The Truth About Lord Stoneville, page 1
“Anyone Who Loves Romance Must Read
Sabrina Jeffries!”
—New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas
Praise for New York Times and USA Today
bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries
and her delightfully enticing series,
The School for Heiresses
Wed Him Before You Bed Him
“Includes all the sweet, sexy charm and lively action readers have come to expect, and true love triumphs over all obstacles. . . . Bravo to Jeffries.”
—Library Journal
“An enchanting story brimming with touchingly sincere emotions and compelling scenarios . . . promptly answers some highly anticipated questions, yet cunningly keep[s] the reader anxiously awaiting other sought-after explanations . . . an outstanding love story of emotional discoveries and soaring passions, with a delightful touch of humor plus suspense.”
—Singletitles
Don’t Bargain with the Devil
“The sexual tension crackles across the pages of this witty, deliciously sensual, secret-laden story. . . . Teases readers with hints of the long-awaited final chapter, Wed Him Before You Bed Him.”
—Library Journal
The Truth About Lord Stoneville
is also available as an eBook
More acclaim for Sabrina Jeffries and the “warm, wickedly witty” (Romantic Times)
novels in her national bestselling series
The School for Heiresses
Let Sleeping Rogues Lie
“Consummate storyteller Jeffries pens another title in the School for Heiresses series that is destined to captivate readers with its sensuality and wonderfully enchanting plot.”
—Romantic Times (4 ½ stars)
“Scandal, gossip, greed, and old enmities spice up the pot in this fast-paced, sexy romp that bubbles over with Jeffries’s trademark humor and spirit. . . . Sparkling dialogue, stirring sexual chemistry, and an engrossing story.”
—Library Journal
Beware a Scot’s Revenge
“Irresistible . . . Larger-than-life characters, sprightly dialogue, and a steamy romance will draw you into this delicious captive/captor tale.”
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
“Exceptionally entertaining and splendidly sexy.”
—Booklist
Only a Duke Will Do
“Marvelous, powerful, and sensual . . . Jeffries fans will devour this treat.”
—Romantic Times
“Politics and passion prove to be a particularly potent combination. . . . Expertly crafted and delectably sexy.”
—Booklist
Never Seduce a Scoundrel
“Jeffries delivers lively lovers in an entertaining, sensual historical romance.”
—Booklist
“Jeffries carries off this cat-and-mouse game of mutual seduction so cleverly that you’ll be turning the pages at lightning speed. . . . Warm, wickedly witty, and brilliantly plotted, this is a must for anyone who just wants a fast, intelligent read.”
—Romantic Times
And praise for the wonderful bestselling anthology The School for Heiresses
featuring romance stars
Sabrina Jeffries Liz Carlyle
Julia London Renee Bernard
“A clever, sensual, and superb collection.”
—Booklist
“Crowd-pleasing. ”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fun, suspenseful, and highly sensual.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Also by Sabrina Jeffries
The School for Heiresses Series
Wed Him Before You Bed Him
Don’t Bargain with the Devil
Snowy Night with a Stranger (with Jane Feather and Julia London)
Let Sleeping Rogues Lie
Beware a Scot’s Revenge
The School for Heiresses (with Julia London, Liz Carlyle, and Renee Bernard)
Only a Duke Will Do
Never Seduce a Scoundrel
The Royal Brotherhood Series
One Night with a Prince
To Pleasure a Prince
In the Prince’s Bed
Sabring Jeffries
The Truth About Lord Stoneville
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To Jean Devlin, thanks for all you do.
And to all the readers who fell in love with
Stoneville—here’s your guy’s book at last!
Dear Reader,
My name is Hester Plumtree, but most people call me Hetty. I’ve run the family brewery ever since my late husband died, and while there are people who give me grief over that, I always say if you have the time to complain about other people’s lives, then someone needs to give you more to do.
Of course, when it comes to my grandchildren, I exclude myself from that. I have a right to tell them what to do, don’t I? I did mostly raise them myself after their father, the marquess, and their mother, my daughter, died in a tragic accident. And that’s all I’ll say since people gossip enough about it as it is.
Truth be told, all I want is great-grandchildren. Is that too much to ask? Yet all my stubborn grandchildren give me is grief. Take Oliver, for example. I can understand a young buck on the town sowing his wild oats with an opera dancer or two, but Oliver has made a science of it! Between his drinking and his wenching, there isn’t a gossip rag that hasn’t written about him—more times than not in conjunction with some naughty incident involving a half-naked female and a tub of smuggled brandy. I blame it on his father, whose wild ways Oliver adopted after his parents’ death.
