A Perfect Deception

  A Perfect Deception

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Alyssa Drake

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter One - An Imperfect Scoundrel

  About the Author

  Read More from Alyssa Drake

  For Marcie, who is magic

  Prologue

  The morning’s eerie silence—a precursor of daybreak—was broken by the subtle clanking of iron chains as they dragged across a patch of frigid ground. They rattled musically, punctuated by the staccato whimpers of an unrecognizable lump of flesh.

  A metal stake, shoved deeply into the unforgiving hard earth on the stable floor, refused to budge as the chain to which it was attached pulled desperately against the primary hoop. Clank… clank… clank. The repetitious sound reverberated forlornly, the melancholy melody of a funeral dirge.

  The other end of the heavy chain was fastened to a horse’s bridle—lashed tightly to its victim’s head—which was decorated in beads of sweat and blood. A thick rope bound the hands of Mrs. Hattie Pierce, the wretched woman tethered to the stake. She rhythmically bucked her head in a fruitless attempt to free herself.

  Matted hair—several chunks missing from her scalp—fell in disarray about her face, loose from the elaborate hairstyle coifed the previous evening. A bridle bit, callously inserted in Hattie’s mouth, held her tongue flat against her teeth. Unable to speak, she grunted cries for help, whining as the bit cut into her soft flesh. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth where the metal mouthpiece ground mercilessly.

  Her clothing, shredded and scattered about the barn, had been ripped from her body during the past six hours of torture. Hattie shivered in the early morning air, clothed only in her chemise and drawers. They hung despondently as if the clothes themselves already knew the expected fate of their owner. Bloody footprints trailed a tiny circle around the stake, roughly two meters in diameter, the result of Hattie’s raw, bare feet scraping across the stable floor.

  Her last memory was of Franklin’s burning black eyes, boring into her as he flicked the knife blade chaotically across her upper arms, leaving them exposed and hemorrhaging after the first few swipes. He continued his sweeping motion and orbited a small circle around Hattie, sometimes slicing through cloth, sometimes through skin.

  Hattie screamed against the bit as the metal blade slid across her shoulder. She blubbered quietly, unrecognizable words which tumbled around the metal binding her tongue. Franklin grinned, leaning closer until his warm breath caressed her skin.

  “Hattie,” he whispered in her ear seductively, stroking a light hand down her cheek, “I had no idea you could bring me this much enjoyment. However, I cannot kill you just yet even as you beg me to end this pain. There is another party who wishes to express their displeasure with you. I cannot deny that joy.”

  Tears leaked from Hattie’s eyes. She yanked her head away, yelping as the compassionless chain ripped her head backward. Franklin approached with a wide smile, his hands wrapping around Hattie’s thick neck. Her bound wrists flew up automatically, digging her fingers into his arm, a small gouge appearing under her grimy fingernails. Franklin’s eyes sparkled with delight. He squeezed harder.

  When Hattie regained consciousness, she laid discarded on the floor in the exact position she fainted. Alone in the small barn, Hattie glanced around anxiously. The air permeated with Franklin’s malevolence.

  Stumbling to her feet, she tested the rope binding her arms and pulled her head again—she remained tethered and bound. The sound of carriage wheels outside the shuttered barn caught her attention.

  “Mmph!” yelled Hattie, swinging her arms so the chain banged against the metal post, the barn reverberating with the sound of metal hitting metal. She stilled, the din echoing in her ears and watched the stable door nervously, her breath caught between her teeth. The door creaked open a few centimeters, revealing Mrs. Clark’s grey head.

  “Mrs. Pierce!” Mrs. Clark dropped her sack, rushing to Hattie’s side. Clawing at the chain, Mrs. Clark could not release Hattie from the metal stake. Mrs. Clark’s head whipped around, perusing the semi-dark barn for any type of cutting device. Her eyes landed on a knife, upended in a hay bale.

