Lady Disguised (Tenacious Trents Novella) (Tenacous Trents)

The
characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the
author.

Lady
Disguised

Copyright
© 2014 by Jane Charles

Cover
Design by Lily Smith

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Note from the Author

Lady Disguised
, a
novella, first appeared in anthology,
A Pact Between Gentlemen,
released
November, 2013
.

For Suzie Grant ~ Without your
knowledge and assistance,
Hélène
’s duel wouldn’t have been the
same. Thank you!

~Jane

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…

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 to Milan where she could continue acting, making costumes, and
experimenting with different makeup and wigs. She belonged in Milan. She had to
find a way to come up with the funds to buy passage, rent a room, and buy food
until she could work again. And she needed to find the money before the Season
began.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Acker
announced as he walked through the door with Juliette.

Acker thumbed through the post
and dropped an envelope into the waste can.

“What is that?” Juliette asked.

“Another invitation to Dagger’s
Haven.” Acker shook his head. “I don’t know why Stanwick keeps sending me
vouchers. I am already a member, though I don’t visit often.” He smiled down at
Juliette, who was apparently the cause of Acker not visiting this particular
establishment.

Dagger’s Haven. It sounded
slightly dangerous. “Is it a gaming hell?” Hélène asked. 

Acker nodded. “No cheating, no
women, and Stanwick always comes out ahead.” 

Mr. Sebastian Stanwick lifted a
silent toast to his departed friend, then tossed back the brandy.  It was a
bloody shame Arrington was gone from this world at such a young age and in such
an inconceivable manner. 

He reached behind his desk in the
office of his gaming hell, Dagger’s Haven, and grasped the bottle of brandy to
refill his glass. The shock of Lady Arrington killing her husband still
lingered. He poured a large amount of the warm, brown liquor into his glass and
set the bottle aside before taking a sip. One never knew what to expect from a
woman. After all, they were the more fragile of the genders. Heaven knew that
their dispositions could change with the wind, but to take a fire iron to one’s
husband’s skull was rather extreme.

Stanwick didn’t blame Lady
Arrington for being angry. Her husband had been dipping his wick in another
woman, but to hit him over the head with a fire iron? And she hadn’t stopped
there; she’d hit him several more times. At least, those were the rumors.

Had she beat him first and when
he didn’t die, she struck him in the head? Or had she struck him in the head
first and then proceed to beat his lifeless body until her anger was dispelled?
Surely one whack against the skull was quite enough.

Stanwick shuddered at the
thought.

Regardless, it was a horrible way
to die. There were certainly less gruesome ways that Lady Arrington could have
punished her husband.

Stanwick leaned back, tipping the
chair so it balanced on the back two legs. He cradled the snifter of brandy as
he tried to think of a reasonable punishment. Denying him access to her bed
would do no good since he preferred another’s anyway. She didn’t hold the purse
strings, so she couldn’t cut him off. 

He stared up at the ceiling. The
candles cast a bright light that dimmed into shadows, leaving half of the
ceiling in near darkness. There really were no ways a lady could punish her
husband. A gentleman had many options, such as denying her pin money, sending
her to the country for life, or refusing to spend time with her. Really, a
gentleman’s options were endless. No wonder ladies felt helpless in these
matters. It might just explain much of their behavior.     

Stanwick righted the chair, the
front legs hitting the wooden floor with a thud. Women were unable to respond
to uncomfortable situations with a reasonable emotion, Lady Arrington being a
perfect example. Why didn’t gentlemen understand that women, as a whole, were
delicate creatures in mind and in body, and great care should be taken so they
were not distressed? 

He leaned forward and placed his
elbows on the desk, staring ahead at the closed door of his office. Were all
women prone to madness if not taken care of properly? 

The thought gave him pause. It
was a frightening thought indeed, and all the more reason he was glad he never
planned to marry. The pact he’d made following Arrington’s funeral only
solidified that vow. 

Staring into the fire burning
brightly behind the grate, Stanwick relaxed in his chair again and took another
sip of the brandy. He had yet to witness a woman behave the same as another
woman would in a similar situation. Where Lady Arrington took a fire iron to
her husband, his mother had retreated into herself until she was only a shell
of the woman he had known as a child. After father lost everything they owned
gambling he turned to drink. That is what killed him in the end. It was a shame
he didn’t have the decency to die at home, but in his mistresses bed instead.

 That had been the fatal blow to
mother. She had given up. Too humiliated to go into public and too hurt to eat.
His uncle, Earl Walcutt, did nothing to help mother, which probably angered
Sebastian more than his father’s activities. Uncle could have easily seen that
the debts were cleared, but did not feel they were his responsibility. However,
he made certain Stanwick got an education that would rival any lord’s son but
that was only because Stanwick was the heir. His uncle had only daughters and
it was unlikely there would be a son in the future. Unfortunately, the neglect
his uncle showed toward mother would be his downfall. Never would Stanwick
marry and he most certainly would not sire the required heir. The title could
go hang and disappear in to oblivion for all he cared. His younger brother
might do the necessary duty, but Stanwick was not compelled to do so himself. 

Besides, even if Stanwick felt
the urge to procreate and provide a future for the family, he didn’t want to be
saddled with a wife. There were too many instances where it do not go well for
the husband. 

The firelight reflected off the
fire iron standing in its holder as the flames danced. He had never thought of
it as a deadly weapon before, but it looked lethal from where Stanwick sat and
nobody was even holding it. Beside it was a glass case filled with a variety of
weapons. He could use the knives, swords, and guns with deadly accuracy, not
that he ever had despite the rumors. Stanwick simply kept them on display to
discourage anyone who thought to threaten him when called to the office to
discuss gambling debts. 

Stanwick looked from the case,
back to the fire iron, and then to the small but heavy figurine of a child
sitting at the corner of his desk. It had been a favorite of his mother’s, yet
even that innocent object could be used to harm someone. In fact, almost any
object could be used if the lady was in the frame of mind to kill her husband. 

Just the thought of some woman,
upset and bordering on madness, coming at him with a weapon sent a trickle of
fear through him. If it were a man, Stanwick wouldn’t hesitate to use his
dagger, but he could never physically harm a woman, no matter what she did. If
he ever was the cause of scarred or bruised skin, Stanwick wasn’t quite sure he
could forgive himself. 

He took a drink, and the liquid
burned down his throat, warming his belly. 

If only women were more like men,
life would be much easier.

Stanwick finished his drink and
placed the glass on his desk. At least he was safe in Dagger’s Haven where no
women were ever allowed.