And don’t get me started on the other four: Jarret with his gambling; Minerva with her salacious Gothic novels; Gabriel with his racing; and Celia, who never met a target pistol she didn’t want to shoot. There’s a reason society calls them the Hellions of Halstead Hall. Don’t get me wrong—they’re good grandchildren. They ask after my health and accompany me into society and make sure I don’t work too hard. But they refuse to shed their scandalous habits, and I’ve had enough!
So I’ve contrived a way to force them into settling down and behaving like the heirs I deserve. They’re not going to like it, but tough times call for tough measures. As God is my witness, I will have great-grandchildren … soon!
Sincerely yours,
Hetty Plumtree
Prologue
Ealing, England
1806
Oliver Sharpe, sixteen-year-old heir to the Marquess of Stoneville, left the stables at Halstead Hall with his heart in his throat. His mother had ridden off toward the hunting lodge in a fury, and Oliver rarely saw her like that. Mostly, she was just sad . . . unless something monumental set her off.
Like finding her son acting in the basest fashion imaginable.
Mortification swamped him.
You’re a disgrace to this family! she’d cried in a voice of sickened betrayal. You’re behaving exactly like your father. And I’ll be damned if I let him turn you into the same wicked, selfish creature as he is, sacrificing anyone to his pleasures!
Oliver had never heard his mother curse, and the fact that he’d driven her to do so chilled him. Was she right about him? Was he becoming just like his careless and debauched sire? The very thought made his stomach roil.
Worse yet, she was now riding out to lay his sins at Father’s door, and Oliver couldn’t stop her since she’d ordered him to stay out of her sight.
But someone had to go after her. The only other time he’d seen her in a rage was when she’d first discovered his father’s infidelity, when O
God only knew what damage she would wreak now that she believed her son was following in his father’s footsteps. Especially with the house party in full swing.
As Oliver rounded the walls of the semifortified manor that was their country home, he spotted a familiar carriage coming up the drive, and his heart leaped. Gran! Thank God she’d arrived; Mother might actually listen to her own mother.
Oliver reached the front of the house just as the carriage stopped. Hurrying forward, he opened the door for his grandmother.
“Well, now, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” she said with a warm smile as she stepped down. “I am glad to see you have not lost your courtly manners like some young rascals your age.”
Normally he’d make a witty retort and he and Gran would spar a little, all in good fun. But he couldn’t manage it today, not with fear riding him.
“Mother is angry with Father.” Offering his arm to escort her to the house, he kept his voice low. The servants mustn’t hear. Half the world already gossiped about Father’s infidelities—no need to feed the sharks more chum.
“That is nothing new, is it?” his grandmother said dryly.
“This time is different. She’s in a rage. She and I quarreled, and she rode off toward the hunting lodge alone.”
“Probably looking for him.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. You know how he likes to bait her. If he’s there, she’s liable to do anything.”
“Good.” She flashed him an arch smile. “Perhaps she’ll destroy that wretched lodge. Then Lewis will have nowhere to take his little whores.”
“Blast it, Gran, I’m serious!” When she lifted an eyebrow at his language, he bit back an oath. “Forgive me, but this isn’t like usual. You have to go after her, talk to her, calm her down. It’s important. She won’t listen to me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He colored. “Of course not.”
“Don’t lie to your grandmother. What was your quarrel with your mother about?”
How could he tell her? He cringed every time he thought of it. “It doesn’t matter. Just believe me when I say she needs you.”
Gran snorted. “Your mother hasn’t needed me from the day she was born.”
“But Gran—”
“See here, Oliver,” she said, patting his hand as if he were some child, “I know you’re close to your mother, and it upsets you to see her angry. But if you give her time alone to let her anger run its course, she’ll be fine, I swear.”
“No, you’ve got to—”
“Enough!” she snapped. “It’s been a long, hard trip, and I’m tired. I need a hot cup of tea and a good nap. I’m in no mood to involve myself in your parents’ quarrels.” At his look of desperation, she softened her tone. “If she hasn’t returned by nightfall, I promise I’ll go after her. You’ll see—she’ll be back long before then, full of apologies, and this will all be forgotten.”
But his mother never returned. That night at the hunting lodge, she shot his father and then herself.
And Oliver’s life was never the same.
