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The Second Lady Emily
THE SECOND LADY EMILY
Allison Lane
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Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13
PROLOGUE
December 24, 1812
Andrew Villiers, Sixth Marquess of Broadbanks, slumped deeper into his wingback
chair, staring at the glass of port in his right hand. Firelight flashed through the wine
like rubies, recalling the necklace he had once dreamed of placing around his wife's
creamy throat. His fingers tightened.
Emily.
She had been gone six months, five days, two hours, and—he squinted at the clock—
seven minutes. The exact time of death was engraved on his heart. He had held her most
of that last day, tears streaming unheeded down his face as her life slipped away, her
final words sighing his name. If not for the duty he owed his title, he would have joined
her.
He glanced across the drawing room to where his marchioness stitched one of her
hideous seat covers. Not that he cared what they looked like. Even loathing no longer
moved him—for the covers, for his wife, for himself and the insanity that had brought
him to this pass. But hatred wouldn't come. Fog had finally deadened the last of his
feelings.
Draining his glass, he poured another.
The year had brought little but death—of family and friends, of honor and virtue, of
heart, soul, and mind. His brother Randolph, gone at four-and-twenty; his father, whom
he sorely missed despite their frequent disagreements; and sweet Emily, tragically dead
at eighteen, a victim of his own dishonor. If only he had wed her out of hand! She
would still live, and he could have avoided this travesty of a marriage.
He drank deeply, searching for the relief that only wine could bring.
Fay.
An unexpected flicker of emotion stabbed through the mind-numbing haze. Abhorrence.
She was evil incarnate, a pox on the face of humanity, Eden's snake, Satan's
handmaiden. But he would soon be rid of her. If the child was a boy, very soon. The
image of Fay lying dead had often tempted him. He was already doomed to hell, so
murdering his wife would make no difference. Not that he would actually kill her.
Death was too quick, too clean. Her crimes could only be avenged by a lingering, pain-
wracked demise—which showed how far he had drifted from honor.
He owned an ancient keep in the Scottish highlands. Enough of it was habitable to
house her and the servants who would guard her. Recent repairs had made the walls
secure enough to prevent any escape. Banishment would be far more satisfying than
mere death. He shivered as a forgotten remnant of conscience surfaced. Who would
have thought that he could grow so harsh? But no one who really knew Fay would
condemn him.
The decision lightened his heart. Perhaps he was emerging from the shock of the past
year. Or perhaps wresting this small control of his life raised a flicker of hope for the
future. Please let the child be a boy!
He poured more wine, noting that his hand remained steady. And just as well. He must
attend services in another hour. It was the only reason he remained in the drawing room.
How different this marriage was from the one he had envisioned. If only...
Again he stared at his glass. The coals shifted, freeing a burst of flame. Emily's beloved
face hovered before his damp eyes. She had been too young to die. Too sweet. Too
innocent. Too incredibly lovely. How could a righteous God have called her away?
Why did either of them deserve such punishment? Not even Randolph ... ?
But he refused to recall that.
* * * *
Hardwick paused in the doorway, his eyes scanning the drawing room. Lord
Broadbanks stared into the fire, even more morose than usual. Her ladyship looked up
and frowned.
"Surely the coachman did not mistake the time,” she snapped, with a scathing look at
the clock.
He ignored her. “Mr. Stevens requests a word, my lord,” he reported, naming the estate
steward. “He is in the study."
Broadbanks gave no sign that he had heard.
"Send him in here,” ordered Lady Broadbanks.
Her husband didn't move.
"At once, my lady,” the butler agreed helplessly, suppressing a sigh. Lady Broadbanks
had taken advantage of his lordship's growing distraction to meddle in estate affairs, a
situation none of the servants approved. But they had no power to remedy it. She had
already turned off several who had dared criticize her. After summoning the steward, he
remained near the open doorway, hoping there was something he could do to help,
though he knew there was not.
