Lady in Red: A Novel of Mad Passions Read online

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Máire Creegan, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-101-60934-7

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for Máire Claremont

  By Máire Claremont

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Preview of THE DARK AFFAIR

  Find out more about Headline Eternal

  2011 Golden Heart winner Máire Claremont first fell in love with Mr Rochester, not Mr Darcy. Drawn to his darkness, she longed to find a tortured hero of her own . . . until she realised the ramifications of Rochester locking his first wife up in his attic. Discovering the error of her ways, Máire now looks for a real-life Darcy and creates deliciously dark heroes on the page. Oh, and she wants everyone to know her name is pronounced Moira. Her parents just had to give her an Irish Gaelic name.

  Praise for Máire Claremont:

  ‘With the first in the Mad Passions trilogy, Claremont establishes herself as a force in the genre– to be kept on readers’ shelves alongside Anne Stuart, Anna Campbell, and Jennifer Ashley’ Romantic Times

  ‘Claremont delivers a tale of love, determination, scandal, and plenty of angst’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘This is the debut novel from author Claremont, who weaves an absorbing, complex story through Victorian society, touching on some of the more disturbing aspects of the time . . . an intense, compelling read with a rewarding “good conquers evil” ending’ Kirkus Reviews

  ‘Has as much romance, adventure, passion, torment, and triumph as any one love story could deliver . . . a book to savour page by page and then add to your keeper shelf’ New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes

  ‘Dark, dramatic, and intense, The Dark Lady will keep you hooked to the very last page’ Anna Campbell, author of Seven Nights in a Rogue’s Bed

  ‘Intense, bold, gripping, and passionate, The Dark Lady is a daring novel not to be ignored’ Leanna Renee Hieber, award-winning author of The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker

  ‘Real, intelligent, and gritty but above all deeply romantic. In my opinion, Máire Claremont is the stunning reincarnation of the Brontë sisters’ Delilah Marvelle, award-winning author of Forever a Lady

  By Máire Claremont

  Mad Passions Series

  The Dark Lady

  Lady In Red

  The Dark Affair

  A richly romantic and enthralling novel of beauty, passion and scandalous secrets from the acclaimed author of The Dark Lady.

  Lady Mary Darrel should be the envy of London. Instead, all society believes her dead. For Mary holds a secret so dangerous, her father chose to keep her locked away . . . and have a grave made for her near her mother’s. Driven to the edge of desperation, Mary manages to escape the asylum, only to find that her fate yet again rests in the hands of a man . . .

  Edward Barrons, Duke of Fairleigh, longs for some way to escape the torment of his father’s crimes. In Mary’s warrior spirit and haunted gaze – which so mirrors his own – he finally sees his path to redemption. He will stop at nothing to keep her safe, even as she seeks revenge. But will the passion they discover in each other be enough to save them from their demons?

  For my mother, Kathryn, who gave me my love of writing and who always believed.

  I miss you.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, I have my favorite women to thank. Delilah Marvelle, I adore you, sister mine. Where would my writing be without you? Lacey Kaye, you are such a rock star and I’ll never forget all your support for this series. Helen Breitweiser, thank you so much for always standing behind me, no matter how tough the situation, and Jesse Feldman, you’ve given my characters a home and made them stronger with your guidance. I can’t say thank you enough.

  Chapter 1

  London

  1865

  Lady Mary, only daughter of the Duke of Duncliffe, stood silently on the doorstep of the servants’ entrance to one of London’s many whorehouses and dared herself to knock. It was no ordinary whorehouse. Oh, no. This particular establishment was her last and only chance at salvation.

  The irony didn’t escape her that most would consider this door the path to hell, not heaven. But thanks to the machinations of her father, she was not most.

  Cold, piercing raindrops slashed down on her raised white knuckles. Her pale flesh glowed unnaturally in the gas-lamp light and pelting water. What little color she’d once had had vanished due to her imprisoned existence these past years. Weaving slightly, her muscles burning with the ache of sleeping in roadside ditches and on muddy fields, she braced one hand against the cold white stone doorway. With the other, she grabbed the brass knocker and rapped it against the polished red door.

  There was a scuffle of shoes against stone on the other side and then the wide door swung open on iron hinges.

  A girl, her white mobcap fixed atop nut brown hair, gaped. Her round brown eyes traveled the length of Mary’s bedraggled frame, widening so far the orbs might have popped out of their sockets. A peep of dismay—no doubt from taking in her mud-stained skirts, the ratted quilt about her shoulders, and her hair, her shorn hair—passed her plump lips.

  “Look ’ere, me girl,” said the maid in her low, thick East End inflection. “We don’t take in no common doxies.”

