Prologue
“You arrived like a ghost in the night, and now, you leave as one. Are you truly going back to London?” Anthony said.
Michael Skeffington was, indeed, returning to London. He was known as the lost heir of the Breton Duchy for far too long, and now, he was coming home. It was no coincidence, of course. He never had the intention of going back, not as long as his father—if he even deserved such a title—was alive.
After all those years, he thought he had finally put his past behind him. But the news of his father’s death caused an uproar in London and had already reached the countryside. Heart attack was what the rumors spoke of. An unfit end for a man who ruined another’s. Who treated his only heir with such cruelty so far as to force him into self-exile. So yes, he was going back. But only because he had to and only because his father was gone.
“You would think with all the letters, luggage, and farewells, one would assume so,” Michael said to his friend.
It was at this moment that a crash of thunder echoed throughout the estate, trembling the building. The clouds outside were thick and heavy, and the ever-so-familiar passage of light from the moon had faded. So the only light that found them in Anthony’s study, were the candles that seemed to flicker with the unforgiving wind.
If Michael was superstitious—as were most of the ton—he would assume the skies were mourning his departure. As he, too, was in mourning. It was as if a big part of his childhood was abandoning him, or rather, he was the one abandoning it. But he understood what his obligations were, and he knew he had to fulfill them, despite the wealth of apathy he now possessed toward his so-called home.
He was as young as fourteen when he left, yes, that young. A young, naïve child, left alone to fend for himself. If it hadn’t been for Anthony, he would have become one of those lost, never to be found, lords of London people seemed to be so fascinated by. He sought refuge and found a new home among the benevolent one chilly night, and he had been living in the countryside ever since.
His father never bothered to look for him. Nor did Michael hear from him until, well, now. It was insulting, humiliating and as much as it hurt Michael to admit, it was painful.
What he was most conflicted of though, were his sisters. They had tried to reach him some time ago, but he simply never responded. They were never at fault, really, but they were no more than faceless strangers throughout his childhood. He was rarely ever afforded the same comfort or permitted to play with the other children, so it was not surprising. His father would always say ‘In this world, if you get too comfortable, everything will be snatched from beneath you’. It was never more fitting than today.
“I have a favor to ask,” Anthony said, taking a sip of gin. “Now that you’re returning to London and all.”
“You have never asked me for a favor. Of course, anything.” Michael fell back into the leather chair, inches behind him. It was only then that he noticed the dark bags looming under Anthony’s eyes and the dryness of his lips. But a hangover could do that much to a man, and knowing Anthony, there was likely no cause for alarm.
“I…,” he paused, “I don’t know how to say this.” He took another sip of gin, clearing his throat. “I have a sister, Michael.”
“A sister?”
“Yes. A younger one.”
Michael waited on him to elaborate. He knew Anthony for almost a decade now, and unless he had a sister hidden in his cellar, he couldn’t see how that was possible.
“She’s a missing sister,” Anthony continued. “Her name is Sophia and I last saw her when we were children.”
Right, a missing sister. Somehow a sister hidden in the cellar still seemed more plausible than a missing sister. Because if the sister of a wealthy man or the child of a wealthy Lord was to disappear, not a creek in London would be able to hide their whereabouts for too long.
“I need you to find her now that you’re going back to London,” he said. He intertwined his fingers together, and Michael could see the trembling of his hands. He was nervous.
“How can I find her?”
“Her name is Sophia,” Anthony said. “She has… had red hair, blue eyes, and freckles. And if you still have doubts, then she also has a birthmark on her arm. It resembles a butterfly, so you can’t miss it. And perhaps most importantly, she had a limp.”
“All right,” Michael said, “I’ll look around, see what I can find.”
“I wanted to say…” The nervousness again. “If she’s living a good life, please don’t tell her about me. Burdening her with the truth may be a far greater sin. Promise me this much.”
Michael held his friend’s hand in comfort, nodding.
“I promise.”
And thus, Michael left for London as the returning Duke of Breton.
Chapter One
“Sophia, when are you getting married?” a squeaky voice asked.
Sophia cleared her throat, lounging back in her worn-down chair. What an odd question. Sophia and marriage were two words that would never fit in the same sentence. At the age of two-and-four, her hopes of marriage had—unfortunately—well disappeared.
But alas, that was the least of her worries. Marriage, love, children were not some things she could even contemplate. Her mind was focused on the smell of gravy emitting from one of the houses –as if her aching, growling stomach wasn’t torturous enough!
“Not everyone gets married, stupid,” the little girl, Harriet, said. “Sophia is a scholar, everyone knows scholars don’t get married.”
