Authors: Deborah Simmons
The girls took a hackney cab to their cousin’s apartments, to Mrs. Broadgirdle’s horror, though why someone who had to hire herself out for a living should have such haughty airs, Prudence could not imagine.
“I have no knowledge of the country, but in town, all is appearance,” Mrs. Broadgirdle explained in strained accents. “If anyone should see you riding in such a… conveyance, they will mark you as inferior, not only to the elite, but to the gentry! And all hopes of securing successful marriages will be lost,” she added, eyeing Prudence with especial scorn.
Prudence laughed. “You need not concern yourself with me, madame, for I am well past the marrying age. It is Phoebe who will attract all the admirers.”
Mrs. Broadgirdle nodded curtly, apparently mollified now that the monumental task of finding a husband for Prudence no longer weighed upon her shoulders. Although she thought herself well past caring about such nonsense, Prudence was surprised to feel a dull pain at being considered so unappealing. But then Phoebe began to chatter about the sights, and her own brief blue devils disappeared in the glow of her sister’s delight.
Although the chaperone proclaimed Hugh Lancaster’s residence to be hardly fashionable, Prudence found nothing
lacking in the small town house. The neighborhood was neat and quiet, the accommodations were quite spacious, to her mind, and the manservant who directed them to the drawing room was suitably polite.
Upon entering, Prudence looked around curiously. The furniture was sparse but handsome, the setting tasteful. Even Mrs. Broadgirdle could find no fault with the interior, though Prudence’s writer’s imagination deemed the place rather dull. There were none of the paintings and ornaments that crowded their own little cottage, making it homey and welcoming. However, bachelor establishments might well strive for another atmosphere entirely, Prudence realized, so she withheld her judgment.
“My dear cousins! What a pleasure to meet you!” Prudence turned to see Hugh Lancaster, and relief washed through her. Although they had corresponded sporadically since Grandmama’s death, Prudence had not been quite sure what to expect, and a part of her had dreaded that Hugh might be a copy of Mrs. Broadgirdle, wizened and bitter.
He was not. Hugh was much younger than she had imagined, not too many years older than herself, she guessed, with a hearty voice that welcomed them nicely. He had the Lancaster look about him, with blond hair nearly as bright as Phoebe’s, but beginning to recede from his forehead. His blue eyes were a different shade from Phoebe’s, yet, really, he looked more her sister’s sibling than she did—in a masculine way, of course.
“Prudence!” he said, moving unerringly toward her. “I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed your letters. When one has so few family, those left to him become doubly precious.”
Smiling, Prudence murmured her thanks and introduced her cousin to Phoebe and Mrs. Broadgirdle. He seemed well pleased with the sharp-faced woman, and again evinced his concern that they have adequate supervision in town.
“I am afraid I am not at all proud of much of what goes on here in London,” he said, with a saddened expression. “And I would protect you as best I can from those unsavory elements”
Phoebe looked at him with wide-eyed wonder, while Mrs. Broadgirdle nodded sagely. Good heavens, could it be that the woman actually liked someone? Prudence wondered why she did not feel heartened to find that that someone was Cousin Hugh.
“Yes, even in Cornwall, we have heard of some of the dreadful conditions among the poor,” Prudence commented.
Hugh, who had been studying Phoebe contentedly, turned to eye her sister in surprise. “The poor? Why, yes, I suppose so, but I am speaking of those who should be showing a sterling character to the world, and fall far short of their responsibilities.” Clasping his hands behind him, Hugh leaned back upon his heels. “It is a sad state of affairs when our country’s very leader appears to be lacking any moral restraints.”
From there he launched into a long and stultifying speech detailing the prince regent’s failings and the general decay of society, which made Prudence wonder if he had perhaps missed his calling as a member of the clergy. Although she was, of course, in general agreement with his opinions, she could not help but think that, throughout its long history, England had been blessed with very few upright monarchs. She suspected that the position itself tested one’s qualities far more than she could ever imagine.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Broadgirdle settle back approvingly, while Phoebe looked totally baffled by the lengthy address. As for herself, she would much rather have heard about London and the places they were to see. She was also tired and hungry, but how could she politely convey those feelings to their host, when they had only just arrived?
