A Sister's Secret

  About the Book

  An impetuous decision to marry has left the young Lady Caroline widowed and with two estates in her name. She is now in a position to live her life to the full, socialising with London’s finest aristocracy, but her unhappy experience has put her off marrying again.

  Her younger sister, Annabelle, on the other hand, is falling in love with a man who is notoriously unfaithful. Annabelle refuses to believe these negative views, so Caroline knows she must intervene before she sees her sister fall victim to the same miserable fate she experienced.

  And so she hires the charming Captain Burnside, a retired British Army officer, to distract her. An adventurer who is both charming and witty, he seems the perfect man to tear Annabelle away from her infatuation. But things don’t go quite according to Caroline’s plan . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  Also by Mary Jane Staples

  Copyright

  A SISTER’S SECRET

  Mary Jane Staples

  Chapter One

  The elegant house in Cavendish Square was pleasingly quiet, the closed library windows shutting out the sounds of passing carriages and criers of wares. Lady Clarence Percival, formerly Miss Caroline Anne Howard of Charleston, South Carolina, seated herself at the handsome redwood desk and read again the letter she had recently received from her father-in-law, the Duke of Avonhurst.

  My dearest Caroline,

  First, allow me to say how deeply touched I was when you confided in me some days ago. Such influence as I have was at once yours to command. Although it has not been easy to alight on a suitable confederate, if we may call him that, I am now able to advise you that a promising fellow has been run to earth. He will bring you a letter from me to introduce himself. His name is Burnside, Captain Burnside, and here I must make it clear that his military record is a dubious one. Nor is his university background at all impeccable. He was sent down from Cambridge for escapades of a disreputable kind. One might say it is in his favour that he freely admits his lack of virtue, and, since you are looking for a man who lives by his wits, I recommend him to you.

  His late father was a bishop, a gentleman who must lie uneasily in his grave on account of the reprehensible qualities of his son. Burnside is undoubtedly an adventurer, but I believe that, once he commits himself to you, you will not find him unreliable. Despite his predilection for knavery, he owns a peculiar pride in dealing honestly with a patron, and I am convinced he will do so with you. Beware of any other rogues, for most would betray you by making off at once with whatever monies you might advance, or sell themselves to your adversary.

  Burnside’s airs and graces are not unpleasing, and I can well believe him capable of charming ladies to distraction. I gather he has fleeced several who have fallen victim to his calculated gallantries. I have no doubt he could pass himself off as a gentleman, despite having long since ceased to be one, and there is every chance he might prove himself an effective rival for the affections of a certain young lady enamoured of the most dangerous man in the land. His skill at cards is a challenge to all gamblers who boast a skill of their own, as C does, and I don’t doubt he is also an accomplished cheat, which in some men can emulate the skill of a dozen others.

  I trust you will find his wits and disposition suitable to your purpose, and I have instructed him to be at your house at ten thirty this coming Tuesday morning, and to ask for Mrs Carmichael, as you requested.

  In closing, let me express the abiding affection in which the duchess and I hold you, dearest daughter-in-law. I am, yours devotedly, A.

  The Duke of Avonhurst had never failed her, although his son had, and miserably. Lady Clarence Percival, who preferred to be called Lady Caroline, moved to the window and pulled the bell-sash. Her footman Thomas entered a few moments later.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said, her voice a pleasure to most ears in the lingering quality of her vowels, ‘kindly ask the gentleman to present himself.’

  ‘Yes, Yer Ladyship.’

  The gentleman was ushered in and the footman disappeared, closing the door with the quiet care of a man devoted to his mistress.

  The gentleman advanced. The library, carpeted, had an atmosphere entirely tranquil and cultural. Coming to a halt at the desk, the gentleman bowed.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Lady Caroline, still at the window.

  ‘Mrs Carmichael? Good morning, marm,’ said the gentleman.

  She eyed him coolly and discerningly. The gentleman, if he could be called that, had the debonair look her father-in-law’s letter had led her to expect. His long, slender frame was clasped by a dark blue coat buttoned above the waist, and cut well back to display a pale blue waistcoat and tight-fitting pantaloons of the same colour. His high cravat was a many-folded triumph, his dark hair had a modish look of slight disorder and he owned luxuriant sideburns. He carried a malacca cane in his right hand, and held his top hat in his left. His countenance was pleasingly masculine, which made her frown. Lord Clarence Percival, her late husband, had shown a similarly pleasing handsomeness, and she, newly arrived from America, had been foolishly blind to the dissolution that lay behind the personable façade.

  True, her visitor’s healthy complexion spoke more of an upright life than a disreputable one, but she still disliked the fact that his looks reminded her of an infatuation that had cost her dear. He seemed commendably at ease and, although his grey eyes looked to be frankly inquisitive, his manner was deferential. She judged him to be about thirty.

