Bombshell

  Dedication

  A week before I finished writing this book,

  my seven-year-old daughter told me I should dedicate it

  “to the people helping during the pandemic.”

  I know a good idea when I hear one.

  For frontline workers in health care,

  education, farming and food service,

  shipping and delivery, and for everyone

  working to keep us all healthy.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Sesily

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  By Sarah MacLean

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Sesily

  Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens

  October 1836

  When the stilt-walker approached, Sesily Talbot realized someone was toying with her.

  She should have noticed immediately, when she’d stepped off the boat and through the river gates of the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, when the dancer dressed as an enormous peacock, brilliantly colored tailfeathers spread wide as a Marylebone rowhouse, caught her on her way off the beaten path and pulled her, instead, to the dancing grounds.

  “Not this path, lady,” the beautiful bird had whispered before tugging her into a wild, spinning reel. Sesily had never been one to refuse a dance, and she’d happily followed her new, feathered friend.

  When the jig left her breathless and heated despite the cool October night, she’d peeled away from the entertainment and headed for somewhere quieter. Somewhere to hold her solitude. Keep her secrets.

  Sesily hadn’t made it more than a minute into the darkness when the fire-eater found her, blocking the path that twisted and turned beneath a web of tightropes high above, luring revelers further into the salacious extravagance of the gardens.

  Red paper lanterns glowed with delicious temptation behind the performer who blocked Sesily’s way, her face painted white like a clown’s, bright blue eyes twinkling as she drew close to her torch and set the inky black night aflame.

  Sesily knew her role and didn’t hesitate to ooh and ahh, letting the fire-eater take her hand with a deep curtsy and a charming, “Not this path, lady.” She led Sesily back to the light, away from the route she’d sought.

  Sesily should have noticed then, that she was a pawn.

  No, not a pawn. A queen. But played, nonetheless.

  She didn’t notice. And later, she would wonder at her ignorance in the moment—rare for her twenty-eight years. Rare for someone who reveled in knowing the score. Rare for someone who had made a life’s work of winning the room, spinning the spinners.

  Instead, Sesily Talbot spent the next hour being spun herself.

  Lured by a fortune-teller.

  Entertained by a pair of mimes.

  Amused by a bawdy puppet show.

  And every time she tried to find a new path, one that led deeper into the gardens, away from the formal performance and toward the kind of entertainment that made for gossip and scandal and something to keep her mind from the emptiness in her chest, she was intercepted—ever waylaid from more reckless adventures.

  Adventures more suited to her reputation: Sesily Talbot, walking scandal, buxom beauty, untethered heiress, and queen of recklessness, whom most of London called Sexily when they thought she wasn’t listening (as though it was a bad thing).

  At twenty-eight years, Sesily was the second oldest and only unmarried daughter of wealthy, baseborn Jack Talbot, a coal miner who’d pulled himself up through the soot to win a title from the Prince Regent in a game of cards. As if that weren’t enough, the newly minted Earl of Wight set about wreaking common havoc on the aristocracy, his flamboyant wife and five dangerous daughters in tow. Daughters who’d scandalized society right up until they’d made enviable society matches: Seraphina, Sesily, Seleste, Seline, and Sophie—the Soiled S’s, named for the coal dust they’d been born into, now reigning over London as a duchess, a marchioness, a countess, and the wife of the wealthiest horse breeder in Britain.

  And then there was Sesily, who’d spent a decade flouting tradition and title and rules and—the most dangerous of the daughters. Because she had no interest in the games the aristocracy played. She did not concern herself with fabricated opponents who glared at her from the opposite ends of ballrooms. She did not have the same goals as the rest of society.

  Reckless Sesily.

  She did not relegate herself to the shelf of spinsterhood, nor to the outer edges of Mayfair, where the aged and ruined lived out their days.

  Wild Sesily.

  Instead, she remained rich and titled and merry, with seemingly no interest in the opinions of those around her. Unwilling to be tamed by mother, sister, companion, or community.

  Scandalous Sesily.

  Censure did not take. Nor contempt. Nor disapproval. Which left the aristocracy no choice but to accept her.

  Bored Sesily.

  Not bored. Not that night. Boredom might have brought her to Vauxhall, but not alone. She’d have come with a friend. With a dozen of them. She’d have come for raucous entertainment and a whisper of trouble, but nothing like what she wanted that evening. Nothing like what clawed at her, making her want to seek out the worst kind of trouble. Tempt it. Scream at it.

  Frustrated Sesily. Angry Sesily.

  Embarrassed Sesily.

  In the worst possible way. By a man. A tall, broad, green-eyed, irritating man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat and maybe a silly American-style hat that didn’t at all suit in Mayfair but was distractingly good at revealing the angle of an altogether too-square jaw. Far too square. Unrefined in the extreme.

  The only man she’d ever wanted and couldn’t win.