“They do! My uncle is a scholar and he’s married!”
“Well, Sophia isn’t.”
“What? A scholar, or married?”
Sophia rubbed her temples with her fingers. She had been teaching them—well, trying to teach them for well over an hour now and the conversation always ended up drifting elsewhere. ‘How old are you?’, ‘what’s your favorite food’, ‘why are you always late in the mornings?’. It was midday and she was already worn out.
“I promise I’ll answer everything later. Let’s start over for now, all right?” Sophia said. The five children were seated on the stone ground outside the orphanage. They didn’t exactly care about ruining their clothes, which were already far too muddy and in tatters.
A droplet of rain fell on Sophia’s forehead and as she looked up to the sky, she noticed how cloudy it had suddenly become. And then a second droplet, followed by a third and fourth, began trickling down.
“Run!”
One of the kids yelled out as Sophia followed in their panic. They each scurried inside a weathered building, under a half-broken roof for shelter, as their giggles echoed throughout the deserted street, bringing some life to this otherwise dull place.
Sophia winced. Her aching leg throbbed with pain as she had accidentally put far too much pressure on it. A foolish move on her part, indeed.
“Sophia! Does it hurt?”
“No, no, it’s good,” she reassured. “Why don’t you all go off to your duties before anyone finds you missing? I need to get going.”
The disappointment that followed was far louder than the bellowing thunder that trailed soon after.
“Awww,” all five of the children moaned in unison.
“Don’t ‘aww’ me. You know I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time as usual.”
They each moved in, embracing her one by one. For some odd reason, they always behaved as if it’d be the last time they would ever see each other again. And for some stranger reason, she began to feel the same way.
***
Today, Sophia noticed she had broken a record. It had taken her an hour – a long and dreadful hour – to reach the tavern, whereas most days, it would take less than half. The intense pain in her leg had not yet abated from the prior evening, only making the walk all the more grueling.
By the time she had reached the infamous Olde Mule tavern, her dress and shawl were soaking wet, and putting pressure on her left leg felt nigh on impossible. But still, there beamed a smile on her tired face as it was payday—she would finally be able to buy the meal she had been saving for all week: that delicious gravy.
The moment she tugged open the loosely-hinged door, the smell of sweat and cheap alcohol reached her nostrils, accompanied by spoiled meat and what she could only assume to be unwashed clothes. But then again, it wasn’t as if she had the privilege of washing her clothes or smelling of lilies either.
“Oww,” she uttered. An older, drunkard man had brushed against her shoulder on his way out, sending her back a few steps. She held the wooden pole which saved her from the fall. “Watch where you’re going.”
“Whateve’ ya say.” The man spoke a few more incoherent words before stumbling away into the abyss that was the neighborhood. A drunk man like him was in danger of being robbed but too stubborn to change his routine.
The district prided itself in its monotonous habits, a far cry from the ruthless nobles up north, who only saw shame in conforming to the same routines. ‘If you get too comfortable, everything will be snatched from beneath you’ she’d heard them say – or something like that.
She entered inside, limping toward Walter, the tavern keeper. There was still work to be done for the day, but he had promised he would give her the three shillings he owed first thing this afternoon. And she really, desperately needed them.
“The staggering Sophia!” Walter exclaimed, acting as if he was glad to see her. ‘Staggering Sophia’ was the nickname she had earned at the tavern. Walter was the inventor of it once he noticed the limp she had spent half her time here hiding, and soon it caught on with the rest of the customers.
“Sophia, you missed a spot,” one of the customers, Paul, said, pointing out the soup he thought no one had noticed he just spilled moments ago. She scoffed, ignoring him.
“He’s right, you know,” Walter said.
“You know I’m not here for that. I’m here for my three shillings.”
“Your—” Walter chuckled, “Your three shillings? In case you have forgotten, you have a limp.”
“I don’t see how—”
“It means you’re less helpful than a non-cripple.” Walter walked toward and sat down at a table among three regulars, taking his eyes off Sophia momentarily. “And it also means you’re only getting paid one shilling.”
Sophia was at a loss for words. She clenched her fists by her side, biting her tongue. Her stomach twisted and turned with each syllable Walter spoke. Or perhaps it was just hunger. But one shilling? One damned shilling. That wasn’t enough to get her anything she wanted, let alone a warm meal.
“But I—”
“Oh, look, you made’r angry, you’d better watch out,” Paul snorted, slapping the wooden table and pointing at Sophia’s clenched fists, as she slowly loosened them in embarrassment.
“She won’t do nothin’,” Walter said in a stern voice. He was not even looking at her anymore. No, he found more interest in the three men beside him, who were too drunk to even comprehend what was going on.
