Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters)
Read Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) Online
Authors: Anya Wylde
The Fairweather Sisters Series: Book 2
By
ANYA WYLDE
Copyright 2013
Anya Wylde
Thank you, Magda, for the beautiful cover.
Thank you, Anne, for your invaluable help.
John, I can't believe that even after all these
years, we are still not sick of each other.
Portia, you are my little stress buster.
Table
of Contents
Prologue
In the
latter part of March of the year seventeen hundred and something, a large
schooner rested on calm blue waters off the coast of England.
It was
mid-afternoon, the water was unruffled and crystal clear, while the sky above
had sent its grey clouds to London.
The sun
beamed down on the deck where gentlemen with missing toes, feet, teeth or hands
lay draped around the schooner attempting to snooze away the day.
Now, this
schooner was no ordinary schooner (as you might have guessed from the hint
above referring to missing limbs and such) but a piratical schooner, and the
gentlemen were not really gentlemen but looters, marauders and plunderers.
Yes, sir,
they were murderous, unscrupulous adventurers and stinking water rats.
They were all
pirates. Each one of them was a pirate. The whole blasted lot of them were
pirates. In fact, they couldn’t be more piratical if they tried. And they
tried. Oh, how they tried to be more devilish than the devil himself.
And one of
them came close to being the devilishest … if that is a word. If it is not,
then it should be because it perfectly described the tall, muscular, grey eyed
man with his long silver streaked black hair and cruel mouth. This man was so
wicked that the mere reference to him caused the afternoon light to dim, the
wind to blow more urgently, the men to wake mid snooze, the tea to jump out of
the cup … Where were we?
Ah, yes,
the captain of the ship, the head pirate, the Black bloody Rover, whose name
was enough to frighten the children of the world into behaving, was the owner
of this piratical schooner called
The Desperate Lark
and the leader of
these dim muscled men.
He stormed
now onto the middle of the deck sending the seagulls screaming into the air.
His appearance caused the men to scatter while his frown had them cowering in
the bilge. While they cowered, the Black Rover grabbed the cuff of a one legged
man, his most trusted aide, and in low, clipped cultured tones asked, “Who
stole it, Tim?”
“George
Rodrick Irvin, the future Earl of Devon currently holding the courtesy title of
Viscount Elmer,” squeaked Tim. “The one we call Lord Wicked.”
“Kill him.”
The Black Rover was a man of few words.
Tim bowed
in response.
“And kidnap
the cooks,” the Black Rover continued.
Tim dared to
frown, “Cooks?”
The Black
Rover glowered. “And the chefs. I want every single person who can cook to be
kidnapped and tortured until we get it back.”
“Torture?”
Tim asked uncomfortably. “Can’t we simply kill them and be done with it? I
don’t like torturing. It is a messy job, and I don’t like it when they cry and
they all cry.”
The Black
Rover smiled harshly. He leaned closer to Tim and whispered in his half bitten
ear two words, “Pigeon feathers.”
“Arr.”
Tim’s sparsely lashed eyes widened in admiration. He shook his head at his
captain’s intelligence. The most learned man, Tim thought proudly, was right
here.
Pigeon
feathers … The Black Rover was a blooming genius.
It was the
first of April and an unearthly hour of seven in the morning. Finnshire was
bathed in a dull grey light and the wind was blowing cold, misty and fetid. The
bees and the grasshoppers were gloomily sitting under sodden leaves while the
birds were chirping and tweeting miserably.
The farmers
of Finnshire lingered over their breakfast hoping for the sun to break through
the clouds, while the children of these farmers snuggled under covers turning a
deaf ear to their mothers shrieking at them to wake up and milk the cows. As
for the cows themselves, they too sniffed unhappily at the chill in the air,
their tails swishing half-heartedly at the few enthusiastic flies fluttering
about.
It was
supposed to be spring.
It was also
one of those days that tried one’s spirit, and the world felt sucked dry of
vitality. It was the sort of day when no one in their right mind would venture
outdoors for the sake of enjoyment. It was certainly not a day to take a walk,
but Miss Celine Fairweather was out doing just that.
To be fair,
Celine was not enjoying her walk. It was more a duty, a habit and a matter of
discipline.
Mrs Beatle’s book for accomplished English ladies
clearly
stated that a lady must rise early and go for a ride or take a walk. A spot of
exercise was supposed to be good for the constitution.
Which was
why Celine was trudging now through the familiar country path, her brown
half-boots sinking into the muck and her normally attractive face flushed an
unsightly red.
