Vivienne Cox

  Sickened By Heart

  A M/M Historical Romance

  Copyright © 2020 by Vivienne Cox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  Also by Vivienne Cox

  1

  Chapter 1

  October 31, 1815

  London, England

  It was old and, worse yet, dirty. Truly, at first glance, except for the excessive amount of filth which filled each and every one of its cracks and crevices, it appeared to be most unremarkable.

  In spite of his disdain, Johnathan couldn’t force his eyes away from the object his twin sister had just moments before flung onto his bed after rushing into his bedchamber unannounced. It was a hand mirror. At least he thought it might have been, once upon a long time ago, but he hadn’t quite made up his mind yet that a person was supposed to gaze into the ghastly object’s reflective depths with hopes to catch an accurate likeness of their visage.

  Intrigued, Johnathan dropped down into a crouch at the foot of his bed to get a better look. The first thing he noticed was that some of the dirt had broken free of a home it had probably known for years. He flicked the dried specks of mud to the floor as he continued with his perusal. The second thing to attract his attention was the fact that the round mirrored portion appeared to be made of a thin layer of dull gold rather than glass. And that, at present, it reflected a wavy, distorted image of his ceiling, solidifying his opinion on the value of using the mirror as a mirror. The next thing he observed was the ornate, carved handle. Though he had no doubt the ivory had once gleamed creamy and bright, it was now a former glory of itself with its sickly shade of dirt encrusted yellow.

  The last thing to impress itself upon Johnathan’s cognizance was the nature of the carvings. Shocked, he studied them for several long moments, sure he had taken leave of his senses. There was no way he could be seeing what he thought he was seeing.

  The images were disturbing.

  And, yet, oddly fascinating.

  Men. Naked. Involved in various levels of debauchery. With one another.

  The most compelling scene depicted the naked form of a large man pressed close to the back of his unclothed lover. And were his—by God, the man’s teeth were buried in the neck of the smaller man.

  “Johnathan Ross Fisher!”

  Johnathan’s attention jerked to his sister. For the millionth time, he marveled that to be so dainty she possessed a set of lungs to make the town crier weep with envy. From the put upon expression gracing her face, he knew she must have called out to him several times already, but all to no avail. “I do apologize, Mora, but your gift has left me rather speechless.” As an afterthought, he added, “And don’t call me Ross.”

  “It’s not a gift for you, you idiotic lummox.”

  The relief which coursed through Johnathan was immense. If it had been a gift, he hadn’t the faintest idea how he was supposed to have expressed his gratitude. With a mud pie, perhaps? Somehow he didn’t think a simple thank you would have sufficed. “Thank the lord for small favors. I was sure I was going to have to wait until you’d retired for the evening before burying that thing out back. And if you insist on calling me a name that’s not my own, I prefer handsome lummox.”

  Somewhere beneath the voluminous folds of a powder blue gown, one slipper covered foot tapped out an impatient beat. “And if it had been a gift, what exactly would you have told me, Jenny, when I’d asked you to borrow it? Because you do realize I surely would have asked you to borrow it one day? Just to spite you because your distaste is so clear.”

  Standing, Johnathan flashed a cheeky grin. “Why, I would have told you a fib, of course. That it was lost. Misplaced by mistake.”

  “Pfft, you know you can’t lie to me. I know you better than you know yourself.” Mora tossed a burnt golden curl the same shade as Johnathan’s own unruly curls over a slim shoulder and green eyes the color of the purest jade just like Johnathan’s own sparked at him in anger. “I’ve been pouring out my heart to you for the past five minutes, yet you haven’t heard one word I’ve said, have you? You idiotic oaf.”

  He hadn’t. But contrary to the charming endearments his sister bestowed on him with so much love, Johnathan Ross Fisher was no fool. So he knew better than to admit his faux paus.

  Johnathan loved and adored his twin and was leagues closer to her than to their only other living relative. But since much earlier in the year, at the onset of the season which had coincided with the final stage of Mora’s drastic transformation, their relationship, out of necessity, had changed. Just twelve short months ago, Mora had been capable of ferreting out the most sordid of gossip with ease, handling a temperamental horse with more adeptness than a head groomsman, swam like she’d been born to the water and, in general, had been able to search out all manners of mischief with an astounding precision.

  In short, she’d been a hoyden.

  Now she was, on the surface, an exquisitely coifed, always polished, gently bred young lady of the ton. Who Johnathan encouraged to dedicate all of her attention to finding a respectable husband before their all too short time in the city came to an end and they were forced to return to their country home in defeat. It was Johnathan’s duty to see his sister wedded off and he was determined that it would happen…even though, in his unexpressed personal opinion, marrying was for fools, a thought he’d subscribed to after having had his heart dallied with, then broken, by a well-to-do widow. Lady Sandy’s shrill shrieks of laughter to his foolish public proclamations of everlasting love, and her cruel statements that he should aim much lower, still haunted Johnathan and caused him pained embarrassment on occasion.