With a sigh, Prudence settled back in her chair and tried to construct some scenes for her novel in her mind. However, Hugh’s voice kept intruding on her thoughts, and she could not help but wonder if she would regret spending her windfall upon this trip.
Sebastian stepped into Hatchards, number 187, Picadilly, and drew deeply on the scent of books—a most pleasant aroma, to his mind. He had always enjoyed reading, but lately, it seemed to be the only thing that relieved the increasing sense of ennui that plagued him.
London bored him. His usual haunts he found even more stifling than before, but he had been forced to come to town to talk to a Bow Street Runner to look for James, and to settle the boy’s debts. Or most of them. Sebastian had used all his ready cash and then some, selling his art collection to produce more. He was stretched as far as he could go, and still a couple of James’s obligations hung over his head.
His steward had advised him to sell one of the properties, either Wolfinger or his own small estate in Yorkshire, but Sebastian was loath to relinquish either one. During his last visit, the abbey had interested him more than anything had in a number of years, and, truth be told, he had no desire to be the one Ravenscar in a long line of spendthrifts to lose the ancestral seat.
Neither did he want to dispose of his land in Yorkshire. It was the only home he had ever known, although the idea of clinging to the place like some cloying sentimentalist irked him. Damn! He just ought to put the old farm on the market, and yet, where would he put James when the whelp finally returned?
If
he returned. Sebastian felt a muscle in his jaw leap as he contemplated the mess his brother had made. Personally, he would gladly kill the scapegrace, if everyone did not already think he had done so.
Yes, the rumor had followed him to London, and, ultimately, had forced him to stay, for he had no intention of
skulking away to the country when those who were spending the winter in town were talking about him. Such running and hiding would only ensure his social demise, and he would not stand still for it.
Sebastian had learned long ago that the only way to deal with gossip was to face it down, and he did, meeting cool stares with colder ones, and daring people to cut him. He was an old hand at it, and yet…he was getting tired, deathly tired, of it.
So he remained, ignoring the slights and sharpening his own black reputation until it glittered like a deadly blade. He found himself actually looking forward to returning to Yorkshire, where at least he might gain a reprieve from the endless parade of hypocrites who condemned him in hushed tones before adjourning to the newest brothel to bid on a twelve-year-old virgin.
And just when he thought he might repair to the country, he was faced with yet another irritant: the publication of The Book.
Sebastian’s eyes swept the room, searching for it, hoping that he would not find it, but there it was, its prominent placing proclaiming its popularity. He felt an atypical flash of annoyance that longed to find an outlet, but what could he do? Topple the heinous volumes? Buy them all? Any reaction from him would only confirm what everyone suspected—that The Book was about him.
Heading in the opposite direction, Sebastian casually walked through the store, his eyes flicking to the shelves, but his thoughts lingered on The Book. Had it been only a month ago that he began to hear new gossip about a gothic novel in which he, supposedly, figured as the villain? As usual, he had disregarded the talk, until it grew to outrageous proportions and someone finally offered him a copy to read for himself.
Sebastian had to admit there were similarities. The dark character whose exploits were chronicled carried a form of
his own name and was described much like himself. Count Bastian also possessed a mysterious seaside stronghold that more than a little resembled Wolfinger Abbey, but there the parallels ended. The evil count’s main activity appeared to be luring helpless females to his impenetrable fortress, where he seduced and abandoned them, or worse, and the bodies of his victims filled up the family graveyard until the brave heroine exposed him.
Of course, anyone who knew Sebastian was aware that he spent his time in Yorkshire or London, never venturing to Cornwall or any other seaside domain. And although his lurid past was well-known, he had always confined his sexual activities to women of a certain persuasion, certainly not the sort of sweet innocents depicted in the novel. And most obvious to him was the fact that no one could really line his property with corpses and go unnoticed. The Book was fiction, pure and simple.
The ton, however, held a differing opinion. He had always been called a murderer, and this grandiloquent prose, following so rapidly upon the disappearance of his brother, titillated society all the more. The possibility that there might be a grain of truth in it made The Book a must-read on the order of Lady Caroline Lamb’s thinly disguised portrait of Byron.
