Dangerous Decisions
Copyright © 2013 Margaret Kaine
Published 2013 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choc-lit.com
The right of Margaret Kaine to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78189-036-3
For
The Romantic Novelists’ Association
in appreciation of their support and friendship.
Contents
Title page
Copyright information
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
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
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Epilogue
About the Author
More from Choc Lit
Introducing Choc Lit
Acknowledgements
As always my gratitude to the talented members of JustWrite for their perceptive critiques and friendship, and to Biddy Nelson for her ‘fresh eye’ when reading my draft chapters. The Staffordshire Regiment Museum was once again helpful with research and I owe much to Helenka Fuglewicz and Julia Forrest for their valuable insight.
It has been a pleasure to work with the welcoming Choc Lit team and I can only add that this novel has been a joy to write.
‘Evil can hide behind a mask of perfection.’
Anon
Chapter One
‘This is a most unsuitable area, Helena!’ The tone was one of outrage as a flamboyant woman, her face a mask of paint and powder, swept by in a cloud of cheap scent.
Helena was gazing at the creased face of a costermonger and admiring his jaunty cap, fascinated by everything from the raucous shouts of the stallholders to the scent of flowers and the smell of both fresh and rotting vegetables. The people, too – some looked pinched and tired and many lined with age, but others were jolly with florid cheeks and firm, muscled arms. Surrounded by cockney voices, Helena breathed in the pungent atmosphere, loving every minute of it. ‘Just fancy standing out here in all weathers!’
‘Well I fancy sitting down if you don’t mind.’
Immediately contrite, Helena said, ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Beatrice. I forgot about your feet.’ Reluctantly, she turned to lead the way through the crowd and out of the vibrant market so that they could search for a hansom cab. As her aunt lifted her skirt to climb into the fusty, tobacco-smelling interior, Helena gave the driver their address in Cadogan Square and once inside sank back against the creased leather upholstery. As she half listened to the clip-clop of the shaggy horse’s hooves, she remembered how her visits to the capital when she’d been younger had been limited to historical landmarks, museums and art galleries, her life constrained; even her pleas to be sent to boarding school curtly dismissed by her father.
Jacob Standish was implacable. When twenty-five years ago he had bought Broadway Manor, a country estate near Lichfield, he had been under no illusions. Money alone would not achieve the social standing he craved; the establishment had their daughters educated at home and so must his be.
Now in London for her coming-out season, Helena was determined to take advantage of her new freedom, to explore not only leafy squares but side streets and alleyways, to discover the real city, the one where ordinary people lived and worked. The glamour of being presented at Court may have been exhilarating, but the following whirl of receptions, parties and balls was beginning to pall. She glanced across to her aunt with resignation. ‘So what are our plans for this evening?’
Beatrice told her. ‘And do make more of an effort this time – at least you could try to look animated.’
‘It all seems so false somehow.’ Although there had been some point to Queen Charlotte’s Ball which raised funds for unfortunate mothers and babies. ‘Anyway,’ Helena went on, ‘it’s becoming tedious dancing with what you call eligible young men. Some, I might add, with very few brains. Even Papa wouldn’t want grandchildren from any of those fools.’
‘Helena, do you deliberately try to infuriate me? Just remember that a bored expression is hardly an inspiring one. And I find your radical views bewildering.’
‘No you don’t,’ Helena said. ‘Not really. After all, I am my father’s daughter.’
Beatrice drew her eyebrows into a frown above her long nose. ‘Men are a different species. They are allowed, even applauded for having strong opinions, but as you know very well it’s considered to be most unbecoming in a young woman.’
‘Maybe I don’t wish to be “becoming”, as you call it. It’s 1905 for heaven’s sake …’ Helena’s voice tailed off as the driver drew to a halt outside the tall house that her father had rented for the summer months. A young girl was coming up the steps from the basement, her thin face pale and drawn. Clutching a small carpet bag, the shabbily dressed figure hurried away.
As soon as the cab left, Helena stood before the black iron railings and swung round to Beatrice. ‘What on earth …?’
‘It’s just a scullery maid; a domestic matter.’
‘She looked as if she’d been
dismissed.’
‘Indeed she has.’
‘Why, what has she done?’ Helena waited with impatience until a footman had taken their gloves and hats. When seated in the morning room Beatrice answered her question. ‘She was stupid enough to get herself into trouble.’
‘You mean she’s pregnant?’
