Your scarred heart ladie.., p.1
Your Scarred Heart: Ladies of the Order - Book 4, page 1
YOUR SCARRED HEART
Ladies of the Order - Book 4
ADELE CLEE
CONTENTS
Books by Adele Clee
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Thank you!
Copyright
Books by Adele Clee
More titles by Adele Clee
Lost Ladies of London
The Mysterious Miss Flint
The Deceptive Lady Darby
The Scandalous Lady Sandford
The Daring Miss Darcy
Avenging Lords
At Last the Rogue Returns
A Wicked Wager
Valentine’s Vow
A Gentleman’s Curse
Scandalous Sons
And the Widow Wore Scarlet
The Mark of a Rogue
When Scandal Came to Town
The Mystery of Mr Daventry
Gentlemen of the Order
Dauntless
Raven
Valiant
Dark Angel
Ladies of the Order
The Devereaux Affair
More than a Masquerade
Mine at Midnight
Your Scarred Heart
No Life for a Lady
Of Love: A Sonnet
How love came in I do not know,
Whether by the eye, or ear, or no;
Or whether with the soul it came
(At first) infused with the same;
Whether in part 'tis here or there,
Or, like the soul, whole every where.
This troubles me; but I as well
As any other, this can tell;
That when from hence she does depart,
The outlet then is from the heart.
Robert Herrick, 1591 - 1674
CHAPTER 1
Miss Honora Wild thrust the shillings into the jarvey’s outstretched hand, tipping him an extra coin. Being charitable reaped its own rewards, though her father would insist that was how Lucifer saw benevolence.
“Thank you, Mr Hirst. I shan’t need a ride home.”
Mr Hirst often parked his hackney cab a short walk from her residence on Howland Street, a property owned by her employer, and her temporary abode. When Mr Daventry discovered she lacked the skills needed to catch criminals, she would soon find herself in want of a new home and position.
Bidding Mr Hirst good day, Nora took a moment to gather her composure. Meeting a potential new client should be an exciting prospect for any enquiry agent. Meeting a man with a horrid scar on his cheek, a man believed to have murdered members of his own family, proved more than unnerving.
She noticed Mr Daventry waiting at the entrance to the auction house. The master of the Order was a handsome man of thirty, a hard taskmaster, and ruthless in his cause to see justice served. Indeed, he must be convinced of Lord Deville’s innocence, else he would have refused to take his case.
“Good afternoon, Miss Wild. I trust all is well.” Mr Daventry scanned her with an inscrutable eye. “You’ve not had second thoughts about meeting Lord Deville?”
Nora lifted her chin. “Not at all, sir.” It was a dreadful lie. She had woken from a nightmare in the early hours, one where the scarred baron lunged from the shadows, wielding a blood-soaked blade. “You trust Lord Deville, and you’re never wrong about a gentleman’s character.”
Indeed, she prayed Lord Deville wasn’t the exception.
“Your safety is paramount,” Mr Daventry said, ushering her into the entrance hall, which was surprisingly quiet considering the rooms were full of people fighting over antiquities. “I would never place you in a precarious position.”
Nora forced a smile. “I trust your judgement, sir, and would like to discern Lord Deville’s character for myself. I am not one to place faith in cruel gossip.” Although when people accused a man of murder, it was hard not to sit up and take notice.
“I thought we would attend the auction. It’s surprising what you can learn about a man when you watch how he interacts with others.”
Being an amateur sleuth, Nora merely nodded.
Mr Daventry escorted her past the sweeping oak staircase to a door on the left. Before entering the auction room, he reminded her to remain silent and avoid any sudden movements lest she wished to find herself the owner of an ugly figurine by Gouyn.
They slipped into the oak-panelled room and stood at the back, near the clerk’s imposing desk, to better observe the proceedings.
People had crammed onto the benches, though she was surprised to see as many bonnets as top hats. Odd that the ladies occupied the uppermost seats. None sat in the first two rows.
The reason became apparent when her gaze fell to the impressive figure of a man being given a wide berth at the front.
“Deville is sitting near the rostrum,” Mr Daventry muttered, pointing inconspicuously. “He’s here to purchase the harpsichord.”
Nora glanced at the beautiful cypress instrument on the dais and then at the striking gentleman people wished to avoid. He didn’t seem the sort to appreciate a charming tune, and so she made the obvious assumption. It must be a gift for his mistress, or perhaps his betrothed.
“Sir, you said Lord Deville had no close relatives.” She noted the lord’s stern profile, wondering if loneliness was the reason for his disdainful disposition. “Is he making plans to marry?”
Amusement played in Mr Daventry’s eyes. “I tell you Deville is here to purchase a harpsichord, and you assume he’s in want of a wife.”
“I based my assumption on the fact he has rather large hands. Nowhere near nimble enough to play proficiently. Therefore, the harpsichord must be a gift.”
“And where have you seen Lord Deville’s hands?”
