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The Revenge of Lord Eberlin [Anglais] [Poche]

Julia London

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Description de l'ouvrage

12 avril 2012
Tobin Scott, Count Eberlin of Denmark, has returned to Hadley Green, the site of his father's hanging fifteen years ago. He has one goal in mind and that is to avenge his father. He is now a wealthy man and intends to exact his revenge by destroying the Ashwood estate and the Countess of Ashwood, who, as a girl, testified against his father. Lily Boudine has become the Countess of Ashwood through a very surprising twist of fate. She is surprised when a vaguely familiar looking man calls and tells her he is Tobin Scott, whom she knew as a boy and that he intends to destroy her or Ashwood. He leaves the choice to her. Lily chooses herself, and banks on the idea that she can hold him at bay long enough to remove Ashwood from his clutches. However as they play the game of seduction, Lily slowly discovers that he is not the cold, heartless man he would like to present to her, she also comes to believe that Tobin is right-his father did not steal the jewels, and if she can find them, she can help restore his family's honour.

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Summer 1808
Hadley Green, West Sussex

Count Eberlin left London like a man with the world firmly in his grasp. His town home was in the fashionable Mayfair district and his horse was a sturdy gray Arabian he’d had delivered from Spain. He wore a coat of the finest Belgian wool, a silk shirt and neckcloth made by a renowned Italian tailor, Scottish buckskins, and Hessian boots fashioned in soft French leather. Confident and wealthy, he sat his horse like a king commanding an army.

Five hours later, he crested the hill on the main road through West Sussex. The village of Hadley Green nestled prettily in the valley below, with her thatched roof cottages, vibrantly colorful gardens, and a High Street bustling with commerce. And, very clearly, a village green.

His chest tightened painfully. He suddenly felt clammy, his skin flushed and damp, and he was strangely light-headed. Fearing he would topple right off his horse, he reigned up hard.

He’d believed the memory of what had happened there to be dead to him, but now he struggled to catch his breath as he watched children play on the green where his father had been hanged for thievery fifteen years ago.

Count Eberlin—or Tobin Scott as he’d been known then, son of Joseph Scott, the wood-carver—hadn’t traveled this road since his father’s death. He’d forgotten the lay of it and had not expected to see the green like this. He certainly hadn’t expected such a visceral reaction. He could feel the crank of rusted and disintegrated feelings awakening, though he’d believed himself to be dead inside, incapable of any sort of passion, dark or light.

As he stared at the green he was amazed that his head and his heart could trick him so. He could almost see the scaffold, could nearly smell the mutton and ale that had been sold the morning his father was executed. It was as if the carts still lined the streets beside the gallows.

A child raced across the green into the arms of a man who lifted her up and swung her high overhead.

There had been children at his father’s execution, too, playing around the edges of the green. The adults had been the spectators, come early to drink their ale and eat their mutton. Only thirteen years old at the time, Tobin hadn’t known how absurdly festive an execution could be. When his father was led across the green, the crowd, warmed by their ale, had cheerfully shouted, “Thief, bloody thief!” before taking another swig from their tankards.

He thought he’d buried the image of his father standing on that scaffold with his gaze turned toward the heavens and resigned to his fate; buried it deep in the black mud inside him, from which nothing could grow. But he saw the image again this summer day with vivid clarity. He pulled at his neckcloth, seeking relief from his sudden breathlessness.

He wasn’t supposed to have seen his father hang, naturally, for who would subject a man’s son to such horror? But precisely because he’d been thirteen, he’d disguised himself and gone to see it. Nothing could have kept him from his father’s last moments on this earth—not his grieving mother, not his despondent younger siblings. Not the reverend, who’d sought in vain to assure him that Joseph Scott would receive his forgiveness and comfort in heaven. A boy standing on the cusp of manhood, impotent in his rage, Tobin had been propelled by a primal need to be there, to witness the injustice, to have it scored into his mind’s eye and into his soul so that he would never forget, never forgive.

But until this moment, he’d thought he was irrevocably numb to it.

He dismounted and crouched down, and concentrated on finding the breath that had been snatched from his lungs. He closed his eyes and tried desperately not to replay the events of that horrific day, or to envision his father twisting all over again …

Yet the images came at him hard and fast. The day had been bright, warm, and cloudless, much like this day. Tobin had stood on a horse trough so that he could see over the heads of the onlookers, his hat pulled low over his eyes. His heart had beat out of his chest as the clergyman had offered his father a last word. His father had declined, and Tobin had been furious with him. Furious! That was his moment to shout that he’d not stolen the countess’s jewels, that he’d been unjustly accused and convicted! It was the moment he should have condemned them all for their stupidity and prejudice! But his father had remained intolerably silent.

