More Praise for Amanda Quick
“One of the hottest and most prolific writers in romance today … Her heroines are always spunky women you’d love to know, and her heroes are dashing guys you’d love to love.”
—USA Today
“Engaging and sympathetic … heroines, and fast-paced plots propelled by a series of well-calculated revelations are the hallmarks of Quick’s bestselling novels.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Amanda Quick’s Regency-period romances continue to wear exceedingly well.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Amanda Quick seems to be writing … better and better.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Wit is Quick’s middle name.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Quick’s characters are clever and her plot … superior.”
—Booklist
Bantam Books by Amanda Quick
Ask your bookseller for
the books you have missed
AFFAIR
DANGEROUS
DECEPTION
DESIRE
MISCHIEF
MISTRESS
MYSTIQUE
RAVISHED
RECKLESS
RENDEVOUS
SCANDAL
SEDUCTION
SURRENDER
WITH THIS RING
I THEE WED
WICKED WIDOW
SLIGHTLY SHADY
Chapter 1
The ancient ruin’s darkened windows offered silent warning of the temperament of the master of the house.
FROM CHAPTER ONE OF The Ruin BY MRS. AMELIA YORK
The Mad Monk of Monkcrest brooded in front of the fire.
It was as if he stood at the edge of a well and looked down into the dark waters of melancholia. He had not yet fallen into the depths, but lately, on occasion, he sensed that his balance was disturbingly precarious.
For many years he had resisted the temptation to gaze into the shadows. His scholarly studies together with the task of raising two lively, motherless sons had gone far to ensure that his attention remained fixed on more important matters.
But a month and a half ago his heir, Carlton, and his younger son, William, had departed for the Continent in the company of their old tutor. They were on the Grand Tour.
The Mad Monk had been surprised to discover how empty the old halls of Monkcrest Abbey were these days. He was alone now except for his faithful staff and his great hound, Elf. He knew that when Carlton and William returned, things would never be quite the same. At nineteen and seventeen years of age, his sons hovered on the brink of manhood. They were strong, intelligent, and independent, young eagles ready to fly on their own.
He knew that this tendency to look into the shadows was in the blood, passed on to him by his ancestors, that long line of men who had held the title of Earl of Monkcrest before him. There were several among them who had been responsible for the unfortunate epithet that haunted all the rest: the Mad Monks.
The great hound stretched out in front of the fire, stirred as if he sensed his master’s restlessness. The beast lifted its massive head and regarded Leo Drake with a disconcertingly direct stare.
“It’s the storm, Elf. All that energy charges the atmosphere with electricity. Bound to have an unwholesome effect on a man of my temperament.”
Elf did not appear completely satisfied with that explanation, but he nevertheless lowered his head back down onto his huge paws. The metal studs in the broad leather collar around his thick neck glinted dully in the flickering firelight.
Leo studied the flecks of silver in the hair around Elf’s muzzle. Recently he had noticed similar shards of ice in his own dark hair when he faced himself in his shaving mirror.
“Do you think it’s possible that we are getting old, Elf?”
Elf huffed with soft disgust. He did not bother to open his eyes.
“Thank God for that. You relieve my mind.” Leo picked up the nearly finished glass of brandy on the nearby table and took a swallow. “For a moment there I was a trifle concerned.”
Outside, the wind howled. For the past hour a storm had unleashed its ill temper on the walls of the ancient stone abbey that had housed the Mad Monks for generations. Lightning still snapped occasionally in the distance, illuminating the library with an unholy glare, but the worst was over. The fury of the elements was fading.
Leo contemplated the fact that increasingly of late his researches into the arcane lore of ancient civilizations were no longer enough to divert his attention from the bleak waters of the well.
“The problem may be too much study rather than too little, Elf. Mayhap it is time we hunted again.”
Elf’s tail thumped once in complete accord with that suggestion.
“Unfortunately we have not had any interesting prey in the district for months.” Leo downed more brandy. “Nevertheless, I must find something to amuse myself or I shall likely end up like a character in one of those bloodcurdling novels that are so popular in the circulating libraries.”
Elf twitched one ear. Leo suspected that his hound had even less interest in the tales of romance, horror, and dark mysteries known as “horrid” novels than he did himself.
“I can see myself now, passing the nights stalking from one empty, decayed, cobweb-filled chamber to the next, searching for specters and strange apparitions in the shadows. And all the while waiting for the beautiful, helpless heroine to fall into my clutches.”
The notion of a beautiful, helpless heroine in his clutches did nothing to improve his mood. The truth was, he had not had any sort of female, helpless or otherwise, in his clutches in a very long while.
Perhaps that unfortunate circumstance was the cause of his restlessness tonight.
He glanced at his heavily laden bookshelves. Nothing there appealed to him. The ennui seemed to have settled into his very bones. He thought about refilling his brandy glass.
Elf stirred and raised his head. He did not look at Leo this time. His attention was focused on the library window.
“Does the storm make you anxious? You’ve seen worse.”
Elf ignored him. The hound got to his feet with leisurely effort and stood unmoving for a few seconds. Then he padded to the window. His great paws made no sound on the Oriental carpet.
