Lady Farquhar's Butterfly
Read Lady Farquhar's Butterfly Online
Authors: Beverley Eikli
Tags: #gold, #revenge, #blackmail, #historical suspense, #beta hero, #historical romantic suspense, #dark past, #regency romantic suspense, #regency intrigue
Butterfly
Also by
Beverley Eikli
Lady Sarah’s
Redemption
A Little
Deception
And writing as
Beverley Oakley
Rake’s
Honour
Lady Lovett’s
Little Dilemma
The
Cavalier
Saving
Grace
Her Gilded
Prison
Dangerous
Gentlemen
Farquhar’s
Butterfly
Beverley
Eikli
Copyright ©
Beverley Eikli, 2013
Smashwords Edition
The right of
Beverley Eikli to be identified as author of this work has been
asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988
For my father,
Ted Nettelton.
Also to my
wonderful husband, Eivind, and to Bernie, Frances and Linda for
your patience and insight.
CHAPTER ONE
‘YOUR
REPUTATION IS in tatters, Olivia’ – Aunt Eunice looked up from
adjusting the stirrups of the little grey mare upon which her niece
sat nervously – ‘and you have lost everything! The time has come to
take charge of your life.’
Olivia gripped
the pommel with whitened knuckles. Opening her mouth to mutter that
the truth was of little account when opinion was against her, she
gasped instead as the docile animal shifted beneath her.
So much for
the studied detachment she’d cultivated during seven years of
marriage with Lucien. Her fear was as transparent as that of a
frightened schoolgirl’s. Now she was on a madcap venture doomed to
fail, showing as much backbone in the face of her aunt’s
determination as she had when her late husband bent her to his
will.
Grey storm
clouds scudded from the west and the icy wind stung her face.
‘An unfit
mother, a faithless wife….’ She muttered the words imprinted on her
brain; the words with which Lucien had condemned her in his will.
Then, unable to conquer her terror of the placid beast, ‘Please,
Aunt Eunice, must I do this?’
‘You must
fight for justice, Olivia.’ The determined ‘brook-no-opposition’
expression that characterized Eunice Dingley’s plain, leathery face
brought memory flooding back. Olivia was obedient now but how well
she recalled the altercations they’d had when she had been a
strong-willed child. How single minded had been her rebellion eight
years ago as a headstrong debutante?
She had paid
the price; it was why she was here.
Stepping back
into soft mud that sucked at her boots, Aunt Eunice regarded her
critically. ‘Well, child,’ she said with grudging admiration, ‘you
look well enough. Don’t tear your riding habit when you fall
off.’
Olivia winced
as her aunt raised her hand to slap her horse’s flank.
‘What if he’s
like Lucien?’ she hedged, bringing her mount around.
‘Mr Atherton
has already refused my request once. He must believe the
stories—’
‘He is a man.’
Aunt Eunice said it as if that fact alone guaranteed Olivia’s
success. ‘For goodness’ sake, Olivia, we’ve already agreed this is
your best course, regardless of what Reverend Kirkman thinks.’
The Reverend
Kirkman. The knot of fear in Olivia’s stomach tightened. The
reverend had his own ideas as to how Olivia should win back her
son.
This was not
one of them.
She closed her
eyes. Yet surely this was the best way? If there was any justice in
Max Atherton’s heart then truth and openness must triumph over the
lies which had dogged her during her marriage and cost her the
custody of her son?
A great black
crow settled on the dry stone wall behind her aunt.
Like her aunt,
it regarded her with tilted head, eyes bright.
Her voice
softening, Aunt Eunice laid her hand on Olivia’s knee.
‘Max Atherton
came back from the Peninsular campaign a war hero. That, for a
start, distinguishes him from his cousin. I’ve heard nothing to
suggest he bears any resemblance to Lucien. Entrance him, Olivia,
as you entranced that good-for-nothing husband of yours.’
‘Mr Atherton
believes Lucien’s version of accounts. You read his reply to my
letter.’ It was not the cold that now made her tremble.
With a
distracted frown Aunt Eunice smoothed Olivia’s russet skirts. ‘He
has no other account to go by. He thinks he’s doing what’s best for
the boy.’ Squeezing her knee, she said briskly, ‘Go, now! Take that
tumble in his barley field so you can set the record straight.’
*
Max squinted
through the blinding rain as he turned up the collar of his
greatcoat.
It was hard to
be sure from this distance, but the little grey mare sheltering
beneath the elm tree at the far end of the paddock appeared to be
equipped with a side saddle.
A lady’s mount
… but where was the lady?
His gaze raked
the sodden field.
‘No bran mash
until we find her, Odin,’ he murmured into his stallion’s ear,
sensing its reluctance to proceed in the face of the rising
storm.
He’d been
returning from his inspection of the new sheep he had been breeding
in the northern paddock when his eye had been caught by a flash of
scarlet. A female? Curious to make the acquaintance of any woman
under forty in these sparsely populated parts, he’d watched the
rider canter around the bend that separated his property from his
neighbour’s hoping she’d cross his path later. Instead, he’d
happened upon her horse.
Lightning
split the black sky and Odin snorted. Across the field, eerie in
the strange light, the little grey mare gave a frightened whinny as
it eyed them balefully.
‘Steady, boy,’
soothed Max, urging his mount forward.
Thunder boomed
like cannon fire. The rider-less mare bolted while Odin reared,
forelegs pawing the air. Straining to keep his seat, Max scanned
the field desperately for a sight of the woman, horror spearing
through him as he caught a glimpse of russet beneath them; heard a
faint female cry. Muscles knotted and straining, he hauled on the
reins as he fought to control the terrified stallion.