With the crowd jeering, the clergyman had recited the Lord’s Prayer while the hangman had covered his father’s face with a black hood, then fitted the noose around his neck. He’d helped his father, as if he’d been infirm, onto the block. And then he’d kicked the block out from under his feet at the same moment that two men had hauled his father up by his neck. His father had twisted at the end of that rope, his legs kicking madly, desperately seeking purchase and finding nothing there to save him.

Thankfully, Tobin had been spared the actual end of his father because he’d fainted, and when he’d come to, the crowds had dispersed and his father had been cut down. Tobin had found himself lying on the walk, his nose bloodied from his fall, collapsed under the weight of horrific grief.

The unconscionable crime that had been committed against his family had indelibly marked his soul. He’d lost all his innocence and hopefulness. He’d been made completely immovable, blind to common emotion, incapable of sentimental feelings. If someone were to open him up, they’d see nothing but black rot oozing inside of him.

The only emotion Tobin felt anymore was revenge. And it was the reason why he’d finally returned to Hadley Green.

Tobin mounted his horse and turned onto an old, rutted road that, if memory served, skirted the village and avoided the green. As he rode along the seldom-used road beneath gnarled tree limbs and past weedy undergrowth, he recalled how the trial and his father’s execution had ruined the Scott family. Tobin, his mother, his sister, Charity, and his brother, Ruben, had become pariahs. They were the offspring of the man who’d been was accused of stealing priceless jewels from the beloved, alluring countess of Ashwood—jewels that had never been recovered, of course, because Tobin’s father had not taken them and had not been able to say where they’d gone.

Joseph Scott was a good, honest man. He’d been a master wood-carver, and with his death, his family had been left with no income. They’d become wards of the church, living on the charity of the parishioners. A proud woman, Tobin’s mother had not been able to abide the censure of a society in which she’d once been a respected member. Nor could she abide charity. So she’d decided to move her family to London a few weeks after her husband’s death.

On the day they’d carried their bags to the center of town and awaited the London coach, the Ashwood coach, with its red plumes and gold scrolls, had rolled down High Street and come to a stop outside a cluster of shops. As the Scotts had watched, a liveried coachman had opened the door, and out hopped Miss Lily Boudine in a pale blue frock. Her black shoes were polished to a sheen, and her hair was held up with the sort of velvet ribbons that Charity had coveted through the window of Mrs. Langley’s Dress Shop. Lily Boudine had waited for the coachman to hand down a woman who Tobin knew to be her governess, then she eagerly took the woman’s hand, bouncing a little as she’d tugged her along, smiling and pointing at the confectioner’s shop.

His heart had beat painfully at the sight of the girl, fueled by his rage and hatred. She was the ward of the countess, the lone witness who’d claimed to see his father at Ashwood the night the jewels went missing. Liar. To think of all the days he’d spent in that girl’s company while his father had built a staircase at Ashwood so grand that people came from miles about to see it. Tobin had been his father’s assistant, but there were days when his father had sent him out with the girl with strict instructions for Tobin to occupy her. Lily was five years younger than he, younger than even Charity, and Tobin had chafed at being made to play games with her. But he’d done it, had been her playmate, her companion, her servant.

In return, she’d told the magistrate she’d seen his father riding away from Ashwood the night of the theft—in the dark, in the rain, but she was certain it was Joseph Scott because of the horse. The moment she’d uttered the words, there’d been no hope for his father.

And then Lily Boudine had come to the village for a sweetmeat while he and his family had waited for the public coach that would take them from the only home they’d ever known.

She’d lived in luxury while his family had lived in two rooms near the notorious crime-ridden area of St. Giles. His mother had taken in sewing, squinting through the smoky haze of burning peat to see her tiny stitches. It was a mean existence for a family that had once enjoyed a good standard of living, and the change in their circumstance had soon taken its toll. Tobin’s young brother Ruben had died their first spring in London, when the filth of the rookery had spread through the streets in the form of a wasting fever. His mother had followed soon after.

Tobin was just fourteen and his sister eleven when their mother had died. Even now, he could recall the panic he’d felt at what would become of them. The worry had made him ill; he’d been unable to keep what little food they’d had in his belly. &#...

Biographie de l'auteur

Julia London is the bestselling author of THE DANGERS OF DECEIVING A VISCOUNT, THE PERILS OF PURSUING A PRINCE, THE HAZARDS OF HUNTING A DUKE and 11 other romantic novels. She lives in Texas.

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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur (beta) 3.9 étoiles sur 5  23 commentaires
26 internautes sur 29 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 Can I get my money back? 26 février 2012
Par jhinva - Publié sur
I tried hard to like this book. I've liked Julia London's books in the past, and looked forward to this one. Now, I just deeply regret spending $7.99 on this. I'll warn that there are plot spoilers below, but I'm not sure there is much of a plot to spoil.

