miraculously improved from unconscious to merely sleeping.

  “You’re absolutely right. That was quite careless of me.” She straightened and planted her hands on her hips. “I should have aimed for a pointed rock.”

  “Oh, no. Oh, no. What have we done?”

  “Missed a fine opportunity, in my opinion. We could be planning his trip to the bottom of the loch right now, instead of . . . Why the devil are you untying him?”

  “We’ll explain,” Lilly breathed, sounding a bit hysterical as she tore at the knots. “Terrible mistake. Two women alone—”

  “Lilly, stop.” Winnefred bent down again and closed her hand over her friend’s. “We’ve been alone for years and he’s never concerned himself over it before.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t aware—”

  “He was.” Winnefred hesitated before she spoke again. She’d never planned to confess what she’d done, but she couldn’t see a way around it now. “I wrote him last winter when you were so ill. I asked him to speak to his brother on our behalf.”

  “He never answered,” Lilly guessed dully.

  “Oh, he answered,” Winnefred muttered. She would remember the
scathing insult of that reply for the rest of her life. “We have to go.”

  She pulled Lilly to her feet and tugged her toward the gardener’s cottage. “Pack what you can easily carry. We’ll take his horse. With any luck, we’ll be long gone by the time he gets himself untied.”

  “We can’t just leave him.”

  Winnefred shoved Lilly inside and slammed the door behind her decisively. “We can, and we will. If I can leave Claire”—and oh, how that thought tore at her heart—“I can bloody well leave him.”

  “Claire is a goat, Winnefred.”

  “Nearer to human than a Haverston.”

  She threw open an old chest, pushed aside the two gowns reserved for trips into town, and dug out the leather pouch that held the coins she’d managed to scrimp together in savings. “Nearly a half pound,” she whispered, jingling the pouch.

  “Oh, well.” Lilly let out a breathy laugh of disbelief. “We’ll tour the continent in style, then.”

  “I should think it’s preferable to touring a prison—”

  “Wait.” Lilly reached into the trunk and pulled out a gown. “I’ve an idea.”

  Chapter 2

  Take off your trousers, Freddie.”

  “What if we have need to run? My legs will tangle in all this material. You should put yours back on, Lilly.”

  Over the course of his one-and-thirty years, Gideon had woken to the sounds of a great many conversations on a great variety of topics. None, however, had been quite so strange, nor quite so entertaining, as the one he was currently overhearing. In deference to both curiosity and the painful throbbing of his head, he kept his eyes closed, his breathing even, and simply listened.

  “Your legs will tangle whether or not you’ve trousers on underneath.”

  “But I can throw the dress off, can’t I?”

  “You look suspiciously lumpy.”

  “I feel suspiciously stupid. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to this.”

  Gideon heard the soft rustle of skirts draw near and caught the faintest hint of lavender and hay. He found it a pleasant combination.

  “He’s very handsome. Shame he’s such a rotter.”