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Synopsis
His greatest battle is just beginning . . . Captain Harry Lidge has done his duty. After losing too many good men on the battlefield, he's ready to put his responsibilities behind him and live a life free of care. But first he has one last mission: find out what the most outrageous woman in London, the same woman who betrayed him nearly a decade earlier, is concealing, before her secrets take down the crown. Her heart is the only thing she won't risk . . . Surrounded by ardent admirers and a few loyal friends, Lady Kate Seaton glides through the ton on a confection of couture gowns and bon mots. No one suspects that beneath her lighthearted favßade Kate hides a sorrow so scandalous she'll do anything to keep it hidden. But only when she trusts Harry with the truth and only when he trusts her with his heart can they stop the villains all too willing to kill Kate to attain their ultimate goal: destroy England.
Release date: October 1, 2011
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 432
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Always a Temptress
Eileen Dreyer
“Exquisite characterization; flashes of dry, lively wit; marvelous villains; and a dark, compelling plot that unfolds in tantalizing ways.”
—Library Journal
“A pure joy to read! Dreyer displays her phenomenal sense of atmosphere in an emotionally powerful and beautifully rendered love story…the consummate storyteller makes the conventional unconventional. Combining beautifully crafted, engaging characters with an intriguing mystery adds depth.”
—RT Book Reviews
“As always, Ms. Dreyer has written an engrossing story which will entice the reader into the world of the Regency…If you loved Barely a Lady, you won’t want to miss the second book of the series.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Superb…an intoxicating read. If not having the first book stops you from reading this one, get the first one. The next book promises to be just as exciting and sexy as this one, so just go and buy all of them. You won’t want to miss out!”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Another winner…will have readers experiencing the entire gamut of emotions and turning the last page with a sigh of satisfaction…Fans of historical romance won’t want to miss this one. Never a Gentleman is now on my keeper shelf next to Barely a Lady, and I’m saving a spot for ALWAYS A TEMPTRESS…Those Drake’s Rakes know how to sweep a lady off her feet, so start reading this series and get swept away.”
—TheRomanceDish.com
“An enjoyable Regency romantic suspense with twists and spins…fast-paced with a solid mystery subplot to enhance the romance.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
“Eileen Dreyer writes fascinating characters who are real and not Regency cut-outs…Grace is an admirable heroine, strong and loving, and her slow blossoming…is one of the best features of the book.”
—LikesBooks.com
“The story was great, the emotions were incredible and kept me reading to discover who the traitor was.”
—NovelReaction.com
“Nice cameos by several beloved characters from the previous novel…A delightful look at the society…during this period of England’s history.”
—NightOwlRomance.com
One of Publishers Weekly’s Best Books of 2010
A Top Ten Booklist Romance of the Year
One of Library Journal’s Best Five Romances of the Year
“Dreyer flawlessly blends danger, deception, and desire into an impeccably crafted historical that neatly balances adventurous intrigue with an exquisitely romantic love story.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Vivid descriptions, inventive plotting, beautifully delineated characters, and stunning emotional depth.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Romantic suspense author Dreyer makes a highly successful venture into the past with this sizzling, dramatic Regency romance. Readers will love the well-rounded characters and suspenseful plot.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Barely a Lady is addictively readable thanks to exquisitely nuanced characters, a brilliantly realized historical setting, and a captivating plot encompassing both the triumph and tragedy of war. Love, loss, revenge, and redemption all play key roles in this richly emotional, superbly satisfying love story.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Top Pick! 4½ stars! An emotionally powerful story…unique plotline…intriguing characters.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Brimming with sensuality, intrigue, and luscious prose, Barely a Lady will leave readers sighing with satisfaction and breathless with anticipation for the next book…A gem of a book that will have readers cheering for the hero and heroine, booing the villain, and smiling through tears as they reach the end.”
—TheRomanceDish.com
“Five hearts! Ms. Dreyer definitely knows how to write one passionate and drama-filled story!…A book that keeps you madly flipping through the pages, desperate to know what is going to happen next…Fans of the genre will fall in love with it.”
—AJourneyofBooks.halfzero.net
“A beautiful story [with] an amazing supporting cast of characters…a wonderful start to a new series.”
—TheFictionEnthusiast.blogspot.com
“Plenty of danger and intrigue…Barely a Lady will surely be a hit with romance fans.”
—TheThriftyThings.blogspot.com
Prologue
September 1815
Dorsetshire, England
Whoever said that no good deed goes unpunished must have been well acquainted with Katie Hilliard. No, Major Sir Harry Lidge corrected himself as he trudged into Oak Grove Manor’s Grand Salon to see her holding court by the front window. Not Hilliard. It was Seaton now. Lady Catherine Anne Hilliard Seaton, Dowager Duchess of Murther. But make no mistake about it. The dowager wasn’t the good deed. She was the punishment.
It had been the good deed that had brought Harry to Oak Grove in the first place. Well, he amended, considering the other occupants of the ornate gold-and-white room: part good deed, part official business, neither of which he was up to right now.
Not that he wasn’t happy to attend his friend Jack’s wedding. He was. He was even glad to spend time with the other members of Drake’s Rakes, who had gathered for the week-long celebration. Not only were they all excellent fellows, they were some of the best minds available to pit against a band of traitors intent on toppling the government.
Which was the official part of the visit. Marcus Belden, Earl of Drake, the leader of their group, had decided that Jack’s wedding was the perfect cover for a strategy meeting. Unfortunately, the gathering had also drawn an unexpected guest. The Surgeon, the most feared assassin in Europe, had made an appearance on the estate, just about the time someone tried to murder Harry’s friend Grace Hilliard.
Harry was just returning from a fruitless search for the man with Grace’s husband, Diccan, and Jack Wyndham, Earl of Gracechurch. At any other time, Harry would have been impatient to get back out and search. He would have demanded the men retreat to Gracechurch’s den so they could rehash what they knew about the threat to both the Crown and his friends, preferably over cigars and whisky. But all he could think of today was that come what may, as soon as the wedding was over, he was going the hell home.
As if hearing Harry’s thoughts, Kate turned to watch him lead the other men into the room. “There you all are,” she caroled, busy trying to wrest a silver flask from the smiling Lord Drake. “Marcus won’t give me back my flask. I expect you to rally to my cause.”
Alongside Harry, Diccan Hilliard chuckled. “One thing I can say for you, cuz,” he greeted her. “You always have your priorities in hand.” Dropping a kiss on Kate’s cheek, he walked by to join Grace on the gold settee.
