My Lady Rogue (A Nelson's Tea Novella Book 2) (10 page)

“Lord and Lady Danbury, I now pronounce you man and wife. Whomsoever God has joined together, let no man tear asunder. You may now bestow your bride with a celebratory kiss.”

He turned toward his wife, drinking in her sweet scent as he lowered his mouth to hers, brushing her lips with his in an agonizingly slow caress.

She broke away. “My lord, do you mean to scandalize me in front of family and guests?”

He winked. “That would be an impossible feat, my lady rogue.”

“With you, nothing is impossible.”

“Hear, hear!” their audience exclaimed.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Ridley opened the thick oaken doors to Habersham Place and gazed ahead, perturbed to find the landing empty. He rubbed his ears then stepped out onto the stoop to inspect the lane. His shoe met resistance. Out of sorts, he looked down, cursed, then grunted. Lying before him was a bloody man, his broken body frozen in death. Attached to the man was a note pinned with a long-handled silver knife engraved with a bold crest.

Rattled that the stoop had been spoiled by the presence of a dead man, Ridley stepped back and shut the door.

A few moments later he returned with Lord Guildford’s assistant at his side. His Lordship needed to be kept informed, especially if a threat was presented to a man as important as Lord Guildford, a prominent member of the House of Lords.

“What’s this?” Lord Fleming’s tone suggested boredom.

“Who do you ’spect did this, my lord.”

“How the deuce do I know, Ridley. I’ve only just arrived.” He pointed at the man’s coat. “Well, don’t just stand there. Give me the note and turn him over so we can ascertain who he is.”

Ridley bent down and retrieved the parchment, a persistent ache throbbing harder between his ears when he bent over.

Fleming snatched the note from Ridley and opened it with the calculated skill of a man accustomed to untimely dispatches. Periodically, he peered up and down the lane. Were they being watched?

He read the note aloud. “Checkmate. Challenge accepted. Kindly dispose of your rubbish.” Fleming frowned. “Checkmate?” he asked, drawing in a nasally breath. He folded the note and placed it inside his coat. “Turn him over, man. We haven’t got all day.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ridley said, grabbing the bloody man’s coat and giving it a yank. The corpse rolled to the left, revealing a swollen face. “Do you know who he is?”

“Holt.” Fleming cursed low, narrowed his eyes, then grinned. “Have my carriage brought round.”

“Where shall I tell the footman you’re bound, my lord?”

“The Admiralty. This poor wretch’s demise requires Lord Melville’s attention.”

THE END

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Thank you again and continue reading for an excerpt from
My Lord Rogue
, Book One in the Nelson’s Tea Novella Series!

Author’s Note

While researching my historical novels, I always find interesting tidbits of history to use in my books and confess to being fascinated by Vice-Admiral Lord Viscount Horatio Nelson, his life, and military career. What better way to convey the emotions of November 6, 1805, than to include poems depicting Nelson’s life, and death, as well as the deep respect and adoration for England’s most-beloved hero of the age. During the Napoleonic Wars, Nelson’s victories were legend, whether or not you agree with his tactics. In My
Lady Rogue
, I took literary license by tweaking The Trafalgar Way route Lieutenant John Lapenotiere took to deliver dispatches with news about the victory at Trafalgar and Nelson’s death by adding my fictional hero, Lord Garrick Seaton, to the post-chaise on its 7
th
stop to obtain fresh horses at Exeter. I understand that adding another passenger in the post-chaise might slow the four-horse drawn vehicle down, especially since he was competing with Commander John Sykes for the privilege of arriving first. But in keeping with the time-table Lapenotiere established, a 271 mile journey necessitating 21 horse changes, I did not account for the added weight in this book.

