Dangerous Masquerade

Book 0: The Regency Marriage Laws

by Julie Roberts

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

A father's debt. A dutiful daughter. A dangerous dance for survival. Owing money, but with none incoming, the Reverend Edmund Jade has no choice but to give his consent for his daughter to marry the elderly Lord Horace Boxley. Torn between love for her father and loyalty to herself, Evelyn is forced to make a life changing decision - can she accept his command and sign herself away for a life she knows she'll never want? Evelyn isn't cattle to be sold and, bundling herself on board a stagecoach bound for London, she flees with no plan beyond escape. When the stagecoach axle collapses, killing the young Alice Grantham, Evelyn can't help but be shocked at how similar the girl looks to her. At how close she herself came to death. When a fellow passenger mistakes her for Alice, however, and gives her the dead girl's reticule complete with an introductory letter for the post of lady's companion, the way forward is clear: she must become Alice, if she is to escape Evelyn's fate.

Release date: July 2, 2019

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 210

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

1815

‘Evelyn.’ The Reverend Edmund Jade’s voice filled the church. As it died away, he shouted, ‘You will obey me, now! I have given my word to Lord Boxley.’

In the darkest corner, Evelyn crouched in a pew hidden behind one of the stone pillars. She had been there an hour and shivered as the coldness of the stone floor crept through her. Her legs were numb with cramp, but if she moved her father would hear and she was determined not to be found. She was going to leave Fellingdon, that night, and go to London. Life in a workhouse surely couldn’t be worse than marriage to the elderly Horace Boxley.

In the silence she heard her father’s heels scraping on the flagstones, and he was coming towards her. Then he stopped. His voice softened to a whisper, ‘I know you are here. I cannot be dishonoured, Evelyn, and the whole parish to know I cannot pay my IOUs. The final banns have been read, and Lord Boxley demands your duty.’

He stood so near to her Evelyn closed her eyes fearing he would look to where she crouched and see her. Instead he gave a sigh and called out, ‘I am going to my study and I expect you there immediately.’ His footsteps retreated and the door opened and closed with a thud.

Her rapid heartbeat slowed, but she waited, fearing her father was playing a trick and would return. Even in his anger he had not dowsed the two candles burning below the window of the nativity, showing his love to her by not leaving the church in darkness. But it was not enough to stay and do his bidding. Be the instrument to pay his debt. Around her the scratching claws of mice running along the pews and on the stone aisle was familiar, a comfort even, but there were no returning footsteps. She stood, holding her breath to stop crying out while she rubbed her legs to ease the pain as they came back to life. The church had been her sanctuary; now it was her prison. From under the pew she pulled her cloth travelling bag and hurried to the great oak door and opened it a few inches. She could hear no human sounds and slipped out into the shadowed porch. Her only chance of escape was now.

She ran along the path that separated the new gravestones on one side from the sinking weathered tombs of the ancient souls buried on the other. She pulled her cloak closer as the yew trees made a dark avenue to the lych-gate. Her father had lit the lantern that hung beside the vicarage door making a welcome beacon, but its safety asked a price she was not willing to pay. She hurried past the baker’s cottage, the general store and the homes of her friends. Only the tavern was awake. Candlelight glowed through the windows and men singing to a fiddler’s tune flowed out of the open door.

When the blacksmith’s shed came into view she stopped, turned, and looked back. She had lived all her life in the village and this was not what she wanted. But her letter to Aunt Edith pleading she intervene had not been answered. Tears welled and she wiped them away, kissed her finger and blew it back, ‘Goodbye, father.’

Evelyn had rarely been out after dark beyond the familiar village lane unaccompanied. Now, walking alone, she was frightened of every dark hedge, of whom or what could be hiding there to pounce on her: a masked highwayman, or a night prowling animal with sharp teeth and claws. Any sound made her stop and hold her breath, waiting for a growl, a flap of wings. And each step she trod was taking her away from the comfort and safety of her home.

When she reached the road that would take her to the coaching inn, the moonlight made the landscape and larger trees cast shadowy giant monsters on the dirt road. For the ninth time she scolded herself for being scared; she was a country girl, a vicar’s daughter who believed God looked after the faithful. Suddenly, out of the night a bat swiftly appeared and darted up and away before her. These night flying creatures she feared even more than her imaginary beasts and pulled her cloak hood over her bonnet. The thought of the tiny winged mouse-shaped body tangling in the dark curls falling across her shoulders, so horrendous her heart would stop beating and she would die.

