A Scandalous Ruse (Scandalous Series Book 6) Page 25

  “I think that is a very good idea.” She beamed up at him. “I love you, Gregory Avery.”

  “I love you, Arabella Avery.” And he did, with all of his heart.

  Epilogue

  Rufford Hall, Nottinghamshire – September, 1828

  As Greg neared Bella’s studio, a soft sniffling caught his ears. What in the world? He increased his pace and there in the far corner, a little raven-haired girl had her head bent forward and her entire person shook as she sobbed.

  “Francesca,” he said as he continued toward his daughter. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  She lifted her head at the sound of his voice and the tearstains down her cheeks broke Greg’s heart. Her green eyes, so much like his, blinked back more tears. She was such a sensitive little creature.

  “Frannie,” Greg sank down to his haunches to look at her directly as he lifted a handkerchief to her. “Tell Papa what’s wrong.”

  Francesca sniffed as she dabbed at her eyes. “I-I can’t get the flowers to look right.” Her lip trembled with that admission.

  There, just a few feet away, her canvas was propped up on a little easel with the Nottinghamshire countryside coming to life. Whatever was wrong with the little white flowers in the bottom corner, Greg had no idea whatsoever. “The flowers look quite pretty to me,” he said.

  His daughter’s brow furrowed as though he was a simpleton, and as far as art went, he often was. He simply didn’t see the world through the same eyes as Bella or their daughter, but he adored them both with all of his heart.

  “They don’t have the right shadows, Papa.”

  Oh, the right shadows, of course. Greg nodded his head. “Sweetheart, why don’t you ask Mama to help you with the shadows?”

  But his daughter’s expression turned to one of horror. “I can’t ask her to help me.”

  “Of course you can,” he said, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “You know she would help you.”

  Francesca agreed with a nod. “But my painting is for Mama. I can’t have her help me with a present for her.” And then her lip quivered again as though a fresh wave of tears were about to tumble down her cheeks.

  Ah, now Greg understood. He pulled the little girl into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I have known Mama much longer than you, Frannie, and I can assure you that she would consider it quite the present to work with you on your painting even if it is for her.” There was, after all, nothing in the world Bella loved as much as spending time with their children. She was a most loving and attentive mother.

  “It’s not the same thing, Papa,” she said against his cravat.

  “No, no, I’m sure it’s not,” he agreed, though truly he had no idea. “But, sweetheart, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you abandon the studio for at least the rest of the day. Your brother and your cousins are all out on the lawn playing games.” Or at least they had been before Greg had abandoned them to his study a few hours ago to look over the contracts for a pair of new brigantines Simon thought they needed.

  “But my painting…” She pulled away from him to look at him as though he was quite mad for even making such a suggestion.

  “Will still be here once the hoards have all returned to their own homes.” He tweaked her nose. “But you are to help Mama with being the hostess of Rufford Hall in the meantime, and you cannot do that hidden away in the studio.”

  “How much longer are they going to be here?”

  Greg couldn’t help but laugh. Francesca was like Bella in so many ways, and once she was engrossed in one painting or another she could easily forget that there was an entire world out there still going on. “The next fortnight.”

  Which seemed like a lifetime to her, he could tell by the expression on her face.

  “Don’t you think Mama would rather be in here painting too?” Greg asked. “But we cannot abandon our guests, Frannie, even if they are family.”

  She sighed as though her world was coming to an end, but she did eventually nod in agreement.

  So Greg spun her around and untied the smock that was covering her dress. “There you are.” Then he kissed the side of her cheek, pushed back to his full height, and urged her toward the corridor. “And have a bit of fun too,” he called after her before glancing back at her painting. The flowers looked perfectly fine to him, and he had no idea what was wrong with the shadows or why such a thing would make his daughter dissolve into a puddle of tears.

  He heaved a sigh, deciding he would never understand the inner workings of an artistic mind. Then he started for the corridor himself, but stopped in his tracks when Bella appeared in the doorway.

  Even now, after all their years together, she still took his breath away, just like she had that first night at the Astwicks’ so very long ago. He shook his head at his wife and said, “I just ran Francesca out of here. Don’t tell me I have to run you off too.”

  She blushed slightly at his accusation, and he thought he had the right of it. “There’s no one to entertain at the moment, Greg. And I just want to get a scene sketched out before I forget it.”

  “There’s no one here to entertain? I’m sure my family won’t be insulted in the least,” he teased as he closed the distance between them. “Now, turn back around, Lady Avery…”

  “They’ve all gone to Leverton Park to visit Major and Mrs. Moore.”

  It had been some time since Russell and Tristan, who’d since mended their relationship, had seen their old friend. And the man’s wife was Clayworth’s cousin. Greg supposed it stood to reason that they’d spend a bit of time at the Park with the Moores. “They all left?”

  Bella shrugged. “Well, they left their children behind, which your son is quite pleased about, by the way. He has the boys all re-enacting the Battle of Waterloo.”

