Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

Chapter 1

June 1851

The road to Wexmoor Manor, Devon

Antoinette Dupre closed her eyes behind her spectacles, shielding them from the flickering light as the sun dipped lower through the trees. Not far to go now. Lord Rudyard Appleby’s manor was isolated, well off the main highway, which was one reason she was riding in a coach instead of traveling by steam train.

The other reason was that she was a prisoner.

She didn’t want to go but she had no choice; she was completely in the power of Lord Appleby. And the most frustrating thing about that was she’d finally discovered a way to destroy him once and for all, but before she could put her plan into practice, he had sent her away into deepest Devon, to his house, Wexmoor Manor.

She put a hand to her bodice, feeling the reassuring crackle of paper. The letter was still there, safe. Her ticket to freedom, and more importantly, the freedom of her younger sister, Cecilia.

Thinking of Cecilia made her smile despite her dire situation. Her sister, three years younger than Antoinette, would think this a great adventure—traveling alone in a coach to an unknown destination—but then Cecilia, tall and fair and vivacious, was very different from Antoinette. Antoinette, small in stature, with glossy brown hair and brown eyes, was by nature serious and rather bossy and took her responsibilities to heart. Always as neat as a pin, still she struggled with a figure that was definitely more hourglass-shaped—dumpy if you were being unkind—than the fashionable ideal of slender and willowy. She did have one weakness, a compulsion she couldn’t seem to resist and which she blamed on her ancestress, a mistress of King Charles II. Fine undergarments. Silk and lace and satin, frilly and feminine. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like, to hold a man in thrall, to give yourself over entirely to the sensual side. But, as it seemed unlikely Antoinette would ever know the answers to those questions, she contented herself with indulging in her secret wicked pleasure.

She took off her spectacles and pressed her fingers to her eyes.

The worst of it was she had no one to talk to, no one to trust. Cecilia was safely tucked away in Surrey with her governess, Miss Bridewell, and other than those two, Antoinette had no one else she dared unburden herself to. These past few weeks in London she’d been watched continually by Lord Appleby’s servants, and she didn’t expect Wexmoor Manor to be any different—worse, because at least in London she’d been able to go about, even attending the opening of the Great Exhibition, and enjoying the new sights and sounds.

But that was before she’d understood Lord Appleby’s true intention in inviting her to his Mayfair house.

Suddenly the coach lurched. Antoinette dropped her spectacles. Outside there was a popping noise, followed by shouts from the coachman and his boy. She leaned forward to grasp the window frame, just as a galloping horse drew alongside the coach. The rider wore black, everything black, including a black mask covering the upper half of his face. He kept pace with the coach, and although her poor eyesight made him appear blurry, there was something almost mesmerizing about him. And then he leaned down and stared at her through the dusty glass.

And smiled the smile of a dangerous predator spying his prey.

He was there for only a heartbeat, and then he’d spurred his horse on, but it was long enough. Antoinette felt as if his regard had burned itself into her skin. As if he had left a brand upon her.

Confused, startled, her heart thudding, she pressed herself back into the soft leather of the seat. She told herself that this was England in the reign of Queen Victoria, and highwaymen belonged to an earlier and more lawless age. Or was this isolated corner of Devon yet to catch up with the more civilized parts of the country?

But if she was imagining things, then so was the coachman. Antoinette clung to the strap, bracing herself against the wildly rocking vehicle as the driver attempted to outrun the highwayman. Her straw bonnet slipped off as they tipped dangerously around a corner, and there was a loud bang as the coachman’s boy fired his blunderbuss. Antoinette squeaked, trying to see beyond the window, but it was all a blur of trees and earth and s

ky. And then the coach began to slow until eventually it shuddered to a halt.

Antoinette sat a moment and caught her breath, wishing she could loosen her stays beneath the tight-fitting bodice of her tan taffeta and emerald green velvet traveling dress. Her hair, a moment ago neatly pinned and parted, was hanging down, hampering her movements, and her skirts and petticoats were tossed and tangled, displaying far too much silk-stockinged leg above her lace-up boots.

