The Wicked Truth

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Copyright

“Provoking baggage!” the Earl exclaimed.

“Nothing frightens you, does it? You are the most shameless hussy.”

Elizabeth knew ’d begun to recover himself, at least enough to be embarrassed about all he’d just told her. No doubt it was the first confession of this sort he’d ever made. And a man as strong as Neil couldn’t be comfortable baring his soul that way.

“Kiss me half as well next time round, and I may tell you how I got that way.” She pinched his cheek. “Now, why don’t you take a short nap while I go and make you breakfast?”

“Damn it, Bettsy, don’t be so bloody kind! I’m trying to warn you I can be dangerous!”

“My God, you are blue-deviled this morning! Now, shut up and lie down or I’ll kick you in the shins. You haven’t seen a vicious rage until you’ve seen one of mine!”

Dear Reader,

Every year at this time, the editors at Harlequin Historicals have the unique opportunity of introducing our readers to four brand-new authors in our annual March Madness Promotion. These titles were chosen from among hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we would like to take this time to thank all of the talented authors who made the effort to submit their projects to Harlequin Historicals for review.

This year’s books include a second-place finisher in the 1995 Maggie Awards, The Wicked Truth by Lyn Stone. In this delightful story set in Victorian England, a woman with a ruined reputation and a straidaced physician join forces to discover the real culprit in a murder they are both under suspicion for.

The other three titles are: Emily’s Captain by Shari Anton, the story of a heroine whose father sends a dashing Union spy to get her safely out of Georgia against her wishes; Heart of the Dragon by Sharon Schulze, the medieval tale of a young woman searching for her identity with the help of a fierce warrior, and The Phoenix of Love by Susan Schonberg, a Regency novel about an unusual marriage of convenience between a reformed rake and a society ice princess who must overcome tortured pasts and present enemies before they are free to love.

Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Wicked Truth

Lyn Stone

LYN STONE

A painter of historical events, Lyn decided to write about them. A canvas, however detailed, limits characters to only one moment in time. “If a picture’s worth a thousand words, the other ninety thousand have to show up somewhere!”

An avid reader, she admits, “At thirteen I fell in love with Bronte’s Heathcliff and became Catherine. The next year I fell for Rhett and became Scarlett Then I fell for the hero I’d known most of my life and finally became myself.”

After living four years in Europe, Lyn and her husband, Allen, settled into a log house in North Alabama that is crammed to the rafters with antiques, artifacts and the stuff of future tales.

Love and thanks to Bonnie, Pat, Sabrah and Tammy,

my critique group for this book;

to my daughter Pam, my Edith Head who also designs

clothes with words;

to my son Eric, who teaches me to

listen with my heart;

to Dennis, Katie and Sarah, who raise love

to an art form;

and especially to Allen, the absolute master of

research, historical and hysterical.

Chapter One

London, November, 1858

“You can’t think to marry that wicked little tramp, Terry. She gulled you into proposing, didn’t she? God, I can’t believe how naive you are!” Neil Bronwyn knocked back his whiskey with an audible gulp and poured himself another. He felt like taking a stick to the boy. “Whatever possessed you to announce such a thing? And at White’s, of all places? Everybody’s laughing.”

“You think I care? Just because you’re eight years older, you think you can tell me—”

“Shut up and look around you, man,” Neil said with a sweeping gesture of his glass that threatened the Aubusson carpel. Havington treasures dotted even the study of the town house—expensive cherry, Ming dynasty vases, silver-crested crystal decanters, a Rembrandt drawing, a solid gold paper-weight with the family crest. A long-dead countess, immortalized by Vigée-Lebrun, glared at them from over a classic mantel designed by Wren. Probably turning in her grave, Neil thought. “Recall who you are, for God’s sake—an earl now, with all the responsibilities that come with it. Your name and title are who you are, Terry.”

