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  A Scandal in Newport

  An Heiress Series Novella

  Pamela Sherwood

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Prologue

  2. Chapter One

  3. Chapter Two

  4. Chapter Three

  5. Chapter Four

  6. Chapter Five

  7. Chapter Six

  8. Chapter Seven

  9. Epilogue

  Thank You

  Waltz with a Stranger: Excerpt

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Pamela Sherwood

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  A SCANDAL IN NEWPORT

  Copyright © 2016 Pamela Sherwood

  Published by Blue Castle Publishing

  Cover by vikncharlie

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author.

  To the women and men who made Gilded Age Newport so fascinating

  Prologue

  Stone walls do not a prison make,

  Nor iron bars a cage…

  —Richard Lovelace, “To Althea: From Prison”

  * * *

  Newport, September 1891

  * * *

  He’d taken her ring, the swine.

  Shifting uncomfortably on the hard mattress beneath her, Amy glared down at the circle of bare skin on the third finger of her left hand. Easy enough to understand why it had been taken, but it still made her want to scream with rage.

  Not that she could right now, thanks to the gag. And she suspected that, even without the gag, no one would be able to hear her if she screamed. What had Geneva told her? A room with all the windows boarded up—in an abandoned building, most likely.

  Amy shifted position again, as best she could. The ropes were tight about her wrists, even tighter about her ankles. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey… perhaps if she wriggled about enough, she could manage to loosen her bonds—or at least lessen the horrid “pins and needles” sensation growing in her feet.

  In that latter aim, she managed to succeed, and lay quietly until her feet stopped tingling. Her mind, however, was far from quiet, furiously turning over the events of the previous night.

  Had Sally gotten away? She prayed the younger girl had had the sense to run back into the ballroom, in the direction of light and noise and people. Her heart gave a sudden lurch at the thought of her people. Mama. Papa. Andrew. Even Relia, far off in Cornwall. And Thomas.

  Oh, dear God, Thomas. He must know by now—and he’d be frantic. Just as her family would be. She could see his face in her mind’s eye, strained and taut, his beautiful eyes gone that muddy green they always became in times of intense disquiet.

  So outwardly self-contained, the man she loved. And so passionate, so unexpectedly vulnerable, beneath his polished surface…

  A wave of longing washed over her, and she shut her eyes against the unwelcome sting of tears. No, she wasn’t going to cry. She was far too angry to cry, then or now.

  Best to keep a cool head. To remember what she’d already discovered about these kidnappings. Had the ransom demand come yet? And how long would it take for Papa to get such a sum together?

  No fear that he would, of course. That was why her captors had started this filthy business in the first place. Rich men’s daughters, sheltered, trusting, and naïve. No more able to fend for themselves than babes in the wood. As Alice, Geneva, and poor Maisie had been.

  Her lips formed a grim smile about the gag. They’d gotten more than they bargained for when they snatched her. She only hoped that some of her scratches had drawn blood, and that at least one of the swine had black and blue shins from all the kicks she’d dealt him as they hustled her off. They’d probably be all too glad to get her off their hands.

  She had only to wait, after all. Two days, three at the most—if she couldn’t find a way out of this predicament by herself, before then. Keep a cool head, Amy told herself. A cool head and all her wits about her, and she’d come out of this all right.

  But in spite of her resolve, she found her gaze still straying to her now-bare finger, and her thoughts drifting as well. Back to the night Thomas had put that ring on her finger.

  The happiest night of her life…

  Chapter One

  Look how my ring encompasseth thy finger,

  Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;

  Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.

  —William Shakespeare, King Richard III

  * * *

  Richmond, July 1891

  * * *

  As the strains of “The Blue Danube” waltz filled the ballroom, Amy’s spirits soared to the height of the high, arched ceiling, its azure expanse scattered with tiny, glittering silver stars. Indeed, if such a thing were possible, she thought she could rise and float up there with them.

  Except that she had no wish to be any place other than where she was just now. Dancing in Thomas Sheridan’s arms, at Havenhurst—his mother’s Richmond estate, on the night of their betrothal ball.

  She glanced up at him through her lashes, saw him smile in response, that rare, unguarded smile he allowed so few people to see. And warmth eddied around her heart at the knowledge that she was among that privileged few.

  Well-defended, her Thomas—as she herself was. Or had been until they met. But together… they were free to be something more.

  Our true selves, perhaps. There was only one other person in Amy’s life with whom she’d ever felt she could be so unguarded—her twin sister, Aurelia.

  And Relia was here tonight, dancing with her fiancé James, Earl of Trevenan, their wedding just a fortnight away. That he’d recently been engaged to Amy, before discovering his greater affection for her twin, could have been a cause for gossip—were it not for the perfect amity between the three of them. Besides, everyone was much better suited as they were, Amy reflected with what she hoped was a forgivable degree of complacency.

  “Is it possible to be drunk on happiness?” she asked dreamily, as Thomas led her into a graceful turn that set her jonquil-yellow skirts swirling about them both.