Bastian of Bloodmoor
was an unqualified success.
As he made his circuit of the room, his gaze searching the shelves for a possible purchase, Sebastian saw Lord Neville enter, and his annoyance reached a new level. That gossipmonger would, no doubt, try to engage him in a verbal battle for which Sebastian had no enthusiasm.
He felt suddenly tired, his brief interest in the shop replaced by his customary boredom. Only the flagrant display of The Book, which he was rapidly approaching, kept him from exiting immediately, for he did not care to have Sir Neville accuse him of avoiding the accursed volumes. With
characteristic aplomb, he moved directly in front of the table where they were neatly piled.
Sebastian actually picked up a copy, wondering idly about the identity of the author of
Bastian of Bloodmoor.
Although several names had been bandied about, no one had taken credit for the work as yet. With a cold calculation that would not have surprised those who knew him, Sebastian decided he would like to get his hands on the man. Whether the fellow had knowingly painted him so ruthlessly or not, Sebastian would not mind closing his fingers around the bastard’s neck in a pleasurable parody of the plot.
Standing there absently stroking the binding, Sebastian remained lost in thought until a woman came to join him. He glanced toward her, jolted unexpectedly by the glint of spectacles perched upon her slender nose.
Damn! He drew in a deep breath, irritated by his reaction to the sight of a woman wearing glasses. Surely he was not pining away for that spinster in Cornwall? Sebastian’s annoyance reached a level that would have alarmed his acquaintances, while he tried to ignore the woman’s intrusion upon his senses. Unfortunately, she was not so easily dismissed. As he watched in amazement, she took hold of the book in his hands, as if to wrest it from him.
“Shall I sign it for you?” she asked.
S
ebastian swiveled around to face her, so furious that not only was he unable to summon his cool smile, he could not even call up his voice. And underneath the anger, like a shark circling, was a sharp sting of betrayal that he did not even want to examine, let alone feel.
He forced himself to deny it. This prim blonde meant nothing to him. His brief and ill-fated attraction to her did not give her any dominion over him, least of all the power to hurt him. Why, the very notion was laughable! No one could touch him, for the simple reason that he had been dead inside for longer than he could remember.
And yet, for the first time in years, he sensed something lapping at his inviolate self—something decidedly unpleasant. Sebastian had the eerie notion that it was despair, waiting to suck him down into blacker depths than he had ever known.
Ignoring it, Sebastian found his tongue, if not his usual grim aplomb. “You wrote this?” he asked her, with barely controlled venom, as he held the offending volume between them.
“You
tried to destroy me with it?” He conjured up a bitter laugh. “Others have failed at that task, Miss Prudence Lancaster. And let me warn you that I have a way of coming back to haunt those who would do me ill.”
Her response was to stare up at him in wide-eyed surprise, as if astonished by his manner, but the veil of innocence that clung to her only incited Sebastian further. He felt like grabbing hold of Miss Prudence Lancaster and shaking her until her teeth rattled—or until her glasses fell away and she was forced to abandon her spinsterish airs.
Violence throbbed in the air, in the muscle in his cheek and in the rapid rise and fall of her shapely breasts. By God, if they were not in a public place, he would show the author of
Bastian of Bloodmoor
just what her favorite villain was capable of doing to her. The idea, Sebastian realized, with stunning surprise, was more than a little stimulating.
And far from cringing away from his rage, the unusual Miss Prudence seemed enthralled by it. She was looking up at him with the oddest expression on her starkly beautiful face, and if he had not known better, Sebastian could have sworn he saw an answering flicker of excitement behind those ridiculous spectacles.
“Well, well, and what have we here?”
At the sound of Lord Neville’s voice, Sebastian automatically straightened and composed his features. Lord Lawrence Neville—Nevvy to his circle—was a parasite, a man with no discernible income of his own, who lived off the largesse of others. And why did anyone support him? Somehow, Neville had managed to set himself up as an arbiter of fashion, along the lines of Beau Brummel, only with a cruel streak a mile wide.