‘Really, do you have to be so forthright in your language?’
At the age of fourteen, desperate for company of her own age, Helena had become friendly with a new young maid who loved to read penny dreadfuls, so she had become quite familiar with such predicaments. ‘She hasn’t been turned out without a reference? Have you any idea what hardship that brings?’
‘She should have thought of that before she indulged in immorality, and as this house is only on lease, she’s neither my concern nor yours. If we were at Broadway Manor it would be a different story.’ Beatrice turned as two parlourmaids came in with a silver tea service and buttered toasted teacakes beneath a domed dish, and then once they had left she sighed. ‘Thinking of this evening, I think I’m getting a bit old for all this gallivanting.’
‘Now, you know you love it, all that gossip with the other chaperones.’
Beatrice’s tone was dry. ‘Helena, I’m a spinster. Tolerated maybe, but never truly included.’
Helena gazed at her as she bit into a teacake. Did her aunt ever regret the sacrifice she had made? In coming to Broadway Manor to support her brother and take care of his motherless baby, there was no doubt she had missed any chance of a marriage and family of her own, but she knew that Beatrice would never answer such a question.
It was later that evening when Helena, feeling pleased with the way her hair had been arranged in soft wings and gathered in a loose coil at the nape of her neck, wandered to the window of the drawing room and glanced down into the square. Unusually she found it deserted except for a tall man carrying a black doctor’s bag, walking along the tree-lined pavement. Probably about ten years older than she was, he was dark-haired and clean-shaven with an unmistakeable air of authority. She thought what a sensitive and handsome face he had, yet how tired he looked. But then practising medicine must be a most demanding profession.
Maybe it was the sun glinting on the glass or his need of a distraction from his concern about a suffering patient, Nicholas Carstairs never knew what made him glance up to that particular casement window. In the evening warmth and gentle air, he could see a young woman framed, stunningly beautiful in an ivory satin gown, her slender throat encircled with pearls. She was gazing down at him with an expression that seemed full of compassion. Surprised, his step slowed, but weary after a difficult and harrowing day, Nicholas merely gave a slight nod of acknowledgement before continuing home. Yet strangely, her image remained vividly with him, lingering even during the cold supper left by his housekeeper.
As he went over to the heavily carved sideboard and lifted the decanter, he thought of her again. She had been almost unutterably lovely … but then he told himself as he poured a drink and cradled the brandy glass in his hand, she was almost certainly a debutante and as such belonged to the narrow social circle he despised. Nicholas had scant patience with such frivolous, pleasure-seeking lives.
That same evening Oliver Faraday’s decision to attend the ball at Grosvenor House was a desultory one, but once he saw the slender girl with honey-blonde hair, his interest never waned. It had not only been her appearance that had attracted him, although he approved of her simple ivory gown with its modest décolletage, it had been the tilt of her head, a challenge in her stare, the slight air of boredom. Innocence combined with spirit and perhaps a taste for adventure. It was an intriguing prospect that he had not expected to find in this hothouse of social graces, and his pulse quickened. He began to move closer to a point where he could observe undetected. The girl’s complexion not only bore the bloom of youth, it was satisfyingly unblemished, and with deliberation his gaze went down to her bare shoulders and upper arms. There too the skin was clear and smooth with no unsightly moles or imperfections. It was frustrating that elbow-length gloves concealed her wrists and hands, but he was full of purpose as he threaded his way back behind the clusters of partygoers to stand in a prominent position by glass-paned double doors.
When a few minutes later his closest friend came in, Oliver caught at his arm. ‘Johnnie, tell me – that young lady over there, by the woman in fussy purple, do you happen to know who she is?’
Johnnie Horton glanced across the room. ‘Gosh, that is a frightful frock. You mean the vision of loveliness. That’s Helena Standish – the cream of Staffordshire. You would have spotted her before if you hadn’t languished in the country for so long.’
Oliver shrugged. ‘One does have estate matters to deal with.’ He frowned. ‘What do you know of her background?’
‘Well one wouldn’t call them old money. I believe the father’s in trade.’
‘And tell me …’ Oliver lowered his voice, ‘have you heard any rumours, any whispers?’
Johnnie snorted. ‘Not a chance, old boy. As far as I know, she’s as pure as the driven snow.’
Helena, aware of the tall stranger’s searching gaze, was beginning to find it intrusive. Once again partnered on the dance floor, she glanced up at her round-faced perspiring partner. ‘Hugh, do you know who that is – standing just inside the doors?’
