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Verity
Verity
Verity
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Verity

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Verity, a tale of desperate love, dark intrigue, ship wreckers, smugglers and the enigmatic Lord Draken Hazelmere. Verity Beresford, darling of Regency London, is forced by Lord Hazelmere to travel to the Devonshire coast to nurse an uncle. Strange, evil events occur upon her arrival. Is Draken the culprit? If so, he will hang. Can Verity save him? A slightly sensual Regency Romance.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherRob Shelsky
Release dateOct 28, 2010
ISBN9781452341026
Verity
Author

Rob Shelsky

Rob Shelsky is an avid and eclectic writer, and averages about 4,000 words a day. He has several novels to his credit and two anthologies, with two romances out now, a Regency romance, Verity, along with the sequel, Faith, and soon to come, a time-travel romance.Rob has written science fiction articles for such magazines as The Internet Review of Science Fiction, numerous articles for AlienSkin Magazine, Neometropolis, Midnight Street (UK), Doorways, and other publications. Rob has had short stories published with Jim Baen’s Universe, Aberrant Dreams, AlienSkin, Gateway SF, Fifth Dimension, Continuum SF, Sonar4, Uncial Press, Planetary Stories, Pulp Spirit Magazine, Sex & Murder, and many more. He has a novella coming out in early 2010 with Aberrant Dreams Magazine’s first hardcover edition anthology, The Awakening. Rob’s novella, Avenger Of The People, will appear there alongside the works of such sci-fi greats as Alastair Reynolds, Ian Watson, Jana Oliver, Robert Madle, and just so many others. There is even an introduction by Jack McDevitt.Rob has a short story, Green Waters, now out with Sonar4’s Phase Shift anthology, and a paranormal story, Light On The Moor, coming out with Smashwords and Amazon.com.Now, Rob Shelsky is not only a writer, but a contributing editor for Currate.com travel articles, as well as being a reviewer for Novelspot. He is also a resident science fiction columnist for AlienSkin Magazine.Although widely traveled and continuing to travel, Rob now lives in North Carolina. He enjoys contemplating ideas for new stories while watching the sunsets over the mountains and sipping a glass of red wine, preferably a decent Merlot.Oh and check out this site for my Smashword books:Ebookswelove.com

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    Verity - Rob Shelsky

    * * * * *

    VERITY

    By

    R. Shelsky

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    * * * * *

    PUBLISHED BY:

    R. Shelsky on Smashwords

    Smashwords ISBN: 978-1-4523-4102-6

    Verity

    Copyright © 2010 by Rob Shelsky

    All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

    Smashwords Edition License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

    * * * * *

    There is one person I’d especially like to thank. I owe him so much. George Kempland, I wish to acknowledge you for your loyalty, dedication, mountains of help, and always just being there for me. Again, thank you, so very much.

    * * * * *

    VERITY

    * * * * *

    Chapter One

    Miss Verity Beresford awoke to a loud pounding. Disoriented from sleep, it took her several moments to realize she wasn’t still dreaming, the noise she heard was real and not just the mental echoes from some fading nightmare. The sound came from downstairs. It was a steady banging, a hollow rhythmic beating. The unrelenting din surged like a wave up to her bedroom.

    If by this unholy clamour the unknown visitor wasn’t trying to break in, but just intended instead to rouse all the occupants of the darkened London townhouse, he succeeded, for Verity heard her maid cry out, God preserve us all!

    Who be out there battering at our door at this ungodly hour, disturbin’ good Christian women’s sleep? Hen’s braying voice seemed to fill the house, as always. This time it was even more strident than usual. It came as a piercing lament against this late night intrusion into that good woman’s slumber.

    Hen? Verity called in an uncertain voice. Henrietta?

    Then she saw a light flickering through the gap under her bedroom door. The dim radiance from a candle’s flame spilled pale yellow along the edge of the Persian carpet there, illuminating the swirling colours of the rug. Her maid must now be right outside her room. Then the glow faded, as if the woman holding the candle now moved off down the passageway.

    What's happening? Verity yelled after her.

    Henrietta’s voice came to her again, now sounding more distant. Best be staying put where ye be, mistress. Keep your door locked. There be no telling who this might be. I’ll answer the door on me own and see who the Devil it is that dares come callin’ at this time o’ the night.

    Verity made a decision.

    No, she called out to Hen. I'll come, too. I won’t have you going alone.

    So saying, the young woman threw back the covers. She brushed a vagrant wisp of midnight-coloured hair from her eyes. Then swivelling shapely legs over the side, she climbed out of her bed.

    Verity leaned forward to light the candle on the nearby oaken table. Then she straightened. She stood but for a moment there, barefoot, shivering with the cold and clothed only in her nightdress. The filmy thing was luminous lavender in colour with dark purple lace foaming at collar and cuffs. The nightdress was more for fashion than warmth.

