The Longest Night Read online

  The Longest Night

  Nvengaria, Book 4

  Jennifer Ashley

  JA / AG Publishing

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt: The Pirate Next Door

  Also by Jennifer Ashley

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  December 1821

  “You will sort it out, Aunt Mary, won’t you? Please?”

  Seventeen-year-old Julia Lincolnbury bleated this plea while she pirouetted in front of her dressing table. Mary looked up distractedly from where she folded underclothing, trying to make sense of the chaos of Julia’s bedchamber.

  Julia expected “Aunt” Mary Cameron to sort out everything in her life—her bonnets, her gowns, her invitations, her maids, and her mind. If Mary had been the young woman’s governess or even her true aunt, she might feel obligated to do so, but Mary had offered to chaperone Julia solely as a favor to the girl’s father.

  Two weeks ago, when Mary had arrived in London to spend Christmas with her son, she’d happened upon Julia’s father, a sad baronet called Sir John Lincolnbury, outside a bookshop on a gray London street.

  “Stuck in London for the winter,” he’d said mournfully. His northern accent pronounced it Loondon. “I like th’ quiet, but Julia is driving me mad. She made her bow in the spring, but no one’s offered for her, poor gel. She’s been invited to a Christmas ball at the Hartwells’, the best invitation in Town, but of course she can’t attend unchaperoned. If her poor, dear mother had lived …”

  Julia’s poor, dear mother had been Mary’s closest childhood friend. When she’d died, Sir John had worked through his grief by spoiling Julia rotten.

  “You are allowed to escort her to a ball, Sir John,” Mary had pointed out as cold wind whipped at her skirts and oozed through her gloves. “You are her father, after all.”

  Sir John looked sadder still. “But a gel needs a wooman’s hand, don’t she? I can do nowt with her. And here we are in the south at an unfashionable time of year.” Sir John eyed Mary in sudden hope. “I say, Mrs. Cameron, if you’re stuck here like a lump as well …” He pronounced it loomp.

  Mary had cut off what was certain to be a long, rather wet appeal to her charitable instincts. She had come to London early to wait for her son Dougal, who would journey here to begin his holidays from Cambridge. She’d decided to meet Dougal in London because back in Scotland, Castle MacDonald—her home—was preparing for another warm, happy, overflowing celebration, which only reminded Mary of her acute loneliness. This year her brother and his new wife celebrated the coming of their son, which made Mary, though she was deliriously happy for them, lonelier still.

  “I’d be happy to chaperone Julia,” Mary said quickly. “For Allison’s sake.”

  Sir John had brightened immeasurably, which meant that the lines of perpetual gloom on his face smoothed out a bit. “Splendid, Mrs. Cameron. This will cheer up Julia no end. She’s moped about all through the shooting season in the north, and no amount of gowns and gewgaws will make her smile. Oh, you’ve changed me to a happy man indeed.”

  Mary had, the next morning, arrived at Sir John’s home. Julia had gone into transports of joy that Aunt Mary would move into their London house and go with them to the Hartwell ball. Mary had received an invitation, as she had some acquaintance with the family, which made Mary, in Julia’s eyes, second only to a goddess.

  By the nineteenth of December, the day of the ball, Mary was reflecting that even her dear friend Allison wouldn’t have asked her to take on such an onerous task as looking after Julia. But it was a distraction, and Mary needed distractions these days.

  Julia held a new gown of pale yellow muslin against her body as she admired herself in the dressing table’s mirror. “Lord Sheffley is certain to be at the ball. We must think of ways to keep him from dancing with that horrid Miss Hamilton. Aunt Mary, do think of something clever.”

  “The best way to attract a gentleman is to do nothing,” Mary said as she untangled Julia’s pile of ribbons. “If Lord Sheffley dances with Miss Hamilton, you pretend you don’t care one whit for it.”

  “But I do care,” Julia said, her jaw hardening. She gave the dress a wild swing. “I want to scratch her eyes out.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Just as with Julia’s father, Mary had discovered that a firm tone worked wonders. “Remember what I said about manners.”

