The Price of Deception
Read The Price of Deception Online
Authors: Vicki Hopkins
Tags: #romantic suspense, #love story, #chick lit, #historical romance, #victorian romance, #romance series, #romance saga, #19th century romance
The Price of Deception
The Legacy Series – Book Two
Vicki Hopkins
Published by Holland Legacy Publishing at
Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Vicki Hopkins
ISBN:
978-0-9832959-6-9
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Work of Fiction
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons,
living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
To my Holland ancestors in England, who taught me
that success in business begins with a good foundation, a ton of
bricks, plenty of mortar, and the audacity to triumph in spite of
obstacles.
Prologue
“Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we
practice to deceive.” Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)
“Gentlemen, you may choose your weapons. Monsieur
Moreau, because this duel is your challenge, you will have first
choice.”
Philippe studied both pistols and grabbed the gun on
the right. Robert reached over and retrieved the gun on the left.
Pelletier snapped shut the lid of the box and shoved it under his
arm.
Robert’s heart pounded in his ears as he waited for
the instructions to stand back-to-back with Philippe Moreau and
then pace off, turn, and shoot. For a quick moment, he thought
himself quite insane for agreeing to accept the challenge. He had
put his life on the line to win his cherished Suzette and the son
he loved. The stakes were high. In the next few minutes, he could
very well be dead.
He held the pistol in his right hand and looked at
the maker’s engraved name on the stock, feeling the weight, and
gauging its handling. Made by a French gunnery, it felt somewhat
different than the English pistols he had been accustomed to
holding. He prayed the use of a foreign weapon would not hamper the
accuracy of his aim, even though he was a first-rate shot.
Pelletier announced the conditions to them both in a
gruff, loud voice.
“Monsieur Moreau has requested that the duel be to
first blood, in which case the matter will be settled upon one man
being wounded. However, if one man is severely wounded, and that
wound leads to death, Monsieur Moreau will receive full and
complete satisfaction of the disrespect done to his name.”
Robert knew then his nemesis intended to shoot to
kill. His gut turned into a hard knot, as the moments slipped
precariously toward battle.
“
Gentlemen, please proceed to the
clearing, stand back to back, with pistols in hand. I shall count
to twenty paces, upon which you will stop upon the number twenty,
turn, and fire your weapons. Do you understand my
instructions?”
Robert nodded affirmatively. Philippe called out a
confident “yes” in response.
“Very well then.”
Quickly, Robert glanced over at Giles who stood on
the sidelines watching. The man looked pale as the moon, and Robert
lifted his lips in a forced smile. He gave him a quick wink for an
ounce of reassurance that all would be well.
“One, two, three . . .”
Robert moved his booted right foot in front of him
and stepped in cadence with the numbers that were spoken. Twenty
paces—it seemed like such a long distance, which would indeed make
it a more difficult aim. He wondered why Philippe hadn’t chosen a
lesser number to do him in at point blank range and be done with
it.
“Seven, eight, nine . . .”
Robert faced his countdown to eternity. He focused
upon Suzette and his beautiful son, who looked so much like
him.
“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . .”
In a few more seconds, it would be over. One way or
the other.
“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . .”
Robert turned on his heel, lifted the gun to aim, and
heard Philippe’s pistol discharge. He pulled the trigger almost
instantaneously in return, and waited for the bullet from
Philippe’s pistol to lodge in his heart.
Chapter One
Surrey, England – Spring 1884
Robert studied his appointments in the leather-bound
journal. Since he had taken over the title of Duke upon the death
of his father five years earlier, his life had filled with duties
that he found both monotonous and burdensome. Nevertheless, the
tenants upon his lands merited his attention and respect. His
father had been a good landlord, fair and equitable. Robert
believed they deserved no less under his watchful care and
management.
As he twirled the quill around in his hand, he
glanced up at the clock on the fireplace mantel. The day had not
even reached noontime, and Robert found it impossible to
concentrate. The regrets of the past arrived to plague him once
more. Their onset made him anxious and impatient in his tasks.
Remorse, an emotion he experienced often, became
increasingly difficult to dismiss. He admitted, with some
difficulty, that he had indeed squandered his younger years on
drinking, gambling, and the brothel beds of enticing women. Of
course, his choices were merely the rebellious streak that most
privileged, titled young men his age experienced on their road to
maturity. Even some of his closest comrades from his university
days were prone to their share of indiscretions. It had been easy
to justify his own foolish activities, when others he knew played
the rogue, as well.
