Diana Sensational Spinster's Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book) Read online

  Diana Sensational Spinster's Society

  The Spinster’s Society

  A Regency Romance Book

  Charlotte Stone

  Contents

  Copyright

  Personal word from Charlotte Stone

  Find Out More

  ACT 01

  .

  1

  Chapter One

  .

  2

  Chapter Two

  .

  3

  Chapter Three

  .

  4

  Chapter Four

  .

  5

  Chapter Five

  .

  6

  Chapter Six

  .

  7

  Chapter Seven

  .

  8

  Chapter Eight

  .

  9

  Chapter Nine

  .

  10

  Chapter Ten

  .

  11

  Chapter Eleven

  .

  12

  Chapter Twelve

  .

  13

  Chapter Thirteen

  .

  14

  Chapter Fourteen

  .

  15

  Chapter Fifteen

  .

  16

  Chapter Sixteen

  .

  17

  Chapter Seventeen

  .

  18

  Chapter Eighteen

  .

  19

  Chapter Nineteen

  .

  20

  Chapter Twenty

  .

  21

  Chapter Twenty-one

  .

  22

  Chapter Twenty-two

  .

  23

  Chapter Twenty-three

  .

  24

  Chapter Twenty-four

  .

  25

  Chapter Twenty-five

  .

  26

  Chapter Twenty-six

  .

  27

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  .

  28

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  .

  29

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  .

  30

  Chapter Thirty

  .

  31

  Chapter Thirty-one

  .

  32

  Chapter Thirty-two

  .

  33

  Chapter Thirty-three

  .

  34

  Chapter Thirty-four

  .

  35

  Chapter Thirty-five

  .

  36

  Chapter Thirty-six

  .

  Epilogue

  .

  ACT 02

  .

  2

  Chapter Two

  .

  3

  Chapter Three

  .

  4

  Chapter Four

  .

  5

  Chapter Five

  .

  6

  Chapter Six

  .

  7

  Chapter Seven

  .

  8

  Chapter Eight

  .

  9

  Chapter Nine

  .

  10

  Chapter Ten

  .

  11

  Chapter Eleven

  .

  12

  Chapter Twelve

  .

  13

  Chapter Thirteen

  .

  14

  Chapter Fourteen

  .

  15

  Chapter Fifteen

  .

  16

  Chapter Sixteen

  .

  17

  Chapter Seventeen

  .

  Epilogue

  .

  Preview of Next Book

  ORDER OF BOOKS LIST. Also By

  Join Today

  Publishers Notes

  Copyright © 2018 by

  Charlotte Stone

  All Rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * * * *

  This book cover designed by Sanja Gombar www.bookcoverforyou.com

  * * *

  PERSONAL WORD

  FROM CHARLOTTE STONE

  * * *

  Dear lovely readers,

  The characters of my writings are women who have a strong mind of their own, women who know what they want to pursue in life. It is their tenacity to finding true love that drives them to overcome the challenges which they may face while waiting for the man of their dreams.

  Will such tenacity of their believing bring them true love in spite of the societal-standing challenges one will face in an era such as that of Regency.

  Read on to find out the answers!

  Thank you once again for your strong support in my writing journey!

  Much Love,

  Have you checked out my other historical romance book series?

  Click the link below to get started

  *** Amazon US ***

  * * *

  Got something to share?

  I would want to hear from you!

  So please do get in touch with me:

  https://www.facebook.com/charlottestonebooks/

  [email protected]

  - THE SPINSTER’S SOCIETY SERIES -

  Diana Sensational Spinster's Society

  .

  .

  .

  * * *

  * * *

  .

  .

  .

  PROLOGUE

  .

  my addiction conSumes me Again

  and like a warm fire I’m drawn to her dance

  she moves like flickering flame

  my desire’s inferNo ever expands

  shall we voyage to iTaly?

  loll in the wateRs of the sea

  while the white crest of wAves wash Me clean?

  i’ll have no more thoughts of She

  Yet if the pools of purity fail

  and my passions remain ablaze

  best yet to still her rousing form

  and carnage cause our delays

  * * *

  1

  .

  .

  .

  * * *

  * * *

  .

  .

  .

  CHAPTER ONE

  .

  June 1815

  London, England

  For as long as Franklin Lockwood could remember, he’d been fascinated with the human mind. It learned and controlled the way a man moved, taking a child from crawling to a full-on run. It held memories that either brought happiness or pain, and was the keeper of things that made everyone who they were, and what they would become.

  It was no great wonder to his friends and family, that, after years of putting his obsession aside, he finally found a way to make it his focus. It had taken a little bribery on his part. He was the eldest son of England’s largest gentry holding. His focus, therefore, should have been on agriculture, his tenants, and shaping the laws that could affect his vast profits. But he’d g
iven a portion of that responsibility to his younger brother, Calvin, so that he could focus on his true calling.

  Medicine of the mind.

  It was a field of work not new to England, or even, to humanity. Great philosophers of the ancient past could not avoid conducting studies on the human mind, when they presented their thoughts on reason.

  As a young man at Oxford, Frank had read Christian Wolf’s work Psychological Empirical, a book that had been published a century before, and yet had held the power to change the course of Frank’s life, forever.

  Frank had not been a doctor for long. Indeed, he was relatively new to it. He still studied, and held discussions with the greatest minds England had to offer on the subject, but had begun seeing patients of his own, a year ago.

