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    The Abominable Major
    The Abominable Major
    The Abominable Major
    Ebook328 pages5 hours

    The Abominable Major

    By Blair Bancroft

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    Major Courtland Randolph, after losing a leg at Waterloo, abandons the world of his birth for a hops farm in Kent. He is not pleased when his former commanding officer maneuvers him into returning to society as protector of a lady who once termed him, "The Abominable Major." Yet in the course of dealing with a dashing Russian countess, political unrest, his ex-fiancée, an importunate prince, a mysterious young man from the London slums, a high-born runaway, and a dramatic change in his private life, Court finally accepts that he's still a man. Man enough to love and be loved.

    Author's Note: Each Regency Warrior book is a stand-alone story. However, THE ABOMINABLE MAJOR has so many cross-over characters from THE LADY TAKES A RISK, you might want to read LADY first.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateJul 21, 2019
    ISBN9780999851937
    The Abominable Major
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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      Book preview

      The Abominable Major - Blair Bancroft

      Chapter 1

      London - January 1817

      The flickering light of a branch of three candles haloed the golden blonde hair of the woman seated at a gaming table for two, leaving the saturnine features of the man seated opposite her deeply shadowed. The lady, though no longer in the first blush of youth, glowed with the full bloom of womanhood, her figure as striking and elegant as the face that went with it. The gentleman was at least a decade her elder, his deft hands, shrewd dark eyes, and the barely restrained aura of a predator about to pounce proclaiming him a hardened gamester.

      The lady’s remarkable violet eyes were cast down, seemingly fixed on the twelve cards in her hand—in actuality, making certain her opponent could catch no hint of her thoughts. They had just begun the fourth of six parties in a high-stakes game of piquet, the lady ahead two rounds to one, and with no intention of walking away the loser.

      The two were the sole occupants of a small private parlor in a well-appointed house on Bennet Street, not far off St. James Square, an area known for discreet gaming clubs which allowed access only to subscribers, as many of the most intriguing games of chance were quite illegal. The police, in fact, not infrequently supplemented their salaries by raiding these clubs and scooping up every coin in sight. (For to whom could club owners complain about the disappearance of their illegally gotten gains?)

      "Carte blanche," declared the Countess Dariya Alexandrova, indicating she had no court cards in the hand just dealt, and thus gaining ten points before play even began.

      Carte blanche indeed, the Honorable Bertram Lyttleton snarled to himself. He might be willing to offer carte blanche in its more salacious meaning to the elegant beauty with the oh-so-charming accent, but he’d be damned if he was going to let her beat him at a game he considered peculiarly his own. Devil take it! His reputation was at stake.

      The countess, with the casual elegance of an accomplished piquet player, discarded five of her twelve cards, choosing replacements from the eight-card talon, face down in the center of the table. After perusing her new array of cards, she raised her gaze to her opponent, and proffered a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile. An inadvertent shiver threatened to break through the Honorable Mr. Lyttleton’s gamester façade.

      "Sixième," declared the lady, indicating she now had six consecutive cards in one suit and gaining another sixteen points. Mr. Lyttleton had not so much as a tierce to offer in response. The countess promptly followed with a declaration of a quatorze of Aces, gaining another fourteen points, to which Mr. Lyttleton again had no response, giving the lady a repique and an additional sixty points. Mr. Lyttleton, although well aware that only cool heads prevailed in a tight situations, felt his temper flare. Clearly, Fate was against him. For it could not be possible that this female, this foreign female, was more skilled than he.

      When the countess put the cap on her excellent start to the partie by winning all the subsequent tricks for a resounding capot, Lyttleton could barely contain his outrage. He had sat down with her only to prove that the stories he’d heard of her skill at cards were patently false. Now here he was on the verge of defeat. Hoping a short respite would check his opponent’s momentum, he rang a handbell, conveniently situated on a sidetable, ordering Thomas, the bewigged footman stationed just outside the door, to produce a bottle of Madeira and some biscuits. But when the footman returned, bearing the order on a silver tray, the Honorable Mr. Lyttleton took one look and barked, "What is that?"

      That, said the Countess Alexandrova, is my tea. The management here is kind enough to serve me in the Russian fashion.

      "Whoever heard of tea in a glass?" Mr. Lyttleton mocked.

      It is pretty, is it not, with the glass set in its silver holder? We Russians know how to drink tea—and not muddled about with milk, I might add.

