Beneath the Velvet Smoke E-Book

Isolde Ravencourt

• Herausgeber: Velvet Ink Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In the fog-draped corridors of Victorian London, Eleanor Ashcombe wears the veil of widowhood with practiced grace. But when her late husband’s mysterious business partner resurfaces—uninvited and unreadable—Eleanor begins to unravel secrets buried deep in smoke and silence.
Alaric Vale is everything Victor never was: restrained, dangerous, and quietly obsessed. As Eleanor delves into the locked chambers of her husband's past, she discovers a world of betrayal, forbidden trade, and a love that defies every rule she’s lived by. Drawn to Alaric by equal parts fury and desire, she must decide whether to expose the sins of the dead—or be consumed by the temptations of the living.
Haunted by memory and hunted by truth, Eleanor walks a delicate line between justice and seduction. But the deeper she digs, the more entangled her heart becomes.
Will uncovering the truth free her… or destroy everything she's fought to rebuild?
Or is some passion meant to burn forever—beneath the velvet smoke?

Leseprobe

Beneath the Velvet Smoke

A Victorian Desire Story

SINS OF THE CENTURIES

Isolde Ravencourt

Copyright © 2025 by Isolde Ravencourt

All rights reserved. This book and all individual stories contained within are protected under international copyright law. No part of this collection may be copied, reproduced, distributed, or shared in any form without the express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, settings, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is entirely coincidental.

AI Tools Acknowledgement:

The cover image and/or design elements were created using generative AI technology under appropriate commercial-use licensing.

Thank you for reading this special collection. I hope you enjoy every story inside.

Table of Contents

Beneath the Velvet Smoke

Description

Chapter 1: The Ashes Left Behind

Chapter 2: A Gentleman in Shadows

Chapter 3: A Manor Built on Secrets

Chapter 4: A Glove, A Key, A Whisper

Chapter 5: The Room Beneath the Smoke

Chapter 6: Tangled in Silk and Fire

Chapter 7: The Opium Ledger

Chapter 8: A Bargain in the Dark

Chapter 9: The Ember and the Knife

Chapter 10: Smoke Without Fire

Chapter 11: The Garden in Fog

Epilogue: One Year Later

Beneath the Velvet Smoke

Description

In the fog-draped corridors of Victorian London, Eleanor Ashcombe wears the veil of widowhood with practiced grace. But when her late husband’s mysterious business partner resurfaces—uninvited and unreadable—Eleanor begins to unravel secrets buried deep in smoke and silence.

Alaric Vale is everything Victor never was: restrained, dangerous, and quietly obsessed. As Eleanor delves into the locked chambers of her husband's past, she discovers a world of betrayal, forbidden trade, and a love that defies every rule she’s lived by. Drawn to Alaric by equal parts fury and desire, she must decide whether to expose the sins of the dead—or be consumed by the temptations of the living.

Haunted by memory and hunted by truth, Eleanor walks a delicate line between justice and seduction. But the deeper she digs, the more entangled her heart becomes.

Will uncovering the truth free her… or destroy everything she's fought to rebuild?

Or is some passion meant to burn forever—beneath the velvet smoke?

Chapter 1: The Ashes Left Behind

The scent of lilies clawed at the back of my throat. I had chosen them myself—white, waxy, heavy-headed—and now I loathed them. They clung to the air like a lie we’d all agreed to wear in polite silence. I stood at the edge of the family plot, veil drawn low, fingers clenched tight around the handle of my parasol though the clouds wept for me. Or for him. I could no longer tell.

The priest's voice blurred into the drizzle, soft Latin phrases spiraling into the earth with the coffin. My husband—Victor Ashcombe, industrialist, philanthropist, liar—lowered beneath the soil in a walnut box lined with velvet. Always velvet. He had a taste for things that concealed their truths.

A tremor started in my knees and climbed upward. Not grief. Not quite. Something colder. Emptier. As though I had just buried the final anchor tethering me to the version of myself I had been trained to present. Wife. Hostess. Proper widow.

Around me, black coats and lace gloves nodded, sniffled, muttered their condolences.

“You were his light, Mrs. Ashcombe.”

“Such a tragic loss.”

“If there’s anything we can do…”

Yes. You can tell me who he really was.

I smiled the way society expects of a woman who has everything but a pulse. I gave them that perfect tilt of the chin, the slight tremor in my lower lip—enough to look like sorrow but never hysteria. It was a performance, and I was exhausted by the first act.

***

I dismissed the staff early that evening. The drawing room had grown too still. Too upholstered. Too haunted.

Victor’s favorite armchair remained turned toward the hearth, though the fire was long dead. His brandy glass stood untouched on the sideboard, the last ring of his presence marked by a faint circle on mahogany.

I walked through the rooms, fingers trailing along bannisters and bookshelves as if they might speak to me—offer some whisper of the man I had shared a bed with for twelve years. I knew how he took his tea. I knew the rhythm of his breathing just before he fell asleep. I knew the scar behind his left knee from a fencing accident in youth.

But I did not know what he did at his warehouses after dark. Or who had written him those letters.

My heels echoed through the corridor like accusations. I passed his study—locked. As always. The key had never been mine to use.

Upstairs, I shed my widow’s gown in a slow procession. Black silk slithered to the floor like a second skin peeled away. I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror: pale neck, collarbones sharp beneath my chemise, dark circles under glassy eyes. A woman in mourning… or a woman reborn?

The distinction blurred.

On the bed, atop a stack of untouched condolence cards, sat a letter. One I had not placed there.

My pulse stuttered.

The envelope was thick, cream-colored, sealed in deep green wax stamped with a crest I did not recognize.

Alaric Vale.

The name was written in careful ink, the handwriting elegant and masculine. I had seen it before—once—tucked inside Victor’s leather-bound notebook, when he’d been careless one afternoon in June.

Alaric Vale. Business partner. Benefactor. The man Victor had mentioned only in passing. “He’s not for your world, Eleanor,” he had said once, pouring whiskey into crystal. “Leave him to mine.”

But Victor was no longer here to guard his secrets.

I opened the envelope slowly. Inside was a short note:

Mrs. Ashcombe,

If you are reading this, it means Victor has kept his promise. I mourn his passing in my own way. There are matters unfinished between us, and I believe some concern you directly. I will call on you tomorrow, at four.

Respectfully,

Alaric Vale

The paper trembled in my hands, though my fingers did not move.

Four o’clock.

No request. No condolences. Just certainty.

***

Sleep came as a stranger. Fitful. Jagged.

I dreamt of smoke curling beneath doors. Of velvet drapes hiding something that breathed. I dreamt of Victor’s voice—distant, amused, and laced with warning.

In the morning, the estate awakened in its usual mechanical rhythm. Breakfast was prepared, though I ate little. The sun broke through the clouds just once, illuminating the corner where Victor had once read aloud from The Times, his voice steady and self-assured. Now the corner sat in silence, waiting.

At precisely four o’clock, the butler knocked once at the drawing room door.

“Mr. Alaric Vale to see you, madam.”