Deception at Midnight

By Corey McFadden

Maude Romney should have enjoyed a life of privilege, but her scheming aunt and cousin instead turned her life into a nightmare. Fearing they would actually do her harm, she fled—and encountered Edward, Earl of Radford. Though at first he thought only to seek safety for this enchanting tomboy, he came to doubt whether she had not cleverly trapped him into marriage. Historical Romance by Corey McFadden; originally published by Leisure Books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Sep 1, 1993
• ISBN: 9781610846196

Book preview

McFadden

Prologue

The two children tumbled like puppies through the long grass on the hill behind Romney Manor. Hidden from view of the once grand house, they rolled over and over, the girl’s frock and petticoats picking up dirt and twigs with every bump. They landed at the bottom of the hill, all of a heap, laughing and winded.

Maude had watched in elation as the old family carriage lumbered off behind two nice but dull old nags, bearing aunt and cousins off for the calls inflicted weekly on the neighborhood. Maude was too naughty to call upon ‘nice people’. She was punished and could not go. Of course, she was always punished for this or that infraction—her aunt imposed too many rules to keep inside of her eight-year old head.

Sitting up, the boy listened for sounds of trouble. Unlike his playmate, he wore nothing to cause worry about getting dirty—an old hand-me-down shirt, too big, and breeches, too small—everything dingy and worn.  Although he heard nothing, his face was anxious. It was a thin face, rather pinched, and would have been too pale, but for the browning from the sun. There were dark rings under the young eyes.

Oh, come on, Joe, they’ll be gone for hours. And no one will tell on us. Let’s go to the stables.

With a laugh, Maude picked herself up and made a feeble attempt at tidying up. Joe scrambled quickly to his feet and brushed at her hair and dress, not that it helped much. With smiles of shared conspiracy, they ran pell-mell for the stables, now more home to the girl than the great rambling house with its sweet memories and bitter present.

The children had great plans for the day. Yesterday, Maude, hiding in the stables from the wrath of her Aunt Claire, had discovered something wonderful, coming unexpectedly upon the hidden storage place for a brace of marvelous pistols. Today would be Maude’s crowning achievement! Her father had been a superb shot, and though he had promised to teach her to shoot when she was older, his pistols were the only thing he had forbidden his tomboy moppet. She had never disobeyed her father—it had never occurred to her to do so. But now, of course, things were—different. And anyway, she was older—she was eight.

Maude beat Joe into the stables by a nose. Oblivious to the stable muck, they dove into an old tackle chest. Reaching down into the back, a crow of delight escaped her lips as her hands closed on the treasure.

Here they are! Right where they were yesterday! She pulled the two pistols from the chest and brandished them the way she imagined a brigand would do.

Easy, Miss Maude! Point them down. You’ll blow me ’ead off! Joe cried, as he stepped quickly to the side.

Oh, said Maude, in a small voice, lowering the pistols to point at the earth. I’m sorry, Joe, I wasn’t thinking. I do know we must be more careful than that. Now that the first euphoria was fading, she noticed how heavy the pistols were. And so large! Surely they were not so big when her father had held them. What if her fingers were too little to pull back the pin and make the gun fire? Well, she had Joe to help. Between them they should be able to manage. Then a new doubt assailed her. Are they loaded, do you suppose? she asked, holding one up and eyeing it with concern. It would be dreadful if they were not.  She had no idea how to load pistols, or even where to find the gunpowder.

Aye, that I do know, miss, for I’ve ’eard Old Tom say as ’e’s ready to fire at anyone wants to break into ’is stables an’ cause trouble.

Well, let’s be off then, Joe, out the back so no one from the house can see us. Anyway, if anyone does hear anything, they’ll think it’s the earl’s people after rabbits.

Where is your uncle, miss? And what about Cook? the boy asked timidly.

