Chapter
1
Puddling-on-the-Wold,
September 1882
“It’s
Lady Maribel all over again,” the grocer Frank Stanchfield muttered to his
wife, checking the lock to his back room. “How the girl discovered the
telegraph machine is a mystery.”
Except
it wasn’t such a mystery, really. Lady Sarah Marchmain—“Sadie” to her late mama
and very few friends—had eyes, after all, and there it was behind an open alley
window, gleaming on a worn oak desk. She had climbed in, her tartan trousers
very convenient for hoisting oneself into the building. After being caught
trying to send a message to who knows who, she was now unrepentantly inspecting
the jars of candy on the shop counter.
She
might try to steal some of it, if only the shopkeepers would stop hovering over
her.
“Bite
your tongue!” Mrs. Stanchfield whispered, looking over nervously at Sadie.
Apparently no one wanted another Lady Maribel de Winter in Puddling.
The
first had been bad enough. Sadie had heard of her in snatches from the
villagers, and the woman’s portrait hung in the parish hall. Her wicked
reputation had outlived her, even if her decades of good works once she married
had mitigated some of it. She had been a wild young thing who would have made
Napoleon quake in his boots. Or take her to bed. Lady Maribel had been,
according to gossip, irresistible to men. Fortunately her husband, a local
baronet called Sir Colin Sykes, had taken her in hand as best he could once
they were married.
Sadie
was determined never to be taken in hand. Puddling was known as a famous
reputation-restorer, a place to rusticate and recalibrate. Prominent British
families had sent their difficult relatives here for almost eighty years. Lady
Maribel was among the first to be gently incarcerated within its limits in
1807, according to the elderly
vicar’s
wife, who seemed to know everything about everyone dating back to William the
Conqueror.
Now
it was Sadie’s turn to be gently incarcerated, and she didn’t like it one bit.
The
village had a spotless reputation. It was a last resort before a harsher
hospital, or worse, killing one’s own offspring. Or parent. Lady Sarah
Marchmain had angered her father so thoroughly that they’d come to blows. When
the Duke of Islesford dropped her off, he had been sporting a significant black
eye.
Well-deserved,
in her opinion.
Sadie’s
own eyes were unbruised and light green, the color of beryl, or so her numerous
suitors had said. Occasionally they threw in jade or jasper—it was all so much
nonsense. Right now she was examining the penny candy in a glass jar, lots of
shiny, jewel-like drops that looked so very tempting. Sweet, edible rubies and
citrine, emeralds and onyx.
Frank
Stanchfield hustled over to the counter and screwed the lid on tighter. She
licked her lips.
Unfortunately,
she didn’t have a penny to her name. She was entirely dependent on her
housekeeper Mrs. Grace to dole out a pitiful allowance every Friday, and Friday
was millions of days away. Sadie had spent the last of her money on a cinnamon
bun earlier and had reveled in every bite.
Her
father’s draconian restrictions were designed to sting. Or so he thought. Sadie
didn’t really mind being impoverished and hungry in Puddling-on-the-Wold. It
meant she was not about to be auctioned off to Lord Roderick Charlton, or any
other idiot her idiot father owed money to. The Duke of Islesford’s taste in
men and luck at cards was, to put it bluntly, execrable.
So
far Sadie had overstayed her visit by one week. Originally consigned to her
cottage for twenty-eight days, she had somehow not managed to be “cured” in
that time.
Rehabilitated.
Restored.
Brought
to reason.
Knuckle
under was more like it. She was not getting married. In fact, she’d like to
stay in Puddling forever. It was very restful. Quiet. The little lending
library was surprisingly well stocked, and she’d gotten a lot of reading done
between lectures from the prosy ancient vicar who instructed her daily. She
also helped Mrs. Grace keep the cottage up to a ducal daughter’s snuff.
Despite
the fact that Sadie had no interest in becoming a wife, she was remarkably
domestic. It came of hanging about the kitchens of Marchmain Castle, she
supposed. The servants had been her only friends when she was a little girl and
she’d been eager to help them. All that had changed after she was presented to
the queen at seventeen, wearing those ridiculous hoops and feathers that
threatened to put out someone’s eye. Suddenly, Sadie became a commodity, a
bargaining chip to improve her father’s ailing finances.
