Miss Tavistock's Mistake: Clean and Sweet Regency Romance: Brides of Mayfair Book One Read online

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  MISS TAVISTOCK’S MISTAKE

  Copyright © 2020 by Linore Rose Burkard

  Published by LILLIPUT PRESS

  OHIO 45068

  www.LilliputPressllc.com

  Publishers Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Name: Burkard, Linore Rose, author

  Title: miss tavistock’s mistake / by Linore Rose Burkard

  Description: 1st edition, 1st in series

  Summary: A young woman’s impulsive subterfuge becomes a growing hindrance for her budding romance in Regency England.

  Identifiers: Library of Congress Control Number: 2020907241

  ISBN : 978-1-7333111-2-0 (print) / ISBN: 978-1-7333111-4-4 (ebook) /

  Subjects: 1. Fiction—Romance, Historical, Regency 2.Fiction—Romance, Comedic

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  WHAT READERS ARE SAYING

  “Burkard combines elements of Sense and Sensibility and The Importance of Being Earnest to craft a delightful and comedic story that will certainly please historical fiction aficionados and those who enjoy wholesome, romantic stories.”

  Kirkus Review

  “What a fun story! Rarely does a book make me laugh so hard. I couldn’t put it down!”

  MaryLu Tyndall, Award-winning Author

  “A joy to read! Linore's superior command of Regency vernacular and the period are just exhilarating! She had fun writing this and it shows.”

  L.K. Simonds, Author, All In

  “I really took my time, soaking in Miss Tavistock's Mistake. I wanted to walk those streets and meet the main characters! And what a great final chapter! I love how the author wrapped it all up. I'm only sorry it's over...”

  Jody C. Blair, Reviewer

  “I love it! The characters are great, the plot is fun. Is it weird to say it seems easily written? Like the characters are who they are and the author didn’t have to force anything to make the plot work?”

  Jaimee Dinnison, Reviewer

  “Woo hoo! I love it! Ms. Burkard was on a roll with this one and having such fun. The reader can't help but have fun too!”

  Regina Groeger, Reviewer

  Miss Tavistock's Mistake contains exquisite chapters. Some of the sentences just GLOW and make me want more, much more.

  Gerald E. Greene, Poet

  “Oh my goodness! What a great story! Found myself laughing out loud on more than one occasion. Highly recommend!”

  Deb Mitchell, Reviewer

  “Miss Tavistock's Mistake brought the joy of reading a good book back into my busy life, and I'm excitedly waiting for the next one by Linore Rose Burkard!!”

  Lisa G. Smith, Reviewer

  “Mistaken identities, misleading behavior, fortunes and misfortunes...Miss Tavistock’s Mistake is a fun romp sure to leave the reader wanting more sweet Regency novels from Ms. Burkard!”

  Peggy Ellis, Writer, Reviewer

  “The author must be a devoted researcher because she is very skilled at transporting the reader back in time with her authentic period dialogue and historical setting. Such a treat to spend time in Regency England!”

  Diane Engelhardt, Reviewer

  “Miss Tavistock’s Mistake is not only the best Regency Romance I’ve read, but one of the best from any genre…A ripping-good Regency!”

  Terrance Grundy, Editor

  “Miss Tavistock’s Mistake is just the book to get me reading Regency stories again! I’m looking forward to reading more books by Linore Burkard!”

  Mary LeSage, Reviewer

  SPECIAL FEATURES at the BACK of the BOOK

  Background History: The Carlton House Féte, with illustrations

  Excerpt: Miss Fanshawe’s Fortune: The Brides of Mayfair, Book Two

  PROLOGUE

  1801, Yorkshire

  Numerous gentlemen stood about the vast parlour at Toadingham, the Duke of Trent’s ancient seat in Blythewold of the Yorkshire Dales, speaking in muted but jovial tones. Only two of those present seemed sensible of the recent tragedy which had occasioned the gathering. One was the duke, for his sister and her husband had died in a coaching accident. The other, Miss Feodora Margaret Tavistock, “Feenie,” only nine years old and fresh from America, was sitting on a bench on the side of the room: frowning, lonely, clutching a frozen-eyed porcelain doll, and trying not to cry. The dead couple were her parents, though it was her father’s loss only that she grieved, the father who had reconciled across an ocean with his estranged wife only to die right along with her a mere three days after arriving by ship with Feodora.

