Prologue
“Please Lord, don’t let him die! This is your faithful servant Alexander, please do not let Mr. Knox die. I will forever do your bidding and go to church every Sunday if you do this for me.”
Alexander Fitzgrant sat on the hard wooden bench in the cobbled yard behind the house in which he had lived for the last year. A tall brick wall surrounded it and beyond that rose the stonework of Glasgow’s Merchant City. The sounds of the city had faded with nightfall from the cacophony of the second city of the Empire during the day. The wind carried the smell of the river and the factories that rose from the buildings of the city like trees in a stone forest.
“The Lord will provide. Do not worry, boy. John Knox is a good man. An upstanding member of the Kirk,” said the tall, thin deacon emerging from the back door of the Knox house.
Alexander looked up from his prayer, tears staining his eyes. He was looking for comfort and reassurance but found none in the white-faced, gaunt man. He regarded the six-year-old Alexander for a moment, eyes cold and mouth a thin line. Then he sniffed and walked across the yard to the gate in the far wall. The deacon was known to Alexander, he had been a frequent visitor of Master Knox, who was a God-fearing member of the Kirk. But, Alexander had never liked him, he had always seemed cruel. Now though, as Alexander’s world seemed to be falling apart, he would desperately reach for any hope. Even the cold, cruel deacon.
“Please, sir!” Alexander called to him. “But is there any news about Master Knox?”
The man paused in the act of unlatching the gate but did not look back.
“Have faith in God, boy,” was all he said.
Rain began to fall as Alexander sat and waited for news of the man who had taken him. Once, Alexander remembered living in a big house, a mansion. Then he had been sent away for reasons he did not fully understand. John Knox had greeted him when he had stepped off the carriage that had carried him north from England to Scotland. A rotund man with thick black whiskers and an accent so broad it was as though he were speaking a different language. He had stopped in front of the trembling young boy, looking him in the eye.
“Aye, you look a strong lad, right enough. Got some meat on them bones, so you do. Well, there’s work for you here. Naebody lives for free in Glesga. A man works for his living and works hard. But, put your back into it and you’ll have a roof o’er your heid and food in yer belly. Are ye ready to dae some work, lad?”
Alexander had nodded mutely, not entirely knowing what he was nodding to. And the work had been hard, but Master Knox was fair. Alexander lived with the servants in the Knox House and was taught his letters. He had begun to learn the loud, brash, and smoky city in which he found himself in, too. Learning the speech, the accent, and the slang, until he felt the place was home. Then Master Knox had become sick. Consumption they said. Alexander didn’t know what that was but he knew the blood that came up when Master Knox had one of his coughing fits was not a good sign.
“You still ‘ere?” said a woman, coming through the same door as the deacon.
It was Mary, the Knox’s scullery maid.
“Is Master Knox feeling better?” Alexander asked, grasping for a friendly face.
Mary looked back at the open doorway, then down at Alexander.
“Look, son,” she said in a tone that was not unkind. “He’s not long for this world. Why didn’t you go with the Deacon?”
Alexander frowned, wanting to run through the open door, up the stairs to Master Knox’s room. “Was I supposed to?”
“That was the talk I heard, yes. The Deacon was asked to take you on, let you stay at the manse in Anderston for a while. Where is he?”
“He left,” Alexander said, pointing in the direction the Deacon had gone.
Mary swore, planting her hands on her hips. Alexander thought he heard a curse on Calvinists. Then, she knelt before him, putting a hand into the pocket of her apron, and taking out a coin.
“Look. Master William is here and he’s said he doesn’t want…can’t take on a boy just now.”
“What he said was he doesn’t want some English pup from the wrong side of the sheets,” came a hard, male voice.
A tall, dark-haired young man stepped out of the house, pausing to light a small clay pipe.
“Now that’s just cruel, Tommy Piper!” Mary snapped.
Tommy shrugged. “Boy’s gotta face the truth. He’s not wanted and he’s gonna have tae fend for hisself.”
Alexander scowled at Tommy, Master Knox’s carriage driver. He had brought Alexander to Glasgow from England and had a mean streak through him a mile wide. Blue eyes watched Alexander, then he turned away dismissively.
“Take this, Alexander. Go tae the orphanage on the sou’side,” Mary said urgently. “The one across from the Green by road tae Rutherglen.”
