Claims of the heart, p.1
Claims of the Heart, page 1
Claims of the Heart
Alina K. Field
Havenlock Press
Contents
1. At the Theater
2. A Vision
3. A Prime Mount
4. A Warning
5. An Appointment Interrupted
6. A Good Left Hook
7. An Afternoon Call
8. The Duke Arrives
9. Another Vision
10. A Proposal of Sorts
11. The Star and Garter
12. The Birthday Ball
13. Stolen Kisses
14. Vanished
15. In Pursuit
16. Norwich
17. A Visit to the Bank
18. Dankworth Returns
19. Bound for Scotland
20. The House on India Street
21. Bewitched
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Books by Alina K. Field
The Tragic Characters in Literature Project
An Excerpt from Fated Hearts
With grateful thanks to William Shakespeare, the master at adapting history, myth, and legend to meet the requirements of his audience.
* * *
Claims of the Heart is a sequel to Fated Hearts, a retelling of Macbeth, part of the Love After All Tragic Characters in Classic Literature project wherein: “With complete artistic license, and an abundance of hubris, a group of Regency romance authors are retelling some of the great stories of literature, setting them in Georgian England, and giving these tragic heroes and heroines a happily-ever-after.”
Claims of the Heart
Since a perilous fall, Lucie Macbeth has been seeing more than a settled future as the heiress to a Scottish barony.
The visions plaguing her include a man—one far above her class and breeding, and English to boot. He’s engaged to a duke’s granddaughter as well, and thus wholly inappropriate.
Though she can’t marry him, and she won’t become any man’s leman, when the Sight warns her of danger to him her conscience, and her heart tell her she can’t walk away.
* * *
A sequel to Fated Hearts
* * *
Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service.
―THE TEMPEST, aCT 3
At the Theater
April 1816, Near Hunstanton, Norfolk
“Two letters arrived for you, my lord.”
Tristan Hamilton Howton, Earl of Rudgwick, Major in His Majesty’s Horse Guards and a decorated veteran of the Peninsular campaign and Waterloo, extended his arms for Darby to pry the wet coat from his shoulders and ease it over the lump of wood at the end of his right arm.
The valet’s disapproving clucks both amused and annoyed him. Mother had tracked down his late father’s valet and hired him away from the rich cit he’d been serving. Upon Rudgwick’s return from Flanders, Darby had been waiting at Rudgwick Abbey, the ancestral pile in Cambridgeshire, happy to be back serving nobility, yet missing his favored Savile Row haunts.
In Darby’s view, Rudgwick Abbey was paradise compared to their present abode, Thornview Farm. With four rooms below, four bedchambers above, and a few small attic rooms for the housekeeper, cook, and two maids, Darby had been sleeping on a cot in the dressing room. Rudgwick’s friend, Lord Jeremy Bolton, who had inherited the estate late the previous year from an aunt, was in alt, declaring himself perfectly happy with the cozy cottage and the small income that came with it. And it wasn’t entirely a bachelor establishment; Jeremy, too kind and dutiful to ever be a true rake, had offered shelter to another female relative, an elderly cousin and her even older companion.
Rudgwick stepped into clean trousers and held up his arms for Darby’s assistance, annoyance niggling at him. He needed a man to tend to his boots, keep his clothing in order, and button his left cuff. Otherwise, he preferred dressing himself, even, or especially, during his time in the army.
“I fear I won’t get the salt stains out of those—”
“Yes, yes,” Rudgwick said. “A fair day for sailing it was, though, Darby. Are you not glad we’re back from touring all the byways of Norfolk?” He’d left Darby behind while he and Jeremy rode hither and yon for the last few weeks, making do with help from inn servants. “Had we supplies on board today we would have made for Inverness.”
Jeremy’s new home had come with a yacht, a smallish one, in truth, too small for a comfortable journey to Scotland. An old school friend and former naval man, Jeffrey Musbury, had traveled up from his cottage on the River Ware to assess the craft, pronouncing it sound for short days of sailing, and inviting them to join him in summer on the two-master he’d been refurbishing.
Darby made a grumbling noise in his throat and fetched the letters. “A brandy, my lord?”
“Yes.” He sighed. There’d be another nagging missive from his fiancée’s grandfather, and a lamenting one from his steward.
Darby set a full glass before him. “Shall I break the seals for you, my lord?”
“Why not read them as well,” he snapped.
Darby blinked in the way that Mother did before she straightened her shoulders and walked away from his churlishness. The valet was of an age with her, and, like high-born ladies, he’d learned patience and forbearance in the face of surly noblemen.
“Apologies, Darby.” It wasn’t Darby’s or Mother’s fault that a French mortar had blown off his hand at Waterloo. “That was uncalled for. Thank you. I shall manage.”
Darby dipped his head and left, carrying off the wet and soiled garments.
Rudgwick took a healthy swig of the drink. They’d found cases of spirits in the manor’s storeroom, good French brandy, and gin from the Lowlands. It seemed that the free trade reached even the west coast of Norfolk. As pillars of society, he and Jeremy would be expected to support the increased efforts against smuggling, but they had no qualms about availing themselves of Jeremy’s late aunt’s stores.
