The Virgin’s Secret Read online

  Victoria Alexander

  The Virgin’s Secret

  The book is dedicated with affection and thanks

  to Mariah Stewart

  for the loan of Alistair McGowan and Shandihar;

  to Amy Mayberry,

  who tries her best to keep me on track;

  and to my friend Irene Mercatante,

  who is Most Excellent in so many ways.

  Contents

  Prologue

  We aren’t supposed to be up here,” Sterling Harrington said…

  One

  It appears the natives are particularly restless this year.” Nathanial…

  Two

  Only the top half of her face was visible over…

  Three

  Gabriella’s heart thudded in her chest. Most annoying, as she’d…

  Four

  Excellent,” Miss Montini murmured, her gaze still on the papers…

  Five

  There was indeed a servant waiting to escort her to…

  Six

  What did you do to Mr. Dennison?” Nate strode into…

  Seven

  You—You—You—” Gabriella sputtered as if she couldn’t quite catch her…

  Eight

  Damnation, she knew that voice.

  Nine

  I must say, this is all very interesting.” Merrill Beckworth…

  Ten

  Share the credit for discovery of the seal?” Gabriella paced…

  Eleven

  They were plying her for information, that’s what they were…

  Twelve

  Gabriella perched nervously on the edge of a red velvet…

  Thirteen

  If I leave to fetch you some refreshment, will you…

  Fourteen

  Shall we?” Lord Rathbourne offered his arm.

  Fifteen

  What in the name of all that’s holy did you…

  Sixteen

  My apologies once again, Mr. McGowan.” Gabriella smiled up at…

  Seventeen

  Nate casually stepped up to the refreshment table beside McGowan.

  Eighteen

  Lord Rathbourne will be with you shortly.” His lordship’s stern-faced…

  Nineteen

  She slammed the door in his face? How dare she?

  Twenty

  What do you mean this is not Montini’s seal?” Disbelief…

  Twenty-One

  What are you doing here?” Nathanial asked sharply.

  Twenty-Two

  You asked to see me, sir.”

  Twenty-Three

  Even the vast number of treasures that might well take…

  Twenty-Four

  Would you be so good as to tell Lord Rathbourne…

  Twenty-Five

  Well?” Nate demanded the moment Quint stepped into the library.

  Twenty-Six

  You what?” At once he was wide-awake.

  Twenty-Seven

  Dr. Crenshaw stepped out of Gabriella’s room the next morning,…

  Twenty-Eight

  Caroline,” Mother called with an enthusiastic wave.

  Twenty-Nine

  This was the final day.

  Epilogue

  You should have taken the seal back from Montini when…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Victoria Alexander

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  London, 1867

  We aren’t supposed to be up here,” Sterling Harrington said in the superior tone of an older brother, a tone Nathanial had heard all too often in his eight years. Even at age eleven, Sterling already sounded like the earl he would one day be, at least to his youngest sibling.

  “I daresay it won’t be a problem if we don’t get caught.” Quinton Harrington pushed past Sterling, moved away from the stairs and farther into the attic. As Quinton carried the candle, his brothers weren’t far behind.

  Quinton was two years younger than Sterling and a year older than Nathanial. While Sterling was always the leader in any of the trio’s escapades, Quinton was more often than not the brother who came up with the idea in the first place. Their governess, Miss Thompson, said Quinton had an adventurous soul, and even though it didn’t sound like a compliment to Nathanial, Quinton took it as such. Sterling, however, was the responsible brother, as Miss Thompson often said in an approving manner; as befit the future Earl of Wyldewood, she would add.

  Sterling was the one who took the blame when things went awry. He said it was his duty, although why anyone would want to take the blame made no sense to Nathanial. It was another one of those things he assumed he’d probably understand when he was older.

  When Nathanial had suggested they grow frogs in the bathtub on the third floor, Sterling claimed it was his idea when maids found a tub full of squirming tadpoles. Girls certainly did make a fuss over things like that. When the boys lost a ball down the old well in the back garden, Quinton was the one who proposed lowering Nathanial into the well to retrieve it because he was the smallest. Nathanial never would have told his brothers that it was much darker in the well than he had expected, and more than a bit scary. But it was Sterling who told Father it was his idea, and Sterling who was punished, even if Quinton did then come forward.

  Miss Thompson said that at least the scamp had a conscience, whatever that was, although she apparently thought it was a good thing. And when the governess read them a story about a Greek boy who tried to fly with wings made of feathers and wax, it was Sterling who scoffed and said they should have used glue. But it was Quinton who managed to find the glue and feathers and sticks they needed to build their own wings.

  It had taken them nearly a week. When they finished, they used an old rose trellis to climb to the roof of the gardener’s cottage. Nathanial, of course, was picked to make the flight. Being the youngest and smallest did have its drawbacks. If they hadn’t tied a rope around his waist—to make certain he didn’t fly away—he might have been hurt. As it was, he ended up dangling from the roof in need of adult rescue. They were all punished for that adventure. The trellis had now been removed, bathtubs were only to be used for bathing, and the well had been filled in. But Nathanial would still follow his older brothers anywhere.

