An Unsuitable Heiress

Dunn Jane

Description

‘Do you realise, Corinna, just how hard it is for a young woman of irregular birth, without family, fortune or friends in the world? Marriage is the only way to get any chance of a life.’

Following the death of her mother, Corinna Ormesby has lived a quiet life in the countryside with her cantankerous Cousin Agnes. Her father's identity has been a tantalising mystery, but now at nineteen Corinna knows that finding him may be her only way to avoid marriage to the odious Mr Beech.

Deciding to head to London, Corinna dons a male disguise. Travelling alone as a young woman risks scandal and danger, but when, masquerading as a youth, she is befriended by three dashing blades, handsome and capable Alick Wolfe, dandy Ferdinand Shilton and the incorrigible Lord Purfoy, Corinna now has access to the male-only world of Regency England. And when she meets Alick's turbulent brother Darius, a betrayal of trust leads to deadly combat which only one of the brothers may survive.

From gambling in gentleman’s clubs to meeting the courtesans of Covent Garden, Corinna’s country naivety soon falls away. But when she finds her father at last, learns the truth about her parentage and discovers her fortunes transformed, she must quickly decide how to reveal her true identity, while hoping that one young man in particular can see her for the beauty and Lady she really is.

Sunday Times bestselling author Jane Dunn brings the Regency period irresistibly to life in a page-turning novel packed with romance, scandal, friendship and colour. Perfect for fans of Jane Austen. Janice Hadlow, Gill Hornby, and anyone with a Bridgerton-shaped hole in their lives.

Praise for Jane Dunn:

'Brilliant, sparkling and very clever.' Elizabeth Buchan

'Jane Dunn’s THE MARRIAGE SEASON gives all the immersive pleasure of Georgette Heyer’s brilliantly confected Regency novels, in a sublime alternative world of joy. Bridgerton look out!' Melanie Reid, The Times

‘Outstanding, perceptive and delightfully readable.’ Sunday Times Books of the Year

‘Jane Dunn has written a splendid piece of popular history with the ready-pen of a highly skilled writer, endowed with remarkable insight.’ Roy Strong, Daily Mail

‘Jane Dunn is one of our best biographers.’ Miranda Seymour, Sunday Times

What readers say about Jane Dunn:

‘Absolutely brilliant book. Easy, interesting and certainly a page-turner. Enjoyed reading this book so much.’

‘I loved this book, Jane Dunn writes with an insight into Elizabeths and Marys psyches that is mesmerising. I couldn’t put it down and was gutted when I finally finished it, at a loss of what to read next.’

‘One of the best books I have ever read. I have always been interested in this period of history and felt that this book and the way Dunn writes helps to bring history alive. Once I started reading I could not stop.’

Sujets

• Mashups
• Historical Fiction
• Historical
• Women
• Reino Unido
• Friendship
• Historical romance
• Regency
• General officer
• Woman
• United Kingdom
• Austen
• The Women
• Great Britain
• General
• International
• Romance
• Fiction
• Royaume-Uni

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 22 mai 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804835340
• Langue: English

Extrait

AN UNSUITABLE HEIRESS


JANE DUNN
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10


More From Jane Dunn

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Jane Dunn

Sixpence Stories

About Boldwood Books
In grateful memory of the animals who have brought so much laughter and love to our lives. Felines: Muffy, Cora, Bertie, Waldo, Raul, Blue, Sapphire, Lapsang, Billy and Lottie and the whippets: Tito, Lucio and Lara.
1
ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

