Andrews Brothers 01 - The Ruse Read online

  The Ruse

  Andrews Brothers

  Book One

  By

  Felicia Rogers

  The Ruse

  Copyright © 2013 by Felicia Rogers

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact Information:

  Website: http://feliciarogersauthor.weebly.com

  Email: [email protected]

  Published by:

  Felicia Rogers

  Cover Design:

  Elaina Lee (For the Muse)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and person, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  Dedication

  First, I would like to thank my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for not only saving me but for molding me into the person I am.

  Secondly, I’d like to offer a special thanks to my editor, Vivian Roycroft for without her assistance this book would never have come to life.

  Thirdly, I want to thank my family for their constant and unconditional support.

  Chapter One

  February 1802

  London, England…

  Luke Andrews, Baron of Stockport, waited patiently in the Elis Wold library. Lord Zedekiah Elis, Viscount of Elis Wold, would attend him at any moment, or so he’d been told.

  Baubles lined floor-to-ceiling shelves and Luke perused them. An enormous amount of the items represented were dolls.

  Luke plucked one from the shelf. The intricately painted figure sported a rouge mouth, bright blue eyes with dark lashes, and a crown of gold atop its overly large head. The doll back in place, he studied the rest of the collection. Their vivid colors and disproportioned bodies attempted to force a person to find them attractive. Silly frippery! What sort of family collects such absurdities?

  Luke placed his hands in his pockets and felt for the box. Coins bumped his fingers and he brushed them aside. Rough edges touched his hand and he sighed with relief. Everything was in place.

  Restless, he prowled past the crowded shelves to the window. At least the Elis grounds were well maintained and not full of ridiculous topiaries.

  Luke sighed and turned from the window. Nothing could hold his attention for very long, not with the impending meeting ahead of him. His wandering feet took him to the fireplace. A fire roared, yet he experienced a slight chill. He stroked the hearth’s uneven stones, the warmth of the rock permeating his palm.

  The fact that Lord Elis had not upgraded to a coal fireplace with a scuttle was a bit discouraging.

  For lack of anything else to do, Luke looked for wood and was shocked to find the wood box empty.

  He lifted his hand to pull the bell rope. The door opened and feeling irrationally guilty, he dropped his hands to his sides.

  An elderly man, with a short crop of graying hair, a beak nose, and a slight stoop entered. He didn’t stop to say hello, but rather continued to a seat behind the rather substantial desk.

  Once seated, he steepled his fingers and studied Luke. The appraisal caused a frightful set of nerves and Luke found himself unable to stand. He took a seat across from the desk and waited.

  “So you are the great Baron of Stockport, Luke Andrews. My daughter Zilla has told me much about you.” Luke opened his mouth to speak but was promptly interrupted. “I am Zedekiah Elis, better known as Zede to my friends, but as of yet you are not my friend.”

  Luke cocked a brow, shifted in the seat, and crossed his legs. Irritating dullard.

  “I don’t know if you realize, but Zilla is barely ten and seven. She is my only child, and yes, I’ve held onto her longer than I should but under such circumstances that is to be expected. Naturally, the man she marries will inherit my estate, and therefore, the choice she makes for a husband is important to me.”

  “Of course.” Inheritance of the estate is the only reason I, or anyone else, would willingly sit across from you and suffer your condescension.

  Lord Elis frowned and continued, “As I was saying, I will not take Zilla’s mate choice lightly. There will be at least a year of courtship, perhaps longer.” Lord Elis stood and walked around Luke. He tapped his fingers on the fireplace mantel sharply. The unexpected, imperative sound startled Luke and he swung around. “I believe she primarily fancies you because of your title.” Lord Elis paused but Luke didn’t react, unwilling to give the insolent cur the satisfaction. He resettled behind the desk. “For that reason, before I settle on one man, I will require that Zilla attend several more balls with myself in attendance. Do you understand?”

  Luke nodded. He understood. The viscount thought himself worthy to speak to a baron like a child and to watch over him like one, as well.

  “Good day to you.”

  Luke stood, bowed, and exited the library. Greeted by an empty hallway, he punched his fist into his hand and muttered, “Blast it all.”

  The meeting with Lord Elis, which he had considered a mere formality, had turned into a formal task where he would now be expected to woo a woman he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

  Impatience grew with waiting and he tapped his boots against the shiny mosaic floor. A footman dressed in full orange and flamboyant green livery rushed forward and promptly escorted him to his horse, led from the mews by a groom. Luke craned his neck and stared up at the looming red brick manse. He felt like a carriage had run over him. The meeting had been a complete failure, of that he was sure.

  Atop his horse, he set out for his townhouse. A minimal staff kept the house in working order. He only used it when visiting London and occasionally rented it to other families.

  The home sported whitewash and cheerfully sparkling windows decorated with flower boxes. Manicured shrubs and multi-colored primroses bloomed along the walk.

  Beneath the shadows of his home, he dismounted and handed the horse’s reins to the stable hand.

