Miss Morrison's Second Chance

By Janis Susan May

Second chances are often the best.

Twelve years ago, long-time sweethearts, Verity Morrison and Bradford Pemberton, were torn apart by a vengeful act of Verity’s jealous sister. Refusing any other suitors, Verity has descended into spinsterhood at the family estate, her heart broken.

After being disgraced and exiled to foreign lands, a now wealthy Bradford has returned to England in order to get to know his nephew, Charlie, better. He’s quite surprised to run into Verity who is chaperoning her niece.

Their feelings are as intense for each other as always, but Bradford believes Verity long married and Verity believes Bradford is under her sister’s thrall. Neither bothers to correct the other.

It takes a kidnapping, an unexpected rescuer, and mistaken identities to prove that true love does indeed deserve a second chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: vinspirepublishing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311079244

Janis Susan May

Janis Susan May Patterson is a 7th-generation Texan and a 3rd-generation writer of mystery, romance, and horror. Once an actress and a singer, Janis has also been editor-in-chief of two multi-magazine publishing groups as well as many other things, including an enthusiastic amateur Egyptologist. Janis’ husband even proposed in a moonlit garden near the Pyramids of Giza. They live in Texas with an assortment of rescued furbabies. You can find Janis at www.janissusanmay.com.

Book preview

Miss Morrison’s Second Chance

A traditional Regency Romance in which neither time nor scandal is a barrier to true love

Janis Susan May

Vinspire Publishing

www.vinspirepublishing.com

Copyright ©2016 Janis Susan Patterson

Cover illustration copyright © 2016 Elaina Lee/For the Muse Designs

First Edition

Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vinspire Publishing, LLC, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

All characters in this work are purely fictional and have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

ISBN: 978-0-9971732-4-6

Published by Vinspire Publishing, LLC

This book is dedicated to

the memory of Georgette Heyer

who invented the Regency romance as we know it today

and to

CAPT Hiram M. Patterson, USN/Ret

the most wonderful man in the world

Chapter One

Elizabeth Elinor Morrison, more familiarly known to her family and friends as Lisbet, was an extraordinarily pretty girl even when her great blue eyes were not delicately swimming in tears. Giving a final wave with the tiny scrap of cambric and lace scarcely justified with the title handkerchief, she dropped dispiritedly onto a chair.

Well, they are truly gone. I cannot see the carriage any longer.

Just as she had ignored her niece’s hoydenish actions, Verity Morrison discounted the tremulous emotion portent in the young voice and calmly applied her attention to her needlepoint.

Lisbet sighed heartily with the accumulated wisdom of a young lady of almost eighteen summers. Brothers are such strange creatures, are they not? I mean, they make one’s life miserable with their teasing when they are here, but now that the holidays are over, and they are gone… I miss them.

Odd, is it not? I used to feel exactly the same way toward Percy and John.

Pappa? Lisbet stared at her aunt with undisguised disbelief, obviously – to Verity, at least - unable to reconcile the images of her stuffy father and priestly uncle with her wild harum-scarum brothers.

Of course your papa. Sometimes I remember the scrapes we got into as children. For a moment Verity slipped away to an earlier time, and the lovely, habitually sedate face beneath the incongruous spinster’s cap nearly resembled the niece’s in years as well as in classical configuration and delicate coloring.

Oh, those had been wild and wonderful times when they and the Pembertons had all run freely together like healthy young animals. Who could have foreseen Percy would become an odiously pompous copy of his autocratic father or that mischief-loving John would choose the Church? And Catherine? It had never even occurred to Verity she might become a lonely, loveless spinster, living out her days on gracious sufferance at the family home of Foxworth, nor the four siblings’ great and inseparable companion, Bradford, should ever be anything but the master of Bittermere.

Verity’s heart contracted painfully, as if it had been but days since his abrupt departure instead of the twelve long years that had passed from the time Bradford Pemberton had been cast, disgraced and disowned, into an exile as incommunicable as the grave. Now his brother, Roger, once so set upon a life in politics, walked the fields of Bittermere instead of the halls of Parliament.

Only Catherine had fulfilled her potential, Verity thought with an internal bitter sneer which was most uncharitable to bestow on one’s only sister. That most favored child, their father’s pet, had married a much older and very wealthy lord, then gone on to become a successful London hostess. Catherine would!

