An Angel for St. Clair

By Constance Hussey and Diana Fasoldt

His mission to France doomed to failure unless he finds someone suitable to pose as his wife. Devlin St. Clair is quick to turn his discovery of a barely conscious woman to his advantage. An appealing waif, whose amnesia he considers his good fortune, she is perfect for the role.

Haunted by an unknown danger, injured and penniless, Juliette Deveneau agrees to accompany the compelling English lord to France. She needs his protection but she has only his word that he will explore the mystery of her past—and that he has no knowledge of her prior to the fateful night that brought them together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Constance Hussey
• Release date: Jan 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370775880

Constance Hussey

From the moment I stepped into my first school library I became enthralled with the idea that wonderful stories resided in all those books. The enchantment never faded. Amazing worlds full of adventure and history were mine for the reading. The imaginary characters living in my imagination were nothing unusual—obviously a great many people lived with stories in their heads and were kind enough to share them. That I could also share my tales and actually write a book wasn’t something I considered until quite recently, but I finally began writing seriously about six years ago. The first books were written in collaboration with my sister, Diana. (“Lord Waring’s Quest” and “An Angel for St. Clair”). Our interests have diverged at present and I now write independently under my own name. Married for many years to my own personal hero, a doting grandmother and fond parent, when not writing I enjoy puttering in my garden, cooking, and relaxing on the back porch of our Florida home—with a good book, of course!

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An Angel for St. Clair

Constance Hussey

Diana Fasoldt

Additional Titles By The Author

An Inconvenient Wife

A Love Laid Bare

Trusting Lord Summerton

Lord Waring’s Quest

AN ANGEL FOR ST. CLAIR

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cover Art ® 2016 by Covers by Sheri

Previously published as The Angel and St. Clair

Copyright © DianaHussey, 2011

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

England, 1803

Juliette lay very still, the pain in her head an almost palpable weight that threatened to swoop her into a dark void at the slightest movement. Slowly, she reached up to touch the side of her face. A lump swelled at her temple and her cheekbone burned, although neither area seemed to be bleeding. Heartened by this small satisfaction, she groped at the surface beneath her. A bed, she was on a bed, but not her own. The smothering darkness pressed against her and she bit her lip against the sick fear seething in her stomach. Wherever this was, it was no place she wanted to be.

She pushed aside the covering draped over her, rolled onto her side, and slid to the edge of the bed. The effort to sit up left her panting, and she leaned against the wall until her breathing steadied. Why are you here in this strange room and how did you get hurt? There had been an accident with the coach, she remembered that much, and the horrible inn where they had stayed overnight. But it was her maid who’d been injured, not her. No, the men in the stable were responsible….Entremont! Yes, it was the Frenchman who had recognized her and had hit her with something.

The musty smelling material heaped in her lap was a cloak, Juliette decided, fingering the garment. She wrapped it around her before she struggled to her feet and groped her way along the wall until she felt what must be a door under her hands. She fumbled for the latch. Locked. Of course it would be. She slumped against the rough wooden planks and fought back the impulse to pound the wood with her fists.

Make no noise. Do not let them know you are awake. It would be to her advantage if her captors believed she was still asleep, although what that advantage might be eluded her at the moment. Gradually, the reality of her situation gripped her. This was not a bad dream from which she would awaken. It was almost beyond belief, but either the Frenchman or his English associate had struck her and brought her to this place. True, given what she had overheard, Entremont and the others were involved in some serious wrongdoing. But why hadn’t they just done away with her then and there? Surely they knew she would go straight to the authorities once she was free.

Juliette leaned her forehead against the door. Whatever their intentions, it would be wise to escape. If only she had some light! Continuing her explorations, she stopped abruptly at the feel of some kind of fabric. A curtain, it must be a curtain, and a window behind it. She pushed aside the scratchy cloth and was rewarded for her efforts with enough light from the moon to illuminate the view from the window, though there was little to see through the trees—trees growing so close to the house that branches overhung the roof jutting out sharply from the wall beneath the window.

"C’est fantastique," she whispered as the possibilities raced through her mind. She clawed at the window fastening, felt her nails break as she fought with the rusty bolt. It broke free with a snap that sounded alarmingly loud in the dead silence. Swallowing a shocked gasp, Juliette waited what felt to be an endless amount of time before daring to inch the heavy sash up as far as it would open. She shivered at the rush of chill air but welcomed the way her head cleared and thought became easier. She took a moment to consider the problem, outlined the needed steps in her mind, and then shoved her cloak through the window onto the roof.

