Stealing Lord Stephen (Lost Lords, Book 3), page 1
Stealing Lord Stephen
Lost Lords Book 3
A Regency Historical Romance
Copyright © 2022 by Cassandra Dean
Cover Design: SeaDub Designs
Interior Book Design: SeaDub Designs
Editing: White Rabbit Editing
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopy, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cassandra acknowledges where she is based are the traditional lands of the Kaurna people and respects their spiritual relationship with their Country.
Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About Cassandra Dean
Other books by Cassandra Dean
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Prologue
WHEN LADY SERAPHINA WALLER-MITCHELL was two months old, her mother handed her care to a nursemaid and sailed for Rome. Having secured funding for her latest expedition with her marriage and her womb, the Marchioness’s passion for archaeology and antiquities far outweighed the negligible delights of motherhood and she gave no more thought to the daughter she left behind. The servants didn’t know what to do with an infant, however they did their best to manage the newborn daughter of their lord.
Seraphina’s father, the Marquess of Tidswell, had left for Ceylon many months prior to his daughter’s birth. He did not much care for his new wife, having reluctantly acquired her only to secure the future of a marquessate he’d never thought to inherit. The third son of a third son, he had spent most of his life amusing himself with a plantation secured by his long-deceased father and was eager to return once the wedding and bedding had been done. Not even when the news eventually reached him that Marchioness had borne only a girl child, and thus he had no heir, had he been tempted to return.
When Seraphina was seven, a letter from Rome arrived advising of the death of her mother. Seraphina hadn’t been sure if she was sad. She’d known she should be—her mother was dead—but it was difficult to mourn a person she had never met. She had done her best, though, and Mrs Middleton, the housekeeper, arranged for her clothing to be dyed black and similarly hued wreathes hung on doors. Many people Sera didn’t know sent condolences, the spiky pen marks blurring before her eyes. She could not read some of the words, and though she was making her way through the books in the library, she was still only seven and her vocabulary—she was proud she knew what that word meant—was not fully established. She knew this to be as Miss Webster, her governess, said it often.
With the death of the woman he’d married, the Marquess finally decided to return to London. He sent word ahead and Seraphina spent the time between the letter’s arrival and her father’s in a state of nervous excitement. Finally, she was meeting her father. Someone who would laugh and toss her in the air and give her lemon drops, as she’d seen Ned the groom do with his daughter. Her father would read her bedtime stories and she would let him, even though she had learnt to read ages ago. She would finally have a family, and her father would stay and care for her and life would be grand.
The day of her father’s arrival, Seraphina wore her best dress, her finest slippers. Her nurse had spent a half-hour brushing and arranging her hair, weaving a ribbon into a complicated half-braid. Gaze trained on her bedroom door, she sat rigid on her bed, not daring to move in case she mussed herself. Finally, the door opened and John the footman bade her attend her father.
She followed John, tugging at her fingers until they reached the study. John rapped on the door and a firm voice bid them enter.
She had not often been in the study, only when Sir Walter, the solicitor in charge of her trust, came for his quarterly checks. Sir Walter occupied the study now, but instead of sitting behind the desk as he usually did, he stood awkwardly by its side. Instead, a man she had never before seen sat behind the desk.
Joy filled her. This must be her father.
He appeared like any other man, though he was dressed in clothing that seemed exotic, with bright colours she had only seen ladies in the park wear. He had no moustache like Sir Walter, or a beard like Charlie, Peter or Xavier, the grooms
The man—her father—looked to the side. “This is my daughter?”
“Yes, my lord,” Sir Walter said.
Her father sighed. “I suppose she’ll do.” He crooked his finger. “Come here, girl.”
She took careful steps toward him, determined to impress him with what Miss Webster had taught her. From behind the desk, he assessed her. She tried not to be disappointed he did not immediately hug her. Perhaps he felt a bit funny. She felt a bit funny when she met new people.
“You have my look, I suppose, but your hair, that must be your mother’s.”
Abruptly, she was ashamed of the hair she and her nurse had spent so long attending.
“Do you attend school, girl?” her father continued.
“No, sir. Miss Webster teaches me.”
“Miss Webster?” he said to Sir Walter.
