It had been one month since Ash had left in search of Dominique's cousin Sofia, and none of them had heard word about their whereabouts.
"Something has happened," Dominique said quietly to Hunter. "I am not being paranoid. Shouldn't he have contacted us by now? To at least say she was safe? That he had her?"
Dominique wasn't one to worry, but Hunter had the same fears. After all, they had just discovered not but two days ago what Ash had been doing for the past nine years, and it hadn't been taking up the arts of painting or poetry.
No, his twin, his own flesh and blood, had been a gun for hire. To be exact, an assassin for hire. Hunter had even heard of the famous Grimm, for they said every time a mark of ash was found anywhere near a person, they would die three days later, and the Grimm Reaper, or Grimm, would be responsible.
Hunter shivered. No wonder his brother had felt the need for repentance. He had spent half of his life killing people.
Dominique trusted Hunter, therefore Dominique trusted Ash, but now Hunter wasn't so sure Ash deserved that trust.
Gwen placed her hand on Hunter's shoulder and then kissed him lightly on the cheek. With a laugh, Hunter pulled her into his lap and kissed her hard across the mouth.
"Do you mind?" Montmouth roared. "We are eating!"
"I am having my dessert early," Hunter announced between kisses. Gwen laughed as she kissed him back and then the room was somewhat silent. Hunter looked up and smiled as he found Rosalind and Montmouth sharing an intimate embrace, and Dominique and Isabelle kissing as well.
It seemed, in that moment, that perhaps fairy tales did come true.
When Ash Falls
London Fairy Tales
Book 4
Ash didn't want to remember her this way. Her beautiful face, which had been often in a breathtaking smile, was now cold and dead.
The first time he had seen her, he'd thought she was an angel. He'd said that very thing under his breath when she'd made her debut that season.
"Beautiful," he murmured as Lucy took a turn about the room, gaining introductions to all the available gentlemen who came her way. Taking an earth-shattering breath, the kind that every man takes when he is about to approach a beautiful woman, he made his way over to her.
Music faded into the background with each step. All Ash was aware of was the clicking of his boots against the floor as he progressed toward the beauty. One dance, if only she would give him one dance, he would secure her hand forever. He knew it in his heart, in his soul — she was meant to be his.
Heart beating out of his chest, he could barely contain his excitement as she lifted her eyes and met his gaze. Blue eyes twinkled in his direction and then she lifted her hand in a wave. A wave? Something was wrong. Ash paused, and then looked behind him. There was no one but him and then he gazed back at her. She crooked her finger, beckoning him forward.
Completely under her spell, he couldn't deny her anymore than he could cease from taking his next breath. Finally, he stood before her, at least a foot taller than she.
"Where have you been, you rogue?" She swatted him on the arm and gave him a coy laugh. "I have been looking everywhere for you!"
"For me?" Ash questioned. "Are you sure we have met?"
"Must you always joke at such serious times!" The girl laughed again and he was caught at the sight of her dimples as they danced along her cheeks. Carefree. She appeared so carefree, so perfect, unweighted by the things of this world, by responsibility and darkness, by disappointment. He tilted his head and then reached out to touch her, perhaps she truly was a dream, and then a voice broke out into the pounding in his ears.
"Ah, sweetheart, you've met my brother." Hunter stepped beside the girl and wrapped his arm around her. Ash stepped back, his heart sinking down to his feet. She hadn't been looking for him at all, but his older brother, his twin, the duke. It was such a sad joke, a sad existence really. Would he ever be first in anything?
Months progressed into a year as he watched his brother and Lucy fall into such a deep love that all he could do was be happy for them and try to spend as much time away as possible. After all, it was not done to want your brother's wife, to want to care for her and protect her. It was fate's final cruel trick to allow Ash to feel something for another and then have that person ripped away by his brother. Though he loved his brother more than his own life, it seemed Ash was always left with nothing while his brother was given everything.
His name fit.
For he was the ash after the fire of Hunter burned out.
He was nothing but soot, but darkness, and sand. One day, his ashes would trickle away into the wind, never to be remembered and never mourned, but forgotten.
"Ash! Do you hear me! I love you! I love you!" Hunter yelled at his brother as he shook his shoulders and then in one final attempt to thrust him out of his daydream, slapped him across the face.
Ash stared at the blood staining his hands. He tried to wipe it off. Tried but failed as it continued to drip down his wrists into his jacket. "I'm so sorry," he kept repeating over and over again, but it did not matter.