“But I did the work you asked me to, better than any of these men in here ever do,” she said. “I want what you promised me.”
“Take the shilling and get back to work. It’s gon’ get busy soon, can’t have ya’ waltzing around in here making demands, now can we?”
“Hey cripple, stir me up the usual before ya’ leave won’t ya’,” a man shorter than Sophia called out, wobbling his way toward the others. She covered her nose in disgust from his rotten breath. “Or share one with me, back at the inn.”
Sophia rolled her eyes, the despair she was feeling temporarily replaced with annoyance and repulsion. She pushed the short man away, limping to the door. As much as she hoped her presence would be sorely missed, the tavern keeper was right, she was replaceable. It felt the same for much of her life thus far. You know who wouldn’t consider her replaceable though? Her family.
But it was far too soon to drown out the rest of her day in reveries of what could be. Instead, she made a mental note of the date. It had been sixteen days since her last warm meal—and today would make it seventeen. Great. Another record.
Chapter Two
Michael did not expect London to be this…bland. He certainly didn’t remember it this way, no matter how many years had passed. He recalled colorful parks, lush fields, glorious buildings. But this painted a vastly different picture. Everything was grey and dull, nothing compared to the countryside he grew up in. Even the local’s faces seemed somewhat indifferent to the goings-on around here. Perhaps it wasn’t this place that had changed, but rather, him.
The carriage floundered every few seconds as it cruised over endless holes in the ground, but he paid little mind to it. He expected that once they reached the castle, things would improve.
He shuddered at the thought. The castle was an intimidating presence lurking in the back of his skull and now, it was only a few minutes away. He had explicitly arranged to arrive late at night for this exact reason –he knew his nervousness, his nostalgia, everything would hit him at once. And goodness, it really had.
The carriage halted at once, and Michael raised his head.
There it stood. Frozen in time.
The castle he last laid eyes on as a child, over a decade ago. And the appendage of his father, that now belonged to him. As he stepped out of the carriage, the cool breeze arrived to comfort him, almost in commemoration of the time he left it all behind.
The overcast sky barely concealed the north tower, but he was still able to witness the castle in its glory. Two footmen stood on either side of the grand door as they bowed to him—something he hadn’t experienced in years.
As he opened the door, he froze. He did not expect the aroma to be this strong. No, he didn’t expect it to remind him of his mother and sisters, and certainly not his father. The interior had not changed in the slightest –the walls still that pale teal color embellished with white stripes, and the pillars the same smooth marble he would run in circles around as a child. And finally, the floorboarding seemed…new? Or perhaps it just appeared different in the dark.
“Your…Grace,” a familiar voice spoke out. It was Roger, his butler.
The man had aged twice as much, with twice as many wrinkles on his brooding face. His gray hair—or lack thereof—still on display so proudly. He looked exhausted—as if he had been waiting up for Michael’s arrival.
“Roger?” was all he could muster. “Are you—Is everything—Why—”
“I’ve been good, Your Grace,” Roger said.
Michael smiled. A true, genuine—yet hesitant—smile. Roger was still here.
“I missed you,” Michael confessed. “More than I would like to admit, at least.”
“Likewise. I still remember you as that tiny, little daredevil who—”
Roger interrupted his blabber the moment he realized what he was saying and to whom. But Michael took no offense, which seemed to reassure him.
“You always were a bit too courteous,” Michael moved further inside, toward the stairs, “But I’m glad to see you’re still as bold.”
“Should I guide you to your room? We had it arranged specifically for your arrival. Redecorated, repainted and refurnished. No one had stepped there in years…”
Michael shook his head unconsciously. That was not a place he wished to appease his nostalgia in. The locking of the door echoed inside his head as reminiscences of his childhood returned—father would seal him inside that place for hours at a time, to study or as punishment. There was a time where little Michael had grown so desperate of this, he tried to escape through one of the windows, injuring his leg in the process.
“There will be no need for that,” he turned to Roger, “I prefer the guest room. It seems more…fitting.”
Roger hesitated at first but then nodded. His butler must have sensed all too well the dispiriting feeling that place must have stirred inside him.
The sound of footsteps from the top of the stairs reached Michael’s ears. He assumed it to be one of the staff at first, until… a feminine voice? A young and obnoxiously loud voice he didn’t recognize, and one who he could only assume belonged to either of his sisters.
“I was under the assumption my sisters would be asleep at this time,” he whispered quite sternly. Michael shifted behind the stairs, afraid she would run down to greet him any moment now. He wasn’t ready to meet with them just yet.