Kate’s priorities being herself, Harry thought sourly, stopping in the doorway. They had an assassin on the loose, Grace was still recovering from being poisoned, and here was Kate, brangling over a whisky flask.
“But every girl should have her own flask,” she was saying, her sensual green eyes glinting with mischief as she turned back to her victim.
The leader of their merry little band, Marcus, was suavely blond, elegant to a fault, and stood a full foot taller and at least five stone heavier than Kate. Harry knew that banty cock stance of Kate’s, though: hand on hip, head back, breasts thrust forward. Marcus might as well hand the flask over now. She was going to harass him until she got it back.
“I’ll get you a new one,” Marcus assured her, keeping the flask just out of her reach. “Besides, the portrait inside is wasted on you. Let me ogle it.” Leaning close, he flashed a slow grin. “Since you won’t let me ogle you.”
She laughed, slapping his arm. “Don’t be a nodcock. There is no comparison. And the inscription! ‘Is not the fruit sweet, my first love?’ Really.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “If that truly is Minette in that painting, her fruit was plucked so long ago, it’s surely long since rotted.”
Harry wanted to spank Kate for her thoughtlessness. Both Jack and Diccan looked away, their wives equally uncomfortable. The woman depicted in the flask’s miniature had been mistress to both men, and betrayed each.
“Oh, I don’t know, Kate, ” Harry couldn’t help muttering. “If you could tell how long ago a woman lost her…freshness by a portrait, yours would look like a pox victim. Instead, as any man in London can tell you, it looks quite…perky.”
If he’d expected her to be upset, he was disappointed. Instead, she laughed, clapping her hands. “Have you seen it, Harry? Tell us everything.”
“Is Kate really painted naked?” Grace asked, looking more worried than Kate.
“As the day she was born.”
“Someone was naked,” Kate corrected him. “But it wasn’t me. I would love to see what the artist thinks I look like, though. Is it really hanging in a gaming hell?”
“You’re saying it’s a hoax,” Harry challenged.
She quirked a wry eyebrow. “Disappointed, Harry?”
“Skeptical.”
Her smile grew suggestive. “Too bad you’ll never know for sure.”
Harry had to admit that the painting hadn’t conveyed that certain something that set Kate apart. A Pocket Venus with gleaming chestnut hair and cat-green eyes, she had a body that even clothed would have had the pope reconsidering his vow of celibacy. She was, in fact, every erotic fantasy a man could have, and she knew it.
Harry wasn’t even within ten feet of her, and his body was reacting: his blood thickened and slowed; the pulses throbbed heavy in his throat. His cock twitched impatiently, and his muscles tautened, anticipating the lunge into sex. On the other hand, when he’d stood among the crowds in McMurphy’s staring up at the lush peaches-and-cream tones of the lounging Kate Seaton, he’d felt nothing more than irritation.
“We need to get them to take that travesty down,” Grace urged Kate, her plain face pursed in distress. “You don’t want to upset your brother.”
Kate’s smile was oddly gentle. “My brother was born upset, Grace. One more surprise isn’t going to overload his heart. Besides. I had nothing to do with it.”
Harry decided that now wasn’t the time to call her a liar.
“It’s too bad, really,” Kate mused on. “My siblings seem to have missed out on the famous Hilliard charm, which has left them all unforgivably judgmental. I choose to believe it is an aberrancy, since, of course, I am the epitome of charm. As, oddly, are all of my nieces and nephews. When they can escape their parents, they are quite good company. It’s quite a puzzle.”
Suddenly she flashed a bright smile. “But enough about me. What did you find?”
Evidently the discussion about the painting was over.
Jack’s fiancée, Olivia, turned to him. “The Surgeon?”
Harry could hear the sharp worry Olivia tried to mask. She, too, had suffered at the assassin’s hands. It was impossible to miss the ropy red scar that stretched from her neck to her hairline from the Surgeon’s knife.
Jack kissed her. “I’m sure he’s scarpered. I still have the men out looking, though.”
She smiled, but her eyes were strained. “Then we don’t know why he was here.”
“He was here to try and hurt Diccan,” Grace said, plucking at her sleeves. Considering the fact that she was still a sickly pale green from the poison that had almost killed her, Harry thought her generous. But then, Grace had always saved her concern for others, and Diccan had been implicated and arrested for the poisoning. Only his status and Harry’s supervision were keeping him out of gaol.
“I’m not in the least injured,” Diccan assured her with a kiss. “All they managed to do was make me even more determined to find that bedamned poem and use it to take down the Lions.”
Drake shook his head. “Still say it’s a bloody stupid name for a bunch of traitors.”
“It may be stupid,” Jack said, “but they’ve been one step ahead of us until now. We need to find out what they mean to do before they manage to kill Wellington.”
Still standing by the window, Kate huffed. “They’re planning to install themselves on the throne.”
“They plan to put Princess Charlotte on the throne,” Marcus corrected, “and rule through her. Personally I’d almost let them do it, just to see how quickly she confounds them. I don’t think our heir apparent is as malleable as they believe.”
“Well,” Jack said, abruptly standing. “For the moment, there is nothing we can do. Guards are posted, Whitehall has been notified, and we have a wedding to enjoy.” Reaching down, he took Olivia’s hand. “My love, why don’t we check on the children?”
From the answering smile on Olivia’s face, his words were obviously some personal code. Taking his hand, she followed him out of the room, her only farewell a quick wiggle of her fingers.
“Excellent idea,” Diccan agreed, bending over to pick up his still-ailing wife. “Come along, Grace. I’m taking you upstairs where you’ll be safe till we find him.”
And that quickly, the parlor emptied out, leaving Harry behind with Kate. “You’d better hurry,” he couldn’t help taunting her. “You’re letting Drake escape.”
Flashing a siren’s smile, she stepped up so close that her breasts almost brushed his waistcoat. “No, I’m not,” she assured him, fluttering her eyelashes up at him. “Because Drake doesn’t want to escape.”
Harry struggled mightily, but he couldn’t evade the seductive pull of her scent, exotic flowers and vanilla. Her body. The purr of her voice. He was no more immune to her now than he had been ten years ago.
She tsked. “Too bad, Harry,” she said, running a finger up his Rifleman green uniform tunic. “You had your chance. And nobody gets more than one.”
“Believe me,” Harry assured her through gritted teeth. “Once was quite enough.”
