Silk and Scandal

Silk and Scandal

by

Regina Carlysle

Dedication

Sisters are forever. I’ve always known it. Lately, I’ve come to appreciate this simple truth more than ever before. This book is dedicated with love and affection to my sister and brother-in-law, Bob and Regina Appleby. Few people in my life have had my back as these two and I will be forever grateful to my sister and to the brother-of-my-heart. You’ve welcomed me to my new home in Florida, offered your support, and made me feel loved. For that, and too many other things to mention, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Silk and Scandal

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Silk and Scandal  Copyright © 2015 Regina Carlysle

Cover art by Syneca

Electronic book publication August, 2015

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher

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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Chapter One

A country road in Devonshire, 1819

He bloody well hated the country!

Edward Huntley, Lord Stanhope, settled back against the squabs of his conveyance, scowling as he stared across a landscape covered with night. Had he not been overdue a visit to his dilapidated estate, he would now be in London doing what suited him instead of breathing the scents of cow dung and rubbing shoulders with village folk who were vastly beneath him. Edward lifted the dangling ends of the cravat that rested against a paunch he’d unfortunately developed over the past two years. He held the fabric to his nose instantly assailed by the smells of ale and cheaply purchased sex.  Tossing the offending garment to the floor of the carriage, he withdrew a watch from his vest pocket, noted the late hour, then, smiling slightly traced the engraved letters.

To my husband on our wedding day

Yours,

Charlotte

Edward snapped the cover of the watch closed and tucked the memento of his disastrous marriage away before closing his eyes. He’d consumed too much ale tonight knowing all the while that even a sea of spirits would not save him from his

Several years ago, he’d ignorantly believed wedding Lady Charlotte Grayson, a dowry-rich beauty of spectacular lineage would manage to save him. The sad state of his financial affairs were well known among members of the Ton but, being a wily, intelligent fellow, he’d convinced the silly twit of his love. She had swallowed the bait he’d ardently tossed her. It hadn’t taken long for the bad turn of a card to rob him of the wealth she’d laid at his feet. It also had not taken long for his mate to learn he wasn’t the sort to abide a silly, romantical female.

Edward laughed into the darkness.

Naïve, love-struck Lottie had quickly learned he was not a man with whom one trifled! He owned her. He was her master. He ruled her, body and soul, until the moment he had, in a fit of rage, tossed her silly arse down a long flight of stairs effectively ending their farce of a marriage. Once the period of mourning had passed, Edward returned to London and the vices that awaited him knowing his search for another wealthy chit must begin again.

His estate was bankrupt.

Opening his eyes, he stared through the window cursing his turn of luck. He had mistakenly believed luring another wealthy young woman into marriage would be easy but Lottie’s family, most notably his sister-in-law Eliza, had ruined him…ruined him!

The vindictive woman made it plain at every turn that the family believed Edward had murdered his young wife and the Ton believed. Gossip ran wild detailing his mistreatment of Lottie and of how he’d gambled and whored his way from one end of Town to the next. No woman of fortune or good family would speak to him now. If he could but wrap his hands around Eliza Grayson’s neck, he would strangle her to put an end to those tales. Because of her there would be no other wife and no possibilities of an heir to one day inherit what was left of his lands.

The damned bitch should be soundly beaten and he was just the man to deliver the lesson she so richly deserved. A woman should know her place.

Edward looked out the window. In the valley just beyond the road, lights twinkled from windows of the estate bordering his lands. A country house party was fully underway but had he been invited? No. His name was reviled here as much as it was in Town.

It was all Eliza Grayson’s fault.

He hiccupped then reached into his pocket for a heavily carved silver flask. Drinking down a large portion of brandy, he had just tucked it back into his pocket when the sound of hoof beats reached him and the carriage lurched.

What the bloody hell?

“Hold there, ye bounder!” His coachman shouted. The carriage jerked again as the horses reared and whinnied in distress as Edward struggled to sit upright.

“Stand and Deliver! Stand and deliver, you bloody sod!” A voice possessed with the slight reedy sound of youth swirled through the night air with enough menace to make him straighten with alarm, but that was a fleeting alarm at best. Bravado, induced by his inebriated state, quickly replaced his initial fear.