    Bad choice on her part, Verity now realized. The nightdress did little to ward off the invading cold. No fires burned in the grates at this time of the night. The house was as if a tomb, one carved of ice. Of course, roused from her sleep and then dragged from her bed in the middle of the night wasn’t something Verity had expected.

    Despite the cold, she continued to pause there. She wondered if she should get dressed. Was there sufficient time? The banging was even more insistent now, louder, if that was possible. Whoever was outside waiting on the front doorstep was growing impatient. The matter must be an important one. Otherwise, nobody in his or her right head would create such a din at this immoral hour.

    Verity made up her mind. She pushed her feet into soft woollen slippers. Unable quickly to find her robe, which probably hid in some dark corner of the room where Hen had flung it, Verity dragged the quilt from the bed. She wrapped it around herself. This wasn’t just for warmth, but modesty as well. Then grasping the silver candleholder, she hurried after Henrietta.

    Once out of her bedroom, her candle provided but a small incursion of weak amber light into the enveloping darkness of the hallway. Strange shadows cast by the flickering flame, like winged bats, flitted about her as Verity moved. They chased each other along the silk-papered walls and fled across the surfaces of those lush floral prints. Verity moved with haste. Her footfalls made little sound on the thick runner of crimson carpeting.

    She heard creaking sounds ahead. Wooden steps protested under sudden weight. Then low-voiced grumblings came from her Henrietta. These trailed away as the maid descended the staircase.

    The pounding suddenly stopped just seconds later. It was an abrupt cessation of an awful commotion. This made the ensuing silence even more pervasive. Verity guessed Henrietta must have reached the front door, there to confront the uninvited visitor.

    A man’s voice, deep and low, grumbled something Verity couldn’t make out. She heard Henrietta say something unintelligible by way of a response. However, her tone was clear enough. Henrietta sounded angry!

    Verity hurried toward the stairwell. Now low murmurs, heated whispers, drifted up the steps. It was as if, and much too late, those below were now trying not to wake the mistress of the house. Verity paused at the top of the stairs and raised her candle higher, the better to see.

    She caught a flash of movement. Startled, she turned. Her reflection stared back at her from a gilded mirror. It hung on the wall there. The image of the delicately boned face was pale, pouting red lips drawn into a tight line of concern, the blue eyes wide with apprehension. A luxuriant, but now tousled growth of blackest hair cascaded onto Verity’s shoulders.

    Then the candle flame guttered. This made her reflection in the mirror waver and dim, as if about to blow away altogether. Around her shadows danced once more. The damp smell of the Thames River wafted in on a chill breeze. It was a fishy reminder that Verity’s townhouse stood close by the Strand. So, the front door must still be open.

    Verity shivered again. She tightened the quilt about her shoulders, cinched it about her neck as best she could with one hand. Even more hesitant now, she descended the staircase.

    She paused again three quarters of the way down to try to make out the scene below her. Henrietta, wearing only her ruffled nightcap and her aging, rumpled bed-gown, stood in the entrance hall before the open doorway. Her back was to Verity. Her low voice still rose and fell in a cadence Henrietta only used when irritated. She had her candle raised high against the dark, as she peered at the figure in front of her.

    Beyond Henrietta, still on the landing, the intruding shape of a tall man stood framed and silhouetted in the doorway. Verity gazed at him with curiosity. She tried to make out his features against the gloaming light cast by the dim streetlamp behind him. Thrown in such shadowed relief, his face was all sharp angles and planes. There was little other detail at this distance. He did seem to be wearing a scowl, but Verity just couldn’t be sure. It might be a trick of the bad lighting.

    What is it, Hen? Verity asked, knowing her voice sounded a touch tremulous. Who is it? Who is here at such an hour?

    Henrietta turned back to her mistress. Her wide face now stared up at Verity, but her ample body still blocked any possible advance by the man. Stocky Hen made for a formidable barrier.

    A gentleman so he says, she said. Come a-callin’ all the way from Morescombe in Devonshire and with news o’ your uncle.

    Uncle Ezekiel? This caught Verity’s attention to a degree that little else might have under such circumstances. Her Uncle Ezekiel Beresford was her last surviving relative. Although she had seen little of him over the last years, only once or twice since her parents had died, Verity often thought of and worried about him. He was the last of her family. He was the only living link with a world she had lost with the death of her mother and father. Moreover, he was not a well man. Uncle Ezekiel had a weak heart and a generally fragile constitution.

    Verity hurried down the last few steps. She padded across the expanse of marble-tiled foyer. The stone felt freezing, even through the soles of her thin slippers.

    Pray, sir, what is it? What is wrong with my uncle? she asked. Verity now stood directly behind Henrietta, who seemed determined to continue acting as a living barricade.