  Julia held on to her rebellious look, then under Mary’s stare, wilted. “Yes, Aunt Mary,” she said meekly.

  Mary hid a sigh. Julia was naïve and feckless, but she meant well. Sir John had indulged her far too much, turning the sweet child Mary remembered into the unthinking, rather selfish creature she beheld now.

  A bell rang downstairs. Julia dropped the yellow gown, which crumpled to the floor, and dashed out of the room. “The post has come!” she shouted at the top of her voice.

  Mary bit back yet another exasperated sigh, picked up the dress, smoothed it out, and handed it to the lady’s maid, who’d jumped up from her mending. Mary gave the poor, overworked young woman a little smile of sympathy and left the chamber in Julia’s wake.

  She reached the landing in time to see Julia, in the hall below, snatch a handful of letters out of the footman’s gloved fingers. Julia sorted through them, dropping several and squealing when she found ones addressed to her.

  “So much correspondence one has when one’s friends are away in the country,” she said as the long-suffering footman gathered the letters she’d dropped. “Oh, here’s one for you Aunt Mary.” Julia tossed it carelessly at Mary as Mary stepped off the last stair.

  Mary took the letter, broke the wax seal stamped with the crest of Viscount Stoke, and opened it. The missive was from Lady Stoke, with whom Mary had made acquaintance when she’d come to London last spring. It was whispered that Viscount Stoke had once been a pirate, and Mary admitted that with his tanned skin, sundrenched hair, and shrewd blue eyes, he looked the part.

  I was pleased to learn that you would be attending Lady Hartwell’s ball tomorrow evening, Lady Stoke wrote. It might interest you to know that the ambassador from Nvengaria and his wife will be there as well. Having met your brother, Mr. MacDonald, in Nvengaria, they are eager to make your acquaintance. The ambassador’s aide, one Baron Valentin, indicated that he previously met you at your family’s house in Scotland; indeed, that he stayed with your family for a number of months. I am certain you will enjoy this unlooked-for reunion.

  Mary’s fingers went numb and the letter fell to the floor.

  “Aunt Mary?” Julia asked, her jubilation turning quickly to concern. “Is it bad news? Your son?”

  “No, no.” Mary retrieved the letter before Julia could pounce on it. She held the paper away from the eager girl and crumpled it in her fist. “Not bad news. But I will not be able to attend the Hartwell Ball.”

  Mary turned and marched up the steps to her chamber, her heart hammering until she was sick with it, ignoring Julia’s shrieks of dismay.

  * * *

  The man needed to be watched.

  Baron Valentin glided after the Nvengarian ambassador and his wife as they entered Hartwell House the night of the Christmas ball.

  The house overflowed with ladies in glittering jewels, gentlemen in dark finery, the women in gowns of all colors of the rainbow. Garlands of greenery lined the windows, the friezes around the tops of the walls, and staircase banisters. Balls of mistletoe d
angled from every doorway and chandelier.

  The English had a bizarre custom—if a person paused beneath a clump of mistletoe, it was an invitation to be kissed. In Nvengaria, the parasitic mistletoe was a symbol of death, used in funeral wreaths. But Valentin had learned during his previous visit to the British Isles just how odd the Britons could be.

  He had no interest in attending balls, even in one of the most lavish houses in London. Crowds unnerved him, English chatter unnerved him, and acres of bared female shoulders were unsettling.

  But Valentin couldn’t afford to let Duke Rudolfo out of his sight. Much as he chafed at this assignment, Valentin was not about to fail.

  He walked a pace and a half behind Rudolfo, watching the much-ribboned hem of Duchess Wilhelmina’s dress flow across the marble tiles. If the Hartwells’ servants hadn’t dusted the floor earlier it would be well dusted now.

  Rudolfo led them into the ballroom, a lavish chamber with a mosaic-patterned ceiling that spoke of Near Eastern luxury. Lines of colorful ladies and monochromatic gentlemen met and parted in an English country dance, the room seeming to move.

  Valentin couldn’t help glancing through the throng, searching, seeking. He did not really expect to see the red-lipped, dark-haired Scottish lady he’d met last year, though he’d fallen into the habit of looking for her everywhere. She’d tended him when he’d been hurt, and her lilting voice had twined around his heart and pulled him back to life.