Juliette levered her body up on the sill, shimmied over it, and flopped on the roof. The slate was rough, gritty in places, and thankfully not very steep. She inched as close to the tree as she could, scrabbled onto the nearest branch, and then snatched up the cloak. If she tied it so—at her neck—and pushed it back from her shoulders, her hands would be free for the climb ahead. Perhaps it was foolish to encumber herself thusly, but she might have a long walk before she reached help.

Breathing a sigh of thanks that she had been something of a hoyden growing up, Juliette began the nerve-wracking search for a branch on which to place her feet. Her heart pounding, expecting discovery at any time, she picked her way down, pausing to rest whenever the swiftly accumulating clouds obscured the moon. It seemed to take hours to reach the lowest limb. Lightheaded and trembling, she clutched the rough tree trunk until she felt steady again. Now what was she to do? She looked down to try to gauge the distance to the ground. There was a faint light coming from a window in the lower portion of the ramshackle house. No sign of life, however. She would have to risk it. The wind was rising and her hands were cold.

Now. Now. Don’t delay. Juliette took a deep breath, untied the cloak, and placed it across the branch. It would gain her an extra foot or two, perhaps. Another deep breath and she was over the side. She dangled momentarily at the end of the cloak, and then dropped with a thud to the ground, the cloak falling in a heap on top of her. Hardly daring to breathe, she gathered it up and crept into the underbrush, the thick layer of leaves a welcome cushion for her bruised and battered body.

For several minutes she rested there to catch her breath and try to calm her racing heart. She had no idea of where she was, but there must be a road or lane leading to the house looming like a fearsome monster beside her.

All thought of roads or lanes went flying from her mind when ssuddenly a light shone in the second floor window and a shout rang out into the night. Panic stricken, Juliette crawled further into the brush. She was too close, too close to the house. Someone yelled, demanding a lantern. She scrambled to her feet, fought her way clear of the shrubs and began to run through the trees. There was a barely noticeable trail of sorts, and she raced along it until aching lungs forced her to a stumbling walk.

The way became easier as she trudged along. There was more space between the trees and she could better avoid the outstretched branches that caught at her hair and snagged the cloak flapping behind her. Juliette did not know how far she had come; only that it was not far enough. The sound of a branch snapping in the wind sent her dashing heedlessly along the path, until the ground disappeared from under her feet. She fell, tumbling over and over down the side of a rock-strewn gully to land with a sickening abruptness that drove the breath from her body. A sharp pain bit her shoulder and she knew no more.

~* * *~

The cold roused her. Shivering violently, she struggled awake. Somehow she knew she must not stay here. Driven now by instinct alone, she crawled to a pile of rocks and struggled to her feet. The moonlight was stronger now, clearly showing the gully walls on both sides of her, too steep for her to climb. Her head ached abominably and there seemed to be something wrong with her shoulder. Forward, then. She picked her way amongst the rocks, planting one foot in front of another with mindless determination, not even aware that the ground was rising under her feet.

She was nearly spent now. The throbbing in her head seemed relentless, her shoulder burned fiercely and she was cold, so cold. Her mind and body exhausted with fear and exertion, it took some time before she realized the ground had leveled and a light glimmered though the remaining trees. Shelter, perhaps, and the thought pushed her into a shambling trot and onto a grassy verge. There, a coach, and one not in use, it seemed. She would rest for a few minutes. Juliette opened the door, scrambled into the vehicle, and with the last of her strength, pushed herself up on the seat. She wrapped the cloak around her and stretched out on the cushions. Soon, soon she would go on, and with a soft sigh, she slipped into sleep.

Chapter Two

Hampshire, England, 1803

The deep voice of the tall case clock struck the hour with an unwelcome insistence. Devlin St. Clair, 9th Earl of Lynton, glared at the thing, stalked over to the fireplace, and snatched up the poker to jab at the burning logs. Another hour gone and the tide would not wait. He should have been on the road an hour ago. What was keeping Strathmere? If his uncle meant to ring a peal over his head, which he did not doubt for a moment, he wanted to get on with it.

