Ann Lethbridge – Gabriel D'Arcy (страница 1)
She settled herself more comfortably on the seat. ‘I do not respond well to flattery.’
‘And if it is the truth, Countess?’
She shook her head.
She said it the French way and the caress in her voice was unmistakable. Velvet and honey and fine old brandy wrapped up in one word.
‘But you should know, Milor’ Mooreshead,’ she continued as he wove between the slow traffic of carters and tradesmen about their business, ‘your reputation precedes you. I have been warned that there isn’t a lady in London who does not fear for her virtue when you smile her way.’
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live in another time—to be the heroine of some grand adventure? I know how fortunate I am to get to do that on a daily basis. It doesn’t always go as smoothly as I would like, or exactly to plan, as characters have a way of twisting things to suit themselves. On the other hand, I must say I have a lot of fun discovering their stories. This time we are revisiting Beresford Abbey, which you may recall from HAUNTED BY THE EARL’S TOUCH. The ghost is being her usual helpful self—or is she? And the French are massing across the Channel.
Without a doubt the Regency era is one of my all-time favourite periods of history. However, it can easily be forgotten, in the glitz and glamour of London’s ballrooms, that it was a time of war as well as a time of great change—the dawn of our modern age. I touch on these matters as we follow Nicky and Gabe’s adventure.
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Gabriel D’Arcy
Ann Lethbridge
ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming Britain with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
It isn’t often an author has the privilege of working with two editors, but for this book I have been fortunate to have the advice of Joanne Grant and Anne Marie Ryan, so I am doubly blessed. Thank you, ladies, for your help in bringing this story to fruition.
I would also like to dedicate this book to my sister-in-law, Diane Jones, a courageous woman who loved family above all else.
Contents
August 1804
When Napoleon amassed an army twenty-two miles away on the other side of the English Channel, what should an English peer of the realm do? Attend Lady Heatherfield’s summer ball, naturally. Gabe D’Arcy, the recently gazetted Marquess of Mooreshead, eyed the occupants in the over-hot marble-columned ballroom with a sense of despair. Did they have no idea of the danger facing their country? Did they not see the disillusion of the common man on their estates, in their cities and towns? If they did, they didn’t show it. Or seem to care.
The myriad candles reflected in gilt-edged mirrors threatened blindness as he gazed at his fellow peers. How would these carefully coiffed heads look in the basket at the foot of a guillotine? It was where they would end up if Britain became a satellite republic of France.
It wouldn’t happen. Not if he had anything to say about it. He’d given up everything he had to make sure it did not. His principles. His honour. Not to mention his rightful inheritance. Damn his father.
He and his father had never seen eye to eye about a great many things—politics, the treatment of tenants, the bullying of his mother—but Gabe never expected his father’s outright mistrust. Had been shocked when he understood how deep their differences of opinion had gone, to the point where his father considered him a traitor to the family name and to his country. But that was all water under the bridge. His father was dead and Gabe’s rebellion against his father’s autocratic rule had made him who he was now. A penniless marquess and a spy.
He did not let his impatience or frustration show. A worried countenance fuelled gossip. He’d suffered enough of that when details of his father’s will had surfaced. The first to turn their backs had been the matchmaking mamas who had plagued his early years. A poverty-stricken marquess wasn’t worth the time of day. Not that he’d cared, since he had no intention of marrying for years. If ever.
The hearsay about the unsavoury source of his income to support his privileged and idle bachelor life, whispers of him gulling green ’uns at the gambling tables or, worse, cheating, rolled off his shoulders. They were conjectures he’d encouraged.
The rumours about why he’d been denied the income from his estates cut pretty deep. Gossip about his support of the French revolution. The doubts about his loyalty to his country. Unfortunately for his pride, those rumours were also to be encouraged. They served a higher purpose.
Worse would be the revulsion of his fellows if the truth of his real activities came to light. A man could seduce innocents, kill a man in a duel or cheat on his wife, as long as it was all open and above board. It was the kind of underhanded dealings Gabe engaged in that would make him
So he let them think what they would while he risked life and limb to save theirs. Given his preference, he would never visit London at all, but since he kept his base of operations secret, and since his French contacts demanded the occasional face-to-face interaction, he’d had no choice but to don the guise of charming philanderer and inveterate gambler and mingle with his fellows.
Hence his appearance at Lady Heatherfield’s ball.
A passing gentleman lurched into Gabe, who put out a hand to minimise the clumsily executed
‘I beg your pardon,
The contact he’d been expecting. ‘Mooreshead. You suffer from the heat, no doubt.’ Code words of recognition, even though they needed none. Armande, a supposed
The man bowed again. ‘Indeed. Fortunately, the winds are strengthening and should bring a change in the weather.’
The winds that would bring the French from France, but there had been a change in plans. What change? ‘Let us hope it occurs soon, sir.’
‘Indeed. I have been almost prostrate these last five days.’
Five days? He had not anticipated they would make their move so soon. He had to get back to Cornwall and prepare. But what was the change in plan? ‘We will all welcome a change in the weather, even if it brings storms.’
‘The captain of your yacht, the
His orders were being sent to his ship. Why drag him all the way to London to tell him that? ‘I shall be sure to let him know.’
Armande dug out his snuff-box and offered it to Gabe. He lowered his voice. ‘You are in danger,
A spurt of anger surged hot in Gabe’s chest. He controlled it. He’d spent years trying to win the trust of both sides in this war—any chink in the walls he’d built could prove disastrous. ‘Who?’ he asked in an undertone. A double-edged question. Who had been sent? And by whom? Armande had loyalty to neither side. He glanced around as if considering the man’s earlier words. ‘Personally, I am surprised anyone is in town at all at this time of year.’