He turned his head. ‘The man with a fair moustache? I know who he is, though we are not acquainted. That’s Oliver Faraday, the well-known man about town.’
‘Stupid expression,’ Helena said tartly. ‘I’ve never really known what it means.’
‘Me neither. But I don’t think it implies gainful employment – not like me, unfortunately.’
‘Come on, it has only been for a few months.’
‘Long enough,’ he said, guiding her somewhat clumsily around a corner.
‘Well, I’m sure it won’t do you any harm.’ She smiled at him. ‘You always were lazy.’
‘You know me too well. It is a distinct disadvantage growing up in the same county as a smashing girl. I don’t suppose if I made an offer …’ Her look of horror was enough to make him splutter. ‘I’m only joking, you daft thing.’
Helena glanced over to the double doors on the edge of the ballroom. Oliver Faraday was still watching her and she felt a prickle of unease. A few seconds later the space he had been occupying was empty.
Chapter Two
If Oliver Faraday had one passion in life, it was his ancestral home, Graylings. And his interest in Helena Standish sprang from the shock of an unexpected funeral earlier that year. The deceased was a close friend, a man of a similar age who had appeared in perfect health yet suddenly succumbed to the wretched London fog that plagued them all. As Oliver stood in a cold and musty church in Highgate half listening to the droning voice of the parson, he came not only to the sober realisation of his own mortality but conscious of the appalling consequences that could follow. Were he to die today or even within the year, then Graylings would become the legal property of his first cousin Selwyn Faraday. A man he loathed, whose dissolute gambling was notorious; it was even whispered that he was in debt to money lenders and the banks had refused him credit. Therefore, while the rest of the congregation sang the 23rd Psalm, Oliver’s mind wrestled with the fact that he must delay no longer. As soon as the burial was over, he strode out of the cemetery full of purpose – he needed a son. And the London season would provide the ideal and fruitful market in which to find a suitable wife.
His search had been a frustrating one until he saw Helena Standish. She seemed to be ideal; she not only had beauty, but youth and robust health – he had bred enough horses to know that promised fertility – and he had no desire to be married to a mouse so was pleased with her spirited demeanour. He had waited until his lawyer reported on his investigation into the Standish family. There was apparently no
scandal attached to the name, and although it was a pity that Jacob Standish had made his money in brewing, unlike many of his contemporaries Oliver was perceptive enough to recognise that times were changing and the future would depend on industry rather than on inherited wealth.
Now free to make his approach, he’d become impatient for the next event on the social calendar. As he entered the glittering room he saw her immediately, looking cool and elegant in white satin trimmed in blue, while her nearby aunt was wearing a brown frock almost as ugly as the last time. Swiftly he searched for Johnnie Horton, and seconds later the two men began to thread their way through the partygoers.
Helena had been aware of his presence as soon as he had arrived, had instinctively known that this time he would approach her, and in answer to his request, held out her silk-tasselled dance card. When it came, their dance was almost a parody of silent meanings. It was there in the way that Oliver held her, the expression in his eyes as he gazed down at her, the slight movement of his thumb against her palm as he held her gloved hand. He held her so closely that she could feel the warmth of his body as he said softly that he understood that her mother had died when she was born, a misfortune they both shared. ‘But I see you have an excellent aunt,’ he said, ‘who certainly takes her role as chaperone seriously.’
Helena glanced across the room to see Beatrice watching them, her expression one of stern disapproval, and laughed. ‘It’s because you’re holding me too close. I’m afraid she’s terribly old-fashioned.’
However, later, Beatrice’s reaction was an unexpectedly warm one when Oliver invited them to walk with him the following day in the Botanical Gardens. ‘That would be delightful,’ she said, and with an approving nod gave him their address. As his tall figure then left the ballroom, Beatrice said in a low voice, ‘I’ve been making enquiries about that young man. Not only is he extremely eligible but do you realise that he didn’t dance with anyone else?’
It was a month later when Jacob Standish received the letter from his sister. He wandered onto the large stone terrace overlooking the park-like grounds of Broadway Manor and, adjusting his spectacles, read through it once again. A powerfully built man in late middle-age, he murmured aloud the name – Oliver Faraday. This news from Beatrice was a matter for his lawyer to look into, because if this man was showing a serious interest in Helena, then certain discreet enquiries would need to be made.