In the early dawn of a warm June day in 1815, the Earl of Ramsbury stood on the balcony and surveyed his land, spread before him in the rising mist. He was old now and resembled the great golden eagle whose eyrie he had found in the Hundred Acre Wood; shoulders hunched, but poised for flight, his hooded eyes as keen as ever. An old duelling scar across his cheek told of a more reckless past. He gazed on the park before him, its ancient oak trees sheltering his deer and prize flock of Oakbourne sheep, their breed named after his family and the estate. His spirit was now at peace. The war was finally over. Napoleon had abdicated and his beloved only son would be home at last.
The night before, he had watched the sky alight with the bonfires blazing in celebration on village greens and hill tops, as far as the eye could see. After days of chilling rumours of defeat, the news of victory had the added euphoria of divine reprieve. The despatch had reached London only a week before, when Lord Ramsbury was at his town house. The atmosphere had been febrile. It was still the height of the Season, but anxieties about the progression of the war inflamed every discussion. Speculation was rife, the gentlemen’s clubs were taking bets, newspapers were full of rival reports ‘from the battlefield’, victory and catastrophic defeat were in the balance. With so much wild talk, and his own fear for his son, Lord Ramsbury had struggled to maintain his composure.
On the evening of the twenty-first, he had attended a grand dinner and dancing in a mansion in St James’s Square. He was uneasy socialising on such an extravagant scale when only 250 miles away the nation’s future was being decided by their own sons and husbands in a field filled with the dead and dying. The Prince Regent and his brother did not share his qualms and were on good form, their presence a great social coup for the hostess. Most of the rich and well-born, in London for the Season, crowded the candlelit rooms.
It was a sultry night and the windows of the first-floor ballroom were open to the air when, close to midnight with the musicians about to strike up, a roar was heard from the street. Everyone was startled by the commotion, and then the double doors into the ballroom were flung open. A muddied, bloodied figure, straight from the carnage of the battlefield, dashed into the room. Lord Ramsbury recoiled: it was as if a lost soul from hell had stumbled into the midst of the glittering scene.
The bejewelled woman beside him grabbed his arm, her eyes wide with alarm. ‘What terror can this be?’
‘He’s travelled for days; looks like he’s barely slept,’ her companion said with authority.
‘But his clothes! They’re dark with blood, as if he’s come from a slaughterhouse.’ Her gasp was more of a sob. The assembled beaux and beauties held their breaths as this emissary from another world approached the Prince Regent. No one knew if he brought news of triumph or national ruin.
Only when he laid the two French flags and the captured Imperial Eagles at the feet of the Prince did the assembled guests understand which way the war had gone. These bronze and gilded eagles were iconic symbols of the might of Napoleon’s Grande Armée, and more fiercely defended than anything, other than the Emperor himself. The young officer proclaimed in a voiced cracked with fatigue, ‘Victory, victory, sire,’ and handed over a sealed despatch. The relief was palpable; a great shout, then claps and cheers rang out, and the candles guttered with the communal exhalation of breath.
The Prime Minister hushed the exultant crowd and read from Wellington’s despatch the awful roll call of the fallen, the best of the country’s nobility. The Prince openly wept. Lord Ramsbury’s heart was overcome with dread. He sat down on a chair to steady himself as the names added humanity to the record of slaughter. There were gasps and stifled cries as people heard mention of sons, brothers, friends. When the Earl felt he could bear it no longer, a touch on his shoulder stilled his fear. He glanced up into the grief-stricken face of the foreign minister, Lord Castlereagh. ‘Never fear, Ramsbury. Your son is not among those in this despatch. Go home to Oakbourne and await his return. It’s what he would wish.’
The exuberant energy of the ball had dispersed like hot air into the night and, despite their hostess’s protestations, her guests, shocked then sorrowful, had begun to drift away. As people collected their evening cloaks and hats, she was overheard complaining to her elderly husband, ‘Surely, the untimely news of the Waterloo victory could have been kept until the morning!’
Early the following day, the Earl of Ramsbury left for Hertfordshire. On his arrival home, he asked his servants to make ready his son’s quarters. He turned to Merivale, his loyal factotum who had known him all his life. ‘Lord Oakbourne will need his horses too. Can you tell the grooms to bring them in from the fields and condition them for use?’
His son loved his horses and was a fine rider and driver, and member of the exacting Four-in-Hand Club. For that reason, he had chosen to buy a commission into the 11th Hussars and had been sent to Portugal in 1811 to take part in the Peninsular War against France. He was again recalled to the conflict in the early part of 1815 and had become one of the heroic cavalrymen who had harried Napoleon’s troops, and finally gained mastery over them at Waterloo.
So it was that Lord Oakbourne’s proud father stood on the balcony in the early dawn light, watching the mist rise off the grass, wreathing in airy wisps through the canopy of the trees. All seemed well with his world. For two and a half centuries, the Oakbournes had lived in this great Elizabethan house and managed the estates. The Earldom of Ramsbury was a gift from the Great Queen for their ancestor’s diplomatic grace in the Low Countries. The current holder of that title narrowed his eyes. In the distance a figure on a horse was riding up the long drive. As he came better into view, it was clear he was cantering at quite a pace. He rounded the curve by the lake and the Earl recognised a courier. His heart started beating so hard his chest seemed to vibrate. He knew only bad news travelled this fast. He called for Merivale to show the courier into the library as he descended the grand staircase to the hall.
Leaning on the carved mantelpiece, Lord Ramsbury was still an impressive figure of a man. He seemed to gather strength from the adamantine cool of the marble under his touch. This was his favourite room in the house, dark and book-lined with carved oak griffins on the piers of the bookcases. A large east window spilled the morning light onto his desk, and on the walls tiny rainbows danced, refracted through the glass drops of the Venetian chandelier. In all seasons, he could enjoy a view of the lake, glimpsed beyond the copse of silver birch at the water’s edge. There was consolation in the ancient beauty and familiarity of such a place.
The dusty-coated messenger was ushered into the room. A thin young man with watchful, unhappy eyes, he held a despatch in his gloved hand. Ascertaining that the gentleman before him was indeed the Earl of Ramsbury, he passed over the document and waited to see if he was needed to convey any message in return. The Earl knew there would be nothing to say. He waved him away. Sitting at his desk, he unfolded the paper with his long white fingers, trembling now. He read the official handwritten document, the destruction of his hope and happiness. ‘My son, my son,’ was all he said, his voice broken as his head sunk onto his hands.
Merivale had entered the library without a sound and stood behind his master. He placed a large hand on his shoulder: two old men united in grief. Merivale’s broad humorous face was stricken. Lord Ramsbury lifted his head. ‘He was shot while attempting to capture one of the last French cannon.’
‘We always knew he was a hero, m’lord.’
‘At least he died instantly. I am grateful he did not suffer the agony of a slow death.’ He could not bear to imagine the horror of the tens of thousands of men and horses dying in the field. His head sunk to his hands again as an involuntary shudder ran through his body. Merivale placed a glass of brandy on the desk and left the room. All Lord Ramsbury’s fears had come to pass; his hopes for his son and his patrimony now lay in ruins. He felt almost incapable of dealing with such a reversal of everything that had mattered in his life. His own heart was beyond repair, but now it was the future of his estate and the family name that preoccupied his mind.
Every man with a grand lineage to consider knew that the continuity of land and title through generations mattered more than any individual’s life or death. After sitting for a while in stricken silence, Lord Ramsbury’s face regained some colour and determination. He opened the door and called for Merivale. ‘I shall be off to London tomorrow, to see my lawyers. Can you ask the stables to get the post-chaise ready?’ He moved purposefully back to his large desk below the window, collecting his documents together in a leather case.
He picked up the glass of brandy and drained it. The burning spirit gave him a temporary jolt and a sense of the urgent work that remained. As long as blood coursed through his veins, as long as he could thrill t