Ruby Heart Read online

  Ruby Heart

  Cry Havoc Book 1

  Donna Maree Hanson

  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

  About Donna Maree Hanson

  Note from the author

  Also by Donna Maree Hanson

  Copyright Information

  Ruby Heart first published by Donna Maree Hanson 2018

  Copyright © Donna Maree Hanson 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organizations) in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, audio) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.

  ISBN978-0-6482795-9-4 (ebook)

  ISBN978-0-9876381-0-6 (print on demand)

  Cover design by www.crocodesigns.com

  Proofread by Maxine McArthur

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  This one is for my writer retreat buddies

  Thank you for the inspiration and support over the years

  Matthew, Trudi, Russell, Kylie, Nicole, Cat, Robert, Joanne, Alan, Ian, Shauna and Kim

  Prologue

  1858 East Sussex, United Kingdom

  The wheels of the extractor’s machinery ground against the gears, vibrating the timber floor. The Executioner looked on, eyes greedy for every tremor of pain, every cry of anguish. Heat and steam rolled against his skin as the great piston shoved and tugged, turning the large wheel. The sight of Wilbur Hardcastle, recalcitrant magician, struggling feebly against the restraints as the extractor sucked out his life force, stirred no pity, only curiosity. The process of death never ceased to fascinate the Executioner. Wilbur emitted a hoarse-voiced cry steeped in agony and still he sighed at the wonder of it.

  A ripple of power brushed up against his skin. Turning slightly, he saw Brother Wilfred materialise and then stride forward. The tall, gaunt magician, his features hidden by shadow, whispered urgently. “Did he reveal the location of the texts?”

  “No. Only that they are hidden. If you want to question him, do so now. Within minutes, he will be drained and beyond redemption.”

  “I have completed the search. He hid them well. I can find no trace. Has he had said anything since the interrogation?”

  The Executioner shook his head. An idea for one final attempt to extract an answer caused him lift an eyebrow. “Was not there a child?”

  Brother Wilfred’s mouth dropped open. “A small talent and a female. Oh you mean as leverage?” His eyes widened as he caught on to the Executioner’s idea. “This execution was sanctioned. The child is thus protected.”

  The Executioner shrugged. Wilfred had no imagination and was too limited by the rules. Lucky, not all the brothers in the societas magicae were as inhibited. “No use to us then. Shall I end it?”

  Wilbur Hardcastle’s skin was pale, his cheeks concaved, and his darkened sockets feebly clutched bloodshot orbs. He looked as if his body had been wasted by disease for many months. Only the last stubborn spark of life remained in his eyes. The Executioner increased the machine’s speed and watched that spark fade.

  The powerful machine was useful for harnessing life energy and efficacious in murder. Brother Hardcastle’s life force now resided in the machine to be used as the brotherhood saw fit. Stepping back, Brother Wilfred performed the spell that would send the machine back to their sanctum and bowed a farewell before he conjured himself away.

  The Executioner began the task of arranging the body of Wilbur Hardcastle on the bed, setting all that was awry to rights. Evidence that his life had been unnaturally taken was quietly removed and his death would remain forever a mystery to the local coroner.

  With the hum of industrious bees in his ears, Edward Hardcastle Huntington strode through the grounds of Willow Park, his newly inherited estate. Garden beds brimmed with summer flowers, the kitchen garden swelled with vegetables and the orchards with ripe fruit. Amazed at what fortune had bestowed on him, Edward continued his excursion, trying not to gape at every wonder that passed his eye—an Italian garden, a yew maze and a water maze, a well-stocked lake with pretty willows casting dappled shade on a row of punts.

  Tall, with a good bearing and curling dark locks, he was at home with his surroundings. He was dressed finely in a new morning coat, offset with a dark blue silk cravat. His long legs ate up the distance between the lawn and the pleasure gardens, with the estate’s solicitor, Mr Stradbroke, trailing behind him, huffing and wheezing as he struggled to keep up.

  “I am flabbergasted,” Edward remarked more to himself than his companion.

  Mr Stradbroke took a few, hasty breaths and wiped a handkerchief across his brow. “Yes, a most worthy estate unencumbered by debt. Your cousin had modest tastes and has managed to deliver your inheritance to you very good shape, indeed.”

  Edward rubbed his chin, his gaze eating up the vista. Situated in East Sussex, the estate was within easy distance of London. How different his life would be, what wonders were his, what opportunities to indulge his passion for science. No more dark, rat-infested rooms and scrounged equipment.

  Stradbroke cleared his throat and wiped perspiration from his brow with a large handkerchief. “So, Mr Huntington, is the estate is to your liking? Do you have any particular directions for me?”

  “I like it very well.” He had yet to come to terms with his inheritance and had no particular plans to change arrangements. He turned to Mr Stradbroke, taking note of the solicitor’s eager posture. “As for directions—”

  A loud scream interrupted him. The solicitor started, his long moustache twitching at the ends.

