Lady Disguised: Tenacious Trents, #7

Prologue

The Falcon & the Philosopher Inn, Cambridgeshire – December 1814

Flickering light from the hearth at the far end of the taproom cast a warm glow across the floor, wooden beams, and six very serious gentlemen gathered in a circle around one of the tables. Only an occasional pop or crackle from the fire made any sound in the otherwise vacant tavern.

Richard would want us to drink to his name, Rowan Findley announced, lifting a glass of whiskey out before him.

Robert Hurst, the Earl of Northcotte, snorted. Richard would want to be alive, he grumbled under his breath, but the others heard him clearly. And on that point they were all in agreement.

Richard Hollace, the late Lord Arrington, had lived life to its fullest. He embodied the sentiment eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die. And unfortunately, the latter was true in his case. It was the way Lord Arrington had passed that had caused such a pallor to be cast upon the taproom. No man liked to think about his own passing, and certainly not passing before one’s time, but to be killed so viciously, and by one’s own wife…

Which is why we should drink to his name, David Hounslow, the Marquess of Preston said softly, lifting his glass of whiskey as well.

Here, here. Sebastian Stanwick raised his glass.

The other three men followed suit as Findley said, To Richard Hollace, a damn good friend.

With a generous heart, Preston added.

And a wicked sense of humor, Nicholas Beckford, Lord Edgeworth tossed in.

The life of every party, agreed Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell.

Knower of all things equine. Northcotte smiled sadly.

Knower of all things female. Stanwick frowned.

That last bit swirled about the room, each man ruminating over the truth of it. Had Arrington known fewer females, he might very well be alive this night. He wouldn’t be lying six feet under with a hole in his head in the shape of a fire iron. The six of them wouldn’t have driven through the snow to Cambridgeshire on short notice. And they wouldn’t have sat through their old school chum’s funeral, wondering how such a tragedy could have befallen the man.

One by one, they swallowed the contents of their glasses, each wondering how the world had stopped making sense. Ladies didn’t murder their husbands. They just didn’t do such things, except… Well, except one did. Something the lot of them would have thought unfathomable a fortnight earlier had become a tragic and quite frightening truth.

What’s going to happen to her? Preston asked, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire.

She’s been taken to Newgate, Edgeworth replied. I expect they’ll hang her.

Richard should have been more careful of her sensibilities, Stanwick said, raking a hand through his midnight black hair. He should have taken care that she not find out about his paramours.

I doubt he thought his wife was capable of such a thing, Berkswell returned.

I doubt any man thinks so. Findley sighed.

And yet women are very clearly capable of such things, Northcotte began, One only has to look as far as Richard for proof.

Again, silence befell the six men. One only did have to look as far as Richard to see that women were very clearly capable of murder. Northcotte had never spoken truer words.

Well, that settles it then— Findley broke the silence, slamming his glass on the table in front of him a little harder than was necessary —I’m never getting married. That’s the best and only way I can think of to avoid Richard’s fate.

It only took half a second for Preston to say, I couldn’t agree with you more.

Well, then, what about you? Findley glanced from Berkswell to Northcotte to Edgeworth to Stanwick.

Berkswell scrubbed a hand across his jaw and shook his head. Certainly not worth the risk. My brother can inherit.

As can my cousin, Northcotte added solemnly.

Never planned on marrying anyway. Edgeworth shrugged.

Nor I, Stanwick agreed.

Then we’re agreed, Findley announced, lifting his glass in the air once more. I, Rowan Findley, hereby solemnly vow to never take a wife.

The other five lifted their glasses and repeated the vow in unison.

Famous last words, most assuredly…

Chapter 1

December, 1814

Yorkshire? Hélène Mirabelle Trent glanced around the parlor decorated in pale blue and gold in the Acker London Townhouse.

Yes, her sister-in-law, Elizabeth Trent, answered. We are to leave at the end of the week.

Why?

For Christmas, of course. Elizabeth smiled. Because the roads are unpredictable this time of year, we want to make sure we arrive before the twenty-third.

Why must they travel to Yorkshire? Hélène wanted a simple, quiet Christmas with just her sisters and Maman, which was impossible. Maman had been dead for five months after succumbing to consumption, and Juliette, her older sister, was now married to Lord Acker. Neither she nor Hélène’s twin, Genviève, lived with Juliette and Acker, but with their recently discovered half-brother, the Earl of Bentley and his wife. Hélène would prefer to live in the home on Henrietta Street in Covent Garden near the theatres, but her brothers wouldn’t allow her to do so. The lot of them thought it unseemly.

Hélène hadn’t known her four half-brothers and half-sister even existed until seven months ago, yet it hadn’t stopped the gentlemen from taking over and dictating her life. At least Bentley and the brothers were allowing her to stay with Juliette during their short visit in London. She had missed Juliette terribly over the last few months.

My grandfather insists my sister and I come home for Christmas this year, Elizabeth explained.

I don’t understand why we need to be there as well.

Elizabeth chuckled. Because my husband now has his three brothers and four sisters with whom to share the holiday. He has not had everyone before, she explained. When he said as much to my grandfather, it was decided that the entire family would go to Yorkshire for Christmas.

Hélène clenched her teeth and bit back a retort. She was highly tired of others deciding what she would be doing, without once inquiring if she wished to participate. She wasn’t a child, incapable of making her own decisions, and hadn’t been treated as such for several years. Hélène wanted to tell them all to go hang and she would do what she very well pleased.

Elizabeth reached over and grasped Hélène’s hand. There is an estate that borders Grandfather’s and stands vacant. He was able to rent it through Twelfth Night, and we will all stay there together. She grinned. As long as we are at the castle during the day and early evening, Grandfather will be happy. As long as we have the privacy of our own home, John is happy, which means I’m happy. John was the youngest of four brothers.

Grandfather has also taken control of the situation, Elizabeth added.

Hélène knew the particular situation in question was sorting out how to let society know that her now-late father, the former Earl of Bentley, had married and sired a daughter when he still had a wife who was very much alive. He had let society believe she had been dead, along with his daughter, for nearly twenty-two years. I don’t know how His Grace can change anything. It will be a scandal whether anyone likes it or not.

Grandfather is The Duke of Danby, Elizabeth reminded her. He has more power than any of us like to acknowledge. If anyone can defuse a situation, it is Grandfather. I can almost guarantee that when spring arrives, nobody will dare shun anyone in the family.

Hopefully the rented estate was large, and the castle even bigger.

When Twelfth Night has passed, we will return to London. While Bentley returns to the manor, we will spend our days shopping and preparing you and Genviève for your coming out, Elizabeth announced.

Just the thought of being presented to the ton as if she were eight-and-ten was enough to make Hélène break out in a rash. She was not a debutant and never had been, nor would she ever be, yet her brothers would not accept that fact.

Hélène wasn’t even sure she wanted to remain in London and knew she didn’t wish to go to Yorkshire. She wanted to return