The Vanishing Viscountess. Diane Gaston

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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.

      Purchasing the Dublin theatre for Flynn and Rose did not make amends for the destruction Tanner had set in motion, but it did give the married couple the means to a new life. That was the very least Tanner could do. He’d travelled to Dublin for their opening performance, and now he was crossing the Irish Sea again, heading back to England on this Holyhead packet.

      The ship had been scheduled to land hours ago, but the storm stalled them and now the day was late. He pulled his timepiece from his pocket. It was near nine p.m.

      Another shuddering crash came from above. Tanner stuffed his watch back into his pocket and glanced at the prisoner. Her eyes flashed with alarm. Tanner could not blame her. Her life—and his own empty one—appeared to be edging towards the end.

      The cabin door sprang open and the first mate, drenched and dripping on to the wooden floor, yelled, “Everyone on deck! To the boats. Women and children first.”

      The death knell. The captain no longer expected the ship to remain intact. It was time to risk the lives of the women and children in the small boats.

      There were quick anguished embraces as goodbyes were tearfully said. Panicked men tried to push in front of mothers clasping the hands of terrified children. Tanner rushed forward and pulled the men back. He used his stature and strength to keep the way clear. The prisoner was the last woman out of the door, her Bow Street Runner pushing her on, his hand firmly clamped around her arm. The man could have at least untied her shackles. What could it matter now? At least allow her to die free.

      Tanner was the last person to come up on deck. As he stepped out into the air, the rain sliced him like knife blades, the wind whipping in all directions. The ship’s masts no longer stood tall and proud, but lay like snapped twigs on the deck.

      The sails, now in tatters, resembled nothing more than rags flapping haphazardly in the tempest. Tanner stepped over pieces of wood, remnants of sails and other debris. A loose barrel rolled