Finding the Black Orchid : A Victorian Historical Romance (Brides of Scandal Book 3) Read online

  Finding the Black Orchid

  By

  Diana Bold

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Finding the Black Orchid

  By Diana Bold

  Copyright November 2018

  Cover Artist: Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Author’s Note

  When I first wrote MARRYING THE AMERICAN HEIRESS, I had several scenes in Jane Bennett’s point of view, showing the progression of the love story between her and Julian Tremaine. At the advice of several beta readers, who thought that Jane and Julian’s love story overshadowed Emma and Michael’s, I took those scenes out. However, I’ve already had several people contacting me and saying that they couldn’t wait to read Jane and Julian’s story.

  I really love Jane and Julian’s story as well — I’ve decided to call it SEDUCING THE SPINSTER — but it is only novella length. So, I am going to go ahead and release Jessalyn and Ethan’s book, which you’re now reading, and offer SEDUCING THE SPINSTER on my website www.dianabold.com for free when you sign up for my newsletter.

  If you’re already on my newsletter, email me at [email protected] and I will send it to you in whichever format you desire.

  Thanks for reading!

  Diana Bold

  Prologue

  The Road to London

  July 1867

  Christian Hunter cleared his throat and fumbled for the flask of whiskey in his pocket. Sometimes liquor eased the burning ache in his chest, but as another cough tore through him, stealing his breath and his will, he knew he’d waited too long. His lungs contracted in violent spasms, doubling him over.

  “Dear God, Christian. Are you all right?”

  The concern in his sister Jessalyn’s soft voice momentarily eclipsed his pain. She hadn’t spoken kindly to him in over a month, not since she’d found out he’d lost her dowry in a game of chance.

  He hated her to see him this way, but he’d known he couldn’t hide his illness forever. Especially given the fact that they’d been cooped up together in an enclosed coach since early morning.

  An eternity seemed to pass before he could draw enough breath to answer. Loathe to frighten her, he kept his head lowered until he managed to wipe the blood from his lips.

  “I’m all right,” he whispered, his voice shredded and raw. “Just a touch of the croup.”

  He glanced across the small, lamp-lit space, horrified to find her staring at the blood-splattered handkerchief clenched in his trembling hand. Crumpling the offending fabric into a ball, he shoved it into his breast pocket.

  But the damage was done. Jessalyn’s blue eyes filled with dawning comprehension.

  “The croup?” Her heavy satin skirts rustled as she crossed the narrow aisle and resettled herself beside him. Frowning, she bit her lip and pressed her cool hand against his sweat-drenched forehead.

  Christian dropped his gaze, knowing it was time to tell her the truth. “It’s consumption, Jess. I’ve had it for some time.”

  “Oh, Christian.” Jessalyn’s face whitened with shock. She sank heavily against the velvet cushions. “How long have you known?”

  “A year or so.” A shudder ran through him as he remembered the shattering day when he’d discovered his persistent cough wasn’t going to go away. Devastated, unable to face the thought of his own mortality, he’d plunged himself into a whirlwind of self-destructive behavior.

  He’d gambled away nearly everything by the time Jessalyn arrived on the doorstep of his London home and demanded her dowry. The betrayal in her eyes when he’d told her he’d lost it made him realize just how badly he’d shirked his responsibilities.

  He’d been her guardian since their father’s death ten years ago, but he’d never arranged for her to have a debut. In fact, he’d never given much thought at all to the little girl he’d left to be raised by the servants at Harding Hall.

  She’d become a woman while he wasn’t paying attention. Desperate for her life to begin, she’d allowed herself to be seduced by the only handsome young man she knew. James Flint—the groom in Christian’s own stables.

  “You should have told me,” Jessalyn chided. “What a terrible burden to bear all by yourself.”

  Humbled by her tenderness, Christian glanced at her beneath his lowered lashes. She was beautiful, his Jess, even when worn down by sorrow and humiliation.

  Women were a mystery to him, such a strange combination of strength and vulnerability. The sweet curve of her cheek and the jut of her stubborn chin made him smile. Soft light from the swaying lantern haloed her golden hair. She looked like an angel.

  A pregnant angel, he reminded himself, just as another coughing fit seized him. Flint had turned his back on Jessalyn when he realized there would be no financial gain and refused to marry her even after he learned she carried his child.

  Christian had compounded her misery by showing up at Harding Hall earlier this week and confessing he’d lost not only the family manor but also their fortune. She’d gathered what little remained of their family’s treasures with a stoic acceptance that stripped him to the bone.

  He wanted to make it up to her but didn’t know how.

  When his cough subsided, Jessalyn patted her lap as though he were a small child. “Rest your head for a while, Chris. We won’t reach London for hours.” Her coaxing smile silenced any protest.

