His Dark Enchantress (Books We Love Regency Romance)

HIS DARK ENCHANTRESS

By

Victoria Chatham

ISBN:
978-1-77145-069-0

PUBLISHED BY:

Books We Love
 Ltd.

(Electronic Book Publishers)

Chestermere, Alberta

Canada

http://bookswelove.net

Copyright 2013 by Victoria Chatham

Cover Art Copyright 201
3 by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PROLOGUE

Belgium. April, 1815.

She rushed into a small room still echoing with the sound of a pistol shot.
Crockery, swept from a table, lay in scattered shards beneath overturned chairs on the floor. A stray beam of sunshine pierced the grimy windowpane and filtered through a thin film of smoke.

S
he wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell of smoke and stared in disbelief at the slim man who held the pistol.

“He killed my father.
” Her voice, barely above a whisper, drifted between them over the slumped body on the floor. “He should have died by my hand.”

“Revenge is not as sweet as you may think.” The owner of the
pistol lowered his arm. “This one deserved to die, not just for what he did to your father but all the others too. Come, mademoiselle, we should leave.”

She shook her head. “No. I have to stay. It will appear
suspicious if I am not here when the troop returns and, if needs be, I can create a diversion for you.”

Her sharp ears caught the faint sound of a steady
drumbeat, the sharp rat-tat that marked time for soldiers on the march.

“They’re coming. You must leave. Now.” She stepped forward and caught his arm. “If you
do not get this information to Wellington, all we have done will be for naught.”

“I don’t like leaving you here.” A stubborn expression settled on the man’s face.

“We have no choice.” She pulled him towards the door. “Now go.”

“One day, mademoiselle, you will be recognized for your bravery.”

“Go.” Exasperated with the delay, she pushed him again and listened as his footsteps echoed in the corridor. She breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the door at the back of the house open and close,.

For a
moment, she leaned against the doorjamb, trying to gather her wits as she surveyed the wreckage around her. What should she do first? There was nowhere she could hide the body, even if she were strong enough to do so.

The
drumbeat sounded louder, coming ever closer until she could hear the shuffling tread of booted feet as the troop of tired French soldiers reached the village.

A sudden flicker of shadow at the corner of the window caught her eye and with a
start, she realized someone was peering in. That someone tore his gaze away from the dead man on the floor and let it rest on her. A boy, eyes round and face pale, gaped at her. He looked at her for a mere whisker of time before he fled.

She heard him yelling as he ran into the street and
she knew any diversion would now be impossible. Her thought processes were too slow, she had been too dimwitted. There was only one thing for her to do and that was to make her own escape.

Taking
her shawl from its peg in the corridor, she hurriedly grabbed a baguette and piece of hard cheese from the kitchen and let herself out of the house. The boy’s voice, high and excited, the rumbling shouts of discovery from the adults he brought with him, all reached her ears as she closed the door.

She sped across the cobbled yard and
into the stables where two sturdy draft horses looked up from their hay with mild curiosity.

She slipped in beside the horse in the end stall, soothing it with a soft word and gentle touch before dropping to her knees beside it. The horse gently nuzzled her back as
her frantic fingers searched beneath the straw for the knothole, which pulled up a trap door.

Finding
it quite by chance one day when cleaning the stalls, a quick investigation had revealed a shallow cellar with a door that led to an underground passageway. Whoever built it meant it to last, judging from the lantern she found hanging from a nail in the doorpost and several dusty canvas bags on the floor.

Without a
sound, she lowered herself into the cellar, carefully pulling straw around the opening as she did so. The clamour of excited voices followed her as she closed the door above her head. A slim finger of light filtered through the seam alleviating the darkness. She allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom and willed her wildly pumping heart to steady.

The horse above her shifted and she hoped the straw bedding would only show signs of its restless feet and not her means of escape. She waited, steadied her breathing and tried to determine who was above her.

“There is no one here, mon capitaine,” she heard a man say.

Hard-heeled
boots struck the stone floor as someone walked to the end of the stable and turned around again.

“She is here. I know it. Search again.”

She froze. Even though it was a voice she expected to hear, a voice she would recognize anywhere and hated above all others, her gut clenched and the smell of her own fear rose in her nostrils.

“Mon
Dieu!” the voice above her roared. “She will not escape. 5,000 francs to the man who finds her. I want her alive, but if she resists, kill her. Corporal, get these horses out of here and torch these buildings.”

The sound of hurrying feet and clomping hooves filled her ears. Panic gripped her, closing around her heart like a vice. They were going to use fire to flush her out of hiding. She reached behind her and her fingers connected with the door handle. Dare she turn it? Would the rusted hinges creak and give away her hiding place? She couldn’t risk it.

Thin tendrils of smoke were already filtering through the seams of the trap door, blocking out any glimmer of daylight. She waited, knowing her timing had to be right before she dared open the door that led into the passageway.

She heard
the crackle of fire followed by a more pronounced pop as the straw above her caught alight. Heat filled the small space. She drew her shawl over her face to keep out the pungent, thickening smoke. Fire engulfed the building and the space above her exploded into flames.

Picking up the lantern she opened the door, knowing that no one could hear any noise that the hinges or anything else could make.
Her pulse raced, perspiration beaded her brow.

A
surge of heat followed her along the tunnel like a hound on a scent. Keeping her left hand on the wall, she stumbled along in the dark, her heart pounding, her breathing shallow. She needed to see where she was going, didn’t dare stop to light the lantern until she had no choice.

There was no wall beneath her hand, only emptiness. She felt on her
right side. Nothing there either. She dared not move for fear of what lay ahead of her. Now she knelt down, fumbled with the lantern, lit it and held it up.

