A most intriguing lady, p.1
A Most Intriguing Lady, page 1
Dedication
Because no-one knows you like a sister, or misunderstands you like a sister, and yet loves you like a sister, this book is dedicated to my own dear sister, Jane.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Part 1: Drumlanrig Castle, Scottish Borders Chapter One: An Intriguing Encounter
Chapter Two: Reeling at the Ceilidh
Chapter Three: The Dormouse
Chapter Four: The Shooting Party
Chapter Five: Mayhem on the Moors
Chapter Six: Repercussions
Chapter Seven: Machinations
Chapter Eight: Lady Mary Investigates
Chapter Nine: Accusations
Chapter Ten: A Heart to Heart
Chapter Eleven: The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune
Chapter Twelve: Alone Again, Naturally
Part 2: Newburgh Priory, Yorkshire Chapter Thirteen: We’ll Meet Again
Chapter Fourteen: The Dog Kennel Garden
Chapter Fifteen: Relics
Chapter Sixteen: Lady Mary, Quite Contrary
Chapter Seventeen: I Get a Kick Out of You
Chapter Eighteen: The Water Garden
Chapter Nineteen: Maybe This Time
Chapter Twenty: A Maid All Forlorn
Chapter Twenty-One: The Shootist
Chapter Twenty-Two: A Little Digging
Chapter Twenty-Three: To Catch a Thief
Chapter Twenty-Four: Ready to Run!
Part 3: Carlsbad and London Chapter Twenty-Five: Taking the Cure
Chapter Twenty-Six: Home Truths
Chapter Twenty-Seven: London Calling
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Take a Chance on Me
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Cliveden
Chapter Thirty: Two Are Better Than One
Chapter Thirty-One: Acting Up
Chapter Thirty-Two: Slumdog Mary
Chapter Thirty-Three: When Mary Met Queenie
Chapter Thirty-Four: The Spy Who Loves Me
Chapter Thirty-Five: A Fair Exchange Is No Robbery
Chapter Thirty-Six: Nothing Compares to You
Part 4: Drumlanrig Castle, Scottish Borders Chapter Thirty-Seven: Equal but Different
Historical Note
About the Authors
Also by Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
A Most Intriguing Lady is my second collaboration with Marguerite Kaye, and my second novel set in the Victorian period. Lady Mary, my heroine, may be familiar to readers of Her Heart for a Compass as the youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch, but the journey she undertakes is very different from the one her elder sister travels in the previous book. Lady Mary is not a heroine who relishes the limelight—quite the opposite. She’s a quiet observer, the kind of person who picks up on every tiny personal detail and foible and who has a real talent for piecing them together to form an accurate picture of the person concerned. Lady Mary is a wallflower, easy to ignore, and very easy to under-estimate. In fact, though she doesn’t know it at the beginning of this book, she has all the qualities that would make her an excellent sleuth.
This isn’t a detective story, however. It is, like Her Heart for a Compass, a story about a woman trying to find her niche in the world, and refusing to fit the mould her lineage demands. Lady Mary has to battle duty and heritage, convention and custom, to live her life in her own manner. Based very loosely on the real life Lady Mary Montagu Douglas Scott, A Most Intriguing Lady mingles historical fact and real characters with fiction. From Drumlanrig Castle in the Scottish Borders, to Yorkshire, the spa town of Carlsbad in Bohemia, and on to London, Lady Mary’s journey is one of self-discovery and—eventually—finding love.
This is a work of fiction, but in writing it I have drawn some deliberate parallels with my own life and used some of my own experiences to give authenticity to Lady Mary’s character. My parents’ separation when I was fifteen left me motherless and lonely. Discovering, as an adult, that my parents had lost a little girl, Sophie, helped me understand, sadly too late, at least some of the reasons for their unhappy marriage. Like Lady Mary, I have always instinctively been a people pleaser (sometimes to my own detriment), and I have always wished to be useful. And also like Lady Mary, I have in the past found it easier to play a part, rather than to be my real self. There is a great deal of me in this book, but it is not a book about me. It is a book about another of history’s “invisible women,” and the next step (of many, I hope!) in my quest to put as many of them as I can on the page. I hope you enjoy A Most Intriguing Lady as much as Marguerite and I enjoyed writing it.
A heartfelt thank you to Marguerite for being such a superb co-author and mentor. Our collaboration and friendship goes from strength to strength and I’m already looking forward to our next literary adventure together.
Once again, I’d like to say a huge thank you to Rachal Kahan and all the team at William Morrow for the faith they have shown in me, and all the support they have given both Marguerite and myself throughout the writing process. Deepest gratitude to Lacy Lalene Lynch and Jan Miller for their hard work and dedicated commitment to my life, and my world of books, TV, and media. Huge thanks also to Lisa Milton and Becky Slorach at Mills & Boon, and a special thank you to Flo Nicoll, who gave us such insightful early feedback. Finally, thank you to Susan Lovejoy and Camilla Gordon Lennox, researchers extraordinaire, whose enthusiasm is boundless and whose eye for historical minutiae kept us right. Any mistakes are all our own.