  She wasn’t here. Of course she wasn’t. Mary would be in Scotland at her brother’s castle, preparing for Christmas and Hogmanay. She’d be helping the housekeeper stir the black bun, perspiring in the warm kitchen while firelight glistened on her hair. She’d smile her rare smile that had made his blood sing.

  Valentin had kissed her, touched her, asked her to come to him in Nvengaria. He’d gone home and waited for her through a brief, golden summer and a colder than usual autumn.

  She’d never come. As the weather worsened, so did Valentin’s hopes of opening the door of his rundown manor house to find Mary Cameron smiling on his threshold.

  Why should she bother? The journey to Nvengaria, a tiny country wedged between the Austrian Empire and the Ottoman one, was long and dangerous, and Mary had every reason to stay in her brother’s castle. Her new sister-in-law was having a baby, and Mary had a son of her own to look after, even if he was seventeen.

  As an added complication, Valentin was part logosh, one of the strange and magical creatures that inhabited Nvengaria’s mountains. Mary knew that. She’d seen him shift to his animal form—a black wolf—and she’d not been upset by it. Perhaps after Valentin had departed for Nvengaria, she’d had second thoughts about promising herself to a man who was part animal. That fact would make even Nvengarian women think twice.

  Valentin had resigned himself to the fact that Mary wasn’t coming. That he’d likely never see her again unless he sought her out.

  When Grand Duke Alexander had come to Valentin and asked him to journey to England to keep an eye on Duke Rudolfo, Valentin had quickly agreed. He’d already decided to make his way to Scotland again and find Mary—to know—and had seized on the opportunity to travel this far.

  Ambassador Rudolfo didn’t know Valentin was logosh, which was one reason Alexander had chosen Valentin for this duty. Valentin, in fact, was only half logosh. He could pass for human very well.

  A commotion behind him made him turn. At the head of the receiving line, a young woman was crowing to Lady Hartwell at the top of her voice.

  “What a privilege to be here, my lady. What an honor. Mrs. Cameron and I were so pleased by your kind invitation.”

  And there stood Mary, Valentin’s Highland lady, just behind the girl, Mary’s face set in tired patience. Valentin had no idea who the young woman was, nor who was the plump gentleman behind Mary, nor why Mary should be with them. He only saw her. Here.

  A year fell away. Memories poured at him—Valentin lying in a stone chamber in a drafty Scottish castle, Mary leaning to tend him. Her bodice had been damp with the water she’d used to sponge his wound, her face beaded with perspiration. A tendril of dark hair had escaped her prim bun and stuck to her cheek, and he’d reached up to touch her.

  She’d gasped, eyes widening. Then she’d, amazingly, leaned down to him and kissed him. Valentin had slid his hand behind her neck and held on while her breath swirled into his mouth and their lips had clung. He’d tasted her sweetness—Scottish honey and heady wine.

  Later, he’d revealed all his secrets to her. Valentin had kissed her again, held her supple body against his. Now his heart beat in slow painful throbs as Mary stood in stillness across the ballroom.

  As her companions effused over Lord and Lady Hartwell, Mary turned to sweep the crowd with her gaze. Her eyes met Valentin’s.

  Everything stopped. Mary did not move, and neither did Valentin. Her hair was deep brown, candlelight catching its inner glow, and her dark blue bodice slid seductively from her shoulders. A man privileged to touch her could twine his arms around her waist, pull her against him, press his mouth to her bare throat.

  Valentin’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. After months of waiting and planning, torn by anger, impatience, and need, he at last stood in the same room with her.

  Shrill female laughter cut through the polite chatter and strains of music from the orchestra. The young lady Mary had arrived with had moved to a knot of gentlemen, where she waved her fan and sashayed her hips.

  Mary pressed her mouth closed and glided across the room, graceful as a doe, to fetch her. She took the young lady by the elbow and steered her out of the ballroom, the girl arguing every step of the way.

  Valentin let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Mary, here—why? Who were those people, and why did Mary behave as a mother would to the young lady?

