Mistaken for a Cyprian (Runaway Regency Brides Book 3)

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  PREVIEW: THE PRISONER OF LOVE

  KEEP IN TOUCH!

  Copyright © Regina Darcy 2019

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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  ONE

  Miss Phoebe Connolly gazed out the window of the stagecoach as the English scenery went by.

  It was summer, and after more than a month of travel by ship and horse, it was pleasant to be looking at something other than the water. But while Phoebe could allow herself to be diverted from unappealing thoughts by the sight of beauty and nature, her sister was less readily appeased.

  Phoebe stole a side glance at her twin and looked away; it seemed that Prudence had been nothing but angry ever since they had learned that they were to be sent from their school in the south of France to their new guardian’s home in London.

  “It is a very pretty countryside landscape,” Phoebe ventured, hoping to entice her sister to look out the window.

  “How could Papa do such a thing!” Prudence exclaimed.

  She burst forth in the complaint that had occupied her thoughts since they had learned of their father, the Baron of Bractonby’s death. And because she was Prudence and not one to counterfeit her feelings, her voice was laden with anger.

  But it was not anger born out of grief which consumed nineteen-year-old Prudence Connolly, no it was anger that she and her twin sister had been snatched away from the only home they had known in 14 years.

  The Baron, who despite his flaws as a man and husband had loved his wife, could not endure seeing her image so clearly impressed upon the features of not one but two identical five-year-old daughters.

  The liberties of his lifestyle led his associates to believe that he had sent the girls away because he intended to resume his former life as a man of lascivious habits and promiscuous pairings, which indeed he had done.

  But Phoebe, who tried to see the best in everyone, even an errant, absent father, stubbornly held to her view that he had not called for them to join him in England because he could not bear to be reminded of the loss of their dear Mama.

  “He could not help dying, Prudence dear,” Phoebe reminded her sister.

  “Of course he could have done,” Prudence retorted crossly. “He could have lived a more circumspect life which did not include consorting with the likes of women from whom he would contract the French disease.”

  Phoebe winced.

  Prudence, despite all her years in the boarding school, had proven immune to the refining veneer, which the teachers had endeavoured to impress upon all their pupils. Young ladies ought not to even know of the existence of such indelicate conditions, but Prudence not only knew that such maladies existed but had discovered that Papa had expired from one of them.

  “Because of that,” Prudence went on, “we must leave our home in France and travel to England, which is entirely foreign to us, to be taken under the guardianship of a man to whom we have never been introduced. This Christopher Ambrose, I have learned, is a stranger to the standards of propriety and is, in fact, a rakehell of renown.”

  Phoebe sighed and continued to look out of her window. The scenery outside the carriage revealed a countryside ripe in the bloom of summer. Phoebe wished that she had her paints with her and a canvas. How pleasant it would be to paint such lovely trees, she thought.

  “Phe, did you not hear me? I speak of the Earl of Henton, to whom Papa entrusted guardianship of us.”

  “Yes, Prue, but perhaps he will have very little to do with us and we shall get along well enough. A—a rakehell,” Phoebe stumbled over the word, which conveyed an image of a moustache-faced European with knowing eyes and an excess of vices which could not even be named, so abominable were they, “is not likely to seek the company of two such as we are, fresh from school and decidedly inexperienced in the ways of the world. Perhaps he will send us to school,” she said hopefully.

  “We are nineteen years of age, Phe. He will not send us to school. He will choose husbands for us. Doubtless dissolute men of his ilk who are seeking brides among the aristocracy, or to pay off their debts, so that they may escape their creditors. Such men are not gentlemen, they are purveyors of vice. The Earl may marry us off as he wishes; perhaps he owes a favour, or gambling debts, to some particularly vile man, an older man, I shouldn’t wonder, who wants a young wife to imbue his waning manhood with vigour so that he may achieve an heir and—”

  “Prudence!” Phoebe was aghast by her sister’s word. “I cannot think where you contrive such opinions. We are not heiresses, as you very well know, and if we had any hopes of bringing a rich dowry to a marriage, it would have to be substantially augmented by the Earl. Which he is certainly not obliged to do. As far marrying us off, why—we do not even know the gentleman and we cannot foist our lack of knowledge upon him as if our ignorance must make him ignoble.”

  Prudence heaved an exasperated sigh, her bosom still consumed with rage for the various things which might happen as a result of the unknown and unmet Earl’s assumed lack of moral character.

  “Phoebe, you are my sister and dearer to me than anyone in the entire world, but you are of such a kind nature that you assume others to be the same. I am your older sister and I must be vigilant in looking out for you.”

  “Prue,” Phoebe said, a smile turning up the corners of her lips, “you are but ten minutes older than I.”

  “Nonetheless,” Prudence insisted, “I am the elder and I am looking out for your wellbeing. Should this, this—this rogue of an Earl force either of us to do something which is either forbidden to our will or forbidden to our conscience, we shall flee.”

