Protecting Lady Annise: Regency Redemption, #3

By Tess St. John

Lady Annise Belmont lives the life of a peer while secretly writing as the author A. Bel. When the magistrate wants to question A. Bel about a murder that mirrors a scene in one of her books, she realizes her identity is in danger of being exposed and worse, she could be arrested for a homicide. She runs to a man she's secretly adored—the only one who can help her.

 

Mr. Devan Lansing, a solicitor, is shocked when Lady Annise shows up on his doorstep. He's always held affections for her, but never acted on them because of their societal differences. While battling demons from his past, Devan vows to do whatever necessary to keep her safe.

 

The murderer, however, has other plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tess St. John
• Release date: May 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9780986220548

Book preview

Chapter One

London, England ~ Late Summer 1820

There must be some mistake!

Lady Annise Belmont sat in her brother-in-law’s library staring in disbelief at Mr. Ichabod Paisley. Every word he spoke seemed to drive a spike deeper and deeper into her temples.

"A woman was murdered in the same fashion you wrote about in Manhunter. The magistrate wishes to question you. Usually a composed man, Mr. Paisley’s green eyes were wide, and he ran his shaking fingers through his disheveled brown hair. When he arrived moments ago, he’d talked so fast she couldn’t understand his words. Now he spoke slower, yet with resolute urgency. You must leave London immediately, before everyone learns you are A. Bel."

Mr. Paisley, her publisher, was one of only four people who knew she was A. Bel. She’d been exceedingly careful to keep her identity a secret. Anyone who read my book could have done it.

The murder happened before the book’s release.

Heavens. An icy chill raced through her.

A Bow Street runner who read the book brought it to the attention of the magistrate. Two runners visited my office today and asked for A. Bel’s real name. I refused to tell them, but they threatened to return with a subpoena.

I can simply go to Bow Street and explain I had nothing to do with the murder.

Absolutely not. The authorities are not known for their thoroughness when they are exacting justice. He held out a piece of paper. I secured you passage on a ship to America. It sets sail in an hour. Here’s the address of my cousin who lives in Boston and a note. I am requesting she allows you to live with her until you find a place to take up residence.

Annise did not reach for the paper. I cannot sail to America.

You must. He closed his eyes, and pain etched his features. I am afraid someone may be targeting my writers. The murdered woman, Miss Bissel, was one of my authors. She wrote under the pen name Madam X.

Shock shuddered through Annise.

That means one of my authors was killed using a method described in a book written by another of my writers.

She had to admit, that was an unlikely coincidence.

Until I figure out how to secure your safety, you must leave England. He hurried over and grabbed her arm. With a yank, he pulled her to her feet and hauled her toward the exit. The room whirled around her—the library shelves filled with books and trinkets, the upholstered furniture, the windows overlooking the garden—throwing her off balance. She stumbled.

Mr. Paisley steadied her. I have money for you.

His persistence frightened her even more. She stopped and jerked her arm, but he did not let go. I cannot accept your money, Mr. Paisley.

He held on tighter and frowned.

A knock sounded.

She froze.

Mr. Paisley released her.

The door opened and the Cheswick butler entered. Lady Annise. Mrs. Richter prepared a tray.

Thank you, Wesley. She smiled like nothing was out of the ordinary.

While he set the tray on the table nestled between two chairs facing the hearth, she dashed toward the open door. I will return shortly.

Before Mr. Paisley could object, Annise scooted out of the room and up the stairs. Inside her bedchamber, she flitted around like an excited, inexperienced thief, picking up everything she saw and filling her arms. Thankfully, it was Louise’s day off. Her maid would panic seeing Annise in such a state.

She wished her sister was in town, but Ursula and her husband, Nate, were at his country estate.

What would people think when they learned Annise was an author? Or worse, what would people think when they learned she’d plotted a real murder? Dear heavens.

Her instinct was to go back to Mr. Paisley and let him see her out of London, except that would make her appear guilty.

I am not guilty of anything.

Suddenly, she threw the items onto the bed and inhaled deeply, slowing her mind and thoughts.