Chapter One
Ealing
1825
Oliver stared out the window of the library at Halstead Hall. The dreary winter day further depressed his spirits as he fought to shove his painful memories back into the stout strongbox in which he kept them. It was so much harder here than in town, where he could lose himself in wenches and wine.
Not that he could lose himself for long. Though the scandal was nineteen years old, there were still whispers of it wherever he went.
Gran had told the guests that night that Mother had gone to the hunting lodge to be alone and had fallen asleep. Awakened by sounds of what she thought was an intruder, she’d panicked and shot him, only to discover that the man was her husband. Then, in her shock and grief, Mother had turned the pistol on herself.
It was a flimsy tale at best to cover up a murder and a suicide, and the whispers never quite subsided since the guests had been eager to speculate on the truth. Gran had ordered him and his siblings not to speak of it to anyone, even each other, from that day forward.
She’d said it was to stifle the gossip, but he’d often wondered if it was because she blamed him for what happened. Otherwise, why reverse her decree in recent months to question him about the quarrel between him and Mother that night? He hadn’t answered, of course. The very thought of telling her turned his stomach.
Whirling away from the window, he paced beside the table where his siblings sat waiting for Gran. This was precisely why he avoided Halstead Hall—it always put him in a maudlin mood.
Why in God’s name had Gran asked to have her blasted meeting out here? He’d kept the place shut up for years. It stank of must and rot, and was chilly as the Arctic besides. The only room lacking dust covers was the study where his steward did the work of running the estate. They’d had to remove the covers in here just to have this meeting, which Gran could have held perfectly well at her house in town.
Normally, he would refuse her request that they troop out to his neglected estate. But ever since his brother Gabriel’s accident three days ago, he and his siblings had been skating on thin ice with her. That was made more than clear by Gran’s uncharacteristic silence about it. Something was afoot, and Oliver suspected it wouldn’t be to their liking.
“How’s your shoulder?” his sister Minerva asked Gabe.
“How do you think?” Gabe grumbled. He wore a sling over his rumpled black riding coat, and his ash-brown hair was mussed as usual. “Hurts like the devil.”
“Don’t snap at me. I’m not the one who nearly got myself killed.”
At twenty-eight, Minerva was the middle sibling—four years younger than Jarret, the second oldest; two years older than Gabe; and four years older than Celia, the baby. But as the eldest girl, she tended to mother the others.
She even looked like their mother—all creamy skin and gold-streaked brown hair, with ivy-green eyes like Gabe’s. There was virtually no resemblance between those two and Oliver, who’d inherited the coloring of their half-Italian father—dark eyes, dark hair, dark skin. And a dark heart to match.
“You’re lucky Lieutenant Chetwin pulled back in time,” Celia pointed out to Gabe. She was a slightly paler version of Oliver, as if someone had added a dollop of cream to her coloring, and her eyes were hazel. “He’s rumored to have more bravery than sense.”
“Then he and Gabe make a good pair,” Oliver growled.
“Lay off of him, will you?” Jarret told Oliver. Closest to being a blend of their parents, he had black hair but blue-green eyes and no trace of Oliver’s Italian features. “You’ve been ragging him ever since that stupid carriage race. He was drunk. It’s a state you ought to be familiar with.”
Oliver whirled on Jarret. “Yes, but you were not drunk, yet you let him—”
“Don’t blame Jarret,” Gabe put in. “Chetwin challenged me to it. He would have branded me a coward if I’d refused.”
“Better a coward than dead.” Oliver had no tolerance for such idiocy. Nothing was worth risking one’s life for—not a woman, not honor, and certainly not reputation. A pity that he hadn’t yet impressed that upon his idiot brothers.
Gabe, of all people, ought to know better. The course he’d run was the most dangerous in London. Two large boulders flanked the path so closely that only one rig could pass between them, forcing a driver to fall back at the last minute to avoid being dashed on the rocks. Many was the time drivers pulled out too late.
The sporting set called it “threading the needle.” Oliver called it madness. Chetwin had pulled back, yes. But Gabe’s rig had caught the edge of one boulder, breaking off a wheel and subsequently turning the phaeton into a tangle of splintered wood, torn leather, and twisted metal. Thank God the horses had survived, and Gabe had been lucky to get out of it with just a broken collarbone.
“Chetwin insulted more than just me, you know.” Gabe thrust out his chin. “He said I wouldn’t race him because I was a coward like Mother, shooting at shadows.” Anger tinged his voice. “He called her the Halstead Hall Murderess.”