  She had two living relations in England who might care for her, two uncles, the brothers of her mother. But only one of them, the duke, volunteered to do so. In his late forties, a quiet, perpetually uncomfortable-looking man, he seemed as bewildered as the young orphan.

  Chatting solicitors, looking important in their grey topcoats, nondescript pantaloons, and voluminous cravats, helped themselves to snuff from little porcelain or gilded cases whipped from waistcoats and returned in practised gestures that took mere seconds. Feodora noticed this not, as her entire attention was directed inwards, where tears were suppressed but fighting to come forth. She’d been scolded by her uncle’s servants and knew better than to let them out. Even now, a grim-faced housekeeper, by the name of Mrs. Pudding—a name which might have made Feenie laugh under other circumstances—kept a sharp eye upon her, standing silently against the far wall. Her entire purpose in the room, it seemed to Feodora, was to make certain she didn’t disturb the guests.

  Feodora huddled with her arms tightly about her little doll. Her world had come to an end. With Papa gone, how could life continue? The memory of the carriage overturning, and the sight of him, so still and lifeless, haunted her. The sight of her mother was disturbing, too, but she’d only just been reacquainted with that lady. Her father had taken her off to America when she was a mere infant, for reasons unknown to her. But now he was gone. She would never, ever recover. She would never laugh or be happy. She wanted to die and join Papa in heaven. He must be in heaven, of course. She wished to be there, too, not in England, not in her uncle’s home. Much better if she could return to America and live with her old nurse, Persippany, who had cried buckets at her leaving. That world was lost to her now.

  After the carriage had overturned the previous night, only miles from the duke’s residence, the next thing Feenie remembered was being handled roughly. Grim countenances of unfamiliar faces staring hard at her...the housekeeper’s stern, frightening expression. She’d grabbed hold of Feodora and carted her kicking and screaming to a small room, where she was told to stop her hysterics, or she’d sleep there alone in the dark. The memory shook a fresh small sob from deep within her.

  Mrs. Pudding was there in a moment and whisked Feenie with one stout arm against her side and scurried from the room with her. “I might have known it!” she huffed, setting the girl on her feet after progressing down a carpeted hall for some distance. She opened a door and roughly pushed the girl in before closing it behind them. Swiftly she crossed the room, grabb
ed a switch from near the fireplace and came menacingly towards Feodora, who sobbed louder. Papa had never given her the switch! Mrs. Pudding wore a sour expression and came at her with an arm raised. “Shush your ‘owling this instant!” She bent over as if to strike, but at just that moment the door opened.

  A young man’s face, filled with consternation, peered inside and was followed in an instant by the rest of him: a tall, well-dressed frame, with an elegant cravat and a bearing equal to the station of an earl’s second son. Glaring at Mrs. Pudding, who instantly straightened and hid the switch behind an ample posterior, he came towards Feenie and stood between her and the servant. His expression of righteous indignation, coupled with blazing eyes, must have conveyed to that lady that her penal actions had best cease, for she slowly backed away.

  The servant frowned as if wondering if the Hon. Mr. Rempeare, the duke’s nephew, had the authority to interfere. He was a mere lad of fifteen or sixteen. She put her hands on her hips, inadvertently revealing the switch. The young man grabbed it and shook it in her face. “Leave this room!” he ordered, “or I’ll teach you how it feels at the end of this.” He spoke as one who held no doubt that he would be obeyed.

