Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5) Read online

  Satyr’s Son

  A GEORGIAN HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  Roxton Family Saga—Book 5

  LUCINDA BRANT

  LICENSE & COPYRIGHT

  A Sprigleaf ebook

  Published by Sprigleaf Pty Ltd

  www.sprigleaf.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should obtain your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work. Please purchase only authorized editions; do not encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of an author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction; names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Resemblance to persons, businesses, companies, events, or locales, past or present, is entirely coincidental.

  Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance

  Copyright © 2017 Lucinda Brant

  Edited by Martha Stites & Rob Van De Laak

  Art, design and formatting by Sprigleaf

  All rights reserved.

  Except for brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews, no part of this ebook may be reproduced in any printed or electronic form without prior permission from the publisher.

  ISBN 9780987073884

  DEDICATION

  for

  Karen, Lucinda P. & Mari

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  License & Copyright

  Dedication

  Family Tree

  Beginning

  Behind-The-Scenes

  Midnight Marriage Excerpt

  Salt Bride Excerpt

  Deadly Engagement Excerpt

  About Lucinda Brant

  Lucinda Brant Books

  Lucinda Brant Audiobooks

  Jewels Anthology

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  FAMILY TREE

  If your eReader does not support enlarging this image, view the family tree at lucindabrant.com.

  ONE

  PART ONE: THE CITY

  GERRARD STREET, LONDON, SUMMER 1786

  IT WAS A short walk to Leicester Square from Warner’s Dispensary in Gerrard Street, where Miss Lisa Crisp resided with Dr. and Mrs. Warner. She hoped the errand would see her returned before her absence was noted. It was a needless worry. She wouldn’t be missed on a Wednesday afternoon. Perhaps on any other day of the week, when she assisted in the dispensary, but not on a Wednesday when she could do as she pleased. But as she was poor and friendless, she had no one to visit and nowhere to go.

  This Wednesday was to prove the exception.

  To the Warners, Lisa was simply there, like a piece of furniture, or the scullery maid, and thus rarely thought of at all. Perhaps this assessment was a little harsh, and more about how she felt about her situation rather than what the Warners thought of her, because the Warners were not a vindictive couple. It was just that they were unmindful of others. Dr. Warner was wholly absorbed with his medical practice, which was understandable and commendable, while Mrs. Warner was so self-absorbed that there was very little time in her day for others.

  Robert Warner was an eminent physician and anatomist, and when he wasn’t attending to patients at his dispensary, or making home visits to one of his wealthier more needy patients, he was shut up in the garret of his townhouse. Here was his anatomy school and laboratory, where he revealed the mysteries to be found inside the human body to fresh-faced, eager medical students during the autumn and winter months.

  Mrs. Warner gave her husband as much liberty as was necessary for him to focus solely on his medical expertise. This gave her the freedom to be indolent. She never stirred from her bedchamber before noon, an hour that was very much à la mode with Polite Society. She read every scrap of gossip printed about these rarefied persons with all the fervor of a zealot, as if, by the very process of absorbing social minutiae about the nobility and their habits, she qualified for admittance into their select society. She did her best to ape them in every particular.

  The couple frequently entertained, Mrs. Warner encouraging her husband to have guests at the table to further their—but mostly her—social ambitions. Her greatest desire, of which she made no secret, was to be addressed as ‘my lady’. After all, Dr. Warner was a medical genius and deserved a baronetcy at the very least. Her husband was humbly in accord. And so with their societal ambitions aligned, suitably socially-connected individuals were regular diners at their Gerrard Street townhouse.

  Lisa did not join them, when the couple dined alone, or when they had guests. She ate her dinner in the small parlor at the back of the house. For although she was not a servant but a cousin of Mrs. Warner, her indigent background and shameful past precluded her from a seat at the table among persons of an elevated sensibility.

  Lisa accepted this with equanimity, as she had everything else life had thrown at her since being orphaned at nine years of age. But as she did not like eating alone, she made sure to have a good breakfast to avoid a lonely dinner; supper was routinely a cup of tea and a slice of bread on a tray in her room. If the Warners’ son was still awake, she joined Nurse and helped console baby George, who was presently teething, until he fell asleep. She then spent the rest of her evening reading or writing in her diary.

  Had Lisa set off to walk all the way to Portsmouth, she was certain the Warners would not have noticed her absence until the next day at the earliest, when she rose with the sun to be present at the breakfast table to provide the doctor with conversational company, should he lower his newssheet and wish to pontificate on a subject of importance to him. He never asked for her opinion. Whether a mind as vast as his thought her incapable of logical argument and thus unable to offer a response worthy of his intellect, she had no idea. Or perhaps it was because she was female, and thus her place was to listen, not to participate.