  “All right.” He couldn’t find the strength to resist. He’d been a boy of seven when his mother died giving birth to Jessalyn. Since then, no one but his sister had ever granted him the slightest bit of tenderness. He stretched out and propped his long legs on the opposite seat, nestling his head in the billowing softness of Jessalyn’s skirts. She smelled of lilacs, just as their mother always had.

  “I’ll take care of you.” She stroked the damp hair off his brow, her touch unbearably gentle. “I’ll coddle you until you’re as good as new.”

  He heard the guilt in her voice, the regret. No doubt she wished she could take back every sharp word she’d spoken to him during the past few weeks.

  Closing his eyes against the sting of tears, he wondered how in the hell he’d managed to destroy his life so completely. Worse, how he’d managed to drag his sister, who was all he had left in the world, down along with him.

  Jessalyn continued to stroke his hair, her hand trembling. Without opening his eyes, he knew she was crying. Crying for herself, perhaps. For lost dreams and shattered innocence.

  But Christian doubted the tears she shed were selfish ones. Instinctively, he knew she grieved for him.

  That seemed a bit premature, since he wasn’t even dead yet.

  “Don’t cry.” He reached for her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. But he didn’t look at her. He couldn’t bear it. “Everything will be all right, Jess.”

  It was an empty promise, like all the others he’d made. For the last few weeks, he’d wracked his brain for a solution to their problems. The money was gone, and even the London house was in danger of being seized by creditors. Soon, he and his sister would be out on the street.

  The only person who might care what happened to them was half a world
away, hunting orchids in the jungles of Brazil.

  Ethan Tremaine.

  Christian’s heart gave a painful thud of emotion at the mere thought of his old friend. Ethan would come if asked, of that he had no doubt. Ethan labored under the misguided notion that he owed Christian for befriending him when everyone else, even his own family, had forsaken him.

  Christian hated to trade upon that friendship now, but it was the only card he had left to play.

  Eager to rationalize his decision, he tried to convince himself he’d be doing Ethan a favor by bringing him back to England. Ethan had been running from his past for far too long. He couldn’t wander the world alone forever.

  What Ethan needed most was his older brother’s forgiveness, something Christian knew the Earl of Basingstoke had granted long ago. In fact, the earl had said as much the last time Christian spoke with him.

  The kernel of an idea began to form.

  Christian couldn’t bear the thought of dying without ever seeing Ethan again, and Jessalyn needed a husband…

  Perhaps he could count upon the earl to help bring Ethan home.

  Jessalyn’s breath caught in a shuddering sigh, and Christian squeezed her hand.

  “It will be all right,” he whispered, and this time, his voice held much more conviction.

  Chapter One

  San Paolo, Brazil

  August 15, 1867

  A black orchid.

  Dangling from the branch of an ancient cashew tree, the fragile, inky blossom floated weightlessly—like a dark, ephemeral ghost. Trembling from some unseen breeze, the flower seemed eerily prescient, as though fully aware of Ethan Tremaine’s breathless interest.

  “Look at you,” Ethan whispered, leaning forward for a closer examination. He took a deep breath and let the orchid’s potent, musky perfume fill his senses. “You beautiful, beautiful thing.”

  Black orchids were the stuff of legends. Some chemists swore the magical petals could cure all the world’s ills. Others believed the flower held a deadly poison.

  For most of the last decade, his entire life had revolved around finding one.

  His search had taken him to the jungles of Asia and Africa, then across the Atlantic to South America. He’d survived encounters with angry native tribes and man-eating tigers. He’d been laid low by an unexplained fever in Burma and shot by a greedy competitor in Cameroon.

  What luck that he’d taken to exploring away the daylight hours while waiting for his Brazilian agents to complete the preparations for his latest expedition. Yet how ironic that after all his travels, he’d found the object of his obsession less than a hundred yards from the bustling lobby of the seedy hotel he currently called home.

  He reached to remove the orchid from the tree but hesitated with his hand a mere breath away. His quest had consumed him for so long he couldn’t imagine it coming to an end.

  An odd sort of panic swept through him as he realized he’d purposely chosen a goal he’d believed to be unattainable. What would he do with his life now? How would he fill his empty days?

  Lost in thought, he took a step back. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the canopy and illuminated his find in a whole new light. He froze, and the blood drained from his face.

  The orchid was a deep, rich shade of purple. Fit for a king, but purple, nonetheless.

  For a long moment, he simply stared at it, feeling the strangest sense of betrayal. Stupid, he told himself. After all, he’d only betrayed himself by seeing what he wanted to see. And he had to admit this wasn’t the first time he’d gone tilting at windmills.

  With a pronounced sigh, he extracted the orchid from the tree and trudged back toward the hotel. The orchid he bore might not be black, but it was still an amazing find, sure to win him both wealth and recognition. He could offer it as a gift to the Queen, who was a rabid orchid enthusiast, and ensure a permanent spot in her favor.

  He should be thrilled. But he wasn’t. The flashes of happiness he sometimes found in his work never dispelled the darkness within his soul for very long.

