Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series
Volume One
Emily Larkin
Contents
Your free books are waiting
Unmasking Miss Appleby
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Afterwards
Author’s Note
Resisting Miss Merryweather
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Author’s Note
Trusting Miss Trentham
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Afterwards
Author’s Note
Claiming Mister Kemp
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Afterwards
Author’s Note
Claim your free books
Thank You
Ruining Miss Wrotham
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Emily Larkin
The Fey Quartet novellas are the prequel to the Baleful Godmother historical romance series.
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Get a free copy when you join my Readers’ Group.
Details can be found at the end of this book.
Unmasking Miss Appleby
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Faerie godmothers do not exist.
Chapter One
October 10th, 1805
London
Marcus Langford, Ninth Earl of Cosgrove, strode down the steps of Westminster Palace. Clouds streamed across the face of the moon.
“Excellent speech, sir,” his secretary, Lionel, said.
Marcus didn’t reply. His mind wasn’t on the address he’d made to the Upper House, it was on the sniggers he’d heard as the debating chamber emptied, the whispers that followed him down the corridor. Cuckold Cosgrove.
A black tide of rage swept through him. “We’ll walk back,” he said abruptly, and lengthened his stride. The icy wind gusted, making the torches flare in their brackets, almost snatching his hat from his head, filling his mouth with the stink of the Thames.
Lionel tucked the satchel of papers more firmly under one arm and trotted to keep up. “Did you see Hyde’s face, sir? He was so angry, he went purple. I thought he’d have apoplexy, right there in the chamber!”
“I wish he would.” St. James’s Park loomed dark on their left. “We’ll cut through here.”
The clatter of carriage wheels faded behind them. The fetid smell of the Thames receded, overlain by the scents of dank soil and dead leaves. Gravel crunched beneath their boots.
“You’re correct, sir,” Lionel said, puffing faintly alongside him. “It’s the best course. Abolition of the trade, not of slavery itself. Slavery will disappear as a natural consequence.”
Marcus grunted. He spread his hands wide, clenched them. He needed an outlet for his anger. A bout with Jackson or—
“Did you hear that?” Lionel swung back the way they’d come. “Sir . . . I think someone’s following us.”
Marcus half-turned. He saw leafless branches whipping in the wind, saw shadow and moonlight patterning the ground. “There’s no one—”
His ears caught the faint crunch of gravel.
There. Not half a dozen yards distant, in the deepest shadows: three men, mufflers hiding their faces.
Footpads.
His pulse kicked, and sped up.
“Run, sir!” Lionel cried.
The footpads abandoned their stealth and rushed from the shadows.
Marcus threw a punch at the nearest man, connected solidly, and followed with a left hook that brought the footpad to the ground.
A second man aimed a sloppy blow at him. Marcus grabbed his attacker’s wrist and twisted, tossing him over his hip. A perfect cross-buttock throw. Pity Ja
ckson didn’t see that.
“Sir!” Lionel cried, his voice high with panic. “Run!”
Marcus swung again, striking the third man in the mouth. Lips split beneath his knuckles. The satisfaction of drawing blood made him laugh, a harsh sound that echoed in the night.
The first footpad scrambled to his feet. Marcus sank his fist into the man’s belly. The footpad collapsed with a whoosh of gin-scented breath.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the second footpad lurch upright. Lionel hit him over the head with the satchel.
Marcus ripped off his torn gloves and gulped a breath, gulped a laugh. He’d rarely felt so alive—the cold air in his throat, the sting of broken skin on his knuckles, the savage exhilaration in his blood.
He whirled to face the third footpad. The man ducked his punch and grabbed him in a bear hug that smelled of sour sweat and ale. They grappled for a moment, muscles straining. The footpad slammed his forehead against Marcus’s.
The night dissolved into stars—then snapped back into focus: the moon, the scurrying clouds, the skeleton shapes of the trees. A knee jabbed into Marcus’s stomach. “Cuckold Cosgrove,” the footpad growled.
Marcus tore free of the man’s grip, stumbling back, almost winded. He knows who I am?
The footpad struck at him with both fists.
Marcus brushed aside the first blow and caught the second on his brow, threw an uppercut that snapped the man’s head back, grabbed the footpad and buried his knee in the man’s groin.
The footpad doubled over with a choked cry. He collapsed when Marcus shoved him away. Two yards away, the first footpad was on hands and knees, retching.
Marcus gulped a breath of icy air. He tasted blood on his tongue, felt it trickle down his brow and cheek. His exhilaration hardened into anger. The footpads knew his name; this wasn’t a random attack.
From behind came the crack of bone breaking and a cut-off cry of agony.
He spun around.
Lionel lay sprawled on the gravel path. The last footpad stood over him. Sheets of paper spilled from the satchel, scurrying across the ground, spinning in the wind like large white moths.
Marcus uttered a roar. He charged at the footpad, knocked him down. “You son of a whore!” He grabbed the man’s hair and smashed his fist into the upturned face, battering him until he sagged senseless.
