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Authors: Isobel Kelly
A Perilous Marriage
A PERILOUS MARRIAGE
Isobel Kelly
Copyright © 2015 by Isobel Kelly
HISTORICAL ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVEL
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An ISOBEL KELLY Title
IMPRINT: Historical Romantic Suspense
A PERILOUS MARRIAGE
Copyright © 2015 by Isobel Kelly
First Publication: 2015
Cover design by Judah Raine
All cover art and logo copyright © 2015 by Isobel Kelly
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
DEDICATION
For my readers who enjoy romance blended with suspense, I hope this story will give you pleasure and many hours of enjoyable reading.
Chapter One
April 1842
“Oh my goodness! Surely this is some artist’s nightmare and not real actions.”
Twilight was darkening the sky beyond the windows of the library as Lady Lucie Annette Braden sat curled in a seat before the flickering fire, the startling yet decidedly intriguing volume now firmly closed on her lap.
The day had been squally, and though the wind had died down after lunch, she had chosen to retreat to the library and occupy herself in some of the more scandalous books her grandfather had collected over the years. She had come across them some time ago tucked in a corner of the library, but at that particular time, had no chance to thoroughly investigate. This afternoon was providential—the inclement weather, her grandmother’s siesta, the fact she was not needed elsewhere, all played their part to give her the solitude she needed to pursue their glaring temptation.
The descriptions and drawings were a revelation for someone as sheltered and so carefully brought up in the traditions of propriety and modesty as she had been, even though, at almost twenty one years old, she was not entirely unaware of worldly affairs beyond the portals of her grandmother’s country house. The pictures were explicit, showing the forms of men and women in flagrant poses—so flagrant, in fact, that she now found herself questioning their veracity. Yet, if they were simply products of the artistic imagination, why keep them in special portfolios? Her knowledge of the world, she realised with some chagrin, was obviously far more limited than she’d presumed.
Her grandmother, from time to time, had spoken of her husband, the duke, his travels abroad, and the valuable antiques he had brought back. Common sense assured her he would not have brought rubbish back, so the portfolios were authentic. Astonishing!
With the light dimming, and loath to light the candles, she tucked the books back in their niche and settled near the fire to rest her eyes and think on what she had read. Half drowsy in the warmth of the glowing logs, it took her a moment to rouse as a knock at the door heralded Rowten, their butler.
“Beg pardon, milady. I’ve fetched tea, and I also have a note for you. Her Grace has a gentleman caller and says she will see you at dinner. Is there is anything else I can do?”
“Thank you, Rowten, tea is splendid. I’d quite forgotten the time.”
She watched the maid carry in a tray with tea and cakes and set it on a table close by and took the note from Rowten.
“You mentioned a gentleman caller? Do I know him?”
“A Mister Chesterman, I believe. He's one of her Grace’s lawyers from London. As you know, Mr Sowerby recently passed away, so Mr Chesterman has come in his place. I’ve seen him before, but he hasn’t been here for a long time. No doubt your grandmama will introduce you when you meet at dinner. The note was delivered by hand from the Tasker Estate.”
Rowten had known Lucie since babyhood so was comfortable in passing on news.
“Thank you, Rowten. I shall enjoy my tea.”
The butler bowed and said, “Very good, milady.” Silent as always, he left.
She poured tea and took a refreshing sip before opening up the letter. It had been a long time since she had received any notes from the neighbouring estate. It must be at least eighteen months since Emmeline had died, and she wondered who could be writing now. She gasped as she swiftly read the words scored heavily across the page, his writing firm and bold. He was back and, unbelievably, daring to ask her and her grandmother to dinner! No doubt, a note had also gone to her Grace.
How provoking! After all that had happened, the man had no right to intrude upon their lives again. When Lord Edmund Tasker had left the country after the tragedy, no one was sorry to see the back of him, least of all her. He would not have known that she knew a great deal of what had happened that night, or the many nights before when she had met Emmeline secretly to listen to her tale of woe and how unhappy she was. Young and unworldly at that point, Lucie was privy to her best friend’s recounting of her new husband’s brutality, but she could only sympathise. She could neither help nor advise and had even been sworn to keep silent and not breathe a word to anyone. She had been tempted to confide her concern in the duchess, but her grandmother was of the old school, and Lucie had no idea how she would react. She could even forbid them meeting again.