  But the man who sat across from Frank now, was something entirely different. He was not a patient, but a criminal. Frank could consult with no one else, on the matters that were to be discussed in the dark cellar he’d been shown to.

  The consequences of doing so would be dire.

  He thought of something William Blake had once said. The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence, itself.

  Yet, could something this terrible, truly have been imagined before? What past events had brought his current… subject to this point? Was it memory or dream? The mind did enjoy its play. When one sought sleep, the mind presented its person with sun-kissed dreams, or terrible night terrors.

  But never had Frank thought the fabled night terrors of the hobgoblin real.

  He stared into the eyes of a man he thought quite crazed, and yet could tell that beyond those dark irises, was a mind that could still reason.

  He was staring at a monster. A living abomination with hands, feet, and a brain that had given birth to the most hideous of deaths, which had painted bloody images across Frank’s mind that he would never forget.

  His name was Charles Grayly, and he was the Earl of Dahl, a quiet gentleman who didn’t frequent Society, if at all.

  Frank, who’d been to a multitude of parties in the last few years, had never once seen the Earl of Dahl.

  Not once.

  And yet he’d heard the whispers.

  The madman never left his London townhouse, except to prey on women. When his victims were found, their limbs were missing, their faces frozen in the awe of their demise.

  The watchmen had given Frank paintings and sketches to look over, things the public had never seen.

  Dahl was the bluebloods’ most horrifying secret, and yet there was nothing to be done about it. The man’s title kept him out of prison, and his younger brother, a leader in the House of Commons, used his authority and powers of persuasion to keep everyone else away.

  It was also fortunate for the earl, that all his victims had been ladies of the night, and from the worst part of the city, and so, no one truly made complaints.

  Until now.

  Frank watched, as the earl’s lips moved. They had been split a few times. The abuse of the thugs who stood in the corners of the cellar was evident on his face. Yet, even with one swollen eye and another made red with blood, Dahl’s gaze remained patiently on Frank. He sat, dressed in a fine black suit that had been roughened and stained with dried blood, poised with his hands resting on his lap, and his back stiff against the wooden chair back. His features were relaxed and without emotion. He reminded Frank of a German Shepherd. A dog who faithfully waited on a command.

  They’d beaten him for hours, and yet, Dahl had not spoken a word.

  So, they’d called Frank.

  At thirty-three, Dahl was only slightly older than Frank’s twenty-nine years, and Frank wondered if an older, and more mature doctor would have been adequate for this task.

  Frank leaned forward, preparing to ask a question, and watched as Dahl did the same. Then he stilled and leaned away.

  Again, his actions were mirrored.

  Frank stood and walked over to a small wooden table that had been set up against one of the cellar’s bare walls. A lamp gave light to the evidence that lay on the surface. Poems, each accounting for victims, each written in Dahl’s hand.

  His stomach twisted, and he planted his fist on the table, as he pulled in a breath. “Have you killed her, yet?” He turned and saw Dahl watching him. The earl said nothing, his mouth motionless.

  Frank turned back to the papers on the desk.

  One of the thugs, the one closest to him, leaned over and whispered, “We don’t ‘ave much time.” His cockney accent was heavy, more so than when they first met. His worry made it worse. “Got to find Skip.”

  Frank had no idea who this ‘Skip’ was, that he referred to. He’d only been told to look for a Miss B. “I know,” Frank replied, without turning from the poem before him.

  The thug leaned closer. “The earl’s brot’er will find ‘im soon. ‘E’ll come and take ‘im away and we won’t get this chance again.”

  Frank looked over at the thug and stared into the man’s eyes, without fear. “I know.”

  The ruffian was bigger than Frank and had likely killed more men than Frank ever had. He had arms that looked capable of snapping a man in two, and eyes that said he’d think nothing of it, later.

  Yet Frank knew it was best not to back down. The others called the man “Hit.” It was an appropriate name, as nicknames go, yet Frank knew that the moment he backed down, he would lose the respect of every other man, with a befitting nickname, in the room.

  Mr. Hit backed away and nodded.

  Frank turned back to the poem the earl had sent to Miss B.

  shall we voyage to iTaly?

  loll in the wateRs of the sea

  The man didn’t even write his stanzas correctly.

  “Have you been to Italy, my lord?” Frank looked at Dahl and, again, he gained no reply.

  Why was the poem written in such a way? Was he planning to take Miss B to Italy? He’d never taken the other victims out of the country, and yet every poem suggested so.

  Unless he wasn’t talking to the women at all. Maybe he was taunting them.

  Then who was he speaking to?

  best yet to still her rousing form

  and carnage cause our delays

  Was he speaking to himself?

  He’d heard stories from other doctors, those who worked at Bedlam, of patients who were sometimes themselves, and other times, someone entirely different.

  Was Dahl speaking to his other self? Or his conscience, perhaps?

  And, why in rhythm?

  “My addiction consumes me again.” Frank ignored how sick it made him to say the words. “And like a warm fire, I’m drawn to her dance.”

  He heard the scraping of wood against the ground and turned.

  Dahl was leaning close again. Listening.

  A hard knock sounded on the door.

  Another ruffian, a blackmoor named Miff, answered.

  Mr. Harris stuck his head in, and looked at Frank with calm gray eyes. “He wants to know if you have anything.” He was slim, and obviously not a thug, but likely to do whatever his master said, nonetheless.