  “Loud as you are, God almighty up above in heaven can probably hear you right now so of course I can hear your bellowing as you stand not even two steps from me.”

  “Idiotic liar.”

  Johnathan didn’t take exception to the latter part of the insult as it was the truth. As accused, he’d missed every word of Mora’s tirade and had no clue as to why she was so worked up. Regardless of what actually had her concerned, Johnathan thought it prudent to steer the conversation towards a subject his sister should be worried about, although he was aware she probably wasn’t. “The little season is almost finished, Mora. And we have to take advantage of every opportunity now. You should be getting ready for tonight’s ball. And I guess I can settle for lummox, oaf, or even liar, if you promise to drop the idiotic part.”

  “Why should I bother, Jenny?”

  “Because I find that I take grave exception to the verbal abusing of my ability to undertake reasoning of a higher sort.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Mora said, “Not that. I want to know why I should bother going to the ball at all. It’s hopeless. Just about every last one of my friends received an offer earlier in the year. But not me. At this point, I think it’s clear marriage is not to be a part of my destiny.”

  The biggest reason for Mora’s failure to land a husband thus far was because she, like Johnathan, was almost a penniless pauper, thanks to the massive amount of debt resulting from their elder brother’s squandering of the meager wealth left after their parents’ death in a horrific carriage accident. Added to that fact was the reality that Mora, like Johnathan, was nothing more than the titleless, landless, youngest offspring of a lowly baron the ton had never quite forgiven for his scandalous marriage to his favorite servant. The only reason Mora had had her season at all was a result of what must’ve been Joshua’s last strain of restraint. He hadn’t whored, drunk or gambled her trousseau away, instead pressing Johnathan into using the funds to hire a companion to teach their sister everything she needed to know about being a proper lady. The remainder had been used to rent Johnathan and Mora a horribly expensive townhouse in the fashionable part of the city, to hire only the staff necessary to man the townhouse and to outfit Mora with all the silk gowns, lace gloves and satin slippers needed to complete the misleading appearance of affluence.

  In Johnathan’s opinion, which was admittedly biased, his sister had been among the most beautiful, if not the most beautiful, presented during the season. But she was still poor, of mixed blood, and now not even coming to her marriage with a dowry. And the snobbish members of the ton knew it and held it against her.

  And there was nothing Mora, nor Johnathan, could do about it.

  There was also a lesser known reason Johnathan held responsible for Mora’s lack of success to draw an offer to date…a reason which had less to do with their dire finances, and unsavory pedigree, and more to do with her herself. To be specific, her personality. Her cantankerous, oftentimes very unladylike, personality that no amount of training could rid her of.

  Johnathan approached his sister, wishing he possessed the ability to solve all of their problems in that very instant. And the ability to save them from the very real possibility of debtor’s gaol. Because he would. In a heartbeat. He would prefer their rescue came at his sacrifice rather than that of his twin. But life just didn’t work that way, as demonstrated by Lady Sandy. Mora’s chances of making the much needed match outpaced those of Johnathan’s by a long shot.

  Placing an arm around her shoulders, Johnathan drew her near and squeezed tight as he consoled, “Your turn is coming. Soon. You just have to be patient. Just for a little while longer.”

  She laid her head against his shoulder. “Do you really think that’s what I’m upset about, Jenny?”

  He stroked the silken threads flowing down her back and asked, “About what do you speak, Mora?”

  “Do you really think I’m upset over the prospect of not having yet found some buffoon of a man to tie myself to for the rest of what will surely be my miserable life?”

  “No, I don’t think the lack of finding is what’s causing you trouble. I think it’s the thought of being a biddable wife to the buffoon that bothers you.” Johnathan gave his sister a playful shove. “Now do tell what that piece of dirt is you’ve deposited on my bed, dear sister. I’m not overly fond of the thought of sleeping with all the worms and maggots crawling off of it.”

  She whirled to face him, expression thunderous and irritation flashing bright in her eyes. “Biddable? Biddable!”

  “Obedient, compliant, submissive,” Johnathan elaborated, quick to step out of range when she tried to wallop him upside the head. “Now tell me what that thing is? From whence did it come? And why in God’s name, and let me make absolutely clear that this is the question I’m most interested in having answered, is it on my bed?”

  “Biddable,” she repeated once more in outrage, shaking her head in disgust. With a flounce of silken skirts, she perched on the edge of his bed, next to the hand mirror. “It’s used for scrying.”

  “One question down, two to—it’s used for what?”

  “Do stop yelling, Jenny. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my hearing. And I said it’s used for scrying.” Imitating his earlier glibness, Mora said, “Divination, seeing the future, fortune telling.”

  “I am perfectly aware of what scrying is. But what I am not aware of is what my sister is doing with a mirror allegedly used for that purpose. And please do not tell me you’ve taken up divination as some sort of pastime.”

  Cocking her head to one side, affecting a thoughtful pose, she said, “We could use the money.”