  Whatever the reason, it mattered not to Lisa, who had a thirst for knowledge—her teachers had labeled her unquenchable—and thus she was content to listen to the physician with her coddled eggs, toast, and hot chocolate. And Dr. Warner had a lot to say: About the deplorable state of medical education in this country, the intractable religious opposition to the use of cadavers to advance medical knowledge, and that political bigots needed to have their eyes prised open to see that the only way forward for medical science was through scientific investigation. And that meant getting one’s hands dirty with the blood and filth that was part of life. Enlightened times called for enlightened action, not just thinking. This phrase was oft repeated and usually signaled an end to the morning’s diatribe. Dr. Warner then retreated once more between the pages of his
newssheet, leaving behind a deathly silence, and Lisa to read in peace the newspapers discarded by the physician.

  Lisa had been following this routine every day for two years, and while her daydreams were no different to those of any nineteen-year-old girl—falling in love, marrying, and being mistress of her own home—she was grounded enough to know such thoughts were the stuff of fairy tales, and what she could reasonably expect from life was a roof over her head, coal in the grate, and food on the table. Which was more than the vast majority of Londoners could hope for, so she was not ungrateful.

  And so, as neither Dr. or Mrs. Warner would wonder at her whereabouts this fine summer’s day, Lisa did not feel obliged to tell them or the household servants where she was headed. Though she did raise servant eyebrows when Cook, in conversation with the housekeeper, paused mid-sentence to watch her pass through the kitchen and leave via the servant entrance, wearing her sensible half-boots, a wide-peaked bonnet, and cotton mittens to keep the sun from turning her white skin brown.

  Outside she was met in the small service area that was below street level and open to the air and noise of town, by one Becky Bannister, seamstress and haberdasher’s assistant. Becky served behind the counter of her great-aunt’s shop, Humphreys’ Haberdashers, on the corner of Gerrard and Princes Street, and when called upon, visited clients in their homes. A well-built girl with dark hair and rosy cheeks, she bobbed a respectful curtsy and prepared to pick up the basket at her feet, eager to be off. But Lisa was not ready just yet to ascend the steps into the noise and heat of town.

  Spying empty flour sacks airing atop a stack of crates, she took two and neatly placed them across the second-to-last step to save their petticoats from grime, and invited Becky to sit beside her. They needed to talk, in the shade and away from the incessant racket to be had at street level. Becky readily complied, but her smile dropped into a frown when Lisa said firmly, “Before we visit Lord Westby’s residence, you had best tell me again what happened, and what it is you took.”

  “Miss, I done told ye,” Becky explained. “I ain’t took nothin’. The book fell into me work basket—”

  “—and you decided to borrow it. Yes. You told me so this morning, but I need to know precisely what happened if we are to prevail upon His Lordship not to press charges against you for theft.” When the girl’s bottom lip quivered, Lisa smiled reassuringly and placed a hand on Becky’s bare forearm. “If you say the book dropped into your basket, I believe you. Please, Becky. Tell me everything, and from the beginning. I said I would help you, and I will.”

  Becky sniffed and nodded, and some of her apprehension eased. Yesterday, when she had picked up her basket full of notions knowing the book was there, her only thought was that she might be able to exchange it for the shilling owed her by Peggy Markham, Lord Westby’s mistress. But upon a night’s reflection, her confidence in such a scheme fled, which was why, when Miss Crisp had come into the shop to purchase thread, she’d appealed to her for help.

  Though this young woman was about her age, Miss Crisp possessed an innate maturity far beyond her years. And Becky had come to regard her, as had many in the area with cause to visit Warner’s Dispensary, as someone to be trusted, and good in a crisis. And because Miss Crisp could read and write, she was the dispensary’s resident amanuensis, for while the majority of Londoners prided themselves on being able to read, very few had been taught to write. So when an ailing family member was being attended to by a dispensary physician, another would sit with Miss Crisp in a designated corner of the waiting room—she with her sloping writing box, ink, and quill—and dictate to her a letter, which she then wrote for them. Often these were letters home to family in far off counties, filled with details about their new lives in the capital. Sometimes they were letters seeking employment or patronage. All were deeply personal and relied on Miss Crisp’s discretion. Whatever the contents of these letters, the author always felt satisfied and better within themselves seeing Miss Crisp inscribe their words in ink.

  Thus Becky knew that whatever she confided in Miss Crisp would be treated with respect and in confidence. But as much as she tried to keep the panic from her voice, it was there, just bubbling under the surface, as she recounted her visit to the Leicester Square townhouse inhabited by one Lord Westby, and where also resided his mistress, the celebrated actress of Shakespearean tragedies Mrs. Peggy Markham.

  The actress had sent to Humphreys’ for a selection of ribbons, hose, and garters, and so Becky was dispatched with a basket containing various boxes of the desired goods for Mrs. Markham’s perusal. Her aunt pressed upon her that this time she was not to leave behind any merchandise without first getting Mrs. Markham’s signature to the account.

  “That’s ’cause she took three ribbons, then refused to own she ’ad seen ’em, sayin’ I’d made a mistake in me reckonin’,” Becky explained to Lisa. “Which I never does ’cause Aunt would give m’ears a good box were I to lose coin on any of our trimmin’s. So I know ’ow many ribbons I ’ad before I left the shop, and it weren’t the same as when I was puttin’ everythin’ back into me basket!”