Mr. Stevens halted just inside the room, his shoulders imperceptibly sagging as his eyes
took in the scene.
"What is it, Stevens?” asked Lady Broadbanks.
"Jeremy Fallon just returned from Dover, my lord,” he reported, addressing his
employer despite the man's distraction. “A woman and child are sheltering in one of the
caves on Chalk Down. It's no place for man or beast, my lord. We'll have snow by
morning if my knee is any prophet. She'll freeze out there. As will the babe."
"What class of woman are we discussing?” demanded the marchioness.
Stevens sighed. “A gypsy lass,” he admitted reluctantly. “With an infant."
Lady Broadbanks drew herself up in furious hauteur. “A thieving gypsy! And unwed,
I'll be bound. Intolerable! Evict her at once. And make sure she knows never to trespass
again. I'll not have such trash on my land."
"She needs shelter,” said Stevens, a plea obvious in his voice and in the look he threw at
Broadbanks.
"Then send her to the workhouse,” she snapped. “We want no lawless vagabonds here."
"My lord?"
In the hall, Hardwick cringed. Stevens was risking his position by questioning her
ladyship's orders. Appealing to his lordship never worked. Broadbanks was firmly under
the thumb of his shrewish wife, and there was little the servants could do about it.
Broadbanks lifted his head and frowned. Even the dullest observer could see that he had
heard nothing of the exchange.
"How dare he insult me by ignoring a direct order?” hissed Lady Broadbanks before he
could question Stevens's business.
"Do it,” said Broadbanks wearily.
* * * *
The clock chimed one as the Marquess of Broadbanks stumbled across the hall. January
the first. A new year. It had to be better than the old one.
A series of raps exploded through the air. He barely identified them before Hardwick
appeared, still pulling on his coat. Someone was demanding admittance, but who would
be calling at this hour? The roads were impassable.
"Murderers!” screeched a voice the moment Hardwick pulled open the door. Several
rocks bounced into the hall. Others lay on the porch. “Heartless monsters!"
Broadbanks squinted to bring the scene into focus. A gypsy stood on the drive, her face
swathed in a scarf, colored skirts and shawls billowing as she hurled another rock. This
one smashed against the balustrade.
"You killed my husband! You killed my son!” she hissed, shaking the bundle of rags
clutched to her bosom. “Murderers!” The word ended in a wracking cough. “Arrogant
beasts! How can you call yourselves models of propriety, yet callously destroy
everything I have?"
The charges reverberated through his head, though he had to strain to hear as her voice
grew weaker, her breathing more labored.
"But you will pay, Gorgio . I am Rom, gifted with the sight.” She drew herself taller, her
voice now filled with power. “Cursed you are and cursed you will be, you and all who
bear the name of Broadbanks. Your women will prove barren, as will your shortened
days. Wealth will drain from your fingers like water through sand. You will be as
nothing.” Spitting at her feet, she collapsed.
"My God!” gasped Hardwick, abandoning his butler's demeanor as he raced to her side.
Broadbanks followed more slowly. While Hardwick tended the gypsy, he hesitantly
unwrapped her bundle. Inside was the frozen body of a malnourished boy.
Hardwick pulled the scarf from the gypsy's face and gasped. “She's little more than a
child."
Pity filled Broadbank's heart. “Poor thing. Get her inside and summon Dr. Harvey."
"It's too late. She's dead."
Leaning closer, Broadbanks stared into a face still twisted with hatred. Her curse rang in
his ears. He shivered.
The snow was thickening. “See that they are buried,” he ordered dully. “Quietly."
"At once, my lord."
But as he turned back to the house, Broadbanks knew that any attempt to suppress the
story would fail. A footman and saucer-eyed maid stared from the front door. Two
grooms watched from the drive. He sighed. Another death to usher in the new year. Not
a propitious omen.
Two days later, Lady Broadbanks birthed a stillborn son.

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