Aunt Verity?

Her niece’s voice snapped Verity back to the present, her face falling once again into lines of carefully learned placidity, her blue eyes focusing on the here and now with a slightly startled expression. Yes, Lisbet?

The younger Miss Morrison watched in amazement as the unconsciously animated stranger vanished, leaving only her sedate and vaguely dull aunt behind. I am sure I cannot imagine you and Pappa and Uncle John being rowdy. And Aunt Catherine is such a grand lady.

Verity’s fingers tightened convulsively, as if straightening a carelessly set stitch suddenly demanding all of her attention. Her bowed head hid how her lips, no less pink nor well-shaped than her niece’s, trembled. It is not long until you leave for London, is it?

Ten days. I have been counting them off on a calendar I made just for the purpose. Ten days and then it is off to London I go to become the Belle of the Ball, a Toast of the Ton, an Incomparable—

And a young lady, I hope.

Lisbet stared at her aunt with something akin to vexation. Verity had always been the first to indulge Lisbet’s childish fantasies, but ever since the question of Lisbet’s London Season had come up, Verity knew it must seem she had gone all over peculiar.

You sound just like Mamma.

Your mamma is a woman with a great sense of propriety.

Well, she is sending me to Aunt Catherine’s, and certainly she would never let me do anything out of the way.

The elder Miss Morrison said nothing, but her hands gripped the canvas so hard her knuckles stood out white. Lisbet had always known there existed some unnamed and ancient enmity between her dear Aunt Verity and exciting Aunt Catherine, but now it was obvious the child had never realized just exactly how deeply it went. Doubtless seeing glorious visions of being hailed as the family peacemaker, Lisbet flung herself into a kneeling position before her startled relative, gripping those tight white hands in her own.

Come with me, Aunt Verity. You have never been to London. I can think of no one I would rather have with me when I make my curtsy, and I am sure Aunt Catherine would be delighted to have you.

Gently Verity disengaged herself, careful to keep her face lowered so the varied parade of emotions which alternately saddened and hardened her eyes she felt could not be seen.

I went to London for my own Season, Lisbet, and I have no desire to return. Now I must go find your mother, as we have to decide the final details on your going-away dinner. If you want to go on talking about your coming Season, I suggest Charlie would be glad to bear your chatter, since he is now coming this way.

Oh, pooh, Charlie. Lisbet made a charming moue, dismissing as inconsequential the boy who had been her boon companion and playfellow since his arrival at Bittermere a dozen years before.

Though for a while after Bradford’s departure, relations had been cool between the two great houses, the proximity of the estates had made Lisbet and Charlie inseparable chums until Lisbet’s sudden and rather startling metamorphosis into an aspirant Young Lady of Fashion. Now some of the old childhood closeness was dissolving, but the forms were preserved as much for sentiment’s sake as for affection.

To someone whose eyes were undulled by years of day to day contact, Mr. Charles James Pemberton was an extremely handsome young man. The perfect pattern card for a young country gentleman, he was lean and muscular in his riding clothes, with curly brown hair falling naturally around his handsome face in a way the Town Beaux paid their hairdressers well to emulate. To Lisbet, though, he was and always had been simply Charlie.

A full head taller than the object of his attention, Charlie Pemberton strode into the room with the same assurance of welcome he had known all his life. He made the proper greetings to the departing Miss Morrison as would have been expected from one of his rank and breeding, but obviously his attention was fully focused on the younger lady, an homage so commonplace it was expected. It always had been since he first had helped her over a troublesome stile when she was but four and he a manly six.

Well, Lisbet, how many days? he asked, settling in the newly vacant chair with the ease of familiarity.

Ten. Just ten. Lisbet had been well taught in the social graces, but there seemed to be no use worrying about them with one she had known almost from the cradle; she might as well curtsey to her little brothers! You seem extraordinarily pleased with yourself, Charlie.

An impish grin split the handsome young face. I am. You see, I am going to London with you, he announced baldly. Doubtless he had intended to spin out the story, to play with Lisbet and make her beg him to tell her his secret, but as usual lately when talking with her, he blurted out all the wrong things and stumbled over his words.

Whatever reaction—joy, elation, curiosity—he had been expecting, the look of blank shock on her pretty face obviously took him by surprise. Although ecstatic rapture would probably have been more to his liking, Charlie would have been satisfied by pleased curiosity. Lisbet’s quiet stare unnerved him, and he squirmed.

