Barely a Lady (35 page)

“I reserved a private dining room for breakfast,” Kate was saying to him now. “Why don’t you meet us down there?”

Grace heard some inarticulate grumbling.

“Oh, never fear,” Kate answered. “You’ll only have to get past half a dozen witnesses. Be forewarned, though. One of them is Letitia Thornton.”

This time it was Grace who groaned. The most sharp-tongued shrew in the
ton.
The news of her ruination would be all over London before dinner.

Diccan, it seemed, had no more to say. Grace heard the door open and close, and knew without being told that he’d left.

“Come out, little turtle,” Lady Kate said, her voice too gentle for Grace’s mood. “I’ll turn about while you dress.”

Diccan Hilliard was in a rage. No one could see it, of course. Diccan had long since perfected the mask of insouciance that was his trademark. But his mind was seething with outrage. How could this have happened? He was always so careful. So alert to attack. And then, in a matter of days, he had suffered two spectacular setbacks.

Instinctively, he looked down at his hands, as if expecting to still see young Evenham’s blood on them. He’d tried so hard to reach the lad before he’d put that gun to his head. But he hadn’t reached him in time. He hadn’t reached him until the only thing he could do was cradle that poor broken body in his arms, drenching his hands in the boy’s blood. Now, like Lady MacBeth, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it off.

Which was why he couldn’t let what happened this morning delay him. He had to get back to London before they found out that Evenham was dead. He had to be the one to tell them, or any information he’d gleaned would be lost to the scandal.

That was, if it wouldn’t be lost to
this
scandal.

Well, he thought, still looking at his empty hands, at least he hadn’t brought Miss Fairchild to suicide. He looked back up to see the avid interest of a dozen hotel guests, and sighed. Correction. He hadn’t brought her to suicide
yet
.

Of course it was Thornton who was the first to speak. The pig-faced peer wasn’t any fonder of Grace than was his knife-thin wife. “Wasn’t there anything better in town to entertain you, old man?” Thornton asked with a simper as Diccan passed him in the half-timbered hallway. “Thought you had better taste than to dally with the Praying Mantis.”

The malice in those words brought him to a halt. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come now.” The overstuffed peer chortled, poking him in the ribs with an arm like a sausage. “You’re the one who came up with the handle. I imagine that now you know better than anyone how appropriate it is.”

Diccan deliberately slowed his breathing. He would deal with his own sense of guilt later. He might be furious at the Fairchild chit, but it didn’t justify what he’d once called her in a drunken moment. Or how viciously pleased this worm was to fling it about.

“Thornton,” he said calmly. “My friend. I know that you’re sensible.”

Suddenly Thornton looked a bit less assured. “Why, of course.”

Diccan nodded. “Good, good. Then you would never do anything that might cause you to find yourself across a dueling ground from me. Knowing, of course, that I have already stood up four times.” He leaned a bit closer. “And walked off alone each time.”

He thought Thornton might have gulped. “Naturally, Hilliard. Naturally. Didn’t mean any insult. Just… well, you must know.”

“Actually, no,” Diccan said softly enough that Thornton’s face went chalk white, “I don’t. I do know that I would find it… unpalatable to hear any slander spread about Miss Fairchild. No matter what else she is, she’s a lady, and, according to my cousin, related to half the aristocracy.”

“Of course,” the peer said, by now nodding so hard he knocked his cravat askew. “Excellent. I’ll just toddle off. Busy day today. Looking over a new property with the wife. Don’t wish to be late.”

Jerkily tipping his hat, he lurched off, which left Diccan with only five more witnesses to intimidate. He he realized as he continued on to the breakfast room that he simply didn’t have the energy. He was still feeling nauseous and wobbly, and his head was throbbing like a broken foot. He needed coffee, he needed silence, and he needed answers.

Grace Fairchild.

Bloody hell, couldn’t it have been any other woman in existence? Grace Fairchild had to be the most honest, honorable, well-thought-of spinster in England. She was also the most unfortunate. She couldn’t even walk without lurching like a sailor on shore. Whoever had named her Grace must have had a grim sense of humor.

Plumping himself down in a chair, he drank cup after cup of coffee until the cobwebs began to clear in his head. He had been set up. Drugged, shanghaied, stripped, and left to be found naked in bed with the most notorious virgin in the realm. He knew he was the target. With all the will in the world, he couldn’t imagine one person who would consider Grace Fairchild an enemy. But those same people would know just how Diccan would react to finding himself shackled to the tall, gawky, almost colorless female. They must have known that his first instinct would have sent him running faster than a felon.