“The big building with the railings round it?” Alexander asked in a small voice.
“Yeah, you can see it fae the Nelson monument. Go there and tell them you’re an orphan and you’ve got naewhere to stay.”
“Better tell ‘em you’re Catholic too,” Tommy cut in.
Mary shot him a look of pure venom. “Aye, tell them you’re Catholic. That’ll help. Here, this will help. I can get another one.”
Mary reached to her neck and took down a small, wooden crucifix on a leather string. She tied it around Alexander’s neck.
“They can’t blame me for converting you when the Deacon didnae want you.”
She looked into Alexander’s frightened eyes for a long moment. He knew the building she spoke of, had seen it from the Green where he had played with his pals. Black-frocked priests and nuns had frequently gone in and out. The priests looked like crows to Alexander, dark and foreboding. He took hold of the cross, a symbol Master Knox had taught him to regard as idolatrous. Now, Alexander was wearing a cross just like the people Master Knox had scorned as Papists. He wondered if the priests wouldn’t take him in unless he was Catholic. It didn’t seem fair somehow.
“That’s the doctor now. Looks like we’re out of a job, Mary,” Tommy said from his position across the yard, leaning against the wall, puffing on his pipe.
The physician who had been brought in to see to Master Knox came out of the door. He carried a leather bag and wore a top hat and overcoat. He looked from Mary to Tommy.
“It’s not good news I’m afraid. Your Master has passed away,” he said in a smoother accent than either Tommy or Mary possessed. “You should say a prayer for his soul. I’m returning home and will notify the Lord Provost and make out the death certificate. The son is already away to fetch some legal papers from his father’s offices. Bloody vulture.”
He glanced down at Alexander who looked back hopefully. The Doctor was a man of rank in the city, respected and wealthy. Surely, he would take care of Alexander. But the Doctor just looked away and followed the path the Deacon had taken through the gate.
“Go now, Alexander,” Mary said. “I’d take you in myself but my old man would throw you out. I’ve got enough wains to be looking after. Go to the priests, it’s their job to look after you.”
“But, what will I do?” Alexander said, tears blurring his vision.
Mary caught him up in a fierce embrace, hugging him tight. It brought brief solace, a small hope that he would be looked after. Then she was pushing him away, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Go, before it gets much later.”
Even Tommy looked uncomfortable, callow youth that he was. As Alexander reached the gate, he growled.
“Hold up, boy. I’ll come with ye. Ye hardly ken the first thing about Glesga after dark. You would-nae get to the end of the road. But don’t think this means I’m takin’ you in. My heid doesn’t button up the back, mind.”
“Thank you, Thomas,” Mary called as Tommy pushed Alexander through the gate ahead of him.
Alexander knew the expression Tommy had used meant he wasn’t to be taken for a fool. It was one of many that he had picked up in Glasgow, proud of the vocabulary he had absorbed in his year in the city. Tommy took him through the maze of back alleys between towering, grand buildings until they reached Ingram Street. It was wide and long, flanked by tall, imposing buildings. At the far end was the Royal Exchange, the grandest of buildings, staring down the street at him. He had been there many times with Master Knox, listening to the men talk about prices, goods, and trade. It was to have been part of his apprenticeship, to learn about the business that was transacted in one of the largest cities of the Empire.
Tommy steered him away from it, walking east towards the High Street, cutting down Candleriggs to head for the river. When they reached the dark, sluggish expanse of the Clyde, he stopped, pointing to the old wooden bridge that crossed it and the looming building beyond.
“That’s it. This is as far as I go. You run across and don’t stop ‘til you’re at the door. Mary’s right, the priests will look after ye. God makes them dae it, or something. Go!”
He gave Alexander a shove and the boy took a faltering step into the dark. There were lights burning in some of the windows of the orphanage, beacons guiding him to safety. His feet moved faster and clattered on the wooden surface of the bridge. At the orphanage, he would be safe. Safe from the father who had beaten him and ultimately rejected him. Safe from the dark, odorous, and violent city into which he had been plunged.
Alexander Fitzgrant ran towards safety for all he was worth. Towards what he thought was safety. He could not have been more wrong.