“Oh, my.” She gasped as she looked around her.

The lantern light flickered over massive stone columns that supported a graceful vaulted ceiling. She had come too far for this to be beneath the village’s only church. It must be belong to the small chateau she knew lay nearby. This crypt must be under its chapel. She sank onto the floor and rested against one of the columns.

For now she was safe. For now this place could provide what she wanted.

Sanctuary.

CHAPTER 1

London. May, 1818

He could be heaven or he could be hell, thought Emmaline Devereux.

She steadied her breath and willed her heart to regain its regular steady beat, thankful for the solid support of the library table she leaned against as she looked at the Earl of Avondale.

Standing in the doorway, gripping the handle tightly, the Earl’s knuckles showed white. Lines of discontent seamed the corners of his mouth. His brows formed two black slashes above a pair of piercing grey eyes and made the lean features above his down-turned mouth appear even more formidable.

Thick, dark hair hung loose about his collar b
ut it was the lock of dark hair falling across his forehead that caught Emmaline’s attention, a lock that she would dearly love to reach up and push aside.

That would be an impossible sentiment but, Lord, why had Juliana never thought to reveal how handsome her brother Lucius was? Or, as his sister, did she simply not see it?

Emmaline watched him walk towards her. His boots made no sound on the brightly patterned Persian carpet as he closed the distance between them. He said nothing, but his continued scrutiny of her made her wish she had not chosen to dress so shabbily.

As he approached, she closed the book she perused. She
saw the surprise on his face when he noticed she held a well-worn copy of Plato’s
Republic
. Forcing herself to remain calm she replaced it on his table.

“You read Greek?”

His cold, curt tone could have frozen water in a pitcher but there was an underlying timbre of interest that played on her senses as sweetly as a bow on a violin.

“Latin too.” Emmaline made her reply cool and steady with some difficulty. Difficulty because her pulse raced
and her breath felt trapped in her chest. She tilted her chin and looked up at him. “Shocking is it not?”

“Perhaps not shocking, but certainly unusual, Miss...?”

“Devereux, Emmaline Devereux, my Lord.”

She dropped a
more perfunctory than polite curtsy and held his gaze as steadily as he held hers. He paced around her, moving with the lithe grace of an athlete. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated.

“So, Miss Devereux, what may I do for you?”

He pulled a chair out from a rosewood drum table and indicated she should sit down.

“Nothing, my Lord.”
Emmaline took the seat he offered and looked him in the eye as she did so.

“Nothing?” He quirked
one of those thick, black brows. “How very novel. Most persons arriving at my house require something of me.”

Emmaline shook her head as she straightened her skirts and folded her hands together in her lap. “It is your sister, Juliana, I wish to see.”

She could not help but notice the doubt with which Lucius eyed her, and suspected he intended her to.

“And if you, my Lord,” she said with some acerbity, “think like your butler that I am a ‘female of uncertain lineage’, I can assure you my lineage is perfectly respectable.”

“So, you eavesdrop do you?” Lucius’ lips narrowed into a thin line of disapproval.

“Certainly not.” Emmaline lifted her chin a little higher. “But your butler has a rather loud voice and I could not help but hear his opinion of me.”

“And what else did you overhear?”

“Not a word more, my Lord, for I simply closed the door.”

“Very commendable.” Linking his hands behind his back, Lucius strolled to the fireplace and took a stance in front of it. “However, you surely can understand the dilemma you placed upon Mr. Tubb, arriving here as you did unknown and with no chaperone?”

“Indeed, I do,” Emmaline assured him. “And that is why I must see Juliana.”

“I thought myself familiar with all Juliana’s friends.” Uncertainty rang clear in his voice and his brow remained furrowed. “How came you to be acquainted with my sister?”

“We met at Miss Fotheringay’s School for Girls in Bath,” she responded.

“Ah, that explains Plato,” Lucius said. “Miss Fotheringay was, by all accounts, a somewhat forward teacher. But yours is not a name I immediately recall.”

“Since leaving school my friendship with Juliana has, of necessity, been maintained through correspondence,” Emmaline explained.

“Devereux, Devereux,” Lucius muttered, as if speaking the name aloud would bring it to mind. Suddenly he snapped his long, slim fingers. “Ah. I have it. Devereux. Old campaigner. Estate in Devon.”

Tremors of alarm, l
ike ripples on the surface of breeze-ruffled water, ran under Emmaline’s breast at his recollection. Panic threatened to swamp her lungs and fill her throat. Did he know? Was she discovered before she had barely set foot in London? But no, Lucius simply turned to her as if awaiting her response.

“Indeed, my Lord. The very one.” The brim of her bonnet di
pped a little as, with some relief, she gave him her answer. “I have the honour of being the grand-daughter of Sir Miles Devereux, now retired Colonel-in-Chief of the 3
rd
Light Dragoons.”

Lucius looked thoughtful as he paced the floor. “South Devon,” he murmured softly, “if I am not mistaken.”

“You are quite correct, my Lord.” Emmaline said carefully. “Are you perhaps acquainted with my grandfather?”

“No, Miss Devereux, but I believe my elder sister may be. Her husband’s country seat, you see, is at Chulmleigh in North Devon. Is it known to you?”

Lucius, having noticed her slight start as he mentioned her grandfather, regarded her from beneath carefully hooded eyes for other signs of unease but could detect none.

“I have heard of it, my Lord, as it is said to have a very fine manor house. However, I am not familiar with it
for I never was in that part of Devon.”

Her
well-modulated voice fell easily on his ears but he could not place the slight inflection he heard in it.