  Extracting the blood-stained knife, Mrs. Clark set herself to the thick rope binding Hattie’s wrists, moving the blade back and forth. One piece of the rope frayed and broke, encouraging Mrs. Clark’s efforts. She grimaced, grasped the knife handle tightly. Her arms moved rapidly, blurring as she sawed at the binding. Another piece of rope snapped.

  The barn door creaked again. Mrs. Clark and Hattie whipped their heads up simultaneously. Waltzing into the stables, Franklin flashed an amused smirk at both ladies.

  “Mr. Morris!” Mrs. Clark said, dropping the knife and rising. She slid away from Hattie, collecting the potatoes which rolled from her discarded sack. Her eyes remained on Franklin, watching him as he leaned against the frame, his arms folded over his stomach.

  “Ah, Mrs. Clark.” Franklin greeted her in a friendly tone. “I was hoping your inquisitive nature would remain dormant during this entire episode. Unfortunately for you, it appears that is not the case.” He shook his head sadly from his shadowed position in the open barn doorway and clucked his tongue, a reluctant sound which echoed ominously in the stable.

  “What depraved act have you committed on this poor woman?” Mrs. Clark asked, indicating Hattie with a tiny jerk of her hand.

  “Whatever you can imagine, I have done worse.” Franklin shrugged, disappearing from the doorway and vanishing into the shadows. His voice surrounded them, bouncing off wooden beams which ran the length of the ceiling.

  “W-W-Why?” asked Mrs. Clark. She froze in a circle of light, one of the few which dotted the hay-covered floor, her eyes frantically searching the barn. Trembling, Mrs. Clark’s tongue darted out, licking her dry lips anxiously. “Mr. Morris?” She called his name tentatively.

  A whimper escaped Hattie. Franklin appeared behind her, yanking her head back cruelly. He sneered at Hattie, entwining her hair tightly around his fist, ripping his arm backward a second time. Hattie yelped around the bit, her teeth grinding against the metal. Tears dribbled from Hattie’s red eyes, mixing with the blood which continued to drip from her mouth. The concoction dropped onto her white chemise, further staining the garment pink.

  “Please stop,” Mrs. Clark begged. She twisted her hands anxiously in her apron and stepped toward Franklin, her pale face pinched in fear. Chest heaving, she took a second step, placing herself within Franklin’s reach.

  Franklin relaxed his grip on Hattie’s hair and stepped around the bound woman to meet Mrs. Clark. “Her accuser asked me to exact punishment for her crimes... and they are many.”

  “Who is her accuser?” asked Mrs. Clark, edging away from Franklin as he slid closer.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Franklin wagged a playful finger in her direction. “First, we must test your loyalty.”

  Mrs. Clark swallowed, licking her lips a second time. “H-h-how?” she asked, biting her lower lip to stop it from trembl
ing.

  “Come closer.” Franklin held out his hand.

  “No,” replied Mrs. Clark, shaking her head reluctantly.

  Grinning, Franklin glided over, grasping Mrs. Clark’s arm with icy fingers. He tugged gently, and Mrs. Clark released the sack of potatoes, following his lead in a dreamlike trance, her lower lip glowing white from the pressure of her teeth. Retrieving the gleaming kitchen knife from the ground, Franklin passed it to Mrs. Clark with an encouraging smile. “Punish her,” he said with a macabre gleam.

  “Pardon?” Mrs. Clark stared from the bloody knife to Hattie.

  “Cut her,” Franklin hissed, tasting the words.

  Mrs. Clark lifted the knife. Hattie flinched away, cowering on the floor. Mrs. Clark approached, her arm raised… and froze, her body trembling. “I cannot. This is wrong. No matter what crime she is accused of, it is not our right to exact retribution.”

  “I understand.” Sighing, Franklin extracted the blade from Mrs. Clark’s shaking hand and patted her lightly on the shoulder. “You are a good woman, a kind soul. I cannot ask this task of you.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Clark replied with a relieved sigh. Her eyes darted to Hattie. “What about her?”