He closed his eyes and let the brandy ease the phantom throb in the hand that was no longer there. Then he shuffled the letters one-handed.
One fat missive and one thin. Both had been sent to London, where he was supposed to be in residence, and forwarded on. He broke the seal on the thin one and read.
Sir Thomas Abernathy, a baronet attached to the Home Office, inquired about his health, and asked about his availability to assist with a matter of interest to the Crown. A reply at his earliest convenience would be appreciated.
His curiosity was piqued, but he couldn’t help wondering if Mother knew Sir Thomas and if she had put him up to it to orchestrate his return to town.
The second, heftier letter was addressed in a man’s scrawl and sent post-paid from Edinburgh.
He hastened to break the seal and flipped to the signature, laughing out loud when he saw who had signed it.
Colonel Finnley Macbeth, Baron of Calder, had written to him. His wife, Greer Macbeth, corresponded with Mother, but the Colonel had never done more than send greetings via those letters.
That called for another dram of brandy.
And then he began to read. A lengthy passage reviewed the Colonel’s recovery (he was mending apace), reported on his cousin, Lord Menteith (still in France), and discussed the plans for the two boys Macbeth had taken charge of, his late cousin Banquo’s sons. But that was all a prelude for an important request.
Your lady mother informs me that you should be in London by now, and so if it would not be an inconvenience to you, I would be much obliged to ask a boon from you. There’s a solicitor by the name of Stephenson in the City, who has knowledge of Banquo’s business matters. He’s failed to reply to several letters, and I can only assume he’s ignoring them. I’ve asked Lucie to pay a call on the man. Lady Fiona has offered help from her man of business, and I’ve sent Hyde along to London with Lucie.
Lucie. The name all but leapt from the page. Lucie was in London!
However, of late I’ve had misgivings and worries that, given Banquo’s criminal nature, this Stephenson may be a shifty character. Lucie being Lucie, she’s likely to find the danger an enticement and plunge ahead. Moreover, I know that a title can often open doors that would otherwise remain closed. If you could see your way to offer Lucie assistance, if your new bride has no objections, I would be most grateful.
He read through the letter again and then pulled the bell. As he returned to his seat the door opened.
“That was quick.” He turned and saw that it was not a servant, but his host.
Jeremy was a younger and handsomer version of his brother, the Duke of Northam. A handsomer version of Rudgwick as well, with the same height, dark hair, and gray eyes, though they were completely unrelated.
“At your service, my lord,” he joked. “The servants are busily preparing for dinner.”
“Will you pack my trunk, then?” Rudgwick teased. “Ah, there is Darby, poking his head in behind you. Darby, we are leaving for London in the morning.”
“We are?” Jeremy said.
“You may come as well if you wish. I’ve been summoned to go to the aid of the Crown.” And Lucie Macbeth.
She opened her eyes and came out of the darkness into the red glow of the sun on the horizon and the sound of muffled voices and the chuffing breaths of a struggling horse.
Pegasus had fallen.
Oh, Hades. She must see to him.
Before she could stir, someone loomed over her, her vision too fuzzy to make out who it was. Fear rose in her, and then se
“Shhh. Lie still, lass.” The voice was one of Menteith Castle’s grooms.
Pegasus. How badly was he injured? She pushed at the soft turf, the damp soaking her gloves. The rain had stopped before her ride, but days of downpours had left the soft places soggy and slick, and…
It had been her fault. Jamey’s kiss had paled next to that of another man, and then he started to paw, and push, and demand a decision…
She had run and bade him not to follow. Only, she had looked back and seen him mounting.
She’d galloped hard, getting away, running, and running, and running, and then the ground had given way, sliding straight out from under them, and… She lifted her head and pain exploded in it.
“Lie still.” A hand touched her shoulder, and she sank back into a dull throbbing.
Velvety grass cushioned her and gave off a sweet odor whilst a breeze tickled her brow, eased the shattering pain and shards of glittering light, and chilled her moist cheeks. She’d been crying and hadn’t known it or—she levered a heavy hand and swiped at her face. Her kid glove came back red.
And then… a cloud moved over her. A gloved hand reached for her.
“Oh, my love.” Grim lips, shaded by dark scruff formed the words, soundlessly. She heard them in her heart. She knew him there also.
Her hand touched his and she floated up, up, up, into strong arms that settled her onto a soft bed.
“Oh, my love.” His lips formed the words again. She couldn’t hear the words, but she knew them. She knew.
* * *
Stuff and nonsense. Lucie Macbeth, Maid of Calder, blinked the obsessive thoughts away and took in the dizzying view from Lady Estelle Walby’s box at Covent Garden. The previous year, she’d attended a play at Drury Lane with her parents, Colonel and Mrs. Finnley Macbeth, Baron and Baroness of Calder. Grand it had been, but not so grand as this, nor so high up.
Truth to tell, she wasn’t fond of such heights, which was probably why the vivid memories mixed with imagination were clattering about in her battered head.