Maude felt the usual twinge of sadness when she thought of her poor uncle, so lost in his drink and disappointment. She didn’t much understand why things were the way they were with her father’s younger brother. He had been lots of fun and full of the devil before....

Uncle James is...unwell this morning, she stammered, knowing he would sleep off his brandy until noon, at least. He’ll not hear us, and, anyway, his windows face the other way. And Cook has gone to market. We’re almost all alone. Here...you carry one and I’ll carry the other. She thrust one of the heavy pistols at Joe who eyed it warily and then took hold of it as if it might bite him. Let’s hurry! Let’s go!

The children sped from the stables, Maude’s short legs bared to the knee as she ran, holding her encumbering skirts high. One of these days, she thought, I shall get some proper clothes. I’ll borrow them from Joe and then I shall do as I please without worrying about getting dirty! She had, at least, had the forethought this morning to wear an old, too-tight, faded smock that had lain for ages in the bottom of her wardrobe for important emergencies such as these.

Behind the hill at last, the children sank, laughing, to the ground. It did seem that their ambitious plans would succeed now, for they had heard no angry shouts behind them, and the precious cargo had not gone off with a bang in flight. With a triumphant flourish, Maude held up her pistol. She turned it over in her small hand and gently touched the old elaborate chasing. She and Joe stared in awe and silence for a moment, examining the pistols. The guns were old and very beautiful. They had belonged to Maude’s grampa, a gift from the old earl when they were young men and the families were close. Relations were more formal in this generation. As Radford had prospered, Romney Manor had dimmed, some unknown turn of the wheel at play, and although all was neighborly, there was little commerce now between the houses.

Reverence for the power of the firearms made the children uncharacteristically careful. At last, their wide young eyes meeting in silent agreement, Maude stood, and slowly raised the pistol to eye level. There was a long pause as she tried to hold the heavy piece steady in her two hands. She pointed it high, far into the distance, away over the hill, but not, of course, anywhere near the large Radford edifice. Closing her eyes, she pulled back on the trigger. Nothing happened. Keeping the pistol as steady as she could, she wrapped her other fingers around the large trigger and pulled again, with all her strength. There was a blinding explosion, and Maude fell with a squeal to the earth.

Miss! Miss Maude! screamed Joe, as he scrambled toward her. Maude lay stunned, ears ringing with the power of the blast. She had not expected such noise! A tiny, rare flicker of guilt flared in her mind. She could hear her beloved father saying, Maude, never touch my pistols! Do you understand me? Guns are not for children. Well, perhaps eight was not quite old enough. Perhaps nine....

A bellow of rage from over the hill interrupted these thoughts. At that instant a magnificent stallion came hurtling, saddled but ominously riderless, toward them. Scrambling furiously, they managed to get out of the way as the horse, maddened with fear, missed them by inches. Maude looked at Joe. Now they had done it! With a resigned sigh, Maude arose, and with all the dignity she could muster, mud and stable muck notwithstanding, she proceeded over the hill.

It was most unfortunate that the sight that met Maude’s eyes was so funny. Knees in the air and on his rear end in ever-so-much mud, sat a gentleman, struggling to rise, but succeeding only in slipping back into the mire. Maude began to giggle, of course, and he turned a frigid glare in her direction, his gaze fixing pointedly on the pistol still clutched in her hand. It did seem to be the size of an elephant at this moment. Finally succeeding in heaving himself to his feet, the gentleman, too, seemed to increase in size. Sprawled in the mud he had not seemed quite so tall! Maude took an involuntary step backward as he advanced menacingly toward her.

I see I have you to thank for frightening my horse almost to death and nearly breaking my neck, he began. His voice was low and deceptively calm. His blue eyes bored holes in her. He continued to walk toward her as she shrank back, matching him step for step.

I...I did not know you were there, she stammered. I would not...

Of course you did not know, chit, nor did you bother to find out! You could have killed me and my horse with your idiotic blind shooting! Who are you? Who do you belong to? I can see you are nothing but a child. Who the devil allowed you little monkeys to lay your grubby little hands on pistols, anyway?

