My Wild and Wicked Rogue
The Wicked Widows’ League, Book 51
©C.H. Admirand, November 15, 2025
Excerpt from Chapter One
Chapter One
“Thank you for allowing me to stay on at Matron Manor, your ladyship.” Araminta Brightwhistle, stilled her hands. She did not want to let her emotions run roughshod over her again after successfully keeping them under a tight rein the entirety of her fortnight stay.
Araminta hoped Lady Covington, the widow currently in residence at the manor, had informed the other widows on the council of her dire situation. “I have no idea what I would have done without your kind offer and support, Lady Covington.”
“It’s Amelia. Though widowed, you still bear the title Lady Haverly, Araminta. Depending upon whether or not you remarry, that could change, but you will always be the dear friend you have become.”
Araminta would not be so crass as to voice her intention to drop her title. She looked forward to severing the connection to her late husband, and all reminders of her banishment these past five years.
Lady Covington’s eyes gleamed. “Do not discount the fact that as the newly widowed Lady Haverly, your every move will be the latest on dit amongst the ton. Eligible bachelors will seek you out at the endless round of entertainments our Society demands and depends upon. Though I should warn you, there will be fortune hunters, rakes, rogues and scoundrels who will assume because you are widowed that you give your favors freely.”
“Thank you for your friendship, and sound advice, Amelia, it means the world to me. London is such a huge change from Haverly’s country estate. I find myself quite at sixes and sevens.” She carefully placed her teacup and saucer on the small mahogany table between herself and Lady Covington.
“Being on a first name basis fosters the closeness that the other widows and I strive to achieve while lending our aid to deserving widows.” Lady Covington leaned toward Araminta, patted the back of Araminta’s hand and straightened. “Now then, as I explained upon your arrival, Lady Wyndam, Lady Sylvan, Lady Andover, and I have made it our mission to lend our aid to other widows who find themselves in the midst of a crisis not of their own making.
“It is unthinkable that a widow not only has to handle the shock of her spouse’s death, but oftentimes a difficult situation that ensues in the event of his untimely demise. Predeceasing his wife leaves her in an untenable position, and the possibility of being cut off from household funds. Not to mention the cessation of her monthly stipend and pin money.”
She paused and placed a hand to her breast for a moment, before letting it fall. “The worst, in my opinion, is the indignity of being tossed out of one’s home by some distant relative claiming to be the rightful heir!”
Listening to the apt description of her situation, Araminta wished she could disappear beneath the muted tones of Aubusson carpet at their feet. But that would have been her reaction as Baroness Haverly—not Widow Haverly. She refused to be anyone’s pawn, moved about without her consent, ever again.
Araminta stiffened her spine and reached for her now tepid tea and sipped. She sincerely hoped Amelia would move on to another topic.
“Your late husband has treated you most shabbily, letting all but three of your household servants go. But to withhold funds you should have had access to,” Lady Covington shuddered, “unconscionable! What I cannot countenance is the unmitigated gall to have ousted you from the only home you have known since you were wed with but one days’ notice.”
Lady Covington’s face was flushed, her expression one of righteous indignation.
Araminta had yet to confide the other reason she suspected was behind her being ousted from Haverly Hollow. It was not solely Haverly’s cousin arriving on her doorstep. Shame filled her. Fearing repudiation—or worse—being declared a vagrant and hauled off to Fleet Street. She dare not bring up her lack of fertility at this point. Best not to mention it at all.
“I appreciate your aid contacting Haverly’s solicitors, Harbinger and Harbinger, to request the full details of Haverly’s properties and entailment. I recall him mentioning a barque before he forc— er…I settled at Haverly Hollow. I thought it odd that he never mentioned owning a boat before—nor how large it would be. I doubt it is entailed, and am hopeful there is a Corinthian—a sportsman—who would be willing to purchase it from me.”
Lady Covington frowned. “I do not recall how large a barque is. I am quite certain our butler will know. He has a surprisingly broad knowledge of such things.”
The woman rose from the dainty olive green upholstered chair with a grace Araminta admired, and walked over to the bellpull in the corner of the room. Giving it gentle tug, she smiled. “We shall have the information you need prior to your appointment with the solicitor.” Lady Covington returned to her seat and asked, “Is there anything else you would like to ask?”