This sight, Covent Garden theater, this was a real vision to store away for the long winter nights at home in Calder. All around her the boxes glittered with rich silks, sparkling jewels, and the glint of the glasses of the ton’s well-to-do spying on other attendees. She must stay right here for the evening instead of wandering about in the past or some unbidden daydream.
“Come along then, ladies.” Lady Walby’s relation, Lord Grallon, pointed out their plushly appointed seats.
“I haven’t attended a performance here since the fire.” Lucie’s elderly distant cousin, Lady Fiona Carlin, took Lord Grallon’s arm and Lucie followed behind them, seating herself at the end of the row next to Lady Fiona. “It’s breathtaking. Shall we switch, Lucie, my dear, so you may see the stage better?”
“All the world’s the stage here, isn’t it, madam?” She’d attended a few glittering balls in Brussels the year before, but nowhere had she seen so many gaily attired ladies. Perhaps it was the matter of the war ending that made the ton more festive, as well as the fact that the theater, unlike society balls, was open to people of all ranks. Some of the most beautiful ladies peering out from private boxes would be members of the demimonde.
Lady Walby leaned across Lady Fiona. “You look very well tonight, my dear Lucie. You’re sure to catch the eye of the gentlemen. That gown is brilliant.”
Lucie murmured a thank you. The gown was, in truth, magnificent. Mother might never have allowed her to wear it. Father would have insisted on a more intrepid escort than the elderly baron, or a large fichu.
Given the bright red of her hair, she herself had been doubtful about this shade of vermilion. When she’d requested a red gown, Lady Fiona and the modiste hadn’t dismissed the notion. They’d insisted upon this hue with its rich, almost golden shimmer, and at the first fitting, she’d seen the magic. The richly colored peau de soia fabric floated over an underdress of white silk, embroidered, and trimmed in gold, dipping low at the bodice. More gold trimmed the overdress and floated along the tasseled waist and hemline.
She wasn’t given to vanity, not much anyway, but tonight she’d found a comely stranger staring back at her from her dressing table mirror. Lady Fiona’s maid had twisted her hair up Grecian style, twining faux pearls through the creation that matched the ones at her neck, and teasing out face-framing curls. A light touch of powder had even hidden most of the freckles that were the curse of the ginger-haired.
Catching the eye of the gentlemen wasn’t her goal tonight, though it might be a welcome diversion. ’Struth there was one gentleman plaguing her thoughts, and he wasn’t free. Though she supposed if she encountered him during her sojourn in London, he’d be unable to annoy her as he’d done in Brussels. After all, their only connection was His Majesty’s army, and here, they were moving about in different worlds.
In any case, to her knowledge, he wasn’t in London. If he appeared tonight at Covent Garden, well, her heart was safely hidden within her vermilion gown, her future was secure in the Calder barony, and she had no need to be wooed. Tomorrow or the next day she would make another attempt to see to her father’s business in London. Tonight, she merely wished for the entertaining spectacle of the actors, both on and off the stage.
“And how are the preparations for the grand birthday ball proceeding?” Lady Walby asked.
“Famously.” Lady Fiona winked at her. “Isn’t that so, Lucie?”
She laughed. “Very true, my lady.” She’d turned one and twenty a fortnight before, and Lady Fiona had surprised her by announcing that she was hosting a ball in her honor. “Or so I assume. I can’t claim any credit though since Lady Fiona has kept me in the dark about the preparations.”
“Tell her, Estelle, that she must have a gown specially made for the occasion. She wants to wear this one again.”
“Never turn down an offer of a new gown, my dear.” Lady Walby raised her opera glasses. “Oh, do look. Is that not Bridgehampton across from us? And my godson, Lord Jeremy Bolton, with him.”
The hair on the back of Lucie’s neck quivered and, in no need of an opera glass, she followed the line of vision to the box directly opposite theirs. The Duke of Bridgehampton was a powerful peer, and quite a controlling man as well, if the stories could be believed.
“He’s come out of mourning then,” Lady Fiona said.
Bridgehampton’s son and heir, Marquess Grey, had died several weeks earlier of an unsavory wasting disease brought on by his dissipated life, or so Lucy had surmised from the few details she’d gleaned from her father’s servant, Hyde, who was well informed on that sort of gossip.
She’d never seen either man, the duke or his son the marquess, in the flesh, but surely the tall white-haired gentleman was Bridgehampton. The dark-haired young man standing next to him must be Lady Walby’s godson.
Unable to turn away, Lucie watched as Bridgehampton remained alert and erect, surveying the vast array of boxes, one by one, until he came to theirs and his eyes landed on her. A jolt went through her. Surely the blasted man didn’t know of her, didn’t recognize her. Yet if looks might pierce a tender girl’s heart, well…
She was no tender girl, though, not after the frights she’d experienced and the horrors she’d seen, and so she sharpened her gaze and thrust back at him, while all else melted away, the only sound being the slow drub-drub-drub of her heart beating.
A sharp squeeze of her hand stirred her.
“You are well.” Lady Fiona’s words were a quiet command, not a question.