  “What the devil?” Edward uttered as he peered around, searching for the source of the disturbance.

  More screams and two children erupted from some nearby bushes and, without a care for those around them, bounded down the path toward the lake’s edge before disappearing into the yew maze, where more screams emitted. One was a girl with hair flying in a tangle, wearing a stained apron over a dress rimmed in mud along the hem. The other was a blond youth of about sixteen, dressed in nothing but trousers and ripped shirt and equally smeared in dirt.

  “Children of the servants, I expect,” he remarked to Mr Stradbroke.

  The solicitor went pink around the ears. “I err…Yes, quite right. I’ll speak to the housekeeper about them.” They walked together in a slow circuit that would return them to the house. “Ehem...”

  “What is it?” Edward asked, still distracted by the radical changes in his circumstances. He was now the owner of a splendid house and the generous income that came with it.

  “I was wondering, sir, whether you had read all the terms of the will and the papers you have signed this morning.”

  Edward’s left eyebrow rose. “Of course, I read them all. What are you suggesting?”

  He turned and left the garden perimeter, his boots crunching up the gravel drive as he strode towards the front door. A cup of tea was in order and perhaps a few sandwiches. The
housekeeper, Mrs Eddington, seemed a competent woman. Hopefully, she was able to predict that her new master needed refreshment on this very warm day. His mind was busily contemplating his afternoon tea when Mr Stradbroke coughed in his fisted hand to clear his throat. “I don’t mean to imply any insult, Mr Huntington, but you have yet to enquire after your ward.” He gazed up at Edward, his moustache dropping along the sides of his frown.

  “My ward?” Edward stopped in his tracks, his heartbeat rather lumpy all of sudden.

  The solicitor nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Mr Hardcastle left you the guardianship of his daughter, Miss Jemima Lily Hardcastle.”

  “My lord, did he?” Edward suddenly faint, inserted a finger into his cravat to let some air onto his skin, and hurried through the front door and across the hall into the cool confines of the library.

  “Well, yes, sir. The papers...this morning?” Mr Stradbroke said as he followed along behind.

  “What the devil did he do that for? I have only just come of age myself.” Edward threw himself into a chair, sighing as his eyes ranged over shelves that housed an impressive collection of books. He recollected himself and sat up to face the unctuous solicitor. “A girl you say? How old is she?”

  Mr Stradbroke stood before him, wiping the edge of his moustache with a forefinger. “Well, sir, she is an interesting young girl of about thirteen or fourteen.”

  “I see...” A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the butler, hefting a loaded tea tray. The housekeeper had anticipated his needs precisely. Edward found his estimation of Mrs Eddington climbed even higher as he bent forward to inspect the tray. Feeling quite peckish, he took a plate of sandwiches and began to gnaw on them, while offering the solicitor to partake himself with a careless wave of his hand. After a sip of tea and a large swallow, he instructed Mr Stradbroke to tell him more.

  The solicitor nestled his tea cup and saucer on his knee. The butler had served him with a moustache cup, with inbuilt guard to protect his waxed and pampered facial hair. Edward’s estimation of the butler, Cobb, rose also.

  “She has her own legacy. One from her mother, who died when she was an infant, a heart condition, I understand, and one from the estate so she would not be a financial burden to you. There is the issue of her education.”

  Edward reached for a generous portion of rich fruit cake and offered the plate to Mr Stradbroke, eyebrows raised. “Education? She’s at school then?” he asked with an optimistic air.

  Mr Stradbroke placed his cup on the table, refusing the cake offered him with a shake of his head. “Ah no, not quite. You may not have heard about your second cousin, Wilbur Hardcastle, in great detail.” The solicitor coughed. “I am not sure how to say this with discretion. I will own he was a portion eccentric and spent much of his time in his laboratory performing experiments, most of which I could not comprehend. After his wife died, he brought the girl up at home, educated her himself.”

  The butler poured another cup of tea, while Edward helped himself to a jam tart. All that walking had excited his appetite. “What is so eccentric about that? Next you will say he taught her Greek, Latin, logic and philosophy, with a smattering of modern science. A man’s classical education rather than how to read, write and do her sums.” He chuckled at his own wit.

  “That’s exactly what he did.”

  Edward coughed, choking on tart and tea. The solicitor hurried over and slapped him soundly on the back.

  “There, there sir. Nothing to be upset about. I’m sure when you meet her you’ll know what to do.”

  When the tea tray was taken away, Edward left the solicitor in the library to go over the accounts and prepare a list of the various investments for further discussion, while he inspected his newly acquired laboratory. It was such a luxury to have his own space instead of sharing rented rooms. Down in the converted basements, he found the most interesting array of animals—some stuffed, some preserved in jars. In journals, he found copious notes as to their habitat and sketches of the creatures from conception, birth and death.