“They should be, Your Grace.”
But the steps continued and grew louder and louder. Until a dark silhouette emerged from the bottom of the staircase. A tiny, short one with bouncy curls and a skinny frame.
“Roger, is that you?” the soft voice called out. She rubbed her eyes as she stepped closer. “Why are you walking about at this time?”
Michael gestured at Roger to step away from his side, but it was all too late. Because the tiny silhouette held up a golden candle and was staring directly at Michael now. It was Bridget, his youngest sister. It could only be her. She was but a baby when he last saw her, yet her sweet caramel eyes and rosy red cheeks had never left.
“Am I dreaming?” she asked. He didn’t expect her to pinch her arm. “Is this papa?”
Michael knew he resembled his father, but not as much as to be confused for him.
“No I’m—I’m your brother.”
The ten years old girl blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. In fact, she wouldn’t stop blinking. She tilted her head to the side like a puppy, struggling to register what she had just heard.
“Are you certain you’re not a thief?” she asked. “Roger, is he a thief?”
“He’s not a—”
“I’m not a thief.”
Michael stepped away from the darkness and moved closer to Bridget. Her silky dark hair now came into full view.
“But my brother is lost. They said he would never return. And why are you here so late at night?” She pointed at the grandfather clock. “It is two in the morning. If you were my brother—who is supposed to be a duke, by the way—you would at least be more punctual. How did you get inside? Roger, how did he get inside?”
Being lectured by an ten years old girl was the last thing Michael could have predicted on his return.
“I’m Michael. Your brother.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Roger was standing by the side, a wide and silent smile beaming across his face, not wanting to interrupt this moment—if you could even call it that.
“I’ll go call Penelope and Meredith, they need to know you’re back.” She turned around, but Michael held her by the arm before she could walk away.
“…no,” he said in a slightly panicked voice. “I…want to meet them tomorrow. So let’s pretend this never happened. It can be a surprise.”
Bridget didn’t agree right away as she folded her arms across her chest, squinting her eyes in skepticism. She seemed to be in deep thought before she finally spoke up.
“Okay. I’ll pretend it never happened.”
And she pranced away, leaving Michael alone. He sighed. It could have gone a lot worse, indeed, but he wasn’t prepared to meet any of them yet.
“Should we get goi-”
Michael jolted into motion, straightening up again. He had momentarily forgotten Roger was still present.
“You’ve still got a knack for hiding in plain sight, haven’t you?” Michael chuckled. “Let’s get going, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
“Sophia, Sophia!”
The orphans jumped up and down under the broken roof as the rain pattered against the road. She was already soaked through and through; the last thing she needed were the orphans—especially the younger ones—growing ill. That would be a nightmare.
“No, no, no, don’t run out little one!” Sophia limped a little faster to stop Harriet from running into the yard.
“Look!” Harriet pointed into the distance, gasping. “It’s a prince!”
The children all turned to stare and Sophia soon did the same. It certainly wasn’t the first time they had confused a random passerby for a prince. They were very vocal about their wishes to meet one, after all.
But as Sophia turned around, she doubted even herself for a moment. The man did look like a prince. He looked something out of a fairytale or the books the royals were so enthusiastic about. He was tall –far taller than any man she had ever seen—strong –his biceps alone were enough to make her drool– and he was unbelievably handsome. A black hat covered his dark ruffled hair, but she could just about make out his tempting chestnut eyes.
What are you—are you serious, Sophia? You are lusting over a stranger, a possible scoundrel. A man you’ve never met before.
After Sophia –and the orphans—recovered from the shock, all the right questions started kicking in. Why was a man dressed in the most formal attire here, in the slums, in the poorest area ever? And why on earth was he headed toward…her?
The strange man halted his steps in front of the entrance. The droplets of rain hitting his black umbrella—the color now beginning to feel like a theme to Sophia—was the only sound present. Other than her pounding heart of course.
“Are you a prince?”
“It’s Prince Regent, quick, bow!”
“Take me with you!”
Until the orphans spoke. They ran into the rain surrounding his figure, but all he did was raise his eyebrows. He looked at the children as if they were foreign creatures he had never set eyes on before.
“I’m not Prince Regent, there’s no need to bow,” the man said.
“A duke then? Are you rich?” Harriet asked.
“Erm, sure. Here.” He handed them a pound as if it were a cheap candy—but their faces lit up as if it were a priceless treasure. “Are you Sophia?” he asked, immediately turning his attention to her.
Oh no, did he find out I’ve been sneaking into the royal district?
“It is awfully rude to walk up to a Lady unaccompanied. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know who you’re talking to? And who is this Sophia you speak of?” she said.