    May I at least be invited inside first, before having to impart such information? It is rather cold out here. The hour is very late and I am chilled clear through, having had a long and freezing journey to bring you this news. The man’s voice sounded as glacial as the current weather. His tone held a frosty disdain.

    Oh…uh… Verity said, stammering, taken off guard by the man’s superior manner. She was unable to decide what to do. There was the nagging question of what politeness demanded of her under these conditions. After all, the hour was indeed very late. This was hardly a time for a decent young woman to have her neighbours seeing her accepting gentlemen callers, let alone total strangers, such as this man was. Yet, he had travelled far with news of her uncle, or so he claimed.

    Hen, she said, deciding at last, Please allow the gentleman to enter.

    As you will, miss, Henrietta said, but her disapproval at this decision was evident in the way she said the words, being clipped and sharp in her speech.

    Sir, she said, turning to the man, be pleased to enter. Henrietta stepped back to allow him to do so, but her bleak expression could hardly be called inviting.

    He swept past the maid who then closed the door behind him. He bestowed one annoyed glance upon her as he passed. The man stopped short in front of Verity.

    He drew himself upright. With a brief dip of his head, he said, As I have already informed your maid, I am Draken Hazelmere.

    Then after a pause and almost seeming as an afterthought, he added, Lord Draken Hazelmere, Earl of Penstock that is. Again, he turned to Henrietta and gave her another irritated look, his dark eyebrows bunching into a scowl.

    The maid blandly stared back, her broad face devoid of emotion, seemingly impervious to him, or his lofty title. Apparently giving up the attempt to intimidate her, Lord Hazelmere turned back to Verity.

    I have news of your uncle, he said again, now unnecessarily.

    Yes, my lord. Then Verity attempted a cordial smile. She also did her best to drop in a curtsey, dipping her body slightly and bending her head forward in acknowledgement of his status. Considering she was still in her nightdress and was bundled into a thick quilt to boot, it wasn’t by any means the most graceful curtsey she had ever executed. Still, it would just have to do. Verity felt the need for modesty overrode more effort on her part.

    Please to be welcomed to this house, my lord. I am Miss Verity Beresford and this is my home.

    Removing his hat, he gave a brusque bow, an abbreviated one, in return. His hard mouth formed the barest and briefest of smiles, one obviously meant only as a necessary politeness.

    Ah, at long last, he said, a light sarcasm lacing his words. I thought I was to spend all night bivouacked on your doorstep.

    Then he asked, Miss Beresford, may I impose upon you for a brandy, perhaps? It has been an exhausting trip.

    As he said this, he divested himself of his hat by holding it out unceremoniously to Henrietta, who stood just behind him. She accepted it, but with ill grace, showing him a frown instead of a smile. Then he shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed it to her as well. Burdened with these items, Henrietta retreated to dispose of them by hanging them on the coat rack standing in the far corner of the foyer.

    This left Verity more or less alone with the man for the moment. He stood before her, dressed in what Verity could only think of as very sober attire. High Hessian boots, polished to a gleaming black, but splattered with dried mud, bespoke of his recent journey.

    Into these were tucked his black leather riding breeches. These hugged his form in a most revealing way, defining muscular calves and thighs, as well as lean hips. Above those tight-fitting breeches, he wore a white-linen shirt over his tapered torso. A dark waistcoat, in turn, covered most of the shirt, except for collar and sleeves. The waistcoat showed dark stains of perspiration. Rather limp looking and seemingly worse for at least a day’s wear or more, a white cravat completed his ensemble.

    Judging by the state of his clothing, Verity thought it looked very much as if he’d just ridden in from a hard hunt, a long and arduous one. All the way by horseback from Devonshire, hadn’t the man ever heard of travelling by coach?

    Well? he said, giving her a pointed look, Have you some liquid fortification in this house?

    Verity mentally shook herself, realized she’d been rudely staring.

    Oh, of course, she said and then offered him a wan smile. She felt her face start to burn with the beginnings of an annoying blush.

    Please, my lord, to follow me. She turned away from him, even as her face felt hotter. Verity was glad to be able to shield the results of her embarrassment from his probing look.

    She walked once more across the expanse of foyer, this time heading toward one of the twin reception rooms. She heard the even steps of Lord Hazelmere following close behind her, the hard sound of his boot heels hitting on tiled floor. Reaching the room, Verity paused just inside the doorway of it. She took a deep breath to compose herself, then turned back to face her guest.

    Please help yourself to anything you like, sir. Verity, with a generous sweep of one arm, gestured with her candle toward the crystal decanters sitting on the top shelf of a sideboard. The heavy-looking piece of furniture stood against the far wall. The bottles there gleamed, even in the weak light.

    There is brandy there, as well as whiskey and other spirits, she explained. If you will excuse me, I shall retire for a moment in order to make myself more presentable. I will return shortly.