What do you think? Are you not pleased?

Had she been anything but a well-brought-up young lady Lisbet would have told him exactly what she thought in no uncertain terms. Breeding told, however, and she kept both face and voice under control.

For weeks now, ever since the news of Aunt Catherine’s generous invitation to come to London, she had been dreaming of what a success she would make in Town, of all the Beaux and Dandies and Pinks of the Ton and Corinthians who would be striving to make her acquaintance. Now all she would see was Charlie, dear friendly old Charlie whom she had known all her life, hanging on her everywhere, acting as a deterrent against all the men of her dreams merely by being there. She would probably have to end up having to marry him simply because he was there. It was almost unbearably depressing.

I think it is wonderful for you, Charlie, she answered in a manner both honest and pretty. What brought this turn about? I thought you were to go back to school.

Well, you, in a way. My father’s been in sort of a state since I was sent down from Oxford last time. Here he had the grace to look a little shamefaced, for everyone knew his lack of scholarship was almost as profound as his love and husbandry of the Bittermere lands. I had been talking about wanting to go up to Town for a while, but Father was against it. Said if I had to leave the land I might as well go back to Oxford instead of going to London where I might be tempted to follow the family taste for gaming.

Gaming? Lisbet said hotly. Your father never gambled in his life. He even used to look askance at our playing spillikins or snakes and ladders.

No, not Father, but my Uncle Bradford.…

Bradford! It was a name of mystery; Lisbet had heard it but rarely during her short life, so rarely she was certain something disgraceful had to be connected to it.

Now be quiet, Lisbet. You are making me get ahead of my story.

Yes, master.

Ignoring her gentle barb, Charlie went on. Anyway, Father was dead set against my going to London until it was decided you should go.

Am I to be your nanny?

Silence, Miss Smarty. No, it is just famous. I am to ride escort for you into London...you know how your mother worries about highwaymen. And it could not have come at a better time, for the Southern Cross docks not three days after we arrive. Charlie finished with a flourish of importance, leaning back in his chair with the air of one who has done a great thing.

Despite her misgivings about Charlie’s possible dampening effect on her career as a Beauty, Lisbet was a little piqued her presence and possible danger were not the primary reasons for Charlie’s elation at going to London. Curiosity won out over her baser emotions, and her reaction was all he could have wished.

What is the Southern Cross? And pray tell what does it have to do with you?

It is a ship—

Since it docks I assumed that!

Glares flashed for a moment until Charlie decided his news was more important than the delights of a spirited debate with Lisbet and said, Most astute of you. The Southern Cross is a ship coming in from the East. I believe her main cargo is silks and spices.

"Silks and spices? Are you going into trade?" Lisbet was horrified.

He laughed at her. No, goose. She also carries passengers. My Uncle Bradford is coming home.

Why has he stayed away so long, and where has he been? In the East all this time? Why have we never heard from him? Lisbet clapped a hand to her mouth in a pretty study of new realization. Your poor mother. All of Bittermere must be in an uproar making ready for his homecoming.

Charlie made an impatient gesture of negation. No, you do not understand. No one at home knows he is coming. I am the only one he’s written to in years and years. It is a secret.

And you are not going to tell them? What if he just walks in on them? Lisbet’s eyes were round.

He is not coming to Bittermere. Do you not see? No one is supposed to know.

But why, if he has been gone all these years?

Because he was disgraced and disowned!

The beautiful blue eyes grew rounder with astonishment. For what?

I do not really know. No one at home has ever mentioned him.

You have seen him?

No. He wrote me. At school. We have been corresponding for ages. I gather from some of the things he said Bittermere was to have come to him, and it is only because he...left that Father had to give up politics and come home to run the estate.

Enthralled, Lisbet leaned forward like a conspirator, all thoughts of cool young ladyhood gone. How fortunate for you. What happened? It must have been over twelve years ago, for it was then you came to Bittermere.... Has he ever said?

No, and it most definitely is not the sort of thing one can ask in a letter.

And you certainly cannot ask your parents...nor I mine. The thought of broaching such a subject with her stuffy, disciplinarian father daunted even her youthful enthusiasm. Wait...I wager Aunt Verity would know. She would not have been much above my age then and I know a scandal bad enough to get him disinherited and exiled would have been known all over the county.