Well, that was really too much! Drawing herself to her full height, such as it was, she stated, I am Maude Romney, and I live at Romney Manor, and this is Joe, our stableboy, and I’ve said I was sorry, or at least I would have, had you not so rudely interrupted, and you are NOT dead, so....

Silence, brat! I’ve heard quite enough from you. It’s no thanks to you, or your frightened friend that I’m alive, and now, if you don’t mind, I shall relieve you of those pistols and retrieve my horse.

The pistols! No! Maude jerked her pistol behind her back, gesturing to Joe to get behind her. I...I cannot give you the pistols, sir, they were a gift from the old earl to my grampa. I must return them. You simply cannot... she broke off, gasping, he reached out, and, twisting her arm from behind her back, grabbed the pistol from her tight grasp.

You, boy! The pistol, now! he gestured peremptorily. Joe, accustomed to taking orders from his betters all of his life, never gave a thought to resistance. He handed the gun over, head and shoulders bowed.

Now then, the new earl is my father, so you could say I have some interest in these pistols, and a fine pair they are, too, not playthings for babes. If you will tell me to whom they now belong, I shall see to it they are returned at once.

The earl’s son!  Edward Almsworth. Worse and worse! Aunt Claire would have the skin off her for shooting him off his horse. Her aunt was so fawning over the earl’s family. This was just impossible! Desperately, Maude tried to think of some way to talk her way out of this one, but she feared all was lost.

* * * *

Edward Almsworth, heir to an impeccable, ancient earldom, stared at the two bedraggled little souls who had damned near been the death of him. His consequence was much crushed. Father said a gentleman should always keep his seat, no matter what the provocation.

Had the ragamuffin not had the gall to laugh at him, he might almost have felt sorry for her. As it was he would never hear the end of complaints from his valet about the state of his breeches and Hessian boots. There would be no keeping this mishap from the staff.

The girl took a deep breath and seemed to settle herself. Sir, she began, her tone a bit more deferential now, the truth is, we rather, er, borrowed the pistols; that is, well, no one knows, at least, not yet. And if you take them back, well, they’ll know then, won’t they? And it won’t go so well with us, Joe and me. We’ll get thrashed, you see. You don’t know my aunt... the child’s rushed confession trailed off, a look now of genuine fear in her eyes.

Gone was the fierce braggadocio of a moment before. Edward knew something of the aunt—a pushy, nasty piece of work by all accounts. However obsequious the woman might be to her social superiors, he had no doubts as to the thrashing the girl would get. Not that it wasn’t richly deserved. His own father would have had the hide off of him for pulling such a fool prank. And the chit was obviously the brains behind the crime. But the boy, well, that was a different matter. Edward watched Joe drag a shaking, filthy hand across his eyes. Perhaps a year or two younger than the girl, definitely a servant, he was underfed and gangly, his wrists and ankles protruding from his ill-fitting, ill-kempt garments. He shook with fear and the expression in his sad eyes was bleak but resigned. It would go badly with this boy, deserved or not, and Edward Almsworth, who fancied himself a fair-minded young man, could not bring himself to be the cause of the boy’s ill-treatment—or, worse in these times—dismissal from his post, at least not for the sort of prank he himself would have been proud to pull off at that age.

I think a sound thrashing is just what you need, Miss Romney, but I’ll warrant you have dragged your servant into this mess without regard to the possible consequences to him. Do you understand that he will be beaten within an inch of his life? He paused for effect, and watched as the girl visibly paled. Instinctively, she placed her arm around the boy’s thin, shivering shoulders, Edward noted with approval. If the chit had a conscience, so much the better. That is the least of it, he went on, mercilessly. He will be dismissed, of course, for recklessly endangering my life.  Without a reference. Do you know what that means to a young serving boy? He will die, Miss Romney, in a ditch, or, worse, at the end of a rope in Tyburn for thieving a crust of bread to feed himself. Poor Joe sagged against Maude who tightened her arm about him, even as she gave a choking sob.