The carriage had come too fast. Lucy had thought Ash was Hunter and ran to him, ran right into the street.
The fault was his.
He knew it, Hunter knew it, and Lucy, beautiful Lucy, his brother's innocent wife, was dead and it was all because he had lied about who he was, tried to be better than just the second son.
He backed away, slowly at first, and then he ran.
His feet ached, his stomach heaved. Finally he stopped in the middle of the street, hoping, praying that someone or something would hit him. Death, it seemed, was his only option. It was his wish, his choice. For how could he live with himself after what he had done?
Hunter had loved Lucy, but so had Ash. She was his everything, his only relative other than Hunter, and although he had wanted her for himself, he had pushed those emotions so far beneath the surface of his heart that he hadn't understood how far the love ran until now, until it was too late.
Legs like lead, he walked until he reached his parent's tombstones. Both taken from him too soon. What would they think of him now? He was the disappointment in the family, the second son by two minutes. And now he was a murderer.
Disgusted with himself, he sat down on the cold grass, leaned his head against the stone, and cursed. His brother, his only living relative, and he had ruined his life, and ruined his parents' memory in the process. All he had ever wanted as a boy had been to please his father, yet all he'd received had been disapproval. One time, just one time, he wanted to make someone proud, make himself proud.
But it was impossible.
He looked down at blood-stained hands.
His future stared right back at him.
Flee. He needed to flee, to get away. No, not just get away. He needed to die. A life for a life, so he set about doing exactly that. It was not fair that he was able to live, to survive, when the one woman who did nothing but bring happiness to everyone she met was dead in the street.
"Lucy," he whispered as salty tears ran down his cheeks and across his lips, "I'm so sorry… But I will see you soon. I will see you soon." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pistol. With shaking hands he lifted it to his chin and pulled the trigger.
About the Author
Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks or plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor (she's convinced the best villains exist on reality T.V.). She keeps her home in Idaho with her husband and snoring boxer, Sir Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! Follow her on Facebook and Twitter! You can also keep track of her works in progress and release dates by visiting her website: www.rachelvandyken.com.
Also by Rachel Van Dyken:
The Ugly Duckling Debutante
The Seduction of Sebastian St. James
The Redemption of Lord
Rawlings
Every Girl Does it
The Parting Gift
Waltzing With the Wallflower
Savage Winter
Upon A Midnight Dream
Whispered Music
Beguiling Bridget
Compromising Kessen
The Devil Duke Takes a Bride
Also from Astraea Press:
Chapter One
Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown's simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough, but since he started this fiasco, surely he'd endeavor to bear it. Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be — was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain and Aunt Helen's sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband, her husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the contretemps that ensued.
Hopefully the housekeeper wasn't listening behind the closed drawing room door.
A deep breath, and Clara softened her clenched hands into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself to meet the Viscount Maynard's black eyes, unblinking and glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.
"It distresses me to cause grief in anyone, particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle." She paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on before she could be interrupted. "However, the selection of a lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my lord's offer of marriage."
Viscount Maynard's gaze drifted from her face, drifted lower. "The child has an opinion of her own." When he'd asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct; now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable. "How precocious."
Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her inheritance, in Papa's money, than in her or her hand. "My lord, your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded." She dropped her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him eat cake; just not hers.
After the drawing room's sun-drenched warmth, the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot. If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she'd run in time. With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments. But on the curved stairway's far side, the library door stood ajar. That would be Uncle David's temporary retreat and he'd be listening for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow, approaching the doorway. No time to spare.
Clara composed her expression as she ran up the white marble stairs, her slippers soundless, her pale muslin skirt gathered in one hand, the other trailing up the ebony banister. A few moments alone, hidden in the old schoolroom where Papa had taught her mathematics and the stars, and she'd compose herself. The little telescope was still there, beneath the heavy canvas covering they'd sewn for it, pointing as he'd left it, to the merchant shipping and men-of-war anchored in the Sound. If she held the canvas close to her face and breathed deeply, sometimes it seemed she could still smell his musky scent on the neat stitching, so much more even than her own. The memory cooled her temper, but did nothing for the hole he had left behind in her heart. She'd always miss him, always, and no man — certainly not that titled twaddle — could ever remove him from the foremost place in her heart.
Aunt Helen waited at the top of the stairs, almost dancing in place. The artless little brunette wisps fallen from her upturned hair framed her delighted smile, and she held out her hands as Clara paused, three steps below. Surely Aunt Helen, with her superb taste, hadn't presumed she'd accept that man?
