White Mist (Regency Rakes Book 4), page 1
WHITE MIST
REGENCY RAKES
BOOK FOUR
JACLYN REDING
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Jaclyn Reding, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999, 2024 Jaclyn Reding
Cover art by Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
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Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Author's Note
About the Author
Also by Jaclyn Reding
PROLOGUE
Cha d’dhùin doras nach d’fhosgail doras
No door ever shut but another opened.
Life as she had known it had ended.
It had happened the morning of the 12th of September 1820—and she had never seen it coming.
Lady Eleanor Wycliffe, heiress of the Westover dukedom—the most illustrious dukedom in all England, no less—had been raised as a good many gently-bred young English ladies are. Her days had been filled with ease and comfort, with nothing more expected of her than to turn a neat stitch, hold an elegant posture, conduct herself in a polite and agreeable manner.
Since before entering the schoolroom at the exalted Miss Effington’s Academy for Ladies of Gentle Breeding, Eleanor had been taught that her sole ambition in life was to marry well, to entertain graciously, to do her best to provide that as yet unknown future husband with that as yet unborn, all-important male heir.
Sit up straight, miss. Square your shoulders more.
You need to glide, dear, not stride.
You must needs hold your fingers just so when you pour.
Indispensable words whispered to her by an assortment of elder females, words solely intended to send any lady between the ages of twelve and two-and-twenty into a state of abject fear of ending up alone, like So-and-So’s sister or Lady Whoever’s niece, those social pariahs known to all as—spinsters.
Shudder.
Eleanor, however, had had a marked advantage in it all.
Unlike those poor young girls whose marriages were arranged sometimes without much more than an introduction between the bride and bridegroom, (like her best school chum, Lady Amelia Barrington, who two years before had forever joined her life with that of her father’s favorite whist partner), Eleanor had been told since the age of four that she would have the opportunity to choose her lifelong mate.
She had done her part during her first Season in society, searching for and then finding a man with whom she shared common interests, one who treated her kindly, and who could provide her a home and the same comforts to which she was accustomed.
Richard Hartley, the third Earl of Herrick, was handsome, polite, and well-spoken of amongst the best society. He enjoyed books and had an ear for music, as did she. He didn’t purposely correct her when she pronounced a word differently than he, and he listened, truly listened to the things she had to say. Had she loved him? They hadn’t had nearly enough time together to truly determine that. But it had been a beginning with promise. Eleanor knew they would get on well together, and the best part of it was that Richard’s country house, Herrick Manor, was but two miles from the Westover ducal estate in Wiltshire, making him, Eleanor believed, a most sensible choice.
How funny life was, she remembered thinking, that fate had brought them into one another’s lives as far away as London when their families had been neighbors for generations. Eleanor had simply taken this as one more reason why they were perhaps meant to spend their lives together.
Her brother, Christian, however, hadn’t agreed with her logic.
Christian Wycliffe, Marquess Knighton, was a decade older than Eleanor, and had been family patriarch since the death of their father before Eleanor had been born. Christian had been reluctant about the match with Lord Herrick from the start, but his reluctance, he assured her, was simply due to the fear that she had settled too soon, had chosen too quickly, this only her first Season “out” in society.
“Give yourself time, Nell,” he’d said to her when she’d first mentioned Richard to him. “There is no need to rush headlong into something so soon.”
But rushing headlong into things was a trait Eleanor seemed to excel in, such as the time she had decided that she did not wish to be left at home with her nursemaid whilst her mother and Christian had gone off to a ball. So with all the foolish bravado of a seven year old, she’d twisted herself into the small compartment hidden behind the seat inside the Knighton landau coach, thinking that once they arrived, her mother would have no choice but to allow her to stay. What Eleanor hadn’t considered was the possibility that once she got into the compartment, after having been jostled about during the ride, it might not be so easy getting out. The result was that instead of attending the festivities, Eleanor’s mother, Lady Frances, had spent the evening standing alongside, twisting her handkerchief in her gloved hands whilst Christian, the Knighton coachman, and several others had been made to nearly disassemble the carriage to free her.
Still, despite her brother’s lack of enthusiasm, Eleanor had remained confident in her choice of Richard. After all, almost all of her acquaintances were already married, and the young man suited her well. They passed a good part of several months earlier that year, dancing, walking in the park (always under her mother’s watchful eye, of course), heading toward that inevitable moment when Richard would make the offer for her hand. The society matrons nodded their beturbaned heads in approval, and Eleanor waited patiently while everything had followed its proper course, just as had been prophesized throughout her girlhood—
—until the 12th of September, when Christian had revealed to Eleanor exactly why the marriage with Lord Herrick could never, ever take place.
