A Fall From Grace Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Jennie GOUTET

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design and Layout by Blue Water Books

  Dedicated to the very best of sisters, Stephanie—

  who always buys my books, even though they are not in her genre of choice

  Contents

  1. Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Thank you, Reader

  Also by Jennie GOUTET

  A Regrettable Proposal, Chapter 1

  A Regrettable Proposal Chapter 2

  1

  Chapter 1

  Hertfordshire, 1817

  Sir Lucius Clavering, sixth Baronet of Mardley, had just loosened his cravat and settled into the deepest armchair his hunting box boasted when he heard the loud echo of the knocker on the front door and the footsteps of Briggs proceeding to answer it.

  He wasn’t expecting visitors and couldn’t imagine why anyone should arrive at this hour to trouble him, but he’d instructed Briggs not to disturb him, and so, with a satisfied smile, he closed his ears to the noises outside the library and reached for his warmed brandy. A log in the fireplace cracked and the well-cleaned chimney pulled the smoke upward. For the past hour or so, welcome aromas of roast game and simmering French sauces had wafted through the small stone house—the inviting scents of refuge. He had endured a wearisome round of Christmas obligations at the estate, brought on by his widowed mother who still lived there, and the incessant demands of youthful, entitled siblings that came with such a reunion. A quiet meal in his own company would be just the thing to restore his peace.

  A soft knock at the library door put a chink in his hopes. Lucius sighed audibly and wondered what could be important enough to disturb him. “Enter.”

  “A young…ahem, lady, sir,” Briggs said. “It appears she has lost her way in the snow and is seeking shelter.”

  “Unaccompanied, I presume?” Lucius inquired with the lift of an eyebrow. This was hardly the first time. The number of accidents occurring outside his London property requiring him to come to the rescue of comely young maidens was impossible to credit, and Lucius was impatient with such a tiresome ploy. It appeared he was now not even safe in Hertfordshire.

  “Naturally,” Briggs replied, eyes twinkling. He was as wise to the ruse as his master.

  “Show her in then,” Lucius said on a sigh.

  The girl ushered into his library minutes later was a prime example of one such maiden. She certainly was a taking thing, with a sweet apple-shaped face and doe-like eyes, framed by a perfect halo of golden curls that were tucked into a chignon in the back. This he was able to appreciate, as she had removed her bonnet.

  “I am dreadfully sorry to disturb you, my lord,” she said, in a voice little more than a whisper.

  “I am not ‘my lord’,” he responded with as much patience as he could muster. “Merely ‘sir’. Let me know how I may assist you.”

  “You are very good.” The young lady surveyed the room with wide eyes, and upon spotting a gory painting of a hunting scene covering the entire back wall, shuddered and turned her back on it, the root of which gesture appeared to be more from artifice than delicacy.

  Lucius waited, his irritation tinged with ready amusement. “But how came you to be here, Miss—?”

  “Miss Woodsley. The stagecoach set me down on the knoll, and I mistook the location. I believed it to be the road leading to the Craigsons’.”

  “The stagecoach already? It must be the first time ever it has arrived early.” When she didn’t respond, he inquired, “And who are these Craigsons?”

  The girl bit her plump lower lip and looked fully into his eyes. She was quite pretty and, with a jolt, Lucius realized there was also something familiar about her. London Society? A local family? He could not place her.

  “The Craigsons are a large family from Hertfordshire,” she said. “I was invited by their daughter, Constance, to visit.”

  Lucius frowned. “I thought I knew every family in the neighborhood. Unless they have rented the Burnham Estate?” He looked at her. “In what village are they located?”

  “They reside at Coddicot, my lord—sir.”

  “Coddicot! Good heavens, child. You are quite a distance from there. The stagecoach splits south of here at Welwyn, and you are now east of where you want to be in Woolmer Green.”

  Any potential humor he might have felt over her studied innocence vanished at the fix he now found himself in. He would be honor-bound to escort her to the home of these Craigsons’ without delay. And in this weather, too! It spoke a rapid end to his peace. “How came you to travel alone with no one to see to your safety?”

  Miss Woodsley cast her eyes upward before answering. “The head mistress at Paisley Seminary said a maid could not be spared to accompany me, sir, and that I would do very well on the stagecoach.”

  “Indeed. What an odd notion for a head mistress to have, as one who should be concerned for your well-being. A delicately nurtured—and young—female such as yourself left to make her own way? I cannot comprehend it.” I cannot credit it either.

  Miss Woodsley ducked her head and studied the melting snow on the sides of her boots. Lucius felt the burden of her presence. How he’d needed this evening of solitude and calm, and how little he relished taking the carriage out in such weather.

  He paused. His sister was likely still at St. Albans and therefore of no use, but perhaps Lady Harrowden would take her in. It would be deuced awkward to see his old neighbor again after having neglected her for the past two years, but surely she would see he was in a fix?