“I will marry her,” the boy said simply. There was no belligerence now, no wrathful, rebellious tone. The angelic face with its guileless blue eyes looked calm and determined. The narrow shoulders were firmly set against Neil, who was easily twice his size. He admired the lad’s resolve, if not his cause.

Until the rascal spoke. “I will have her, Neil.”

“Then take her to bed if you must! But marriage? Hell, you’re only twenty-one. You have no conception of what commitment is all about, and she wouldn’t know the meaning of the word. I know you don’t believe me, but she’ll play you false before the ink dries on the license.”

Neil mellowed a bit after his outburst, both from the whiskey and a sharp wave of sympathy for the lad’s infatuation. He’d been where Terry was and survived it. The scar had healed. Almost. Watching his nephew struggle through a similar coil didn’t bear thinking about.

“She’s not that sort, Neil, regardless of what you think. I know you mean well,” Terry said with a protracted sigh, “but I’ll remind you that I am of age. The time has passed when you need to wipe my nose.”

“If you’d keep it clean, I wouldn’t have to,” Neil scoffed. “I promised Jonathan on his deathbed that I would—”

“I know, I know. Watch after me.” To Terry’s credit, he didn’t show half the resentment Neil knew he must be feeling. “Neil, he was a good father to me and to you as well, even if he was your older brother. You’ve always been more like a brother to me than an uncle. I do appreciate your concern, but…”

“But you’re the earl and will do as you damn well please, eh?” Neil asked, knowing the answer. The boy had a head like marble.

“Just so. I am the earl,” Terry said unequivocally.

“Then I bid you good night, my lord,” Neil said quietly. He set his glass down carefully on the mantel and strode to the door.

“Aw, Neil.” Terry came after him and caught his arm. “Don’t leave angry.”

“Just leave, eh?” Neil offered a tired smile with the tired joke. He loved his nephew and hated to see the boy distressed. But damn it all, how could he stand idly by and do nothing while Terry wrecked his future? “Meet you at the races on Saturday?”

Terry nodded once and let go of his sleeve.

“I’ll see myself out,” Neil told him. “And, Terry…please think very carefully about all the repercussions of this, won’t you?”

Lost in his thoughts, Neil strode down the brick walkway to his waiting carriage. Terry left him no alternative but to approach the woman. Hell, he couldn’t even buy her off; she already had a bloody fortune. Perhaps if he appealed to her sympathy, Lady Marleigh would be willing to set her sights elsewhere. Not likely, though, if all he heard was true.

Old Marleigh’s daughter had a reputation as black as the devil’s hoof, smutted beyond repair by every wagging tongue in London. The Gazette published accounts of her antics almost weekly. She had to have worked damned hard to ruin herself so completely in the four months since her father’s death. Totally wild, they said, as amoral as an alley cat. Worse than Caro Lamb, old Byron’s paramour. And God knew that one had been a trollop of the first water. Decades later her adventures were still legend, just as Lady Marleigh’s were becoming.

Neil peered out into the night as his carriage trundled along toward his bachelor digs near the hospital. The foggy night and his mission left him with a chill that his fox-lined cloak couldn’t warm. Godamercy, he should be with the army now, where he could do some good. Horrible as it was, he’d at least felt. useful. What the hell was he doing here, trying to sort out Terry’s life when his own lay in pieces?

If only Jon had lived. Coming home on leave had been a mistake. Would it have been any easier if Neil had heard of his brother’s death while in the Crimea? Would he still be alive if the fox hunt to entertain Neil had never taken place?

Jon’s deathbed request had forced Neil to resign his commission so he could stay and look after Terry. Pitiful job he had made of that! The three months he had needed to study the latest medical developments—first in Florence, then in Boston—had been three too many away. He never should have left Terry at such a vulnerable point—orphaned, young, newly titled, inexperienced. And ripe for plucking by a jaded little tart who knew exactly what she was doing. Women like that were a scourge!