  So much for Sexily.

  But she absolutely refused to suffer her disappointments in public. That was the kind of thing other people did, not Sesily.

  Sesily Talbot picked herself up, painted her face, and went to Vauxhall.

  Of course, if she weren’t so busy suffering that particular evening’s disappointment in private, she would have noticed that she was being watched, and maneuvered, and guided long before the stilt-walker stepped out of the shadows of the tall trees lining the path that led to the rear section of Vauxhall. The Dark Walk.

  In the decade that Sesily had attended Vauxhall, the majority of visits had involved slipping the notice of parent, chaperone, sister, or friend and darting down the ever-darkening path to the place where events moved from performed to private. Away from fireworks and circus acts and hot air balloons to something more improper. Something that might be considered sordid.

  In all those years, she’d never once seen a performer this far along the path. This deep into the darkness.

  Certainly not as the clock neared midnight on the last week of the Vauxhall season, when the lateness of the hour did nothing to lessen the number of people in the gardens, and perform
ers should be occupied with entertaining throngs of revelers marveling at the sheer, lush temptation of the place.

  And yet, there’d been a dancer, and a fire-eater, and now there was a stilt-walker, with her enormous wig and her extreme maquillage and her delighted smile and, “Not this path, lady!”

  And that’s when Sesily knew.

  She pulled up short, tilting to look up at the performer high above her, somehow, impossibly, dressed in massive, magnificent skirts—skirts that would threaten to fell a perfectly ordinary woman on her own two feet. “Not any path tonight, though, is it?”

  A big laugh, made bigger as it rained down upon Sesily in the darkness, carried on the cool autumn breeze and punctuated by the bright fireworks that had begun in another part of the gardens, summoning the masses to marvel at them.

  Sesily was not interested in the sky. “Or is there a different path for me tonight?”

  The laugh became a knowing smile, and the stilt-walker turned away. There was no question that Sesily would follow, suddenly imagining herself an arrow loosed from a bow, away from the target she’d chosen, and instead, aimed for somewhere else. Something else.

  And though anger and frustration and that thing she would not ever admit to feeling still burned hot in her breast, Sesily could not help her own smile.

  She was no longer bored.

  Not as she followed the giantess through the trees to a light in the distance that flickered and glowed brighter and brighter, until they came upon a clearing where Sesily had never been before. There, on a raised platform, stood a magician, and one with no small amount of skill, considering the way she defied the fireworks in the sky and held the rapt attention of the audience clustered tightly around her as she levitated a hound before their eyes.

  The magician’s gaze found the stilt-walker and slid instantly to Sesily, not a flicker of surprise in her eyes as she completed the trick and released the hound with a wave of her hand and a bit of dried meat.

  Wild applause exploded through the clearing as she took her bow, deep and grateful, honoring the truth of all artists—that they were nothing without audience.

  The audience returned to the evening, their rush to find another spectacle more urgent than usual—driven by the knowledge that they had scant hours before the gardens closed for the season.

  Within moments, Sesily was alone in the clearing with the magician and her hound, the stilt-walker somehow disappeared into the night.

  “My lady,” the magician said, her easy Italian accent filling the space between them, the honorific clear as the night sky. She knew who Sesily was. She’d been waiting for her, just as they all had that evening. “Welcome.”

  Sesily approached, curiosity consuming her. “I see now that I’ve not been making the night difficult; you’ve been holding me at bay. Until you had time for me.”

  “Until we could give you the time you deserved, my lady.” The magician bowed, extravagant and low, collecting a small, gilded box from the ground and setting it at the center of the table between them.

  Sesily smiled, looking to the dog at the magician’s feet. “I was very impressed with your performance. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how the illusion works?”

  The woman’s gold-green eyes glittered in the lanternlight. “Magic.”

  She was younger than Sesily had first believed, a dark hood having hidden what she now recognized as a pretty, fresh face—the kind that most definitely turned heads.

  As someone who prided herself on her own ability to turn heads, Sesily admired the woman’s unique beauty.

  Of course, she hadn’t been able to turn the only head she’d ever really cared to turn.

  She’d so failed to turn that head, it was on a boat to Boston that very moment.

  She pushed the thought out of her mind. “You had them all enraptured.”

  “The world enjoys a spectacle,” the magician replied.

  “And in the spectacle, they fail to see the truth.” Sesily knew that better than most.

  “Therein lies the business,” the woman said, opening the box, a collection of silver rings winking at her. “Shall I show you another trick?”

  “Of course,” Sesily replied, flashing a bright smile to hide the immediate pounding of her heart. Earlier that day, she’d felt herself on a precipice, at one of the rare moments in life when a body knew there would be a before and an after.

  But that had been a feeling in her heart. One that would wane. Quiet. Until the moment would fade and she’d struggle to remember the details.

  That had been emotion.

  This . . . this was in her head.

  This was truth.