The carriage jolted to a halt, but Edward managed to pull out the loaded pistol from under the carriage seat. Ruffians abounded in the countryside where gentry were known to summer, but Edward vowed the miscreant wouldn’t gain a single sovereign from him. He was a peer of the Realm. An aristocrat. He’d never been robbed before and vowed, as he tucked the pistol into his waistband, that he’d never be a victim of such mischief.

“Out, good sir!” the bandit called.

Edward mustered his aplomb and stepped from the carriage, feeling slightly ill at the sight of the bounder, dressed all in black, mounted atop an equally black stallion. The horse’s mane feathered like silk over the inky breeze, but Edward’s gaze focused instead on the man who pointed the pistol directly at his nose.

The bandit, slight of build, surely just a youth, wore an old- fashioned tricorne hat and the well-cut clothes of a gentleman in mourning. Shadows darted over the uncovered lower half of his pale face, lending an eerie light to the strange scenario.

“John Coachman! Off you go. I have no quarrel with you,” the bandit said, laughing as his driver jumped from the seat and ran down the lane as if the hounds of hell followed him. The masked man turned his attention to Edward. “Night out with the ladies, m’lord?” came the mocking voice.

Edward straightened, furious and shaking. Grasping the open carriage door for balance, suddenly hating his drunkenness and his ineptitude, he struggled for air. “Bounder! How dare you,” he wheezed, the sight of the pistol pointed in his direction making him feel like a helpless child. Whatever fearlessness he once possessed evaporated under this very real threat. “I am a Lord of the Realm. You will hang for this night’s fancy.”

The brigand laughed with a husky drawl. “Only if I’m caught, and you, my fine worm, are too inebriated to be believed. Yes, surely the local magistrate would give me a medal of some kind for humiliating the likes of you.”

Outrageously, the bandit tipped his hat. “Fine, upstanding fellows like your lordship shouldn’t wander about on dark nights like this. What have you been up to, hmm? Beating helpless women? Maiming children? Perhaps you’ve kicked a puppy or two?”

Moonlight illuminated the ghastly eyes that peered out from behind the mask, and Edward knew with certainty that this was no ordinary highwayman. He knew too much.

Cold laughter ripped through the night air and Edward shivered as he stared at the small weapon trained upon him. A warm trickle ran down the legs of his fashionable trousers.

Unmanned.

The bastard would pay!

Husky laughter filled the air but stopped almost as soon as it began. The bandit moved the pistol threateningly. “I’ve heard tales about you, my good sir,” the youth in black whispered. “I’ve heard of your mistreatment of women. Of your cruelty. Of how you murder those who do not win favor.”

The words reeked with venom and Edward felt his stomach pitch.

The thief lowered his pistol a fraction and sat silently as if awaiting comment. The night air was fraught with wind, yet he heard the deep sigh and thought, hopefully, that he might be spared.

“Take what you want; just leave me be,” he muttered, reaching inside his jacket for the silver flask.”

“Ssssss. Easy now,” the bandit hissed. The devil’s beast he rode skittered sideways and snorted a ghastly breath. “Toss the piece to the ground. Carefully. I am quite nervous and would not wish this pistol to discharge unnecessarily.”

The flask was dropped soundlessly on the dirt road. A silent figure dressed in the clothes of a common man rushed forward from the cover of trees to fetch the booty.

The accomplice wore a mask of rough burlap, giving him the appearance of a deranged scarecrow. Without a sound, he tossed up the piece of silver and moved a distance away as if wary of this night’s activity.

The mounted highwayman showed no such fear.

Snatching the flask midair, the bandit stuffed it into a dark bag tucked around the saddle horn. He turned his attention once again and moved the pistol in a menacing manner. “Now the rest. I’ll make a good haul from this night’s work,
my fine lord
.”

The emphasis on his title made Edward pause, but then he reached for the engraved watch he always carried, the gift from his late wife. It held no sentimental value but it was expensive and beautiful. He didn’t want to part with it any more than he wanted to be deprived of the coin in his pocket.

The bandit might very well murder me, he thought wildly, but when he reached for the watch, he felt the cold, steel butt of his weapon and grabbed it instead.