Jon had always been so careful about the Bronwyn name and the Havington title. How adamant he was, even as he drew his last few breaths, that Neil protect the boy and give him proper guidance until he gained maturity. With both his mother and father dead, Terry would have no one else, Jon had said.

Why couldn’t Jon have survived and handled this himself? Neil cursed his brother’s carelessness in taking a jump beyond his mount’s ability. He despaired at the helplessness he felt watching his brother die. All those years spent becoming a physician and he could do nothing. Jon lay dead only half a year, and now his only son planned a marriage that would destroy him socially, politically and probably emotionally as well. No, by God, Neil vowed, he’d do his duty by Jon, and by Terry as well. He’d put a stop to this if it was the last thing he ever did.

Neil pulled out his watch; it was a bit past ten. He ran a gloved thumb over the timepiece, considering whether it might be too late. Then he raised his malacca cane and rapped on the top of the carriage. When it slowed and his driver peered down through the small opening, Neil ordered, “To St. James’s, Oliver. Marleigh House.” Might as well have done with this distasteful business now. Tonight.

Elizabeth Marleigh stuffed her traveling case to bursting and sat on top to pack it down for fastening. Footsteps in the hallway gave her just enough time to drag it off the bed and see if she could lift it. “What?” She answered the knock.

“Sorry, milady, but there’s a doctor downstairs in th’ foya wishin’ to speak wi’ you. Says it’s frightful urgent,” the tweenie said, sounding upset. “Mr. Thurston’s abed and I didn’t know where ta put—”

“Tell him I’ll be down directly,” Elizabeth interrupted. Who had called a doctor? Thurston complained so constantly she hardly paid attention anymore. She hadn’t seen him up and about for several days, though. No doubt he’d been just as useless in his prime, when he’d been in her uncle’s employ. She ought to have turned him off when her father died, but he had nowhere else to go. Butlers in their dotage were in short demand. Maybe the doctor would recommend retirement and she could let Thurston go with a pension. Well, with her away in Scotland, there would be very little for him to do but rest and recover, anyway.

She quickly buttoned the jacket of her traveling frock and pushed her untidy hair back off her brow. With her regular maid gone and Thurston indisposed, no one would question her plans or know where she had headed.

The doctor waited at the bottom of the stairs, his hat and cane gripped tightly in one leather-gloved hand while he tucked away his timepiece with the other. Ready to leave already, thought Elizabeth. Thurston must not be too seriously ill, then. “So, how is he faring, Doctor?” she asked, eager to have the interview over so she could be on her way.

“Truly besotted, I should think,” the doctor answered with a quirk of one dark brow.

The small movement drew Elizabeth’s notice to his face. Good Lord, he was handsome…and familiar. But no, she’d have remembered meeting this one, she was certain. She shook her head to clear it. He was just the physician and they were discussing Thurston. “Sotted, you say? He drinks?” She’d never known Thurston to indulge before. “Peculiar.”

The doctor grunted impatiently, shifting his cane to his right hand. “Don’t treat this lightly, my lady. I’m asking you, pleading if I must, to let him go gracefully. And as gently as you may.”

“Let him go? Of course, I was just thinking I should have done so months ago.” She wondered where Thurston would go. Perhaps her cousin, Colin, would offer him a cottage on the estate for retirement, just for old times’ sake. The old man fairly worshipped the son of his old employer. “He’ll be upset, of course, but you’re quite right. I’ll make it as painless as possible, I promise you.”

He smiled then, and her knees almost gave way. Devastating was the word that came to mind. The man was devastating. Dangerously so. Women patients, ill or not, must fall at his feet with astounding regularity. He was well over six feet tall and built like a brick wall. The somber black waistcoat, trousers and knee-high boots emphasized his build. A snowy shirt, one with the new turndown collar and soft, unstarched cravat gave him a sort of Bohemian air. He carried a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat, also black, fashionable but still a bit daring. As was his scent, not the usual bay rum or witch hazel most men wore, but spicy and unidentifiable, subtly teasing.