And as she
walked, her cheeks inflating and deflating like two tiny scarlet balloons, she
failed to notice the beautiful bird with a shiny green neck perched up ahead on
the branch or the silver half-moon still glittering in the pink sky. Nor did
she stop to admire the handsome farmer hacking away at some wood, his muscles
rippling and sweat gleaming on his skin.
Instead,
her eyes were trained on the muddy ground, her small, delicate feet carefully
circumventing the worms, beetles and blobs of manure in her path. And while her
body marched ahead battling the chilly wind and fetid scents, her mind was busy
planning the day, for Celine Fairweather was not a fanciful sort.
She was
also not ninety years old with loose skin and white hair. She was a young woman
of marriageable age whose days were spent in being good and dutiful and
cultivating the refined and gentle manners of an accomplished English lady.
In short,
Celine was dry, dull and dusty, and something needed to be done urgently before
she progressed from being mildly pedestrian to excruciatingly proper.
That
something happened to occur right at that very moment when Celine turned the
corner that led to her house and found a handsome carriage emblazoned with the
crest of Blackthorne hurtling towards her from the other end of the road.
Both she
and the carriage halted at the sight of the other. She was stunned, while the
carriage felt nothing for it was an inanimate thing.
The driver
recognized her and leaped down from his seat.
“Is all
well?” Celine asked worriedly.
The driver
shrugged. “The duchess sent this letter for you, Miss. Tis’ urgent.”
“Go to the kitchens,
the cook will have something for you,” Celine replied. She took the letter and
nervously traced the duchess’ seal.
The Duchess
of Blackthorne was her beloved friend and stepsister Penelope Radclyff. Celine
quickened her steps. Penelope was eight months pregnant … Surely nothing had
gone wrong?
She pushed
open the gate and strode down the path towards the house. Her mind was filled
with questions. Why had Penelope sent the letter in this manner? Why send the
carriage?
She should
have waited until she reached indoors to read the letter. It was what Mrs
Beatle would have advised, since patience was a virtue all ladies must
cultivate.
Celine
decided to cultivate it later and slit open the envelope.
She quickly
scanned the contents and came to the end of the page. She turned it over and
then back again. She was reading it for the third time when a cold drop of rain
fell on her nose.
She lifted
her head, her eyes dazed.
Another icy
drop snapped her back to the present.
She opened
her mouth and disregarding for once Mrs Beatle’s advice on how a young lady
must never raise her voice yelled like a crazed tribal warrior, “Pack your
bags, Dorothy. We are leaving for London in an hour.”
***
The clouds
parted and the bright sun blazed in its full golden glory upon the inhabitants
of Finnshire. The warmed up birds, bees and grasshoppers sang more cheerily,
and the breeze turned sweet and pleasant. Spring had finally decided to flutter
down and grace England.
Celine and
Dorothy smiled widely. It was a beautiful day for travelling.
“It will
rain the moment your journey begins,” Lily remarked.
Both Celine
and Dorothy ignored their sister. Instead, they focussed on the footman, maid
and carriage driver, who were busy shoving travelling cases into the back of
the carriage.
“Mark my
words,” Lily continued ominously. “A deadly tempest is on the way. I suggest
you delay your journey by a few months.”
“Penelope
needs us now,” Celine said shortly. She directed the driver to place the
smaller bags under the seat. The longer ones were strapped onto the roof.
“How many
years are you planning to spend in London?” Lily asked as yet another bag was
squeezed under the seat.
“A little
less than two months,” Celine answered.
“I fear the
carriage won’t hold,” Dorothy spoke up. “The long bags are going to break
through the roof and land on our heads, and the ones under us will explode, for
we had to have three people sit on each one of them before they could be
fastened.”
“I hope
they do explode,” Lily said.
Celine
scowled at her. Lily had made a pest of herself from the moment she had found
out that she and Dorothy were heading to London without her.
“Twenty one
bags,” Dorothy remarked, “is a little excessive, Celine.”
“Every one
of them is essential,” Celine replied firmly.
“We should
be going with you,” Lily whined suddenly. “We are eighteen years old, while
that imp Dorothy is only thirteen.”
“We?”
Celine asked in confusion. No one else present was eighteen except Lily …
unless … She grabbed Lily’s hand and gently stroked it. “Lily,” she asked
carefully, “how many people live in your head?”
“The royal
we,” Lily sniffed. She snatched her hand back. “Truly, Celine, you can be
dreadfully dim at times.”