But Edward was relentless. This was a lesson she needed to learn and perhaps he was the only one to teach it. One of the things you should have learned by now, young as you may be, is responsibility toward your servants. If they must obey your orders, you must be certain your orders are fair and will not imperil their safety. I’ll warrant this dangerous play with ‘borrowed’ pistols was your idea, and not Joe’s. Am I right?

In answer all the girl could do was hang her head. Joe sobbed against her, both of the children oblivious to the dirt from his face smudging her smock. Not that it had been any too clean to begin with.

Edward stared at the grubby, huddled pair. Perhaps it was time to cease their torment. I suppose I could come to an agreement with you, Miss Romney, your word as a lady? he asked softly. Joe raised his head and a look of hope crept across his frightened face.

Maude raised her gaze with some apparent difficulty and said in a small voice. I would keep my word, sir, but Aunt says I shall never be a lady.

Edward’s lips twitched but he worked at maintaining his stern expression. Well, miss, I’ve no doubt that you aunt is correct in her assessment as to your prospects. Nevertheless, I will take your word if you will give it. Will you take these pistols and put them away where you found them, now, and I mean immediately, this morning, and never touch them again, ever? he asked.

Never? Ever? For the whole rest of my life? she cried aghast. But my father said he would teach me to shoot when I grew up! It seemed she was not above bargaining, even with the rope around her grimy neck. Exasperated, Edward tried again.

I really do not care how you behave when you grow up, he stated. I only know that my horse and I shall maintain a great distance from you at all times in the future. But for now, until you are at least...let us say, eighteen years old...you will touch no pistols. Is that agreed? Otherwise, I warn you, I shall march directly to your aunt with both of you by the scruffs of your amazingly filthy little necks.

Eighteen? she asked with something of a squeak.

Miss Maude, please! Joe whispered. Eighteen isn’t so very long from now.

The girl drew her small self up with great assumed dignity. I will give you my word, sir, but only to save Joe from a hanging. We’ll take the pistols back now, and I won’t touch them again until I am... she hesitated a few seconds as if weighing her bargaining position. Oh, very well, then, eighteen! she cried, stomping her foot and abandoning all pretense at dignity. But I must say, sir, that’s ten years from now! I’ll be too old to do anything at all by then!

Edward, who had just turned eighteen and felt himself capable of a great many activities yet, maintained his grave façade. Nevertheless, Miss Romney, those are my terms, and I might add, they are most generous, considering you almost killed me. Her point, actually, was well-taken. At eighteen, she would be just as all the others of her sex, interested only in fashion and scandal, and who was marrying whom, and how much jewelry each had; jabbering on all day long about nonsense, practicing interminable, bad pieces on the pianoforte, and painting dreadful watercolors of seascapes, having never seen the sea. What a sorry lot ladies were, Edward reflected, not for the first time. He would certainly not marry until he was very old, and only then if his younger brother had not produced an heir to the earldom. In a way it was a shame that this chit, who at least had some gumption about her, would inevitably be corrupted into a mindless ninny. But that was the way of things, and, after all, no one, least of all Edward himself, would tolerate a wife who ran around shooting pistols and arguing every point to death.

The girl gave a great sigh and sagged a bit, as if she had paid a very high price indeed. Edward stepped forward and handed her the pistols, one by one, making sure she handled them with appropriate care. Joe was looking at Edward with nothing short of worship in his teary eyes, as he wiped a dirty hand across a dirty nose. Edward gave the boy a wink on the sly and was rewarded with a ghost of a startled smile.

I’ll be off, then, to see if my horse is lamed forever, he said, although he knew perfectly well that the horse would have calmed itself and wandered back to its stall by now. Mind you keep your word, Miss Romney, he added, laying it on a bit.