Resources used in my research included:

Colchester Men Who Fought at the Battle of Trafalgar:
http://www.camulos.com/trafalgar.htm

Royal Museum Greenwich:
http://www.nmm.ac.uk/

Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Trafalgar_Way

Old Maps of Exeter, England

The National Archives:
www.nationalarchives.gov.uk

The Great Trafalgar Dispatch Mystery:
www.sam-willis.com/

The Battle of Trafalgar, (10/21/1805): Vice Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood’s Dispatch: www.admiralnelson.org/

Royal Tars by Brian Lavery

The Naval Chronicle, Vol.’s I-III, edited by Nicholas Tracy

Jack Tar by Roy and Lesley Adkins

Poems From
www.rc.umd.edu/warpoetry/1805
:

Horatio’s Death, Anon
~ The Morning Chronicle, (11/22/1805)

Song, Anon
~ The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV pg 158 (2/1805)

Nauticus, The Battle of Trafalgar,
(10/21/1805) The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV (11/1805) pg 1044-1045

The Muffled Drum, John Mayne:

The Eurpean Magazine, XLVII (7/1805) p. 51

The Gentleman’s Magazine, LXXV (7/1805) p. 656

The Monthly Mirror, XX (8/1805) p. 126

The Morning Chronicle, (8,17,1805)

Epicedium On the Death of Lord Nelson, “S.B.”

The Gentleman’s Magzine, LXXV (11/1805) p. 1046

The Poetical Register and Repository of Fugitive Verse, V (1807) p 283

My Lord Rogue

ONE

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players…”

~William Shakespeare’s
All The World’s a Stage

Westminster, 1801

Gillian Chauncey straightened
her veil and entered the lion’s den, willingly taking a step toward her own destruction.

The true stakes involved in her game of cat and mouse were life or death: hers, an entirely meaningless loss; the savior of England’s, an incomprehensible cost. Admiral Nelson’s death would be sure to weaken British morale at a time when war threatened the country’s shores. She meant to prevent it or die trying.

Britain depended on her. Failure wasn’t an option. She would do anything to honor her husband Lucien’s dying wish, even if Lord Simon Danbury discovered her presence. And after what she’d just been through, she could ill afford that agonizing defeat. Simon was a member of the
ton
, one of Nelson’s most respected allies, the man she’d loved and lost, a spider waiting for a swarm of flies to descend. If Lucien’s intelligence was correct, Drury Lane, the Theatre Royal, was infested.

Gillian shivered. She hated assassins slightly more than insects. If Lucien was right, the audience would probably get more than they bargained for at tonight’s performance of Holcroft’s
Deaf and Dumb
. The play gave attendees a chance to meet — or see — the Baron of the Nile, Lord Horatio Nelson himself, recently returned from India with his unscrupulous paramour, Lady Emma Hamilton.

A sense of urgency embraced Gillian as she inspected the over-eager throng. Around her, those who brokered in scandal postulated that Nelson’s return had more to do with succumbing to illness again rather than seeking a sojourn from the Navy, however richly deserved. Much about his troubled marriage was in the public domain, though Frances Nisbit Nelson, the rightful
Lady
Nelson, was continuously held in the highest regard, no matter how goatish her husband behaved.

Above her, crystal chandeliers lit the box lobby, illuminating the grand amphitheater, casting an ethereal glow on the to-do and sundry congregating in the horseshoe-shaped audience. Ladies in attendance fluttered hand-painted fans. Men slapped each other on the back. The velvety splendor accentuated the figures of silken beauties and the laced cuffs, brightly polished uniforms, and tailored suits of chivalrous men sporting starched cravats. The spectacular promenade, practiced theatrics of actors and audience alike heralded a night of jovial bliss, contradicting the pulsing sense of desperation Gillian felt inside.

Her belly clenched with uneasiness as she continued to survey the faces in the crowd. Around her, oblivious theatergoers exemplified courtly manners and light banter. Somewhere within, the man she’d never ceased to love was hiding in plain sight. She’d have to bypass him in order to reach the man she was supposed to meet. Would Marquess Stanton heed her request to join her in box three? Or would Simon find her first?

There in the corner! A man stood with his back to her, but his nut brown hair carried a familiar wave, igniting her defenses. She retreated behind a tall gentleman and waited, refusing to breathe. Her quarry turned, revealing shifty eyes, a hooked nose and pock-marked face. Definitely not Simon.