Okay. Of course, she was making stuff up. It was the first thing that came into her mind. Maybe, just maybe, if she were convincing enough, he wouldn’t pry any deeper and let her go without further questioning.
“Didn’t you tell us lying is bad?” Harriet asked.
“Lying is bad indeed,” he added.
Great. Just amazing, fantastically great. Not only was trouble standing in front of her, but she couldn’t even lie properly to that trouble.
“Take me, I have accepted my fate,” Sophia said, limping closer. “How many years in gaol? Is sneaking into the wealthy areas such a bad crime?”
The strange man moved his umbrella slightly closer to her, protecting half of her body from the squall.
“No, don’t take her!”
“Gaol? Why would I even—it doesn’t matter,” he paused. “I’m here because you need to come with me.”
“To gaol?”
“No, woman, not to gaol.”
“Then where? And why?” she asked.
“Because,” he inched closer, “Your brother has been looking for you.”
***
Michael thought he had already seen the worst of London, but the slums painted a vastly different picture. A worse picture. At first, he was certain there would be absolutely no way Anthony’s sister was in this place.
But alas, she was standing in front of him. It had to be her. She had the same red hair Anthony spoke of –except curlier and fuller than Michael expected–, the same blue eyes–he didn’t expect to find them that piercing– and a distinct limp. Her clothes were ragged, revealing parts of her pale skin, and her thin frame showed him she was struggling to survive.
“My…brother?” she asked. Her eyes were wide open, her sass no longer present. “I don’t have a brother, right children?”
The tiny kids nodded, although some of them were still too busy admiring the one pound he gave them earlier.
“Well, you do. And I was sent here on the account of him.” He walked further inside. He had grown far too tired of holding that heavy umbrella. “So, you need to come with me to the castle and I’ll arrange for you to meet.”
He paused for a second, stepping closer to her. She moved her head back in response, perplexed.
“But before that, give me your arm.”
“My…arm?”
“Yes, your arm. Give me it,” he persisted.
“Why would I—”
Before she could complete her sentence, Michael grabbed her left arm firmly, studying it. And there it was, the scar Anthony spoke of. It was her, after all.
***
“Who are you?” she stumbled back. “Surely not a duke? If you were one, you’d have introduced yourself like they all seem to do.”
“Fine. I am Michael Skeffington, the Duke of Breton.”
Harriet tilted her head to the side, quickly catching on.
“Sophia, are you leaving us?”
“I’m not—” she took a deep breath. “I’m not leaving you, no. Absolutely not. But this might be really important for me, I need to know if this man is telling the truth,” she turned to face the rest of the orphans, “I’ll come back here as soon as I can. I promise. Especially to teach. So, don’t forget your lessons either.”
“So you are coming with me after all?” he asked.
She turned around, facing him directly. “If and only if you are telling the truth, as it means I can finally locate my family. So yes, I suppose I am.”
“And let’s suppose I’m not telling the truth?”
A contradictory…but intriguing question. What if he was not telling the truth?
“Well, why would you want me to come with you then?”
“Erm—” he placed a hand on his chin, “I don’t have all day, are you coming or not?”
She rolled her eyes, sighing in disbelief.
“It is decided then,” he said.
Harriet ran up to the duke and hit him on the leg. Hard. So hard that it echoed in Sophia’s ears and even she winced from the pain. Harriet could hit hard if she wanted and the duke wasn’t the first to find out.
“Ooooh.” He held his leg tightly, raising it to his hips.
And the rest of the orphans giggled at his reaction. Only Sophia stared at him with half-worry, half-wonder. A duke that acted like a goof. “Are you—”
“I’m all right.” He turned his gaze toward Harriet. “And what was that for?”
Harriet shook her head. “You’re taking Sophia away.”
“She will—”
“I’ll come back to see you,” Sophia crouched down to Harriet’s level. “I’ll come tomorrow, the week after, the month after. I’ll never stop. He’s not at fault here. I need to meet someone and then I’ll be back again. All right?”
Harriet stepped closer to Sophia and firmly wrapped her hands around her form. The rest of the orphans followed soon after. Sophia was tearing up already –she expected it would happen, really, just not that soon.
“We’ll miss you,” the orphans said.
“I will too. Very much so. Say goodbye to Betsy for me. And expect my visit.”
The children nodded, taking a few steps back and giving her some space. That goof of a duke stared at her with such an alien expression—as if he had never experienced such a thing before. She doubted he was even normal for a moment.
He placed his umbrella over his head, waiting for her to join. And they stepped into the rain, disappearing into a new world.