Of course I will, sir, she stated regally, back on her little girl’s dignity. Edward gave her a peremptory nod and turned to make his way up the hill.

Well, I’m glad that’s over, he heard the girl announce as he topped the hill and started down the other side. He stopped, amused, wondering what the mouthy brat would have to say about him.

He certainly was a pompous prig, wasn’t he, Joe? she demanded.

Oh no, Miss Maude, the boy said. I think he was very fair. We’d best go right away and do as he says.

Oh bother him anyway! little Miss Romney cried. Eighteen might as well be forever!

Pompous prig, indeed! Edward laughed to himself, listening to the children’s receding footsteps. Outrageous chit! She would lead some poor sod by the nose through a hen-pecked marriage. He blessed again his wise decision not to marry before his dotage. Well, the poor sod certainly would not be he!

Chapter One

October, 1790

Bedfordshire, England

The evening was positively intolerable. It was bad enough being got up for hours on end in tight stays and in one of her stepcousin Amelia’s tatty old gowns. The awful thing was much too young for Maude and made her look even more like a child than usual. Not to mention being forced to sit and listen to Amelia play the pianoforte—badly—and warble insipid songs. But to watch that insufferable prig, Edward Almsworth, the Earl of Radford, cast searing glances at Amelia and linger by her side all evening, was truly nauseating!

It had not helped, of course, that the young earl had treated Maude so insultingly. Imagine, yanking her ear and asking had she blown any of the locals off their horses recently! She was certainly no longer a child and he need not have so smugly reminded her of that ridiculous incident.

Maude now caught sight of the earl laughing uproariously at some bon mot uttered by Amelia. He had his hands all over her—at least he had one hand on her shoulder. What on earth could Aunt Claire be thinking to allow such a display? Maude turned away in disgust, and came face to face with her own reflection in the tall pier glass set between two windows in the drawing room. She gave a deflated sigh. The slight figure staring back at her was uninspiring, to say the least. Her nose tilted up too much and there was a smattering of freckles across her face that no beautiful young woman would have been so foolish as to acquire. And her red hair...well, as Amelia had taken pains to inform her, absolutely no one in the ton thought red hair was attractive. A garish, unfashionable color, was how her stepcousin had put it. Then there was the matter of her figure, or what there was of it, which wasn’t much. Amelia’s old hand-me-down dress had been cut down to fit her, since Amelia, two years ago at sixteen, had been taller and more curvaceous than Maude was now at eighteen. Well, nearly eighteen. The gown itself, a faded green satin, hung limp and flat on Maude in all the places where Amelia had filled it out so fetchingly. No wonder she could inspire nothing more than the yank of an ear from a handsome man!

She turned away from the sorry sight with another sigh. Her mother had been so beautiful. But then everything had been beautiful when her parents had been alive.

A delightful concert, eh, little miss? said a voice at her side. I’m sure you’re thrilled at being allowed to stay up with the adults tonight?

Maude bit back a sigh of exasperation. This gown would go in the trash bin tonight, aunt or no aunt. She turned and saw Mr. Demerest, an elderly neighbor, who leaned on a cane and looked as though he might topple over.

Why. no, sir, Maude said, unwilling to yield the point, even to make polite conversation. I am nearly eighteen now, and I always stay up late. And, really, you know, I’ve had to listen to Amelia practice every night.

Mr. Demerest drew back, slightly affronted that the child had not simply agreed affably with his obviously innocuous remark. Well, perhaps Claire, atrocious woman that she was, had a point about this girl. Only seventeen and already the makings of a shrew. He nodded distantly and made for the punch bowl which he knew would be a more hospitable companion.