  “Thank you, Michael.”

  Michael nodded and led the horse away.

  The horse was in good hands. Luke turned on his heel and walked inside. He removed his hat, coat, and gloves and handed them to the footman.

  “Thank you, James.”

  The butler stepped forward. “Was your afternoon productive, my lord?”

  “Humph.”

  “That well, my lord.”

  “I’m afraid, Charles, that the viscount is not as willing to marry off his daughter as I had been led to believe.” Luke paused then asked, “Were there any calls while I was out?”

  “No, your lordship.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be in the parlor if I’m needed.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  In the parlor, Luke cut a half-sheet of paper and composed a letter to his half-brother.

  Chadwick,

  I fear that my hope of conducting my business quickly has been thwarted. I will stay in London for only a month longer, at which time I will return. Remember that Jarvis and Roland are your greatest assets. Continue to run the estate in a manner pleasing to our late father, and I will return as soon as is prudent.

  Your brother,

  Luke

  Luke sealed the letter and directed it to the Stockport estate. He leaned back in his chair and tapped the tip of the quill to his forehead.

  Luke reviewed the visit with Viscount Eli
s. If the gent didn’t have a man in mind to marry Zilla, then Luke was mother to a group of piglets. Any father would have seen Luke’s pursuit of his daughter as a welcome petition.

  Maybe the viscount had been scorned before. Perhaps he feared Luke would mismanage the funds belonging to the Elis estate. But why would that be? Stockport had flourished under his hand.

  A sigh rent the air as he pondered the possibilities. He straightened in his chair. What if he attended Elis’ planned balls, and encouraged his friends to attend and tout his finer qualities? By making himself more available in increments, he would become more familiar and thereby more acceptable. Excited by his plan, he raced downstairs.

  Rosabel Smith tirelessly worked in the kitchen. Upon her husband’s death last year, she had agreed to take the job of housekeeper and cook in his beautiful townhouse. A surge of affection for her willingness to assume duties beyond her writ filled him as he studied her from the kitchen entrance. She hummed and bounced as she kneaded a mound of fresh dough. Her lace cap joggled and tendrils of graying hair escaped. Her gray uniform sashayed across the floor.

  He strode into the room and whistled.

  Mrs. Smith flashed a smile in his direction. “Ah, your lordship, how are you this fine day?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Girl troubles, my lord?”

  Luke laughed. “I guess you could say that.”

  “You know my rules; I will always treat you like family. So if you need an ear, your lordship, I wouldn’t mind bending mine to you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smith, but what I need is a list of balls for the month.”

  “A full month, eh? I personally am not on the circuit,” she paused and shook her head at her own joke, before adding, “but I’m sure if I ask the upstairs maid, Paulina, she will know.”

  “Thank you.” He leaned over her shoulder. “What’s for supper?”

  Mrs. Smith tapped him on the nose with her floury finger. “If you must know, your lordship, you are having chicken, potatoes, fresh bread, and a sweet.”

  “Hmm, sounds good.” He grabbed an apple off the table, tossed it in the air, caught it, and took a bite.

  Mrs. Smith shooed him from the room and he headed upstairs to search his wardrobe.

  ****

  Stockport, England…

  Chadwick accepted the post. “News from my brother?”

  “None, I’m afraid.”

  “Roland, this is intolerable. The estate is in total disrepair, the rents I will collect from the people will hardly be enough, and I’m out of money.”

  Roland sighed but said nothing.

  “You are the butler, you have to do something.”

  “Sir, your brother left express instructions. You have permission to raise funds if need be.”

  “Of course I have permission to raise funds, but how is the question. I could increase rates but the people can’t afford another cent and my debts continue to grow.”

  “Perhaps if you stopped playing Faro then you wouldn’t need to raise funds.”

  Chadwick narrowed his eyes and slapped his palms on the desk. “Faro is the only pastime I’m allowed.” He stood straight and raked his hand through his brown hair. “I’m not allowed to travel past Stockport, I’m not allowed to have friends visit the estate, I’m not allowed to enjoy a woman’s company—”

  “That’s because in the past you did a little too much,” whispered Roland.

  Chadwick ignored the jab. “Do you know how hard it is to be the second son of a baron? No, you don’t. Do you know how hard it is to be the son of a woman no one liked? No, you don’t.” He stared out the window at the vast grounds. “I should have been allowed to travel to London and join the theater. I would have been perfect on stage.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I know you say this because you think I’m a liar, but would you care to consider that perhaps I have other talents?” He continued to speak as if to himself. “I could put on a show, I know I could. I would be the talk of the town. Why, if I had half a chance, I know I could be the leading man in any play I put my mind to.”

  He fell into the chair behind the desk and propped his feet on the corner. The sound of agony the action dragged from his confidant increased his sense of power. Head back against the chair, he closed his eyes and imagined the wooden stage, the candlelight, the crowds of fans, all there to watch him. Then after the show would come the hero worship, the adoration. Women would flock to him like sauce on a goose. Notes planning clandestine meetings would arrive in his private chambers. He would pin them on the wall, stare at them, and enjoy the promise of the meeting as much, or more, than the meeting itself.