There was an easy grace about him, a comfortable acceptance of his form that communicated itself. Dark blue eyes, almost black, glittered like gemstones in their lush, black-rimmed settings. Midnight hair, carelessly brushed back, tick-led his collar. A deep wave of it fell over his forehead and right temple, softening his strong features. His nose was long and nobly formed, accented by sharply planed cheekbones. Smooth skin, slightly tanned, spoke of outdoor exercise. Of course a doctor would take care of himself. This man looked as though he worked at it. And his mouth…

Elizabeth cleared her throat and held on to the newel post for support. Men didn’t affect her this way. They just didn’t. Or they never had before. She felt so stunned she hardly heard his next words.

“I hadn’t expected such understanding,” he said. “You’re being a real brick about this, Lady Marleigh, and I want you to know I do appreciate it.”

“Thank you for saying so, but it’s no great thing. I can easily find someone else,” she mumbled automatically. Then she squinted at him. “Have we met before, Doctor?”

“No,” he said amiably, still smiling. “I don’t believe we have. Perhaps it’s just the family resemblance—the eyes, I’m told. Most people remark on it. I’m always flattered, but Ter-rence—”

“Terry! You’re Terry’s uncle! I recall he mentioned you were a doctor just returned from serving with the army. What a coincidence you’ve come…”

Then the truth dawned—the awful truth about why he was here in her foyer. She shrank inside, a painful shrinking that made her feel queasy. Her face hardened and felt as though it would shatter. “You didn’t come about Thurston, did you?” she asked in a near whisper. “This isn’t about him at all.”

His smile vanished. The beautifully molded lips drew into a thin line, white around their edges, before he spoke. “I’m sure I don’t know a Thurston. If he’s another of your conquests, I have no interest in him. All I want is for you to withdraw your affections—and your claws—from my nephew.”

Elizabeth fought the rage rising inside her. She had almost forgotten for a moment—for a sweet, blessed moment, while talking to a man who didn’t pounce before greeting—that she could expect no more than revulsion, leering or lust. She ached to slap his face, to scream at him and tear out his hair. How could she have believed for a second that he was any different? “And if I don’t withdraw, Doctor? If I refuse?”

He drew himself up to full height, seeming to tower over her even though she stood on the second step up. “Then, my lady, you must believe that I’ll do anything necessary to remove you from his life.” He paused—for effect, she thought—before adding ominously, “Anything.”

Oh God, he was the one! It was him! Fear gripped her like a vise and she couldn’t move. Her eyes cut from one side of the deserted foyer to the other, searching for help. Why had she dismissed all the servants? Only a bedridden butler, a wine-soaked cook and a hen-witted between-stairs maid were all she had left in the house. None of them could do the least bit of good against this threat. Terror choked off her breath and she felt faint.

“Do you understand?” he asked in a gravelly tone that chilled her blood.

Elizabeth nodded.

“Then take care of it.”

Without a further word of farewell, he turned on his heel and marched out the door. It banged shut with a whoosh of cold November air.

Elizabeth collapsed on the stairs and clutched the rail for a long moment until her heart stopped pounding in her ears. Then, with a haste that threatened her footing, she raced up to her room, grabbed her overstuffed valise and ran down the back stairs to the carriage house.

Humphrey stood waiting, and the coach was ready, just as she’d ordered earlier. “North,” she gasped breathlessly as she shoved her case at him and scrambled inside. “And make haste.”

The wheels bounced over the cobbles, vibrating the inside of the carriage as though coach springs hadn’t been invented yet.

Elizabeth tried to calm herself by calculating the time it would take to reach Scotland. No one would expect her to go there. Hardly anyone knew about her father’s old hunting box. It wasn’t grand enough that he would have invited any of his cronies to it. He had purchased it in his youth and kept it strictly as a refuge for the times he wanted to spend alone. She would never have known about it herself had they not gone to Edinburgh earlier this year. A quick stop on the way home to insure the lodge was properly stocked was the only clue he’d ever given that it existed.