Her smile fixed in place, she swung out the door in a swirl of peacock blue. Harry remained where he was, his posture parade-ground rigid until the moment he heard her heels clatter up the great staircase. Then, with a soft groan, he slumped onto one of the settees and dropped his head in his hands. Damn it. He didn’t have the stamina for her.
He probably shouldn’t have come to Oak Grove at all. He was too tired to think and too worn to be patient. It had been three months since Quatre Bras. The shrapnel he’d taken under his ribs still bedeviled him, and nightmares kept him from sleeping. Add Kate to the mix, and it was a short trip to fury.
He should go upstairs and lie down. He wouldn’t sleep. But maybe he could just lie back and stare up at the cherubs that cavorted on his ceiling for a while, clear his head of Kate and assassins and the past ten years. Maybe he could spend a little time contemplating what he planned to do now that he was selling his commission.
That almost got a smile out of him. His mother was back home, waiting to feed him into insensibility. He had nieces and nephews he hadn’t even met yet. He deserved a few months of lounging around the house before setting off again, for once free of responsibility and schedule and command. From now on the only things he planned to be accountable for were his sketchbook, his protractor, and his boots. Let somebody else sort out the world.
He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there fantasizing about his future when he heard it—a quick, echoing crack. His first muzzy thought was, I know that sound. His second was to run. It still took him half a dozen heartbeats to connect the two.
“Bloody hell,” he suddenly snapped and jumped up. Pain shot through his side, and he clamped his arm to his ribs.
Of course he knew the sound. It was a gunshot, somewhere in the house. Adrenaline coursed sluggishly through him as he thundered down the corridor toward the grand staircase. As always happened in action, time seemed to stretch out like taffy. He noticed that the sun poured through the front windows, lighting the dust motes into tumbling fireflies. He could smell the faint whiff of beeswax and lemon, and his boots slid on the highly polished marble floor. He heard shouts, more clattering feet.
He’d just reached the first stair when new sounds intruded. Shattering glass. A scream. And then, somewhere outside, the sickening sound of thuds.
Oh, hell. Without much of a thought, he spun around and headed out the front door instead.
The activity had come from the far side of the building. He ran across the lawn as if voltigeurs were on his heels. When he turned the corner, he looked up, then down. Halfway down the house a white window sash dangled against the brick, shattered and swaying. The glass was gone, shards of it still spinning slowly toward the ground. Below, the boxwoods were crushed, two bodies flung over them like old laundry.
Harry ran for the one he recognized. “Diccan? Diccan!”
Diccan had been struggling to get up. At the sound of Harry’s voice, he slumped back onto the ground and lay there panting. It took only one look at the other body to know it was dead. Bloody froth stained his face, his eyes were fixed and opaque, and there was a jagged branch sticking straight out of his chest. Recognition dawned and Harry gasped. The body was none other than the Surgeon himself. Dead.
But that would wait. Dropping to his knees, he quickly assessed his friend’s injuries. Scrapes, a couple of lumps, and an oddly twisted forearm. Damn lucky, considering.
“You going to live, old man?” he asked.
Diccan offered a wry smile. “’Fraid so. Surgeon’s come a cropper.”
Harry shook his head. “Too bad.”
He could hear more people stampeding through the house. Diccan must have heard it, too, because suddenly he looked frantic. Grabbing Harry’s sleeve, he tried to pull himself up. “Harry. I think Kate is in danger.”
For a second, he froze. “Kate? God’s sake, why?”
“Something the Surgeon said. ‘The whore has the verse.’ Minette isn’t the only one who’s called a whore. At least not by some people I know.”
Harry swore he stopped breathing. “She’s involved in all this?”
“I think so.”
“Then she’s definitely in danger,” Harry said, unable to forget Kate’s self-satisfied smile. “If she’s a traitor, I’ll kill her myself.”
Chapter 1
Three days later
If there was one thing that showed Kate Seaton’s life up for what it was, it was a wedding. Kate loved weddings, especially if good friends were involved. She loved the flowers, the thumping organ music, and the sloppy sentiment that brought handkerchiefs out to be waved like white flags of surrender. She especially loved the smiles. Everyone should smile at weddings. Everyone should have a wedding to smile about.
Which was why once she ate her surfeit of lobster patties and succumbed to the obligatory hug from the happy couple, she escaped as fast as a thief purloining silver. After all, the sentiment expressed on such a nice day should never be envy or cynicism.
Such had been the case today. She had attended Jack and Olivia’s wedding, and they were friends; good friends whose happiness she could hardly resent, their joy hard-won and universally celebrated. Jack had looked handsome and stalwart as he’d said his vows, Olivia lovely and honest-to-God glowing, as every bride should. Kate had joined wholeheartedly in the celebration. And then, at the first opportunity, she had run.
She refused to think that, in doing so, she'd abandoned not only her cousin Diccan but her friend Grace. She might not have forgiven herself if it had only been the Surgeon’s death they’d been dealing with. But then, in a horrific twist no one could have foreseen, Diccan had lost his father. Worse, it seemed that Grace had lost her marriage. Kate would have stayed to help, if she could have done any good. But the animosity between her and her family would have only made Diccan’s burden worse. As for Grace, Kate kept thinking that maybe without their friends there to smooth the way, Grace and Diccan would learn to rely on each other and rebuild their marriage.
Pulling on her gloves, Kate stepped out of the door of the Angel Inn and into the gray afternoon. Guildford was bustling, as always, situated as it was on the main London–Portsmouth road. Of its two coaching inns, Kate had always preferred the smaller Angel on High Street with its cozy half-timbered facade and efficient staff. It never took longer than twenty minutes to change out the horses and down a cup of tea.
Today seemed to be different. When she stepped out into the cobbled yard, her coach was nowhere to be seen. A stage was being unloaded, with much shouting and banging, and behind it a curricle waited. Kate tapped her feet, impatient to be away.
From her left came the sound of a muffled sob. She smiled. “Bea,” she gently chastised her companion, laying a hand on the older woman’s arm. “It is perfectly bourgeois to continue crying over a two-day-old wedding.”
If Kate enjoyed the pomp of weddings, Bea positively wallowed. She hadn’t stopped crying since they’d walked into the tiny Norman church of St. Mary in Bury to find it bursting with friends and late-summer flowers.
“Odysseus and Penelope,” her friend inexplicably answered, dabbing determinedly at her eyes with one of the aforementioned flags of surrender, this one edged in the honeybees Bea so loved to embroider on things.