The frustrating thing was that he loved redheads. He couldn’t think of any more exotic treasure than that burst of fire right at the juncture of a woman’s legs. It was more promise than color, a hint of the delights that lay beneath, a flash of whimsy and heat and lust. He loved every shade of redhead. He loved their milky coloring and their vivid personalities and their formidable tempers. He even loved the smattering of freckles he sometimes found on their more intimate places.

Except for the freckles, Grace Fairchild could boast of none of that bounty. To call her a redhead was to exercise unforgivable license. Her hair was virtually colorless, the kind of faded, dismal hue one might see on an old woman. Her skin was almost swarthy from all her years spent under the Iberian sun, and her blushes were unfortunate at best. She had no shape to speak of, no temper, no spark.

The sharpest reaction he’d ever gotten from her had been the day he had dubbed her Boadicea. For just a moment, he’d caught a spark of fury in her eyes, a spirited defiance in her posture. But as quickly as the fury had risen in her, it had dissipated, almost as if there was no place on her to gain purchase. Word was that she had never even wept when she carried her father’s body back from Waterloo.

Grace Fairchild was eerily even-tempered. The antithesis of everything Diccan Hilliard loved in a woman. If only Kate’s animation could have rubbed off on her. Kate was the only woman Diccan could ever imagine himself married to. Kate was spirit and challenge and sharp intelligence. And Grace Fairchild was no Kate.

Groaning, he poured out the last of the coffeepot. He had to figure out how this had happened. He had a suspicion of who was involved. After all, Evenham hadn’t killed himself over nothing. What he’d told Diccan could topple great families. Did someone hope that involving Diccan in a scandal would diminish the weight of his accusations? Or did they simply mean to delay him long enough to counter the damage of Evenham’s death?

Whichever it was, he wasn’t about to let them succeed. Pulling out his pocket watch, he checked the time. He needed to be on the road to London today. But before he could leave, he had to deal with Grace Fairchild.

As if called, the door opened and in she walked, clad in one of her ubiquitous gray dresses. Diccan wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t quite look at him. He was still trying to understand it all himself. How could he have gone so hard tucked up behind
that
body? Climbing to his feet, he gave his best bow as Kate followed and shut the door behind her.

“Kate. Miss Fairchild. Let me ring for breakfast.”

Miss Fairchild went almost chalk white. “Not for me, thank you. Some tea and toast.”

Diccan tilted his head to assess her. “Stomach a bit unsteady?”

“A bit.”

“Muddled head? Dizziness?”

She looked up briefly as she reached the table. “Indeed.”

Diccan held out her chair and waited for her to sit. “I thought so. I have the exact same symptoms. I don’t know if you tipple to excess, Miss Fairchild, but I rarely do, and never on a packet boat. So in the absence of other evidence, I believe we were both drugged.”

He was disappointed when Miss Fairchild failed to react. “You’re not surprised?” he asked.

She looked calmly up at him. “It would explain why I can’t remember anything.”

He shook his head, a bit disconcerted by her poise. “Kate,” he said, turning back to his cousin. “Who sent you the message to meet me?”

She sat down. “You did. Didn’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did not. Where did you receive it?”

“We were at a country weekend at Drake’s.”

That brought Diccan’s head around sharply. “Drake? And you received mail there? Who knew you were there?”

Kate gave him a grin. “Undoubtedly everyone in town. Word of the house party was in the society page of the
Daily Mail.
”

Even so. Marcus Belden, Earl Drake, was the one who had asked Diccan to meet with Evenham. Could he somehow be involved in this latest debacle? Diccan just couldn’t figure out how. Or why.

“The note did look to be in your hand, Diccan,” Kate said, bringing his attention back to the matter. “Who do you think sent it?”

He rubbed his thumb against his temple. “Someone who does not wish me well, obviously. I don’t suppose you know why most of the worst gossips of the
ton
had also bedded down here last night.”

Kate shook her head. “Why would someone go to all this trouble?”

“I don’t know.” He hoped he looked convincing. “I have been involved in some delicate negotiations. The postwar map of Europe and all.”

Kate raised her head. “They finally gave you a real job?”

Diccan flashed her a smile. “Purely by attrition, my dear. The usual suspects are simply too busy. I offered to help.”