Mr. Paisley may have her best interest at heart, yet he could not help her. Not with this situation.

Already dressed in mourning black, she put on the veil and bonnet she wore when she went out in public. Grabbing her money, reticule, and satchel with important documents, she descended the back stairs. The servants were busy attending to their chores and paid her no mind.

Once outside, the cool evening air greeted her. The darkening sky provided just enough light as she rushed through the garden and into the alley behind the house. She hustled down the abandoned lane and made her way to the street.

She gazed right, then left.

Where to now?

Chapter Two

Annise stood in the middle of Mr. Devan Lansing’s study, her heart thrumming as if she’d just raced against the devil for her soul. Her body trembled as she prayed she’d done the right thing by coming here. Since leaving her brother-in-law’s home two days ago, she’d ambled through the streets trying to figure out what course of action to take. The only logical conclusion, because she’d had some very illogical ideas, was to seek out Devan.

With a flick and tug, she unhooked the veil over her face and removed the black bonnet, then placed them next to her satchel on the floor by a chair. She could only imagine what her hair looked like having worn the bonnet for so long. Filthy, tired, and terrified to the point of tears, she attempted to distract herself by turning her attention to the room’s furnishings.

The surprisingly large study had enough space for a credenza, desk, chairs, a settee, and two side tables. Royal blue drapes outlined the window. Were all flats this spacious?

A fencing painting on the dark paneled wall caught her attention. Of course it did, she was in a fight for her life.

The fine details depicted two men holding swords in white-knuckled grips. She empathized.

Sorry to keep you waiting.

She jumped and spun around to find Devan entering the room. It was not as if she didn’t expect him, she most assuredly did. Even so, she’d startled at the mere sound of his voice.

He smiled. Lady Annise. What a surprise. My butler only told me a woman insisted on meeting with me.

Annise had refused to give the man her name.

Devan glanced around. Are you alone?

I am.

They both understood there would be implications in her coming here unescorted. She refused to think about those implications now, she had too much else to worry about.

You must be here under unique circumstances. He appeared wary as he approached where she stood beside his desk. His brown eyes were the kindest she’d ever seen.

Oh, Devan, you must help me.

I will, in any way I can. He reached her and held out his hands.

She backed away. I am in great need of a bath.

His gaze swept her from head to foot. You are beautiful as always.

And you should perform on the stage. She crossed the room and closed the door. I find myself in a rather difficult situation.

Curious expression on his handsome face, he motioned to a chair facing his desk. Please take a seat, Lady Annise.

You must call me Annise. There is no need for formality between us. She’d said the same to him at their first meeting months ago and every time they saw each other since.

She made her way over and sat.

He stepped to the credenza behind his desk, poured a finger of brandy into one of the glasses, and handed it to her. Drink this. It will help.

He’d either sensed her distress or saw her trembling. He was taking care of her, concerned about her, confirming she’d done the right thing by coming here. She drank the whiskey in one gulp. A screaming burn erupted down her throat.

What brought you here? He leaned a hip against his desk.

It took a couple of swallows and deep breaths to talk around the whiskey inferno inside her. I ask for your confidence in what I am about to tell you.

Certainly.

She looked back at the door. A silly action because she’d shut it herself. She faced him and leaned over to set the glass on his desk. I am an author.

Admiration lit his features. Congrat—

She held up her hand, stopping him. I am A. Bel.

Fearing what she would see on his face, she closed her eyes.

Silence.

While proud of her writing, she felt like she’d just exposed a scandalous secret.

Seconds dragged by. More silence filled the room.

With a refusal to hide any longer, she opened her eyes.

He smiled. He always smiled when she interacted with him at dinner parties or balls. He was often invited to ton events because his sister was married to her good friend Viscount Tristan Brinton, the next Earl of Wright. You are very accomplished. How many books have you written?

Devan kept his dark brown hair cropped short. His tan trousers and black coat looked to be the finest made. Come to think of it, she’d never seen him in anything except the best fabrics. His father owned Lansing Company, and Devan was a walking advertisement for the textile company.

Four are currently in bookstores.