“Yes,” Kate answered, giving her a squeeze. “It was particularly satisfying to see Jack and Olivia married, after all the years they’d been apart.”
“Devonshire,” Bea said, casting soulful eyes down at Kate.
This meaning Kate had to work for. “Devonshire? The duke? Was he invited?”
Bea glared, which on the tall, elegantly silver-haired woman was formidable. “Georgianna.”
Kate frowned, wondering what the late Duchess of Devonshire could have to do with the newly minted Earl and Countess of Gracechurch. Georgianna had been married to a cold fish who’d kept his mistress and children in the same house as his legitimate family. All Jack had done was divorce his wife and take five years to rectify the mistake.
“Unfair?” Kate guessed.
Bea beamed.
“To whom?” Kate asked, now cognizant of the looks that passed among the various travelers and ostlers who cluttered up the courtyard. She had to admit, following Bea’s unique conversational style could indeed be distracting. “Jack and Olivia? How could it be unfair that they’re finally happy?”
This time Bea gave Kate an impatient huff, and there was no mistaking her meaning. Kate, who never got misty-eyed, nearly succumbed.
“Oh, Bea,” she said, wishing she were tall enough to give her stately friend a smacking kiss. “How can you think my life is unfair? What more could I want than money, freedom, and my dearest friend to share them with?”
Bea sniffed. “Half loaf.”
“Not at all, darling. Or is it you?” She leaned close and whispered. “Do you long for an amour? Mayhap a young cicisbeo who would squire you about on his arm? General Willoughby would snap you up in a minute, if you just let him.”
Bea’s laugh was more a snort, but Kate saw the pain behind the humor. Bea thought no one would want her, no matter her impeccable lineage and bone-deep aristocratic beauty. Not only was Bea into her seventies, but a few years earlier her brain had suffered a terrible injury that left her speech so tortured, many days Kate was the only one who understood her.
But Kate also knew that, like her, Bea couldn’t tolerate coddling. So with brisk fingers she pulled out Bea’s signature handkerchief and dabbed away the last of the old woman’s tears. “Now then, my girl, we need to be going. After all, you’re the one who committed us to Lady Riordan’s memorial service tomorrow.”
Immediately Bea’s expression folded into pity. “Poor lambs.”
Kate nodded. “At least Riordan has finally accepted the truth and declared her dead. Now maybe the children can move on.” She shuddered. “I can think of few things I find less appealing than drowning.”
Just then, the coach clattered around the corner, the Murther lozenge shining against the black lacquered panels. The horses were unfamiliar, but they were handsome bays that seemed to be pulling hard at the reins.
“Your Grace,” one of the postboys said, bowing low as he opened the door.
Kate smiled and let him hand her into the carriage.
She had just settled and turned to help Bea when suddenly she heard a shout, and the coach lurched. She was thrown back in her seat. The door slammed. The horses whinnied and took off, as if escaping a fire.
Furious, Kate tried to right herself without success. How dare they abuse the horses that way? How dare they leave Bea stranded in the coaching yard, her hand out, her mouth open, still waiting to get into the coach?
The coach turned on two wheels and skidded through the archway. Kate could hear the clatter of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles, the scrape of stone against the coach sides. She heard the urgent cries of the coachman and thought, suddenly, that it didn’t sound like Bob Coachman.
It took her a few tries before she managed to sit back up. She pounded on the roof to get the coachman’s attention. No one responded. The coach didn’t slow; in fact, it sped up, the horses clattering up High Street, their tack jangling like Christmas bells. It didn’t occur to Kate to be frightened. She was still too angry, too anxious for Bea, who simply could not be left alone in a coaching inn.
“Blast you, stop!” she shouted, pushing at the trap.
It was wedged shut. She pounded again on the roof. The coach sped on, rocking from side to side and throwing her off balance. “I am a duchess!” she yelled, resorting to the title she so loathed in an effort to get his attention. “Do you know what will happen to you if you don’t set me down immediately?”
In all truth, probably nothing. Her brother Edwin, the current Duke of Livingston, would say she deserved it. Her stepson Oswald, now Duke of Murther, would be delighted by the mistreatment. She had never gotten on well with either. She had to try, though. She had to get back to Bea.
The carriage made another precarious turn and then straightened onto what Kate thought might be a turnpike. She barely caught the strap in time to keep from falling again. She already felt bruised. She couldn’t imagine what injuries she would collect before the idiot driving her coach finally brought it to a halt.
That was the thought that finally gave her pause. What idiot? Brought it to a halt where? Why hadn’t he paid attention to her? Why hadn’t he so much as slowed through a busy town? She could hear shouting outside, and feared for nearby pedestrians. She tried to pull open the window shades, but they wouldn’t budge. She heard a crash and more shouting and cringed.
“Are you mad?” she cried, rapping again against the roof. “Stop this thing!”
Could it be a kidnapping? She was certainly wealthy. But who in their right mind would think anyone would pay to get her back?
“Did you hear me before?” she called. “I said I’m a duchess. I’m a rich duchess!” It had to be good for something. “Put me down now and I’ll double whatever fee you’re being paid. Better yet, take me to my brother the duke, and he’ll triple it!”
The words were barely out of her mouth before she froze.
Her brother.
Suddenly her mind shuddered to a halt. Oh, God. Edwin. He’d been threatening for years to put her away for what he considered behavior unbecoming a Hilliard. Had he seen the painting? Was that what this was all about?
Kate refused to panic. She categorically repudiated the idea that her brother had the power to incarcerate her for something she had no part in. And when she saw him, she would tell him so.
On the other hand, it would probably be better all around if she didn’t have to face him at all. She needed to get away before he did something irrevocable.
The coach was moving too fast, its balance precarious. She was holding on to the strap, and still being battered around. She would probably kill herself if she leapt. She laughed out loud. There were worse things than a split head, and this little jaunt threatened her with most of them. She would jump and happily take her chances.
She was still too furious to really be properly terrified. Which meant it was time to act. Pulling in a steadying breath, she crossed herself like a papist and reached for the door handle.
It didn’t move. She jiggled it. She yanked. She tried the other one. Nothing. Somehow they had secured the doors, preventing her from escaping. Thinking she could at least alert people passing by, she attempted again to pull up the leather shades, only to find them all nailed in place. She was truly imprisoned.
For the first time, she was beginning to realize how desperate her situation was. Damn Edwin to hell.