Leo frowned at the hound’s alert air. Someone was approaching Monkcrest Abbey. In the middle of the night. At the height of the worst of the spring storms.
“Impossible,” Leo said. “No one would dare to come here without an invitation from me. And I have not issued any since I made the mistake of agreeing to see that idiot Gilmartin last month.”
He grimaced at the recollection of the brief visit. Charles Gilmartin had claimed to be a scholar, but he had proved to be both a charlatan and a fool. Leo did not tolerate either sort well. It occurred to him that he must have been truly desperate for intelligent company to have wasted any time at all with the man.
Another, more distant flash of lightning lit up the night sky. It was accompanied not by thunder, but by the muffled clatter of carriage wheels on the paving stones of the forecourt.
Someone had, indeed, had the unmitigated gall to arrive, unannounced, at the abbey.
“Bloody hell.” Leo wrapped his hand around the fragile neck of the crystal decanter and splashed more brandy into his glass. “Whoever he is, he’ll no doubt expect me to offer him shelter for the night, Elf.”
Elf gazed silently out the window.
“Finch will get rid of him.”
Finch had come to work at the abbey when Leo was a boy. He’d had a great deal of practice turning away unwanted visitors. Monkcrest legend held that the Mad Monks were notoriously inhospitable. There was more than a grain of truth in the
tales of their poor manners. The masters of Monkcrest Abbey had a long tradition of avoiding those who threatened to bore them. That policy did not make for an active social life.
Elf rumbled softly. Not his usual growl of warning, Leo noticed. It sounded more like an expression of canine inquiry.
Outside, the carriage came to a halt. Hooves danced on the stones. Voices called out from the direction of the stables. A coachman shouted, demanding assistance with the horses.
“Move yer arse, there, man. I’ve got a respectable lady and her maid in this coach. They’ll be needing a warm fire and some decent food. Be quick now. Bloody lightning’s made the horses skittish.”
Leo stilled. “A lady? What the devil is he talking about?”
Ears pricked, Elf continued to peer intently out the window.
Reluctantly Leo put down the brandy glass, rose, and strode to the window. He stopped beside Elf and rested his hand on the beast’s broad head. One floor below, the abbey courtyard was a scene of unaccustomed activity.
The carriage lamps revealed the outline of a small, mud-splashed vehicle. Two grooms carrying lanterns emerged from the stables to take charge of the team. The coachman, enveloped in a many-caped greatcoat, descended from his box and opened the door of the cab.
“Whoever they are, they must have been given poor directions,” Leo told Elf. “Finch will soon set them right and send them on their way.”
Down below, Finch appeared on the front steps of the abbey. The elderly butler had apparently been taking his ease in the kitchens. He carried the remains of a wedge of cheese. With his free hand he hastily refastened his coat around his bulging middle.
Finch shoved the last bit of cheese into his mouth and began to wave his arms. His words were somewhat muffled by a full mouth and the closed window, but Leo could make them out.
“Here now, what’s this?” Finch went down the steps. “Who do you think you are to arrive without notice at this ungodly hour?”
Driven by a growing sense of curiosity, Leo opened the window so that he could hear more clearly. The rain had nearly ceased, but the gusting wind carried sufficient moisture to dampen his hair. Elf stuck his nose out the window to taste the night air.
“Ye’ve got visitors, man.” The coachman reached up to assist an occupant of the coach.
“This is the Earl of Monkcrest’s residence,” Finch declared. “He is not expecting visitors. You have come to the wrong address.”
Before the coachman could respond, a woman, her features concealed by the hood of her cloak, stepped down from the carriage. She was obviously not intimidated by Finch’s ungracious greeting.
“On the contrary,” she announced in a cool, crisp voice that brooked no argument. “Monkcrest Abbey is our destination. Kindly inform his lordship that he has guests. I am Mrs. Beatrice Poole. I have my maid with me. We expect to spend the night.”
Finch drew himself up to his full height. He towered over Beatrice Poole, who was, Leo noticed, not especially tall. What she lacked in stature, however, she more than compensated for with a commanding air that would have done Wellington proud.
“His lordship does not see uninvited guests,” Finch rasped.
“Nonsense. He will see me.”
“Madam—”
“I assure you, I will not leave here until I have spoken with him.” Beatrice glanced into the coach. “Come, Sally. We have endured the storm long enough. This sort of weather may do very well for the setting of a novel, but it is most inconvenient in real life.”
“That ees a fact, madam.” A buxom, sturdy-figured woman allowed herself to be handed down from the coach. “Ees no good night for man nor beast, n’est-ce pas?”
Leo raised his brows at the excruciatingly bad French accent. He was willing to wager that whoever Sally was, she had never spent so much as an hour in France.
“We shall soon be warm and dry.” Beatrice said.
“Hold, here.” Finch spread his arms to block access to the front steps. “You cannot simply invite yourselves into Monkcrest Abbey.”
“I certainly have not come all this distance to be turned aside.” Beatrice informed him. “I have business with his lordship. If you are not going to escort us into the house in a civil fashion, be so good as to stand aside.”