For a day that would bring about upheaval to rival the trembling of the earth, it had begun with a most deceptive calm.
Eleanor had been visiting at Skynegal, the castle her brother shared with his wife, Grace, in the northwestern Highlands of Scotland. It had been a chill morning, signaling the end to summer with a brisk prelude to the coming autumn.
Eleanor had awoken early, just as the first light was peeking out over the eastern hills, shimmering on an iridescent frost that had dusted the heathery slopes beyond the castle walls. Everything had seemed so fine.
She had taken breakfast alone in her room, relishing some quiet time by the glowing warmth of the peat fire, tucked beneath the folds of a woolen blanket while reading and even sewing a bit. She had thought to pass the whole of the day in similarly peaceful pursuits, until shortly before midday, when a letter had arrived for her bearing the distinctive heraldic seal of the Earl of Herrick.
Richard had written to her from a property his family held in Yorkshire, and in the letter, just as Eleanor had longingly anticipated, he had proposed their marriage, following up with information about his London solicitor, Mr. Jeremiah Swire, who, if she accepted, would see to the signing of the marital contracts and other legal details.
Though not the romantic, bent-on-his-knee, moonlight-cast sort of declaration both she and Amelia B. had whispered about as young girls, Eleanor had been teeming with excitement as she had gone immediately to search out Christian.
She had found him alone in his study.
After reading Richard’s letter—twice—Christian sat quietly behind his desk, listening while Eleanor diligently attended to every argument she expected he’d bring forth, and even some he had not thought of. She reminded her brother how his own marriage to Grace earlier that same year and even that of their parents had been arranged by their grandfather, the Duke of Westover. She contended that hers would have a far firmer foundation since she and Richard had spent time in each other’s company, had chosen one another instead of having one another chosen for them.
Eleanor had been confident of her position, countering each reason Christian found against the match with another reason for it. When Christian finally fell silent, Eleanor had begun to think she’d won him over.
She couldn’t have been more mistaken.
“I’m sorry, Nell. A marriage to Herrick is simply impossible. There is nothing more to be said about it.”
The Christian she’d faced at that singular moment had looked so suddenly different from the beloved brother she had always known. He had the same ch
It wasn’t until that moment that Eleanor had begun to truly worry.
“But why, Christian? Please just tell me why you are set so decidedly against Lord Herrick? Is it that you think him dishonorable? Is there something you have learned about him that I should be made aware of?”
“No,” he replied on a bitter frown. “From everything I have seen and heard of him, Herrick is the gentleman he presents himself to be.”
Eleanor tried a different approach. “Richard told me you didn’t get on together as boys. He thought perhaps that might color him unfavorably in your eyes, but I would have thought—”
Christian shook his head. “This has nothing to do with any schoolyard scuffle, Nell.”
“Then why, Christian? If I am telling you Lord Herrick is the man I wish to marry, why can you not give your blessing to it? Wasn’t it you who always said I’d have my choice? Didn’t you promise me that? Well, I’ve done my part. I’ve made my choice, and it is Richard.”
Christian didn’t answer her. He only stared at her, unmoving as well as, it would seem, unmoved.
Frustrated at his stoicism in the face of her future happiness, Eleanor then challenged her brother as she had never done before. She sat upright in the chair, her hands gripping tightly to its arms, and said, “Then you leave me no choice, Christian. Since you cannot think beyond your own feelings to mine, I must tell you that I am prepared to meet Richard at Gretna Green if need be.”
“No!”
At no time in her twenty years could Eleanor ever remember Christian raising his voice to her. Not even when she’d ruined his favorite pair of riding boots by tromping about the hedge maze in the rain with them had he spoken so sharply. Christian had always indulged her, often shamelessly, giving her virtually anything she’d ever asked, even filching three of her favorite lemon tarts from the kitchen when she was five years old, despite the fact that it had ruined her appetite for supper.
Thus his sudden outburst that morning had alarmed her. The words he spoke next, uttered in quiet contrast, had utterly gutted her.
“The reason you cannot marry Herrick has nothing to do with my personal feelings about him, Nell. You could not possibly understand. Faith, you weren’t yet born when...”
Eleanor spent the next quarter hour sitting stone still as Christian then poured out a grim tale that began by revealing that their father, Christopher Wycliffe, had not died of the sickness she had been told he had since she’d been old enough to ask. There had been no fever, no last gasp of breath uttered one chilling night so long ago when she was yet a babe tucked away inside their mother’s womb.