She needed to get word to Diccan. He would intercede. He could at least threaten Edwin with the kind of public disgrace her brother loathed.
Diccan was thirty miles away burying his father. Too far for a quick rescue. Much too overwhelmed by the sudden death of his father to have any attention left for Kate.
She sighed, hating the shaky sound of it. She hated being out of control. She had long since sworn that she would never be at the mercy of another human being. She would never again know this feeling of helplessness.
She should have known better. She’d never had that kind of luck before. Why should it start now?
“Please,” she whispered out loud,
—Library Journal
“A pure joy to read! Dreyer displays her phenomenal sense of atmosphere in an emotionally powerful and beautifully rendered love story…the consummate storyteller makes the conventional unconventional. Combining beautifully crafted, engaging characters with an intriguing mystery adds depth.”
—RT Book Reviews
“As always, Ms. Dreyer has written an engrossing story which will entice the reader into the world of the Regency…If you loved Barely a Lady, you won’t want to miss the second book of the series.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Superb…an intoxicating read. If not having the first book stops you from reading this one, get the first one. The next book promises to be just as exciting and sexy as this one, so just go and buy all of them. You won’t want to miss out!”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Another winner…will have readers experiencing the entire gamut of emotions and turning the last page with a sigh of satisfaction…Fans of historical romance won’t want to miss this one. Never a Gentleman is now on my keeper shelf next to Barely a Lady, and I’m saving a spot for ALWAYS A TEMPTRESS…Those Drake’s Rakes know how to sweep a lady off her feet, so start reading this series and get swept away.”
—TheRomanceDish.com
“An enjoyable Regency romantic suspense with twists and spins…fast-paced with a solid mystery subplot to enhance the romance.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
“Eileen Dreyer writes fascinating characters who are real and not Regency cut-outs…Grace is an admirable heroine, strong and loving, and her slow blossoming…is one of the best features of the book.”
—LikesBooks.com
“The story was great, the emotions were incredible and kept me reading to discover who the traitor was.”
—NovelReaction.com
“Nice cameos by several beloved characters from the previous novel…A delightful look at the society…during this period of England’s history.”
—NightOwlRomance.com
One of Publishers Weekly’s Best Books of 2010
A Top Ten Booklist Romance of the Year
One of Library Journal’s Best Five Romances of the Year
“Dreyer flawlessly blends danger, deception, and desire into an impeccably crafted historical that neatly balances adventurous intrigue with an exquisitely romantic love story.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Vivid descriptions, inventive plotting, beautifully delineated characters, and stunning emotional depth.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Romantic suspense author Dreyer makes a highly successful venture into the past with this sizzling, dramatic Regency romance. Readers will love the well-rounded characters and suspenseful plot.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Barely a Lady is addictively readable thanks to exquisitely nuanced characters, a brilliantly realized historical setting, and a captivating plot encompassing both the triumph and tragedy of war. Love, loss, revenge, and redemption all play key roles in this richly emotional, superbly satisfying love story.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Top Pick! 4½ stars! An emotionally powerful story…unique plotline…intriguing characters.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Brimming with sensuality, intrigue, and luscious prose, Barely a Lady will leave readers sighing with satisfaction and breathless with anticipation for the next book…A gem of a book that will have readers cheering for the hero and heroine, booing the villain, and smiling through tears as they reach the end.”
—TheRomanceDish.com
“Five hearts! Ms. Dreyer definitely knows how to write one passionate and drama-filled story!…A book that keeps you madly flipping through the pages, desperate to know what is going to happen next…Fans of the genre will fall in love with it.”
—AJourneyofBooks.halfzero.net
“A beautiful story [with] an amazing supporting cast of characters…a wonderful start to a new series.”
—TheFictionEnthusiast.blogspot.com
“Plenty of danger and intrigue…Barely a Lady will surely be a hit with romance fans.”
—TheThriftyThings.blogspot.com
Prologue
September 1815
Dorsetshire, England
Whoever said that no good deed goes unpunished must have been well acquainted with Katie Hilliard. No, Major Sir Harry Lidge corrected himself as he trudged into Oak Grove Manor’s Grand Salon to see her holding court by the front window. Not Hilliard. It was Seaton now. Lady Catherine Anne Hilliard Seaton, Dowager Duchess of Murther. But make no mistake about it. The dowager wasn’t the good deed. She was the punishment.
It had been the good deed that had brought Harry to Oak Grove in the first place. Well, he amended, considering the other occupants of the ornate gold-and-white room: part good deed, part official business, neither of which he was up to right now.
Not that he wasn’t happy to attend his friend Jack’s wedding. He was. He was even glad to spend time with the other members of Drake’s Rakes, who had gathered for the week-long celebration. Not only were they all excellent fellows, they were some of the best minds available to pit against a band of traitors intent on toppling the government.
Which was the official part of the visit. Marcus Belden, Earl of Drake, the leader of their group, had decided that Jack’s wedding was the perfect cover for a strategy meeting. Unfortunately, the gathering had also drawn an unexpected guest. The Surgeon, the most feared assassin in Europe, had made an appearance on the estate, just about the time someone tried to murder Harry’s friend Grace Hilliard.
Harry was just returning from a fruitless search for the man with Grace’s husband, Diccan, and Jack Wyndham, Earl of Gracechurch. At any other time, Harry would have been impatient to get back out and search. He would have demanded the men retreat to Gracechurch’s den so they could rehash what they knew about the threat to both the Crown and his friends, preferably over cigars and whisky. But all he could think of today was that come what may, as soon as the wedding was over, he was going the hell home.
As if hearing Harry’s thoughts, Kate turned to watch him lead the other men into the room. “There you all are,” she caroled, busy trying to wrest a silver flask from the smiling Lord Drake. “Marcus won’t give me back my flask. I expect you to rally to my cause.”
Alongside Harry, Diccan Hilliard chuckled. “One thing I can say for you, cuz,” he greeted her. “You always have your priorities in hand.” Dropping a kiss on Kate’s cheek, he walked by to join Grace on the gold settee.
Kate’s priorities being herself, Harry thought sourly, stopping in the doorway. They had an assassin on the loose, Grace was still recovering from being poisoned, and here was Kate, brangling over a whisky flask.
“But every girl should have her own flask,” she was saying, her sensual green eyes glinting with mischief as she turned back to her victim.