A
surprising number of gentlemen—if you could call them that, since most men were
absolute, avaricious, thoughtless pigs—were interested in acquiring a tall,
redheaded, blueblooded, sharp-tongued and two-fisted duke’s daughter as wife.
For the past four years, she’d avoided them with alacrity, aplomb, and those aforementioned
fists.
Needless
to say, her reputation was cemented in ruination.
It
amused Sadie that her father was using the last of his funds to lock her away
here in this very expensive Puddling prison, hoping that she would change her
mind, acquiesce and marry the one man who remained steadfastly interested.
Not
bloody likely.
She
touched the glass jar with longing. “What may we help you with, Lady Sarah?”
The
poor grocer sounded scared to death. His wife hid behind him. Sadie batted her
lashes. Sometimes this feminine trick worked, although these Puddling people
seemed remarkably impervious to charm. They were hardened souls, harboring the
odd, uncooperative, and unwanted scions of society for a hefty fee, believing
that being cruel to be kind was the only way.
“Do
forgive my transgression, Mr. Stanchfield. I so longed to communicate with my
old governess, Miss Mackenzie. Miss Mac, as I so affectionately call her. I
found a book on telegraphy in the library and wondered if I had any aptitude
for it,” she lied. Science in all its forms confounded her. In truth, she’d
read nothing but Gothic romances since her arrival, very much enjoying the
fraying sixty-year-old books written by an anonymous baroness.
Moreover,
Sadie’s old governess had been dead for six years and had been an absolute
Tartar in life. There had been little affection on her part,Sadie thought
ruefully. The woman was at this moment no doubt giving the devil a lesson on
evil and grading him harshly.
“You
know that’s forbidden, miss. No telegrams, no letters. Perhaps when you are
r-r-released, you may visit with the lady. A r-reason for your good behavior,
what?”
Goodness,
she was causing the poor fellow to stutter. She stilled her lashes.
“Ah.”
Sadie gave a dramatic sigh. “But I just can’t seem to get the hang of it. Being
Puddling-perfect, that is. Every time I get close, something seems to happen.”
Like
stealing Ham Ross’s wheelbarrow full of pumpkins. It had been very difficult to
push her loot uphill, and so many of the bloody orange things chose to roll out
and smash along the road. Or turning up in church in her tartan trousers...her stolen
tartan trousers. Some poor Puddlingite was foolish enough to hang them on a
clothesline to
tempt her. After some tailoring—Sadie was handy with a needle—they fit her
slender waist and long legs as if they were made for her.
Her
father had always wanted a son. Instead her horrible cousin George would be the
next duke, and Sadie would lose the only home—well, castle—she’d ever known.
It
wasn’t fair. She sighed again.
“Here,
now, Lady Sarah. I don’t suppose I’ll miss a few boiled sweets.” Mr.
Stanchfield relented and unscrewed the jar, his wife looking disapproving behind
him. He filled a paper twist with not nearly enough, and passed them to her.
Sadie
saw her opportunity for well-deserved drama. Any chance to appear happily
unhinged must be seized with two hands, so she might stay here in Puddling just
a little longer. Dropping to the floor on her tartan-covered knees, she howled.
She had been practicing howling at night once her housekeeper Mrs.Grace went
home. Her neighbors were under the impression a stray dog was in heat in the
village, perhaps even a pack of them.
“Oh!
You are too good to me! I shall remember this always!”
She
snuffled and snorted, slipping a red candy into her mouth. Red always tasted
best.
“A
polite thank you would do just as well.”
The
voice was chilly. Sadie looked up from her self-inflicted chestpounding and the
candy fell from her open mouth. Good heavens. She had never seen this man
before in all the walking she was made to do up and down the hills for her
daily exercise. Where had he been hiding? He was beautiful.
No,
not beautiful exactly. His haughty expression was too harsh for beauty.
Compelling, perhaps. Arresting.But, she reminded herself, he was a man, and
therefore wanting. Lacking. Probably annoying. Not probably—certainly. Lady
Sarah Jane Marchmain was twenty-one years old and had more than enough experience
with men in her short lifetime to know the truth.