“At Monroe’s bookshop on the Strand.” And in her nightmares, although she would not declare that. “He was purchasing an old leather-bound tome. No other gentleman bears such a scar, and so it had to be Lord Deville.”
“If you hope to solve this case, Miss Wild, you must look beyond what is obvious.” Mr Daventry’s tone carried a hint of reproach. “Deville’s brother lived a frivolous life. He was declared bankrupt and sold many family heirlooms to pay his debts. Now Deville has inherited, he’s made it his life’s mission to reclaim those items. That’s why he wants the harpsichord. It belonged to his great-grandmother.”
“Oh,” she said, taking the mild reprimand on the chin. The information went some way to banishing her fears. Such an act spoke of a responsible man, a loyal man, not a beast with a dreadful scar who growled at everyone in sight.
Nora might have asked about Lord Deville’s need to restore his home to its former glory, but the white-haired auctioneer banged his hammer loudly on the rostrum, commanding everyone’s attention.
“Now for something rather s-spectacular,” he said, swallowing nervously as he read from his script. “An opportunity to own a rare item crafted by the famous Italian instrument maker Girolamo Zenti.”
Lord Deville groaned. “Get on with it, Fathers.”
Mr Fathers fought to maintain his composure. He proceeded to follow his notes, describing the harpsichord in great detail, including the black-stained hardwood accidentals, whatever they might be.
“I am not leaving without the harpsichord.” Lord Deville’s baritone voice carried a menacing undertone. “Name your price. Let’s save everyone the trouble of bidding.”
Lord Deville glowered at the crowd, daring them to raise an objection. He met Nora’s gaze and held it for a few heart-stopping seconds. She waited for his sneer of disappointment when he noticed Mr Daventry and realised she was his agent.
It didn’t come.
Nerves fluttered in her chest, but she straightened her spectacles, for they were a shield strong enough to ward off a French invasion.
“My lord, we m-must adhere to the rules,” Mr Fathers stuttered. “Everyone must be allowed to place a bid.”
Lord Deville dragged his gaze back to the trembling man behind the rostrum. Then he rose to an intimidating height of over six feet and addressed the throng. “Does anyone wish to purchase this old harpsichord? I suppose the real question is, does anyone have the courage to bid against me?”
No one dared look at him.
No one made a murmur.
“There you have it, Fathers. Mine shall be the only tender. Put an end to this ridiculous charade and name your damn price.”
A few ladies gasped at the lord’s coarse language, but he made no apology. Instead, he stepped up to the rostrum, folded his muscular arms across his chest and tapped his foot impatiently.
Mr Fathers’ hands shook as he shuffled his papers. “The opening b-bid is a thousand p-pounds, my lord. That is the reserve.”
“A thousand pounds!” Lord Deville’s mocking laugh echoed through the room. “The Carters purchased it from my brother for three hundred.”
Mr Fathers shifted uncomfortably. “Estate au
“Ten! The usual rate is seven.”
“I do not make the rules, my lord.” The auctioneer went on to complain about the rising cost of rent and insurance.
“Stop waffling, Fathers. I bid a thousand pounds for the harpsichord. Now strike your damn hammer so you may move to the next lot.”
Mr Fathers paled and looked like he might swoon. “But Mr Carter placed a stipulation on the sale.”
“What stipulation?”
“Y-you cannot purchase the item, my lord.”
The crowd gasped. People looked at the door, perhaps deciding whether to make a quick escape. The air thrummed with tension. Perhaps everyone feared Lord Deville would summon his minions and raze the house to the ground.
“I demand to see a record of this stipulation.” A determined Lord Deville rounded the rostrum and refused to move until Mr Fathers found proof of Mr Carter’s request.
“I cannot overrule a client’s instruction.”
Nora watched with morbid fascination.
How would Lord Deville react? He appeared as dangerous as the devil, yet she admired his strength and tenacity. She had shown similar qualities when confronting her father, though she had not expected to find herself alone and destitute in a sprawling swine of a city.
But then the lord, who from his flawless side might be considered the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon, did something that left her heart pounding.
Lord Deville lowered his gaze. She saw the fight leave his body like a demon exorcised by yet another injustice. He was powerless to act, and she knew that feeling only too well.
Without thinking, Nora stepped forward and raised her hand. “I bid a thousand pounds for the harpsichord.” She glanced at the crowd but imagined her father’s angry face glaring back. It gave her the confidence to be bold. “Woe betide anyone who bids against me. Strike your hammer, Mr Fathers, before Lord Deville curses us all to the fiery pits of hell.”
She sounded much like the Reverend Wild, the wolf in sheep’s clothing who lectured his congregation on benevolence but could not show a modicum of kindness to his kin.
Lord Deville met Nora’s gaze and did something else to make her heart gallop—he smiled. Yes, it was just a slight curl of his lips, but it was probably the closest he came to looking pleased.
Mr Fathers seemed confounded by this new development until Lord Deville said, “Strike your hammer. Miss Wild has met the reserve. I shall personally flog the man who bids against her.”
