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  Boudreaux’s Lady

  Lauren Smith

  Contents

  Boudreaux's Lady

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  The Boudreaux Universe

  About the Author

  Also by Lauren Smith

  Boudreaux's Lady

  By Lauren Smith

  BOUDREAUX’S LADY

  A Boudreaux Universe Novel

  Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written consent from the author.

  Published by Lady Boss Press, Inc.

  For Aimee, who reminds me all the time how powerful unconditional love is. I’m honored to be friends with such an amazing person.

  Prologue

  England, October 1806

  The shrieking wind against the windowpanes nearly matched the wails of the young woman in bed. Her body seized with agony, and she cried out as a midwife pressed two hands against her swollen belly.

  “Push a bit harder, my lady.” Lucy, the midwife urged.

  The woman in the bed sank back against the pillows. “I can’t.”

  “You can, Albina. You can.” Lucy knew she ought not to be so familiar with the woman, but she’d brought Albina into the world and now she would bring forth Albina’s child. Lucy pressed again on Albina’s belly, feeling the child shift at last into a better position.

  “Push, my lady. Push once more!” Lucy encouraged.

  Albina dug her fingers into the sheets. Sweat covered her pale face as she squeezed her expression into a snarl before she relaxed.

  Lucy peered between her spread legs. “I see it crowning, my dear. You’re so very close. Another few pushes now.”

  A look came over Albina’s face, one of such determination that Lucy was momentarily taken aback.

  Albina pushed, her teeth clenched, and Lucy rushed to catch the child emerging from the womb with a white cloth. The babe was quiet. Too quiet. His face a frightening shade of blue. Lucy smacked the baby’s bottom, laid it flat on the bed, and pressed on it’s tiny chest in a rhythm to stimulate its heart. She even parted it’s little lips and tried to clear it’s airway, but to no avail.

  “It’s a little boy,” Lucy sniffled. “But…I don’t think the wee one made it.” She started to set the baby on the bed but gasped as Albina bent almost double, pushing again.

  “Another?” Lucy hastened to prepare a fresh swaddling cloth as Albina pushed again. Soon, a smaller child emerged, mewling and fiery tempered, fighting like a warrior to stay alive. This babe’s cries were strong and healthy.

  “Is he all right?” Albina asked, looking at the baby.

  “She is very healthy.” Indeed, the baby girl was screaming mightily.

  Albina reached for the quiet bundle on the bed beside her. “And the boy?”

  Lucy’s eyes burned as she shook her head. She offered the dead child up to Albina.

  “Give him a name. A strong, proud name, my dear. One full of love and he will take it with him to the heavens.”

  Albina held the baby to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stroked the baby’s cold face and touched his small fingers. So perfect yet gone already from this life.

  “Andrew. You are my darling Andrew.” She kissed the child’s forehead and then allowed Lucy to set him in a prepared bassinet until he could be buried.

  “And this one?” She pushed the little girl, still crying, into her mother’s arms. “Name her too.”

  Albina gazed down at the girl, such love and sorrow in her face that Lucy’s heart broke.

  “Philippa. My little Philippa.” Albina’s head fell back against the pillows. “Oh Lucy, I’m so very tired. Take care of them both, please.” Albina held the baby out and Lucy took Philippa before Albina’s arms dropped to the bed. Sweat dewed on the new mother’s forehead and her pale skin gave Lucy much to worry about. Many delicate women didn’t survive childbirth, and Albina’s birth had been doubly difficult.

  Lucy jumped at the sound of the bed chamber door crashing open. Lit by firelight, Cornelius Selkirk, the Earl of Monmouth, stared at her and the baby.

  “Well? How is my son?” he demanded, casting only the briefest glance at his ailing wife.

  Lucy nodded toward the quiet bassinet. “Gone, my lord.”

  “Gone?” His hard stare shifted between the bassinet and the squirming baby in Lucy’s arms. “There were two? What about that one?” He pointed at Philippa, who had stopped crying and had gone very still at the sound of the angry male voice in the room.

  “My lord, this is your daughter, Philippa.” Lucy did not offer the baby to him. She knew better. Monmouth had a temper the likes of which she’d never seen in a man.

  “Damnation! What use has a man for a daughter? I needed a son!” He turned to Albina, who was now white as alabaster.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. Your son never drew breath.” Lucy attempted to keep his rage away from Albina.

  Monmouth pointed an accusing finger at Philippa, nestled safely in Lucy’s arms. “Yet that little brat lives?”

  “She does. A brave and healthy baby. You should be proud of her.”

  Monmouth’s face took on a frightening reddish hue. “Proud to have another useless female here under my roof?” He spun to Albina again. “By God, woman, you have failed in your only duty. I will not stand for it. I won’t!”

  When his wife made no reply, he rushed at the bed, shaking her shoulders violently. But Albina lay still, her eyes glassy and unseeing. A pool of blood between her thighs was still spreading slowly, thickly. She’d bled out.