“The governess, my lord.”
Her father scoffed. “She will attend boarding school.”
Sir Walter appeared confused. “But she is the daughter of a marquess, my lord,” he said. “Is that wholly appropriate?”
“It is appropriate if I say it is appropriate.”
Seraphina looked between Sir Walter and her father. Neither of them looked at her. “But I don’t want to.”
Her father’s gaze whipped to her. Frowning, he said, “You will do as I say.”
“But I want to stay here, with Miss Webster and Mrs Middleton and Ned and John and Peter.”
“Servants,” her father said with disgust. “You must be amongst your own. I will direct my secretary to make the arrangements.”
“But, Father—”
“You will be going and that is final.” He turned to Sir Walter. “Where are those titles for the Marchioness’s property?”
Seraphina stared at her father and, horribly, she couldn’t stop the tears that welled. Angrily, she scrubbed at her face and dipped into a curtsey.
“Yes, Father.” Maybe if she agreed he would give her a lemon drop.
Her father looked up, surprised. “You are still here?” Waving a hand, he shooed her away. Not knowing what else to do, Seraphina did as he bade and left the study.
Two days later, a footman escorted her to a carriage and she was taken to Robertson’s Finishing School for Ladies. She did not see her father again, and only a short missive from Sir Walter four months later advised her he had returned to Ceylon.
When she returned home for Christmas, the servants who had been her family had been dismissed. Strangers had taken their place, and she spent her holidays alone.
She did not return home at Christmas for the rest of her time at finishing school.
Seraphina had been at finishing school for four years when a new girl started. This new girl was small and alone and reminded Seraphina all too much of herself, when she had been weak
One day in the dining hall—it was a Tuesday, she remembered that detail quite clearly—she could take no more of this feeling.
“You!” she hissed.
From across the communal table, the new girl looked up.
Seraphina had no desire to learn her name. “I find I do not wish to rise from my seat. Prepare a plate of dinner for me.”
The new girl gaped at her.
Seraphina exhaled impatiently. “You are quite useless, aren’t you?”
“I—”
“Make yourself useful. Fetch the plate.”
“I—”
“I—I—” she mocked. “Can you not speak?”
“I—” The new girl blanched.
Seraphina laughed. “You cannot speak,” she said, clapping her hands together. “How delightful. Nonetheless, you do not get a say in this. You cannot speak and so you shall do as you are told. You will prepare a plate for me, for Maria, and for Elizabeth, and you will bring them to our table.”
Frozen, the girl stared at her with wide eyes.
“Well?” Seraphina said. “What are you waiting for?”
The girl started, and then scurried away.
Maria and Elizabeth tittered. Sera lifted her chin. She felt…better.
After that, she often ordered others and found, to her surprise, others would obey her. Soon, she arranged everything to her liking, and those who didn’t adhere to her liking she punished. Rumour and innuendo become her weapons, and so too a sharp tongue with wicked words. In the world of the finishing school, all girls quickly learnt not to cross her.
When she was seventeen, preparations began for her debut to society. She returned to Tidswell House in London, dismissed the servants her father had employed and engaged her own. Her debut was made with the proper pomp and ceremony, and she dedicated herself to ensuring she controlled it as she had her boarding school.
Life continued, as it always did. If, after eight years in society, life felt a little duller, a little less fulfilling, well Seraphina would discover a new way to amuse herself. Another year loomed, and she prepared herself as she always did. Perhaps she would tempt a man to ruin, perhaps she would toy with a debutante. There were a myriad of options, and each would quiet the voice in her head that whispered she was unworthy. This year would be like all the others.
And that voice would remain silent.
Chapter One
THE CARRIAGE JERKED OVER a bump in the road. Righting herself, Lady Seraphina Waller-Mitchell laced her fingers and stared straight ahead, her mind ticking over every step she would take that night.
She had no cause for nerves. This ball would be no different from any of the hundreds of balls she’d attended before. Indeed, she arranged each to her satisfaction, ensuring all would progress as it ought.