      Good God, that is barbaric!

      To each his own, the countess returned, her violet eyes alight with amusement, her smile so beguiling that Mr. Lyttleton once again considered the alternate meaning of carte blanche. Ha! When she was his, she would not dare beat him at cards!

      Fortunately, a better run of cards allowed both anger and lust to mellow as the Honorable Mr. Lyttleton won the fifth partie rather handily. But as the players recorded their total points, it became clear the lady was still ahead. Nonetheless, Lyttleton was not worried. His luck had changed, he knew it.

      Except, alas, the sixth partie was more like the fourth, the declarations a disaster, and if he heard that woman intone Not good and topping his card one more time, he was going to—

      The Countess Alexandrova laid down her final card, taking the twelfth trick of the last partie. Her elegant features totally indifferent, as if she were not the richer by five hundred pounds, she declared, I believe I have won, Mr. Lyttleton.

      That this foreign intruder could address him with all the sangfroid of a seasoned gamester was the final straw. The Honorable Bertram Lyttleton erupted from his chair with enough force to overturn the games table, scattering cards in every direction, toppling the sidetable supporting the wine, tea, and plate of biscuits on the way down. The wine bottle remained intact but a river of red began to flow onto the Oriental carpet. The silver filigree tea holder, however, was insufficient protection for the glass, which shattered, the shards dotting the spreading stain on the carpet like glittering raindrops, although the biscuits seemed to be doing their best to soak up the wayward wine and tea.

      The countess, though nimble, was unable to save her gown from the first splash of the wine and now stood, gazing in disgust at the ugly splotches on her rose silk gown—splotches that were promptly forgotten when she glanced up and saw the fury on her opponent’s face. Clearly, Mr. Lyttleton was well beyond acknowledging that his display of outrage was bad ton. He had lost to a female, someone as outré as a Russian female. A unique and totally unacceptable occurrence.

      Cheat! he hissed. Doxy! You used your wiles to beguile me, turn my head. Those damned violet eyes—

      Mr. Lyttleton, you know that is not true, the countess responded calmly, though anger sparked in the depths of those fine eyes. We played a game of piquet, and tonight the cards were with me. I have won. That is the whole of it.

      She backed up hastily as he took a menacing step toward her, the fury in his dark eyes promising retribution.

      Mr. Lyttleton! An authoritative voice, with only a hint of deference, came from a man who had just entered the room, closely followed by the footman, Thomas.

      The countess’s breath whooshed out in a sigh of relief. As the widow of a Russian diplomat, a survivor of the siege of Moscow, an accomplished hostess, and experienced gamester, Dariya Viktorovna considered herself capable of dealing with almost any situation. But this was the first time she had come close to physical violence in a card room. Definitely an occasion when she was grateful for a man’s intervention.

      Mr. James Wherry, manager of the discreet gaming establishment at 13 Bennet Street, said in a softer tone and with all the aplomb of his trade, Mr. Lyttleton, we have just made up a fine hot punch in the refreshment room. Perhaps you might care to try a cup. A-ah, that’s the ticket, Wherry breathed as Lyttleton’s shoulders slumped into a more natural position. Thomas will escort you—as soon, that is, as you have given your note of hand to the countess. And then it’s a spot of punch, and we shall all forget what happened here.

      The not-so-Honorable Mr. Lyttleton, now calm enough to realize he had committed a social solecism of the first order, accepted the pen and paper handed to him by Mr. Wherry, scrawled his promissory note, and stalked out, the footman on his heels.

      James Wherry promptly turned to the countess, who had sunk into an upholstered chair in a corner of the room, her graceful fingers touching her brow. How could you be so idiotish? he burst out, their acquaintance long past deference or formality. I warned you not to play him. Lyttleton is known for a sore loser in every gaming club in town, and to lose to a female, a foreigner . . . My dear Dasha, you are mad, quite mad!

      You see me chagrined. The countess, head in her hands, did not look up.

      Mr. Wherry heaved a sigh, strongly suspecting his words fell on deaf ears. But five hundred pounds richer, he noted dryly. I was reading over his shoulder.

      And very helpful it will be.

      "Dasha . . . must I remind you I can protect you only so far. If Thomas had not brought me running at the first sign of trouble . . . If I had been even a moment later . . ."

      The countess responded with nothing more than a long moment of silence before asking, James, would you be kind enough to see if my hack is waiting? Clearly, my evening is ended.