  “Mrs. Pierce?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Clark nodded, lifting the bag of potatoes from the floor, collecting three potatoes which had rolled from the bag when she dropped it, and hefting it over her shoulder. “You cannot keep her here.”

  Franklin’s eyes glowed with malice. His fingers combed through Hattie’s tangled hair. “She won’t be our guest for very much longer.”

  Mrs. Clark stepped forward, readjusting the potato sack. “What if she reports you to the authorities?”

  “That will not happen.” Franklin shook his head.

  “Why?”

  “It will be difficult for her to report her own murder.”

  Gasping, Mrs. Clark stepped away from Franklin, moving outside the circle of light. “You cannot kill her.”

  “You cannot kill her. I have no difficulties with the scheme.” Franklin tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. He moved to his left, blocking Mrs. Clark’s path to the door. A wry smile pulled at his mouth. “We cannot release her alive, she will go straight to the constable. You will be arrested as well.”

  “But I knew nothing of the crime,” she sputtered.

  Arching an eyebrow, Franklin slid closer. “As the housekeeper, you had no knowledge a woman was bound and chained in the barn?”

  “No.” Mrs. Clark nervously shifted the sack, her nervous gaze flicking toward Hattie.

  “They will not believe you,” whispered Franklin, circling Mrs. Clark.

  Her eyes followed him.

  “Do you think Mrs. Pierce can be trusted?” Franklin’s soft voice wove around the barn. “Do you think she will say you had no involvement in her abduction?

  Mrs. Clark’s gaze flicked toward Hattie, who nodded vehemently, the chain clanging against the metal stack. “I do.”

  “Interesting. And if you do not report what you have seen today to the authorities, and Hattie stays in my care for several more days… or weeks, do you think she will still maintain your lack of involvement?”

  Mrs. Clark was silent, her eyes locked on Franklin. She licked her lips. “No.”

  “Then you have a choice to make. Which side will you choose?” He folded his hands together, circling her once more. Mrs. Clark’s gaze jumped over to the barn door, then back to Franklin. She closed her eyes and sighed heavily as if releasing her soul.

  Her whispered response barely crossed the barn floor. “I cannot allow you to do this.”

  “That is a shame, I shall miss your chocolate cake.” Franklin lunged.

  Screams filled the early morning air.

  Chapter One

  Hooves pounded through the brush, scattering nesting birds. They screamed, flying in all directions, chastising Thomas as his ghostly form raced through the dying moonlight. Dawn was approaching. He urged the horse forward, racing toward the inviting darkness. The sun’s fingers broke the horizon, chasing him across the meadows. The horse protested, exhausted from Thomas’ anxiety.

  Cresting the ridge, the sun caught him, slamming into his face. He winced as his heart constricted. Grasping his chest and bending at the waist, Thomas buried his face in the horse’s mane. It stopped galloping, pausing atop the hill, and nudging Thomas’ foot with its head. He slid from the horse, stumbling backward, crashing to the ground. The horse dipped its head, shoving Thomas’ shoulder. Drawing in a shuddering breath, Thomas stroked the horse’s soft muzzle, stuffing his free hand into his pocket and extracting an ever-present sugar lump. The horse whinnied, pressing its lips to Thomas’ palm. Thomas’ eyes flicked up, staring into the stallion’s large, glassy eyes. A man in agony stared back.

  Alana was terrified of horses, but for Thomas, she once sat on one, for the whole of five minutes. This particular one…

  * * *

  “I’m going to fall!” Alana’s screech echoed in the morning air. Thomas wrapped his arms around her waist, squeezing her tightly. Pressed against her back, he whispered in her ear.

  “I will not let you.”

  A shiver traveled her spine. She leaned into him and craned her head up, a grin pulling at her lips. “If I fell and injured myself, would you stay by my side until I healed?”

  “Certainly.” He smiled, bumping his forehead against hers. “I have been plotting that exact situation for some time.”