  In another part of the laboratory, he found a section devoted to plants, leaves, herbs, flowers in various stages of preservation—dried, chopped, pickled. Again, there was the same meticulous attention to detail in the naming of the plant, its properties, its propagation and culture. On the centre laboratory table, he saw the beginnings of a machine, the pieces not quite assembled. Cousin Wilbur had indeed been a man of science. A noise from the depths of the laboratory startled him. He swung around; he was not alone. As he strode down the aisle between the long workbenches, he saw a girl, the dirty urchin from that morning, putting away glass beakers in a cupboard.

  “What the devil are you doing?”

  The girl gasped and spun around. “Ah! You must be Uncle Edward.” She edged a pail to the side with her foot, then curtseyed. “I am Jemima Hardcastle. How do you do.”

  “How do you do.” He responded automatically. “And what are you doing down here?”

  She looked around at the bench. “Making sure my things were put away. Papa always made sure everything was put exactly where it should be.”

  Edward jerked his chin at the pail. “What have you got in there?”

  “Tadpoles,” she held up the pail, then lowered it to peer inside. “They will grow into common frogs, unfortunately—not pool frogs. Found them by the lake.” She shrugged and lifted her face to stare at him. “I want to try them on a new diet to see if it affects their rate of growth and colour.” He studied her as she rattled on about her frogs. Her face had a good bone structure, slight freckling across the nose, which might fade in time with the right application of creams. She was reasonably tall for her age, he supposed, but only time would tell. He had no idea what shade her hair was under the layer of grime. She looked as if she had been the object of a fox hunt. It just wouldn’t do, he thought sourly, realising that he was now responsible for this girl. This was a great responsibility, one that terrified him.

  “Please dispose of them this minute and then meet me in the library.”

  “But...”

  “Now, if you please. This is my laboratory, and I won’t have a little chit of a girl getting under my feet.”

  Jemima jerked the pail, spilling pungent water as she stormed out.

  Edward rubbed his chin, considering what he was to do with his ward. She could not remain there—a most unsuitable arrangement. If she was to be a useful member of society, she had to go to school or have a governess.

  In the library stood Jemima still adorned in all her muck, not even having deigned to wash her face. Stradbroke stared at the ceiling, probably trying to keep his gaze from this feral child, who was meant to be a young lady. The solicitor was probably embarrassed, too, because he had withheld important details when Edward had been signing all the paperwork, thus landing him with the responsibility for Miss Hardcastle. Edward felt bad for what he must do to this wild, orphan girl. It was his duty to see that she was raised properly. Heavens forbid, but he had to assert some authority, some discipline into her life.

  “Mrs Eddington!” Edward called out.

  The housekeeper, a pleasant and rounded middle-aged woman, with hair under her cap and rosy cheeks, immediately put her head around the door. “Yes, sir?”

  “Please escort Miss Hardcastle upstairs and make sure she is bathed and properly dressed in time for dinner.”

  Jemima in turn stood there gaping at him as if he was some kind of apparition. Obviously, she had been running wild for months while the estate confirmed him as next heir in the entailment. Certainly, the servants had not taken charge of her. She was too old by halves to be running with a young man without a chaperone.

  Shrugging off the guiding hand of Mrs Eddington, she blurted out. “How dare you, sir! Who are you to tell me what to do in my own home? Why we have only just been introduced.” Her gaze went pleadingly to Mr Stradbroke. “Please, sir, tell me what is to do here?”

  Edward raised himself up, puffing out his chest
as his own erstwhile father was wont to do. At twenty-one, he did not have much fatherly experience himself and had not supervised anything except maybe the care of his cocker spaniel, Turnip, before being sent to school.

  “I will tell you what is happening. You are going to school. Tomorrow. A proper school for young ladies, where you will learn deportment, drawing, elocution, sewing and, most importantly, manners. You will leave first thing in the morning.”

  “What?” was all the girl could manage. Despite her unseemly upbringing, she had tears in her eyes. The feminine in her had not been totally obliterated. This gave Edward some hope that she was not lost, not destined to be a blue-stockinged spinster forever an outcast in society.

  “Stradbroke, you will ride to London this evening. I have an acquaintance who runs a school for young ladies. You will take my letter to her. I am sure she will oblige us by taking on Miss Hardcastle in on short notice. You will, of course, access the necessary funds to set up her wardrobe and other essentials. Miss Blake will take it all in hand.”

  “No! You cannot send me away from my home. This is all I have left of my father, of my life. And what about David? You cannot send me away without letting me say goodbye to him.”

  The torn look on her face, shredded his heart. He tried not to buckle so he frowned at her, adding some theatre to his posture. “I can send you away young lady. Your father made me your guardian, therefore, I make the important decisions in your life and control your money until you come of age or marry. I am sorry for your loss, but this is my home now and you must bear it as best as possible. If your young friend can read, you have my leave to dispatch a note to him so that one of the servants can deliver it. However, you will not be able to visit him in person. Now, I suggest you accompany the good Mrs Eddington upstairs and see to your toilet. I will see you again at dinner.”