The
man reached a gloveless hand to her to help her up, but it didn’t look quite
clean. Something green was under his fingernails—paint? Plant material? Sadie
made a leap of faith and gripped it anyway, crunching her candy underfoot when
he lifted her to her full height.
He
was still taller than she was.
Not
lacking there. Not lacking physically anywhere that she could see. His hair was
brown, curly and unruly, his eyebrows darker and formidable. His nose was
strong and straight, his lips full, his face bronzed from the sun. His eyes—oh,
his eyes. Blue was an inadequate adjective. Cerulean? Sapphire? Aquamarine?
She’d have to consult a thesaurus.
But
they weren’t kind.
She
found herself curtseying, her hand still firmly in his. “Thank you, sir, for
coming to my rescue.” She fluttered her eyelashes
again.
“You
were in no danger on the floor. Mrs. Stanchfield sweeps it thrice a day. One
could eat off it, it’s so immaculate.”
He
dropped Sadie’s hand and kicked the crushed candy aside.
The
grocer’s wife pinked. “Thank you, Mr. Sykes.”
Sykes.
That was the name of the family the infamous Lady Maribel married into.
Interesting.
“I
only speak the truth, madam.”
Sadie
considered whether she should fall to the floor again. It would be fun to gauge
this Mr. Sykes’s strength if she pretended to swoon. Would he pick her up and
hold her to his manly chest? Whisper assurances in her ear? Smooth loose
tendrils of hair behind her pins? But perhaps he’d just leave her there to rot.
He wasn’t even looking
at
her anymore.
Sadie
was used to being looked at. For one thing, she was hard to miss. At nearly six
feet, she towered over most men. Her flaming hair was another beacon, her skin
pearlescent, her ample bosom startling on such a slender frame. She had been chased by men mercilessly, even
after she had made it crystal clear she had no interest. These past years had
tested her wits and firmed her resolve. She was mistress of her own heart,
body, and mind, and determined to remain so.
Mr.
Sykes probably knew that—apparently everyone in Puddling had received a dossier
on her. She’d come across a grease-stained one at the bakeshop under a tray of
Bakewell tarts, and had tucked it into her pocket for quiet perusal, along with
one delicious raspberry pastry. Theft was apparently in her blood. It had been
most informative. The dossier, not the tart. Sadie had been gleeful reading an
account of her past recalcitrance. She rather admired the clever ways she’d
gone about subverting her father’s plans for her—she’d forgotten half of them. It
had meant, however, that she had to exercise creativity in Puddling and not
repeat her previous pranks. No sheep in the dining room. No bladder filled with
beet juice tossed out the window. No punching fiancés or fathers. There was
only the one father, but Sadie had endured several fiancés.
The
latest, Lord Roderick Charlton, was getting impatient. He’d given her father
quite a lot of money to secure her hand. To be fair, he’d tried to woo Sadie
with credible effort. There wasn’t anything really wrong with Roderick, she
supposed. But there wasn’t anything right about him either. If Sadie could just
resist the pressure to marry, she’d come into a substantial fortune when she turned
twenty-five. She wouldn’t have to turn it over to some man, and her father
wouldn’t be able to touch it. She could live her life just as she liked. She
might even buy herself a small castle, if one could be found. One that wouldn’t
fall down around her ears. One that had working fireplaces and no rats.
However—and
this was a huge however—the Duke of Islesford was threatening to have her
declared incompetent, seize her funds, and lock her away in a most unpleasant
private hospital. Sadie did not think it was an idle threat, and to some, it
might look as if she deserved to be there. She was much too old now for the
tricks she’d played, and four years
was a very, very long time to stall. Sadie was beginning to realize she hadn’t
done herself any favors with the pumpkins or the trousers or the howling.
But
she couldn’t succumb—she just couldn’t. No matter how many times Mr.
Fitzmartin, the elderly vicar, reminded her of a proper woman’s place—as helper
to her husband, silent in church, subordinate, obedient—she felt her fingers
close into a fist.