  His mouth quirked up. “Perhaps—metaphorically, if not literally. Do you believe yourself to be in that extraordinary condition?”

  Amy laughed. “Believe? I know, Mr. Sheridan! And what’s more,” she lowered her voice so he had to stoop to hear her, “I wouldn’t trade it for any other feeling in the world.”

  His eyes warmed to a brilliant green, and he contrived to draw her closer within the circle of his arms. Amy smiled and rested her head against his shoulder, breathing in the scents of citrus, sandalwood, and him. And why not? They were betrothed, after all.

  When the waltz ended, Thomas led her from the floor, towards the French windows opening onto the terrace. “I thought we might—take some air,” he explained. “Unless you’d prefer to dance again?”

  Amy shook her head. “The next is a Lancers, and I left that unclaimed on purpose. Besides,” she leaned with a smile into the circle of his arm, “do you really think I’d pass up the opportunity to be alone with you tonight?”

  His smile this time held a faint glimmer of mischief that made her pulse quicken agreeably. “I rather hoped you’d say that,” he murmured, and escorted her onto the terrace.

  A balmy summer n
ight, scented with roses and jasmine—like the perfume blended just for her, which was lovely but still not quite as exhilarating as the flowers themselves, Amy decided, inhaling deeply. But then, Havenhurst always smelled like a garden in bloom, which was one of its attractions.

  Promenading on Thomas’s arm, she found herself remembering her previous visit to Havenhurst. Just four short months ago, she’d experienced what she thought of as one of her greatest humiliations here. Now, however, she could look back on that afternoon with amazement and wonder. Who’d ever have thought matters would turn out like this? And that she’d be celebrating her betrothal—to a son of the house, no less—in this very place?

  She glanced up at Thomas, to find him looking back at her, his expression tender yet knowing. Following the train of her thought, as he so often did. But then, he would remember that afternoon too—a turning point for him as well as for her.

  “Amelia.” And how she loved the way he spoke her full name, the undulant caress of his voice against those four syllables! “Has this evening been all that you could wish?”

  “All and more. I wasn’t sure how your family would receive me—one of those brazen American pirates,” she smiled to take the sting out of those words, “but everyone here has been so kind. Especially your mother!”

  “I think she’s simply relieved at this point to see me marry at all. And to someone she actually considers—suitable.”

  As opposed to some of the women with whom he’d previously kept company, Amy translated without difficulty. But then, marriage had never been the goal with any of them, she knew. Unlike Elizabeth, Thomas’s first betrothed, who’d died of a fatal chill ten years ago. That tragedy had burned into his soul, convincing him that he could neither love nor wish to love with such intensity again.

  Amy had once held a similar view herself—that love was worth neither the risk nor the potential heartache. But now here they were, she and Thomas: two guarded hearts, learning to open up to each other. Two wary people unexpectedly caught up into love.

  Worth the risk? Beyond a doubt, yes.

  “Thomas,” she began, as they leaned side by side against the marble balustrade. “I was just wondering. Everyone else calls me Amy, but I am always Amelia to you—why is that?”

  “Ah.” He paused, his expression contemplative. “Well, in your case, Amy is the diminutive form, is it not? Pretty enough as such, but, if you’ll pardon my saying so, I find it a bit… slight. And I don’t think of you as slight.”

  Amy blinked, feeling as though she’d been complimented in some obscure way. “How do you think of me, then?’

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “As a force of nature!” Above her astonished laughter, he added, “And ‘Amelia’ means ‘industrious,’ which I find very fitting. But do you dislike your given name?”

  “Not exactly. It’s just that—well, it was my grandmother’s name first,” she explained. “She lived with us for a number of years, so I shortened it to Amy, to avoid confusion.” She pulled a face. “It seemed preferable to being called ‘Little Amelia’ for the rest of my life!”

  “Understandable. And if you would prefer me to address you as Amy—”

  She shook her head, smiling. “I don’t mind being your Amelia. In fact, I rather like your having a name for me that no one else uses!”

  “Do you indeed? Well, as it happens, I have something else for you as well,” he told her. “Something you should have had much sooner from me.”

  “Oh?” Amy regarded him quizzically. “And what might that be?”

  “Close your eyes and hold out your left hand.”

  Mystified, she obeyed, felt him gently tug off her evening glove, and then slide something cool onto her third finger.

  Understanding dawned, bright as a midsummer bonfire. And her eyes flew open at once, lighting upon the ring she now wore.

  Like nothing she’d ever seen. Certainly not like the ring she’d been given during her first betrothal. A sparkling yellow stone—a diamond, she was sure of it—rested between the horns of what looked like a crescent moon, and a swirl of tinier diamonds, clear ones this time, encircled the whole.

  Marveling, Amy lifted her gaze to her fiancé’s face to find him watching her intently.

  “I couldn’t decide what to give you,” he explained. “The family heirlooms seemed too heavy and outmoded. And nothing I saw at the jewelers’ looked right. In the end… I decided to design something myself.”