  Mary leaned against the frame. Now that she had finally reached her destination, all the strength she’d clung to seemed to be fading. “Please, let me in.”

&n
bsp; The rain began to pour down in furious late-winter earnest, slicking her short hair to the top of her head. Mary cringed against the icy assault, eyeing the space between the door and frame as if it were a portal to bliss.

  The girl, most likely the scullery maid, started to shut the door, her round face creasing with disgust.

  Oh, no, she would not!

  Mary thrust herself forward, jutting herself between the door and the jamb. For one brief moment she was sure the maid would slam it against her, bruising flesh with no care for bone. Thankfully, the maid hesitated and Mary placed her hands on the rain-spattered panel. “I beg of you.”

  The girl shook her head, the mobcap fluttering. “I told you, I did. We only ’ave ladies of ’igh quality ’ere.”

  Mary drew herself up. “I am a lady. Born and bred,” she declared, determined to convince the maid. “But even true ladies fall upon times of difficulty.”

  That much was true. Once, she had been one of the most pampered young ladies in Christendom and beyond, but few souls from that hallowed realm would recognize her now. “I have traveled a very far distance. Please, allow me to see Madame Yvonne.”

  The girl lingered in the doorway, her eyes darting around in indecision. “You do speak like a lady, but I can’t let you in. I’ll get the sack.”

  “You’ll get the sack if you don’t.” Mary’s patience swiftly disappeared as that last vestige of strength she’d summoned sputtered out. She’d come too far to be turned away at a servants’ door.

  She attempted to suck in a steadying breath, but coughed instead, a harsh rumble. Each laborious breath she took strained her chest, but she threatened all the same: “I’ll call upon the m-main entrance if you prefer.”

  The girl’s mouth dropped open, her face paling at the very idea. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Mary glared back at her, teeth chattering. “I have nothing to lose,” she said through numbed lips. “Can you say the same?”

  The maid seemed about to protest, but then her gaze hovered over Mary’s face.

  Mary lifted her chin. “Will you keep a lady standing in the rain?”

  The kitchen servant shook her head and backed out of the doorway.

  Without waiting upon ceremony, Mary stumbled in. The amber light and blooming warmth of the kitchen greeted her, its pleasantness bringing a smothered cry of joy to her lips. It was so splendid to see something—anything—that reminded her of what she had once had: a home.

  Even if this was only a servants’ hall in a brothel.

  A fire burned brightly in the great cooking hearth, decked out with iron pothooks and a steaming kettle. Carrots, potatoes, turnips, and leeks ready to be peeled and chopped lined the long oak worktable. It was the most perfect thing she had seen since the day before her mother died.

  She didn’t dare to blink. If she did, this moment might vanish like the laudanum dreams that came and went with the roll and fall of one’s thoughts.

  A cat lay curled up on the stuffed dark brown armchair before the fire, his tabby stripes rumbling ever so gently as the contented animal purred. She couldn’t recall the last time she had seen a civilized cat. She had become all too accustomed to the yowling beasts that hunted down rats, hissing and spitting if you tried to touch them.

  “Now, miss, as you can see—” The maid smoothed her reddened hands down her crisp white apron and kept several paces from Mary. “I’ve got me a bit of work to do. So you sit your bones there.” She pointed to a hard bench far from the fire. “And I’ll send up word.” The maid eyed her warily, clearly unsure what to make of Mary. “What name shall I give ’er?”

  “No name.” Mary’s fingers twitched at the end of her ratty quilt, water dribbling along her skin. No one could know her name. She didn’t even like to recall it herself. “Convey merely . . . that it is Esme’s daughter.”

  The girl stared blankly, thankfully not recognizing the given name. “A-are you in trouble, miss? Madame Yvonne won’t want trouble.”

  Though it took far more of her reserves than she could spare, Mary called to mind the attitude she had taken with all her father’s servants, a kind, firm authority. “What is your name?”

  “Nell.”

  Mary nodded once. “She will wish to see me, Nell. Now go find a footman and have him tell your mistress.”

  Assured at Mary’s tone, Nell turned on her heel and headed up the narrow stair.

  Slowly, her body as frail as an old woman’s, Mary lowered herself into a chair across from the worktable. It was hard and straight backed with no armrests. She would have liked to sit closer to the fire and the cat but was simply too exhausted to move again. Her clothes and thin quilt, pilfered from a farmer’s drying line, were soaked. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt warm.

  Nor could she stop shivering.

  For the first time in what felt like days, Mary allowed herself to sigh and close her aching eyes. That serving girl had looked at her as if she were a spirit escaped out of damnation. A far cry from how servants used to look at her, with smiles and the desire to please.