  Too much time had passed, so much had happened in Mary’s life, and Valentin was no longer part of it. The thought burned through him like a slow match.

  Someone bumped him. New lines of dancing had formed around Valentin, as he stood like a rock against the tide. The guests eyed him askance, wondering what the strange-looking foreigner was doing. Valentin took himself out of the way.

  Then he cursed. Ambassador Rudolfo, the possible traitor whose every move Valentin was supposed to watch, was nowhere in sight.

  Chapter 2

  “There you are, my boy,” Rudolfo called to Valentin in Nvengarian, as Valentin found his way into the upstairs card room.

  The house was confusing, with many connected chambers, corridors, and courtyards, and it had taken Valentin a quarter of an hour to run Rudolfo to ground.

  In this chamber, gentlemen and ladies clumped around tables, gazing at their cards in rapt concentration. Conversation was hushed, the focus on the game, the slap of cards punctuated with soft cries of victory or sighs of defeat. Above them on the walls, paintings of stiff gentlemen, women, and horses watched over all.

  Duke Rudolfo clapped Valentin on the back, a habit Valentin already abhorred. “This is where our work is done in England, my lad. Over their games of whist and piquet and vingt-un. You lose gracefully at cards, and they eat from your hands. This is what Prince Damien tells me, in any case.”

  Rudolfo’s mouth pulled into a slight sneer as he spoke Damien’s name. Duke Rudolfo thought himself safe showing his disapproval of Nvengaria’s Imperial Prince to Valentin—who had, once upon a time, been opposed to Damien himself.

  Valentin, in fact, had gone so far as to attack Damien in his own palace, an event that had won him fame in the wrong quarters. This was another reason Grand Duke Alexander had given Valentin the assignment to watch Rudolfo—Rudolfo believed Valentin in sympathy with him, and therefore would be incautious.

  Before Valentin could think of a reply, Duchess Wilhelmina swept into the card room. Behind her came Mary, the young woman in her charge, and the plump man Valentin had seen with them downstairs.

  “Rudolfo,” Duchess Wilhelmina sang
out as she approached them. “This is Mary Cameron, sister of the most honorable Egan MacDonald of Scotland.”

  Rudolfo swiveled an admiring gaze to Mary’s bosom and let it rest there as he took her offered hand and bowed over it. “Charmed, my lady.”

  Valentin fought his sudden logosh instinct to rip out Rudolfo’s throat. Rudolfo liked to look at ladies, the more comely the better, and Mary was certainly comely.

  Mary raised a sleek brow at him. “You are kind, Your Grace.”

  “No, do not be so formal,” the ambassador boomed in painfully accented English. “Address me as Rudolfo, and my wife as Mina. You are friend to Nvengaria, no?”

  Valentin half expected Mary to say, “No,” very firmly. Through his anger, he wanted to laugh. Rudolfo would never take in Mary.

  “My brother has said nothing but good things about Nvengaria,” Mary replied smoothly. “And of course, Zarabeth, the prince’s cousin, is now my sister-in-law.”

  No mention of Valentin. His temper flared. He would get an explanation out of her, make her tell him why she’d shunned him. Why she continued to shun him.

  The young woman was bouncing on her toes. Mary introduced her to the ambassador and his wife as Miss Julia Lincolnbury and her father, Sir John. Rudolfo at least did not slide his lecherous gaze over Miss Lincolnbury. He had enough sense to leave virginal daughters alone, besides which, virgins bored him.

  “Nvengarians, eh?” Sir John Lincolnbury said. “Funny, Nvengarians came up when I was looking over some of my investments in the City today. You buy much braid, you lot do. By the bucketful.” He pointed at the gold trim adorning the ambassador’s coat and glanced at Valentin, who wore his black military dress with plenty of braid on his shoulders. “You dress like soldiers, but there ain’t no more war in Europe, now that we gave old Boney a kicking, eh?”

  “Of course,” Rudolfo said, unoffended. “The Nvengarian style of dress reminds us of old days, when we had to battle all the time to keep our country free of invaders. We still do this, if not so actively. That is why we have so many ambassadors.”