  He opened his eyes and gazed around the room. The library contained mostly books but on one wall there was a painting — the portrait of Baroness Stockport, Ethelinda, Luke’s mother. No portraits of his mother had ever been crafted, nor would they be.

  Chadwick narrowed his eyes. What if he could make the money by putting on a show? Surely local peers and those of wealth would pay for a bit of entertainment.

  Steepling his fingers, Chadwick formulated a plan.

  Chapter Two

  Brigitta Blackburn waved to neighbors as she headed to the market. Cool crisp air lifted locks of her auburn hair and blew them into her face. She pushed strands from her eyes and located the butcher’s stall.

  “What will it be today, Miss Brigitta?”

  “Lamb, please.”

  “Same size as last time?”

  “Perhaps a little smaller,” said Brigitta, digging out the necessary coins.

  The small piece was wrapped and handed to her. “Tell your folks I said hello.”

  Brigitta cringed as she promised to pass the message. She headed to the next stall. Finished purchasing the meager supplies, she left the busy streets and headed home.

  The two-room wooden cottage sat on the outer edge of town. The area consisted of manufactory workers and tradesmen; those considered of greatest need by the people but held in the least regard.

  Children with filth-streaked faces skipped past, grabbing her skirt and leaving a handprint. Crippled villagers congregated and rattled bowls; the meager coins they’d collected struck the metal sides and echoed through the narrow pass. Brigitta lowered her head so she didn’t have to look at the crowded, shabby homes and the destitute people lining the muddy lane.

  Brigitta reached her cottage, opened the door, and closed it just as quickly. Wind pushed at a loose shutter and it crashed against the wall. With a cry she dropped the basket and secured the latch. Cold raced along her spine and she glanced longingly at the empty wood box.

  She sat on the floor and drew her purchases close. Tears pooled in her eyes. Today she’d spent all the money she had, and for what? A few meager vegetables and a slice of meat. What was the point? With no wood she had no way to cook it.

  Tears cascaded along her cheeks and she swiped them away. Light filtered through the house’s cracked slats. Shadows danced past.

  Brigitta leaned her head against the wall. How had she gotten into such a sorry state? Since her childhood, her father’s position as pianoforte maker had allowed him to travel extensively and to visit those of means. Most of the time she’d traveled with her father, but on the rare occasion she’d been left behind, her father had returned and regaled her with vivid stories of his journeys. She had imagined that she played in well-manicured gardens and hid in topiaries of the grandest kind.

  He described one patron who had lain on a chaise longue with a servant feeding her grapes while he had tuned her instrument. Brigitta had visualized the scene until she felt she was the one relaxed on the longue.

  Brigitta pulled her legs to her chest. The ripped lace edging her gown dragged the floor. What would her mother say to see her in such attire? Rat holes chewed in her sleeves, threads dangling from the seams.

  If only her parents hadn’t died and left her alone. The impromptu trip, with a less
than secure mode of transportation, had been an idea planned in folly. If only she had conceded to spend her birthday at home instead of insisting they visit the coast.

  Spoiled by her nomadic lifestyle, the idea of a birthday in Stockport seemed boring. Besides, with her father’s traveling, and her mother and her often going along, the opportunity to develop friends her own age had never occurred.

  She sighed. Maybe if she had tried to share her grief and loss with others in the village, they would have assisted with her plight, if nothing more than offering her a place of employment. Self-pity continued to well within her until she felt physically ill. Her parents would be greatly disappointed if they knew she had given up and allowed life to consume her.

  Basket of food in hand, she stood, squared her shoulders, and strode to the cottage next door.

  Timidly, she knocked. The flimsy material shook and put the rickety house in motion. The basket at her feet, she clasped her hands in front of her and knotted her gown.

  “Yes?” The door cracked open. One eye peered out and thinned as Jewel recognized her.

  Brigitta felt the wash of unfriendliness, which made her feel even more alone. Bravely, and fighting a tremor that threatened her voice, she asked, “Jewel, how are you?”

  “Good.” Jewel appeared hesitant as she peered through the chink.

  “I wanted to offer you a gift.”

  The door opened a little farther.

  “I bought meat and fresh vegetables today at the market, and—”

  “What do you want for them because I ain’t got no money.”

  Brigitta sighed. “I don’t want money. I was hoping you would cook and we could share the meal.”

  Jewel laughed uproariously. “I see what this is. You’re out of wood again.” Jewel yanked the door open and poked Brigitta’s chest. “Let me tell you something. Just because your pa worked for fancy people and you speak all proper like a lady don’t make you important.” Brigitta opened her mouth to explain but Jewel crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Besides, my man has brought food home today and I don’t plan on sharing my wood with you or anyone else!”