She would alight from her carriage and make her way to the entrance hall where she would be announced by the Pruitt’s majordomo. Maria and Elizabeth would then attend her, having arrived at the ball prior to her as instructed. They would proceed to the southwest corner of the ballroom, which had the best aspect, and she would set up court, selectively choosing from those in attendance to provide amusement. She would bestow ten of the fourteen dances on six suitors of her choosing, forgoing four to instead observe and comment, and she would allow another suitor to bring her delicacies and punch. Elizabeth and Maria would relay the latest gossip, and from those in attendance she would determine on whom she would focus her efforts and her condescension. She had her strategy for a successful ball attendance and it would work, as it always did.
The carriage shuddered to a stop. The door opened and Jim appeared, the footman holding out his hand. “Good luck tonight, my lady.”
Sera placed her hand in his, gathering her skirts in the other. “I don’t need luck, Jim. I have a plan.”
His lips twitched as he helped her descend. “Of course, my lady.”
Setting her foot on the gravel, she sniffed. “Don’t be impertinent, Jim. I should hate to have to terminate your employment, and it will do you no favours at this time of year. It would be next to impossible to find another position at this late stage, you know.”
“Yes, my lady,” he said mildly, as one who was often threatened with such and knew the threat to be completely toothless. Jim had been in her employ these eight years past, and she threatened to disengage him at least once a week.
To keep up the façade, she sniffed and then sailed into Pruitt House.
She had arrived almost two hours after the stated time on the invitation, as she had always intended, and thus the event was now a crush. Anyone who was anyone knew to arrive late was an absolute must, and she always added an extra half hour to ensure she was one of the last to arrive. People spilled from the ballroom into the entrance hall, down the corridors towards the cards and retiring rooms. Already the din was excruciating, the noise of hundreds in too small a place overwhelming.
Excitement stole the breath from her lungs. Finally, apprehension waned and she let the ball wash over her.
The majordomo stationed at the threshold to the ballroom nodded as she approached. “Lady Seraphina Waller-Mitchell,” he announced.
His proclamation drew little notice from the crowd. Lifting her chin, she swept into the throng. It did not matter that she did not draw notice. She would, as always, make them notice.
Conversation and laughter melded into a cacophony, accompanied by the strains of the orchestra. The dancing had not yet commenced, ladies gossiping behind their fans while gentlemen pretended they did not listen in earnest. Lady Pruitt had chosen a Greek theme for her ball, with marble columns and drapery. Grottos had been created from columns and greenery, the most elaborate housing the orchestra. The grotto with the next best vantage stood on the other side of the ballroom and was already occupied. Four young girls, debutantes all, whispered and giggled where Sera had planned to be.
Annoyance drew her brows. Elizabeth and Maria had been under strict instructions to reserve the grotto with the best vantage. Stern words would be exchanged once she rectified the situation.
Arriving at the grotto that should be hers, Sera arranged a pretty smile on her features. “Good evening.”
The girls stopped talking. “Lady Seraphina,” one exclaimed.
Regally, she inclined her head. “My dears, I find myself confused as to why you have taken occupation of this area of the ballroom.”
They glanced amongst themselves. One of them said hesitantly, “Lady Seraphina, we thought—”
“This grotto is not to your best vantage,” she interrupted. “You would do well to remove to the eastern corner of the room, close to the orchestra. The gentlemen always gravitate that way.”
They glanced at each other excitedly. “Oh, thank you, Lady Seraphina, thank you.”
“Of course, my dears. Only too happy to help.”
Breathlessly talking amongst themselves of which gentleman would take note of them, who would have the first dance, and those things that thrilled debutantes at their first ball, the girls departed.
Slapping her fan in her hand, Sera dropped her smile. Now she had the best vantage.
Taking their position framed by the grotto, she flicked her wrist and fanned herself absently as she surveyed the crowd. There was a shocking proliferation of bright colour: reds and blues, oranges and pinks. Lace and ruffles choked gowns, and after years of muslin and cotton, some had ventured into expensive silks. Her own gown lacked embellishment, but that would only make her stand out from the crowd. Should she also change her colour palette? Currently she wore a rather muted shade of blue, designed to bring out the chestnut highlights in her dark brown hair and the blue flecks in her grey eyes, but perhaps she should go bolder. Maybe this year her signature colour would be blue, but with shades ranging from robin’s egg and periwinkle to royal and navy.