  “And go where?”

  “We shall take our belongings and sell them and we shall open a school for girls.”

  Phoebe stared at her with a raised eyebrow.

  “As we shall be the instructors, we shan’t need to hire any staff, so we shall save money there. We shall find a building which will serve us as a school, someplace in the country so that we shall not be troubled by the city derelicts who prey upon the helpless. But it must be near the city as well, for we shall draw our students from among the best families and they are all in London during this time.”

  “What shall we teach them?” Phoebe asked faintly. She was not a bluestocking and although she enjoyed reading poetry and novels as well as music and sketching and painting, she could not presume to be qualified to instruct.

  “Why, you shall teach the girls watercolours, of course, and poetry and music. I shall teach them mathematics and science and riding. We shall both teach them French.”

  “I . . . this seems a very bold sort of a plan.”

  “Desperate measures call for boldness, Phe. I have already begun to inquire about a suitable property. It’s quite an expensive business and for a moment I was somewhat daunted, but then
I reviewed our assets.”

  “Our what?”

  “Our assets. We have Mama’s jewellery; you remember that Papa settled it upon us when we turned twelve. I daresay he did so because he feared that he would otherwise lose it at cards. But Mama’s jewellery is of quite good quality. A little old-fashioned perhaps, but with the quality of the gems, we should have no trouble at all in finding a buyer.”

  “I should hate having to sell Mama’s belongings,” Phoebe said tearfully. “It’s all we have of her.”

  “Oh, we would each keep one piece of jewellery, certainly, as a remembrance of her and of our affection for her. We shall not sell everything.”

  “Perhaps the Earl will be a kind guardian and we will not be forced into marriage and we shall not have to sell anything,” Phoebe suggested hopefully.

  “I fear he is a villain,” Prudence replied without hesitation.

  “How can you be so certain when we have never even met him?”

  “Phe, Papa only knew men of dubious character. He never went to church; he spent his time in the company of drunkards and Cyprians. Naturally, his choice of a guardian for us would have come from this base pool of candidates. We must face the truth and be ready to act accordingly.

  Phoebe sighed. Perhaps Prudence was correct in her estimation. They were not the same.

  Phoebe, who knew that she preferred to view the world as a place where wonderful things might happen at any moment. She could not fault Prudence for being cross with Papa, who had spent his living recklessly rather than providing for the future of his daughters, but she refused to believe that he had not provided a safe-haven for them upon his death.

  As she pondered the matter, the sun began its descent and the verdant tapestry of England in the summer accrued a multitude of shadows that concealed the bright flowers and majestic trees.

  The hours passed and it was nighttime.

  It had been a long day and Phoebe felt her eyelids begin to droop heavily as the darkening sky above and her own weariness made it hard to stay awake.

  “Fee?”

  Prudence, whose senses were too heightened for anything so mundane as weariness to overcome her, heard the sound of her sister’s breathing alter and realised that her twin had fallen asleep.

  Prudence rose from her side of the carriage and crossed over to Phoebe’s side, where she placed her folded shawl beneath her sister’s head. Phoebe murmured in her sleep but did not waken.

  Prudence returned to her seat. They should arrive soon. It was best if Phoebe slept now, for who could tell when the peace of slumber would return to them?

  The Earl might be any manner of cad.

  Perhaps his London townhouse was staffed by servants of low esteem who would neglect to bring their bathwater or forget to take their trays. What if his home was an indicator of debts and was ill-furnished, with costs trimmed by not lighting fires in the private rooms?

  Perhaps he had a mistress under his roof, a jealous, sniping female who would expect the twins to function as her servants. All manner of debauchery could await them. Yes, she thought as she rose again to place her sister’s shawl over her sleeping form, best to sleep now. Circumstances might require them to remain awake at night and to take turns sleeping during the day, lest they be unprepared for whatever trials might be in store.

  The world beyond the carriage window was dark. Mercilessly dark, Prudence thought. But suddenly, as the carriage made a turn, she beheld a street which seemed to be ablaze with light, so much so that it seemed as if it must house supernatural beings. As the carriage drew closer, she saw that it was one house which was lighting up the dark area around it with such profligacy. With the aid of the light from the house, she could identify a long row of carriages in front of the structure. Was there a gala event of some sort going on? Or, her mind raced upon her former musings, was he holding a bacchanalian revel of such wicked hedonism that voyeurs were indulging in their most unbridled desires, watching as scenes of unabated lust took place before them?

  Did he not even care that his wards, two defenceless young women dressed in mourning for their dead father, were arriving today? He had to be aware of the date, for she had sent the message herself and had been assured by the innkeeper’s wife, who certainly seemed a most reliable and efficient woman, that the message would arrive before the carriage.

  “Phoebe,” she said, gently shaking her sister’s shoulder, “we are quite nearly at our destination and we must look presentable, no matter what ill-natured fate may be upon us.”