Another crack
of thunder. Foam sprayed from the mouth of the maddened animal
which bucked again.
Before its
four legs were on firm ground Max hurled himself from the saddle
and ran to kneel at the woman’s side as Odin bolted. Pushing back
the folds of his multi-tiered coat which whipped his face, he felt
for a pulse at the side of her neck.
She had
cheated death but he feared the extent of her injuries. A bloody
gash streaked the mud which caked her forehead; her body lay
twisted. She did not stir as his hands checked the limbs beneath
her skirts for breaks or other obvious injury.
Raising his
head, he assessed the distance to Elmwood. He could see the
battlements above the froth of rain-lashed trees which gave his
home its name. In fine weather with no burden it might be a fifteen
minute walk. Now, with the ground a marsh and the wind and weight
of sodden skirts it would be more than twice that, but he could not
leave her to fetch help.
She was still
unconscious when he lifted her. Turning his head from the sharp,
icy rain which lashed his face and knotted the grass about his
legs, he pushed forward, the wind keening like a banshee. His neck
and shoulders ached and his breath rasped painfully. The heavens,
it seemed, were using full force to hinder his efforts.
Once, he’d
carried an injured soldier to safety under enemy fire; but there
had been no storm and the artillery barrage had left them
unscathed.
Now, the going
was much harder. Glancing down, he was reassured at seeing the
young woman’s eyelids flutter and wondered if she were beautiful
beneath all that mud. It no longer mattered. He’d been struck with
a sense of purpose he’d not felt since he’d volunteered to fight
for King and country nearly eight years ago.
Gradually the
wind calmed and the rain became a gentle shower as the storm moved
on. Reaching the tree-lined drive which led from the park to the
formal gardens he tried to recall if Amelia had mentioned any
newcomers to the neighbourhood. His sister’s efforts to find him a
wife after he’d returned from the Peninsula too battle-crazed to
care suggested she would have.
‘Max!’
shrieked Amelia as she stood on the top step having sent two
footmen to relieve her brother of his burden. ‘Who is she? What has
happened?’ She had seen him from the drawing-room window labouring
up the drive amidst the steady rain.
‘Take her to
my room,’ he directed, resting his aching back against the
wainscoting in the downstairs entrance hall.
‘The blue
room,’ Amelia countered, adding, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Max. What
would she think to wake up in a gentleman’s bed?’
‘If she
wakes,’ Max said, glowering, because he wanted to have her in his
room where he could watch over her, and where he had the tools to
dress her wounds and set her bones, if necessary.
‘Of course
she’ll wake,’ Amelia said, sharply.
Thick dust
sheets were spread upon the large tester in preparation. Amelia had
wanted to strip the linen, but Max had decried such inhospitable
practicality, reminding her it was not her house.
‘And only
yours, Max, for a few more years,’ his sister muttered, as she made
the counter order of dust sheets to Mrs Watkins, the
housekeeper.
Ignoring her,
Max also asked for a fresh nightgown, and a comb.
‘One would
think you were in the habit of attending to the needs of a lady,
Max,’ Amelia said, more archly than unkindly as her heels clicked
across the boards to the window embrasure from where she regarded
him with amusement.
‘And plenty of
hot water.’ Rubbing his aching arms Max took a seat by the
unconscious young woman’s side. ‘So you have no idea who she might
be?’ he asked, pushing back his cowlick. ‘There’s been no talk of
visitors to the neighbourhood?’
Amelia shook
her head. ‘Do you think she’s broken anything? Shall I check?’
‘Her limbs
seem in fine form,’ Max replied, with a wry smile as he took up the
sponge Mrs Watkins had just placed beside him. ‘As for her face,
she has a nasty cut.’
Amelia came up
beside him. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she remarked, for it was true, and
Amelia never minced the truth. Or kept her thoughts to herself.
‘But don’t get romantic ideas into your head, Max, for she’s
probably spoken for, or is a widow with no money and six children,
and you know very well you can’t possibly take a wife to suit you
unless she has at least two thousand a year.’
Gently, Max
rubbed at a smudge of dirt along their visitor’s jawline.
‘I shall do
whatever I please to suit myself, Amelia,’ he said, gazing at the
perfection of the unknown young woman’s features: the gently
curving mouth, the wide-set eyes beneath finely arched brows, the
high, rounded cheekbones, ‘for I answer to no one, and certainly
not to you.’
The first
suggestion that Olivia was nowhere familiar came from the scent of
lavender. Without opening her eyes she sniffed appreciatively. Aunt
Eunice was not fond of lavender but surely only she would have
sprinkled it upon Olivia’s pillow in deference to Olivia’s
partiality for it? Because Olivia was not well. Vaguely she
acknowledged this, for the dull throbbing of her ankle and the
sharper pain across her brow impinged upon the general comfort she
felt nestled into what surely must be the softest mattress she had
ever slept upon.
She opened her
eyes with a start and struggled on to her elbows, her heart
pounding at the confusion of her last memories.
Aunt Eunice
had returned to their cottage. Wherever she was, Olivia was to
fight this battle, alone.
The day was
well advanced. Sunlight slanted into a large and airy room,
handsomely decorated in shades of blue. She noticed a book upon the
chest beside the bed. A book of poems. Byron? She squinted to make
out the author and her head began to ache. Touching her forehead
she felt the bandage.