    Do you not want to hear about your uncle first? Draken Hazelmere asked. His startlingly deep indigo eyes regarded her with a curious look.

    Oh, yes… Verity said, feeling suddenly foolish and flustered. How could she have forgotten so quickly about her dear Uncle Ezekiel?

    Certainly, I do. I very much wish to hear about him, she added, knowing this now sounded lame. Verity moved toward a brocade-covered divan, a dove-grey one. Then, after first making certain her quilt covered her as well as she could manage, she carefully seated herself there. She set the candleholder on the small table next to the divan.

    Please, Verity said and motioned for him to take a chair opposite her own, one upholstered in blue satin brocade and so slick that guests had trouble not sliding off it and onto the floor. Verity usually placed those people whom she didn’t much care for there, which was just how she was beginning to think of this brusque Lord Hazelmere. Really, he was a most difficult man, despite his dark good looks.

    I think I will have that drink you offered first, if you don’t mind, he said. His eyes glinted for the briefest moment with a violet spark of humour.

    Verity bit her lower lip. Of course, she reminded herself, that’s what she had brought him in here for to begin with. What was the matter with her, she wondered? Was she still half-asleep? Verity managed a small nod.

    Lord Hazelmere strode toward the sideboard. She watched him as he made his way across the room, relieved he now had his back to her. This way, Verity could study him more closely, without being caught staring again. His lithe movements reminded her of those of some caged animal.

    The image of a panther sprung to her mind. Verity had seen one at a travelling show once, on display in Vauxhall Gardens. The black animal had paced back and forth in its iron cage, sinuous, muscled and all the time relentless in its motions. A crowd of onlookers had jeered at the creature from the safety beyond the bars of the animal’s prison.

    This was how this man struck her. He seemed as relentless as that panther. However, she couldn’t imagine anyone daring to be so foolish as to jeer at him. Verity doubted if even bars would protect them under such circumstances. There was a dangerous quality about him, she decided. Verity could feel its presence like an aura about him.

    She watched from her seat as he reached for an empty snifter. Then and without hesitation, he chose the bottle containing the brandy from amongst the large number of alcoholic beverages lining the top of the oak cabinet. Lord Hazelmere pulled the glass stopper, took a brief sniff of the decanter’s contents. As if deciding it passed judgment, he splashed a liberal amount of the tawny-coloured liquid into the glass.

    He carried his drink back with him and then collapsed onto the chair. Slouching there, he sprawled his long legs out in front of him, muddy booted feet almost touching hers in a most intimate way. Lord Hazelmere cradled the drink in his lap. He again focused his attention upon her. Indigo eyes glittered by candlelight. He said nothing, just continued to regard her with a steadfast gaze, his eyes boring into her own.

    Verity, made uncomfortable by this provocative stare, glanced away. She pretended to pick at some imaginary piece of lint from the quilt she clutched so tight to her person.

    Now, Lord Hazelmere, she said at last, when the silence seemed in danger of stretching on forever. She managed to speak without directly looking at him. Your news of my Uncle Ezekiel, please may I have it? Is he…is he… She couldn’t bring herself to say the dreaded word.

    He is alive, Miss Beresford, never fear on that score, but he is in a bad way. That is why I have come, at his personal request. He is in dire need of you, wishes you to travel to Moorescombe and attend to him there as soon as possible. He is bedridden and needs constant attention. Ezekiel says he cannot rely upon his servants for they are simply not up to the task. Small wonder, the way he lets them run roughshod over him the way he does. He is far too generous with them to my way of thinking. They treat him ill for all his kind efforts and now he suffers for it.

    He is very sick?

    Draken gave a reluctant-looking nod. I can vouch for that, having personally visited him on several recent occasions. It is his heart or so our local physician says. He is incapacitated--your uncle I mean, not the physician.

    Draken gave a small smile at this point, before adding, As another consequence, the whole household there is in a state. The servants are out of control, because no one in authority is there to tell them what to do, or make them do it.

    They will not care for him? This idea surprised Verity, for she knew well and without this man having to tell her, that Uncle Ezekiel doted on his servants. How could they repay him in so unkind a manner? It seemed unthinkable.

    Lord Draken Hazelmere was quiet a long moment, as if he was either studying her, or thinking best how to answer the question.

    At last, he said, "They mean well, at least most of them do, I suppose. Still, they are as likely to put an amulet or witching stick under his pillow for a cure, as to nurse him properly and as Doctor Evans prescribes. They are an ignorant and superstitious lot. Most of the lower classes born and raised in Devonshire country are. They are truly provincials.

    But back to the matter at hand, he continued. Your uncle is now an invalid and in all likelihood probably a permanent one. He does not wish to leave his future in the hands of paid retainers. He petitions you, his niece, to be the one to look after him, you being his only family. This is the question at issue here.

    Verity was at a loss as to what to say. This news stunned her. She had prepared herself for

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