Maude watched him go with relief. How she wished this interminable evening would end. She glanced about the room, noting with some surprise that Aunt Claire had managed a fair turnout. Many were family friends of long standing whom Maude had not seen since her parents’ death, and who had greeted Maude with warmth. Claire had not endeared herself in the neighborhood since coming to Romney Manor with her husband, Maude’s Uncle James Romney. And his daily overindulgence in his brandy had limited their sphere of acquaintances to those who indulged in drinking as much as he did and who could tolerate the acid tongue of his waspish, if beautiful, wife.

Maude, my dear child, is that really you? a pleasant voice behind her asked.

Turning, Maude was relieved to see an old friend of her mother’s beaming at her fondly.

Oh, my love, what a beautiful girl you are growing into, just as beautiful as your dear mother was. She would be so proud of you, Maude, Mary Farrington said warmly, drawing the girl into her arms for a fierce hug.

Maude felt the familiar sorrow wash over her and fought back the tears which always threatened at the thought of her wonderful parents. She had been six years old when her joyful world had exploded into tragedy. A simple trip to the continent, Maude’s first and much anticipated, had ended in terror and stark bereavement. While crossing, in mid-channel, a fierce storm had ripped the sails from their lines and had driven the ship onto the rocks near the coast of France, breaking it into pieces. Maude remembered the screams and the frantic pitching, and that her life had been saved by her father. They had watched as her mother, trapped as her voluminous skirts filled mercilessly with water, had been dragged down into the vicious sea. Her father had held Maude above the furious waves, and grabbing a piece of the ship’s timber as it tore past, had pushed her onto it. Screaming at the child to hold fast, he had lunged away from her toward a flash of silk of her mother’s dress. Maude had clutched the splintered board with her little hands as shriek after shriek tore from her throat. Unknowingly, she had ridden the board as it floated toward the beach, stranding her finally, insensible, with the flotsam of the wreckage. She had not seen the waves close over all the love she had ever known.

Let me get a good look at you, child, Mrs. Farrington said, pulling back and holding Maude at arm’s length. The woman’s pretty eyes narrowed as she viewed Maude’s dress with distaste. I see your stepcousin is turned out in great finery this evening, Maude, but this dress is clearly an old make-over. Where is your new dress?

Well, Amelia is being presented this Season, Mrs. Farrington, Maude said, her face reddening under her friend’s scrutiny. And I don’t care much about clothes. Really, I don’t. Aunt Claire says we can always get two wearings for the price of one since I am smaller than Amelia... Her words dwindled away under Mrs. Farrington’s barely concealed look of disgust.

And what about your Season, child? I see a great deal of money and attention being lavished on this Amelia, but you are the heir to Romney Manor and you must be eighteen now, aren’t you?

Well, not quite, Maude said, a little chagrined. You see, Amelia is already eighteen, and I am not quite old enough. Aunt Claire wanted to push Amelia along. And, of course, it’s too expensive for both of us to have a Season in the same year. Maude’s eyes strayed inadvertently toward Amelia who was still deep in a tête-à-tête with the earl. Would the man never leave her side? Aunt Claire says she wants Amelia married as soon as possible. She’s so beautiful, you know, and she’ll have such prospects... Maude broke off as she saw Mrs. Farrington eye her stepcousin. The woman’s lips thinned in obvious disapproval.

A husband would be a good idea, I believe, and the sooner the better for that one. Mrs. Farrington gave a sniff and turned her attention back to Maude. Are you well, my dear, and happy? she asked, smiling.

Of course I’m well, Mrs. Farrington, Maude said lightly, glad to get off the subject of her stepcousin. And as for happy, I suppose so, I mean, considering... Maude paused, aware again of that nameless longing that filled her. Uncle James was such a dear and he loved her, brandy and all, but still, there was that ache and the persistent feeling that her own home, Romney Manor, had been filled these last eleven years with a malevolence and dissension that would have shocked her loving parents.

