Illusion of Innocence: Regency Rebelles Series

Prologue

10th of March 1809. Stannesford Hall, Oxfordshire.

‘Libby”s not dead, Char. I don”t care what Papa says or how impressive that coffin is. Libby”s not in it.’

Lady Verity Davencourt glared at her older sister’s stark and furious countenance. Charity was eighteen and considered herself an adult and more—everything—than thirteen-year-old Verity.

Which suited Verity just fine. If being adult and a lady meant being dour and sour like Char, she did not intend to grow up.

Ever.

Besides, Char had such a one-dimensional view of life. She had no imagination and was forever playing the martyr. She didn”t see anything that wasn”t obvious to the physical eye.

‘There is not a body in that coffin. More like—logs of firewood.’

Charity’s stance beside her at the window of the old gatehouse became more rigid if that was even possible.

‘If you don”t shut your stupid, babyish mouth, I will slap you,’ she hissed, her eyes never leaving the pathetic little procession of footmen guiding the wheeled cart carrying Libby”s coffin down the hill to the family crypt in its grove of ancient yew trees.

And if anything, her glowering expression became even more grim.

Their father, the Earl of Stannesford, along with Vicar Coutts were the only mourners accompanying Libby on her last journey.

A hard, choking lump rose in Verity’s throat, and tears burned behind her eyes. She”d not let them fall. Yesterday had been spent in tears. Only Nanny had understood what Verity had lost.

Liberty had not just been the best big sister a little girl could have. She’d been her best friend and more of a mother than their Mama, who rarely left her suite of rooms on the second floor of the Hall. When she did it was usually in Papa’s company. Verity had learned early in her life Mama was not to be bothered except for the hour each morning after breakfast she set aside to spend with her children.

All yesterday, Mama had been prostrate and closeted in her chambers and Papa, as always, never far from her side. When he emerged, his demeanor was as stern and forbidding as Verity had ever seen it. They all knew it was pointless, even expecting him to recognize them when he wore that heavy, black scowl.

Papa had retreated to that dark place in his soul where none but Mama could reach him.

The familiar hungry ache burgeoned around her heart, the ache to be wanted, needed, and loved above all else. Her parents didn’t neglect her so much as forget for stretches of time that their children existed.

Hugh would have understood, but mostly she tried not to think about her big brother except to pray he lived through the war. She knew, as she knew so many things, that the Hugh who eventually came home would bear little resemblance to the young, indulgent brother who’d stormed off to war with his best friend four years ago.

Lord Grayson Adderley had been banished to the army for running off to Gretna Green with Rose Marie Longfellow, daughter of the miller. They’d been brought back before reaching their destination. A miller’s daughter simply would not do, even for the second son of an Earl.

Two more unhappy people Verity had never seen. Wasn’t anyone allowed to be happy when they grew up? So many rules and regulations, right and wrong paths to choose, and everyone to please except oneself.

Just as Libby had not been allowed to be happy and marry Levi, Rose Marie’s older brother. If she had, Verity was certain she would not have gone to wherever she had vanished—and it wasn’t in that ugly coffin.

A kernel of resolution flowered in her heart with the stark and beautiful presence of an amaryllis lily.

If growing up caused such misery, Verity was certain she would prefer to stay exactly as she was, forever and ever.

The only sibling she had left at home was her middle sister, and Charity never understood. Any more than Verity understood her. But at least she”d agreed to accompany her up into the old gatehouse above the long dried up moat circling Stannesford Hall, so they could watch what was purported to be the journey of Liberty”s last remains to the sanctuary of the family crypt.

Liberty would have understood. Even with seven years between them, they”d been inseparable until Papa had forced Libby to marry that ancient, wrinkled Lord Earnslaw so she wouldn”t cause a scandal with Levi.

Libby might not have been able to ‘see’ what Verity could, but she would have believed. She”d known Verity could ‘see’ much that others couldn”t.

Only Libby had understood.

Papa, Mama, and even Nanny had always told her not to make things up or talk about the imaginary things she vowed she could ‘see’. They told her if she were ever to take her place in society as the lady she undoubtedly was, she must learn to keep her fantasies and imaginings to herself.

Just this morning, Papa had threatened to administer the first physical punishment of her life if she dared voice again her belief that Libby was not dead.

No one believed her. They all treated her like a silly child lost in a world of fantasy.

Her big sister was not dead, but she could not argue that she was still here at Stannesford Hall. Where was she? Why would she leave without telling Verity where she was going or when she”d be back?

Verity wrapped her arms around her belly, pressing hard to suppress the welling of panic that threatened to overwhelm her when she thought of the scandal that would accompany her big sister’s return from the dead, for she could ‘see’ that too. If she dared to look.

Regardless, she still prayed for Libby’s return with every breath she drew.

‘I don”t care what you say, Charity Davencourt, our sister is not in that box.’

‘I”ll box your ears and Papa will likely do a lot worse if you don”t stop spouting such childish drivel. We all loved Libby. None of us want to believe she’s dead. But there she is, and no amount of childish arguing over the matter will change it. Our Libby is gone. Moreover, if you insist on making such wild statements, you will bring about the very scandal Papa has sacrificed so much to avoid.’

‘Scandal? What scandal?’

Verity felt her eyes go wide. What else were they not telling her?

They never told her anything—because she was a child.

Charity was glaring at her, dark blue Davencourt eyes almost black with some deep twisted emotion Verity could only guess at. Her sister seemed to be grinding her jaw.

‘Libby,’ Charity began, then stopped as if she could barely force the words between her teeth. Her nostrils flared, and she sucked in air. ‘Libby—took her own life. If that should be known, we Davencourts can never hold our heads up in society again. That is why you will stop your childish prattling.’

Charity was lying. Verity knew Libby was not dead—by her own hand or by any other. Clearly, she was too childish to be entrusted with the truth.

Verity ground her lips between her teeth to keep from shouting at Charity. It would do no good. Nothing would ever change the fact she was the youngest and always considered a child.

By everyone.

So be it.

A child she would remain.

There was so much less expected of a child.

So much more freedom to please herself.