The leader of their merry little band, Marcus, was suavely blond, elegant to a fault, and stood a full foot taller and at least five stone heavier than Kate. Harry knew that banty cock stance of Kate’s, though: hand on hip, head back, breasts thrust forward. Marcus might as well hand the flask over now. She was going to harass him until she got it back.
“I’ll get you a new one,” Marcus assured her, keeping the flask just out of her reach. “Besides, the portrait inside is wasted on you. Let me ogle it.” Leaning close, he flashed a slow grin. “Since you won’t let me ogle you.”
She laughed, slapping his arm. “Don’t be a nodcock. There is no comparison. And the inscription! ‘Is not the fruit sweet, my first love?’ Really.” She wrinkled her pretty nose. “If that truly is Minette in that painting, her fruit was plucked so long ago, it’s surely long since rotted.”
Harry wanted to spank Kate for her thoughtlessness. Both Jack and Diccan looked away, their wives equally uncomfortable. The woman depicted in the flask’s miniature had been mistress to both men, and betrayed each.
“Oh, I don’t know, Kate, ” Harry couldn’t help muttering. “If you could tell how long ago a woman lost her…freshness by a portrait, yours would look like a pox victim. Instead, as any man in London can tell you, it looks quite…perky.”
If he’d expected her to be upset, he was disappointed. Instead, she laughed, clapping her hands. “Have you seen it, Harry? Tell us everything.”
“Is Kate really painted naked?” Grace asked, looking more worried than Kate.
“As the day she was born.”
“Someone was naked,” Kate corrected him. “But it wasn’t me. I would love to see what the artist thinks I look like, though. Is it really hanging in a gaming hell?”
“You’re saying it’s a hoax,” Harry challenged.
She quirked a wry eyebrow. “Disappointed, Harry?”
“Skeptical.”
Her smile grew suggestive. “Too bad you’ll never know for sure.”
Harry had to admit that the painting hadn’t conveyed that certain something that set Kate apart. A Pocket Venus with gleaming chestnut hair and cat-green eyes, she had a body that even clothed would have had the pope reconsidering his vow of celibacy. She was, in fact, every erotic fantasy a man could have, and she knew it.
Harry wasn’t even within ten feet of her, and his body was reacting: his blood thickened and slowed; the pulses throbbed heavy in his throat. His cock twitched impatiently, and his muscles tautened, anticipating the lunge into sex. On the other hand, when he’d stood among the crowds in McMurphy’s staring up at the lush peaches-and-cream tones of the lounging Kate Seaton, he’d felt nothing more than irritation.
“We need to get them to take that travesty down,” Grace urged Kate, her plain face pursed in distress. “You don’t want to upset your brother.”
Kate’s smile was oddly gentle. “My brother was born upset, Grace. One more surprise isn’t going to overload his heart. Besides. I had nothing to do with it.”
Harry decided that now wasn’t the time to call her a liar.
“It’s too bad, really,” Kate mused on. “My siblings seem to have missed out on the famous Hilliard charm, which has left them all unforgivably judgmental. I choose to believe it is an aberrancy, since, of course, I am the epitome of charm. As, oddly, are all of my nieces and nephews. When they can escape their parents, they are quite good company. It’s quite a puzzle.”
Suddenly she flashed a bright smile. “But enough about me. What did you find?”
Evidently the discussion about the painting was over.
Jack’s fiancée, Olivia, turned to him. “The Surgeon?”
Harry could hear the sharp worry Olivia tried to mask. She, too, had suffered at the assassin’s hands. It was impossible to miss the ropy red scar that stretched from her neck to her hairline from the Surgeon’s knife.
Jack kissed her. “I’m sure he’s scarpered. I still have the men out looking, though.”
She smiled, but her eyes were strained. “Then we don’t know why he was here.”
“He was here to try and hurt Diccan,” Grace said, plucking at her sleeves. Considering the fact that she was still a sickly pale green from the poison that had almost killed her, Harry thought her generous. But then, Grace had always saved her concern for others, and Diccan had been implicated and arrested for the poisoning. Only his status and Harry’s supervision were keeping him out of gaol.
“I’m not in the least injured,” Diccan assured her with a kiss. “All they managed to do was make me even more determined to find that bedamned poem and use it to take down the Lions.”
Drake shook his head. “Still say it’s a bloody stupid name for a bunch of traitors.”
“It may be stupid,” Jack said, “but they’ve been one step ahead of us until now. We need to find out what they mean to do before they manage to kill Wellington.”
Still standing by the window, Kate huffed. “They’re planning to install themselves on the throne.”
“They plan to put Princess Charlotte on the throne,” Marcus corrected, “and rule through her. Personally I’d almost let them do it, just to see how quickly she confounds them. I don’t think our heir apparent is as malleable as they believe.”
“Well,” Jack said, abruptly standing. “For the moment, there is nothing we can do. Guards are posted, Whitehall has been notified, and we have a wedding to enjoy.” Reaching down, he took Olivia’s hand. “My love, why don’t we check on the children?”
From the answering smile on Olivia’s face, his words were obviously some personal code. Taking his hand, she followed him out of the room, her only farewell a quick wiggle of her fingers.
“Excellent idea,” Diccan agreed, bending over to pick up his still-ailing wife. “Come along, Grace. I’m taking you upstairs where you’ll be safe till we find him.”
And that quickly, the parlor emptied out, leaving Harry behind with Kate. “You’d better hurry,” he couldn’t help taunting her. “You’re letting Drake escape.”
Flashing a siren’s smile, she stepped up so close that her breasts almost brushed his waistcoat. “No, I’m not,” she assured him, fluttering her eyelashes up at him. “Because Drake doesn’t want to escape.”
Harry struggled mightily, but he couldn’t evade the seductive pull of her scent, exotic flowers and vanilla. Her body. The purr of her voice. He was no more immune to her now than he had been ten years ago.
She tsked. “Too bad, Harry,” she said, running a finger up his Rifleman green uniform tunic. “You had your chance. And nobody gets more than one.”
“Believe me,” Harry assured her through gritted teeth. “Once was quite enough.”
Her smile fixed in place, she swung out the door in a swirl of peacock blue. Harry remained where he was, his posture parade-ground rigid until the moment he heard her heels clatter up the great staircase. Then, with a soft groan, he slumped onto one of the settees and dropped his head in his hands. Damn it. He didn’t have the stamina for her.
He probably shouldn’t have come to Oak Grove at all. He was too tired to think and too worn to be patient. It had been three months since Quatre Bras. The shrapnel he’d taken under his ribs still bedeviled him, and nightmares kept him from sleeping. Add Kate to the mix, and it was a short trip to fury.
