Page 1 of Anastasia and the Duke
Prologue
Paris
(By Express Saturday)
Grave news from Paris as The Reign of Terror continues unabated. Following the beheading of Louis XVI and his Queen Consort, Marie Antoinette, the Assembly has now turned on its own founders.
This week, the Duke d'Orléans, once considered a friend of the Revolution, was tried by the Revolutionary Tribunal, found guilty of treason, and killed by guillotine that same day.
Political allies of the duke have fled France, terrified that they too may suffer a tragic fate, though some left it too late to escape.
Included amongst the latter, we are sad to report, are the Comte de Bonneval, his wife, and his young daughter, Anastasia.
This paper has it on good authority that a mob attacked the Château de Bonneval this Sunday last, leaving only burning ashes in their wake. The bodies of the Comte and the Comtesse were recovered from the rubble, but that of their daughter, Anastasia, is yet to be recovered.
The Comtesse de Bonneval, as our readers may know, was the only daughter of Lord and Lady Lansdowne, to whom we extend our deepest sympathies.
As La Grande Peurcontinues to terrorise France, we will endeavour to keep our readers abreast of developments...
Chapter One
London, 1813
It was rumoured that Sarah Villiers, Countess of Jersey, received jewels from each one of her lovers when their affairs came to an end. Judging from the mountains of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds which lay carelessly strewn upon the countess' coiffeuse in her dressing room, Hannah Smith could only conclude that, if the rumours were true, Lady Jersey had taken as many lovers as Catherine the Great.
Which was impressive, for Lady Jersey was but a few years older than Hannah, whose lovers numbered at the princely sum of none.
Not one lover, not even a kiss, in three and twenty years.
There was no time for Hannah to dwell on her lack of suitors, however, for her presence in Lady Jersey's dressing room was not sanctioned by the lady herself, but rather by Sidney Pritchard, King Thief of the Seven Dials.
As the noise of the orchestra and chattering crowd below drifted up through the floorboards, Hannah hastily stuffed the jewels on the table into the pockets of her skirts. She wore a plain black pinafore, almost identical to those worn by the maids below, but her skirts were fuller, with several expertly stitched pockets in which she might conceal her hoard.
As she finished lining her pockets, a brief wave of guilt pricked Hannah's conscience, but it quickly passed. Lady Jersey was not only the wife of an earl, she was also a partner in the banking firm Child & Co. and one of the richest women in England. If anyone could afford to replace stolen jewels, it was she--that was, if she even noticed they were missing in the first place.
Hannah exhaled a long, slow breath to try steady her nerves, before turning on her heel to begin her escape. She crept, silent as a cat, from the dressing room into the dark bedroom, grateful for the plush Axminster which muffled her steps.
Exiting the countess' bedchamber was the riskiest part of the endeavour and, within her chest, Hannah's heart raced nervously. If she were caught, she had a dozen suitable excuses at the tip of her tongue which might save her, though they were just as likely not to. An unfamiliar maid in the mistress' rooms could not expect leniency and trust from longer serving retainers. Most likely they would call for a Bow Street Runner and Hannah would find herself a guest of Newgate prison.
Once she reached the bedroom door, Hannah tentatively reached out for the handle, her ears pricked for noise outside, but before her hand could even touch the brass, it turned from the outside and the door creaked slowly open.
Hannah could not help the gasp of shock which escaped her, a gasp which was answered with a whisper.
"Constance? Is that you?"
The owner of the voice was male, that much was clear, though what was not clear at all was who this man was, and why he was looking for Constance in Lady Jersey's bedroom.
Hannah took a step back into the shadows as the door opened further and a figure slipped in. A floorboard creaked beneath her feet, attracting the intruder's attention, and he gave a low chuckle.
"There you are," he whispered hoarsely, closing the door behind him and turning toward her, "I thought I'd never find you in this maze."
There was nothing that Hannah could do, so she remained silent, which did not deter her new friend.
"Don't sulk, Constance," he chided, his tone laced with amusement, "Ihadto dance with Lady Jersey, she is the hostess, after all. It was you who I was thinking of, however; you who I longed to hold."
To demonstrate the truth of his words, the interloper crossed the space between them and grabbed Hannah by the waist, pulling her close. It was so dark that Hannah could not see any of his features, but she could guess, as he held her against him, that this man was tall, broad, and muscular.
His scent was so divine--a heady mix of wood and musk--that Hannah suspected it had been concocted by the famed Mr Floris of Jermyn St. And quite the wizard the perfumer was too, for with every breath Hannah inhaled, she grew dizzier and dizzier as a strange feeling overtook her.
