Page 12 of The Song of the Siren (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #2)

Recollections and regret.

Anne sat on the balcony of The Mermaid’s Tale, an untouched cup of tea before her.

She stared out at the sea, sparkling blue, and tried to still her mind.

Try as she might, it refused to obey her, conjuring memories of childhood games with Stonehaven, her skirts tucked up as she ran through the muddy lanes in his wake.

He had lived in her mind like some glorious hero of old in those days, golden and untouchable.

She had believed he knew everything, could vanquish any foe, and would always be her dearest friend.

Her father had disapproved of their friendship, unequal as it was.

Anne was wellborn, a lady, but not one who could ever raise herself up to the level of a marchioness.

Her family came from decent stock, respectable rather than estimable but, whilst her dowry was adequate enough due to the generosity of an elderly aunt, her family’s pockets were to let.

Racketing about like a hoyden with a boy destined for a marquessate was pure wickedness as far as her papa was concerned.

Anne did not care, and was too strong-willed to be reined in.

She sneaked out, was always where she was not supposed to be, and took her punishment on the chin without ever complaining.

Stonehaven’s father cared no more about their friendship than he cared about Stonehaven.

So long as his son did not break his neck, he could do as he pleased.

Anne was just a girl, a negligible consideration.

Stonehaven could run wild about the countryside with her, bed her when she was old enough and then toss her aside, but never would he marry her.

Anne knew that. Her father said so. His father did not need to say so, for it was implied in everything he did and said.

Anne did not exist in any universe the old marquess inhabited.

When Stonehaven was away at school and then at university, and then simply in town , her life seemed to bleach of all colour.

The days became endless, devoid of his wicked laughter and teasing ways.

From the age of sixteen, she barely saw him.

He disappeared from her life and, being an erratic correspondent, she rarely heard from him.

All her knowledge was gathered via months old scandal sheets, where he featured prominently, often up to no good with Lord Beaumarsh. And then she had turned eighteen.

Her first season in town had gone beautifully, but she barely cared about her success, only desperate to see Stonehaven again.

When she finally had, he had tossed her a careless smile, chucked her under the chin and said, “Well, look at you, all grown up. Who would have thought such a hoyden could look like a lady? I won’t tell if you don’t.

” Then he had winked at her and strode away, joining a rabble of disreputable youths and leaving her alone.

For reasons Anne still could not fathom, her idiotic heart had given a leap of delight at these less than flattering words, and she had fancied herself in love with him.

With each glimpse of him, each obligatory turn around the dancefloor with which he favoured her, she fell harder and deeper.

And then she had turned down a proposal of marriage from a nice, respectable man with a decent fortune.

Anne winced inwardly as she remembered the scene, remembered how she had kindly refused the offer, explaining that her heart was engaged elsewhere.

She remembered the slap of her father’s hand when he discovered what she had done, and then Stonehaven had heard of it too.

He had asked her if she had taken leave of her senses.

Her beau had been a friend of his, a man he esteemed and considered would make her an excellent husband.

In those moments, the scales had fallen, and she had realised her mistake.

Not in refusing his friend, whom she did not love, kind and decent as he was, but in believing herself in love with her old friend, and for considering for a moment that her feelings could be returned.

Stonehaven simply had not seen her that way.

She had been the little sister he had never had, and she had misinterpreted his affection for something else, for something she had hoped for against all good sense.

So the dream shattered, but she had held onto the knowledge that their friendship was real, that she might rely upon that always.

“Well, that’s a waste of a nice cuppa.”

Anne looked up, brought back to the present day as Mrs Fairway stood over her, shaking her head at the cooling brew before her.

“Sorry,” Anne replied with a sigh. “I’m rather distracted.”

“Little wonder,” Mrs Fairway said, lowering her voice and pulling out the chair beside her. “What with him turning up after all these years, proposing marriage, and now going and getting himself in such a fix. I suppose you’re feeling guilty about it?”

Anne met the woman’s eyes wordlessly.