  “And this time…?” Lisa prompted when Becky clenched her teeth in an angry huff.

  “A pair o’ garters. Pink silk with a pretty painted silk panel o’ flowers. Worth a lot more than three ribbons, and I ain’t told m’aunt them are now missin’ too!”

  “And Mrs. Markham refused to own she had the garters?”

  “Aye. She did. I said I’d add them to the account, along with the three ribbons from the time before, and that made her mad—”

  “I imagine it would,” Lisa murmured.

  “—and she called me a pert miss and threw up her ’ands. Said ’ow dare I question ’er word. She told me to gather me trimmin’s and pointed to the door, in that dramatic way actresses ’ave about ’em. But I stood me ground.”

  “That was brave.”

  Becky glanced slyly at Lisa and confessed. “Not so brave as you think, Miss. I wanted to scramble out o’ there faster than a fox in huntin’ season, but me legs wouldn’t work on account of ’im who was there.”

  Lisa frowned, trying to make sense of Becky’s story. “There was someone—there was a gentleman—Lord Westby—with Mrs. Markham?”

  Becky shook her head. “Not ’im. I know what ’is lordship looks like on account of ’im bein’ there the first time I was. This time she was entertainin’ a different gent, if you get my meanin’.”

  “Entertain—? Oh! Oh! I see. Are you certain?”

  “I weren’t born yesterday. In my line o’ work I can’t afford the liberty of blushes and such. I go into chambers off-limits to most. But no one takes a flea’s bit o’ notice of a ’aberdasher’s girl, now do they? Not like I’m a visitor. Not like they got to be on their best be’avior.”

  “I dare say you’re right… But what I meant was, are you certain it was a different gentleman and not Lord Westby?”

  “As certain as I am that you are a proper lady, Miss!”

  Lisa blushed. “How lovely of you to say so, Becky.”

  “I’m not the only one who says so. Everyone round ’ere says it. A proper lady that Miss Crisp is, that’s what they say. Just as I can tell you with certainty that the gent who was with Mrs. Markham weren’t the one and the same as the one keepin’ a roof over ’er ’ead. ’E came out o’ the bedchamber dressed only in his—”

  “Thank you, Becky. I don’t need specifics.”

  “—shirtsleeves, and he ’ad the book that’s now in m’ basket. Which is why I mention ’im. But I didn’t see that right off ’cause I was starin’ at ’im—No need to be coy, Miss. He was dressed,” she assured Lisa, taking a peek under the brim of Lisa’s straw bonnet when she dipped her head, a sudden interest in her hands in her lap. “But it weren’t ’is clothes I was starin’ at. It was ’is face. You’ll think me feverish, but ’e’s bewitchin’ ’andsome.”

  “Oh, Becky! Bewitching? Truly?” Lisa interrupted with a giggle.


  “I ain’t given to exaggeratin’!”

  “Of course not,” Lisa replied, contrite, and pressed her lips together to stifle any further incredulous mirth.

  “You’d think the same if you saw ’im. Eyes and ’air blacker than a coal pit. His nose is a bit of a beak, but y’know what they say about gents with big noses—But you wouldn’t—Anyways, ’is mouth more than made up for ’is beak. Too pretty for a gent.” She grinned and confessed, “I just wanted to take ’is face between me ’ands and kiss it all over!”

  When Lisa gasped, Becky’s brow darkened.

  “Just ’cause I wanted to don’t mean I ever would. I know me place, and I know a gent like that wouldn’t look twice at Becky Bannister, or, for that matter, at you, Miss. For the likes of you and me, ’e might as well live on the moon. Though a girl can dream, can’t she?”

  “No offence taken,” Lisa replied with an understanding smile. “I agree. I daydream, too. My surprise had more to do with the gentleman’s description than any disapproval of your wish to kiss him. He sounds perfectly god-like, that he could very well have a place on Mount Olympus. Which is practically the moon, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about Mount Oly-what’s-it-called, but you’re right. Mrs. Markham feels the same way, ’cause ’e only ’ad to speak for ’er to go all doe-eyed and forget I was there, ’cause his voice is worthy of a swoon just like ’is looks; rich and smooth it is, like the way hot chocolate slides down y’throat…”

  “A voice like hot chocolate? Dear me, Becky, you have a lovely turn of phrase,” Lisa complimented, clearing a suddenly dry throat.

  “Aunt Humphreys says it’s ’cause I daydream—a lot. But I wasn’t daydreamin’ in Mrs. Markham’s boudoir. That gent was no phantom of me imagination! And m’knees might’ve gone weak and m’tongue dried out, but m’ears were still workin’. I remember what ’e said. ’E said that ’e only tolerated theatrics on a stage. And for ’er to come back to bed and finish what she’d started. ’E had an auction to attend.” She nodded, satisfied she had relayed what the handsome gentleman had said, adding for emphasis because Miss Crisp was now staring at her with lips parted, “Auction. That’s what ’e said. ’E was goin’ to an auction.”