Part 1
Drumlanrig Castle, Scottish Borders
1872
Chapter One
An Intriguing Encounter
Drumlanrig Castle, Scottish Borders, Saturday, 24 August 1872
The headache, which had announced itself several hours earlier as a dull, insistent throb, was rapidly becoming unbearable, the vise-like band of tension making it difficult to concentrate. He had already been brusque, verging on rude, toward the woman sitting on his right during the fish course, and there were God knows how many more dinner courses to endure. She was a friend of his hostess, the Duchess of Buccleuch. He had feigned interest as she lauded one of the duchess’s many projects. Something to do with her renowned kitchen gardens, wasn’t it? Yes, that was it: the duke and duchess had taken on so many apprentice gardeners that they were having to build new dormitories to house them all.
The effort to distract himself made his brain ache. He could feel the pain building relentlessly inside him, what he knew was referred to behind his back in the officers’ mess as one of his turns, making it sound as if he suffered from dizzy spells instead of a debilitating affliction. His muscles ached from the effort required to stop his limbs from trembling. His vision was becoming blurred. His temper, always an accurate barometer of his condition, rose steadily each time he had to cover his wine-glass to prevent one of the footmen from topping it up. Bitter experience had taught him that alcohol made him much worse.
It must have been the grouse shoot this morning that had triggered it. He couldn’t think what else it might have been. The crack of the shotguns, the smell of gunpowder were bound to evoke vivid echoes of the past. So it could only have been that, since he’d felt perfectly well otherwise. He should have made his excuses, but then he’d have drawn attention to himself by disrupting the duke’s carefully planned assignment of the privileged spots at the shooting positions on his grouse-moor. There would be at least another two shoots later this week; but while the rest of the guests were looking forward to the sport, for him it was simply an endurance test, the means to an end. If he made a favourable impression, it would go a long way towards ensuring a sympathetic audience with the duke; and the duke was in a prime position to influence the one person in the kingdom who could put the necessary wheels in motion. The War Office needed this new department. He desperately wanted this new role. There was even the possibility that another of the duke’s guests, expected tomorrow or the next day, might prove to be his first recruit. If things worked out. If!
He would do his best to make sure they did. This was his chance to prove himself and do something worthwhile. If he failed—no, it didn’t bear thinking of. Another year of festering away at that desk in Whitehall would see his brain turn to something akin to the porridge they served here for breakfast, or permanently enveloped in the fog that was closing in on him now. This could well be his best and only opportunity to make something of himself and of the department. They were relying on him to make his case. He could do it. He would do it. He’d find a way to achieve what he’d come here for without letting anyone, especially not the eagle-eyed duke, see what it was costing him.
It was costing him dearly at the moment. The voice in his head screamed at him to retreat to his bedroom and suffer in silence. He could not afford to heed it. He had to ride it out, he had to. Tomorrow was another day. But even if he made it through the remaining courses, there were the toasts to come, and he’d have no option but to drink them, or appear to do so, else offence would be taken, a black mark earned. Whisky, which he loathed anyway, under these circumstances would be like lighting a touchpaper to his combustible mood. After the toasts there would be another hundred guests arriving for the ceilidh. He’d be expected to take part in the various reels. There would be the skirl and screech of bagpipes. Sir Walter Scott’s poem, The Lad
Panic gripped him. He never knew precisely how he would react, whether he would become mute or whether he would scream or shout or simply collapse, but he did know he would disgrace himself. If he could get a breath of fresh air, if he could be alone for a few moments, there was a chance he might just make it go away. It was highly unconventional to leave the table in the middle of a banquet, but fate had been kind enough to have him seated on the window side of the dining room.
He pushed back his chair, checked that his host was not looking his way, mumbled an excuse, and made his escape. The tall window directly behind him led to a small terrace on the south side of the castle. A bronze sundial propped up by cupids sat proudly at its centre, but it was the view that caught his attention. The castle stood on the highest point of the sweeping vista spread out before him, its natural boundary formed by the line of trees which stretched along the bank of the tumbling Marr Burn. The parterres which the duchess had restored as part of her epic renovation project were pleasingly symmetrical, laid out like the panes of a large stained glass window set flat into the landscape.
But it couldn’t be flat. Drumlanrig sat on an escarpment. Intrigued, he made his way down the stone steps to the gravelled terrace directly below him and discovered the secret of the optical illusion, for the terrace shelved steeply down a grassy bank to the first of several levels. Continuing down the steep path he reached the first terrace which was bordered by a long narrow balustrade he hadn’t noticed from the balcony. Vast quantities of earth had been dug and moved in order to tame nature. Whose had been the original vision? How many gardeners were employed in its upkeep? And how many more worked in the renowned kitchen gardens with the succession houses that he now recalled his fellow guest waxing lyrical about?
“Forget the blasted kitchen gardens,” he muttered to himself, “focus on this view.” Never mind how it had been created or how it was maintained, it was beautiful and it was calming. The sun had set, giving way to a soft twilight. All he required were a few more moments alone to breathe in this lovely air, disperse the fog in his brain, get himself back under control. Perching on the balustrade, he admired the castle. Known locally as the Pink Palace, the Renaissance-style building, with its corner towers with their pepperpot turrets and myriad of chimneys, looked less forbidding and farther away than it actually was, thanks to the tricks the terracing played with perspective.