He hadn’t expected, though, through the course of his
frivolous days, to meet a woman who completely and utterly captured
his heart. Robert’s life had certainly not been absent of single
ladies seeking his attention. Many, who he termed social leaches,
desperately clung to him as an ideal potential catch. Robert
routinely ignored them all, because the taste of forbidden
pleasures had been far more succulent and to his liking. The regal,
stuffy women of society, bearing the title of “Lady” due to their
father’s aristocratic status, bored him to no end.
Suzette had come into his life at the peak of his
carefree idealization of young manhood. He made a habit of visiting
Paris often in order to escape from home and the dull instruction
of his father regarding estate matters. Like a lad running away
from responsibility, Robert found solace in the arms of various
women at the local brothel that catered to aristocrats. Had he been
in England, he would have never been able to play the cad so
openly.
The Parisians were far less condescending toward men
of title who sought pleasure. In fact, they offered the rich the
best they could afford in the way of entertainment—women, fine
wine, and delicacies at high-end restaurants and casinos. His time
spent in Paris invigorated Robert; it fueled and fed the raging
hormones of a man his age.
One mystery purchase at the Chabanais drastically
changed him for the better. A homeless woman without a Franc to her
name, or a title of honor from a decent family, had instantly
captured his heart. He saved her from a life of prostitution in a
brothel, and she offered her love and body in thankfulness. Robert
spirited her away to England and regularly visited her bed as his
mistress.
He frequently pondered why he loved his petite French
mademoiselle so deeply. Perhaps, she represented the freedom and
innocence he yearned for in his existence, in comparison to the
duties that chained him to a life of propriety instead.
Suzette, on the other hand, had been born a simple
commoner, untainted, and unpretentious. She brought balance and
completion to his world. After they parted ways, his life turned
into an empty shell. He felt void of love and passion, even though
there was another woman.
His parents had plans for his future. Marriage had
become an obligation. To this very day, he grieved over his final
obedience to his father’s dying wish to wed a woman of his parents’
choosing. He thought that he could satisfy both the requirements of
the obedient son and retain a lover at the same time. His arrogance
proved him wrong.
In foolish desperation to keep Suzette, Robert
continued to use her for sexual pleasure without telling her the
truth of his marriage to another woman. He had been selfish and
grievously regretted his behavior.
When the death of his father occurred, so did the
death of his former ways; but not necessarily the demise of his
former desires. With Suzette gone, he had been denied comfort. In
order to fulfill his needs, he still held some pleasures neither
his mother nor wife knew about. Whenever he visited Paris he
treated himself to slight indiscretions, for old times’ sake, in
the arms of a prostitute whose bed he had shared before.
Robert stood from his desk in his dark-paneled study
and wandered over to the window. He had been cooped up for hours
trying to dodge the cackling voices of his mother and wife, who
were the busy-bodies of the estate household. He found their
never-ending need to redecorate the estate irksome, but it kept
them busy and out of his hair. Their hobby demanded little of his
attention, except for money.
The gardens outside were in full bloom after a rather
harsh winter that had finally passed. His eyes darted toward the
stables and his neglected Arabian mare that probably wished for him
to take her reins and run her in the meadows.
“Perhaps tomorrow.” Robert sighed. He hadn’t the
heart to do much of anything after wrestling with regretful ghosts
of the past.
His thoughts drifted to and fro, like the wind that
moved the limbs of the tree outside his window. A distinct sadness
washed over his soul thinking of Suzette. She sauntered through his
mind and invited him to remember each moment they shared.
He did love her, though he never told her in so many
words. How could he? If he did, she would have expected marriage.
No, instead there were non-committal nuances of adoration and
expensive gifts in order to keep her hopeful he’d one day offer an
engagement.
Robert would have kept her as his mistress even after
his ill-begotten union to his wife, Jacquelyn Spencer. At least he
would be in the arms of a woman he loved and who loved him in
return. Instead, he let her go.
Robert narrowed his eyes as he remembered her words
when they parted. Even now, they possessed the power to sting his
heart.
“You see, I have a confession to make. I’ve been a
bit naughty while you were away so long. I spent quite a bit of
time with Philippe Moreau, and I . . . well, I have discovered that
I still love him.”
“Love him,” he mumbled under his breath, with a
unrelenting jealousy. “She lied. I’m sure of it. She loved me, not
him.”
In the end, Suzette had punished him for his
dishonesty when he wed another in secret. He had come to tell her
that he was leaving in order to give her an honorable life.
Instead, she pushed him away first before he could get the words
out of his mouth.
Robert closed his eyes and remembered the first night
they met. Scared and petrified like a mouse before a cat, she
entered the Louis XV Chambre at the Chabanais brothel with a slight
push from Madame Laurent. The scene returned a smile to his face,
which eased the heaviness in his chest.