Marcus shoved the footpad aside. “Lionel?” He fell to his knees alongside his secretary. The anger snuffed out. In its place was a deep, sucking fear. “Are you hurt?” Blood trickled into his eyes. He blinked it back and shook his head, spraying droplets. “Lionel! Answer me!”
Chapter Two
October 13th, 1805
Westcote Hall, Essex
Charlotte Appleby laid down her needle and flexed her fingers. The handkerchief was almost finished: her uncle’s initials intertwined, and beneath them a tiny red hand, the symbol of a baronet. As if it helps Uncle Neville blow his nose better to know he’s a baronet. She snorted under her breath.
The back of her neck prickled, as if someone had moved noiselessly to stand behind her.
Charlotte turned her head sharply.
No one stood behind her. The corner of the parlor was empty.
Charlotte rubbed her nape, where the skin still prickled faintly. A draft, that’s all it was. She flicked a glance at her aunt and cousin, seated beside the fireplace.
Lady Westcote thumbed through the Lady’s Monthly Museum, barely glancing at the pages, her lips pursed. Anthea was bent over the dish of sugarplums, choosing the plumpest.
Charlotte rethreaded her needle and started on the border around her uncle’s monogram.
Lady Westcote tossed the magazine aside. “Charity.”
Charlotte lifted her head. “Yes, Aunt?”
“Fetch my shawl. The cashmere with the pink border.”
Charlotte obediently laid down her sewing. She let herself out of the parlor and climbed the sweeping oak staircase. Calm, she told herself. Calm. But her resentment was sharp today—she almost tasted it on her tongue, as bitter as bile—and the tight knot of anger in her chest only seemed to grow larger with each step she took.
She knew why: Today was her birthday. Her twenty-fifth. And instead of everything I dreamed of, I have life at Westcote Hall.
Charlotte pushed her spectacles firmly up her nose. What she had was better than many others had—a roof over her head, food in her stomach. She was lucky.
Lady Westcote’s maid, Litton, was laying out evening clothes in her aunt’s dressing room: a gown of puce silk, a turban crowned with curling ostrich plumes, satin slippers. Beneath the cloying scent of Lady Westcote’s perfume was the sour undertone of her perspiration.
“My aunt would like her cashmere shawl, Litton. The one with the pink border.”
Litton nodded and turned to the clothes press.
For a moment they were both framed in the cheval mirror: Litton dressed in a gown of kerseymere that was in the latest fashion; herself in one of Anthea’s castoffs, taken in at the waist and let down at the hem. Alongside the maid, she looked shabby, her wrists protruding from cuffs that were slightly too short.
I look more like a servant than Litton does.
“Here you are, Miss Charity.”
Charlotte took the proffered shawl. “Thank you.”
She let herself out of the dressing room. I could run away and become a lady’s maid. At least she’d be paid for her drudgery. And no one would call her Charity.
Charlotte tried to imagine what it would be like. Appleby, this petticoat is ripped. Darn it. Appleby, my hair needs to be curled again. Make sure you do a better job this time. Fetch my tooth powder, Appleby—and be quick about it!
She pulled a face. No, Litton’s job wasn’t to be envied.
Charlotte went back downstairs, her hand gliding over the cool oak balustrade. As she stepped onto the half-landing, the hairs on the back of her neck stood upright.
She jerked a glance behind her. The staircase rose in empty, curving flights.
Charlotte rubbed her neck. Idiot. She walked briskly down the last half-flight, pushed her spectacles up her nose again, and opened the door to the parlor. “Your shawl, Aunt.”
Lady Westcote took the shawl without a word of thanks.
Charlotte gritted her teeth. I am grateful to my aunt and uncle for giving me a home, she told herself. Grateful. She took her seat in the corner of the parlor and bent her head over Uncle Neville’s handkerchief, trying to find a calm place in her mind.
“Only five months until I make my début.” Anthea clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, I can’t wait, Mama!”
Charlotte halted mid-stitch. She lifted her head and stared across the parlor at her aunt. And what of my début? What of the promise you made my father on his deathbed?
“I shall do better than Eliza,” Anthea declared. “I shall catch a husband in my first Season.”
“Your sister did extremely well.” Lady Westcote arranged her shawl around her shoulders. “Tunbridge is a wealthy man. And well-connected.”
Charlotte snorted silently. And as stout as a pig that’s been fattened for the Christmas spit.
Anthea pouted. Her gaze slid to Charlotte. “Even if it does take me two Seasons, at least I shan’t be an old maid.”
Charlotte pretended the barb hadn’t struck home. She curved her mouth into a smile—cheerful, unruffled.
Anthea tossed her ringlets and looked away.
Charlotte returned her attention to the handkerchief. She tried to concentrate on her sewing, tried to make each stitch as small and even as possible, but her cousin’s voice kept intruding. “For my coming-out ball, I want spider-gauze sewn all over with pearls, and a white satin gown underneath. And white satin dancing slippers tied with ribbons.”
Resentful anger mounted in Charlotte’s chest. It was a dangerous, reckless emotion. It made her want to throw down her sewing. It made her want to tell her aunt and cousin exactly what she thought of them. Made
her want to storm out of the parlor and slam the door.