  “You designed this for me? My ring is… one of a kind?”

  “As unique as its wearer,” he confirmed. “Do you like it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Amy breathed, holding up her hand and turning it to make the diamonds flash. “And even more now.” She frowned a little, trying to recall what jewel lore she knew. “And it… means something, doesn’t it, your design?”

  He relaxed, the smile she loved dawning first in his eyes. “Very perceptive of you, sweetheart.”

  “It’s not a question of perception, so much as it is of knowing you,” Amy countered, smiling back. “You’re a conundrum, Thomas Sheridan! Almost nothing about you is simple or straightforward!” And thank goodness for that, she thought, as it promised a lifetime of exciting discoveries for them both. “So tell me, what is the riddle of my ring?”

  “Oh, it’s not so difficult to decipher,” he began, then relented as she shook her fist at him. “Well, as you know, I am unlikely ever to have a title—”

  “I don’t care about that—”

  “Or a grand estate—”

  “I don’t care about that, either—”

  “But, in my own fashion,” Thomas continued, taking Amy’s left hand and touching each stone on her ring in turn, “I wished to give you… the sun, the moon, and the stars.”

  “Ohhh…” The breath went out of her in a long, shaky sigh, and the ring on her finger became a watery blur.

  Thomas’s gaze sharpened. “Amelia, sweetheart, are you—”

  The breath went out of him in a huff as she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him fiercely. Almost at once, his own arms came up to enfold her, close and warm, as he returned her kiss with an ardor quite at odds with the cool demeanor he habitually showed to Society.

  “You Americans,” he murmured against her hair. “So demonstrative.”

  “You English,” she retorted, not a whit deceived. “So eternally po-faced!” Framing his face with her hands, she gazed up into his beautiful green eyes. “Thomas Sheridan, you are the most amazing, chivalrous, romantic man I have ever known!”

  His brows rose. “Am I indeed? Well, don’t tell anyone, or my reputation will be sunk beyond recovery.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” she promised, and leaned in for another kiss that would seal their pact.

  There was a light feminine cough behind them, and they instinctively pulled apart, their heads turning in the direction of the sound.

  “Pardon me for interrupting, Miss Newbold, Thomas.” Lady Warrender, one of Society’s most fashionable young matrons, stood a few feet away, smiling at them tentatively but with genuine warmth. “I haven’t had the chance to speak to you before, but… I wanted to wish you both happy.”

  Amy relaxed, smiling back. “Thank you, Lady Warrender.” Thomas’s late betrothed had been Lady Warrender’s older sister, and she and Thomas remained good friends. It was a very good sign indeed that she appeared to support his engagement.

  “Oh, call me Eleanor, please,” the baroness insisted. “And I do hope you’ll consider me your friend as well as Thomas’s!”

  “I should like that very much,” Amy told her, further touched by this sign of acceptance. She and Lady Warrender had always been cordial, but this was sweeter still. “And I am Amy.”

  “Well, then… Amy, may I presume upon an old friendship and borrow Thomas from you, just for a few minutes?”

  Her tone was casual but Amy caught the faint note of urgency in her voice. “Certainly, Eleanor.” She touched Thomas’s hand in a
fleeting caress. “I’ll be inside, showing my ring to Relia,” she told him.

  “I’ll join you presently,” he promised, smiling in the way she loved.

  Reassured, Amy headed back to the ballroom, leaving the childhood friends to their private exchange.

  Alone in the moonlight, Thomas studied his almost-sister-in-law. “I am glad you came tonight, Eleanor.”

  She smiled, looking so like Elizabeth for a moment that his heart gave a painful little start. “I wouldn’t have missed it. You know that, dear.”

  He smiled wryly. “I imagine you think it’s high time I settled down?”

  “Oh, past time.” She touched his hand to take any sting out of her words. “I’ve been worried about you, these past ten years. All those—intrigues, and I know you didn’t care a straw for any of those women,” she added with the frankness of which only a childhood friend is capable. “I don’t know that I would have chosen Miss Newbold for you myself, not without a deeper acquaintance than we’ve enjoyed so far. But sometimes the heart knows best, doesn’t it?”

  “In this case, the heart… turned out to be considerably wiser than the head,” he admitted. There’d been a time not so long ago when he’d firmly believed Amelia to be out of his reach, a woman whose beauty, spirit, and charm he could only admire in the abstract—as an artist would, a woman who could never be his. Fortunately, she had had other ideas, which he’d found himself unwilling and unable to resist.

  “And you are happy, Thomas?” Eleanor asked, her eyes searching his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said with conviction. “Remarkably so.”

  “Good. That’s all I wanted for you. What she would want for you.”

  Elizabeth. For a moment their thoughts sped backwards, to their shared tragedy. To a nightmarish train journey from Oxford to Devonshire… and a greater nightmare awaiting him at the end. It would have been just as difficult for Eleanor, though, watching helplessly with the rest of her family as her beloved sister slipped away. Except that she’d had the chance to say goodbye…