A dog howled in the distance and St. Clair grimaced, feeling a kinship with the animal, for he was about ready to howl himself. The poker still in his hand, he walked to the window and peered out. The shadows cast by the trees on the moonlit grounds made it difficult to see much more than the wide swath of lawn running down to the woods, though for an instant he thought he saw a cloaked figure outlined against the edge of the trees. He leaned closer to the windowpane, but of course there was nothing there.

Next you’ll be seeing fairies dancing around on the grass, you nodcock, he muttered. He glanced at the clock yet again and frowned. Midnight. At this rate, the night would be wasted away and no progress made at all. It was a relief to see Strathmere come into the room, even if he did look as stern as St. Clair had ever seen him.

Lynton. The tone was cordial, but St. Clair knew well that steely look in the Viscount’s eye and being addressed as Lynton did not bode well. Resisting the urge to loosen his neck cloth, St. Clair leaned the poker against the wall and returned the greeting with equal cordiality.

You wanted to see me, sir?

Surely you expected I would? Knowing this mission is of the utmost importance to your country? Can you deny your actions have jeopardized our plans and may well result in the failure of this entire operation? Viscount Strathmere spoke with deceptive calm, always a sign of displeasure, and St. Clair winced inwardly.

It was not my choice, he said, without excuse, explanation—or any indication of the disquiet he felt.

"Was it not? You continue to flaunt your mistresses and play so deeply even the ton is shocked. Yes, I have heard the stories. You indulge in every wild start any fool suggests and are surprised your fiancée has the good sense to prefer another? You amaze me, nephew."

The hissing fire sounded loud in the tense silence. St. Clair stirred under his uncle’s hard stare and shrugged his wide shoulders, a thin smile on his lips.

It seems there is little left to say, sir, since you have obviously made your judgment. You have said no more than the truth, in any case, though I might remind you that Amanda was your choice of bride. Nevertheless, I would have done my duty, as I will also complete this mission. Whatever you have heard, I do not turn from my responsibilities. His eyes met his uncle’s and now Strathmere stirred, under what St. Clair suspected was a cool gaze tinged with a bitterness he couldn’t hide.

No one would say such a thing of you, Strathmere said, his voice suddenly gruff. It was not my intent to impugn your character thusly. If I’ve misjudged the matter between you and Amanda I ask your pardon. However… he paused, and returned St. Clair’s hard look with one just as cold. "There is no gainsaying the importance of this undertaking and it will be next to impossible to recruit anyone else at this late date. I can hold you responsible for that failure, St. Clair, and so I shall."

Noting he was no longer Lynton, St. Clair knew the worst was over and some of the tension seeped from his shoulders. Perhaps he was too quick to judge as well and unduly defensive. I have no intention of failing to accomplish your mission, sir. The coach is prepared, as you directed, and the ship lies ready.

If you think to carry it through on your own, I must forbid it. Strathmere’s expression and tone were equally grim. "Naught but harm can come of it. My sources are very clear on that point. It must be a woman who meets with Madame la Comtesse in Amiens."

St. Clair lifted a brow. Why, so it shall be, sir. Indeed, I must go if I mean to make the tide. Good eve to you, uncle. He bowed and moved toward the door

Strathmere lifted a hand in protest. Go? Where do you mean to go?

The earl turned back for a moment and grinned at the look of consternation on his uncle’s face. Why, I go to find a wife, of course. He slipped out the door, ignoring the spluttering behind him, and paused in the entrance hall to put on his hat and gloves and toss a thick cloak around his shoulders. The servants long abed as instructed, St. Clair let himself out through the heavy doors and ran down the steps to the waiting coach. The night air felt sharp against his face and he stared up at the sky. Clear, for a change, the stars bright overhead and the moon full. It would be a good night to travel. He gave the somewhat shabby coach a careful inspection before he climbed up on the box to sit beside his coachman and the young groom who would accompany them as far as Portsmouth.

Not quite what you’re used to, is it, Ned?

No, my lord, but then there’s more to this rig than meets the eye, you could say, the older of the two men answered placidly.

St. Clair’s crack of laughter echoed through the night. You might say that indeed. The men did a good job on it.

They drove in companionable silence after that. St. Clair mulled over his hasty words of bravado. Where the devil he was to find a temporary wife he didn’t yet know. He would though, damned if he wouldn’t.