  “Mora,” Johnathan warned. He could just imagine the disgrace which would follow if the ton thought his sister had taken up a devil’s hobby. That it was all foolish nonsense wouldn’t matter in the least. What would matter is that her slim chances of marriage would become nil.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Respectable ladies do not work. But if it came to that end, and you had to, then you should seek employment as a lady’s companion or as a nanny. But working as a teller of the future is absolutely out of the question.”

  “Guess I have to admit, then, the true purpose of the mirror.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’ve found when the sun is at its zenith and if the mirror is held just so, I can start a fire…or, at the very least, cause a person a bit of warming discomfort.”

  “And who would you be wanting to discomfort?”

  A too innocent expression blanketed her face. “No one.”

  Johnathan wasn’t fooled for one second. “You are to stay away from Eliza, Mora, do you understand me?”

  “If it wasn’t for Eliza, Jenny, I’d be wed to Baron Collins instead of her, and all of our problems already solved. Truthfully, I still don’t know what the big deal was. Horses are meant to be rode, after all.”

  “Yes, little sister, they are,” Johnathan agreed, feeling just a touch of amusement. He couldn’t help himself…on first meeting Eliza, Johnathan had also immediately noticed her long face bore an uncanny resemblance to that of a mare. “But some horses have a higher value than others. Especially those horses who are the human, virginal daughters of matchmaking mamas. If he hadn’t married her, Eliza’s reputation would have been in tatters after their…gallop.”

  “Supposed virginal daughter,” Mora corrected with a meaningful glance. “If you’d heard what I’d heard, you’d be doubtful of her purity also.” Her gaze turned to the mirror as she stroked the handle in reverence with the tip of a finger. “This mirror is very old.”

  “You don’t say.” Johnathan’s tone was just the slightest bit dry.

  “Scoff if you want. But this is a priceless artifact. I have it on good authority it’s been around since ancient Egypt. A gift to Cleopatra when she was ten and six, just two years younger than we are now, from one of her besotted lovers. He ordered it made special for her.”

  Johnathan stared at the handle his sister caressed with such adoration. “I honestly don’t think the man who ordered the commissioning of that thing was smitten with any part of Cleopatra, except for, maybe, the power she wielded. Now, Mark Antony, he was probably a different story.”

  Mora’s attention snapped to him. She regarded him with a fair amount of disbelief. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t believe what?” Johnathan asked, unsettled by her close scrutiny.

  “That you do have a sense of humor. I’d heard the rumors, but immediately dismissed them all as being frivolous, of course.”

  “Of course.” Johnathan shook his head in exasperation. “Proceed with your tale, Mora.”

  “Very well,” she conceded, a small smile curving her lips. “It’s said Cleopatra saw her whole life in this mirror. She foresaw her marriage to Ptolemy and the fierce struggle for power which resulted afterwards. She foresaw her relationship with Julius Caesar and, later, Mark Antony.” She paused and in that short time it was all too clear to Johnathan that his sister believed the ridiculous prattle she rattled off. “It’s even said it was in this very mirror that she saw the idea to smuggle herself inside of a rug to Julius Caesar.”

  “She saw all of that in that very mirror, hmm?”

  “It boggles the mind, does it not? If the stories are true, then it means I am in possession of the object the most powerful woman to ever rule Egypt drew all her knowledge from.” Mora’s sigh was dreamy.

  Johnathan’s snort was incredulous. “Yes, I do suppose that is one way to look at it.”

  “What other way is there to look at it?”

  “That it is a worthless piece of clod ignorant young girls make up fanciful stories about. And it’s also in dire need of resodding. Some insect is without its home right now.”

  “I am not ignorant!” In a rage, Mora shot off of the bed. “You—you—”

  “Idiotic oafish lummox of a liar,” Johnathan supplied.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” She stomped to the door and yanked it open.

  Before she passed under the archway, Johnathan reminded, “You still haven’t told me, yet, what it is that you hoped to see in it.”

  “It is of no consequence now,” she answered, back to him. “But if you must know, Lauren Rosenbaum gave it to me at the Wellings’ soiree. Said she’d heard rumors of its existence for years and when she finally determined the rumors to be true, she set out on a mission to discover its location. She eventually found it several All Hallows Eves past, buried in the garden of a certain Dame she refused to name. She dug it up from its resting place and, following tradition, looked into it that very day…and saw Viscount Rosenbaum’s face in it next to hers. The next day he offered for her. I took the mirror with broad hopes that if it didn’t show me my future husband, it would at least show me a prosperous venture in which to invest. Or how to overthrow the monarchy.” At Johnathan’s gasp, Mora added, “Oh, come off it, Johnathan. You know as well as I do that our current monarch leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “Mora! You had better not let anyone ever hear you speak—”

  “Never fear, brother, the chances of me repeating my blasphemous opinions in the presence of others is equal to the chances of you becoming our next king. Our reputations as dutiful subjects are safe. For the demned thing showed me nothing at all.”

 

1 2 3 4 5