She would take the carriage to Edinburgh, dismiss Humphrey and ride alone to the lodge. It would be a perfect place to hide.

The doctor couldn’t kill her if he couldn’t find her. Oh, she understood full well why he wanted to, but it did seem a little extreme. Why had he waited until tonight to warn her? He must be a fool to think she needed three attempts on her life to scare her into heeding his demand.

She would never have married Terrence Bronwyn, anyway. Hadn’t she told him as much time and again? He seemed to have some misguided notion of restoring her to society. Saving her from the wolves of the ton, as he had put it. Righting the wrongs. She’d reminded him it was a bit too late for that. Those wolves had already ripped her to shreds, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

Now that she knew who wanted her dead, all she could do was disappear for a few months until Terry—and this murderous uncle of his—forgot about her. Maybe she’d never come back. Life alone in a hunting box couldn’t be nearly so bad or so lonely as life in her London town house…. By the time they left the cobblestoned streets for the open road, Elizabeth had drifted into a fitful sleep.

Neil almost turned back an hour into the journey. It was fairly obvious now that the woman wasn’t on her way to meet Terry. When he’d seen her carriage careen past his at breakneck speed, a possible elopement had been his first thought. Where the devil was she going in such a lather? Curiosity prevented him from abandoning his surveillance. That, and the possibility that she might be meeting someone else. Now that would be helpful. As soon as Terry found out about her rendezvous with another man, surely he would wake up to the facts, see her true character—or rather, the lack of it.

A guilty thought worried its way up from the back of Neil’s mind. She might be running from him after that intimidating little speech of his. Terrorizing women wasn’t a thing to be proud of, and Elizabeth Marleigh had definitely been terrified.

“She deserved it!” he said aloud. “Fractious twit.” Who did she think she was to play fast and loose with the earl of Havington? She’d admitted her willingness to give over that Thurston fellow, whomever he was. Hopefully, she’d be showing poor Terry the gate next. The lad would get over it, of course, but not if they became locked in a meaningless marriage.

Neil could see how Terry had become entranced, though. The girl was a goer—wicked as sin, but with the innocent air of a schoolroom miss. Who could resist that? If he didn’t know all she’d been up to, Neil admitted to himself he might have… No!

He certainly had more sense than to involve himself with another like her, even temporarily.

Emma Throckmorton had been enough to make a man swear off women entirely. Well, almost entirely. Neil hadn’t had the slightest urge to commit himself to more than a quick night’s pleasure in the last six years. No, he had learned his lesson quite well, thank you. The moment he found himself looking cow eyed at a woman again he’d take a bloody scalpel to his wrists and be done with it. Less suffering that way.

This Marleigh woman might be one of the most beautiful he’d seen in some time, but beauty meant nothing. Her hair was odd—a lovely color, red-gold, but no longer than a finger’s length all over her head. He had to admit the feathery curls set off those liquid brown eyes entirely too large for her face, that pert nose with its flaring little nostrils and the generous mouth enclosed by dimples. The whole of it came together like a well-written sonnet—marvelous to admire but imperative to leave alone.

Devil it all! Her face counted for little but good skin and a fortunate arrangement of features. And body parts, of course. Oh yes, luck favored Lady Marleigh in that respect as well. She possessed a slender bone structure that would age quite well. Dainty women were the worst kind, in his opinion, for a man to tangle with. Neil catered to the robust type himself, women who were sturdy enough to look after themselves, women who didn’t rouse his protective instincts. He and his nephew would both do well to stay away from the likes of Elizabeth Marleigh.

His thoughts ran on along the same lines until he felt the carriage pull to a stop. Instantly alert, he stuck his head out the window and met little but dense fog. Only small, wavery blobs of light penetrated the gloom.