He felt sure not one of his friends would doubt it for as much as a minute. Devlin St. Clair could be counted on to pull off almost anything, they’d declare loudly—and back up their words with a wager besides. Blessed, or cursed, as the high-sticklers said, with a lively sense of the ridiculous and a natural talent for invention, he and his friends tumbled in and out of scrapes that provided the ton with no end of delightful gossip. He may be sporting mad, as accused, which seemed to him to be better than falling into a drunken stupor every night, and might keep a mistress, or two, but it was harmless enough. He grinned into the dark. Perhaps he was the ‘fribble’ they deemed him, but nevertheless, he took his responsibilities seriously. Something the unlamented fair Amanda never understood, for all their long acquaintance.

With a mental shrug, St. Clair wished her joy of her staid, prosy duke. He could even forgive her for unwittingly jeopardizing his mission to France, since it meant he wouldn’t be leg-shackled to a flighty, volatile female. A more dependable lady awaited him now—the Lady Gay should be ready to sail.

St. Clair emerged from his reflections long enough to take note of the village through which they were passing. They were not much more than a few hours from Portsmouth, he judged. He would have enough time to visit a certain house he knew, hard by the harbor, where anything could be found for a price, including a wife.

A gesture to Ned brought the coach to a standstill long enough for him to move his chilled body inside for a respite from the wind. He stretched out as much as the cramped space would allow and groped in the dark for a blanket. His hand closed on a length of scratchy material and he gave a sharp tug.

Mmm.

Shocked into immobility by the low moan, St. Clair sat frozen, arm still outstretched, waiting with indrawn breath for the eerie sound to occur again.

Mmm.

Gad, there it was again. His pent-up breath came out in a long hiss of surprise as his hands touched the unmistakable outline of a human form. Hellfire. Someone was in here with him. No ghostly spectre, either. Cautiously he explored the body under his hands and cursed the inky blackness. He fumbled in his pocket for his flint, finally striking a wavering light on the third attempt. His mind registered a cloud of dark hair and a flash of white skin before burning fingers forced him to extinguish the flame and plunged him back into darkness. Bloody hell, a woman. He banged hard on the coach roof and the vehicle rolled to a halt.

My lord?

St. Clair jumped to the ground and unhooked a lantern from the side. Give the reins to Dan and come down here, Ned, he ordered. "You won’t believe this, but we have a stowaway. I’m not sure I believe it," he muttered under his breath as he climbed back into the coach. Ned crowded in beside him, taking the lantern while St. Clair turned back the cloak partially covering the woman’s face.

Hell’s bells, would you look at that? Stunned, the two men stared at the stranger in the uncertain light.

Looks to be hurt, she is, my lord, Ned said after a long silence. There’s blood on her. You see?

I see. St. Clair spoke curtly, strangely moved at the sight of the pale, defenseless face. He folded back the cloak to further expose the red stain on her gown. He’d been right about the cloud of hair he could now see, and he smoothed back the tangled mass of black curls to touch the pulse at her throat. Slow, frighteningly slow, and her skin icy under his hand.

She ain’t dead, is she, sir? Ned questioned in a worried voice.

No, she isn’t dead. Not yet. But she will be if she stays out in this cold much longer. He frowned in concentration. There is a small inn just a short distance off the main road, not far from here. Get the horses moving, Ned. We will stop there for help.

St. Clair cradled the still form in his arms and tucked the blanket around her, surprised by the sense of protectiveness evoked by the feel of this helpless female resting against him. He found himself almost unable to move as he waited for each slow breath. Who was she? How the devil did she come to be in his coach? He doubted her presence was connected to his mission, known only to a handful of people, but the coach had arrived just a few hours ago and he found it difficult to believe chance had brought her here.

His lips tight with worry, St. Clair stepped from the coach the instant they rolled to a stop before the door of a tiny, dimly lit inn. His foot tapped with impatience as he waited for Ned to pass the reins to Dan and jump down from his perch to bang on the door.

Now, now. What’s all this ado? The innkeeper, clad in a nightshirt and cap that would have greatly diverted the earl in easier circumstances, held out a candle to peer at the strange party on his doorstep.

There’s been an accident. The lady needs attention immediately. St. Clair shouldered the gaping man aside. I want a room and a surgeon. He glared at his hapless host. Don’t just stand there, you dolt. You must have a bed somewhere we can use. Yours, if need be.