“His lordship gives the orders around here,” Finch said in his most forbidding tones.
“I am quite certain that if he knew what was happening out here, he would immediately order you to invite us into his home.”
“Which only goes to show how little you know about his lordship,” Finch retorted.
“I have heard that the Earl of Monkcrest is a noted eccentric,” Beatrice said. “But I refuse to believe that he would consign two helpless, innocent exhausted women to the gaping jaws of this dreadful storm.”
“The lady has a rather dramatic turn of phrase, does she not?” Leo absently scratched Elf’s ears. “Something tells me that our Mrs. Poole is neither helpless nor innocent. And she does not appear to be particularly exhausted either.”
Elf wriggled one ear.
“Any lady who would dare to come to Monkcrest on a night like this without an invitation and accompanied only by her maid is no delicate flower.”
Elf shifted, pressing closer to the open window.
Finch, arms flung wide, retreated up the steps. “Madam, I must insist that you get back into the coach.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Beatrice advanced on him with the determination of a field marshal.
Leo smiled slightly. “Poor Finch doesn’t stand a chance, Elf.”
“See here.” Desperation had crept into Finch’s voice. “There is an inn on the outskirts of the village. You may spend the night there. I shall inform his lordship that you wish to speak with him in the morning. If he is agreeable, I will send word to you.”
“I will spend the night under this roof and so will those who accompany me.” She waved a hand toward the coachman. “Show John, here, to clean, dry quarters. He will also require a mug of ale and a hot meal. I fear the brave man had the worst of it during that nasty drive. I do not want him to take a chill. My maid will, of course, stay with me.”
The coachman favored Finch with a triumphant grin. “Nothing fancy for me, mind you. A few slices of ham, a bit of eel pie if you’ve got any on hand, and the ale will do. Although I am partial to puddings.”
“Do make certain he gets a pudding and everything else he wants,” Beatrice said. “He deserves it after that unfortunate encounter with the highwayman.”
“Highwayman?” Finch stared at her.
“Eet was a most ’orrible experience.” Sally put her hand to her throat and gave a visible shudder. “Such villains, they do not ’esitate to ravish innocent females such as Madam and moi, y’know. Bloody good luck it was that we wasn’t—”
“That’s quite enough, Sally,” Beatrice interrupted briskly. “There is no need to add more melodrama to the tale. We both came through it without any ill effects.”
“What’s this about a highwayman?” Finch demanded. “There are no highwaymen on Monkcrest lands. None would dare come here.”
“Yes, what is this about a highwayman?” Leo repeated softly. He leaned farther out the window.
“The thief was operating on the other side of the river,” Beatrice explained. “Just beyond the bridge. A nasty sort. Fortunately I had my pistol with me and John was also armed. Between the two of us, we managed to discourage him.”
The coachman grinned at Finch. “The villain didn’t take much notice of me, mind you. It was Mrs. Poole who put the fear o’ God in him. I got the impression he’d never confronted a lady with a pistol. Mayhap he’ll think twice before he tries to rob the next coach.”
Finch dismissed the minor details. “If you encountered him on the other side of the river, then he was not on Monkcrest lands.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” Beatrice said. “A highwayman is a highwayman.”
“So long
as he stays off Monkcrest lands, it will not be necessary for his lordship to concern himself with the problem,” Finch pointed out.
“How very convenient for his lordship,” Beatrice said.
“Madam, you do not appear to understand the situation,” Finch snapped. “His lordship is most particular about certain things.”
“As am I. After you have seen to John, you may have a tray of hot tea and something substantial sent up to Sally and me. Once we have refreshed ourselves, I will see his lordship.”
“‘Ere now, put a pint o’ gin on that tray, s’il vous plait,” Sally said. “For medicinal purposes.”
Beatrice picked up her skirts and made to step around Finch. “If you would be so good as to get out of the way?”
“Monkcrest Abbey is not a bloody inn, Mrs. Poole,” Finch roared.
“In which case the service and the fare should be vastly superior to the sort we were obliged to put up with on the road last night. Kindly inform his lordship that I shall be ready to meet with him in half an hour.”
The wind caught the hood of Beatrice’s cloak at that moment and tugged the garment back from her face. For the first time, Leo saw her features illuminated in the light that spilled through the open doorway.
He was able to discern a clear profile composed of a high, intelligent forehead, an assertive nose, and an elegantly angled jaw before Beatrice got the hood back over her head. She was in her late twenties, perilously close to thirty, he concluded, and adept at wielding her innate gift for authority. Definitely a woman of the world. The sort who always got her own way.
“Tell his lordship you’ll see him in half an hour?” Finch hunched his shoulders and lowered his head as if he were a bull preparing to charge. “One doesn’t order his lordship about as if he were a bloody footman, madam.”
“Heavens, I would not think of giving orders to the Earl of Monkcrest,” Beatrice said smoothly. “But I would have thought that his lordship would wish to be kept apprised of events under his own roof.”
“I can promise you, madam, that his lordship has ways of knowing everything that happens in his own house and on Monkcrest lands,” Finch said ominously. “Ways that are beyond the ken of ordinary folk, if you take my meaning.”