  Phoebe slowly opened her eyes. “Where—.”

  “We are in the carriage, approaching the London home of the Earl of Henton,’ Prudence said as she briskly shook out the folds of her black mourning dress and lowered the veil of her hat. “We must not look as if we lack breeding, even if, as I fear, we are about to enter the domicile of a man whose manners will prove him to be ill-bred.”

  Phoebe stirred. “You must not think so, Prue,” she protested as she handed her sister the shawl that had served as her pillow. She smiled as she said it; Prudence was such a worry wort. “If the Earl truly is as terrible as you fear, then it may be our duty to reform him.”

  Prudence stared at her sister with matching eyes of deep green eyes that could rival the beauty of emeralds.

  “Bounders do not wish to be reformed! Papa did not want us in England with him whilst he was travelling the path to hell. I doubt if the Earl is any more inclined to see the reformation of his character.”

  “Prudence,” Phoebe asked in an urgent tone, “you do not think that Papa is damned and in hell, surely?”

  “I cannot think otherwise. While Mama was alive, he was, I suppose, a man of some morality, but when she died, he abandoned any effort at following Christian values.”

  “Oh, Prue, that cannot be. Mama would have spoken up for him in heaven,” Phoebe said positively. “She would have been most persuasive.”

  Prudence would not, for the world, cast aspersions on her sister’s rosy view of the afterlife. For her part, while she was absolutely certain that their beloved and blameless mother was in residence with the angels, she was equally sure that Papa was frantically trying to beat out the flames of hell that would be licking at his limbs even now, while all the demons of Satan laughed. It was how the sinful were punished. She had heard the Rector speak on this matter during Sunday sermons many times and there could be no mistaking his meaning. Alas, Papa was in hell and it was likely that the Earl of Henton would, when his time on earth was over, would follow the same path. It was not her duty to reform him; it was her duty to protect herself and her sister from the transgressive nature of his degenerate conduct.

  “Come, Phoebe,” Prudence commanded when the carriage stopped. “We have arrived.” She made the announcement in sombre tones, indicating that reaching this particular destination was not a desirous one.

  The carriage door opened and the driver stood there to help them out. “Miss Connolly,” he said, speaking to Prudence and nodding at Phoebe as a means to include both young ladies in the reference. “I shall bring your trunks up so that the servants can take them to your rooms. . . it seems as if they’re ready to welcome you,” he said doubtfully, eyeing the house and the lights from inside which cast such a glow about the manor.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Prudence said. “I do not expect a welcome. We may well be told to scrub the kitchen or cook supper, we have no idea.”

  “My sister is jesting,” Phoebe said quickly when she saw the look of horror upon the driver’s face. “I am sure that all will be well and we thank you for your care of us during this journey.”

  “Miss Connolly, you’ll both be in my prayers,” the driver assured her fervently as he tugged at the front of his hat.

  “We shall need them,” Prudence muttered. She dusted off an invisible speck of dust and turned to her sister, “Phoebe, shall we venture to enter the dragon’s lair?”

  “I think, dear Prue that we would do better to find out if a
dragon lives there before we call it such.”

  The sisters, side by side, walked up to the front door together. Behind them, the driver walked at a more hesitant pace, apprehensive at what might be encountered behind the door.

  Prudence raised her hand and applied the brass knocker with resolve.

  It was opened by a man who, by his attire, was clearly the butler. He was a man of elder years, dressed properly in black. He had sparse grey hair which encircled his head but was absent in the middle, and a cold, masterful countenance as he looked upon them with a stern gaze. He would have been the very model of a lordly servant were it not for the laurel wreath around his head which perfectly tracked the route of the thinning hair on his scalp.

  Prudence began to speak and then found that she could not think of what to say.

  “You are Miss Connolly and Miss Phoebe Connolly?” the butler said as if there were nothing untoward in his appearance.

  “We are,” Phoebe said in the gap of silence, which followed his query. “The carriage driver has our trunks. May he bring them in?”

  “Certainly,” the butler told her, opening the door. “The footmen will take them to your chambers.”

  In response, a man came forward and picked up one of the trunks. “Very good, Benton,” he said to the butler. “I’ll see to this, and the others as well.”

  “Thank you, Lord Beaton,” the butler replied not at all perturbed that a member of the aristocracy was undertaking a servant's tasks.

  The man who had been addressed as Lord Beaton gave the Connolly twins a bow.

  “Dreadful sorry not to be more welcoming,” he said, “but I haven’t quite got the manner of this deuced sheet and I don’t want to offend anybody. Curse Henton and his outrageous notions!”

  The twins watched as he climbed the staircase, a task made perilous not only by the weight of the trunk but also by the fact that he was wearing a garment which would have been familiar to Socrates or Demosthenes, but was not so readily navigated by the exposed limbs of a man of nineteenth-century England.