Instead, Christian went on, telling her their father had died fighting for their mother’s honor in a duel against the man with whom she had been having an illicit affair, the same man who quite possibly, nay, probably, was Eleanor’s own true blood sire—the former Earl of Herrick, William Hartley.
Richard’s father.
Even now, Eleanor could remember the horrible and utter helplessness of feeling that moment as if the very walls had been closing in around her. Her throat had grown tight, choking off any response she might have spoken, her eyes had burned with impending tears. Her breath soon came in gulps as she’d shaken her head against her brother’s terrible insinuations, as if by doing so, she could somehow make them go away.
“This is not true, Christian,” she sobbed. “I refuse to believe it. Richard told me his father died from a fall off a cliff when he’d been out riding early one morning. No one saw him, only his horse returned to the stable alone. His body was never found. And Mother, how could you make such a terrible accusation against her? Why are you doing this, Christian? Why are you making this up?”
Christian closed his eyes then, battling with his emotions. “I am not making this up, Nell. God, how I wish I was, for I have spent most of my life trying to keep you from ever having to hear these words.” He looked at her, visibly torn. “I was there that night along with the duke. (Christian had never called their grandfather anything but by his title.) I watched Lord Herrick fire upon our father. I saw him fall. I knelt beside him while he died. His pistol was lying there in the grass, yet cocked. I picked it up. I didn’t know what I was doing. I only saw Lord Herrick walking away. I aimed for him. I—”
Christian stopped, shaking his head, unable to bring himself to speak the next words.
He didn’t have to.
“You...you killed him?”
“I swear to you, I don’t even remember firing. I only saw him drop into the grass before everything fell into a blur. The next two weeks were the most hellish nightmare. The duke concealed everything of that night, disposing of Lord Herrick’s body, bribing the physician to attest that Father had died from an illness. He wanted to banish our mother, too, denounce her publicly as an adulteress, but I begged him not to. I promised him that if he would spare her, and the child she carried, if he would set aside the question of your paternity and go on as things had been, I would do whatever he asked of me. I would give him my life to direct as his heir. And I did.”
Eleanor just stared at her brother, as she struggled to keep hold of her every breath. Her ears hummed. Her hands trembled.
A moment later, her consciousness cleared on a single realization.
“This? This is why you agreed to marry Grace almost without ever having seen her first? All those years I wondered why you were so adamant about allowing me to choose when you yourself seemed so unconcerned about who you’d take to wife. All along it was because you had sacrificed your life to protect Mother, to keep anyone, including me, from knowing that I am a really nothing more than a bastard?”
Christian just stared at her, his expression frozen with the obvious pain of his regret.
But was it regret that he had had to hurt her? Or regret that he had had to tell her the truth now after all these many years?
If Eleanor had never met Richard, had never thought of becoming his wife, she would have likely spent the rest of her life oblivious to the truth, never knowing that she was not, in fact, the person she had always thought, Lady Eleanor Wycliffe, daughter to one of the most illustrious families in England. She would have never known she was instead a by-blow of an adulterous affair that had resulted in the murder of two men, one very likely her father in blood, the other her father on paper.
When her mother had arrived at Christian’s study a short while after, and had confirmed what she’d been told, the shame of it darkening her blue eyes, Eleanor had finally surrendered to her new reality.
Everything she had ever known of her life had been a terrible charade. She had grown up believing that her mother and father had lived a fairytale together before her father had been unjustly snatched away by death. She had believed it because it was what she had been told by the very people she should have been most able to trust.
She remembered thinking of a quote from Euripides’ Phrixus about the gods visiting the sins of the fathers upon their children, and wondered if the gods punished doubly those children whose fathers and mothers had transgressed. If so, then she was surely damned for eternity, for what crueler fate than to have lived the whole of one’s life in the role of someone who had never existed?
That night, while everyone else in the castle had been asleep, Eleanor had gone, stealing away under the protective cover of a moonless Highland night. She didn’t think to tell anyone where she was going. In truth, she didn’t really know herself.
She’d taken fifty pounds she’d found in Christian’s study and had used it to traverse the Highlands, making it as far south as the tiny seaside hamlet of Oban. It was there she sat now, sipping blackberry tea in the back parlor of a thatched-roof inn, set along the main street that faced the harbor. She was utterly exhausted, her feet cramped in her slippers from the days of riding and then, after she’d sold the horse, the walking she had done. Nearly all the money she’d had was now gone. She could but think it laughable that once she settled her bill with the innkeeper, she would have just enough left to buy her a place on a packet boat that would take her right back up the coast to Skynegal.