Speechless with amazement, the innkeeper’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly, giving him a strong resemblance to a landed fish. St. Clair ignored the dumbstruck man and stepped toward the staircase, just as another voice called down.

Mercy, Mr. May. What is it?

Now it was St. Clair’s turn to stare, for descending the stairs was an enormous woman of indeterminate age, dressed in the most voluminous and brilliantly purple dressing gown he’d ever had the misfortune to see.

Emboldened by the appearance of his wife, the landlord found his tongue. It’s gentry, Mrs. May. That’s wot. Wanting a room.

At another time, St. Clair’s ready humour would have found this scene a source of amusement, but not tonight. Of course I want a room, he bit out between clenched teeth. But it appeared the missus was blessed with rather more wit than her husband. Moving her bulk with surprising speed, she sized up the situation in a moment.

Land’s sake, Mr. May, don’t act the fool and keep them standing about. Get off to the kitchen and heat up some water. You, sir, come with me. We’ll have the poor mite tucked up in no time. There’s room for your horses in the stable, I expect, and ale in the taproom for your men, if you be wishful of it.

Relieved at this evidence of competency, St. Clair nodded a dismissal to Ned and followed her upstairs into a bedchamber. He eased the now softly moaning woman onto the bed and stepped back to watch as Mrs. May bent over and began to remove the lady’s cloak and shoes.

Ah, the poor thing. ‘Tis a nasty knock on the head your lady’s got there, sir, and worse on that shoulder, I daresay. But not so bad it can’t be mended, don’t think that, for I’ve seen far greater ills in my time. We’ll soon have the dear right as rain. Though why rain is right, I’ve never understood. Her gentle fingers drew open the red splattered gown to expose a gash across one white shoulder. Blood still oozed from the wound and St. Clair winced.

The surgeon, madam?

It’s not as bad as it looks, sir. I can tend to her, if you’ll allow, for the only medical man within ten miles you wouldn’t be wanting, and that’s a fact. I can stitch it myself, with Mr. May’s help, for he’s not as lackwit as he appears, and put some good homemade salve on that bruise. Though a good sleep in a warm bed will do her more good than anything else.

The innkeeper’s voice held no doubt of her abilities, and reassured by the kind look in the woman’s dark eyes, St. Clair nodded his agreement. He believed he could do much worse, after seeing her competent handling of this mysterious stranger. His gaze shifted to the woman lying on the bed. Girl, he amended, for the creamy white skin was fresh and unlined and her hair tumbled riotously around her face like that of a child’s. A single tear rolled from under one thickly curling eyelash, and he felt such an ache in his throat at the sight his acquiescence was curt.

Do what is necessary.

Mrs. May’s plump face creased into a smile. Indeed I shall, sir. Here’s Mr. May with the water now, she declared, glancing toward the door. Your lady wife will be back with us in no time, never fear. She began removing the remainder of her patient’s clothes, turning her back on the two men.

Taking this as a signal to leave the room, St. Clair followed the landlord down to the taproom. His lady wife, b’gad. They believed the waif was his wife. A natural supposition, he supposed, struggling to swallow the idea. Sending the flustered May back upstairs to help and not seeing another victim on which to vent his anger at this unexpected complication, St. Clair stalked across the taproom, poured out a tankard of ale, and stretched his legs along a settle in front of the banked fire. He took a long pull at the dark brew. Damn, he’d needed that this last hour.

His lady. That was a fine turn of affairs. He needed someone to pretend to be his wife, but not someone likely to scream bloody murder when she laid eyes on him. The Lord only knew what would come out of that pretty mouth, either. She could be the veriest fishwife for all he knew, though his educated eye had noticed the well-cut, fashionable dress.

Stolen, no doubt, he groused. No gently bred female would turn up unconscious in a stranger’s coach. He was aware of a crushing disappointment as he acknowledged the likelihood the appealing chit would turn out to be some ruffian’s ladybird. St. Clair set down the tankard with an angry thump. Damn him for being such a sentimental fool. He jumped to his feet, however, when he heard the landlady call down to tell him her patient was awake.

Chapter Three

She watched the huge woman who had declared herself Mrs. May bustle around the room, stir the fire and gather the soiled clothing. Exactly what she was talking about was a mystery, but the woman’s good will was apparent, and she tried to make sense of her words.

"Proper worried, he’s been, milady. It does a body