  “It’s rather too dark to see anything,” he said now, as if stating a fact and not at all bothered by the dark.

  The rain thrummed against the roof of Harrington House, a sound not nearly as ominous on the lower floors. If he had been alone, Nathanial might have found the dim, cavernous attic a little frightening. On a sunny day, the garden of the family’s London home and the parks nearby provided ample opportunity for adventure, but it had been raining off and on for three days now, and the boys were confined to the house. As was Miss Thompson. Perhaps it was that last prank they pulled that had been the final straw. Miss Thompson was the only girl they knew who didn’t seem at all bothered by frogs, but finding one in her desk drawer today did seem to upset her, oddly enough. She’d sent the boys off with orders to read, and then retreated to her private sitting room. She did that on occasion. Usually when it rained.

  “So.” Quinton surveyed the attic, holding the candle high. He already looked like a pirate, and as soon as they found pirate clothes, they all would. “Where should we begin?”

  “The trunks,” Sterling said. “There will be pirate clothes in the trunks.” He led the way toward the far recesses of the attic, a rather dark and scary place, Nathanial thought, if truth were told. But his brothers were with him so he needn’t worry.

  “Which one?” Sterling studied the various assorted trunks that looked exactly like pirate treasure chests. Only bigger.

  “T
he biggest of course.” Quinton flashed a grin at his younger brother. “The biggest always has the best treasure.”

  “Very well.” Sterling lifted the lid on the largest trunk and the boys peered inside.

  “There’s only clothes in there.” Nathanial grimaced. He had rather hoped they would indeed find treasure.

  “These aren’t just clothes.” Quinton handed Nathanial the candle, then reached into the trunk and pulled out a red coat that looked like one on their painted tin soldiers. “These are clothes for pirates and knights.”

  “And adventurers,” Sterling said. “And explorers.”

  “I want to be an explorer,” Nathanial said quickly. “Or an adventurer.”

  “Look at this.” Sterling pulled something else out of the trunk.

  Quinton grimaced. “It’s a book.”

  “It’s a journal.” Sterling moved closer to the candle and flipped through the journal. “It’s great-grandmother’s.”

  “It’s still just a book,” Quinton said.

  “I know,” Sterling murmured. “But it might be a good book.”

  Quinton scoffed. “How good can a book be?”

  “You like books about pirates,” Nathanial offered.

  “This one is about smugglers.” Sterling paged through the journals.

  Quinton brightened. “Great-grandmother knew smugglers?”

  “I think,” Sterling said slowly, “Great-grandmother might have been a smuggler.”

  “Read it,” Nathanial said.

  “Very well.” Sterling nodded.

  The boys sat cross-legged on the floor. Sterling took the candle from Nathanial and positioned it to cast the best light on the pages. For the next hour or so he read to his brothers of the adventures of their great-grandmother, who apparently was indeed a smuggler, pursued by a government agent—a previous Earl of Wyldewood.

  At last it stopped raining and Sterling closed the journal. “I don’t think we should tell Mother about this,” he said firmly.

  “Because then we’d have to tell her we were in the attic?” Nathanial asked.

  “No.” Quinton scoffed. “Because she might not like having a smuggler in the family.”

  “Oh.” Nathanial thought it was rather interesting to have a smuggler in the family. It might be rather interesting to be a smuggler. “Let’s be smugglers instead of pirates.”

  “We can’t today,” Sterling said. “Miss Thompson will be wondering what became of us. But we can come up here again and read and play smuggler perhaps.”

  “Can we have smuggler names as well?” Eagerness rang in Nathanial’s voice.

  “Smuggler names.” Quinton laughed. “What are smuggler names?”

  “They’re like pirate names only for smugglers,” Nathanial said in a lofty manner. “And I shall be Black Jack Harrington.”

  The two older brothers traded glances. Sterling shook his head. “We don’t think that’s quite right for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your real name isn’t Jack, for one thing. We’re not just playing you know,” Quinton explained with the superiority of an older brother. “It’s quite a serious thing to have new names. Even smuggler names. Your smuggler name has to make sense with your real name.”

  “Nate,” Sterling said abruptly. “Sounds like a smuggler, and you can be Quint.”

  Quinton frowned. “It’s not very exciting.” He thought for a moment. “What about Peg Leg Quint or Quint the Wicked?”

  “More likely Quint the Scamp.” Sterling smirked.

  “And who will you be?” Nathanial—now Nate—asked. “What will your smuggler name be?”

  “I shall remain Sterling.”

  Quint snorted. “Not much of a name for a smuggler.”

  “Oh, I shan’t be a smuggler.” Sterling grinned. “I shall be the intrepid Earl of Wyldewood, agent of the crown, fearless hunter of smugglers. And I shall be the rescuer of the fair maiden, her hero.”

  “Girls can’t play,” Nate said firmly. “They’re girls.”

  “Then I shall be Quint.” Quinton planted his fists on his hips and puffed out his chest. “Daring, bold King of the Smugglers.”