  Mrs. Pudding opened her mouth to argue, but his presence, young as he was, seemed to impress her. She said only, “But sir, she must keep silent in company!”

  “I heard nothing from her,” he said imperiously. “And has she not suffered the loss of her parents? Only last night? Young as she is?”

  The housekeeper nodded stiffly. “Aye.” Quickly she added this torrent: “But next thing she’ll scream like kingdom come and all bedlamʼs loose, like she done last night!”

  “Perhaps, in her mind, it is,” he answered, and turning, opened the door while eyeing her in such a way that she exited with a great frown. Feodora was left with the tall lad who turned and surveyed her. He smiled and bowed.

  “We are cousins, my dear,” he said brightly. “Gabriel Rempeare, at your service.” She regarded him, blinking. Her tears ceased. He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and said, “There, now. The old battleaxe shan’t harm you. I’ll see to that.” She took the handkerchief and blew her nose and looked up at him with instant and ardent adoration.

  Young Master Rempeare looked over his little American cousin. She had an abundance of curly orange locks, a liberal sprinkling of freckles, and was painfully skinny. Hysterics did nothing to improve matters, for her nose and cheeks were bright red. Looking rather miserable, she clung to a porcelain doll with a ferocity that made him examine it as if to determine whether it was bejewelled. While she sniffed and stared, he wondered vaguely how to proceed. He should give her time to settle herself, no doubt.

  While considering this, he paced about the room with one hand on his chin. He took a few lunges with the switch to fight off an imaginary Frenchie, but then returned his attention to the forlorn little girl. His compassionate eyes must have made an impression, because when he went towards her with an outstretched hand, she took it easily. He gently led her to a sofa. To his shock, when he sat down beside her, she climbed onto his lap, put her little bony arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. In moments, she was asleep.

  Gabriel held his new charge with a dazed expression. He had hoped to come to her aid somehow, but never had he dreamed of it being like this. He decided right then and there that he would champion this new little cousin. Indeed, his dear departed mama had told him about his American cousin, and that when she was of age, he must marry her. Her looks were hardly inspiring, but he was little concerned about that. He was soon to enter His Majesty’s Navy, and his mind was filled with images of ships and ocean swells and sword fighting and honour.

  His father, the fifth Earl Stafford, had remonstrated all the way to Toadingham that his brother, the duke, was a fool to take the child. Looking down at the homely, drawn little face, Gabriel was glad he had. He would let her sleep for as long as she liked. For as long as they were left alone in peace.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ten years later

  1811, Yorkshire

  “Mrs. Filbert! Only guess what I have learned from my uncle!” Miss Tavistock, the nineteen-year-old orphaned ward of the Duke of Trent, rushed across the great library at Toadingham to where her companion, Mrs. Filbert, lay settled upon a settee amongst layers of pillows and blankets near the fire, sniffling and sneezing. Mrs. Filbert was laid up in the library where her ague bothered no one else in the household but where she could take comfort in books during her affliction.

  Margaret—for Miss Tavistock detested the name Feodora and went by her second name now—held a letter in her slim hands as she arrived before the companion, her strawberry-blonde curls bouncing and her gown still swishing against legs that had moved far more quickly than was usual for a genteel young lady. Her cheeks, bright with excitement, were outshone only by the shimmering sea green of her eyes. She hovered, breathless, before the settee with its profusion of blankets, uncertain where the boundaries of the middle-aged Mrs. Filbert ended.

  “Here, dear,” the comfortably plump personage said, patting a spot on the blankets. “Only do not stay close,

  lest this dreadful ague passes to you! Achoo!”

  “Bless you,” said Miss Tavistock absently, depositing herself upon the designated seat. Mrs. Filbert noted the rosy glow upon her face with pleasure. She disapproved of the girl’s daily horseback riding, but had to concede that the country air surrounding Toadingham christened her cherubic countenance with an almost absurd vitality and youthful beauty.