  Lucy’s heart fractured in her chest. Albina was gone. But perhaps it was a kindness in its own horrid way. The brutish Lord Monmouth had never deserved her, nor did he deserve the child she still held in her arms. Though at least it could be said that when he realized what had happened to her, some emotion other than rage passed through him, if only for a moment.

  “Dead… My wife and son both dead.” He stared in cold fury at little Philippa. “And that creature is to blame.” His gaze moved to the fire blazing in the hearth, then around the dark room. Lucy could see a flurry of murderous thoughts passing across his face in rapid succession.

  When he turned to face her, her heart stuttered in fear at what he might do.

  “The miller in the village. You delivered a son to him, did you not?” Monmouth demanded.

  “Yes, two days ago.” That birthing had been easy. A stout lad had been born to the miller, Mr. Wilson and his wife, Beth, with no complications. Beth was healthy and hearty like her child.

  “You will take a message to them, tonight. I will pay ten thousand pounds for their son. And you will give them that brat in exchange.”

  “But, my lord, she’s your daughter—”

  “Do it, or I swear I will throw that child into the fire.” Monmouth loomed over her with such dark menace in his face that Lucy did not doubt he would carry out the gruesome threat.

  “What are you waiting for?”
he hissed.

  Still clutching the girl in her arms, Lucy fled the room. In a few minutes, she was in Monmouth’s coach being escorted to the miller’s cottage two miles away. The night was a bitter cold, with deadly drafts and vicious chills that would steal many a life before dawn. Thankfully the storm which had raged half an hour before had gone, leaving a cloudless night sky by the time they reached the miller’s home.

  “Thank you, Joseph,” Lucy told the driver. “Please wait for me.” She knocked hard on the miller’s door. After a few moments, a weary young man answered.

  “Yes?” Wilson asked. He recognized Lucy, and his eyes widened at the sight of the Monmouth Crest painted on the black coach doors behind her in full view beneath the moonlight.

  “May I please come inside, Mr. Wilson?” Lucy asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Wilson stepped back and let her pass through into the house. Philippa, who had been tucked securely under her cloak, now made a mewling sound and Wilson jolted.

  “You have a baby?” He peered down at Philippa.

  “Yes,” Lucy said quietly.

  Beth came down from the tiny set of stairs that led to the second floor of the cottage.

  “Beth, you should return to bed.” Lucy chastised gently.

  “I’m all right, Lucy.” Beth smiled and pulled her dress gown closed as she joined her husband.

  “What’s all this about now?” Wilson asked.

  She tried to calm herself. Her hands couldn’t seem to stop shaking. All she could see was the look on the earl’s face as he threatened to cast Philippa into the fire. “I’ve come here on a mission of great urgency. The countess of Monmouth died giving birth to twins tonight. The first, the son, was stillborn. The second.” She swayed Philippa in her arms. “Survived but is a girl. The earl knows you have given birth to a son. He has an offer for you. It’s one I beg you to consider for the sake of the child in my arms.”

  “What sort of offer?” Wilson and his wife exchanged worried glances.

  “Ten thousand pounds if you give him your son to raise as his own.”

  “What? No!” Wilson shook his head.

  “Wait!” Lucy caught his arm. “Please, listen. He will murder this young babe. But if he had a boy to raise, one to replace the child he lost, she will be spared. Think, please. Your son could be raised in a fine house, become an earl, never go hungry or cold a day in his life. And in return, you would have this child to raise as your own and a small fortune to live on. You could start a new life in London, have anything you could desire.” She peeled the blanket back from Philippa’s face. “She is such a beauty. The daughter of an earl, the granddaughter of a duke.”

  Wilson and Beth stared down at Philippa, both silent.

  “I don’t want to give my baby away. He’s my little Roddy,” Beth murmured.

  “What if his lordship let you be his wet nurse?” Lucy hoped she could convince the earl of that at least, given that the child would need a source of milk.

  “I…” Beth looked Philippa again. “He would truly kill her? This sweet thing?” She held out her arms, a mother’s instinct too hard to fight. Lucy passed her the baby.

  “He would.”

  “How would we know our boy would be safe with him?” Wilson asked.

  “I worked at the house for years. Monmouth would dote upon a son, but he sees no value in a daughter, only a burden. She’s in grave danger.”

  “Oh look, Mason. She’s hungry.” Beth had let Philippa suckle the tip of her index finger and Philippa was clamping on desperately, her little rosebud mouth searching for milk.

  “Beth…” Wilson looked torn at the situation he’d been placed in. “He’s our boy.”

  Beth sniffled. “I know but think of what a grand life he could have. Wouldn’t he Lucy?”

  “Yes, a grand life indeed.”

  “We aren’t to be bought, not even by a man like Monmouth,” Mason said quietly. “He can’t simply bully us into giving up our child.”

  “Mason, we can’t let him kill this child.” Beth held Philippa protectively now.