No one dared breathe, let alone raise an objection, though the lack of air in Nora’s lungs stemmed from the fact Lord Deville knew her name.
Eager to bring the matter to a swift end, Mr Fathers declared Nora the new owner of the harpsichord and directed her to his clerk’s desk at the back of the room.
But the crowd had no interest in the next lot: a painting of a pug wearing a silver crown. All heads turned in Nora’s direction. Everyone stared at the tall, brooding figure of Lord Deville striding towards her.
The devil’s disciple came to a halt a mere arm’s length away. His dark eyes scanned her dull brown pelisse, then her spectacles, while she tried to avoid looking at his ugly scar.
“You find yourself in a predicament, Miss Wild.” He spoke in a low, teasing voice that stirred the hairs on her nape, though she couldn’t decide if it was from nerves or something more shocking. “One suspects you do not have a thousand pounds to pay for the harpsichord.”
Be brave! Don’t let him intimidate you!
“And why is that, my lord?” Nora said politely. “Please tell me you haven’t looked at my plain clothes and made the usual assumption.”
He arched a brow. “Come now. A lady forced to work as an enquiry agent does not have a thousand pounds to waste on a musical instrument she cannot play.”
Somewhat shaken by Lord Deville’s direct manner, she focused on the only point she could contest. “I choose to work. My desire to punish dishonest men is the reason I accepted the position at the Order.” And to give her the strength to face her tormentor again.
The lord lowered his head, his hot breath whispering over her cheek. “Admit it, Miss Wild. You don’t have a hundred pounds, let alone a thousand.”
“My lord, your only concern should be what I plan to do with your great-grandmother’s harpsichord, not whether I have access to funds.”
His arrogant sneer drew attention to his disfigurement. “We both know you purchased the instrument for me, your client.”
“Prospective client. I haven’t accepted your case.” Tired of wrangling with this man, Nora was about to admit she had barely ten pounds to her name, when Mr Daventry appeared and said the oddest thing.
“I have settled your account, Miss Wild, and told the clerk to have the harpsichord delivered to Howland Street.”
“Howland Street! Why in Lucifer’s name would you do that?” Lord Deville firmed his jaw. “Miss Wild placed the bid on my behalf because of Carter’s ridiculous stipulation.”
Mr Daventry shrugged. “Call it a means of ensuring Miss Wild receives your full attention while working on the case. I expect you to assist her where necessary. Particularly if she’s to visit Whitstable.”
Nora froze.
She was to work with Lord Deville! In Whitstable!
If the lord was capable of finding his brother’s killer, why did he need to hire an enquiry agent? And, as his brother died a year ago, why wait until now?
Lord Deville narrowed his gaze. “You’re bribing me?”
“No, merely ensuring you consider Miss Wild’s safety when employing her to find your brother’s murderer.”
“Keep your voice down.” Lord Deville glanced briefly over his shoulder. “I’ll not have all of London knowing my business.”
Mr Daventry grinned. “You arranged to meet us in a coffeehouse. News will spread. The ton will soon learn you’ve hired an enquiry agent. Even a simple man will draw the obvious conclusion.”
“I hired a private room at McGinty’s,” the lord countered, drawing them towards the door, away from the pricked ears of the gossips huddled together on the benches. “I hadn’t planned on sitting in the bay window, waving to every passerby.”
Surely most people noticed a man with such a prominent scar, even if he was just walking through a coffeehouse on a dreary April afternoon.
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation at McGinty’s,” Nora said, eager to learn why people presumed the lord was a murderer. Moreover, a frustrated Mr Fathers repeatedly banged his hammer to signal the next lot.
Both gentlemen agreed, although neither spoke again until they were inside the coffeehouse and seated at the crude wooden table in the sparsely furnished parlour.
“While Mr Daventry knows why you want to hire an agent, my lord,” Nora began, trying not to stammer, “I would like to understand your motive before agreeing to take your case.”
Seated opposite, the lord studied her with a critical eye. “I wonder if there has been a mistake, Miss Wild.”
“A mistake?”
Lord Deville directed his next comment to Mr Daventry. “She’s a mere slip of a girl. Hardly experienced enough to find a woman as conniving as Johanna. Perhaps I should pay you for the harpsichord and leave you to your business.”
A slip of a girl?
How dare he!
Weeks ago, Nora would have sat silently, head bowed, ashamed of being considered weak and insignificant, believing the terrible things her father had said were true. But Mr Daventry had seen to her education. While she had a lot to learn about being forthright and self-assured, she had gained the confidence to voice her opinion.
“I am a woman of four and twenty,” she informed Lord Deville. “I have seen things you’ve only read about in your high-priced tomes.” The month spent at Madame Matisse’s Pleasure Parlour had given her an insight into a man’s baser needs. “Maybe Mr Daventry has made a mistake. His mistake is thinking you have the skill to assist me when you failed the simple task of purchasing the harpsichord.”