  For his part, he could not have been unimpressed. Lady Caroline, daughter-in-law of the seventh Duke of Avonhurst, was a renowned beauty. Mr Creevy, the gossip writer and purveyor of tittle-tattle sometimes scandalous and sometimes trivial, described her as a bosomed goddess of Olympian splendour. In the light of the window, the summer sunshine gently caressing her, she was close to magnificence. Her high-waisted, full-skirted chemise gown of cream silk was backed by a long green train falling from a sleeveless waistcoat, the low square neckline revealing the upper curves of firm, fulsome breasts. Her auburn hair, lushly rich and darkly fiery, was styled in ringlets that danced lightly to every movement. At a height of five feet eight she carried herself in superb, Junoesque fashion, a characteristic complemented by the clarity and fearlessness of her green eyes, framed by lashes dark and long. Her complexion was akin to peaches and cream, for it had always been protected from the ravages of the Carolina sun by a bonnet. In England, she could take off her bonnet on a summer day and let it fly from her hand, for there was no English sun that was as searing as that which blazed over the Deep South of America.

  She was an accomplished horsewoman and a gifted pianist. She could claim the maturity and discernment of a woman in he
r twenty-fifth year, although she had lacked all discernment seven years ago, when she arrived in England at the lovely, eager age of eighteen. Her parents, of English ancestry, were intent on introducing her to the excitements of London’s summer season, with the help of the American ambassador, a cousin of her father’s. The ambassador had opened the doors of high society for her, and almost immediately she became infatuated with Lord Clarence Percival, only son of the eminent Duke of Avonhurst. Lord Clarence was handsome, witty and amusing. He enchanted her mother almost as much as he enchanted her, although her father had reservations and counselled caution. But caution was the last thing Caroline desired to observe, with the result that Lord Clarence became the first man to discover she had truly beautiful breasts, and legs so long that he declared there was no end to them. Completely taken with this innocent rose from the lush garden that was South Carolina, he conducted a whirlwind courtship and they were married only three months after their first meeting.

  It did not take longer than four months for Caroline to realize she had made a terrible mistake. Her husband at twenty-six was already a rake. To give him his due, he married her in a mood of resolution, and certainly with the unqualified approval of his parents, who loved the freshness and unspoiled nature of their American daughter-in-law. They saw in her salvation for their philandering son. She had come into his life like a breath of pure air, and during his courtship she made all other women seem comparatively stale. But his affection and resolution were short-lived. He had known too many females to be capable of lasting love for any of them. He was a compulsive wanderer from woman to woman. His dissolute habits returned, and while vowing himself incurably devoted to his young wife he was repeatedly unfaithful. Caroline quickly began to see him as he was – intemperate, loose-living and, as a husband, a mockery.

  She would have liked children. He seemed unable to father any, and nor after a while did she desire him to. Inevitably, there came the time when she kept him permanently locked out of her bedroom. He seemed vastly amused by this, and asked if she would prefer entry into her bed to be the privilege of certain of his friends, all of whom, he assured her, would be delighted to pleasure her. His decadence at least did one thing for her: it helped her to grow up fast.

  She frequently thought of leaving him and returning to her family home in Charleston, but England, so green and rural from one year’s end to another, had laid its claim on her. Nor was she indifferent to the love and sympathy she received from Clarence’s parents, or to the affections of the many friends she had acquired. Also, she enjoyed the atmosphere of London and its endless attractions, and she adored Great Wivenden, an estate in Sussex that her husband had purchased in the heady, early days of their marriage and presented to her. Not far from Brighton, where the Prince of Wales had built himself an ornate Pavilion, Great Wivenden was a beautiful place and a happy country retreat to which she often escaped. Lord Clarence was rarely there himself, except during the hunting season. It was at Great Wivenden, in the fifth year of a marriage that had become a shame and humiliation to her, that he had the grace to break his neck attempting a fence while the worse for claret. Caroline wore black to the funeral, but not thereafter. The London house passed to her, together with what was left of the wealth Clarence had done his best to dissipate.

  She might then have returned to Charleston, had she been able to make the decision. She realized that despite her disastrous marriage she had put down new roots. The pastoral charm and gentle summer beauty of England’s countryside were so unlike that which obtained during the fiery summers of South Carolina. She set about the intricate task of rebuilding her late husband’s fortune, with the advice and guidance of her father-in-law. She established her own mode of life in London and Sussex, an enjoyable and independent one. She was newly eligible, but had no intention of marrying again unless she could positively trust her feelings and the integrity of any suitor. She had no lack of admirers, the most amorous and arrogant of whom was the Duke of Cumberland, fifth son of King George III, the monarch who had foolishly alienated the rich American colonies and subsequently lost them. Cumberland, dark of soul and design, offered her the privilege of becoming his mistress.

  ‘Your Royal Highness,’ she had said, ‘I do declare that such a privilege is rare, is it not? But how rare, pray? Am I to be your first mistress or your twentieth?’

