No Place for a Dame (41 page)

For the first time a touch of uneasiness betrayed itself on Knowlton’s grandfatherly face. He cleared his throat and motioned behind him. A small figure slipped in beside him. Will.

Knowlton’s expression was apologetic. “Young Will here has been working for me for some time, keeping me apprised of Mr. Bees’s endeavors.”

Giles stared at the boy, surprised by the sting he felt at the boy’s duplicity. “You mean, the dog… the whole thing was stage—”

“No!” Will said. “That part were true. It were only after I come with Belle to yer house and Sir Knowlton gets wind of it that he asks me to…” He trailed off, his face filled with misery.

“Asked you to report on me.”

The boy’s gaze fell, abashed.

Giles did not blame him. He blamed Knowlton. “You contrived the whole thing, didn’t you? You knew Jameson was going mad. You knew
he thought I could tell him where Seward was. You probably even encouraged him in that belief. How? Vedder?” He could see he was right.

“Then you sat back and waited, knowing it was only a matter of time before he did something that would take him out of the game, leaving you the sole director of the whole organization.”

Knowlton did not deny it. He simply said, without the least bit of gloating, “It’s for the best. Now, before you lose too much blood, I suggest you tell your very brave young lady here to let me take Jameson into custody.”

He did not wait for Giles to comply but moved to Jameson’s side and took his arm. The fight seemed to have gone out of the old man. His chin sank to his chest and he shuffled forward. Giles did not trust this for a second.

“Be careful,” he said.

“Do not worry. Mr. Burke is without. Young Will here insisted that he come. And my men are waiting at the lichyard gate.” Whatever he saw in Avery’s eyes apparently reassured him, for with a slight bow of his head, he pulled Jameson to him and propelled him outside.

“Oh,” he said, pausing at the door. “And please, Giles, stop looking for Jack. I promise you he and his bride are safe and well. Had you known where they were, you would have surely given them up to protect Miss Quinn. Which is exactly why you do not know. Nor ever shall.”

And with that, they disappeared.

Giles met Avery’s eyes. “Put down that gun, you bloodthirsty wench. It’s done,” he said as he felt the ground swelling beneath him and his knees begin to buckle.

The last thing he remembered seeing was her feet flying across the mausoleum floor.

God, the woman could run.

Epilogue

One year later

A
fter much deliberation, the Royal Astrological Society conferred the 1819 Hipparchus posthumously on Avery Quinn and decided to present the medal to his sister in his honor. But as she was in mourning, they waited the requisite year before inviting her to the ceremony in order to make the presentation. It was a grand occasion, made more so by the fact that the ceremony was being held at Buckingham Palace.

But there was added excitement in the air, for certain members of the society had prevailed upon the palace to make a special presentation of which the new Marchioness of Strand was deliciously unaware.

She had arrived in London with her husband just the night before. A few of the more pompous members of the society were wont to tip their noses up at the unseemly haste with which the marquess had secured his bride’s hand, it being no more than six months after Mr. Quinn’s untimely death, but they were in the vast minority, the greater portion of their members being secret romantics. As are all stargazers, claimed Sir Isbill, the society’s acknowledged leader if no longer president.

Besides, Lady Strand had been revealed to be an astronomer in her own right. Lord Strand had sent much of her brother’s research to the society for their edification. In his unexpunged papers, Avery Quinn had quite openly credited his sister with much of the work—though privately Sir Isbill considered it closer to “most.” Which is why the rigorously fair-minded gentleman had lobbied so fiercely and relentlessly for the great honor that was about to be conferred upon that unsuspecting lady.

Privately he also considered that the Quinns’ parents must have been as odd as their children were brilliant. For instance, they had named both their children, male and female, “Avery”—as well as the family dog. Or so said Lord Strand. Ava was apparently simply a fond contraction.

Sir Isbill looked out on the assembly from where he sat beside His Majesty’s representative, a comfortably unassuming old gentleman named Knowlton. He spotted his nephew Neville some ways back. He finally had hope for the lad.

Earlier this year the boy had stood up to his mother and talked his father into purchasing a commission in a very reputable, if unfashionable, regiment for him. At the very back of the room, hovering outside in the hall beyond the open doors, he saw a boy holding a dog. The lad looked extremely self-satisfied. As did the dog. Sir Isbill sighed. Royal protocol was not what it used to be. But then he remembered the royal in attendance and owned it was not surprising.

Behind him, on a raised dais, the Prince Regent rested his bulk, looking quite congenial. And before them all sat Lady Strand beside her husband, listening politely to their new president drone on about the history of the society. Lord Strand didn’t even make a pretense of listening. His attention kept wandering towards his wife and small wonder, she was lovely.

