Read A Lady Never Surrenders Online
Authors: Sabrina Jeffries
A Lady Never Surrenders
 | Pocket Books |
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Deborah Gonzales
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ISBN 978-1-4516-4245-2
ISBN 978-1-4516-4249-0 (eBook)
Dear Readers,
Thank heavens Celia has taken seriously my demand that she marry. She has gathered several gentlemen here for a house party so she can make her choice.
Only one thing worries me—Jackson Pinter. The Bow Street Runner is showing a most inappropriate interest in her. I do not like it. He is apparently the bastard son of some nobleman who never claimed him, so he needs to marry well in order to further his ambition to be Chief Magistrate. That means he might consider her a very good choice for a wife.
It would not bother me if I did not suspect that she, too, harbors a secret interest in the man. I have caught them alone together on more than one occasion, and sometimes she gazes on him with such alarming evidence of a budding infatuation. . . .
My other grandchildren think I should not interfere. Even my dear Isaac (yes, I have become quite friendly with that audacious cavalry general) says I meddle in matters beyond my ken. But she is so young and naïve! I cannot stand by and do nothing if his interest is merely in her rank and fortune. I did that once with her mother; I will not do it again.
Isaac, the old fool, insists that Mr. Pinter’s fascination for her is decidedly
not
mercenary. He claims that the man follows her with his eyes every time they are near each other. While I concede that Mr. Pinter does seem rather . . . intrigued by her, that does not necessarily mean that he is in love with her. He can desire her money
and
her body without caring a whit about
her
.
Meanwhile, she has a duke, an earl, and a viscount sniffing at her heels, none of whom needs her money. She could be a duchess, my Celia! Why should she settle for a mere Runner, even if he
is
working hard to solve the murders of her parents? Can you blame me for wanting something more for her?
Sincerely,
Hetty Plumtree
Halstead Hall
1806
C
elia roused to the sound of grown-ups whispering in the nursery. The tickle in her throat made her want to cough. But if she did, the grown-ups would tell Nurse to put more nasty stuff on her chest, and Celia hated that. Nurse called it a mustard plaster. It was greasy and yellow, and it smelled bad.
The whispers got louder until they were right behind her. She lay still. Was it Mama and Nurse? Either one would put the mustard plaster on her chest. She kept her eyes shut so they would leave her be.
“We can meet at the hunting lodge,” whispered one voice.
“Shh, she might hear you,” whispered the other.
“Don’t be absurd. She’s asleep. And anyway, she’s only four. She won’t understand.”
Celia frowned. She was
almost
five
.
And she did too understand. Lots and lots. Like how she had two grandmamas—Nonna Lucia in heaven and Gran in London—and how she had to have stuff on her chest whenever she had a cough, and how she was the littlest of all the Sharpes. Papa called her Elf. He said she had pointy ears, but she didn’t. She always told him that, and he just laughed.
“Everyone will be at the picnic,” the second voice went on. “If you plead a headache and don’t go, and I slip away in the hubbub, we could have an hour or two to ourselves before dinner.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Come now, you know you want to,
mia dolce bellezza
.”
Mia dolce bellezza?
Papa called Mama that. He said it meant “my sweet beauty.”
Her heart leapt. Papa was here! Whenever he came to the nursery, he told them about Nonna Lucia, his mama, and spoke funny words in ’talian. She wasn’t sure what ’talian was, but Papa talked it when he told stories about Nonna Lucia.
So the other person must be Mama. Which meant she still had to lie quiet to avoid the mustard plaster.
“Don’t call me that. I hate it.”
Why did Mama say that? Had Papa made her angry again? He made her angry a
lot
. Gran said it was on account of his “hores.” One time Celia asked Nurse what a hore was, and Nurse paddled her and told her that was a bad word. Then why did Papa have them?
Celia squinted one eye open to see if Mama was frowning, but Mama and Papa were behind her, and she would have to turn over to see them. Then they’d know she was awake.
“Sorry, darling,” Papa whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Promise you’ll meet me.”
There was a long sigh. “I can’t. I don’t want us to be caught.”
Caught doing what? Were Mama and Papa doing something naughty?