Mrs. Farrington drew her close again, her eyes warm. You must come and see me, my dear. I had not realized you were so grown up. I still think of you as a child, I suppose, and you’re not at all, are you? Although, she added mischievously, you do still have a baby face, don’t you? She noted Maude’s wince and quickly amended her remark. Mind you, Maude, I much prefer your natural beauty to the artful splendor displayed by your stepcousin. Her eyes wandered to Amelia again as the girl’s shrill laughter was heard above the din in the room. I wonder why Claire doesn’t see... she broke off, clearly aware that she had said a bit too much.

...Well, I must leave, my dear. There’s Giles gesturing furiously at me from across the room. He has no patience with these affairs, wants to be back home with his dogs and his horses, she said fondly.

Maude could well remember that Giles Farrington and her father had spent many an hour pounding through the countryside, dogs baying beside them, while the ladies had enjoyed their cards at home.

With a quick kiss and a smile, Mrs. Farrington was gone, leaving Maude feeling alone again. She looked about for her Uncle James but could not find him in the crowd. There was always the chance Joe had had to shepherd him upstairs already. That happened more and more frequently now.

Glancing about the room, filled now with merry, fashionable guests, Maude noted with dismay the faded draperies that hung dispiritedly in the long windows. The manor had been in the Romney family for generations. It was a beautiful old home; one could see it still in the classic lines and the beautifully laid out, once carefully tended gardens, but now the glory was gone, the loving touches and attention to detail that had made it a showplace under her mother’s care.

Everywhere she looked were signs of neglect and disrepair. The walls were badly in need of new paint; several pieces of once fine furniture had nicks in them or pieces knocked off, large enough to be noticed from a distance. Nothing had been reupholstered in this room since her mother had died eleven years ago, and while Maude had been perhaps relieved that her mother’s taste still lingered, now she could see the corruption that time and neglect had wrought.

Maude had asked Aunt Claire several weeks ago if the drawing room shouldn’t be spruced up a bit since all these guests were coming. She had received a dressing down by the woman for interfering. Aunt Claire had told her there wasn’t enough money for that sort of frippery, considering the cost of Amelia’s Season, so Maude had held her tongue after that.

Maude’s eyes again wandered to the corner of the drawing room where Amelia and the earl were still huddled together, looking for all the world as if they were alone in the universe, Amelia, coy and confident in her obvious conquest. Neighborhood whispering had it that Radford was quite the ladies’ man in London. That was hardly surprising, Maude had to admit to herself, because he certainly cut a handsome figure with his finely tailored dark blue frock coat and his snowy-white linen, not to mention the dun-colored breeches which showed off a well-muscled and trim physique.

And probably more to the point, she thought wryly, he had become the new Earl of Radford upon his father’s death seven years ago, an honor not lost on the astute mamas of London. Now, at twenty-eight years old, he remained unencumbered by a wife and the competition for his favor was fierce as this new Season was getting underway. Aunt Claire had considered it a rare coup when the young earl had accepted her invitation to her small soiree, an unofficial neighborhood introduction for Amelia. Romney Manor was a modest neighbor to the rather grand Radford estate, seat of an earl for many generations, but Claire was conscious of the propinquity and felt that the family gained in reflected glory.

There was no doubt that Amelia had grown into a real beauty. Her raven hair which reached her hips when unpinned was arranged in graceful swirls, swept up in the back to cascade to her pretty neck in curls intertwined with satin ribbons.

It was unpowdered, according to the latest fashion. Curling tendrils set off her lovely face with its pink cheeks and rosy lips, slightly augmented with a rouge pot, Maude knew.

No expense had been spared on Amelia’s dress for this evening, or, in fact, on her wardrobe for the entire coming Season. Maude had marveled at the quality of the material, and the elaborateness of each design. A much-patronized London dressmaker had come to the manor with two assistants and yards and yards of splendid silks, satins, and laces. They had flustered and buzzed about Amelia, pinning, nipping, and chattering on and on about this young lady or that, all of whom seemed to have come to grief socially, some for minor misdemeanors, others for gross breaches, which required that husbands be found posthaste.

