Sandra Owens Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  2012 contest finals for THE LETTER

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  The Letter

  by

  Sandra Owens

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Letter

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Sandra Owens

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First English Tea Rose Edition, 2013

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-856-1

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-857-8

  Published in the United States of America

  2012 contest finals for THE LETTER

  RWA's Beau Monde's Royal Ascot

  SARA Merritt

  WisRWA Fab Five

  OKRWA Finally a Bride

  Celtic Hearts Golden Claddagh

  Dedication

  Jeffrey Michael and DeAnna, this one’s for you.

  To my husband, Jim, love you, O.

  Always have, always will.

  Chapter One

  London, 1814

  The Earl of Daventry’s Study

  Dear cousin mine,

  If you are reading this letter, then I am dead. A pity that. I had always hoped you would go first so I could spit on your grave.

  As that pleasure has been denied me, allow me to aim my arrow at a new target, namely your heart. This is going to knock the earth out from under your feet, Cousin, so prepare yourself. I have earned a place in hell for this one act, but it was worth giving my soul to the Devil to know my deeds will destroy you

  From the day you were born, I have hated you. Even at the age of ten, I understood you would be more than me by simply being born Lord Michael Jefferes, heir to the Earl of Daventry. Everyone adored you and I could not bear it.

  So, what devilish little trick have I played on you from beyond the grave? Christ Almighty, I pray there is a window in hell that will allow me to see your face as you read my next words.

  When Lady Diana Cavanaugh caught your interest, I tried my damnedest to turn her attentions to me. Why should you have the richest heiress in the kingdom? Why should you have it all? I will admit, knowing you loved the lady made me determined to have her. When it became apparent she only had eyes for you, I put my devious mind to concocting a new scheme. The brilliance of it staggers me still.

  It was the most delicious moment of my life when you found me in bed with your betrothed on the eve of your wedding. Here is what you don’t know—I never touched her that night! You thought you saw her betraying you, but what you actually saw was a drugged woman.

  Are you suitably impressed? If not yet, do not despair, there is more.

  Before I get to the best part, let me tell you a little about my wife. I have ruined her. She loved you and I did my best to beat it out of her. She can no longer bear the touch of a man. The beautiful, spirited girl you loved is no more.

  You are likely asking why I waited a year to put this letter in your hands. I wanted my darling wife to have her year of mourning my poor dead self. So she would have no distractions from that loving duty, I have installed her and our son in a very out of the way place, a very lonely place.

  I still haven’t told you my coup de grace.

  With shaking hands, the Earl of Daventry lowered the letter to his desk. Sweet Jesus, what had his cousin done? Michael’s heart pounded loudly in his ears. He slapped his hand over his chest. God in heaven, what had he done? He squeezed his eyes shut against the image of a vibrant girl, her beautiful face turned up to him, laughter in her eyes. How did he still see her so clearly after all these years? He thought he had long ago banished her forever from his memory. He did not want her in his mind.

  On legs that felt boneless, he stood and walked to the sideboard. Pouring three fingers of brandy into a glass, he stared at it a moment, then filled it to the brim. Bringing the drink to his lips, he tilted his head and poured the contents down his throat, igniting a burning fire in his belly. He blamed his watery eyes on the drink. He poured more, but was interrupted by three brisk knocks on the door. Johnston.

  “Go away!”

  The door opened and his secretary poked his head in. “My lord? You told me to meet you here at two.” Johnston glanced at the brandy. “Is everything all right, my lord?”

  “No, everything is not bloody all right.” Michael eyed the glass in his hand and set it aside. Although tempting, drinking himself into a state of oblivion would not banish Leo’s words.

  “We will not work on estate matters today, Johnston, but I need you to do two things. Send my regrets to Lady Hartwell that I will not be available to escort her to the Southerly’s ball. Then find the late Baron Brantley’s solicitor. His name is Suggs, or Skruggs, or something of that sort. Return with an address as soon as you have it. Until then, I do not want to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “On second thought, don’t bother sending Lady Hartwell a message. I will call on her myself.” Turning away, Michael waited to hear the door close. He picked up the letter and resumed reading.

  There is a possibility James Charles Standish is your son! You see why I pray there is a window in hell? You should also know, I have done my best to instill my hate for you onto the boy.

  I managed (and had much fun doing so) to spend my wife’s inheritance, most of it going to whores and gaming hells. What this means is there is little money left for my wife and the boy, so as to their condition at their little hideaway, I couldn’t say. How could I? I am dead.