What now? she asked herself. Was she to cower inside and await her fate? Practical, sensible Antoinette had never cowered in her life. Bad enough that she’d been sent into the country to a place she didn’t know by Lord Appleby, a man she detested, but to be trapped inside her coach by an anachronism? No, she wouldn’t have it.

Antoinette released the catch on the window and after a brief struggle forced it down.

Cold, moist air wafted in, and with it the pungent sting of gunpowder. Undeterred, Antoinette stuck her head out of the coach. The scene before her was chaotic. The coachman and his boy were on the ground, hands in the air, and the masked man on the horse was pointing a brace of pistols at them. “Be silent,” she heard him order in a gruff voice as the coachman began to argue.

Antoinette’s mind worked furiously. Was he after her money and her valuables? She’d brought so little with her. Most of her luggage was still in London, and her scant pieces of jewelry were locked in Lord Appleby’s safe.

The two men had turned their backs to the highwayman, and—she peered hard with her naked eyes, trying to make out the scene—he began to tie their hands. This was ridiculous. Antoinette turned away, searching for her spectacles, telling herself that if she could see him properly she would feel braver. She did not for a moment imagine she might be physically unsafe, or in any danger of being molested.

Unlike Cecilia, Antoinette was not the sort of woman men glanced at twice. Well, not usually. There was the time when Mr. Morrissey developed a strange obsession with her, and began to write very bad poetry in her honor, but everyone knew he was a little odd, and besides, he soon forgot her when the vicar’s lovely wife arrived in the village…

The coach door was flung open. Her thoughts froze; Antoinette gasped. He was leaning in, looking at her, and despite the lack of clarity in her vision—or perhaps because of it—he was even bigger than she’d thought. He cut out the light and filled the door space, his hands gripping the frame, a pistol dangling casually from his fingers.

What did you say to a highwayman? For some reason the proper form of address escaped her.

“Give it to me,” he said in a deep voice.

“Give it…?” she echoed in a whisper.

His tipped his head, and she knew he was taking in her disarray. She sat up straighter, brushing down her skirts and pushing back a long strand of hair. When she looked at him again he was smiling, but it wasn’t the sort of smile a gentleman would give a lady.

“I know you have it,” he said in that same deep, slightly husky voice. “The letter. Give it to me.”

Shock froze her. He knew! She only just prevented herself from reaching up and clutching the letter against her skin in its hiding place inside her bodice.

“Who—who sent you?” she demanded shakily.

“Who do you think?” he mocked.

Lord Appleby. She hadn’t been so clever after all. He knew she had in her possession the letter that could destroy him, and he’d sent this man after her to fetch it back. What better way to dispose of the evidence and her chance to use it than to stage a robbery? Oh, he was very clever.

But she couldn’t allow this to happen. It was Cecilia’s future that was at stake, as much as her own.

The big man was climbing into the coach, and his broad shoulders blocked out the light. There was something very menacing about him, she thought, as she blinked up at him, her mind racing as fast as her heart, searching for a way out. He slipped the pistol into his belt and drew off his gloves, slowly, while she watched. When he was finished he casually reached forward and put a hand on her knee.

His skin was hot, his bare fingers thick and blunt. It was his touch as much as the unexpectedness of it that shocked her. She jumped back, pressing herself into the farthest corner.

His masked face loomed closer, and she could see the glitter of his pale eyes through the slits. His mouth was no longer smiling now but held in a straight line, grim and determined.

“Give me the letter. Don’t make me search every inch of you, because I will. Every inch.”

The threat was no idle one, and Antoinette knew the sensible thing to do would be to hand over the letter. But she didn’t feel sensible. She was desperate and frightened, and the letter represented her one last chance of escape. Lord Appleby had already destroyed her reputation and ruined her good character. What did it matter what this man did to her?

He was watching her closely, trying to read her thoughts. She tipped up her chin and stared back at him. “I don’t believe that even a man as low as you would molest a lady who had done you no harm,” she said, with barely a tremor in her voice.

He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Wouldn’t I, my little brown sparrow?” He flicked at a fold of her tan skirt. “Believe me, Miss Dupre, I would do anything to get that letter back.”