No! Charlie’s firm hands stopped her intended flight, settling her once again on the chair. No one must know. I only told you because...because I trust you and because I need your support to have me escort you to Town.

Is it so very important to you, Charlie? Lisbet asked gently, then on seeing his impassioned nod, forgot her own worries of Charlie as a shadow and said, Well then that is settled. I shall not set forth for London unless you go along to defend me from highwaymen and footpads.

Splendid. You are the best of comrades. Charlie grinned, his generous mouth showing a full complement of strong white teeth. With a passionless zest, he bussed Lisbet on both cheeks, called her a stout fellow, and promised by way of return to look in on her a time or two in London. Despite her earlier misgivings, it was a remark which left the beautiful younger Miss Morrison feeling slightly deflated.

He turned at the door. Remember -- no one is supposed to know about Uncle Bradford’s return...not even you. I am trusting you, Lisbet.

No one, not even me, she repeated, waving the scrap of handkerchief at the closing door.

Young Pemberton’s visit and departure had not passed unobserved; several interested pairs of eyes watched, safely obscured by the soaring windows of Foxworth’s classic facade.

Sir Chauncey Morrison, Bart, snorted with a tone made particularly his own by long practice. His nose was admirably made for affronted snorting, being long and thin and usually in everyone else’s business. Over sixty years of living had forced fragility onto his body, but the indomitable will which had taken an impoverished, neglected and encumbered estate and made it the equal of any in the land still shone in the gleaming eyes.

You might as well think young Charlie lived here, the way he comes and goes without so much as a by-your-leave, the old man muttered, frowning down his daughter-in-law’s hesitant offer of fetching his Bath chair.

Sir Chauncey possessed a magnificent pair of eyebrows for frowning, shaggy and thick and enhanced by their frosting of white. Doubtless he would have said his frowns and snorts were equally distributed among his family, but in truth most landed on his patient daughter-in-law Lady Maria, as she was the one most often to be so ill-advised as to offer help or solicitude, never having quite learned even after eighteen years that the delicacy of his failing body had only served to strengthen his will. Inured and educated by longer exposure, his own children gave him the respect he was due and mostly stayed out of his way.

Hardly surprising, as he has run tame on the place almost since he was in short coats. He regards Foxworth as a second home. Percy twitched the heavy velvet library curtains back into their accustomed places.

Seen together, the two men could have been nothing but father and son so similar was their build and coloring, although Percy was obviously naught but a copy by a poor artist when compared to the original. What in the elder was strength and resolve came across in the younger as petty obstinacy, and Percy’s knowledge of his defects did not make bearing with them any easier.

Just like that rapscallion uncle of his, and look at his end. If we only could. I often wonder what happened to Bradford Pemberton. No one has ever heard, have they?

Soft, pretty and with the backbone of a marshmallow, Lady Maria trembled under the sweep of her father-in-law’s frosty blue eyes. Sir Chauncey had always said she had not been his first choice for Percy’s wife, but her noble though obscure family, sizable dowry and biddable disposition had done much to overcome his initial aversion to her milkfed ways.

No, sir, she replied. He is never mentioned at Bittermere.

Faugh! Young hellion, he should not be, not after his antics. Probably lying dead in some God-forsaken jungle now, his bones picked clean by vultures. Young Charlie has a look of Bradford. The old eyes softened as if making some interior comparison between the images of a young man seen and a young man remembered.

A portentous rumble issued from Percy’s throat, one Sir Chauncey recognized as a sort of physical drum roll for attention before he said anything he thought merited notice. Father, I thought we had agreed never to mention that person’s name in this house again. After all, a rule is a rule, and considering what happened...

Exasperated for no real reason, his sire pinioned him with a glare. I made that rule, and see no reason why I should not break it when I wish. Young Charlie does remind me of Bradford. He hangs around your Lisbet like his uncle did around Verity. For a moment the piercing gaze wavered; the old man came close to looking his age. Always meant Bradford to have Verity; they were mad about each other, had been all their lives. Would have been a good match—solidified the estates. Of course, after his disgraceful escapade it could never be countenanced, not when he had to flee the country.

Do not distress yourself, dear sir... Lady Maria began and was, as usual, ignored.

"Never thought I would have any trouble settling