She had no idea of the hour or how far she had walked. The weather had been a mixture of sun and cloud all day, but now the night clouds were thickening and hiding the moon. The countryside turned into an impenetrable darkness. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but this could be the night they came to haunt any travellers on the roads. Were they behind her, stalking her every step? She thought of the tattered clothes of the old man who died by the river, the seamstress in her white nightgown who had gone to sleep and never woken up. Worst, was the woman they called a witch and her dogs with big yellow teeth. Evelyn quickened her step then stopped and turned; the empty road a ribbon that might rise, curl and swirl around her until she was breathless and dead. Her heart raced and she screamed, ‘Go away, I don’t believe in you.’

Instantly, a streak of lightning split the dark sky. She slowly counted: one, two, three, four, five -thunder rumbled, the storm was a mile away. If the Lord was sending thunder and lightning to punish her, it would have to strike her dead to stop her reaching The Bear Inn and the stagecoach. Evelyn hugged her cloak tight and walked on, each step taking her away from the clutches of Lord Boxley. It was this overpowering thought that kept driving her on.

The storm rolled away and the cloud broke letting the moon shine through. She stopped and put her bag down. It was not heavy for she had brought only one change of undergarments, her grey dress and the tortoiseshell comb that was her father’s Christmas present. Yet the bag made her arm ache. As the sky began to lose its stars, the pale orange line of dawn grew stronger along the horizon turning the darkness into a blue sky. On both sides of the road, mist was rising from the fields and the daylight was bringing the trees back to their glorious colour. Half-hidden by weeds, a milestone told her she was only three miles from Maidenhead and the stagecoach halt.

Within minutes the rays of the sun caught the windows of a farmhouse. Grey smoke from its chimney was a sign the farmer’s wife was already about her daily chores. As Evelyn absorbed this familiar tranquillity uncertainty washed over her. Boxley offered a comfortable home. She could see her friends that she had known all her life, continue her duties for the church, help the old and the sick. The city of London was an unknown place with large houses, big wide roads, and probably constant noise;it was Boxley versus a city teeming with hundreds of people.

She hadn’t stopped walking since she left Fellingdon. Could she spare a few minutes to rest? She sat on the grass verge. In her pocket was the sewing money she had earned during the winter and had been saving it for the material to make a new summer dress. Was it enough for her fare to London? For truly, there was no going back. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Evelyn woke with the sun bathing her in its warmth. She couldn’t believe how stupid she had been. After all her grand ideas, she could miss the stagecoach. In a flurry of tangled cloak, she tucked her bag under her arm and giving no thought to propriety, pulled a handful of skirt above her ankles and raced along the road. By the time she reached The Bear Inn she was gasping for breath.

Pandemonium was erupting in the courtyard as travellers shouted for refreshments, and serving men were dodging every obstacle to oblige. A burly stableman roared for fresh horses and everyone scattered as two pairs of greys were brought into the confined space. Evelyn stepped over clods of dried mud, horse dung and straw; and the smell wafting upwards was so much worse than out in the fields. She daren’t put her bag down as she fumbled to get a handkerchief from her dress pocket to hold over her nose. There were two coaches and she stepped carefully over the soiled cobbles as she made her way to the one being harnessed with the greys.

A heavily coated coachman leaned against the door and she asked, ‘I am looking for the coach that is going to London? And could you please tell me, how much is the fare for an outside seat?’

‘For you, little miss, ‘alf a crown.’ He bent and winked a bloodshot eye. ‘If yer would like a free ride yer could cuddle up between me and Boozy. A drop o’ gin to warm the cockles of yer heart fer a few smackers?’

Evelyn stepped back, repelled by his bad breath. ‘No, thank you. A top ride will do.’ She had enough money in her pocket for the fare, but even if she didn’t, she would walk to London rather than sink so low as to accept such an offer.

Still bent, he growled, ‘Then pay the keeper and say naught a word of me offer.’ He turned his back to her and called to a stable boy. ‘Hurry up, lad. We’re going to be late. Quick to it or the keeper will dock yer pay.’

Evelyn hurried over to the inn. She stopped at the doorway. Seeping past her was the unwashed smell of farm and stable workers sitting at rough-hewn tables, and mugs of ale held by their dirty fingers, pipe tobacco melding with the log fire smoke as it swirled out and was trapped under the low ceiling. Sitting to one side were the well-dressed gentlemen travellers who must have an inside coach seat. She only had the courage to go in when she saw two lady travellers sitting on stools, at a table covered with a cloth, drinking from small earthenware cups.

Behind the count. . .