She gave him a brisk nod. “About time you got off your proverbial arse.”

Diccan couldn’t help but laugh. “Impudent baggage.” Sucking in a breath to settle his fresh nausea, he steeled himself to get on with business. “Our first order of business, of course, must be to make plans. Propitiously we’re in Canterbury, and the good archbishop is one of those ubiquitous cousins. I should be able to obtain a special license by the afternoon. Do you wish to stay here or repair to London for the ceremony?”

Kate looked toward Miss Fairchild, who sat stonily silent. “Oh, London. It will make it look less like a hole-in-the-wall event.”

Diccan nodded absently, beginning to pace. “I’ll have to find a town house, of course. My wife couldn’t be expected to bunk down at the Albany.” A sudden dread had him eyeing his cousin with disfavor. “You don’t expect the pater to preside over the nuptials, do you?”

Kate sighed. “It would look odd if your father were excluded, Diccan. He is a bishop, after all.”

That was the last straw. All he needed right now to complete this farce was to see his father in one of his bouts of self-righteous indignation. When the maid returned, Diccan would ask for hemlock in his coffee.

“Excuse me,” Grace spoke up.

Diccan stopped. The deuce, he’d all but forgotten her sitting there. “Yes?”

“Am I involved in these plans?”

He blinked. Surely she wasn’t that dense. “Of course you are. What did you think?”

“I thought you might have consulted me.”

The expression on her face was serene, but Diccan could see the pulse in her neck quicken. “What? You’d rather be married in Canterbury? Don’t blame you. The pater is a regular tartar.”

“I’d rather not be married at all.”

And without another word, she stalked out of the room.

Finally, Kate, too, got to her feet. “Well,” she said, sounding suspiciously amused as she settled her primrose day dress about her. “Now I understand why you are thought to be the suavest man in England.”

And she walked out too.

Diccan was still standing slack-jawed when the maid finally came to answer his call. He slumped back into his seat and dropped his head to his hands. “Coffee,” he growled. “And see if you have any hemlock.”

THE DISH

Where authors give you the inside scoop!

Dear Reader,

Blame it on Sean Bean. Well, no, to be fair, we should blame it on Richard Sharpe, whose exploits I followed long before I picked up my first romance. If you’ve had the privilege to enjoy the Sharpe series, about a soldier who fights his way through the Napoleonic Wars, you’ll understand my attraction. Rugged? Check. Heroic? Check. Wounded? Usually.

There’s just something about a hero who risks everything in a great endeavor that speaks to me. And when you add the happy bonuses of chiseled features, sharp wit, and convenient title, I’m hooked. (For me, one of the only problems with SEAL heroes—no country estates.)

So when I conceived my DRAKE’S RAKES series, I knew that soldiers would definitely be involved: guards, hussars, grenadiers, riflemen. The very words conjure images of romance, danger, bravery, and great posture. They speak of legendary friendships and tragic pasts and another convenient favorite concept of mine—the fact that relationships are just more intense during war.

So, soldiers? I was there. I just had to give them heroines.

That was when it really got fun.

My first book is BARELY A LADY, in which a companion named Olivia Grace recognizes the gravely injured soldier she stumbles over on the battlefield of Waterloo. The problem is that this soldier is actually her ex-husband, Jack Wyndham, Earl of Gracechurch (You expected a blacksmith?). Worse, Jack, whom Olivia hasn’t seen in four years, is dressed in an enemy uniform.

Jack and Olivia must find out why before Jack’s enemies kill them both. Did I mention that Jack also can’t remember that he divorced Olivia? Or that in order to protect him until they unearth his secrets, she has to pretend they’re still married?

I didn’t say it would be easy. But I do say that there will be soldiers and country estates and lots of danger, bravery, chiseled features, and romance.

It certainly works for me. I hope it does for you. Stop by my website and let me know at
www.eileendreyer.com
. And then we can address the role of soldiers in the follow-up book, NEVER A GENTLEMAN, not to mention my other favorite thing—marriage of convenience.

Happy reading!

Dear Reader,

I have always loved run-for-your-life romantic adventures:
King Solomon’s Mines
,
The African Queen
,
Logan’s Run
,
Romancing the Stone
, and
The Island
, to name a few. So when I began to conceptualize a story for Drake Flynn, it seemed natural that he’d find himself in the middle of thejungles of Colombia. After all, he’s an archeologist when not out fighting bad guys, and some of the most amazing antiquities in the world are hidden deep in therainforests of South America. And since Madeline Reynard was involved with a drug dealer turned arms trader, it was also easy to see her living amidst the rugged beauty of the high Andes.