The night she had seen Emmeline for the last time in the deserted shepherd’s hut that lay between the two estates where they had played when they were children, she’d begged her dearest friend not to leave. “Get a divorce, Emmy, or tell your parents how cruel he is.”
“You know he would not allow a divorce,” Emmeline replied. “As for them, they made me marry him and did very well out of it. He bought our estate and housed them in a smaller one, but their consequence has risen considerably since then and also their funds. No, Lucie, I don’t care anymore. I’m running away with my lover, Martin, tonight. It should be safe. Edmund has gone to Oxford to play cards with friends but is likely whoring as is his usual pastime when he tires of hitting me and goes in that direction.”
“Dear Emmy, how truly awful for you!” Lucie gasped as her friend lowered her shawl and pulled her dress down to show the bruises on her shoulders and the tops of her breasts.
“Where will you go?”
“Martin has relatives in Yorkshire. We shall live with them until we get our own home.”
“But Martin is only a groom, Emmeline. You’ll have no money.” Lucie was aghast.
“He loves me and will never hurt me. I have to go, Lucie, I can’t bear it any longer.”
The next thing she heard was that Emmeline was dead. The carriage Emmy was in hit an obstacle just west of Aylesbury and turned over, killing the two occupants. The story released by Edmund was that his wife was joining him near Oxford to attend a dinner with friends. A member of his staff was driving her. They had seemingly taken the wrong road and got lost. He was truly devastated over the death of his young wife, or so he said. How dissembling and untrustworthy could one be? Yet no one disbelieved him.
Lucie had wondered for a long time whether he had known beforehand what Emmeline planned and whether he had arranged the accident and the story put out to counteract gossip. Except nothing could ever be proved, and after Edmund left the country, Lucie could only mourn the death of the childhood friend she missed so deeply. After all this time, why had Edmund Tasker returned, and why was he asking them to dinner? She prayed her grandmother would refuse the invitation.
Dinner was a restrained affair attended only by her Grace, Mr Chesterman, and the Vicar, Henry Buckthorn, and his wife, Molly. Eleanor Braden, Duchess of Ashbury Mead, a manor close by Abingdon, was in the habit of asking the Buckthorns to dinner. They were usually a cordial pair and happy to take up a late invitation. Unfortunately, the funeral had taken place that day of one of the oldest inhabitants in the local village, a man much revered, so they felt that conviviality was out of place and were correspondingly subdued. Edgar Chesterman was always reserved. His profession never called for anything other than a reticent manner, and he was too old to change. Eleanor was deep in thought for most of the meal, though she responded politely to the remarks addressed to her.
Lucie, too, was silent, busily turning over in her mind the strange invitation from Edmund Tasker. Obviously, he had only just arrived, or she would have heard before, village gossip being what it was. So why had he returned? Why had he almost immediately invited them to dinner in view of the fact that she had gathered from Emmeline that he never did anything by chance. His movements were planned to a fine degree. In the past, her grandmother had never been a frequent guest with Emmeline’s parents, even though the girls were best friends. Eleanor had always thought them too snobbish and boring in the extreme. It was no great loss, as far as she was concerned, when they moved away to make room for Edmund Tasker. The whole affair had turned into an unusual situation, for after marrying Emmeline, Tasker had acquired his wife’s former home and, re-establishing her parents into a smaller abode, had changed the name of the estate to his own surname—an unheard of event in their rural community.
Despite this strange action, or maybe because of it, he still had not been accepted locally as a long term resident. He was rated only as a comer-in, and the villagers scoffed at the new name. All they wanted was his money, which seemed plentiful enough to hand around, and the usual obeisance awarded his title was only a routine habit. If he requested workmen or any kind of service, it was agreed without demur as he didn’t question the cost. The locals thought him a queer cove but were quick to take advantage of his money.