With a weary sigh, he hauled himself back to his feet. He couldn’t stay out here any longer; it was time to get back to the fray before his absence was noted and questions were asked, his history recalled, the opportunity withdrawn. He was holding his hand out in front of him, noting with relief that there was barely a tremor, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw something moving on the narrow stone parapet which ran above the roof between the two towers of the south frontage. Astounded, he watched as the figure unfurled to its full height and took a tentative step forward. The castle was four stories high. A fall would almost certainly result in death.
Forgetting all about his own state of mind, he began to run as fast as he could up the steep path. By the time he reached the terrace, the figure was almost half-way across the narrow balustrade. It was remarkably but unmistakably female, a tall young woman, built on statuesque lines and scantily clad in a short tunic, giving him an excellent view of her long shapely legs. His first thought was that she must be another performer hired to make the evening memorable, practising her art while her audience were at dinner. But as he got close enough to distinguish her features, he realized that only a few moments ago she had been sitting on the opposite side of the dinner table from him, wearing a brown dress. There was no mistaking her, despite the fact that the striking grey eyes had been lowered demurely and the generous mouth set into a bland smile.
What on earth was she doing, and why the devil was she risking her neck? Terrified of distracting her, he stood in the shadow of the steps. She was gaining confidence with every step, her arms outstretched for balance like a tightrope artist in a circus; and as he craned his neck, watching in both admiration and trepidation, she gave a balletic leap forward, landing lightly on her slipper-clad feet, and he could have sworn that she laughed. Then, having completed her death-defying traverse, she abruptly disappeared from view.
“Is that you, Colonel?” Startled, he looked up to see a fellow guest peering over the balcony. “Everything all right?”
“Fine,” he answered, astounded by the fact that it was the truth. “I just popped out for a quick smoke.” The lie came easily, his mind perfectly clear as he ran up the stairs.
“Thought it was probably that,” the man said, nodding. “I had the same notion myself. Best get back in now, though; they’re piping in the haggis. It would be bad form to miss it.”
The wail of the bagpipes greeted Lady Mary Montagu Douglas Scott, the youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch, as she raced down the servants’ spiral staircase, re-fastening the last few buttons on the bodice of her evening gown. She had worn the tobacco silk despite Mama’s request that she don her new lemon gown, which was much more tightly fitted and difficult for her to fasten without the help of her maid. Her trusty brown gown was looser, and far easier to get in and out of without fuss.
Pausing breathless at the door which opened out onto the small service room, she smiled triumphantly. That was definitely the most terrifying and foolish thing she’d ever done in her life, but she had done it. And in the middle of dinner, too! She was giddy, both awed and astonished at her temerity, but she was also bursting with excitement.
It wasn’t over yet, however. She had only truly succeeded if her escapade went undetected, which meant she had better wipe the smile off her face. Imagining her mother’s reaction should she discover that her youngest daughter had been dancing on the parapet did the trick. Mary straightened her tartan sash and shook out her skirts, noting with dismay that she had forgotten to change out of her special pink slippers. Too late now. Besides, she couldn’t imagine that anyone would notice.
Her father’s piper, sweating in full Highland regalia, raised an eyebrow at her as she sidled into the dining room behind Jamie, the footman bearing the enormous silver salver of haggis. Her mother threw her a significant look as she sat back down, and Mary signalled an apology, waving discreetly at her tummy. She was fortunate enough never to suffer during her monthlies, but it was occasionally convenient to pretend that she did.
She took her place, noting without surprise that the gentlemen on either side of her seemed not a whit concerned by her absence. No-one ever was. What would they say if she told them what she’d just done? She could hardly believe it herself now that she was back at the table. She hadn’t planned it, and even when the idea formed in her mind while she was enduring the first course, she didn’t really intend to go through with it. But as she counted the hours and hours of tedium stretching before her, she calculated that if she was going to do it, then the best time would be right now, when everyone—guests, her parents, the servants—was occupied with dinner. After that it was as if a little devil inside her was urging her on. Up until the moment she stepped out onto the parapet, she’d told herself she could turn back at any point. She was so glad she hadn’t. The knowledge of what she’d done, and the fact that not a single other person here knew, was like champagne fizzing around inside her.
The gentleman opposite her was staring at her. Even though she had already checked her face for dirt or cobwebs, Mary quickly wiped her cheeks. He raised his brow at her, and seemed to be on the brink of breaching all the rules of etiquette to speak to her across the table, before changing his mind at the last minute, shaking his head, and looking away with everyone else towards the huge baron of beef which followed the haggis. The roast was borne aloft by two footmen and drew a sigh of approval from the gentlemen guests which the poor haggis had failed to elicit. No-one would turn the pudding down; but in the many banquets Mary had sat through here at Drumlanrig, she had observed that very few sampled it, never mind consumed it with relish. She personally enjoyed it much more than the slabs of rare beef which everyone was licking their lips over; and Jamie, knowing her tastes, accordingly served her a large portion.