  Where Francesca was her mother’s daughter, Zachary was his father’s son. All blood and guts, all the time. No, he was very much an Avery man, or would be when he was older.

  “The girls, of course, are put out with him,” Bella continued, “as the boys keep running through the lawn bowling in their attempt to bring down Napoleon once and for all.”

  That did sound exactly like his son. And while the re-enactment of Waterloo did sound engaging, Greg suddenly had a better idea. “My dear, you are forgetting an Avery who still needs to be entertained,” he said with a tsk.

  Bella simply blinked at him, and he could see her going down the list of his family in her mind, wondering whom she might possibly have forgotten.

  “Lord Avery is in desperate need of a certain entertainment.”

  “Is he, indeed?” The most beautiful smile spread across her face and her silvery eyes twinkled just so with realization of what he was about.

  Greg agreed with a nod. “In fact, he’s quite looking forward to you entertaining him in his chambers.” He glanced down at his watch fob. “Well, right this moment, actually.”

  Her blush grew deeper as she said, “Well, as Lord Avery is my favorite of all the Averys, I’d hate to keep him waiting.”

  Greg slid his hands to her waist and drew her to him. “He is very glad to hear that, my love.” And then he dipped his head down and kissed her. How he loved this lady, his wonderful wife who made every single one of his days better than the last.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to Mary Dieterich for making certain my “second story” vs. “first floor” and “first story” vs. “ground floor” references were historically accurate. I don’t know what I would do without her! She is amazing.

  ~ Ava

  About Ava Stone

  Ava Stone is a USA Today bestselling author of Regency historical romance and college age New Adult romance. Whether in the 19th Century or the 21st, her books explore deep themes but with a light touch. A single mother, Ava lives outside Raleigh NC, but she travels extensively, always looking for inspiration for new stories and characters in the various locales she visits.

  Connect
With Ava

  @Ava_Stone

  AvaStoneAuthor

  www.avastoneauthor.com

  ava@avastoneauthor.com

  Also by Ava Stone

  The Scandalous Series

  A Scandalous Wife

  A Scandalous Charade

  A Scandalous Secret

  A Scandalous Pursuit

  A Scandalous Past

  My Favorite Major

  The English Lieutenant’s Lady

  To Catch a Captain

  Encounter With an Adventurer

  In The Stars

  Promises Made

  A Scandalous Deception

  A Scandalous Ruse

  A Scandalous Vow

  Regency Seasons Series

  A Counterfeit Christmas Summons

  By Any Other Name

  My Lord Hercules

  A Bit of Mistletoe

  The Lady Vanishes

  Prelude to a Haunted Evening

  The Lady Unmasked

  Lady Patience’s Christmas Kitten

  Lady Hope’s Dashing Devil

  Lady Grace’s Husband Hunt

  The Haunting of Castle Keyvnor

  Once Upon a Moonlit Path

  Ava Stone’s New Adult Romance

  Live Like You Mean It

  Catch Me Now

  Hold Me Tight

  Like It’s The First Time

  Stay With Me

  Chapter 1

  Haversham House, London – March 1817

  “Stay away from Lady Staveley.”

  Marcus Gray, the Marquess of Haversham, blinked into the darkness that was his study. The silhouette of a man with a pipe, sitting in Marc’s chair sent a chill down his spine. He knew that voice, even if it had been a number of years since he’d heard it. And truth be told, he could go the rest of his life without ever hearing it again.

  Marc heaved an irritated sigh. “How the devil did you get in here?” But before Under Secretary Galloway could reply to that, Marc bellowed for his butler, “Simmons!”

  “Now, my lord,” Galloway began, “don’t take out your frustration on poor Simmons. He couldn’t really refuse me, you know?”

  Simmons, his longtime butler, appeared in the threshold a moment later, unable to meet Marc’s gaze directly. “My lord, I am sorry. He—”

  “—is a sad excuse for human excrement, and it will take you forever to air out the place once he’s gone. Don’t allow him entry again.” Marc turned on his heel and started down the corridor, stopping only when…

  “St. George is in England.” Galloway’s voice drifted down the hallway after Marc, swirling around him like an asp poised to strike. St. George. Just hearing that name made Marc’s stomach roil and bile rise up in his throat.

  Bloody St. George. Damn it all. Damn the man straight to the bowels of hell. Marc never thought he’d hear that name again for as long as he lived, and it was a crushing disappointment to know the blackguard was still alive. And now on English soil. Though snakes in human form did generally tend to find slippery ways of staying alive, so he shouldn’t be surprised to learn that St. George had managed just that. “You should really have someone do something about that, then,” Marc replied and would have continued on his way if Galloway hadn’t followed him into the corridor.

  “Why do you think I’m here? I promise it’s not to revel in your charm.”

  A snort escaped Marc. There was no love lost between him and the Under Secretary. There never had been. But certainly the jackass didn’t mean to bring Marc into the situation, not after what had happened to Max. “I don’t work for the Home Office any longer.” And he hadn’t for nearly a decade.

