The Vanishing Viscountess
A woman of innocence and notoriety. . .The prisoner stood with an expression of defiance, leather shackles on her wrists. Adam Vickery, Marquess of Tannerton, was drawn to this woman, so dignified in her plight. He didn't recognize her as the once innocent, hopeful debutante he had danced with long years ago.Marlena Parronley, the notorious Vanishing Viscountess, was a fugitive. Seeing the dashing, carefree marquess of her dreams just reminded her that she couldn't risk letting anyone, especially Tanner, get caught up in helping her escape. He would face the same punishment she did. The hangman's noose.
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Diane Gaston
The VANISHINGVISCOUNTESS
To Mallory Pickerloy,
a lovely reader whose name is worthy of a heroine
Contents
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
October, 1818
The gale roared like a wild beast. Under its savage attack, the ship creaked and moaned and begged for mercy. Shouts of the crew echoed the ship’s distress as men struggled to work the pumps and save the rigging.
Adam Vickery, the Marquess of Tannerton, or Tanner, as he was known to his friends, sat with the other passengers in the packet ship’s cuddy, awaiting his demise. He remained still, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed, reviewing his life.
He found it wanting. He’d left no mark on the world, no son to inherit his title and lands, no child to carry on his bloodline. All he had done was maintain what his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and all the Marquesses of Tannerton had built. If he were truly honest with himself, he would say he’d not even done the maintaining. Other men did that work for him: his estate managers, men of business and secretaries. They toiled while Tanner enjoyed his gaming, his sport, his women.
A loud crack sounded and a thud on the deck shook the whole ship. A woman wailed. Tanner opened his eyes to see the woman clutching an infant and a small boy to her breast. The cabin was filled with many women like her, shaking in fear, and men, like Tanner himself, cursing their helplessness. There was no way to stop the storm, no way to calm the sea, no way to hold the timbers of the ship together.
His gaze fell on one woman who neither wailed nor cowered from the storm. With an expression of defiance rather than fear, she stood next to a Bow Street Runner, leather shackles on her wrists, obviously his prisoner. Only a few hours ago, at the beginning of this voyage from Dublin to Holyhead, Tanner’s gaze had been drawn to her, so dignified in her plight. What crime had she committed to warrant her escort from Ireland? He’d been too blue-devilled to bother inquiring about her, however. Now he wished he’d spoken to her, or at least smiled at her. She seemed every bit as alone as he.
When the winds began their fierce assault, the first mate had gathered all the passengers into this cabin. He’d told them they were close to the Anglesey coast. Of course, the Anglesey coast could be rocky and treacherous, although the man neglected to mention that part.
What could be worse? Tanner wondered. Plunging into the cold depths of the Irish Sea? Or being dashed upon some craggy rocks?
Either would mean death.
The first mate popped in a second time when the storm intensified. “All will be well,” he reassured them. None of the passengers believed him. Tanner could see it in their eyes. He felt it in his own soul. Tanner watched a man remove a miniature from his pocket and stare at it, a portrait of a loved one he would never see again, of someone who would soon be grieving.
Who would grieve for the Marquess of Tannerton? His friend Pomroy would likely drink a toast to his memory now and then. A mistress or two might consider him a fond memory. Perhaps the Duke of Clarence or even the Regent himself might recall him after the space of a year or two, but more likely not. Algernon, his fribble of a cousin, would be terrified at the prospect of inheriting the lofty title and its responsibilities. Tanner rubbed his face, regretting he’d never taken Algernon in tow and taught him how easy it all was. Algernon could busy himself with purchasing new coats or the latest fashion in boots or all the watch fobs and stick pins he fancied.
The Bow Street Runner began pacing, Tanner noticed, and the prisoner flashed the man an undisguised look of contempt.
Would she have anyone to mourn her?
She stood with her chin high and her startling blue eyes vigilant. He disliked thinking of what the sea would do to her, turning her body all bloated and white.
He glanced away, shaking that horrible image from his mind, but no matter where he looked, his eyes were drawn back to her.
She was tall and slender, with the same dark hair and piercing blue eyes of the woman who’d briefly captivated him a year ago. That was where the resemblance ended, however. Rose O’Keefe had made the right choice when she’d chosen Tanner’s former secretary, Jameson Flynn, over Tanner himself. Flynn had offered the Vauxhall singer marriage, something Tanner would never have done. Flynn had also loved her.
Tanner laughed inwardly at the irony of it all. The secretary preferred over the marquess. He could not muster any resentment, however. Rose had picked the better man.
He frowned and bowed his head. Tanner’s zeal had not been to love Rose, but to outwit another rival for her favours. Three people had died as a result. Three lives on his conscience because of his heedless selfishness.