  She probably did look a hideous fright. More than a fright. She most likely looked like a hag—no mean feat for an eighteen-year-old daughter of a duke.

  She drifted momentarily before something jerked her out of repose.

  In the distance, the clattering of steps, muffled voices, and the bustle of quick movements down the stairs drifted into the peaceful kitchen.

  Mary’s eyes flew open and she jumped quickly to her blistered feet, ready to flee in case it was a group of footmen set on kicking her out. Surely her mother’s friend wouldn’t . . . But she’d learned there was no one she could truly trust. Even her own once beloved father had turned against her.

  “Mary!” a voice cried from the servants’ hall. A deep, rich voice meant for the pleasure of a man. A tone so ingrained that such a temptation would always be in it. “Mary?” it called again, full of disbelief and shock.

  A shuddering breath left Mary’s chest. Hope. For a brief moment, she let herself hope. Her fingers trembled as she wound them in the torn quilt tucked about her frame. “Yvonne?”

  Yvonne swept into the room, her dark violet skirts so wide she could barely pass through the doorway. She glittered like the dew under the sun. A thousand rainbows clung to her wrist and throat and her fiery tresses were laced with diamonds and amethysts.

  Mary had never seen anything so beautiful. Not even when she had watched the ladies of the court from the balcony of her own home. Those memories paled against this glorious moment. Yvonne was a living, sparkling angel come to sweep her to safety.

  Yvonne stopped suddenly, her full skirts swishing about her legs. Her lime green eyes widened as her face tensed with horror. “My god.”

  Her delicate hand flew to her rouged lips. Blinking fiercely, tears sprung to her eyes. For several moments she only stared, as if paralyzed, until at last she said in a hushed voice, “You look so much like Esme.”

  When she was small, everyone had delighted in telling her how she was a miniature reproduction of her mother, but she’d assumed that the resemblance would diminish as she grew older. To hear such a thing today, when she felt but a mere shadow of herself, was a rare boon. “Do I?”

  Her own throat closed as unbidden thoughts of her otherworldly mother flowed into her heart, warming her as no fire could. “Do I really look so much like her?”

  Nodding, Yvonne hurried forward. Even though she was wearing a gown no doubt worth more than most men could make in several lifetimes, she swallowed Mary up in a soft embrace of roses and sweet-smelling powder.

  Mary stiffened under the touch and kept her hands down at her sides, her fingers clutching at her muddied rags. How she wished she could reach out and embrace Yvonne . . . or cry with fury or relief. But no tears remained.

  Those tears had been cried out in her dark, freezing room in the asylum where her father, the world, and God had abandoned her. There was nothing left to her now. No emotion
except the will to survive. She continued to stand woodenly in the embrace, half afraid that if she moved she would awaken and find herself sleeping in a ditch somewhere between Yorkshire and London. Or, worse, on her filthy, bug-ridden pallet under the watchful eye of the keepers.

  There was also the possibility she might start screaming. She hadn’t been touched by anyone but . . . them in three years.

  “Charles!” Yvonne moved slowly away, her soft hands gesturing with the same fluid animation as her features. “Carry Mary up to my apartments. Use the back stairs and ensure that no one sees you.”

  The footman lowered his gaze. Consternation creased his young brow while he studied his white-gloved hands. “I—”

  “Now.” Yvonne’s face remained beautiful and cool, like a painted Madonna dressed in gilded robes as she gave her orders. “And tell the cook to send up broth and wine. A good bottle of wine to fortify her.” She stepped back, giving the servant room. “Don’t tarry, Charles. Go on.”

  Charles gave a curt nod, then stepped forward. His footman’s livery moved gracefully over his young, muscled body as he lifted his arms to carry her.

  Even with his kind face, neatly combed blond hair, and gentle movements, her heart skipped a beat at the thought of his hands anywhere near her. An animal cry escaped her lips before she could stop herself. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed.

  Charles froze, his ruddy cheeks tightening as if she’d slapped him. “I’m sorry, miss. It’s only what Madame—”

  “No, Charles.” Yvonne’s own face suddenly strained with concern and a slow understanding. “I’m certain Mary is desirous to walk of her own accord. Is that not so, Mary?”

  Mary noticed the coaxing note in Yvonne’s beautiful voice. It held that same tone the keepers had used on new patients. Only the keepers. The keepers . . . Mary blinked fiercely, refusing to think about those brutes of men and how simple coaxing had turned to brutal confrontations.

  “Mary?” Yvonne said so lightly it might have been a whisper. “What do you wish?”