Lady in Red
SIGNET
ECLIPSE
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Máire Creegan, 2013
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ISBN 978-1-101-60934-7
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Find out more about Headline Eternal
2011 Golden Heart winner Máire Claremont first fell in love with Mr Rochester, not Mr Darcy. Drawn to his darkness, she longed to find a tortured hero of her own . . . until she realised the ramifications of Rochester locking his first wife up in his attic. Discovering the error of her ways, Máire now looks for a real-life Darcy and creates deliciously dark heroes on the page. Oh, and she wants everyone to know her name is pronounced
Moira
. Her parents just had to give her an Irish Gaelic name.
‘With the first in the Mad Passions trilogy, Claremont establishes herself as a force in the genre– to be kept on readers’ shelves alongside Anne Stuart, Anna Campbell, and Jennifer Ashley’
Romantic Times
‘Claremont delivers a tale of love, determination, scandal, and plenty of angst’
Publishers Weekly
‘This is the debut novel from author Claremont, who weaves an absorbing, complex story through Victorian society, touching on some of the more disturbing aspects of the time . . . an intense, compelling read with a rewarding “good conquers evil” ending’
Kirkus Reviews
‘Has as much romance, adventure, passion, torment, and triumph as any one love story could deliver . . . a book to savour page by page and then add to your keeper shelf’
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author Grace Burrowes
‘Dark, dramatic, and intense,
The Dark Lady
will keep you hooked to the very last page’ Anna Campbell, author of
Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed
‘Intense, bold, gripping, and passionate,
The Dark Lady
is a daring novel not to be ignored’ Leanna Renee Hieber, award-winning author of
The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker
‘Real, intelligent, and gritty but above all deeply romantic. In my opinion, Máire Claremont is the stunning reincarnation of the Brontë sisters’ Delilah Marvelle, award-winning author of
Forever a Lady
Mad Passions Series
The Dark Lady
Lady In Red
The Dark Affair
A richly romantic and enthralling novel of beauty, passion and scandalous secrets from the acclaimed author of
The Dark Lady
.
Lady Mary Darrel should be the envy of London. Instead, all society believes her dead. For Mary holds a secret so dangerous, her father chose to keep her locked away . . . and have a grave made for her near her mother’s. Driven to the edge of desperation, Mary manages to escape the asylum, only to find that her fate yet again rests in the hands of a man . . .
Edward Barrons, Duke of Fairleigh, longs for some way to escape the torment of his father’s crimes. In Mary’s warrior spirit and haunted gaze – which so mirrors his own – he finally sees his path to redemption. He will stop at nothing to keep her safe, even as she seeks revenge. But will the passion they discover in each other be enough to save them from their demons?
For my mother, Kathryn, who gave me my love of writing and who always believed.
I miss you.
Once again, I have my favorite women to thank. Delilah Marvelle, I adore you, sister mine. Where would my writing be without you? Lacey Kaye, you are such a rock star and I’ll never forget all your support for this series. Helen Breitweiser, thank you so much for always standing behind me, no matter how tough the situation, and Jesse Feldman, you’ve given my characters a home and made them stronger with your guidance. I can’t say thank you enough.
London
1865
L
ady Mary, only daughter of the Duke of Duncliffe, stood silently on the doorstep of the servants’ entrance to one of London’s many whorehouses and dared herself to knock. It was no ordinary whorehouse. Oh, no. This particular establishment was her last and only chance at salvation.
The irony didn’t escape her that most would consider this door the path to hell, not heaven. But thanks to the machinations of her father, she was not most.
Cold, piercing raindrops slashed down on her raised white knuckles. Her pale flesh glowed unnaturally in the gas-lamp light and pelting water. What little color she’d once had had vanished due to her imprisoned existence these past years. Weaving slightly, her muscles burning with the ache of sleeping in roadside ditches and on muddy fields, she braced one hand against the cold white stone doorway. With the other, she grabbed the brass knocker and rapped it against the polished red door.
There was a scuffle of shoes against stone on the other side and then the wide door swung open on iron hinges.
A girl, her white mobcap fixed atop nut brown hair, gaped. Her round brown eyes traveled the length of Mary’s bedraggled frame, widening so far the orbs might have popped out of their sockets. A peep of dismay—no doubt from taking in her mud-stained skirts, the ratted quilt about her shoulders, and her hair, her shorn hair—passed her plump lips.
“Look ’ere, me girl,” said the maid in her low, thick East End inflection. “We don’t take in no common doxies.”
Mary leaned against the frame. Now that she had finally reached her destination, all the strength she’d clung to seemed to be fading. “Please, let me in.”
The rain began to pour down in furious late-winter earnest, slicking her short hair to the top of her head. Mary cringed against the icy assault, eyeing the space between the door and frame as if it were a portal to bliss.
The girl, most likely the scullery maid, started to shut the door, her round face creasing with disgust.
Oh, no, she would not!
Mary thrust herself forward, jutting herself between the door and the jamb. For one brief moment she was sure the maid would slam it against her, bruising flesh with no care for bone. Thankfully, the maid hesitated and Mary placed her hands on the rain-spattered panel. “I beg of you.”
The girl shook her head, the mobcap fluttering. “I told you, I did. We only ’ave ladies of ’igh quality ’ere.”
Mary drew herself up. “I am a lady. Born and bred,” she declared, determined to convince the maid. “But even true ladies fall upon times of difficulty.”
That much was true. Once, she had been one of the most pampered young ladies in Christendom and beyond, but few souls from that hallowed realm would recognize her now. “I have traveled a very far distance. Please, allow me to see Madame Yvonne.”
The girl lingered in the doorway, her eyes darting around in indecision. “You do speak like a lady, but I can’t let you in. I’ll get the sack.”
“You’ll get the sack if you don’t.” Mary’s patience swiftly disappeared as that last vestige of strength she’d summoned sputtered out. She’d come too far to be turned away at a servants’ door.
She attempted to suck in a steadying breath, but coughed instead, a harsh rumble. Each laborious breath she took strained her chest, but she threatened all the same: “I’ll call upon the m-main entrance if you prefer.”
The girl’s mouth dropped open, her face paling at the very idea. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Mary glared back at her, teeth chattering. “I have nothing to lose,” she said through numbed lips. “Can you say the same?”
The maid seemed about to protest, but then her gaze hovered over Mary’s face.
Mary lifted her chin. “Will you keep a lady standing in the rain?”
The kitchen servant shook her head and backed out of the doorway.
Without waiting upon ceremony, Mary stumbled in. The amber light and blooming warmth of the kitchen greeted her, its pleasantness bringing a smothered cry of joy to her lips. It was so splendid to see something—anything—that reminded her of what she had once had: a home.
Even if this was only a servants’ hall in a brothel.
A fire burned brightly in the great cooking hearth, decked out with iron pothooks and a steaming kettle. Carrots, potatoes, turnips, and leeks ready to be peeled and chopped lined the long oak worktable. It was the most perfect thing she had seen since the day before her mother died.
She didn’t dare to blink. If she did, this moment might vanish like the laudanum dreams that came and went with the roll and fall of one’s thoughts.
A cat lay curled up on the stuffed dark brown armchair before the fire, his tabby stripes rumbling ever so gently as the contented animal purred. She couldn’t recall the last time she had seen a civilized cat. She had become all too accustomed to the yowling beasts that hunted down rats, hissing and spitting if you tried to touch them.