There’s just something primal about man against nature, and when you throw two people together in that kind of situation, it seems pretty certain that sparks will fly. Especially when they start out on opposite sides of a fence. It’s interesting, I think, how we all try to categorize people, put them into pre-defined boxes so that we have an easy frame of reference. But in truth, people aren’t that easy to classify, and even opposites have things in common.

Both Drake and Madeline have had powerful relationships with their siblings, and it is this common bond that pulls them together and eventually forces Madeline to choose between saving herself or helping Drake. The fact that she chooses him contradicts everything Drake thought he knew about her, and the two of them begin a tumultuous journey that ultimately breaks down their respective barriers and leaves them open to the possibility of love.

So maybe a little adventure is good for the soul—and the heart.

For a little more insight into Madeline and Drake, checkout the following songs I listened to while writing:

“Bring Me to Life”—Evanescence

“Lithium Flower”—Scott Matthew

“Penitent”—Suzanne Vega

And, by all means, if you haven’t seen
King Solomon’s Mines
(with Stewart Granger and Deborah Kerr), Netflix it! As always, check out
www.deedavis.com
for more inside info about my writing and my books.

Happy Reading!

Dear Reader,

Lady Fiona Dunwythie, the heroine of my latest book, TEMPTED BY A WARRIOR, was a real person, the younger daughter of fourteenth-century Lord Dunwythie of Annandale, Scotland. She is also the sister of Lady Mairi Dunwythie, the heroine of SEDUCED BY A ROGUE [Forever, January 2010] and cousin to Bonnie Jenny Easdale, the heroine of the first book in this trilogy, TAMED BY A LAIRD [Forever, July 2009].

Writing a trilogy based on anecdotal “facts” from an unpublished sixteenth-century manuscript about events that took place two hundred years earlier has been fascinating. From the manuscript, we know that Fiona eloped with a man from the enemy Jardine clan, and as I learned from my own research, the Jardine lands bordered Dunwythie’s.

We also know that Fiona’s sister inherited their father’s title and estates, and that Lord Dunwythie died the day Fiona eloped, while he was angrily gathering mento go after her. Since we know little more about her, I decided that Fiona had fallen for her husband Will’s handsome face and false charm, and had ignored her father’s many warnings of the Jardines’ ferocity, lawlessness, and long habit of choosing expediency over loyalty.

To be sure, she soon recognized her error in marrying Will. However, when she meets Sir Richard Seyton, Lairdof Kirkhill, she is not interested in romance and is anything
but
eligible to wed. Not only is she married to Will and very pregnant with his child but her father-in-law is dying, her husband (the sole heir to the Jardine estates) is missing, and his father believes that Will must be dead. Worse, Old Jardine believes that Will was murdered and is aware that Fiona was the last person known to have seen him.

Old Jardine has summoned his nephew, Kirkhill, because if Will
is
dead and Fiona’s child likewise dies, Kirkhill stands next in line to inherit the Jardine estates. Old Jardine has therefore arranged for him to take them over when Jardine dies and run them until the child comes of age. Jardine also informs Kirkhill that he has named him trustee for Fiona’s widow’s portion and guardian of her child. Jardine dies soon afterward.

Kirkhill is a decisive man accustomed to being in charge and being obeyed, and Fiona is tired of men always telling her what to do, so she and he frequently disagree. In my humble opinion, any two people thrust into such a situation
would
disagree.

The reactions of a woman who unexpectedly finds herself legally under the control of a man she does not know seems consistently to intrigue writers and readers alike. But in a time when young women in particular were considered incapable of managing their own money, and men with land or money were expected to assign guardians to their underage heirs and trustees for their wives and daughters, it was something that happened with regularity. I suspect, however, that in many if not most cases, the women and children did know the guardians and trustees assigned to them.

In any event, I definitely enjoyed pitting Kirkhill and Fiona against each other. The two characters seemed naturally to emit sparks. I hope you enjoy the results. I love to hear from readers, so don’t hesitate to fire off a comment or two if the mood strikes you.

In the meantime,
Suas Alba!

Sincerely,

http://home.att.net/~amandascott

[email protected]