  However, you may no longer give a damn. If so, then already, I like you better. But I know you Cousin; your sanctimonious scruples will not allow you to turn your back on them. So, I hereby bequeath to you one used wife and one (possible) son. Do with them what you will.

  Your ever loving cousin,

  Leo Standish

  Baron Brantley

  The letter fell away, floating down to Michael’s desk. He might have a son? Jesus. Sweet Jesus. His stomach heaved and he lurched out the French doors. Taking a deep gulp of fresh air, he walked along a gravel path to clear his hea
d.

  Christ, he possibly had a son.

  He had to find the boy. And, if Leo was to be believed, a son who hated him. If the boy was truly his son.

  How would he ever know the truth? How old was James? He mentally calculated the age the child would need to be. Even if James were too young for Michael to have sired him, they would still be cousins, once removed. Still family.

  And, the boy’s mother? If he rescued James, he couldn’t very well leave her behind. What was he to do with them? The image floated into his mind of the young woman he had once loved beyond all reason. She can no longer bear the touch of a man. Michael stopped and scowled at a rosebush. She had once loved being touched by him. They hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other, thus the early anticipation of their wedding vows. A harsh laugh escaped him. One time, two days before their wedding and he might have a son.

  His hands curled into fists. He fervently wished Leo were still alive so he could kill him. Turning on his heels, he strode back to his study. He had plans to make.

  ****

  The following morning, Michael paced the floor of Lady Hartwell’s drawing room while waiting for her to make an appearance. His life had taken a drastic turn and he didn’t know how it would affect his relationship with Serena. At the age of six and thirty, he had finally decided it was time to marry and start his nursery. He needed an heir. He had chosen the young widow because he enjoyed her company in bed and out. No, that was the secondary reason. The real reason was that she didn’t require him to love her.

  He stopped and leveled a frown at the door. Where was she? He was anxious to get this over with. His next visit would be to Leo’s solicitor, where he would learn the location of the boy and his mother, and then he could be about the business of rescuing them.

  “Daventry.”

  Michael sketched a bow. “Serena, as always, you are looking lovely.” A truth. The petite, blue-eyed blond was a diamond of the first water and fully aware of her beauty.

  She came to him with hands outstretched. “My dearest lord, this is a pleasant surprise. I had not expected to see you until tonight.”

  He took her hands in his and kissed the knuckles of one and then the other. “I apologize, my dear, but I’m afraid I must beg off. Something has come up, an emergency at one of my estates, and I must leave immediately.” Already a lie. How many more would follow?

  Irritation flashed in her eyes before she schooled her expression into one of concern. “Oh, nothing serious, I pray.”

  “Possibly, I won’t know for sure until I get there.”

  She pulled her hands from his grasp and moved to the sofa, taking a moment to arrange her skirts to her satisfaction. He doubted it was accidental that an enticing bit of ankle was left exposed. She patted the space next to her. “Come and sit. I will call for tea and you can tell me all about this little emergency of yours.”

  The devil. Why couldn’t she just express concern and send him on his way? “Again, my apologies, but I must decline. I am leaving immediately.”

  Her full lips formed into a pretty pout. “Surely, you can spare me a few minutes, my lord.” Her expression suddenly brightened. “Oh, I just had the most glorious idea.”

  The hair stood up on his neck, and he eyed the door with longing. With resignation, he asked the question. “What would that be?”

  “Why, I shall come with you.” When he didn’t respond, she rushed on. “I would dearly love to see your estate, and I will keep you entertained on the journey.” She joyfully clapped her hands together. “Oh, Daventry, it would be like a holiday.”

  Michael marveled at the innuendo she managed to place on the word entertain. His gaze lowered to her sensual, pink lips. If he were truly going to his estate on an emergency, he would be sorely tempted. Perversely curious as to how she would respond to the truth, he resisted the urge to tell her he was off to find his perhaps-son and the woman who had once meant as much to him as the air he breathed.

  “I’m sorry, Serena, but not this time. I will be traveling fast and hard and do not know exactly what I’m facing until I arrive.” That was certainly true.

  Her eyes watered and one lone tear rolled down a rose-tinted cheek. How long had she practiced that trick before she could accomplish it with such lovely perfection? He was starting to feel mean. He needed to leave before he said something best left unsaid. Be nice. This is the woman you intend to marry.