      Mr. Wherry shook his head but did as she asked, confirming that Ned Potter, the countess’s faithful jarvey, was indeed in place. Within ten minutes, the Countess Dariya Viktorovna Alexandrova, suitably cloaked and hooded, was on her way home. Though not as sanguine about her future in London as she had been at the start of the evening.

      Chapter 2

      As Ned Potter guided his hackney through the dark and nearly somnolent streets of London, the Countess Alexandrova had ample time to reflect on the events of the long months since the death of her husband. Most particularly on her decision to flee to the freedom of an island so small the great Russian steppes could have swallowed it without so much as a burp.

      Fortunately, life in the diplomatic service had been excellent preparation for the setbacks she had encountered since fleeing the Continent. If nothing else, Dasha was adept at putting on a good face. A gift that had allowed her to smile bravely when she discovered the English lover in whose arms she hoped to find shelter had taken a wife. To continue to smile when she, who had never done a day’s work in her life, found herself helping with a hops harvest—a hops harvest, if one could believe such a thing!

      She had remained cheerful and said thank-you with great sincerity when Colonel Marcus Trevor, her former lover, helped her find a modest house in London and his mother-in-law, the second Duchess of Wentworth, introduced her to London society. Thus freeing the dastardly colonel to rush back to his lady wife, his hops vines, and all the misfits he had gathered together in the wilds of Kent at a place called Kirkwood Farm. Ha!

      Well, tant pis. Even the sponsorship of a duchess did not put food on the table. And Grisha, her miserable worm of a brother-in-law, was still making excuses about why he was unable to send her widow’s portion to London. And alas, Grigori Grisha Kirilovich, the current Count Alexandrov, was so far away and in a country not known for keeping up with the nineteenth century—perhaps not even the eighteenth—that the excellent firm of solicitors Marcus had recommended was having difficulty prying her rightful inheritance from his hands.

      Therefore, short of accepting one of the many offers she had received—none of them involving marriage—what else could she do but use her skill at cards to augment the rapidly dwindling funds she had brought with her when, after Misha’s death, she ran from the Russian Embassy in Vienna?

      You had no problem taking a lover while your husband was alive, her conscience reminded her.

      Tais toi! What else was a poor neglected female to do? Particularly after her first dazzling glimpse of Colonel Marcus Trevor in regimentals designed by the Prince Regent himself.

      Poor Misha . . . Such a good man. Kind, generous, but old and sadly incapable. He had even gone so far as to give her permission to take her pleasure elsewhere. And when she’d met Marcus . . .

      But that was long ago and far away. And a widow could not afford to be careless. If she succumbed to the lure of the life of ease offered by the many gentleman who wished to take her into their keeping, she would be no better than a courtesan. And the Countess Dariya Viktorovna Alexandrova was not a whore! Therefore, Dasha hung on by the skin of her teeth, as the saying went, pitting her wits against anyone willing to take her on. At cards. Solely at cards.

      Until tonight.

      Ridiculous that a threat from an English gamester should shake her when she had endured so much worse in the dark days before the Russian winter put an end to Bonaparte’s determination to conquer his former ally.

      Yet during that horrid time she had never been alone. While in London . . .

      Enough! Centuries of noble ancestors refused to allow her to be sorry for herself.

      Dasha managed a smile and a thank-you for Ned Potter as he put down the carriage steps and escorted her to her door. Another smile, if more weary, for her Irish maid Noreen, whose opinion of the English (except their coin), was, in her own colorful language, lower than the belly of the snake that gave Adam the apple. This, alas, was an evening when Dasha could not fault her maid for her prejudices.

      The countess slept fitfully, a new day, gray and spitting snow, bringing no relief from her worries. The simple truth was, she had no choice, and there was no sense worrying about something that could not be changed. If she did not play piquet or whist at least five nights a week, she could not pay her bills. Her only hope—a slim one—depended on the one night a week she accepted invitations to ton events, thus keeping a toehold in society and allowing herself to dream that somewhere out there was a man who would not be averse to offering marriage to a foreigner whose reputation was less than spotless. A possibility that, frankly, seemed so remote after a night like last night that Dasha uttered a succinct profanity in French (the language of the Russian court).