  “I must tell you!” the cherub exclaimed, settling herself more comfortably while peering at Mrs. Filbert. “Or shall you guess it?”

  “Indeed, I am sure I may not, my dear!”

  “Very well.” Margaret tried in vain to hold back an irrepressible smile. “’Tis regarding my cousin, Captain Rempeare!”

  “Indeed!” said the lady appreciatively. Word of the captain, who was betrothed to Margaret by the particular wish of both their now deceased parents, was exceedingly scarce at Toadingham. It was so scarce that Margaret had vowed, on more than one occasion, to break off the nuptials, though it would disappoint the duke and go against the wish of the dearly departed.

  “The captain’s injury is not as bad as we feared,” she said now. “But his ship is beyond repair and has been decommissioned! He is ashore and says he will call upon me!” Margaret’s red lips, full and scandalously voluptuous, smiled, her green eyes sparkling.

  “Decommissioned?” asked the older lady. “We must thank Providence his injury wasn’t worse, if the ship fared so badly.” They had learned of the battle and the captain’s injury from the Times and the Morning Chronicle, where Margaret got most all her news of the war against Napoleon and of London’s upper class. She clipped and saved every mention of her elusive cousin and his skirmishes at sea. During the Battle at Lissa, the captain valiantly held off and routed a much greater French and Spanish force than what he commanded. Despite the victory, there were casualties and wounded. The captain’s sword arm had taken a nasty hit. He was blessed, his letter to the duke said, that he hadn’t lost the limb.

  “Isn't it wonderful?” Margaret held the letter against her bosom and stared out at the room smiling, appreciating the wonder. She hadn’t seen the captain in near a decade, almost since before he entered His Majesty’s Navy. But she prayed for him faithfully each night and was mindful of the marriage arrangement, her private journal even littered with the words, “Captain and Mrs. Gabriel Rempeare.” She adored the sound of it, and thought it wise to grow accustomed to her future name.

  “I dare say he must dislike it,” said Mrs. Filbert.

  The smile on the rapturous face vanished. “Dislike it?” she asked. “After ten years at sea? I should think he’d be pleased!”

  Mrs. Filbert hated to crush excitement in her charge, there was so little in her life, but she said, “It all depends, my love—oh, achoo!—excuse me, dearest. This wretched chill!
”

  “Bless you,” responded the girl despondently. “Why do you say it depends—on what?”

  “On why he ran off to sea in the first place. Men have a penchant for getting it in their blood, and some never wish for a regular life on land again. The sea takes hold of a man in strange ways, you know.”

  “Pooh!” said the young miss unromantically. “He went to sea to escape his overbearing father, or so says the duke. A father who is no longer with us. And if my cousin wished to remain at sea, then he would not have got himself injured and his ship decommissioned.”

  “Why, my love! How can you say so! When he was fighting a war!”

  “Well, perhaps he had enough of war. I certainly have!” Miss Tavistock looked at the ceiling in an injured fashion as if she herself had suffered hardships from the French blockade.

  “But, my dear, how fortunate we are here in Yorkshire, situated near the coast where smugglersʼ ships get through aplenty. We never lack sugar, tea, French silks, or lace. In London, such contraband costs a pretty penny!”

  Margaret nodded, looking unconvinced. Smoothing the fold of her gown, trimmed at the bust along the front centre skirt with prohibited French lace, she said, “I own I want for nothing. My uncle is too generous by halves!”

  Mrs. Filbert nodded. “The cross you bear is a want of happy society. What should be part and parcel of the life of a dukeʼs ward is sadly absent in this wild country! If His Grace were not such a recluse—”

  “He doesn’t snivel at surrounding me with servants, the best dancing master, or pianoforte instructors!” interrupted Margaret, hoping to cut off the remonstrances against her uncle that she knew from long acquaintance with her companion, were about to erupt.

  “I dare say youʼve seen little in the way of company except for governesses and servants.”