  She did not hesitate, putting her hand into the empty box, her fingers brushing across the firm, smooth oak within. Extracting her hand, she said, “Empty.”

  The woman’s brows lifted in a charming flirt and she closed the wood top with a firm snap, then passed a hand over the top before opening it again. “Are you certain?”

  Delighted and curious, Sesily reached inside, her breath catching as she removed the small silver oval inside. Turning the portrait over in her hands, she tilted it to the light.

  Surprise came. “It’s me.”

  The magician inclined her head. “So you know it was meant for you.”

  The interception. The machination. The maneuvering. The way her path had been charted that evening. Her fingers tightened on the little portrait, the silver frame biting into her skin.

  But why?

  As though she heard the question, the magician passed another wave over the empty box. Tilted it toward her. Sesily reached inside, heart in her throat, breath coming fast.

  Here, now, everything was to change.

  At first, she thought it was empty again, her fingertips stroking over the smooth wood, seeking. Finding.

  She extracted a small ecru card. Held it to the light.

  An ornate bell inked on one side, a Mayfair address in the lower left corner.

  She flipped it over, the strong, sure script searing through her.

  Not this path, Sesily.

  We’ve a better one.

  Come and see me.

  Duchess

  Chapter One

  South Audley Street, Mayfair

  The London Home of the Duchess of Trevescan

  Two Years Later

  “It’s as though one is watching a carriage accident.”

  Lady Sesily Talbot stood behind the refreshment table at the Duchess of Trevescan’s autumn ball, contemplating the teeming mass of aristocrats and happily commentating for her friend and hostess. Indeed, Sesily had trouble looking away from the throngs of frocks—each one unique and dreadful in its own way.

  It was 1838, and while ladies of the aristocracy had at long last been blessed with unabashedly plunging necklines and tight, boned bodices—two of Sesily’s favorite things—anyone in a dress was simultaneously cursed with lace and frippery and haberdashery, brightly colored ribbons and flowers piled high, like a tiered cake at court.

  Sesily nodded toward an unfortunate debutante lost in a sea of patterned grenadine gauze. “That one looks as though she’s been upholstered in my mother’s bedchamber curtains.” She tutted her disapproval. “I take it back. It is not one carriage accident. It is a ballroom full of them. History will surely judge us harshly for these fashions.”

  “Would we say fashions?” At her right elbow, the Duchess of Trevescan, Mayfair’s most beloved hostess—though not a single member of the aristocracy would ever admit it—brushed an invisible speck from her stunning, fitted sapphire bodice (fully lacking in frippery), pursed her boldly stained lips, and surveyed the crush of people with a discerning eye.

  “The only explanation is that the new queen loathes her sex. Else why would she choose to make these the styles of the day? The goal is clearly to make us all look atrocious. Look at that one.” Sesily pointed to a particularly unfortunate bonnet—an oversized oval creation that encircled a young woman’s face in
an effect that could only be described as clamlike, complete with layers and layers of pink lace and feathers. “It’s as though she’s being reborn.”

  The duchess coughed, sputtering her champagne. “Good God, Sesily.”

  Sesily looked to her, the portrait of innocence. “Show me the untruth.” When the duchess could do no such thing, Sesily added, “I’m going to have my modiste send that poor thing something that makes her look gorgeous. Along with an invitation for a bonnet burning.”

  A chuckle, followed by, “Her mother will never allow you near her.”

  That much was true. Sesily had never been beloved by aristocratic mothers, and not only because she refused to wear the fashions of the season. Her beautiful mauve silk aside, Sesily was universally terrifying to the aristocracy for additional, hopefully much more unsettling reasons.

  Yes, she was the daughter of a coal miner turned earl and a fairly crass and somewhat difficult woman who’d never found welcome in London society. But that wasn’t it, either. No, Sesily’s particular fearsomeness came with being thirty years old, unmarried, rich, and a woman. And worse, all those things without shame. She had never taken herself up to a high shelf to live out her days. She hadn’t even taken herself off to the country. Instead, she took herself to balls. In low-cut, boned silks that looked decidedly unlike pastry. Without bonnets made for either debutantes or spinsters.

  And that made her the most dangerous of all the Dangerous Daughters of the Earl of Wight.

  What an irony that was, as Queen Victoria sat upon her throne not a half mile from Mayfair, all while the aristocracy trembled in fear of women who refused to be packed up and sent away when they grew too old, refused to marry, or showed no interest in the rules and regulations of the titled world.

  And Sesily had no interest in the proper, prescribed universe of the aristocracy. Not when there was so much of the rest of the world to live in. To change.

  Perhaps, years ago, when she and her sisters had arrived in London with soot in their hair and the North Country in their accent, she might have been able to be shamed. But years of scornful looks and cutting remarks had taught Sesily that society’s judgment either snuffed the light from its brightest stars or made it burn brighter . . .