Really, thought Sir Isbill, why was it that the most undeserving popinjays always managed to secure the most glorious women? Not that Strand was a dullard. No, indeed. Quite bright actually, but he had never lived up to his potential, apparently being content to waste his life as a fashion plate. Well, perhaps Lady Strand would change all that.

The Prince Regent began addressing the crowd. Sir Isbill eagerly fastened his gaze on Lady Strand. He wanted to see her reaction.

She turned to her husband and a beauteous smile curved her lips. Her hand rested briefly on her stomach before returning to his arm. Beauty
and
intelligence. Sir Isbill admitted himself a little beguiled.

He glanced over just as the Prince Regent stood up and approached Lady Strand. The entire assembly sprang to their feet. Obviously caught by surprise, the marchioness did likewise and then swept into a deep curtsey and held it. Lord Strand beamed. The prince smiled. He was well known to like pretty women, no matter how unfortunately intelligent.

“Do you not love a surprise?” Sir Isbill heard him whisper over Lady Strand’s bowed head and then, producing the royal insignia fastened at the end of a satin ribbon, he put it over her head. “It is with great pleasure that We hereby appoint Lady Avery Dalton, Marchioness of Strand, Dame of the Order of the British Empire.”

He held out his hand. “Dame Avery, arise.”

Author’s Note

W
here to begin? I loved finally putting paid to Giles’s long and varied history. He has been tapping me on the shoulder demanding his “happily-ever-after” for years and I am confident he found the wait worth it.

Both the pain and the pleasure of writing historical fiction, especially historical romance, is deciding where to deviate from facts. It’s even harder when the facts are as fascinating as the fiction. German-born astronomer William Herschel was one of the founding members of the Royal Astronomical Society, an entity created a few years after my fictional Royal Astrological Society. But it is his sister, Caroline, who demanded my attention.

Stunted by a bout with typhus, the lady never reached much above four feet in height and though it was assumed that she would never wed, it was also assumed she would be a house servant. Instead, she became her brother’s collaborator, making discoveries in her own right, cataloguing stars, fashioning telescopes, and becoming the first woman to receive a salary for her scientific endeavors. In 1828, the Royal Astronomical Society presented her with their gold medal for her work. No woman was to be awarded it again until 1996.

As for the Secret Committee, try as I did and in spite of my ardent belief some such organization did exist, I could find no mention of one. What I did discover was that after the war with France, England had a plethora of agent provocateurs and spies returning to their native soil. While I found this fascinating, this book is a love story and I did not want to distract from that journey with a side trip into politics. To learn more about these spies’ activities, I suggest reading about the Cato Street Conspiracy and the Peter Loo massacre.

And that frigid weather? Fact: 1819 was one of the six coldest winters in London’s history. Snow fell regularly and fairly deeply. The fact that I am writing this now, in the midst of a fairly cold and fairly snowy and horrifically long Minnesota winter, is pure happenstance.

And finally, while I make every attempt at veracity in my use of language, some words simply have no reasonable synonyms and where I have used the anachronistic term for clarity, I beg your indulgence.

Minnesota, 2013

Connie Brockway

Acknowledgments

I
love my job and for that I have many people to thank: my friends at Montlake Publishing, for supporting my vision and renewing my joy in writing, with a special shout-out to Kelli Martin, Nikki Sprinkle, and Jessica Poore; my husband, David, for uncomplainingly (mostly) and once again surviving on take-out pizza for weeks; my friends Lisa, Terri, Christina, Mary—long shall we run!

And most of all, to Susan Kay Law, they simply couldn’t make a better friend or editor. And a better sister I couldn’t ask for. Love you, Sus!

About the Author

HEIDI EHALT

N
ew York Times
and
USA Today
best-selling author Connie Brockway has received starred reviews from both
Publishers Weekly
and the
Library Journal,
which named
My Seduction
as one of 2004’s top ten romances. An eight-time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award, Brockway has twice been its recipient, for
My Dearest Enemy
and
The Bridal Season.

In 2006 Connie wrote her first women’s contemporary,
Hot Dish,
which won critical raves. Connie’s historical romance
The Other Guy’s Bride
was the launch book for Montlake Romance. Today Brockway lives in Minnesota with her husband, who is a family physician, and two spoiled mutts.

Sign up for more from Connie Brockway!

http://www.conniebrockway.com/mailing_list.php
https://twitter.com/ConnieBrockway
https://www.facebook.com/ConnieBrockwayFans