  Cumberland, noted more for his intolerance than his sense of humour, nevertheless roared with laughter and swore that of all sweet creatures she was the one he most desired to bed, and that, by God, bed her he would, soon or late. If he had the looks of the devil, he was still a magnetic and commanding prince, and a man who could discover weakness in the strongest-minded women. He put Caroline in desperate straits on one occasion, six months after she had been widowed. He was one of several guests at Great Wivenden during a long weekend, and on the Saturday night, when she had just retired to her bedroom, he entered without knocking and was arrogant in his assumption that she would take him into her bed. An actual physical struggle ensued, Cumberland confident that such a forceful wooing would excite her into surrender, and Caroline burning and outraged that he should attempt such unforgivable seduction.

  Her gown was shamefully dishevelled and revealing by the time she managed to break free and rush to the bell-pull. She threatened to arouse every servant unless he left at once. Cumberland smiled, shrugged, tidied himself, and left.

  The duke was now a new worry to her, and it was him she was thinking of as she addressed her visitor. ‘You are Captain Burnside?’

  ‘Captain Charles Wolfe Burnside, marm,’ he said, and offered her his card. She made a gesture and he placed the card on the desk.

  ‘Wolfe?’ she said, lifting an eyebrow.

  ‘After General Wolfe of Quebec, marm. An uncle of mine was distantly related.’

  ‘Really?’ She had acquired the distinctive English way of imbuing that word with scepticism.

  ‘Quite so, marm.’ Captain Burnside’s voice was warm, mellow and beguiling, and it put her on her guard. She had been trapped seven years ago by a voice just as beguiling. Yet she was not altogether displeased by this trait in the captain, for she was in need of an adventurer who could be accepted as a gentleman of charm.

  ‘You have a letter for me, sir?’

  ‘That is so, marm.’ Captain Burnside, extracting a letter from the tail of his coat, handed it over the desk to her. It was addressed to Mrs L. A. Carmichael. Caroline examined the flap. It was sealed by a blob of red wax as a precaution against it being steamed open, a natural thing for any rogue to do. She broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

  ‘This is to present Captain Charles Burnside. His production of this letter is a warranty of his identity. A.’

  She placed it on the desk and sat down. She looked up at the captain. He smiled. Deferentially.

  ‘You are a professional gentleman?’ she enquired.

  ‘I am, marm.’

  ‘An adventurer of a kind?’

  ‘Of an accomplished kind.’

  ‘A virtuoso?’ she said drily.

  ‘I’ve a variety of gifts, marm.’

  ‘You’re willing to engage in an affair of deception and blackmail?’

  ‘I’m willing to engage in anything within reason, marm.’

  ‘Within what reason, sir?’ she asked, and he seemed intrigued by the softness of her Southern speech. He placed his top hat on the desk. She regarded it as if it had no right to be there. Nor, as yet, had she asked him to sit down.

  ‘Well, marm,’ he said easily, ‘the devil being my paymaster, as it were, my commissions run well ahead of the acceptable at times, but under no circumstances will I engage to assassinate anyone.’

  Lady Caroline looked extremely cool. ‘You will not be asked to, sir. I am not in need of a cut-throat.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it, marm, relieved.’ Captain Burnside was smoothly cordial. ‘An affair of deception, then. And – ah – blackmail. Agreed, marm.’

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p; ‘Agreed?’ She was cooler. ‘We shall see. You at least come with not unsatisfactory references.’

  ‘True, I did have two or three meetings with a nameless gentleman.’

  ‘You may sit down, sir,’ she said, having made up her mind to continue with him.

  ‘I’m obliged, marm.’ He drew up a chair and seated himself. She noted the fluency of his movements: his limbs were commendably supple.

  ‘Now, sir,’ she said, ‘I confess I require the services of an adventurer capable of assuming the manners and deportment of a gentleman, while seeking to make the most of his dubious talents. Although it is something of a paradox, I also require him to be entirely trustworthy. Can you declare yourself so?’

  ‘I ain’t averse to cheating an opponent, marm, but I’ve a professional’s honour when dealing with a patron. And for your comfort and reassurance—’

  ‘My comfort and reassurance?’ Lady Caroline again raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Quite so, marm. I never, d’you see, enquire into a patron’s motives or reasons. I enter only their service, not their private lives.’

  ‘Really? How very good of you,’ she said sarcastically, at which Captain Burnside assumed the air of a man able to accept every sling and arrow. ‘Tell me, sir, is your rank authentic? Are you indeed a British Army officer?’

  ‘I was, marm. I’m now retired.’

  ‘Retired? At your age?’

  ‘Ah, precipitately retired.’ He coughed. ‘There was an unfortunate incident during a game of cards with fellow officers. I held three aces. Unhappily, the adjutant held two. Most unfortunate, since I was the dealer. More unhappily, I was also at the time under suspicion of having compromised the adjutant’s wife, although it was no more than a light kiss or two. The colonel took me aside, spoke to me about the honour of the regiment and also my mess debts, and I allowed myself to be placed on the retired list – ah, unpaid.’

  ‘You mean you were forced to resign,’ said Caroline coldly. ‘But you pass yourself off as Captain Burnside, retired. Yes, that opens certain doors to you, no doubt.’