A Wayward Woman: Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante / Fugitive Countess. Helen DicksonЧитать онлайн книгу.

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante HELEN DICKSON

      Author Note

      Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante is set in the Regency period. It is one of the most turbulent, glittering and romantic times in our history, when rakes and dandies, outrageous gambling and scandals abounded. It is a period enjoyed by both readers and writers alike. I am no exception.

      Every one of my books is special to me, but the one I am working on at the time is always the most important. When I finish a book I always intend having a break from writing to catch up on things I set aside until the story is finished before embarking on another, but invariably my imagination begins to stir and in no time at all I’m off again.

      History has always held a fascination for me—it was one of my best subjects at school. I am interested in how people lived, how different everything was from today and how much one can learn from the past. My inspiration is drawn from many things. I am an avid reader and I enjoy music and walking. My characters are not based in any direct way on anyone in particular and I use my own brush to paint things in a fictional way. I do home in on certain traits and embody them in the characters in my books. I love seeing the people I create come to life and develop personalities of their own.

      Writing is something I enjoy tremendously and it gives me a great deal of personal satisfaction. I hope you enjoy reading Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante as much as I enjoyed writing it.

      About the Author

      HELEN DICKSON was born and lives in South Yorkshire with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that led her to write historical fiction.

       Prologue

       June 1815

      As the rain lashed down to compound the misery of the troops, the scene was set for battle. The British troops had been engaged by the French and forced to retire after a sharp engagement lasting the afternoon and they had to struggle to hold their position. The following morning Wellington drew back, establishing himself at the posting inn at the village of Waterloo.

      It was here that one of Colonel Lance Bingham’s staff officers brought him a note. It was crumpled and stained, as if it had passed through many hands.

      ‘A lad brought it, sir,’ the staff officer said. ‘It’s urgent, and he said I had to deliver it to you personally.’

      Colonel Bingham tore the missive open and read it quickly. He spoke one word, ‘Delphine.’ Apart from a tightening of his jaw, his expression did not betray even a flicker of reaction. ‘There is something I have to do.’

      ‘But, sir, what if General Bonaparte …’

      ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Take me to the lad.’

      Knowing he risked being court-marshalled for leaving his post on the eve of battle, Colonel Bingham rode away from the encampment. With rain beating at his face, following the lad on a small but swift-footed nag, he prayed to God that he was right and that Bonaparte wouldn’t attack before dawn, for it was his way to fly at his opponents without waiting to be attacked.

      The farmhouse to which he had been summoned was down a dirt track. It was a humble dwelling, the stench of animals and their dung as strong inside the house as it was in the farmyard. The lad, who was the son of the farmer and his wife, hung back, pointing to a room at the top of a rickety staircase. Climbing up, Colonel Bingham paused in the doorway. It was dimly lit, hot and fetid with the stench of childbirth. A man stood next to the bed on which a woman lay, and in a corner of the room a young woman nursed an infant.

      The man turned to look at the stranger, who seemed to fill the room with his presence. He saw an officer in military uniform, tall and with broad, muscular shoulders, deep chest and narrow waist, his handsome features ruggedly hewn.

      ‘Colonel Bingham?’

      He nodded, removing his hat, his face set and grim.

      ‘I am Reverend Hugh Watson—attached to His Majesty’s army,’ he said, stepping back from the bed to allow him to approach. ‘Thank goodness you have come. Miss Jenkins hasn’t much time left. When the midwife who attended the young woman at the birth of her child realised she would not pull through, when Miss Jenkins requested a clergyman to be absolved of her sins, she summoned me.’

      Giving the clergyman, who had a prayer book open in his hands, a cool glance, taking note of his crumpled dark suit and grimy neck linen and that he was in need of a shave, never had Colonel Lance Bingham seen a man who looked less like a clergyman.

      Seeming reluctant to approach the bed, his face hardened into an expressionless mask, Lance observed the woman from where he stood. Not having seen her these seven months gone, he did not recognise her as the attractive, vivacious young woman who had kept him happily entertained throughout most of his years as a soldier in Spain. Drenched in sour sweat, she was lying beneath the covers, her lank brown hair trailed over the pillow. Her face was waxen and thinner than it had been, and dark rings circled her deep brown eyes.

      As if she sensed he was there they fluttered open and settled on his face. Her heart beat softly inside her with love and wonderment that he had come. A smile lifted her tiredly drooping mouth. ‘Lance—you came.’ She tried to raise a hand to him, but sapped of strength it remained where it was.

      Dropping to his knees beside the bed, Lance took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Delphine, what in God’s name are you doing here? I told you to go back to England.’

      ‘I did, but then I followed you to Belgium—as I followed you to Spain, remember? I—haven’t been well. I didn’t think I would survive the birth. I did, but I know I haven’t much time, Lance—but it gladdens my heart to see you again.’

      ‘Miss Jenkins has just been delivered of your child,’ the clergyman informed him.

      Colonel Bingham stiffened and for the briefest of moments, shock registered in his eyes. ‘My child? Is this true, Delphine?’

      She nodded. ‘A girl. You have a daughter, Lance. A beautiful daughter.’

      Lance knew he would never again feel the shame, the guilt, the absolute wretchedness that seized him then, as he looked at what he believed to be the dying spirit of the woman who had taken his fancy when he had seen her perform on the London stage, this woman who had followed him to Spain, from one battlefield to the next, without complaint, without demanding anything from him, and was now slipping away.

      When they had met, her freshness and vivacity were something his jaded spirits had badly needed. Delphine had proved to be a thoroughly delightful