      But today, thank the good Lord, was Sunday, an entirely respectable respite in her week—the day she attended Orthodox services at the Russian Embassy. She would put on her most noble and gracious face, say all the right words. She would chat with Khristofor Andreievich and his wife Dorothea, for whose friendship she was infinitely grateful. For without the approval of the Russian Ambassador and his wife (one of the bright lights of London society), Dasha strongly suspected she would not have been able to maintain her place in the ton.

      After services she would return home and gird herself for Monday. And Tuesday. And the remaining days of the week when she must win more than she lost—keeping food on the table, coal on the hearth, a roof over her head.

      But it was winter, the skies overcast, the streets icy, the lingering piles of snow grimy with coal dust . . . and her heart was weary. The gaiety of the Court of Vienna was so long in the past it was nothing more than an ephemeral dream. When she came to England, she had not thought to face the ordeal of a new country alone. Discovering Marcus, the man she had counted on, was transformed from dashing colonel to married hops farmer, had been a harsh blow. And although he had offered her temporary shelter, she had known her days at Kirkwood Farm were numbered—and she was right. The high-bred Lady Amelie Trevor, daughter of a duke, had most certainly seen to that!

      And besides, a hops farm was scarcely the proper setting for the Countess Dariya Viktorovna Alexandrova, great-granddaughter of Russian royalty. Nor was her current residence, a small house a block off Russell Square and flirting with the outer fringe of Mayfair. Quelle domage that her life had come to this.

      What you need is a wealthy husband, preferably titled, a treasure you are unlikely to find over a game of piquet.

      Reacting with no more than a long-drawn sigh to this all-too-obvious observation by her insidious inner voice, Dasha donned her best fur-lined cloak and plumed bonnet and headed toward the front door, where even on a Sunday morning, the ever-faithful Ned Potter would be waiting to take her to services at the Embassy. Perhaps it was time to ask Dorothea . . . No! The Countess Lieven would pounce on any match-making request, and in no time at all Dasha would find herself once again wedded to the man with the highest rank, the most prestige, the greatest wealth. With no thought of love—

      Love? her inner voice mocked. Only fools chase air dreams when it’s security they need.

      I am enjoying my independence!

      Liar!

      Dasha’s shoulders drooped; a chill swept through her. She had thought independence, the freedom to choose her path in life would be glorious. Instead, she had learned the harsh truth of what it meant to be a woman alone. No wonder so few women managed to break free. The only alternative to marriage was the life of a spinster strictly confined to living with relatives—often as a virtual slave. Even if a female was not impoverished, she remained under a man’s thumb, for naturally, only males could handle money. Hoare’s Bank had reverberated with shock when the Countess Alexandrova had walked through the door and asked to open an account in which she could deposit the modest number of coins she had brought with her to England.

      Zut! She could not even blame this appalling attitude on the English. Men ruled the world. All of it.

      The hack slowed to a stop; a footman rushed forward to hand the countess down. As Dasha nodded her thanks to both jarvey and footman, she experienced a moment of chagrin. As annoying as some men were, what would she do without them? From the support of Ned Potter and James Wherry to the all-powerful umbrella of Khristofor Andreievich Lieven, Russia’s Ambassador to England, she was most fortunate.

      So stop whining and get on with your life!

      Assuming the outward arrogance of a long line of aristocratic ancestors, the Countess Alexandrova entered the Russian Embassy.

      On Monday evening at eight o’clock, Ned Potter dropped Dasha at the door of her favorite gaming club on Bennett Street. Jeb Tyner, the towering bruiser who guarded the entrance, flashed his usual welcoming smile, before adding, Mr. Wherry was wishful to speak with you, my lady. Told me to ask you to come to his office as soon as I saw you.

      Thank you, Jeb. Dasha swept through the door, handed her cloak to a waiting footman, and ascended two flights of stairs to James’s office. An odd foreboding tickled her spine. Surely he had not decided to ban her from the house, not over one little incident that was not her fault. James was a friend—but perhaps that was the problem. The managers of gaming houses did not become friends with countesses, which showed where Russian countesses—at least this particular Russian countess—ranked on London’s social scale.

      The office door was open; clearly she was expected. Pride kept Dasha’s chin high as she entered the room, only belatedly becoming aware of two men rising to their feet.

      Countess, said Mr. Wherry at his most formal, may I make you known to Mr. Terence O’Rourke? O’Rourke, the Countess Alexandrova. The club manager cleared his throat. Mr. O’Rourke—ah—represents the owner of this establishment and has asked to speak with you in private. With that, James Wherry, in what Dasha considered a quite cowardly manner, bowed and left the room.