Chapter One
24 years later
Violet moved gracefully as a swan through the assembled guests. Her pale, blue eyes picked out those she knew or was at least acquainted with and she smiled a greeting at them. She wore a dress of pale blue and gray, with pale gray gloves that reached to her elbows and pearls about her neck. The gold-spun curls of her hair were artfully pinned up, revealing the smooth, pale skin of her neck. Delicate silver earrings complimented her eyes and complexion.
The surroundings were grand indeed. The mansion in South Audley Street, a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, sparkled as though it had been built of precious gems instead of brick. The tall ceiling hall in which the guests of the Earl of Munster were assembled was a piece of art in itself. Mirrors gave a gleam to the room as well as giving the illusion of much great space. Candles were magnified by chandeliers that hung from a ceiling painted in a scene of angels and the celestial heavens. The gathered guests added their own finery to that of their surroundings.
Around her, Violet looked admiringly at necklaces that sparkled and shone, and rings with large precious stones, all showed off ostentatiously by the wearer. Tiaras adorned fashionably styled hair. She felt at home here, though it was not her house. The people around her moved and behaved according to a set of unspoken rules and conventions that she had come to understand very well. Violet swam in a sea of London high society, navigating its shifting currents with ease.
“Quite spectacular, is it not, Lady Violet?” said Mary Wyndham, emerging from a shift in the assemblage to address Violet.
She had brown hair, worn up and festooned with precious stones and jewelry. Violet acknowledged the other woman’s rank with an inclination of her head. She was, after all, wife of George Fitzclarence, Earl of Munster, and eldest son of the new King.
“Simply perfect, Your Ladyship,” Violet said. “My compliments to you and His Lordship. I have rarely seen a finer display.”
“We must outdo ourselves on such occasions, must we not? A new King does not ascend to the throne every day,” Lady Mary said.
“Indeed. I think everyone here is of the same mind and quite in awe of the occasion.”
Lady Mary smiled, turning to allow the light to catch the sapphires of her tiara. Violet took the cue, knowing that the item was new.
“My, what a tiara, Your Ladyship. A magnificent piece,” Violet duly responded.
“Oh, do you think so, Lady Violet? George had it made for me from sapphires from his father’s collection. A gift from the new King to his eldest child.”
Eldest but illegitimate, though we will not speak of that aloud, of course. Which is why your husband is Earl of Munster instead of Prince of Wales.
“It is the glorious centerpiece of this occasion,” Violet said, putting just the right amount of enthusiasm into her voice.
Enough to appease Mary Wyndham’s monstrous ego but not enough to sound simpering. A fine line must be walked when navigating the mazes of the Ton. Stray from the path and you are labeled a sycophant and your influence diminishes.
“I trust your dance card is already filling up, Lady Violet? I do so enjoy seeing people of genuine grace take the floor,” Lady Mary said.
“I have accepted a number of invitations, though I am no expert,” Violet said modestly.
“Nonsense my dear. I have seen you dance on a number of occasions and you are as graceful as a swan. Save a space for later in the evening, I believe George will request the pleasure of your company in a waltz.”
“I will certainly look forward to that, Lady Mary,” Violet said, bowing with her head at the honor done to her.
Lady Mary moved on, a path opening for her and hopeful lords and ladies seeking to catch her eye. Violet was aware of a number turning to her, seeking the same, and knew she would need to choose carefully who she acknowledged and in what order.
A fine line indeed. A tightrope walk even.
The first pair of eyes she caught belonged to a pretty young woman with dark hair and a bold nose above full lips. She was dressed in dark blue velvet and her straight hair hung to her shoulders, framing her face.
“Lillian, are you enjoying yourself?” Violet said, crossing the space between them.
She made eye contact with those she ought to, and acknowledged with short greetings a select few before she reached the side of her sister.
“It is certainly…shiny,” Lillian said with a wry smile. “I think I should have worn a hat to shade my eyes.”
Violet’s smile did not slip and she wove her arm through her sister’s, turning her and guiding her across the room.
“You shouldn’t say such things, Lilly,” she said when they reached a quiet spot with no-one quite within earshot. “You will get a reputation for having a sharp tongue.”
“Perhaps, I would prefer that to simpering before people like her,” Lillian said.
“She, is our host. And with the power to make or break our family in this city. With your interest in commerce and business, I would think that you would appreciate that,” Violet told her.