  “Who am I to be?” Nate looked from the intrepid earl to the king of the smugglers. It wasn’t at all fair. No matter what the game, he always had the last choice.

  “Very well.” Sterling heaved a long suffering sigh. “I shall give up fearless. You may be the Fearless Smuggler Nate.”

  “I’d rather like to keep ‘daring,’ but I shall give you ‘bold.’” Quint grinned. “You are now the Fearless Smuggler, Nate the Bold.”

  The Fearless Smuggler Nate the Bold. He quite liked it.

  “We shall have a grand time playing smuggler and smuggler hunter,” Sterling said in a most serious manner, as if it were in fact a most serious matter. “And we shall amass great treasures and have grand adventures and rescue fair maidens.”

  “And wander the world and discover new places,” Quint added.

  “And…and…” Nate couldn’t think of anything. Once again he was last. But it didn’t matter. He too could have grand adventures and wander the world.

  “We need a pact, I think,” Sterling said thoughtfully. “A smugglers’ pact.”

  Nate frowned. “Do smugglers have pacts?”

  “I don’t know.” Quint shrugged. “You mean like musketeers? One for all and all for one?”

  “That’s a motto.” Sterling scoffed. “Besides, we’re brothers. We’ll always be one for all and all for one.”

  Nate studied him. “Forever and ever?”

  “As we ever have and ever will be.” Sterling nodded in a solemn manner, as if he were making a promise that would indeed last forever. “Brothers one for the other.”

  “One for the other,” Quint murmured.

  “One for the other.” Nate grinned.

  It was a very good pact.

  One

  They had the look of men who would have disregarded society entirely if they could. If they did not enjoy its comforts and its pleasures. No, not merely society but civilization itself. They shared a similarity of appearance that marked them as brothers, but it was more in the look in their eye and the set of their chin and the confidence in their walk than the coloring of their hair or the breadth of their shoulders or their taller than ordinary height.

  There was a look in the eye of the youngest, of intelligence and amusement. Even the least sensible woman knew, upon meeting his gaze, that here was a man who was more than he might at first appear. And knew as well that he was a man who might steal the heart of even the most resistant woman.

  But oh, what a lovely theft.

  Reflection of a female observer upon meeting Nathanial Harrington and his brother

  London, 1885

  It appears the natives are particularly restless this year.” Nathanial Harrington gazed over the crowd below from his vantage point on the mezzanine balcony.

  “It is spring, after all,” his older brother, Quinton, said, an amused note in his voice. “The mating rituals have begun.”

  “I daresay the cream of London society would not be at all pleased at your referring to the season’s festivities as mating rituals,” Nate said wryly.

  “As accurate as the observation might be.”

  “Accuracy has never played a significant role in the activities of society.” Nate glanced at his brother. “Nor, fortunately for you, has punctuality.”

  Quint shrugged. “I am merely fashionably late.”

  “You left Egypt a full fortnight before I did, and yet I’ve been back in London for five days now.” Nate eyed his brother. “What kept you? Where have you been?”

  “Here and there. As for what kept me, it’s remarkable, the number of—” Quint grinned in the wicked manner that had been the downfall of more than one unsuspecting woman. “—‘diversions’ a man without the accompaniment of his conscience might encounter.”

  Nate raised a brow. “When you say ‘consc
ience,’ are you referring to me?”

  “Absolutely, little brother.” Quint chuckled. “You are my conscience, the custodian of my morals, the guardian of my virtue, the—”

  Nate laughed. “I don’t seem to do a very good job of it.”

  “And for that I am eternally grateful.”

  “As am I.” As much as he hated to admit it, given that trouble seemed to nip incessantly at Quint’s heels, Nate knew his life would have been extraordinarily dull were it not for his brother’s penchant for adventure.

  When Nate had finished his studies, it was Quint who suggested that he join him on his travels and quests for the lost treasures of the ages. Together they had been to lands and places Nate never dreamed he’d see with his own eyes. The day might find them in Egypt or Persia or Asia Minor, where the Nile or the Tigris or the Euphrates flowed. Wherever men had once lived and built cities and aspired to forever.

  If truth were told, he’d rather expected to spend his days in the dusty bowels of museum libraries or the hallowed halls of one university or another. He had anticipated his life would consist of merely searching for the knowledge of the ancients. Instead, he now studied yellowed manuscripts and carved stone fragments for clues to finding the tangibles left behind by history. For Nate, the artifacts and antiquities he and his brother found breathed life into long dead civilizations and made them real. Quint was more concerned with the fine price they would bring from museums or collectors. Yet despite their differences in philosophies, or perhaps because of them, they made an excellent and accomplished team.

  “Did you…” Quint paused, the question unasked, but then it didn’t need to be said aloud.

  Nate cast his brother a resigned look. “The fines were paid, the permits arranged for the appropriate—if fictitious—dates to avoid further fines, all necessary authorities received the usual—and in a few cases, more generous than usual—bribes. And the French counsel is now certain it was not you seen leaving his wife’s rooms. Attention was diverted toward one of the Americans.” Nate shook his head. “It’s a pity really. I rather liked them.”