      Please be seated. The man with the Irish name waved Dasha to the seat in front of the desk, taking James’s comfortable chair for his own. For a long moment he studied her, Dasha’s temper flaring higher with each second. How dare he examine her like that? She had heard there was no one more arrogant than an Irishman, that they could out-stare a duke if the occasion warranted, but she had not believed it until this moment. Mr. Terence O’Rourke was not a tall man, nor physically intimidating, but he was surely one of the most striking men she had ever seen. The startling contrast of black wavy hair and sky blue eyes marked a face so sure of itself that Dasha had no doubt Mr. O’Rourke was accustomed to instant obedience from a vast array of subordinates. She also strongly suspected he was dangerous.

      Dasha sat tall, limpid violet eyes fixed on the stranger’s face, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

      There is no reason you should have heard of me, O’Rourke offered, the hint of an Irish lilt tingeing his voice, but you may have heard of my employer, Tobias Brockman.

      Dasha frowned, sifting through the conversations she had heard since coming to London. A man of great wealth, though not a titled gentleman?

      Exactly, O’Rourke approved, though no smile lightened his face. Mr. Brockman has vast holdings, from mills and shipping to smaller enterprises, such as this gaming house. Since there is little point in accumulating all that wealth and not enjoying the fruits of his labors, for some years now Mr. Brockman has employed me to manage matters for him.

      Dasha opened her eyes wide, radiating the full power of her strikingly lovely eyes. Surely events in a small gaming house are quite beneath your touch.

      He leaned forward, returning the countess’s arch look, stare for stare. Not when a Russian countess is teetering on the brink.

      "Ma foi! I am not teetering on the brink of anything except perhaps accumulating a few more coins than some of your patrons could wish." If her remarkable eyes had been a fencing foil, Terence O’Rourke would have been skewered to the back of his chair.

      For the first time he smiled.

      I am not here to chide you, my lady. He leaned back, once again studying her with a stare far more penetrating than she could like. My purpose is two-fold. It is true that Wherry is concerned for your safety. I assure you a closer watch will be kept from now on. But I must ask you to treat your opponents gently. The male mind-set—believing as it does that men are superior in every way to women—is a fragile thing, easily bruised. I would request that you do your best to avoid rubbing their noses in the excellence of your skill—

      But if I am a better player—

      I suggest you learn to dissemble a bit—hide your light under a bushel, so to speak. Accept your winnings with humbleness and wide eyes, as if you cannot imagine how you won.

      But that is absurd!

      That is wise, O’Rourke assured her. And hopefully will allow you to continue winning while you manage my second request of the evening.

      Dasha opened her mouth for further protest, then closed it as she took in his words. Folding her hands meekly in her lap, she raised her eyebrows, inviting further explanation.

      Mr. Brockman’s enterprises are far-ranging, Terence O’Rourke informed her, his wealth significant enough to affect the economy of the nation. Therefore, an important part of what I do is gathering information. He crossed his arms over his chest; his penetrating gaze scanned her face. Are you aware of the current unrest, Countess? Not just in London but across the land? The fears over the Corn Bill? Veterans of long years of war unable to find work?

      Inwardly, the countess bristled. He expected her to say no, of course. To claim the indifference of a high-born female—particularly a foreign high-born female—to knowledge of anything beyond the frivolous. The problems of our returning soldiers were a continual topic of discussion at Kirkwood Farm, Dasha declared. Indeed, Colonel Trevor has strong feelings on the subject, taking in all those who found their way to his door. Indeed, Lady Amelie is urging him to run for Parliament.

      And the Corn Bill? Mr. O’Rourke inquired, the glint in his eye hinting of the cat expecting the poor little mouse to quake with fear.

      That, the countess returned calmly, is a more complex problem. The importation of grain has been forbidden, forcing a rise in the price of food. The well-fed become fat while the hungry teeter on the brink of starvation. But if competition from other countries is allowed, England’s farms could fail, taking the entire economy with it. Therefore, as horrid as passing the Bill was, matters might have been worse if it had not passed." Head high, hands draped graciously in her lap, the Countess Alexandrova offered Terence O’Rourke a smile that quivered on the edge of a smirk.

      O’Rourke, leaning back in his chair, offered an appreciative nod. I am intrigued, Countess, by thought of such lively discussions on a hops farm in Kent. Remarkable.

      "Colonel

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