Page 1 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

Chapter 1

20th June 1817

Bath, England

“You want me to seduce someone?” Miss Hestia Normanton stared askance at

Frederick Ebbworth. She must have misheard him. She’d been his mistress—unintentionally—less than a year, and their love was as strong as ever. Or so she’d thought.

He leaned against the mantel above the empty fireplace. “You probably won’t have to go that far. He’s a cold fish, is Conall Methuen. Just win his trust, howsoever you can.”

So, Conall Methuen was the man Frederick wanted her to deceive. She’d never heard of him. And she had no intention of complying anyway, no matter how Frederick railed and shouted at her.

“This must be one of your jests.” Yes, that had to be it—he’d always teased her. It was one of the many things that had attracted her to him.

He turned. The spring sunshine slanted through the window, making his pale eyes translucent and gilding his fair hair. Even when they were at odds, Hestia wanted this man above all others.

“No jest, my darling. How can we ever have enough money to marry if Methuen is intent on ruining me?”

She bit her lip, struggling to contain the palpitations of her heart. Could it be Frederick was finally going to hold to his promise of marriage? Every time she’d mentioned the word of late, it put him in a pet. But to have him mention it himself...

“You do still want to marry me, then.” Oh, how pathetic that sounded. How very much the little woman, the weaker sex. But without wedlock, her children would never have respectability. Her longed-for children.

“Of course. Would I have eloped with you if I didn’t? And I wouldn’t be living here from choice, let me tell you.”

His gesture encompassed the modest parlour of their rented rooms. There was little familiarity—the furniture came with the property, and Frederick owned few possessions aside from several ornate mirrors now dotted about the walls. Hestia only had what she’d been able to carry away on horseback in the dead of night. What a long way away her family home seemed now, how distant her parents, and childhood memories. All given up in the name of love.

“It makes no sense. If you love me, you’d never risk putting me into the path of another man.”

He’d be too jealous, wouldn’t he? Frederick had always struck her as the jealous kind. But then, her instincts about him had been proved wrong time and time again.

“Oh, I’ve no fears of you falling for him. He’s an ugly bastard—disfigured, with only one eye. No woman would want him now.”

Better and better. She must throw herself at a hideous gentleman, make him fall in love with her and stop him, somehow, from destroying Frederick’s precarious finances.

She tried to sound matter-of-fact, though her heart raced so fast she feared she would faint. “It’s madness. How am I supposed to stop him from buying most of the shares in your favourite companies, then selling said companies at a loss? I know nothing of business–indeed, I barely understand how these stocks and shares things work. If this Mr Methuen has money and business sense, he’s not going to let a woman dissuade him. Especially one he’s only just met.”

“You underestimate your charms, my love. Anyway, I can wait. You’re not without wit—you will soon learn how his system works. You can spy for me, get into his study, copy his papers or borrow them and bring them to me, then return them unnoticed. That way, I can fight him. I can break him as he’s trying to break me.”

“Do we actually need to ruin him?” Seeing the diamond-edged glint in Frederick’s eye, she felt sympathy for their unsuspecting victim. Frederick was not one to be crossed. She’d learned that in their eleven months, two weeks, and three days living together. As man and mistress, she reminded herself bitterly. Not as husband and wife.

She hurried to the window, fought with the catch, then lifted the sash and stared down onto the broad cobbled expanse of Great Pulteney Street. The air she sucked greedily into her lungs tasted of horse, barely masked by the perfume of mock orange blossom drifting down the hill from Sydney Gardens. But there was no comfort in the familiar clatter of open barouches or the subdued chatter of passers-by.

“There has to be another way, my darling. Can you not get your friends to work on this Mr Methuen? They have more business sense than I—could they not do to him what you fear he’s doing to you? Damage him financially? Bankrupt him? That would be a far safer bet than sending your mistress into the lion’s den.”

His mouth quirked up at one corner. “No one can bankrupt Methuen. Oh, no, he’s the Earl of Corsbury, and fabulously rich. That’s one part of your assignment you’ll enjoy—you’ll be in clover every minute you spend with him.”

“I have no intention of spending any minutes with him at all, however wealthy he might be. And anyway, if he’s so rich and important, what need has he of your money?”

The blue eyes bored into hers, like light reflecting off cut glass, harsh and penetrating. “He doesn’t need my money. He hates me. Surely you must have worked out there have been other women before you? But this one was a non-pareil, and Methuen coveted her. He’s pursued me ever since, aiming to make my life a misery. It has to stop.” His voice softened to a purr. “Because only then will you and I be able to afford marriage, and the family I know you so desire.”

She frowned. “If this Lord Methuen is so ugly, how could any woman want him over you?”

“She didn’t. But she thought I was dead at Waterloo. Now, I’ve said enough. It pains me to talk about it.”

Hestia wondered why it had taken so long for this ‘other woman’ to come to light. How many more such interesting facts was Frederick concealing from her? Perhaps she should forgive him—not many women wanted to discuss their lover’s previous amours. But one more question needed to be asked.

“What happened to this woman?” Why had Frederick not married her? Yet another to whom he had made a false promise?