A Matter of Principle

By Kris Tualla
:

A Woman of Choice

A Prince of Norway

A Matter of Principle

and

A Primer for

Beginning Authors

A Matter

of Principle

Kris Tualla

Goodnight Publishing

http://www.GoodnightPublishing.com

A Matter of Principle
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places

and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead,

is entirely coincidental.

Cover photo: Jimmy Thomas from www.romancenovelcovers.com

Published in the United States of America through:

Goodnight Publishing

www.GoodnightPublishing.com

[email protected]

© 2010 by Kris Tualla

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

Goodnight Publishing and its Logo are Registered Trademarks.

ISBN-10:
1451503334

EAN-13: 9781451503333

For Paul,

who encourages me everyday

to strive toward my goal,

cheers every baby step,

and brags about me.

And to my dear friends

who read endless manuscripts

and proofs ~

I truly could not do this

without you.

And to my readers:

thank you for bringing Nicolas and Sydney to life.

The Hansen Estate Residents:

Nicolas Reidar Hansen, estate owner

Siobhan Sydney Bell Hansen, wife

Stefan Atherton Hansen, son

Kirsten Ciara Hansen, daughter

Leif Sebastian Hansen, cousin

John Spencer, foreman, retired

Adelaide Spencer, housekeeper, retired

Jeremy McCain, estate foreman

Anehka McCain, housekeeper

Jaqriel, farming foreman

Sarah, nanny

Chapter One

October 21, 1821

St. Charles, Missouri

“
It doesn’t look too bad, as whore-houses go.”

Nicolas Hansen had a wide-brimmed leather hat jammed on his head to hide his blond hair. Nothing could be done about his size. At six-foot four, and over two hundred and fifty pounds, he was noticeable. “I’ll go in, then. You know what to do.”

Jaqriel nodded. In spite of the chill in the autumn air, nervous perspiration gave his dark skin the patina of polished walnut. He took Rusten’s reins—Nicolas’s conspicuous stallion Fyrste was stabled elsewhere for the duration—and sat on the edge of the wooden sidewalk. Jaqriel leaned against a lamp post and snuggled inside his jacket; it would be a long chilly night.

Nicolas climbed the steps and knocked on the door. A woman dressed in violet satin, nearly obscured by an eye-stinging cloud of perfume, ushered him in.

“
What might a fine, strapping specimen such as yourself be wanting this fine evening?” she cooed.

“
I should like to enjoy a brandy by the fire, Madam. Perhaps you might put some of my choices on display?” He fingered the coins in his pocket so that they clinked together.

“
Why, of course, sir! Do you have any particular tastes that I might satisfy?”

“
Dark.” He looked meaningfully at his hostess. “I prefer dark.”

She smiled and pressed him into a chair. “I’ll see whom I can find.” Turning to a sideboard, she selected a cut-crystal goblet and poured a generous serving of brandy.

He accepted the drink and asked about food. “A slice of beef? A wedge of cheese? Something to sustain me throughout the evening?”

“
Absolutely!” She disappeared through a swinging door.

Nicolas considered his surroundings. A brocade factory must have exploded in the room, covering every surface. But, at the least the room was clean.

The swinging door pushed open and a slender Negress, skin the color of caramel, carried a tray of food into the room. Nicolas pulled the brim of his hat down to the bridge of his nose and grunted his thanks. She set the tray on the low table in front of his chair. She didn’t look at him.

The hostess breezed into the room. “Ah, good! You are sustained!” she trilled. “The girls will be down presently. Is there any other wish I may fulfill?” Her hand brushed across the back of Nicolas’s neck. He held out his empty brandy glass. It was promptly refilled.

As he ate from the tray, Nicolas endured the parade of willing prostitutes. Tall, short, thin, plump, some more bold than others. He played along for a bit, as much as he could tolerate, then motioned the madam to his side.

“
Yes, darling?” she breathed in his ear.

“
The girl who brought the food.”

“
Her?” Penciled brows pulled together above purpled lids. “But she’s a Negro.”

“
I believe I told you that I prefer dark, did I not?”

“
Yes, but she’s a serving girl. A scullery maid!” The woman’s voice took on an important tone. “She’s never been used in that way. She will most likely not be as—pliant—as my other girls.”

She waved her hand toward the women draped in various stages of undress over the colorful furniture. “Surely one of these girls will suit you?”

Nicolas pulled a gold coin from his pocket. “Shall I take my business elsewhere?”

“
I, uh…”

He shrugged and moved to stand. She quickly linked her arm through his as he rose. “Might I show you to our best room? She will be up presently, I assure you!”

Nicolas dropped the coin into the woman’s décolletage. “I shall stay the night. Send a bottle of brandy up with her.”



Nicolas pulled the sheets back; they were clean and exuded lavender. Rosie was right, this was a decent sort of brothel. He marveled again at the society of whores, which allowed her to find this establishment on his behalf.

Nicolas moved to the window. Off to the right he could see Jaqriel under the lamp, sitting at Rusten’s feet.

Good.

A quick knock on the door preceded the shoving of the Negress into his presence. The door shut behind her before she could escape. Her quickly downcast eyes were red-rimmed and her breath came in gasps. The brandy bottle slid from her hand and hit the carpet with a muted thud.

“
Don’t cry, Sarah. Things are not as they seem,” Nicolas assured her. A flicker of confusion rippled her brow. He pulled off the wide leather hat and combed his fingers through his long, thick hair. “Do you know me?”

Eyes the color of rust met his in a sullen, iron gaze.

“
It was a year and a half ago, now. I found Jack in my hen house. My wife gave you a skillet and a quilt.” The Negress’ eyes widened.

“
And a shirt.” Sarah’s soft voice was spiced with Cajun flavor.

Nicolas nodded. “I forgot about the shirt.”

Sarah’s eyes swept the room, then passed over Nicolas. She paid particular attention to the state of his breeches, making him feel distinctly disrobed.

“
Wh-why are you here?” she asked, fear tripping her words. “Will you use me, then?”