  Serena’s husband had never been able to walk away from the roll of the dice or a hand of cards. He had left her destitute, and she now depended on her uncle’s generosity, a man Michael did not like. She made it no secret that she hoped for a marriage proposal. For her, it meant financial security, and she liked being seen on his arm. He had been meaning to ask her for some time now, but kept putting it off. Why, he wasn’t sure.

  He went to her, took her hand and pulled her up. “I shall miss you, my dear. Come and walk me to the door.”

  On the portico of her townhouse, Michael glanced at the street and seeing no passing carriages or people strolling by, he kissed her. Lifting his head, he looked into her pale blue eyes. “I will call on you as soon as I return.”

  “You will be back in time for the Southerly’s ball on Saturday evening.”

  Michael didn’t miss that she hadn’t asked a question. “Likely not.” He glanced at his carriage, his driver waiting to take him to God only knew where. To her.

  ****

  Michael. Diana slipped out of bed without waking Jamie and went to the kitchen. She should think of something else to call this little corner of the cottage. One small counter, one shelf, and no sink in no way qualified as a kitchen. She wrapped a rag around her hand and picked up the kettle hanging over the low burning fire. The water was barely warm, the tea leaves used too many times now to do much more than give a hint of flavor. Still, she found comfort in the weak brew.

  With the chipped cup cradled in her hand, she walked outside and leaned back against the cottage wall. Looking up at the sky, she sucked in a breath. A shooting star! Quickly, she made a wish for an abundance of food to put on the table for Jamie. Her gaze followed the star’s trail until it disappeared over the horizon. She had become used to waking at odd hours and coming outside to take in the fresh air. In a few months, it would be winter and too cold for watching the heavens.

  Michael. Each time she awoke before morning, it was with his name on her lips. She must be dreaming of him, but she couldn’t remember. She didn’t want him to visit her in the deep of night, but if he persisted, the least he could do was to tell her why he haunted her dreams after all these years.

  Michael. The man she had once loved with all that she was, the man who had broken her heart into too many pieces to put back together again. Had he thought of her at all since that night? Had he ever dreamed of her?

  Lord, she was lonely. That must be why she was having these middle of the night hauntings, dreaming of happier times. Thank heavens it wasn’t Leo disturbing her sleep. She shuddered.

  Diana finished her tea, cold now, and returned to bed, resolved to never dream of him again.

  ****

  The solicitor’s office was shabby, smelling of cigars and unwashed bodies. Michael leveled his most intimidating glare on the fat man sitting at his desk. “I will ask you once more, where has my cousin deposited his wife and son?”

  The idiot had no idea who he was dealing with or he would not have shrugged and said, “Who?”

  Michael walked to the desk, placed his hands flat on the top and leaned forward. “Listen closely, man. Your life depends on it. Where would I find young Baron Brantley and his mother?”

  “Who?” The man’s eyes shifted, looking everywhere but at Michael.

  “You are not an owl, Mr. Suggs. It would be in your best interest to cease sounding like one.” Michael believed in being prepared for all contingencies. He reached into his coat and pulled out his pistol, pointing it at the man’s forehead. “You had a letter delivered to my hom
e yesterday. After reading the bloody thing, I am of a mood to kill someone. You will do nicely. This is the last time I will ask. Where are they?”

  The man was not so stupid after all.

  He stared into the barrel of the gun, then lifted his gaze to Michael’s face and started talking. “She and the boy are living in a cottage near Coventry. I don’t know the exact location. I send a pound note each month to the landlord, a Mr. Bloodstone. After he takes his share for the rent he turns the remainder over to Lady Brantley.”

  Michael’s jaw clenched. Only a pound and she got the leftover? His finger itched to pull the trigger and put a hole between the eyes of this stinking man. “Write Mr. Bloodstone’s direction, and don’t think to mislead me. You won’t like the consequences.”

  ****

  Diana stood in her landlord’s parlor, clutching Jamie’s hand. She willed herself not to cringe under Mr. Bloodstone’s leer. It was the first day of the month, the day she walked the three miles to collect the meager coins that were supposed to sustain her and Jamie for the next thirty days. She never came alone. Jamie wasn’t much protection, but she chose to believe the man wouldn’t attempt anything untoward with a child present.

  “Here you are, luv.”

  “Lady Brantley.” She corrected him each time to no avail. His fingers slid down the palm of her hand before he dropped several coins into it. He always did that, the reason she always wore her one pair of gloves. Her stomach did its usual sickening roll at the hated man’s touch.