“Neither do I,” Papa whispered. “But now is not the time for us to attempt any sort of—”
“I know. But I loathe how she looks at me. I think she knows.”
“You’re imagining things. She knows nothing. She doesn’t want to know.”
“Someone’s coming. Quick—out the other door.”
Why would Mama and Papa care if someone was coming?
Celia lifted her head to peek at them, but she couldn’t see the main door. Then the servant’s door opened, and she dropped her head back down and pretended to be sleeping.
It was hard, though. The tickle in her throat was really bad. She tried to resist, but finally it had to come out.
Nurse came up to the bed. “Still got that nasty cough, do you, dearie?”
Celia squeezed her eyes shut really hard, but that must have given her away, for Nurse turned her onto her back and started unbuttoning her nightdress.
“It’s going away,” Celia protested.
“And it will go away quicker with the mustard plaster,” Nurse said.
“I don’t
like
the mustard plaster,” Celia complained.
“I know, dearie. But you want the cough to go away, don’t you?”
Celia frowned. “I guess.”
Nurse clucked at her, then got a glass and poured something from a bottle into it. “Here, this will help.”
She gave it to Celia to drink. It tasted odd, but she was thirsty, so she drank it as Nurse set about preparing the mustard plaster.
By the time Nurse started patting it on, Celia felt
so
sleepy. Her eyelids were so heavy she forgot about the bad-smelling stuff on her chest.
She slept a long time. When she woke again Nurse gave her gruel but said the mustard plaster could wait until night. Then she gave Celia more of that odd drink, and Celia got sleepy again. The next time she awoke, it was dark.
Lying there confused, she listened to her older sister Minerva and her older brother Gabe fight over who got the last pear tart. She wouldn’t mind a pear tart; she was hungry.
Nurse came in again, with two men: Gabe’s tutor, Mr. Virgil, and Tom, Celia’s favorite footman. “Minerva,” Nurse ordered, “you and Gabe go down to the study with Tom. Your grandmother wants to speak to you.”
After they left, Celia lay there, not sure what to do. If Minerva and Gabe were getting treats from Gran, she wanted some, but if Nurse meant to give her another mustard plaster . . .
She’d better keep quiet.
“You’re not going to wake the girl?” Mr. Virgil asked Nurse.
“It’s better if she sleeps. She has to hear it eventually, and the little dear won’t understand. How can I tell her that her parents are gone? It’s too awful.”
Gone? Like when they went off to London and left her and Minerva and Gabe at Halstead Hall?
“And for her ladyship to shoot his lordship?” Nurse went on. “It ain’t right.”
Papa went out shooting birds with guests sometimes. Her older brother Jarret told them all about it. The birds fell to the ground, and the dogs picked them up. And they never flew again. But Mama wouldn’t shoot Papa. Must be another “ladyship.” There were lots of them here for the house party.
“It is upsetting,” Mr. Virgil said.
“And we both know her ladyship didn’t mistake him for an intruder. She probably shot him because she was angry with him over his soiled doves.”
“Mrs. Plumtree said it was an accident.” Mr. Virgil sounded stern. “If you know what’s good for you, madam, you’ll speak nothing to gainsay that.”
“I know my duty. But what her ladyship did after she shot him . . . How could she leave the poor children without a father
or
a mother? That’s an abomination.”
’Bomination
sounded bad. And she began to fear it
was
Mama they were talking about.
“As Dr. Sewell wrote in ‘The Suicide,’” Mr. Virgil said in his loftiest voice,
“
‘The coward sneaks to death, the brave live on.’ It’s sheer cowardice, is what it is. And I’m disappointed that her ladyship has proved a coward.”
Celia began to cry. It couldn’t be Mama. Mama was
not
a coward!
Coward
was bad. Papa had explained it to her. It meant someone wasn’t brave. And Mama was always brave.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Nurse said. “You’ve woke the lass.”
“Mama isn’t a coward!” Celia sat up in bed. “She’s brave! I w-want to see her. I want to s-see M-Mama!”
Nurse picked her up and smoothed back her hair. “Shh, now, dearie, calm down. It’s all right. Do you want something to eat?”