"Our viscountess-to-be! My beautiful niece, I wish you joy."
Inexplicable. But horribly true. "In regard to my fortunate escape, I'm sure." The tart words tumbled forth without thought. But there was no recalling them and while it had been dreadful imagining Aunt Helen's shock, seeing it only added a cold edge of satisfaction to Clara's anger.
"You didn't — you didn't refuse him? Clara, how could you?"
"With relief and a smile, I assure you. Dear aunt, how could you imagine I'd agree to marry anyone so cold and arrogant?"
"But he is a viscount. The ways of the nobility are not like ours. Great wealth and vast landholdings, dating from generations long gone, give a titled man a sense of entitlement that you and I cannot understand. He would make an excellent husband for you."
The anger broke her restraint, floodwaters rushing from a collapsing dam. "I am no entitlement. And Aunt Helen, could you marry without love?"
"Oh, Clara—" Aunt Helen tucked the fallen curls behind her ears. "Not that again. We've had this discussion over and over—"
"You will never convince me."
"—and while it's a wonderful, romantic notion to marry for love rather than for stability, fortune, or position, it's simply not practical. You must have a husband—"
"An encumbrance I know only too well."
"—and it will not be the Frenchman."
That was a new voice, a masculine, booming one, coming from the stairs behind her. Clara whirled. Uncle David had approached to within two steps, and she hadn't heard his footfall through her temper tantrum and their raised voices. His blue eyes, usually warm despite their cool deep color, now burned like chips of Arctic glacial ice.
"Uncle—"
"We are at war with France," Uncle David said, "a fact you seem able to forget but which torments my every hour, waking or sleeping. Your father's ships — your fading inheritance — are being taken, sunk, burned, destroyed, and your father's sailors are dying and wasting away in Napoleon's prison hulks." He stepped closer, and while he wasn't a tall man, in this tempestuous state he seemed twice as large as life, and she seemed smaller. "I will see you unmarried and disinherited before I allow you to wed a Frenchman."
His declaration rang through the stairwell and entry. Aunt Helen stepped back, hand to her throat. Clara gripped the banister. He would not make her cry. And she would not allow him to win.
"Viscount Maynard has been so good as to accept my invitation to supper and cards." Uncle David's voice, while quieter, surrendered none of its authoritative ice. "We both agreed that not every immediate refusal equates to an absolute no."
Again her knees threatened to deposit her, this time onto the white marble. And this time was far worse. She would not cry, no matter what he said.
"You will go to your room and consider the viscount's proposal in greater depth." He turned and clattered down the stairs, the tails of his claret-colored coat fluttering with each step.
No tears. And he would not win.
* * * *
Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. "Take that rag away, Nan, please."
The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands folding and refolding it. "Shall I have it cleaned, miss?"
"No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse. Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I'll never wear it again."
Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he'd leered at her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best
symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she'd met during the too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd manner. It was not to be borne.
The marriage market. That was Diana Mallory's term for it, this desperate seeking for a powerful, rich, fashionable husband, and Diana had seen enough of it in London to not complain when her parents moved her to Plymouth. So long as they returned to London for the season, of course. And oh, the horrifying stories she'd told; poor Harmony Barlow's jaw had hung open like a fly trap. It had seemed so hilarious from that safe distance. Now, her giggles were quite gone.
Hands trembling still, Clara pulled on a clean shift — Nan could have the old one, as well as the dress — short stays that tied in front, and a petticoat. When she reached into the wardrobe, it wasn't to her other morning gowns, on the left, but to the walking gowns, in the center. She crushed her favorite grey sarsnet to her bodice. Uncle David had told her to go to her room and think. He hadn't told her to stay there. And she was finished thinking, at least as far as the viscount was concerned. Yes, she'd vanish for a while, until the household's broiling emotions cooled and soothed. Too bad she couldn't simply vanish and return, happily married to the perfect man, on the day before her nineteenth birthday, five months hence.
She tugged on the round dress, the colorless color of diffused shadows and trimmed with light dove crepe, added the matching bonnet, silk wrap, and kid gloves, grabbed her lace-making kit for luck, and snuck down the back stairs. The housekeeper and Nan bustled past in the hallway, gossiping in such low tones that all Clara could hear was her name; indeed the blasted woman had listened outside the drawing room door for quite long enough. Once the horizon was clear, Clara slipped out the back window, guilt and smug naughtiness fighting for dominance. She hurried across Ker Street in the face of an oncoming hackney coach and joined the pedestrian flow toward Plymouth Dock.