The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)
Elizabeth Michels
For Lori Waters, my dear friend who always reminds me to dream big. May all of your dreams be large enough to be considered delusions of grandeur, and may every one of them come true.
One
London, England
Early spring 1817
Silhouettes of flowers and swirls of ink fashioned into vines danced around the paper to form an ornate garden of shapes, framing the words written in the center. The artwork had been designed with care, crafted from precise black lines and finished with pale watercolor dots.
Large swooping letters at the top of the first page proclaimed this to be the diary of Lady Isabelle Fairlyn. All of her most personal thoughts would be detailed herein—details that were of vital importance if this mission were to be successful. Knowledge leads to accomplishment, wasn’t that what St. James always said?
“It seems I listened,” he whispered.
It was past time for the tide to shift against the man who’d wronged him so long ago. He aimed a smile at the closed door that led to the hall of the Fairlyn family’s London home. Soon he would be the only one smiling.
Returning to his task, he ran his thumb over the colorful first entry in the small leather-bound book, tracing the line of a leaf in the corner before he turned the page to find the information he had come for. An icy wind whipped through the open window, and the light from the candle beside him waved and flickered. He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders and leaned in toward the light, scanning the words, committing them to memory.
Isabelle Fairlyn’s Diary
January 1817
All gentlemen should strive to be more like Mr. Kelton Brice. He is fashionable, amiable, and a fine dancer—everything I require in a husband. I’ve never danced with him, mind you, but sometimes a lady simply knows these things, even from across a crowded ballroom. From the moment he entered our drive in his sharp red phaeton three years ago, I knew we would one day be married.
It was a chaotic time in the house the day he arrived. Father had recently acquired his title most unexpectedly from Uncle George, and our new home was a whirl of activity. Mother was calling orders to the footmen, having paintings hauled from this wall, and that while the sound of hammers echoed through the house. She and Father had been in another battle since dawn that day. I’d escaped to the garden for the morning, but one can only remain among the roses so long without a bite of food. I’d planned to slip in the side door and take one of the biscuits Father always left behind on the tea tray in the library. Only, when I entered the room, I was caught between my parents as they raged over Father’s inattention to the family, or perhaps it was mother’s vanity with her new station—perhaps both.
Their anger surrounded me, holding me frozen, unable to escape. Then Mr. Brice was there. He was shown into the room, and a calm descended on the scene. He made a jest about the chaos of life with a title, and suddenly everyone was laughing, put to ease in an instant. He gave me a small wink as I finally took the biscuit from the tray and began to back away. Time stopped when he looked at me. And that was the day I fell in love. Some people may say love doesn’t take hold in a single moment, but they are wrong and I am right. By some people, of course, I mean Victoria. Why must sisters be so irritating?
When she learned of my fondness for Mr. Brice, she pointed out quite cheerfully that he had been at our home only a few minutes to deliver a letter by hand to Father and we’d never truly spoken to each other. Even so, I’m certain we will share the kind of love that inspires poetry. Victoria didn’t witness his kindness that day or feel the way he brings a bright joy wherever he goes. She doesn’t know his true nature, but I do. I fairly melted into my half boots right there on the library floor, and if we were wed, no one in my household could ever be cross again. That is love.
I saw him again a few times over the course of my coming-out season last year. He didn’t notice me then, but the upcoming season will be different. I’m certain of it. With my family’s arrival in London, my plans can begin.
In spite of the cold weather, I convinced one of the maids to walk with me to the museum a few days a week instead of taking Father’s carriage. I told her the street where he lives is the safest route for two women to take to Montague House and the British Museum, and she believed me. Thank goodness! Only yesterday I caught a glimpse of him through a window. He was wearing a green coat and leaning against the windowsill while he spoke with someone in his home. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll turn around.
Soon I will finally gain Mr. Brice’s attention, and he will fall desperately in love with me. We’ll be married by special license and spend the rest of our days looking at one another in admiration, surrounded by the flowers he picked for me from a field on our estate. Just like something from a story. My dreams are about to come true. I can feel it in every sunbeam that shines down from the sky.
—the future Mrs. Brice, Isabelle
? ? ?
Spring 1817
Dreams were fickle little bastards.
Fallon St. James once had a dream—to attain enough wealth and power to spend his time as he wished. Reality, however, had a harsh bite. He had the wealth bit, and with an army of gentlemen at his command, now he certainly had the power. But if he were truly free to act as he wished, he would not be at this damned ball tonight. Yet here he was, searching the crowd for the one man who could destroy everything he’d built.