The book reads more like an outline that was never finished. The sample chapter is OK.. which will lull you into buying he book. From there, the plot becomes a confused mess. The characters can't seem to remember whehter they like each other or not from one scene to the next. The "hero" became an arms dealer to gain wealth and a title to exact revenge on either the "heroine", who wronged him when she was 8 years old, or an entire town. It was never entirely clear which. The townspeople revere him and revile him.. depending on which chapter you're reading. The "heronine" seemed like a nice character, but had few friends because her cousin had previously pretended to be her.

I've been a fan of romance for over 20 years and rarely have I given up on a book. I gave up on this one about 70% through.
10 internautes sur 10 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
2.0 étoiles sur 5 A confused and frustrating narrative that is mildly entertaining read. 14 mars 2012
Par Rumana Faruque - Publié sur
I must say that I am highly confused by all the 5 star ratings this novel has received. As an avid devourer of the historical genre, the plots are all pretty much the same, especially with the strictures of 1800's London as a backdrop, so I shan't do a recap of that.

Having not read the previous book in the series, I feel I was just plopped into the middle of a story that was largely begun elsewhere. As another reviewer noted, the beginning and end of the story feel like an outline that was never really flushed out. It felt as if heavy cutting and reorganizing of scenes had taken place with no thought to continuity. For instance, the hero gives the heroine a dress to wear to a ball. For a few chapters, she is insulted by the dress because of all the implications the "gift" implies but then she happily dons it for the ball with really no introspection along the way of what made her change her mind. So off to the ball she goes where nary a mention is made from the hero about her wearing the gown but then several chapters later when the heroine wears it again, he makes mention of it as if it's the first time he's ever seen her wear it.

As others have commented, the characters can't remember if they love or hate each other from scene to scene. Often the hero and heroine soften on one page but then revert right back to the premise as if the previous chapter or scene had never taken place at all.

The story has no satisfactory resolution. It feels as if the author was told to turn in what she had and then tack on a few paragraphs in overview of how the story would end if more time had been given. It actually ends with a whole other subplot that comes out of left field in the last few chapters.

The few times a year I spring to buy a new release, I rely heavily on the amazon rating. To have this particular novel with a 4 out 5 stars is just insulting. Do not waste your time here!
9 internautes sur 10 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 I swear I read this before 12 mars 2012
Par Loris Gies - Publié sur
I read the first book in this series and so much of this story was in the first book that I felt cheated in this one--to the point I stopped reading it and won't finish it.

I will probably read the last book in the series when it is released but this one was a total waste of my time. I am pretty disappointed because I truly like this author's other books.
4 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 enjoyable Regency romance 21 février 2012
Par Harriet Klausner - Publié sur
In 1792 in Hadley Green, eight year old Lily Boudine's testimony led to the hanging of a man for stealing the jewels of her aunt and guardian, the Countess of Ashwood (see The Year of Living Scandalously). Tobin Scott witnessed his father's execution for a crime he did not commit. To keep young Lily safe she is sent to live with family in Ireland.

Fifteen years later, Lily inherits the Ashwood title. She finds her estate in terrible condition. Wealthy Tobin as Count Eberlin informs the Countess she has a choice between saving the people of Ashwood and saving herself. She agrees to a tryst to save her people. However he never expected to betray his own quest when he is attracted to the female who hung his dad. On the one hand she feels the same way but also has guilt weighing her down as Lily begins to thinks she condemned an innocent man to the gallows. As they fall in love, they seek the truth of what happened fifteen years ago.

The second Secret of Hadley Green Regency romance is an enjoyable tale as beloved enemies investigate the cold case. Fast-paced, fans will enjoy Tobin's revelation that "revenge is a dish best served cold" (except for the Count of Monte Crisco and Emily Van Camp) as he finds Lily nothing like the frozen bi*ch he expected; especially with her remorse over what she realizes she did. Readers will appreciate this entry and look forward to more secrets revealed.

Harriet Klausner
3 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
2.0 étoiles sur 5 Disappointing 6 mars 2012
Par Sarah Sandiego - Publié sur
As a Julia London fan, I was disappointed in "The Revenge of Lord Eberlin." On the positive side, the imagery was effective; I could see the setting clearly in my mind. On the other hand, the plot was convoluted to the point of being frustrating. Despite the considerable length, the main characters were not developed clearly enough for me to have any significant affection for them. The shameless segueway to the next novel would have been acceptable if the resolution were satisfying; it was not. Rather than feeling refreshed, I feel vaguely unsettled. I wil not be wasting my time with any new offerings from Ms. London.
Thank heaven I purchase bookd in duets; Julie Anne Long's "How the Marquess was Won" is delightful!
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