Araminta took a moment to go over the hastily gathered information she had received along with the urgent missive announcing her husband’s demise. She still had no idea the extent of the carriage accident, just that her husband of half a decade had perished.
She wished she could have felt any emotion other than relief. But Haverly’s ill treatment after the six months he had diligently tried to beget an heir would forever mark her as a failure. Banishing her to his remote country estate in the Borderlands had been the first peace she had had since their wedding…it was a blessing.
Araminta answered as honestly as she could, “Settling the matter of the allowance due to me as Haverly’s widow is of the utmost importance. I doubt my ability to run a household in the country, or my talent with needle and thread, would be a help or a hindrance finding a way to support myself.”
The knock on the sitting room door interrupted their conversation. “Come in.” The widow smiled at the butler. “Mr. Smith, we have need of your extensive knowledge.”
“Of course, your ladyship. How many I help?”
Araminta sensed the butler was a man of good character upon first meeting him. Forthright and discrete, his deference and kindness were evident as he spoke with Lady Covington.
“Neither Lady Haverly, nor I are familiar with a barque; do you happen to know if it is smallish yacht that a sportsman would be interested in purchasing?”
Mr. Smith’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “A barque is a sizeable, single-decked vessel, with three masts, though only two are square rigged.”
Lady Covington nodded as if she understood what her butler was telling her. Araminta did not. “Forgive me, for asking, Mr. Smith, but I have no idea what square rigged means.”
He turned to Araminta, and smiled. “It is I who should beg your pardon. The term describes the shape of the sails. A barque also has triangular shaped sails.”
“Thank you for your explanation, Mr. Smith.”
“My pleasure, Lady Haverly.” Turning his attention back to Lady Covington, he asked, “Do you have any other questions for me, your ladyship?”
“Not at present, thank you.”
He bowed and was about to leave, when Araminta remembered the name of the boat. “Oh, Mr. Smith, before you go, I remembered my late husband’s boat had a name. Do you think it might influence a gentleman interested in purchasing the boat.”
“A fine notion, your ladyship. What is the ship’s name?”
“The Barque of Frailty.”
Smith’s mouth gaped open for a moment before he snapped it shut. His face flushed, and he cleared his throat to ask, “Are you certain that is the name, Lady Haverly?”
“Yes, quite certain because at the time, I thought it odd that my husband would want a boat to be fragile. Wouldn’t one want it to be of sound, sturdy construction?”
Lady Covington added her agreement. “One would think so. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Smith?”
He hesitated, shuffling from one foot to the other. “Your ladyships, my conscience would plague me if I did not advise that the name is familiar—notorious even.”
Araminta sighed. “I should have suspected that Haverly would be involved in something other than attending sessions of Parliament and spending time at his gentleman’s clubs.”
The butler sounded as if he were choking.
Lady Covington immediately asked, “Are you quite all right, Mr. Smith?”
He cleared his throat—loudly this time—before answering, “Yes, your ladyship. I am not sure quite how to say this without causing yourself and Lady Haverly to be shocked and embarrassed. Worse you may question my character.”
“Whyever would I do such a thing? You have served our household with aplomb, dignity, and treated the other widows and me with deference. We have counted on your knowledge of things in and around London—on all levels of Society.”
“The name of the vessel also happens to be a property in London.”
“How unusual,” Araminta remarked, unable to imagine what type of building would be named after a boat. “Is it one of the warehouses along the docks?”
Lady Covington was frowning at her butler. “Rest assured that I will not think less of you, nor would I ever question your character.”
When he remained silent, Lady Covington studied him for a moment before saying, “Out with it, Mr. Smith!”
“There is a gaming hell in the bowels of London with the same name.”
Shock swept up from the toes of Araminta’s half boots all the way to the top of her head—which buzzed as if inhabited by a swarm of honey bees.
“Drink this!” a voice near her ear ordered.
As if she were surrounded by a thick fog, Araminta, did as she was told. The fiery liquid had her coughing, but she managed two sips. Before the fog started to clear, and she shook her head. “Please, no more.” Why would Haverly own a gaming hell?
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