  “Thomas Reid.” She shoved him. He laughed, pulling her closer, his mouth finding hers, moving over her lips in teasing caresses.

  A cough came from his left. “Thomas.”

  Thomas pulled away reluctantly and glanced over at the man leaning against the fence. The man’s mouth pulled in a frown as he tilted his head, his eyes skating over the intimacy between Thomas and Alana.

  “Uncle Benedict, you remember Miss Flannery?” Thomas swung his leg over the back of the horse and slid off the side.

  “Aengus’ daughter?” Benedict forced a smile and bowed his head. “It is lovely to see you again, Miss Flannery. You have grown into a lovely young woman.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Reid.” Alana nodded.

  “Taking riding lessons?”

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently, her red hair flying in all directions. “Your nephew made me a wager, and I couldn’t allow him to win.”

  “A wager?” Benedict arched an eyebrow. “How delightful. What were the terms?”

  “If I did not sit upon this horse for five minutes, I had to cook him dinner for the next fortnight.”

  Benedict’s mouth twitched, his eyes sliding to Thomas. “Always thinking with your stomach.”

  Thomas laughed.

  Removing his pocket watch, Benedict stared at the face silently; his eyes flicked up after a minute. “It seems as though you will win your wager, Miss Flannery. What will you receive if you win?”

  “Whatever Mr. Reid has hidden in his pocket.”

  “A sugar lump?” teased Benedict.

  “In a different pocket, Uncle.” Thomas’ serious tone caught Benedict’s attention. His eyes narrowed, staring at Thomas, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

  “I hope you are not making a rash decision, nephew.”

  “I have thought this through.”

  Benedict nodded once. “Then I shall leave you to your wager.” His gaze rose to Alana. “Good luck to you, Miss Flannery.” Turning, he trudged up the gentle slope toward the main house.

  As Alana watched his uncle walk away, Thomas extracted a ring from his pocket, dropping to one knee. When Alana spun around and caught sight of Thomas’ matrimonial pose, she gasped and tumbled from the horse.

  Leaping forward, Thomas caught Alana in his arms. They collapsed in a heap, laughing, rolling into a hay bale, bits of hay raining down on them. Thomas wrapped his arms around Alana, dragging her toward him, pressing his mouth to hers. She weaved her fingers through his hair, drawing him closer. The
y broke away, panting. Lifting Alana’s hand, Thomas slipped the ring onto her finger. “Will you do me the incredible honor of becoming my wife?”

  “Yes.” Alana wrapped her hand around his head, pulling him down. Rolling over on top of him, she straddled him, her body grinding against his. She gave herself to him—his fiancée, the girl next door he had loved since he was a boy. They rose and fell together, their bodies passionately entwined. They found their release together, her sweet voice matching his in timbre. Wrapping her in his arms, he fell asleep in the hay pile, breathing in her perfume—happy, buoyant, at peace.

  He woke alone. By nightfall, his world imploded.

  * * *

  A letter. She sent a letter.

  Mr. Reid,

  Regretfully, I must decline your offer of marriage. It was rash of me to consider your proposal without speaking to my family. An opportunity has arisen to further my education, and I am honored to be accepted into such a fine school. Please accept my apologies for any confusion or heartache I may have caused. It was never my intention to hurt you.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Flannery

  But the letter was a lie. Benedict spoke with him several months afterward when sanity finally returned to Thomas’ senses. Alana had accepted a significant lump sum from Uncle Benedict to disappear and never return. As angry as Thomas was with Benedict, he could not forgive Alana for accepting the payment. Was money all that mattered to her? She had played Thomas for a fool the entire time, then married a wealthy noble.

  The horse smacked its head into Thomas’ shoulder, searching his coat for another sugar lump. Thomas shook his head, clearing the ghosts haunting his memory, and pushed the horse away gently. Glancing at the horizon, Thomas watched the sun rise further into the sky; it reminded him of a blazing ball of red hair.