  “Agents never really retire,” Galloway replied.

  “I beg to differ.” Marc turned around to face the man. “Do you recall what I said to you that day in Whitehall?” The day Marc had officially resigned was one he’d never forget, and he doubted Galloway had forgotten that particular encounter or the punch to the jaw Marc had delivered a moment later.

  A ghost of a smile, the first one in many years Marc would guess, tipped the edges of Galloway’s lips. “You told me to jump in the Thames.”

  Indeed, though he’d also laced that message with a few colorful expletives. Still it was the gist of what he’d said, so Marc agreed with a nod. “And I find those very words on the tip of my tongue once more. Do show yourself out.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t want to help bring him to justice.”

  St. George didn’t need to be brought to justice. He needed to be put down like a rabid dog, and he should have been put down years ago. But with the ineptitude or self-serving nature of Thomas Galloway leading the way…Well, Marc had no confidence that outcome would ever come to pass. And he had no intention of fighting a lost battle or for a lost cause. And certainly not for Galloway, who couldn’t be trusted.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Sidmouth has kept you on after all these years.”

  Galloway shrugged slightly. “Home Secretaries come and they go, serving at the whim of whomever is in power at the moment. But I am the constant, Marc, always keeping the office running as it should.”

  “Lining your pockets, you mean.” The duplicitous blackguard.

  At that, the Under Secretary laughed. “I do not recall hearing your name spoken of in reverence these many years. Your reputation is as dark as it ever was. “

  Which was precisely how Marc preferred it. There was a safety in that.

  “And that well-earned reputation of yours is exactly what England has use for. There is a group of conspirators in Bishopsgate. We believe St. George is among their numbers, and—”

  “I no longer take assignments from the Home Office.”

  The Under Secretary heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Come now, Marc. We both know you’ll agree in the end. Save us both this little back and forth, will you? Time is of the essence.”

  If Galloway thought Marc had any intention of changing his mind, he didn’t know him nearly as well as he thought he did. “Get the hell out of my house.” Damn it all, he hated the edge he heard in his own voice. He generally prided himself on sounding aloof, or at the very least bored, but seeing Galloway stirred up all sorts of things Marc would rather not remember. “If you come back, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

  Galloway’s brow creased in irritation. “If you’re not going to help, then can I at least get your word that you’ll not be a hindrance to the operation?”

  Whatever the devil that meant. In more than a decade, Marc hadn’t interfered with anything having to do with the Home Office. He hadn’t cared enough to do so. Any loyalty to King and Country had long been beaten out of him years ago. “I have no intention of going anywhere near St. George or you for that matter.”

  “That’s all well and good,” the Under Secretary began, “but I’ll need you to keep your distance from Lady Staveley.”

  Damn it all. Galloway had mentioned Caroline, hadn’t he? Stay way from Lady Staveley. That’s what he’d said back in the study when Marc had first come upon the spymaster. His heart squeezed at the thought of Caroline being in any sort of danger, and if she’d somehow gotten herself mixed up with Galloway then she was most definitely in danger. Damn her, she was too reckless for her own good, even if that was one of the things he loved about her.

  He stalked toward the man, quite ready to pound the information out of him. “What the devil did you involve her in?” Marc had withstood torture at the hands of the French, but he doubted Galloway had the same fortitude for endurance that he possessed. Though the Under Secretary was always willing to send other men to their deaths, he had the heart of a coward.

  “Absolutely nothing.” Galloway held up both of his hands as though to plead his innocence. “Lord Staveley was decoding something for me before his untimely death, and—”

  “Staveley?” Marc scoffed in disbelief. The late Viscount Staveley was a bespectacled scholar who rarely saw the outside of his library, let
alone the outside of his own home. He was hardly the sort of operative Galloway would recruit. “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “The man had a brilliant mind. And he was quite patriotic, unlike—”

  “Go bugger off. What danger is Lady Staveley in, Galloway?”

  The Under Secretary blew out a breath. “Not to worry, I have a fellow keeping an eye on the viscountess, but if you—”

  “Bullocks.” Galloway wouldn’t guard Caroline out of the goodness of his heart. There was more than he was saying, as per usual. “Don’t forget how well I know you.”

  Galloway conceded the point with a nod of his head. “True, my man is also searching for Staveley’s code. His lordship left for Derbyshire before sending it to me and….”

  Staveley had died on the way to Prestwick Chase to warn Lady Felicity that her not-so-dead husband had arrived in England. Something Caroline had begged Marc to do. Something Marc had been in the process of negotiating a kiss from the lady in question as payment in order to do so when her husband had come upon them. Never in Marc’s wildest dreams had he imagined Staveley would volunteer for the mission himself. He hardly seemed the sort. Though Marc supposed the man’s honor had been questioned, and if Galloway was to be believed, Staveley might have been the heroic sort after all, even if in a very scholarly way.