Your novels are the talk of London, probably England.

That is a small consolation.

He crossed his arms. Is it not every author’s dream to be sought after?

Except the world believes I am a man.

The newspapers say A. Bel is eccentric and a private person. People assuming you are a man is out of your control.

You and I both know I did not publish under my real name because of prejudice. Her words came out with more force than she wished. Perhaps if I wrote romantic books it would be different, but men would not read my mysteries if they believed a woman wrote them.

A rather broad assumption, don’t you think?

You are right. She knew better than to speak in absolutes. Nonetheless, I stand a better chance of selling as a male writer than female.

A valid point.

Have you read my books? The alcohol helped. Her insides no longer shook. Or perhaps Devan had a calming influence on her.

Regretfully no. My free time only allows me to read newspapers and non-fiction pertaining to the law or textiles.

Of course, you are a busy man. Had she made a mistake seeking him out? He’d never even read her books. She stood. I should go.

You did not come here to merely inform me you are A. Bel. You said you needed my help, he prompted.

If she was in danger, she abhorred the thought of putting him in harm’s way. I should not involve you.

Annise. His tone could’ve been chiding, but it was sincere.

She sighed heavily and plopped back into the seat, because honestly, if she could’ve thought of anywhere else to go, she’d be there now. I need your counsel. The authorities are searching for me. Well, for A. Bel.

Why?

My publisher, Mr. Paisley, received a visit from two runners. They requested A. Bel’s true identity because a scene in my latest book resembles a murder committed. They wish to question A. Bel. Mr. Paisley came to me frantic and insisting I leave the country. So much so, he had already booked me passage on a ship to America. She remembered the intense clutch of his hand on her arm. He was quite insistent.

What do you know about the actual killing?

"From what I read in the newspaper, and from what the investigators told Mr. Paisley, Miss Harriet Bissel was precisely executed like in my book Manhunter—where a woman is killed with a fire iron to the temple."

Devan rubbed the back of his neck. Not a likely coincidence. Still, you cannot be held accountable for what a person does after reading your book.

That is the problem. The homicide happened a fortnight ago, and my book only arrived in bookstores this week.

Oh.

Oh, indeed, she echoed.

There must be discrepancies in the two. He sounded optimistic.

"I brought Manhunter for you to read. She reached for her satchel and set it on the desk. She rummaged inside and pulled out the book and the newspaper she’d scoured the city for, then held them out to him. And this newspaper has an account of how the authorities found Miss Bissel’s body."

He took the items and set them on his desk. We will be able to compare the two.

There is more. Miss Bissel, a sought-after courtesan, was also one of Mr. Paisley’s writers. Madam X. Annise pulled Her Keeper, Miss Bissel’s book she’d bought yesterday, from her bag. Mr. Paisley thinks someone might be trying to kill his authors. He believes I am in danger.

Devan ran a hand over his face. This is getting complicated.

A cold slither snaked down her spine.

Where did the idea for the murder scene come from, Annise?

My imagination, like all my ideas.

Are you certain you didn’t read about it in another book or hear about a similar death?

Insulted, she practically growled. I write fiction. I would never plagiarize another’s work.

I am on your side, he said as he held up both his hands. You must trust me.

Good heavens. Her heart squeezed tight as words rambled out of her mouth. I appreciate you are on my side. You would never accuse me of anything. I apologize. I have been out of sorts since I found out and left my brother-in-law’s house.

When was that?

Two days ago.

His eyes narrowed. Where have you been?

Walking around town, sitting in churches, trying to stay anywhere crowded.

For two days?

I found it easy behind the veil and bonnet. She pointed toward her mourning attire on the floor. No one approached me.

Where did you sleep?

I didn’t. I have been too frightened to close my eyes. The things I witnessed the last couple of days... Tears clogged her throat. She had no tolerance for hysterical females. Yet, here she sat on the verge of weeping.

He stepped around the desk, grabbed her hands, and pulled her from the chair. He let go of her and reached to put his arms around her.

You mustn’t, she objected. More than anything, she needed someone to hold her and tell her everything would