He should go upstairs and lie down. He wouldn’t sleep. But maybe he could just lie back and stare up at the cherubs that cavorted on his ceiling for a while, clear his head of Kate and assassins and the past ten years. Maybe he could spend a little time contemplating what he planned to do now that he was selling his commission.
That almost got a smile out of him. His mother was back home, waiting to feed him into insensibility. He had nieces and nephews he hadn’t even met yet. He deserved a few months of lounging around the house before setting off again, for once free of responsibility and schedule and command. From now on the only things he planned to be accountable for were his sketchbook, his protractor, and his boots. Let somebody else sort out the world.
He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there fantasizing about his future when he heard it—a quick, echoing crack. His first muzzy thought was, I know that sound. His second was to run. It still took him half a dozen heartbeats to connect the two.
“Bloody hell,” he suddenly snapped and jumped up. Pain shot through his side, and he clamped his arm to his ribs.
Of course he knew the sound. It was a gunshot, somewhere in the house. Adrenaline coursed sluggishly through him as he thundered down the corridor toward the grand staircase. As always happened in action, time seemed to stretch out like taffy. He noticed that the sun poured through the front windows, lighting the dust motes into tumbling fireflies. He could smell the faint whiff of beeswax and lemon, and his boots slid on the highly polished marble floor. He heard shouts, more clattering feet.
He’d just reached the first stair when new sounds intruded. Shattering glass. A scream. And then, somewhere outside, the sickening sound of thuds.
Oh, hell. Without much of a thought, he spun around and headed out the front door instead.
The activity had come from the far side of the building. He ran across the lawn as if voltigeurs were on his heels. When he turned the corner, he looked up, then down. Halfway down the house a white window sash dangled against the brick, shattered and swaying. The glass was gone, shards of it still spinning slowly toward the ground. Below, the boxwoods were crushed, two bodies flung over them like old laundry.
Harry ran for the one he recognized. “Diccan? Diccan!”
Diccan had been struggling to get up. At the sound of Harry’s voice, he slumped back onto the ground and lay there panting. It took only one look at the other body to know it was dead. Bloody froth stained his face, his eyes were fixed and opaque, and there was a jagged branch sticking straight out of his chest. Recognition dawned and Harry gasped. The body was none other than the Surgeon himself. Dead.
But that would wait. Dropping to his knees, he quickly assessed his friend’s injuries. Scrapes, a couple of lumps, and an oddly twisted forearm. Damn lucky, considering.
“You going to live, old man?” he asked.
Diccan offered a wry smile. “’Fraid so. Surgeon’s come a cropper.”
Harry shook his head. “Too bad.”
He could hear more people stampeding through the house. Diccan must have heard it, too, because suddenly he looked frantic. Grabbing Harry’s sleeve, he tried to pull himself up. “Harry. I think Kate is in danger.”
For a second, he froze. “Kate? God’s sake, why?”
“Something the Surgeon said. ‘The whore has the verse.’ Minette isn’t the only one who’s called a whore. At least not by some people I know.”
Harry swore he stopped breathing. “She’s involved in all this?”
“I think so.”
“Then she’s definitely in danger,” Harry said, unable to forget Kate’s self-satisfied smile. “If she’s a traitor, I’ll kill her myself.”
Chapter 1
Three days later
If there was one thing that showed Kate Seaton’s life up for what it was, it was a wedding. Kate loved weddings, especially if good friends were involved. She loved the flowers, the thumping organ music, and the sloppy sentiment that brought handkerchiefs out to be waved like white flags of surrender. She especially loved the smiles. Everyone should smile at weddings. Everyone should have a wedding to smile about.
Which was why once she ate her surfeit of lobster patties and succumbed to the obligatory hug from the happy couple, she escaped as fast as a thief purloining silver. After all, the sentiment expressed on such a nice day should never be envy or cynicism.
Such had been the case today. She had attended Jack and Olivia’s wedding, and they were friends; good friends whose happiness she could hardly resent, their joy hard-won and universally celebrated. Jack had looked handsome and stalwart as he’d said his vows, Olivia lovely and honest-to-God glowing, as every bride should. Kate had joined wholeheartedly in the celebration. And then, at the first opportunity, she had run.
She refused to think that, in doing so, she'd abandoned not only her cousin Diccan but her friend Grace. She might not have forgiven herself if it had only been the Surgeon’s death they’d been dealing with. But then, in a horrific twist no one could have foreseen, Diccan had lost his father. Worse, it seemed that Grace had lost her marriage. Kate would have stayed to help, if she could have done any good. But the animosity between her and her family would have only made Diccan’s burden worse. As for Grace, Kate kept thinking that maybe without their friends there to smooth the way, Grace and Diccan would learn to rely on each other and rebuild their marriage.
Pulling on her gloves, Kate stepped out of the door of the Angel Inn and into the gray afternoon. Guildford was bustling, as always, situated as it was on the main London–Portsmouth road. Of its two coaching inns, Kate had always preferred the smaller Angel on High Street with its cozy half-timbered facade and efficient staff. It never took longer than twenty minutes to change out the horses and down a cup of tea.
Today seemed to be different. When she stepped out into the cobbled yard, her coach was nowhere to be seen. A stage was being unloaded, with much shouting and banging, and behind it a curricle waited. Kate tapped her feet, impatient to be away.
From her left came the sound of a muffled sob. She smiled. “Bea,” she gently chastised her companion, laying a hand on the older woman’s arm. “It is perfectly bourgeois to continue crying over a two-day-old wedding.”
If Kate enjoyed the pomp of weddings, Bea positively wallowed. She hadn’t stopped crying since they’d walked into the tiny Norman church of St. Mary in Bury to find it bursting with friends and late-summer flowers.
“Odysseus and Penelope,” her friend inexplicably answered, dabbing determinedly at her eyes with one of the aforementioned flags of surrender, this one edged in the honeybees Bea so loved to embroider on things.
“Yes,” Kate answered, giving her a squeeze. “It was particularly satisfying to see Jack and Olivia married, after all the years they’d been apart.”
“Devonshire,” Bea said, casting soulful eyes down at Kate.
This meaning Kate had to work for. “Devonshire? The duke? Was he invited?”
Bea glared, which on the tall, elegantly silver-haired woman was formidable. “Georgianna.”