Lucie had never discussed Edmund Tasker with her grandmother, not even her suspicions after Emmeline died, so she had no idea what the duchess thought of him. Once the gossip died down and Tasker left the area, nothing was ever said again about the incident. Lucie was only too pleased to forget the affair, though it left its mark. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with the tragedy—not only the loss of her friend but knowing how badly she had been treated before she died. The world had exposed its cruel face, and she was aware, as never before, that some people were adept at hiding their villainy.
If she met anyone new from then on, she tended to study them carefully to see if they showed any tendency towards violence or had any other unappealing qualities. She was aware that, sooner or later, she would be obliged to marry—a change of status in her life she did not desire and was not looking forward to—and she wanted to be sure it would be to a man who loved her and would treat her well.
Whilst she was in no doubt that her grandmother would never force her into a bad marriage, she still felt that honing her intuitive qualities would guard her future. She would be more than happy if her grandmother let things be and she could continue to enjoy her life on her own, albeit as a spinster. Ashbury Mead fitted everything she loved about her entire life, and the thought that she would have to leave it filled her with dismay. However, the subject had not arisen lately between her and the duchess, so she tried to quell the unexpected churning in her stomach that the note from Edmund Tasker had caused.
Why had he come back? Surely there was nothing in the district or his small estate to rival the adventures he must have had abroad. In spite of her efforts to suppress her fears, she felt persuaded his return could only cause more trouble. He should have stayed away and never come home. What was he really after?
* * * *
With so few guests, the gentlemen did not remain for port but followed the ladies to the drawing room. Soon after tea was served, the Buckthorn’s thanked the Duchess for their pleasant dinner and said goodnight. Directly they had gone, Edgar Chesterman rose to retire to bed after bidding his hostess farewell.
“I’ll have an early start in the morning, your Grace, and will not disturb your slumbers. The sooner I return to London, the sooner I can make sure your wishes are followed.” He turned and looked at Lucie and bowed. “It has been pleasing to see you again, my lady. You were only a small child when we last met after the death of your parents. It was providential that you found comfort with your grandmother, for you have grown into a cordial and most amiable young lady. I trust life continues to be fortunate for you.” Not waiting on her answer, he bowed to the Duchess and walked across the huge marble hall to the staircase and up to bed.
Lucie blinked in surprise at his words and quick departure. It was the longest speech she had heard from him all evening. She turned to her grandmother, a question on her lips.
“I can’t remember seeing him before.”
“You were barely more than a baby when you came to me, and there were a great many legal details to settle.” Eleanor sighed. “In fact, legal problems never end—always something to sort out. Still, never mind that. Come back to the drawing room, I wish to talk to you.”
The tea trolley had been cleared away by the efficient staff, but the countess did not ring for more tea. Instead, she walked over to the sideboard and picked up the decanter of Madeira and poured out two glasses. “I think a glass of this wine will see us nicely to bed. It will allow you to appreciate my permission in granting you adulthood at long last. You have virtually been my own child for a long time, and I am proud of you and how you’ve grown. The time has come when you will have to make decisions without me, and I must be sure you are ready to do so. I must not neglect my duty to see you well established.”
Shocked at her words, Lucie cried out in distress. “Oh, Grandmama, are you ill?”
“Not so, dear girl. Merely feeling the weight of my years and taking a tally of yours.”
She handed the Madeira to Lucie and held her glass up in a toast. “I drink to the arrival of your birthday this year. As it will come upon us all too soon, I am considering your future and whom you will marry—”
“Grandmama, I do not wish to marry anyone!”
“Tush, Lucie! Let me finish my sentence please. It is well past the time when I should have made arrangements for you, but I did not want to lose you. Obviously, no one around here is suitable, so I propose to return to London for the season and see what prospects are there. The tenants who used my London house are moving on, so the place is being redecorated and made ready. We will have a taste of what the capital can offer us.”