Moran - Wicked by Design

WICKED
BY DESIGN

False Lights (as K.J. Whittaker)

WICKED
BY DESIGN

Katy Moran

www.headofzeus.com

First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright Katy Moran, 2019

The moral right of Katy Moran to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

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 both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (HB): 9781786695383

ISBN (XTPB): 9781786695390

ISBN (E): 9781786695376

Cover design: Anna Morrison
Images: Shutterstock
Author photograph: Sam Walmsley

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For Will

They hang the man and flog the woman

That steal the goose from off the common

Yet they let the greater villain loose

That steals the common from the goose

Anon.

Pele ero whei ow mos, mos fettow teg

Gen agas pedn du ha gas blew melyn?

Edward Chirgwin, Cn an Delkyow Sevy , 1698

The events in this book take place during a period of history that never happened.

Several years after Napoleon defeated the Duke of Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo, the French Occupation has at last been expelled from Britain. The country is on the brink of revolution and the English throne is still empty.

Note on the text: in Cornish dialect, little maid makes affectionate and familiar reference to a young girl. The Russian name Nadezhda is pronounced exactly as it is spelt. The zh sound is the same as the s in pleasure, or treasure.

Not far from Lamorna Cove, the ancient manor house of Nansmornow lay in a curl of wooded parkland. Shards of glowing window stood bright against the moonlit granite bulk of the hall, all nestled like a cultivated pearl between rain-lashed Cornish moorland, sea-cliffs and the wild Atlantic. Here the garden lads spade would often turn up human bones or Roman tiles decorated with mosaic fish scales, once even a rust-caked sword and a clay dish of green beads. In the drawing-room, candlelight glanced off the silver dish of honey on the tray and long shadows were cast across the faded Turkish carpet. It was late, but four women still remained at the fireside and Hester Lamorna was quite unable to decide which she hated or mistrusted the most, even as she smiled and poured the tea. The rumours had reached a lethal temperature: before long, someone would boil like a lobster on a Tuesday in Lent. Most of the Cabinet, including the prime minister Lord Castlereagh, were now ensconced in Nansmornows various oak-panelled guest-chambers, which meant that the servants quarters teemed with scornful London valets, opinionated ladies maids and bitter grievances, and that Hester must deal with the wives.

Wielding the teapot as a man might a rifle, Hester observed them all from beneath lowered lashes. Close to sixty and clad in quantities of lace, Martha Mulgrave laid claim to more than forty years scheming passage through the shark-strewn waters of high society. She was absorbed in netting a purse, but hadnt survived this long without using girlhood accomplishments as a cover for acute observation. Nestling beside her on the chaise longue the Russian ambassadors wife, Dorothea Lieven, tucked a dark ringlet behind one pearl-strung ear, unfolding the letter received from Tsar Alexander only that morning. Ensconced in a damask Queen Anne chair, Emily Stewart, Lady Castlereagh, accepted her cup and smiled with brazen insincerity. They all had a way of looking at one that made Hester uncomfortably aware of both her light brown skin and those spirals of sand-dark hair springing loose from the bundle of weightless curls pinned atop her head. Straightening her back in unspoken defiance, she adjusted the Kashmiri shawl tucked around her shoulders and passed Dorothea the milk jug. She could not help fearing that this gathering of vultures would be her husbands undoing, but when had Crow ever contented himself with anything other than playing for high stakes? It was so exactly like him to invite the men most suspicious of his motives to drink the contents of the cellar.

A penny for your thoughts, Lady Lamorna? Emily said to her. Do you suppose the men ever plan to rejoin us? I only hope theyve stopped boring on about that irrelevant Boscobel person and his trading-frigate or caravel or whatever it was. I cant conceive of a more unsuitable topic of conversation, quite as though they were all so many chicken-nabobs. She sipped her tea. But then your dear Lord Lamorna does seem so very concerned with trade these days Im sure his father would have been quite appalled. Beau Lamorna was a person of the old style, dont you think? Her eyes lingered on Hester. I would imagine darling Beau spinning in his grave if he only knew the half of how we live now.

Well, Hester said calmly, considering my husbands lands are so rich in copper and coastline, it would be a little foolish of him not to take advantage of both. And as for the Deliverance , it was her unseaworthiness my husband took issue with. Unlike Hawkins Boscobel, Lord Lamorna would never send men from his own land to sea in a vessel that ought to have been condemned or any man at all, for that matter.

Emilys smile froze. Well, its hardly our place to understand the complexities of commerce. I cant hope to have an informed opinion on such issues, although with your background, my dear, I do appreciate that matters might be quite otherwise. She spoke as if trade were akin to the procurement of prostitutes. Had Emily confused Hesters fathers naval career with that of a merchant seaman? Or did she allude to the fact that he himself had once been traded as cargo? Emily had been speaking French, so continued her sentence even as Mr Hughes opened the double doors, resplendent in his sober butlers garb, and then Hesters husband, Lord Lamorna, came into the drawing-room. Hed long since shelved the title Viscount Crowlas in favour of his dead fathers ancient name, but those who knew him well still called him Crow. He wore a white shirt and a jacket of midnight-blue superfine, silencing all feminine chatter with his presence alone, with his black hair in its perpetual state of disarray, those lashes always so very dark against such white skin, and his pale, oyster-grey eyes gifted with the ability to privately communicate his quite disreputable intentions without the need for so much as a word.

You women have outlasted us, Crow said, with a slight bow to Emily, Dorothea and Lady Mulgrave. Castlereagh and Mulgrave have just gone up to bed. I go too, my lady. He stood just close enough that he would not shame Hester with his touch in public as though she were his concubine and not his wife, and Hester longed for the moment she could reach for him beneath the crisp linen sheets, aired and lavender scented; knowing it, he gave her one of his quick smiles, all the more precious for their rarity.

Well, really, Lamorna, Lady Mulgrave said, laying down her netting at last. Are we not to drink our tea before you summon your wife to bed? Im appalled at such medieval behaviour, even if I am surprised to see it among your mealy-mouthed generation.