Midnight Mistress
Midnight Mistress is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
2013 Loveswept eBook Edition
Copyright © 2000 by Ruth Owen.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 978-0-307-82210-9
Originally published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House Company, New York, in 2000.
www.readloveswept.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
The Editor’s Corner
London January 1, 1800
A new century!
Cathedral bells all over the City, from St. Peter’s grand chimes to the slow bells at Aldgate, pealed a welcome to the new hundred years. The palace Horse Guards paraded in front of Pall Mall, while mummers and mountebanks gave free shows for the children in Hyde Park. Earlier that morning, several hot air balloons had risen into the clear dawn skies, the impressive but impractical inventions of the last century delighting and astounding the celebrating throng. Pugilists staged exhibition matches for the masses, and there was a prime bang-up at the Bell Tavern over whether the favorite’s mendozy punch was a flush hit or a hum concocted by their two managers before the fight. All in all, it was a glorious day, and the cold, crisp winter day rang with the sounds of celebration. And why not? There was much to celebrate.
The unpleasantness with the Colonies in America was over and done with. The war with France continued, but with the anticipated surrender of Malta, and the recent signing of Russo-Turk alliance, the devil Napoleon was at least temporarily at bay. With the new century had come astonishing advances in science, such as Joseph Priestley’s machine for producing electricity by friction, and Humphrey Davy’s incredible “column of electric light” from a battery. And Newcomen’s coal-powered pumping engine, first developed almost seventy years ago for the Cornwall mines, had been redesigned by a young engineer named George Stephenson, who was using it to power a loud, impractical but still fascinating invention called a steam locomotive.
Almost seven hundred new books had been published the year before, and magazines such as the Morning Post and the Gentleman’s Press were now being read by the upper class, though such ratified pursuits were, of course, far beyond the limited intelligence of the general public. Advances in medicine and social hygiene were reducing the City death rate from disease from one person in twenty to half that figure. But most impressive of all was the fact that the glorious British Empire stretched across the entire world, from India, to Australia, to the West Indies. And almost every ounce of cargo that came from the mighty empire, whether it was rum from the Indies, gold from Africa, jade from the Orient, or stone obelisks from the desert graves of Egypt, was brought in through the immense and sprawling network of piers, roads, tunnels and warehouses known as the London docks at Wapping, one of the largest ports in the world.
Yes, there was much to celebrate, and on this day of days everyone in the City, from the most pampered lord down to the most low-born chimney sweep, put away their quizzing-glasses, riding crops, mops, brooms, and shovels and joined in the revelry.
Everyone—save one.
Eight-year-old Lady Juliana Dare sat on a tea crate on the Execution docks near Limehouse Cut, watching her father’s newest schooner, the Swallow, floating along the bright waters of the Thames. Her father owned many ships, along with a number of profitable estates and holdings, for the marquis of Albany was a rich and powerful man. But all his riches hadn’t mattered a whit three weeks ago, when Juliana’s delicate, beautiful mother had died of influenza. And all of his power couldn’t help Juliana find a way out of the dark, hurting place inside her, where all she could think about were the stories her mother would never read her, the kisses she’d never feel on her brow, and the warm arms that would never be there to hold her.
“Lord, are you crying again?”
Juliana looked up into the handsome, irritated face of her cousin Rollo Grenville. Ten years her senior, Grenville was Juliana’s closest relative besides her father. Lord Albany had brought the young man down from Oxford because Grenville had lost his own parents years ago and he’d believed her cousin would be a comfort to her. What Albany failed to realize was that Grenville had never cared much for his parents and was only marginally put out by their loss. He’d never much cared for Juliana, either.
Being saddled with a mewling baby in the midst of all this merriment was more than Rollo could handle. He looked at his silver pocket watch and determined that Albany would not be back from his business meeting for another three-quarter hour. And the buxom tavern wench who was throwing glances his way did not look as if she was prepared to wait that long. “Listen, I want you to promise to wait right here. Right here, mind you. I’ll be back in ten min—” Grenville stiffened as the wench lifted her skirt to display a very immodest expanse of calf, then disappeared behind a stack of barrels. “All right, fifteen minutes. Wait here.”
Her cousin’s absence meant nothing to Juliana. Her world was just as cold and empty with him as it was without him. She used to love sitting on the docks and listen to her father tell of the wonderful, exotic places he’d visited.
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