Claire and Amelia had seemed to relish each gossipy tidbit dropped by Madame Denis, treating her as if she were near-royalty, and so proud that she had condescended to come such a distance north from London to the byways of Bedfordshire. Maude had wondered if it had occurred to her aunt or to her cousin that Romney Manor would also be the object of mirthful scorn and snide derision at Madame Denis’s next stop.

Amelia’s dress tonight was a stunning rose satin, daringly cut at the bosom, with the merest excuse for a lace fichu pretending to hide the décolletage. Her wasp-like waist was set off by panels of a darker rose which ended in layer after layer of expensive lace to the hem. Amelia wore garnets, flashing on her white neck and at her ear lobes.

Maude had never seen these jewels before, or several of the others Claire had brought forth recently to match to certain dress materials. Maude’s innocent expression of surprise at the jewels had brought a scornful snap from Aunt Claire. They’re from my family, girl. We don’t all live like beggars. Still, it was odd, thought Maude, that Aunt Claire, who had such an obvious appetite for pretty things, carping at James for his failure to provide her with such, had not worn these jewels all these years.

Amelia’s beautiful blue eyes flashed with amusement at some witticism Radford had just uttered. Maude sighed. It was not that she cared a fig about her own appearance or even that she was jealous of the favorable attention Amelia was getting. If Maude never had a Season of her own, it was fine with her. Such a lot of bother and expense anyway. It was just that she wondered if these young men who were so smitten by Amelia’s soft, purring loveliness had any idea how those eyes could flash in ugly temper with little provocation, and how the soft, fluted voice could grow shrill and shrewish in frequent anger.

Maude glanced down at her wrist which still bore the red welts from earlier this evening when Amelia had dug her fingernails into Maude’s flesh, dragging her younger cousin up the stairs. Maude had been desperate to get away from the arguing and carrying on in the house this afternoon. Amelia’s dress did not fit properly, it was too tight here, it was too loose there, the color was not right for her complexion; the food would be inadequate for the crowd; the weather was too warm. Between Amelia and Aunt Claire, the household had been in an uproar of last-minute screeches and slaps. A glorious romp over the hills on the manor’s one good horse had been worth the lambasting Maude had endured, returning in her usual state of dishevelment, so late that an early guest had seen her come in looking like a stablehand. At least the two harpies had been too pressed for time to shriek at Maude for long.

Well, one of these hapless men would learn the dark secret about Amelia soon enough, but not, Maude reflected ruefully, until after the property settlement and celebration of the nuptials. She feared it might be the earl who would be caught in the web, paralyzed by the venom, unable to escape. Still, she shrugged to herself, it was none of her affair if he wanted to make an ass of himself, and a marriage would get Amelia out of this house.

I see Amelia has made quite a smash with Radford tonight, said a voice at her elbow. That should please Mama no end. Cousin John, as usual, leaned too close as he whispered in Maude’s ear.

I should think Aunt might wish Amelia to be somewhat less obvious in her preference, answered Maude, tartly. She shouldn’t be so forward; he’ll think her too easy.

"Jealous, Maudie? I notice he’s paid no

Reviews for Deception at Midnight

[Tiffanie Crust Hicks · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Where to begin.... let me just say that if the author had chosen to end the story midway through, this book would have been excellent. Unfortunately, she kept dragging out the plot and the longer she went, the more ridiculous and tedious it became. I think the most disappointing part was when (spoiler alert) our hero discovers his most valued servant (our heroine) to be a girl because she is shot in the side and he sees her bosom when looking at the wound. The reader has waited through chapters of these two being connected and growing in closeness for it all to be destroyed after he sleeps with her literally hours she got shot after a laudanum induced doctors visit. I’m sorry, but after this point in the book I just started skimming. I also found the repeated instances of our heroine getting groped, molested and almost raped to be disturbing. There was just too much that became unbelievable.