Never had she dreamed she could look like this.
The evening gown flattered her with shades of creamy ivory and the softest shimmering green. Embroidery of darker green and a pale rose colour trimmed the round neckline and the low-cut bodice. The same colours were echoed in short slashed sleeves. A broad ribbon tied round the mid-level waist, and the ends trailed down behind her.
She stood there on the brink, transfixed by the beauty of it all. Mrs Dawson had truly outdone herself. Lush potted plants lined the dance floor and graced every flat surface, while garlands of fresh blooms draped the walls and twined gracefully up the pillars. Hundreds of glittering candles shone in three stunning crystal chandeliers. They cast their glow over a vast number of people—and they were all in motion. Even the air seemed to fl ow with the swell of the music and in time with the diaphanous drift of the ladies’ gowns.
It looked a faerie world, unreal, like a glimpse into a shining, shimmering bubble. Such a fragile and delicate thing, to hold all her hopes and dreams.
Author Note
For many years the Dreadnought Seamen’s Hospital provided health and welfare services to ‘all distressed seamen’ and the peopltrulye who lived and worked in port communities. The hospital’s very first home was on board HMS Grampus, afloat on the River Thames. Here a small staff dedicated themselves to those who made their lives on the sea. They took in their first patients in 1821.
By 1830 the hospital had outgrown the Grampus. The Royal Navy generously donated the ex-warship HMS Dreadnought, from which the hospital thereafter took its name. In 1870 the Dreadnought moved ashore in Greenwich. It became an important part of the local community, and treated sailors from all nations and locals alike until it closed its doors in 1986.
I admit to fudging the dates a bit in HER CINDERELLA SEASON, when I had the staff of HMS Grampus taking J. Crump in several months earlier than the hospital officially opened its doors. Once I knew Crump, and realised he was dying, I longed for him to end his days in a place of caring and dignity. I hope you’ll forgive the poetic licence.
Deb Marlowe grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she’d read enough romances to recognise the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party—even though he wore a tuxedo T-shirt instead of breeches and tall boots. They married, settled in North Carolina, and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys.
Though she now spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She’s working on it. Deb would love to hear from readers! You can contact her at [email protected]
Recent novels by the same author:
SCANDALOUS LORD, REBELLIOUS MISS
AN IMPROPER ARISTOCRAT
HER CINDERELLA SEASON
Deb Marlowe
For my Grandpap—
a real-life hero for the ages
Chapter One
Jack’s hand held steady, his aim unwavering. His pistol was pointed straight at Hassan’s evil heart. This time he would kill the bastard. This time he would.
But something moved in the shadowy dreamscape. A soft rustle sounded, impossibly close—just as his sleeping mind had known it would. Not Aswan. Smaller. Jack caught the faint scent of gardenias just a moment before he felt the press of cold steel at his temple.
A flood of fury and frustration swamped him. God damn it, now the innocent girl below him would die. He would die all alone up here in the pitch blackness of the Egyptian Hall gallery and an ancient treasure would fall into the worst of hands.
As it always did, night after night, an indescribable flurry of movement erupted as Aswan intervened. A woman’s cry. A bright flash of light in the near darkness. And a searing pain that exploded in his arm and knocked him backwards.
Someone loomed over him. The sinister face swam in the darkness, but somehow he knew it was not the woman who’d shot him, nor was it the villain Hassan—it must be Batiste. Captain Batiste, the silent, invisible mastermind behind much of the plot to hurt his friends. The shadow began to laugh, and an old, cold rage burned deep in Jack’s gut.
‘So disappointing, Jack, inderella Season’ the figure whispered. ‘I expected more of you.’
He scrambled backwards. It was not a stranger’s voice reaching for him out of the darkness, but his father’s.
Gasping, Jack jerked awake.
That damned dream again. He shook off the remnants of the nightmare and glanced at the clock on the wall—early afternoon. Had he fallen asleep in his chair? A heavy tome rested painfully against his injured arm. He tossed it on to the floor and scrubbed his free hand against his scalp, trying to chase away the fuzziness in his head.
That night at the Egyptian Hall had not been his finest moment. Perhaps that was the reason he relived it repeatedly in his dreams. He heaved a massive sigh. He didn’t regret mixing himself up in Lord Treyford’s misadventures, and yet…
Trey and Chione had taken their family back to Devonshire. Soon they would be leaving for Egypt, embarking on an adventure that Jack couldn’t help but envy. He’d held his breath, hoping to be asked along, but Trey and Chione were occupied with each other, and caught up in the wonder of what awaited them.
Jack had been left behind and he’d found himself strangely unsettled. He pressed his good hand hard against his brow. His preoccupation with Batiste had grown, becoming something closer to obsession. The villain had slipped away on the tide, leaving Hassan and his other confederates to be caught up in Treyford’s net. The man’s escape nagged at Jack incessantly.
He stood. He was due to meet Pettigrew, to test those devilishly bad-mannered bays the baron was trying to sell. Jack cast a rueful glance down at his arm. This was not the most reasonable course of action, but, damn it, the man had baited him. At any other point in his life, Jack would have ignored the baron’s desperate manoeuvre. Not this time. Instead he had risen like a trout to a well-crafted lure. A stupid response. Immature. And yet another maddening symptom of his recent erratic temperament.
Jack struggled into his greatcoat and decided to stop by White’s and pick up his brother along the way. Charles was in town to further his reform causes before the Parliamentary session closed, and to conveniently avoid the domestic chaos brought on by a colicky baby. And since he had been the one to introduce him to Pettigrew, then riding along with a crippled driver and an unruly team was the least he could do.
As he set out, a chill wind began to gust. The cold blast of air made his arm throb like an aching tooth. Jack huddled a little deeper into his coat and rifled in his pocket for Pettigrew’s hastily scribbled address. He stopped short. The baron’s dire financial straits had led him to take rooms in Goodman’s Fields. An unsavoury neighbourhood it might be, but it was conveniently located near enough to the London docks—where the offices of Batiste’s defunct shipping company were located.
Jack quickened his step. This might not be a wasted day after all.
Lily Beecham glanced at her mother from the corner of her eye. Mrs Margaret Beecham had turned slightly away from her daughter, avoiding the brightest light as she concentrated on her needlework. Slowly, surreptitiously, Lily tilted her head back and directly into the path of the