“Well, obviously you are,” Mrs Fairway said with a sigh. “You don’t owe him nothing, my girl. What did he do for you when you had need of him?”

“He would have married me,” Anne said dully. “Even though he didn’t want to.”

“Aye, and heroic about it, weren’t he?” the lady said with a snort.

Anne smiled at her cutting tone. “He was young, barely four and twenty. His father would have murdered him, maybe even cut him off financially, and he didn’t love me, not in that way. He didn’t want to marry anyone, let alone a girl whom he considered as a little sister.”

“Well, you’ve changed your tune.” Anne shrugged, realising with some surprise that she meant the words, that guilt had not provoked them.

They were simply true. She had spent far too long blaming him for not rescuing her without a second thought, for not wishing to marry her, or at least pretending to, but she saw the truth clearly now.

She did not blame him any longer. He had merely been more clear-sighted than she and known it would be a disaster.

But she blamed herself for the events of last night.

She ought not to have intervened. If she had gone to fetch Captain Dearborn, or anyone else, likely the young men would have been escorted from the fair with little fuss.

But she had intervened, and so Stonehaven had felt obliged to play the hero and rescue her, and now… and now…

“Is there any news?” she asked, unable to consider what his future might be if he survived. The injuries had looked so — Her stomach roiled, and she shied away from the recollection.

Mrs Fairway shook her head. “Not yet. Martha will hear it from Polly soon enough, I reckon. Those girls are thick as thieves these days, and Polly knows everything that happens at the vicarage.”

“Give her the afternoon off, on the proviso that she comes here the moment there’s news.”

Mrs Fairway rolled her eyes. “Spoil her, you do. Still, I suppose the sooner you know the better, or you’ll just fret yourself to death.

I’ll fetch you a fresh pot of tea and a nice slice of the cheese tart I just made.

You make sure you eat it, or you’ll have me to answer to,” she scolded, rising to her feet and taking a moment to deadhead a geranium before patting Anne’s shoulder and bustling off.

Anne smiled, grateful for the care of a woman who was far more than an employee, and more like family.

Had Stonehaven anyone like that? Did he have anyone whom he could lean on to see him through?

Beaumarsh was his closest friend, but Stonehaven would never impose upon him when he was so newly married.

His parents were dead, and whilst she knew he had dozens of cousins and relatives who relied upon him and his generosity, he had no siblings.

Who would be there for him now, to see him through his recovery, if recover he could?

Guilt clutched at her heart, and Anne returned her gaze to the sea, but it gave her no comfort.

The Vicarage. Little Valentine, South-East Coast of England. 5 th September 1815.

“Well then, my lord, let us see what the state of affairs is,” the Dr said.

Stonehaven stiffened as he felt the doctor reach for the edges of the compress that covered his eyes.

The bandage, which had felt like a tight metal band around his eyes but had, it turned out, only been loosely placed, was already gone.

That had been both a relief and torment.

Stonehaven’s head was already pounding, his stomach sour with fear at having his worst suppositions confirmed.

Dr Arkhurst was the village doctor, a young man of science who was well regarded by most, and was, according to the reverend, serious and with much good sense. No quackery. Not the kind to give a fellow a full bottle of opium and leave him be, more was the pity.

Stonehaven could do nothing but put his trust in Honeywell and Dr Arkhurst and pray the fellow would not make matters worse.

For the past few days, exhausted, Stonehaven had mostly slept, escaping reality in a laudanum haze as often as possible.

The doctor had come and gone, but Stonehaven had been too out of his head to care or notice.

Now and then he heard snatches of music, a lovely voice that sang beautiful words, leading him out of nightmares and into more peaceful slumber, and he wondered at the strange things his mind conjured as it tried to repair itself.

Now, however, the doctor was of the opinion he’d had enough sleep, and certainly enough laudanum.

It was time he got up and moved about, an attitude that made Stonehaven at once belligerent and scared him to death.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Stonehaven snapped, his nerves jangling too hard to be polite or anything close to it. “Christ!” he exclaimed, flinching away from the daylight, which seared through his brain like a hot poker.

“The bowl, quick.”