Without hesitation, knowing he was a marksman of ability, he lifted the gun.

He sorely misjudged the thief. A blast rent the air as a bullet pierced his knee. With a loud cry, he fell in agony on the dusty road, the butt of the pistol clutched harmlessly in his hand before falling from nerveless fingers.

Crying out in pain, grasping his wounded leg, he finally mustered the courage to open his eyes. The bandit had dismounted and now stood over him as he lay on the dirty road. The rising winds whipped the tails of his black frock coat behind him and Edward cursed the coachman who had, the worthless knave, run for cover, leaving him alone, helpless, and afraid.

The menace in black laughed softly. “Just a bit upward and to the left might have spared many a lady of your attentions, my lord.”

“D-do not kill me,” he whined. “Please, not that.”

The bandit’s face was covered from nose to forehead with cloth. From it, two holes were cut, leaving only a pair of shining eyes to show. Those eyes flashed and burned into him, and he knew suddenly, with startling clarity that he might very well die this night. Edward began to blubber like a well-disciplined child. “P-Please, man, take what you will, but leave me to see tomorrow. Please, I beg you.”

“You worthless dog! Why should I?” the youth spat. His raspy voice trembled with ill-suppressed fury. “I know your reputation, Lord Worm, and have no doubt the world would be a better place without you in it. You hurt women. You, in fact, delight in torturing them. Me, I like women, think them treasures. Tell me, my lord, have you ever treated any woman as a treasure?”

Edward sputtered but knew not what to say to charges that were quite true.

“I thought not.” The bandit placed his boot heel on Edward’s throat with punishing force before he carefully reloaded his pistol, never pausing in his relentless stare. Gesturing to his accomplice, he said, “Come, my friend, search the pockets of this worm and relieve him of his worldly goods.”

Within seconds, surprisingly small hands relieved him of his money bag and watch. Eyes closed, he heard the rustle of the carriage and knew his silver-handled walking stick had been taken as well.

Silence fell then, and Edward warily opened his eyes. Burning pain shot through his knee, and it took all his energy not to vomit on the dusty road.

The black-garbed highwayman eyed the watch and sucked in a low breath before pocketing it with a low, unheard oath. If possible, the husky voice lowered into a shaky timbre. “Now as for you—”

“Please, please do not kill me. How could you live with murder on your hands?”

Clearing his throat, Edward’s nemesis leveled steely, moon-shadowed eyes upon him.

“Ahhh. Murder. What a thorny subject!” He removed the toe of his boot from Edward’s throat. “Have you ever done murder, I wonder?”

“No, never,” he whined incoherent now in his effort to hang on to tenuous humanity. “Vengeful gossip! That’s all it was, I swear! She fell. I swear. It was an accident. She was clumsy. It was an accidental push. I’d had too much to drink. Please,” he blubbered. He lost his bowels and howled out loud at the indignity.

Silence hung in the air, momentarily stilled perhaps in anticipation. The bandit closed his eyes briefly then leaned close to whisper, his breath warm against his face. “How lucky you are tonight that, despite the fact you are a murderer, I am not.”

* * * * * * *

Galloping down the tree lined road, his black frock coat floating behind like a tangle of crows, the highwayman ducked beneath the gnarled limb of a solitary dead tree, its branches reaching out like skeletal fingers.

Behind him, a red mare pounded her hoofs against dirt, and once again a prayer of thankfulness went abroad that his flaxen-haired partner rode so well. It wouldn’t take long now to rejoin the country party, and if they were careful, no one would notice they’d been gone.

They rode for some time in absolute silence before, finally, winking lights beckoned from ahead. Howard Manor was alight with continuing gaiety, guests of the well-liked couple laughing and drinking, dancing and gossiping now, as they would be until nearly dawn. Assignations would be made and frantic whispers exchanged.

The stables were deserted as the help had gone to enjoy their own pleasures; they rode finally, two abreast, into the well-kept haven. Dismounting quickly, neither speaking, they wound their ways just on the perimeter of the sculpted grounds, through the kitchen, and onto the servants’ stairway.

Impossibly, it seemed, no one was about. Most likely all available help was busy dealing with Lord and Lady Howard’s many guests.