  Lucius shook his head. He couldn’t disturb her this late. He’d have to go to Coddicot.

  “Have you eaten?” Lucius asked at last. “I can ask Cook to bring you something sustaining while we sort out what’s to be done.”

  “You are too kind, sir.” His unwelcome guest lifted her gaze slowly to meet his, her lashes flipping upwards at last. “Although I am anxious to be off, something sustaining would be most welcome.”

  This is it. The seduction begins. Surely they would be halfway through their meal when the doorbell rang, and the outraged father, uncle—whoever it was—who had been led to his hunting box by divine intervention would burst into the dining hall and gasp at the thought of his innocent daughter or niece dining alone with such a reputed rake as Sir Lucius Clavering, declaring they must marry at once to spare her pristine reputation.

  Miss Woodsley, he was sure, would not wait until the vows had been exchanged before she showed herself to be a managing, cunning sort of female. As soon as the contract was signed, she would begin the slow interference of his comfortable existence until all his friends shook their heads in pity. Lucius ground his teeth at the image.

  “Briggs will show you into the dining room, where I will ask the maid to attend to you,” he replied with icy politeness. “She will ensure tha
t propriety is maintained.” And although he could not be certain, he thought he saw a flash of disappointment in Miss Woodsley’s eyes. His first assessment of her had been correct.

  2

  The next-to-last passenger to quit the stagecoach—a buxom woman who’d claimed to be a sick nurse for the gentry—exited the tilting vehicle in a swirl of snowflakes that did not appear to worry the driver if his shouts at each stop were any indication, and therefore Selena Lockhart decided they would not worry her. The fat flakes would seem harmless, friendly little things were they not accompanied by a biting cold.

  The departing passenger graced Selena with a generous whack on the shoulder from the basket she’d slung over her solid back, a blow that would surely leave its mark. Although she had been garrulous and smelled of garlic and spirits, Selena missed her presence the minute the door to the stagecoach closed and they rejoined the road. When two of them had shared the warmth of the enclosed carriage, Selena had been able to dismiss her bleak thoughts about the future. Alone, she shivered.

  At first, the cold caused little tremors as she adjusted to the invasion of frigid air, and she tried in vain to wrap her cloak even more tightly about her. Then, her teeth began to chatter. Audibly. Well, Selena. You insisted on this course of action and now must see it through. Besides, anything must be better than the disagreeable attentions of Robert Bromley, who was entering his dotage and still imagined she must be grateful for his offer.

  After another half-hour of fruitless meditation, the stagecoach jerked to a sudden stop and tilted on its axis. Selena lurched forward, banging her head on the opposite seat with a force that brought tears to her eyes. With her luck, that would leave another mark, and one more visible. There was a bustle and shout as the driver, along with the lone passenger seated on top of the stagecoach—who had tried to coax his way inside without success since he had not paid the additional fare—climbed down to inspect the damage. Selena lifted the heavy leather curtain and watched the activity from her window.

  “Right stuck we are,” the driver said with a scowl. He batted the snow off his hat and shoved it back on his head.

  “’Tis no surprise with thee tooling the coach in that neck-or-nothing way.” The passenger shook his head in disgust.

  The driver stuck his chin forward. “What’d you say?”

  Selena bit her lip. The two had been exchanging sharp words since the roof passenger was taken up several hours earlier, and the bickering added to her sense of isolation. A thought occurred to her, borne out of desperation. Perhaps she was close enough to her destination to walk since the next stop was hers. Their voices kept rising in pitch, and before the men broke into an outright brawl, Selena picked up her portmanteau and pushed open the door. If courage could not spring up on its own, she must conjure it.

  “Miss, no need for you to be leaving the carriage.” The driver paused in his altercation, treating her to the dismissive tone he had used with her since he recognized her low station. “We’ll be on our way again in two shakes.”

  “Whot’s this you’re jawing on about?” The passenger balled his hands and placed them squarely on his hips. “This carriage ain’t going nowhere. We’ll need a job horse to pull us out—and several men asides.”

  The driver puffed up his chest like a prize cock about to fight. “‘Tain’t you the driver of this vehicle.”

  “Excuse me,” Selena interrupted. She would not be deterred by the driver’s high-handed manner. What did he know of her station anyway? “Do either of you know where we are?”

  Serving her with an impatient glance, the driver gave a curt answer. “Just entered Woolmer Green.” Turning back to the passenger, he added, “And this is a broad stretch of flat road—”

  Woolmer Green meant nothing to her. “How close are we to Harrowden Estate?”

  “Harrowden?” With deliberate disdain, the driver pulled his gaze from the passenger and rubbed his chin. “It’s nigh four miles from here, I reckon.”