Kate frowned, wondering what the late Duchess of Devonshire could have to do with the newly minted Earl and Countess of Gracechurch. Georgianna had been married to a cold fish who’d kept his mistress and children in the same house as his legitimate family. All Jack had done was divorce his wife and take five years to rectify the mistake.
“Unfair?” Kate guessed.
Bea beamed.
“To whom?” Kate asked, now cognizant of the looks that passed among the various travelers and ostlers who cluttered up the courtyard. She had to admit, following Bea’s unique conversational style could indeed be distracting. “Jack and Olivia? How could it be unfair that they’re finally happy?”
This time Bea gave Kate an impatient huff, and there was no mistaking her meaning. Kate, who never got misty-eyed, nearly succumbed.
“Oh, Bea,” she said, wishing she were tall enough to give her stately friend a smacking kiss. “How can you think my life is unfair? What more could I want than money, freedom, and my dearest friend to share them with?”
Bea sniffed. “Half loaf.”
“Not at all, darling. Or is it you?” She leaned close and whispered. “Do you long for an amour? Mayhap a young cicisbeo who would squire you about on his arm? General Willoughby would snap you up in a minute, if you just let him.”
Bea’s laugh was more a snort, but Kate saw the pain behind the humor. Bea thought no one would want her, no matter her impeccable lineage and bone-deep aristocratic beauty. Not only was Bea into her seventies, but a few years earlier her brain had suffered a terrible injury that left her speech so tortured, many days Kate was the only one who understood her.
But Kate also knew that, like her, Bea couldn’t tolerate coddling. So with brisk fingers she pulled out Bea’s signature handkerchief and dabbed away the last of the old woman’s tears. “Now then, my girl, we need to be going. After all, you’re the one who committed us to Lady Riordan’s memorial service tomorrow.”
Immediately Bea’s expression folded into pity. “Poor lambs.”
Kate nodded. “At least Riordan has finally accepted the truth and declared her dead. Now maybe the children can move on.” She shuddered. “I can think of few things I find less appealing than drowning.”
Just then, the coach clattered around the corner, the Murther lozenge shining against the black lacquered panels. The horses were unfamiliar, but they were handsome bays that seemed to be pulling hard at the reins.
“Your Grace,” one of the postboys said, bowing low as he opened the door.
Kate smiled and let him hand her into the carriage.
She had just settled and turned to help Bea when suddenly she heard a shout, and the coach lurched. She was thrown back in her seat. The door slammed. The horses whinnied and took off, as if escaping a fire.
Furious, Kate tried to right herself without success. How dare they abuse the horses that way? How dare they leave Bea stranded in the coaching yard, her hand out, her mouth open, still waiting to get into the coach?
The coach turned on two wheels and skidded through the archway. Kate could hear the clatter of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles, the scrape of stone against the coach sides. She heard the urgent cries of the coachman and thought, suddenly, that it didn’t sound like Bob Coachman.
It took her a few tries before she managed to sit back up. She pounded on the roof to get the coachman’s attention. No one responded. The coach didn’t slow; in fact, it sped up, the horses clattering up High Street, their tack jangling like Christmas bells. It didn’t occur to Kate to be frightened. She was still too angry, too anxious for Bea, who simply could not be left alone in a coaching inn.
“Blast you, stop!” she shouted, pushing at the trap.
It was wedged shut. She pounded again on the roof. The coach sped on, rocking from side to side and throwing her off balance. “I am a duchess!” she yelled, resorting to the title she so loathed in an effort to get his attention. “Do you know what will happen to you if you don’t set me down immediately?”
In all truth, probably nothing. Her brother Edwin, the current Duke of Livingston, would say she deserved it. Her stepson Oswald, now Duke of Murther, would be delighted by the mistreatment. She had never gotten on well with either. She had to try, though. She had to get back to Bea.
The carriage made another precarious turn and then straightened onto what Kate thought might be a turnpike. She barely caught the strap in time to keep from falling again. She already felt bruised. She couldn’t imagine what injuries she would collect before the idiot driving her coach finally brought it to a halt.
That was the thought that finally gave her pause. What idiot? Brought it to a halt where? Why hadn’t he paid attention to her? Why hadn’t he so much as slowed through a busy town? She could hear shouting outside, and feared for nearby pedestrians. She tried to pull open the window shades, but they wouldn’t budge. She heard a crash and more shouting and cringed.
“Are you mad?” she cried, rapping again against the roof. “Stop this thing!”
Could it be a kidnapping? She was certainly wealthy. But who in their right mind would think anyone would pay to get her back?
“Did you hear me before?” she called. “I said I’m a duchess. I’m a rich duchess!” It had to be good for something. “Put me down now and I’ll double whatever fee you’re being paid. Better yet, take me to my brother the duke, and he’ll triple it!”
The words were barely out of her mouth before she froze.
Her brother.
Suddenly her mind shuddered to a halt. Oh, God. Edwin. He’d been threatening for years to put her away for what he considered behavior unbecoming a Hilliard. Had he seen the painting? Was that what this was all about?
Kate refused to panic. She categorically repudiated the idea that her brother had the power to incarcerate her for something she had no part in. And when she saw him, she would tell him so.
On the other hand, it would probably be better all around if she didn’t have to face him at all. She needed to get away before he did something irrevocable.
The coach was moving too fast, its balance precarious. She was holding on to the strap, and still being battered around. She would probably kill herself if she leapt. She laughed out loud. There were worse things than a split head, and this little jaunt threatened her with most of them. She would jump and happily take her chances.
She was still too furious to really be properly terrified. Which meant it was time to act. Pulling in a steadying breath, she crossed herself like a papist and reached for the door handle.
It didn’t move. She jiggled it. She yanked. She tried the other one. Nothing. Somehow they had secured the doors, preventing her from escaping. Thinking she could at least alert people passing by, she attempted again to pull up the leather shades, only to find them all nailed in place. She was truly imprisoned.
For the first time, she was beginning to realize how desperate her situation was. Damn Edwin to hell.
She needed to get word to Diccan. He would intercede. He could at least threaten Edwin with the kind of public disgrace her brother loathed.
Diccan was thirty miles away burying his father. Too far for a quick rescue. Much too overwhelmed by the sudden death of his father to have any attention left for Kate.
She sighed, hating the shaky sound of it. She hated being out of control. She had long since sworn that she would never be at the mercy of another human being. She would never again know this feeling of helplessness.
She should have known better. She’d never had that kind of luck before. Why should it start now?
“Please,” she whispered out loud,
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