  He entered the hotel and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The threadbare carpet and battered furniture that graced the lobby made him wince. Sometimes he managed to forget how far he’d fallen from the glittering aristocracy to which he’d been born, but his current surroundings jarred him back to reality.

  “Senor Tremaine? You have a letter.”

  Ethan glanced over at the desk clerk, and all thoughts of today’s failure fled his mind. Changing direction, he gave the old man a rare, genuine smile. “From England?” But he already knew the answer. Only one person in the world ever wrote to him.

  The thin, balding clerk grinned. “Si. All the way from England.”

  “Excellent.” Ethan accepted the travel-stained envelope with the same care he’d used extricating the orchid from the tree. Too many months had passed since he’d last received a letter from his old friend, Christian Hunter, Viscount Harding.

  Heart sinking, he realized the bold, slanting script didn’t belong to Christian. Instead, the missive bore the seal of Ethan’s older brother, Julian, the Earl of Basingstoke.

  Frowning, he took the stairs two at a time and tucked the letter beneath his chin as he paused to unlock his door. Once inside, he placed the purple orchid in a specially designed glass case, then sprawled across the rickety bed and stared down at the letter with reluctant curiosity.

  It would be inaccurate to say he and his brother weren’t on good terms. Truth be told, they weren’t on any terms at all. Years had passed since they’d last spoken.

  Even then, they’d communicated through solicitors. Ethan had sacrificed what remained of his pride by pleading with his brother to finance his first expedition. To his surprise, Julian had provided the funds without question.

  Oceans and continents of silence had stretched between them ever since.

  Ethan often wondered if his brother still blamed him for the tragedy that had torn their family apart, but he preferred to let the past remain buried. He’d certainly never expected Julian to be the one to bridge the gap.

  Holding his breath in trepidation, Ethan opened the envelope. Inside, he found an engraved wedding announcement, inviting him to attend the nuptials of the Earl of Basingstoke and Lady Jane Bennett a little over four months hence. On Christmas Eve.

  As he unfolded the invitation, a single sheet of paper fluttered out to rest upon the shabby coverlet. Ethan shifted closer to the window in order to decipher the tiny rows of cramped, careful script:

  August 12, 1867

  Dear Ethan,

  I write this letter in part to appease my future wife, who believes I’ll never be happy until I make peace with you, and in part because I’ve known for years that she’s right. I’ve taken pen in hand at least a dozen times since you left the country, only to find myself staring at a blank page, unsure where to begin. So much has gone wrong between us, it’s hard to imagine ever making things right.

  For a long time, I was furious with you for leaving, even though I know I helped to drive you away. I cringe every time I remember the hateful things I said. How deeply those words must have cut. I can only hope that time, distance, and wisdom have convinced you of something I knew all along— what happened to Nathan, Elizabeth, and Mother was not your fault. Forgive me for making those dark days worse, for not standing up for you when you needed me most.

  Please come home. I know I have no right to ask, but it would mean a great deal to me if you would stand beside me during my wedding. After all, you’re the only family I have left.

  Your brother,

  Julian

  P. S. Did you know your old friend, Lord Harding, is gravely ill? Consumption. Rumor has it that he won’t last long.

  Despite the humid Brazilian heat, a chill traveled up Ethan’s spine. His brother’s words echoed in his mind, upsetting long-held beliefs and rattling doors he’d locked long ago.

  Self-preservation urged him to rip the letter to shred
s and pretend he’d never seen it. But whether by accident or design, Julian’s careless postscript had sealed Ethan’s fate.

  He could ignore his brother’s belated apology. He could even resist the urge to accept Julian’s invitation to return to England and attempt to forge a new relationship out of the shattered remnants of the past.

  But he couldn’t turn his back on the only true friend he’d ever had.

  He and Christian Hunter had been roommates at Harrow, the boarding school where Ethan’s father had banished him after the accident that changed his life forever. He’d been twelve years old, and everyone he’d ever loved was either dead or blamed him for causing the senseless tragedy.

  He might never have come to terms with what had happened if not for Christian’s friendship.

  They hadn’t seen each other in years, not since Christian took his father’s place as Viscount Harding and Ethan went exploring, but they’d kept in touch via frequent letters.

  It had always comforted Ethan to know that no matter where he went in the world, someone still gave a damn whether he returned.

  Overwhelmed with grief, guilt, and an unreasonable fury, he hurriedly packed. He didn’t think his brother knew him well enough to manipulate him so cleverly, but whether he had, or he hadn’t, one thing was clear. Ethan couldn’t remain in Brazil while Christian was sick, perhaps dying, in England.

  After years of running from his past, it was time to go home.

  Chapter Two

  London, England

  September 10, 1867

  Lady Jessalyn Hunter hated London.

  She despised the coal dust that choked the sky and turned her clothes black every time she went outside. She hated the crowds and congested streets, the unpleasant sounds and odors of too many people living in close proximity.