Gillian took a deep breath and tried to settle her nerves before turning her attention on the staircase that led to the boxes above the royal box.

A feminine voice purred to her left. Gillian chanced to look, noting the woman’s tiny pale figure was no comparison to her own and that she towered over the young miss by half.

“Do you think he’ll wear his uniform, your grace?” the woman asked, angling her face to the light. “I hear he casts a spectacular figure, given his losses.”

A smartly fashioned duke leaned closer and confided, “Never without it, I hear. And though your romantic senses would find an eye-patch thrilling, Nelson does not wear one.”

Another patron spoke. “Malaria. That’s why Nelson’s back in England. Come down with it again, poor fellow.”

The comment was followed by a strong rebuking feminine shriek. “I don’t care what the admiral has endured. He’s a connoisseur of the dollies and has made himself ridiculous with
that
woman. If he brings her, I shall be not put upon to hold my tongue.”

“I do hope that’s possible,” another man said, eliciting several guffaws.

Gillian pressed her hand to her heart. She didn’t know who had uttered the sarcastic remark, but it brought a half-smile to her face even as her heartbeat drummed erratically against her ribs.

“You did say he would bring Lady Hamilton?” a feather-clad woman pushing her way through the crush asked. “I had so hoped to see Lady Nelson on his arm.”

Fear gripped her. Lady Nelson and Lady Hamilton were the least of the
ton’s
worries. Gillian was one of a few privy to the real reason for Nelson’s return. The formation of a clandestine group of rogues bent on protecting England’s shores. The organization of those mercenaries was the reason Fouché and his
gens d’ armes
, his French police,
had taken a bounty on Nelson’s head.

She swallowed to moisten her dry mouth and listened more closely.

“Quite. It’s all the banter on the benches,” a stodgy gentleman with a nasally voice answered.

Banter? Was Nelson to be pitied and mocked, instead of held in the highest prestige? Disgust swept through her with unrelenting force. What did these fashionable idiots know about sacrifice? There were weightier concerns in the world than the state of Nelson’s reputation. The admiral saw that import routes remained open. Nelson provided England access to rationed goods, goods the
ton
would greatly miss if he failed. In faith, if anyone truly comprehended the danger Nelson was in, that
they
were in, they’d scramble to the exits without a backward glance. Cowards! The lot of them!

Nelson’s would-be assassins were close. And with Lady Hamilton’s penchant for being the center of the admiral’s attention, all it would take was one strike at her to cut Nelson to the marrow. Gillian pressed her lips together, placed a hand to her neck, and inhaled a tremulous breath.

Lights flickered on stage. The melodious screech of Orchestra strings signaled the night’s performance was about to begin. Gillian’s blood vibrated through her extremities. Her nerves quickened as she watched the pulsing throng weave accordingly so that her progression through the theater aided her cause. Conversations around her heightened as the horde ventured to the five-shilling section, where nobility and the privileged congregated. Gentry and critics paraded to the three-shilling benches in the pit for a night of entertainment, scandal, and debauchery. Tradesmen flocked to the two-shilling seats. Servants and
ordinary
citizens sought the one-shilling seats in the upper gallery, an extravagance they were clearly too poor to pay since they were forced to enter the theater through other means.

Gillian moved in time with the masses, her senses on constant alert as she wove past gentlemen, military officers, and soldiers, dandies, and ladies of every persuasion, whose primary goal was to see and be seen. To mock, not be mocked, beneath the silent speculation staring down from an ornate ceiling. Fortuitously, the entire theater was her stage, and everyone in it an unsuspecting player.

Five years had passed since Gillian had been in London. The
ton
still blazed proudly like a well-oiled lamp in a murky fog — a bristling, unsettling revelation when she hadn’t yearned for society or pined for it in her absence. As long as she’d had Lucien and their mutual cause, saving the world as they knew it, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about being deprived of love or children. She most certainly hadn’t entertained the notion of flaunting her purse and credentials to her benefit.