  Selena’s determination began to waver and she huddled in her cloak, taking refuge from the flurry of snowflakes. “Then it will not be possible to walk from here.” She looked at the coachman. “What are your plans, sir? Do you truly think we shall become unstuck?” She pleaded him silently with her eyes. No blustering. I need the truth.

  The driver opened his mouth to give a quick answer but paused when the passenger raised his eyebrows. At last, he spoke as if the words were forced out of him. “P’raps he’s got the right of it. The wheel’s hit a frozen rut and the axle’s broke. It’s only three miles to the last posting inn.”

  He then surveyed her cloaked figure with interest. “We’ll jest unhitch these horses, and you can ride with me.”

  The flash of revulsion that hit her was involuntary and instantaneous. “No, I don’t think I shall join you,” Selena said in a strong voice that surprised even her.

  The portmanteau, which she had been cradling in her arms, she took securely by the handle. “I will seek shelter at the house over yonder, whose windows are lit. I am quite sure they will take pity on my plight and lend their assistance. You are to bring my trunk to the next stop as planned, and I’ll have Lady Harrowden send someone to pick it up at the posting inn there tomorrow.”

  Selena spoke with a confidence she was far from feeling. “In any case, should brigands come to loot the carriage while you are away, goodness knows I have nothing of value to steal.” She did not wait for their reaction but turned and began to walk.

  A few feet into the tree-lined path, and she could no longer hear their argument, which had sprung back to life in her wake. The silence was a relief. All too well did she know what a vulnerable position she was in, traveling alone with only two men of unknown morals to accompany her. The quicker they forgot about her the better. No, it was more prudent to head toward the manor she saw in the distance. It was of a decent size, which meant servants and respectability; and mentioning she was to visit Lady Harrowden would give her the protection she needed.

  The silence became less friendly as she trudged on in the snow, and the house seemed farther than she had first judged. There was a movement in the trees to her right, which set her heart pounding, and her arms ached from the weight of her portmanteau and the books she had stored in it. Her feet burned from cold, and bits of snow slipped into the top of her boots as she sank into the white powder with each step.

  Selena arrived at last and rapped the knocker on the front door, which echoed inside. She attempted to swallow the lump in her throat, as she waited in the cold silence, and she cast her gaze about the two-storied stone manor decked with eight windows on each floor. The hoot of an owl came from the trees to her right, and she jumped at the eerie, lonely sound.

  Three years should have been sufficient to prepare her for this, but the stretch of time didn’t seem to be enough. One year to recover from the shock of her father having gambled away his entire fortune and plunged himself headlong into drink, for Matthew Downing to rescind his offer of marriage, and for the fickle attention of former friends in the ton to dwindle to nothing. One year to dash all hopes that a new life could be created at her mother’s small property in Bedford where enough of the gentry were connected to the pulse of London’s Society and its delicious gossip. One year to sink further into poverty as her father succumbed in his weakened state to the influenza and the collectors came to take what little there was left.

  It was hard enough to leave home, the responsible daughter and the eldest of four, but she had persuaded her mother it was the only thing to do after refusing to enter into a loveless marriage, and indeed it was. They had no means to give her sisters a London Season where their sweetness of temper and charming countenances might cause some gentlemen to contemplate an unequal match. At least with Selena gone it would be one less mouth to feed for her mother. And Lady Harrowden was offering a respectable salary. If ever Selena had needed a sign from Providence that she was on the right path, the timing of this position was it—or so sh
e had thought until now.

  The door opened, but the man behind it did not have the look of a servant. His clothes were too fine, and he had a handsome chin and noble brow with a prominent crease in the middle of it. There was a look of haughty superiority on his face, and if she wasn’t mistaken—irony.

  “Yes, miss? How may I be of assistance?”

  “Good evening, sir. I was bound for Harrowden, but the stagecoach has broken down. I saw the lights in this house from the road and had hoped to find assistance here.”

  “I did not expect to host a henhouse when I had the shutters opened today,” was his cryptic reply. “Harrowden? At least you’re in the right town.”

  What an odd greeting. It was nothing Selena could answer, so she waited for him to continue.

  “And what is your business with Lady Harrowden?” His cynical gaze swept over Selena, and she was made to feel as shabby as she surely looked. Not only was her cloak several seasons old, but it had lost its luster in patches. “A companion, I presume?”

  Selena fumed for a moment. If only this man had known her before her disgrace, he would never dare to speak to her in such an impertinent manner. She couldn’t give him the set-down she longed to—not when she was dependent upon him for help.

  Why should his reaction surprise her, though? It was the way of Society. “You have surmised correctly, sir.”

  Selena waited, still on the doorstep with the cold at her back, but he did not bid her enter. Perhaps she had made a grave error in coming here on her own, but she had nowhere to turn now. The stagecoach driver was long gone, and all she would have was an empty coach or a four-mile trek to Harrowden, where she was sure to get lost or freeze to death before ever she reached it.