  Wilson sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Fine. We accept, but Beth has to nurse Roddy and we must be allowed to see the boy once a year.”

  That, Lucy knew, would be a hard bargain. But she would find a way, for Philippa’s sake.

  “Bring me the boy and I shall take him back to the house to his Lordship.”

  Wilson climbed the stairs and returned carrying a small squirming bundle. The man held his son for a long moment, and Beth leaned down to kiss the boy’s forehead.

  “We love you, Roddy. That will never change. Please forgive us for what we have done, but you will be safe and cared for.” Beth stroked his cheeks, squared her shoulders, and tightened her hold on little Philippa.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilson. Beth, you saved a precious life tonight. For that you will be repaid.”

  Lucy exited the cottage and carried the bundled baby boy into the waiting coach. She looked back only once, seeing the face of the miller and his wife standing in the doorway with their new daughter.

  Two lives torn from their rightful places in life, but perhaps it would indeed work out best for both of them. Lucy would do what she could to ensure that was the case.

  Chapter 1

  London, October 1826 – Twenty years later

  “He doesn’t look a thing like me,” the Duke of St. Albans grumbled.

  Beauregard Boudreaux eyed the older man standing beside him at the back of the crowded ballroom.

  “Who, Your Grace?” Beau asked.

  “Roderick, my grandson.” St. Albans pointed at a blond-haired young man who was dancing with a pretty girl. Beau glanced between the two men, searching for even a hint of resemblance. Roderick had a kind face and bright brown eyes but lacked any resemblance to the Duke. St. Albans, although he was of five and sixty years, was still a fit man with dark brown hair and the clearest gray eyes Beau had ever seen.

  “Perhaps he favors the father’s family?” Beau studied the young man again as he spun his pretty partner around.

  “The Earl of Monmouth? No, he has a coloring similar to mine.” St. Albans crossed his arms over his chest, a strange expression deepening the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. “My child, his wife, was not fair of color either. She favored me.”

  “He seems to be a good lad, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, yes. He is a delightful boy. He has a good head on his shoulders, but I wish…” St. Albans didn’t continue his thought. Instead, he turned to leave the ballroom, a look of regret clinging to him so openly that Beau felt compelled to pursue him.

  St. Albans had practically raised Beau. As a young boy, Beau had lost his father in France, and he and his mother had returned to her family’s home in England, a small manor house neighboring the St. Albans estate. When he was sixteen, he’d started scaling the short cobblestone walls between the two estates and wandered into St. Albans’ gardens then down by the lake, where he first met the duke.

  Now, at the age of six and thirty, he felt the duke was a friend, as well as a surrogate father. Seeing the duke distressed by the past left Beau unsettled as well.

  St. Albans walked down the picture gallery of his home, away from his ballroom, and paused before a row of paintings. A servant at the opposite end of the hall trailed behind Beau and St. Albans, lighting the lamps around them before discreetly retreating.

  Beau put a hand on St. Alban’s shoulder. “Your Grace? Are you all right?” The older man glanced at him with a sad smile on his face.

  “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m not fit company tonight. I never should have hosted this bloody ball. I thought it might distract me.” The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deepened as he stared up at the portraits around him.

  “Distract you?” Beau wasn’t sure he was following his friend’s words.

  “Yes.” St. Albans twisted his family’s signet ring around on his little finger as he stared up at a portrait tucked in the corner of the gallery.r />
  “It is the anniversary, you see, of my sweet Albina’s death. Her mother, God rest her, died when Albina was only six years old, and Albina became my whole world. Then I lost her too.”

  “Albina died twenty years ago?” Beau must have met St. Albans just a year after the duke had lost his only child.

  “Perhaps that’s why my heart aches when I look at Roderick. It’s not so much me that I wish to see in him, but her.” He pointed a trembling hand to the painting in the corner.

  Beau’s breath caught at the figure painted in the oils. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen sat on a settee, a book resting in her lap and her chin resting in her hand as she leaned against the arm of the settee. Her pale skin seemed to glow like alabaster beneath the moonlight. Dark brows arched above a pair of mischievous startling gray eyes and a sensual mouth made for kisses and witty remarks. The watered silk of her gown had been painted with such perfection that Beau thought, perhaps half madly, that he could reach out and touch the silk, not merely a painted canvas.

  “Lovely, wasn’t she?” St. Albans said.

  “Beyond lovely,” Beau agreed. As one of London’s desirable bachelors, he’d had the best mistresses a man could have, but all paled in comparison to this vision. Her exquisite face would have made Helen of Troy weep with envy.

  “You would have liked her, Beau.” St. Albans grinned, even though his eyes were still deeply shadowed with sorrow.

  “I imagine I would have, Your Grace.”

  “She was clever and amusing. So full of heart. And that devil Monmouth stole her away to Gretna Green. She thought she loved him but learned too late he only wanted her for her looks and her breeding. She was not some bloody beast at Tattersall’s. She was my child.”