She’d stayed away. She’d kept her promise and her sanity intact by suppressing her feelings for Lord Simon Danbury, third son of the Fourth Duke of Throckmorton. Now by returning to London, by entering Simon’s domain, she risked a confrontation. Would the buttresses she’d erected around her heart withstand such a reunion? A knot tightened in her belly at the prospect. The weight of her deception threatened to crush her lungs, but she managed to breathe and regained control.

Gather your courage. This isn’t your first foray into dangerous waters. You can and must do this for England. For Lucien.

Oh, how her heart yearned for the peaceful countryside, Lucien beside her. But no more. For reasons beyond her control, she was once again forced to breathe the stench of debauchery, tempted beyond reason to speak her true heart, to seek out Simon, who, with one word, could destroy the bastions between them. She’d kept her distance, until now — until her dutiful, albeit secretive and resourceful husband, Lucas Chauncey had been killed by Fouché’s
gens d’armes
, Napoleon’s secret service. England knew Lucas as the Baron Chauncey. In reality, he’d been Lucien Corbet, an exiled member of the French Aristocracy, a man who, upon his dying breath, supplied her with information vital to Nelson’s fight against the French and a plea to finish his mission.
Peace is just an illusion.

Lucien.
How she missed her husband and closest friend. Their love had been a complicated mixture of passionate causes, dangerous liaisons, and a collection of secrets that had led to Lucien’s demise. She regretted nothing. Not one moment of their lives together. Lucien had taken her immaterial ideals and broadened them substantially. His charm, his fascination with freedom, had advanced far past the average heightened emotion and titillating bond of husband and wife. He’d been her brave hero, a staunch believer in every man’s chance at free will. Theirs had been a united cause, one that left her a baroness of prosperous means. Married in haste and at the insistence of Simon Danbury, their marriage had generated the loss of something even more precious than life itself — the loss of the only man she had ever truly loved. The irony was Lucien had known and never uttered a word.

“Beat the enemy first, negotiate afterwards,”
Nelson had once said.
These weren’t the normal words a woman who’d just lost her husband clung to. Were they to be her only solace as she spent the remaining years of her life tethered to anonymity?

The crowd opened, revealing space on the staircase.
At last!
Gillian moved with controlled ambition, hiking up her black bombazine hem. She practically glowed with triumph, until a gnawing suspicion that she was being watched traveled up her spine, settling at the nape of her neck. An odd, disturbing shiver swept over her as she peered over her shoulder and spied a familiar face. Her heart hitched and her breath caught.
Not yet!

It took every ounce of her strength to maintain calm, not to turn and run as if she’d been stung by a thousand bees. Mindful she was under close scrutiny, she ascended the stairs. While Lucien had been alive, it had been easier to forget, easier to focus on a cause that prevented her from acknowledging her feelings for a man she couldn’t have, shouldn’t love. With so much at stake, now wasn’t the time to allow her emotions to interfere with what she’d come to do.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a stage hand announced as music began to escalate throughout the lobby.

The crushing throng silenced and came to a stop, giving this man their attention. Gillian took advantage of the impediment to her passage, taking cover behind taller men to regard the motionless crowd and perhaps set her fears to rest. Was Simon in pursuit? 

Light, texture, and rich hues of crimson and gold enlivened the lobby, providing an opulent escape from the mundane. She had no time for such luxuries, and neither did Admiral Nelson. Movement to her right and left. Men dressed in civilian garb behaving noticeably different ignored the announcer’s speech. Instead the
guards
moved as one, assuming predatory positions at various intervals in the lobby, taking great pains to read pocket watches or the cast list.

“The play is about to begin, and Admiral Nelson will be arriving soon,” the announcer continued. “Everyone take your seats!”

Prinny’s guards? Simon’s doing? The effect was the same. A strategic plan had been put into place to thwart any threat determined in Prinny’s or the Admiral’s presence. Little did these men know the threat to Nelson was grave indeed.