Does she not see that as members of society, we must play this game or see ourselves shoved into the outer darkness of anonymity? That would do Uncle George’s businesses no good at all.
Lillian scowled and Violet turned her to look towards one of the large portraits on the wall, placed between mirrors. None who saw the pair would have thought anything of the movement, certainly not that Violet had turned her sister around to hide her expression.
“I suppose you are right. You’re always right, Vi,” Lillian grumbled.
Violet laughed softly, hugging Lillian’s arm.
“I wish that were so. But I could not make head nor tail of a ledger or statement of account the way you can. Father…” She stopped, clearing her throat. “…Uncle George is so proud of that.”
Lillian hugged back, smiling, and patting Violet’s hand. “You do not need to play with words around me. You are my sister and always will be. And Papa is your Papa too. Titles are meaningless.”
“What a thing to say in the house of an Earl!” George Ravendel exclaimed as he approached the two.
He walked with hands clasped behind him, wearing the red, yellow, and white uniform of his regiment. His white belt held back a spreading paunch but his broad shoulders and square-jawed face gave the impression of substance rather than fat. His bold nose was a feature both of his daughters, Lillian and Clara, had inherited. By contrast, Violet had a delicate button nose. Along with her fiery gold hair, amid the black and brown of the Ravendels, it was a feature that had always marked her out as different. Not that anyone in the family acknowledged that difference.
I am a Ravendel. In their eyes at least. My true origins are not important to them. Nor is whether I address George and Charlotte as Papa and Mama as I did when I was a child. Or Uncle and Aunt as I do since I discovered the truth.
“I meant the title Violet uses for you and Mama,” Lillian murmured.
George looked uncomfortable, huffing, and looking up at the portrait.
“Yes, well. Least said and all that.”
“That, as you well know, is Papa’s way of saying that you are one of three daughters of his and that is that,” Lillian said with a smile.
“Now, Lillian. I do hope you have been accepting offers to dance. You really must make an effort, you know,” George said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of an infantry regiment marching across a battlefield.
“I have been mingling, as I am supposed to,” Lillian said, defensively.
“Because a marriage does not just land in your lap. You must play the game, little one,” George continued, “or you will end up on the shelf and an embittered old spinster.”
“I know all of this, Papa. It is just…something I am not very good at,” Lillian said, frustration plain on her face.
“Then let your older sister help you. Violet excels at this sort of thing,” George said, pride evident in his voice. “If it were permitted, I would say she should go into politics.”
“Or marry a politician,” Violet added. “That is how women exercise influence in our society. Through the men they marry. And you have ambitions, Lillian.”
Lillian nodded. “Yes, yes yes. I know all of this. I just find it all so intimidating.”
“Then I will help you. I know just the group of ladies that you simply must become acquainted with. Don’t worry, I will lead the conversation and you will soon find yourself feeling more at ease.”
Violet turned, ready to guide Lillian back into the shifting currents of the Ton. She looked back at George for a moment.
“And perhaps later we can continue discussing that particular matter which we began to talk about earlier? Uncle?” she said, catching and holding his eye.
George nodded briskly, then looked away.
The matter which you promised to talk to me about. The matter of who my real father is.
Chapter Two
Alexander Fitzgrant would rather have been cornered in an alleyway by a Glasgow razor gang than stand up before the room full of English peers in which he now found himself. He dressed like them, a waistcoat of royal blue, a matching cravat, and a snowy shirt. His coat was dark and his breeches cream, with patent leather shoes. In his hand he held a copy of the motion which the House was debating. It was slightly crumpled where, in his nerves, his grip had become too tight. In the seat beside him, Sebastian Cadzow, a fellow Scot by birth, sat with crossed legs and an arm lying indolently across the back of the cushioned chair.
He looks completely at ease among these glaikit Sassanachs. Because while I was choking in the chimneys of Kelvinside mansions, he was being educated at Glasgow University. And spending summers at the family estates here in England.
Cadzow caught his eye; gave him a wink and a nod. Alexander took a breath as the Speaker called out.
“His Grace, the Duke of Lorchester!”
The Tory peers that filled the rows of seats opposite shouted and jeered. Partly because Alexander had allied himself with the Whig government on this particular bill. Partly because they heard his title but saw a long-haired, bearded Scot. A highlander. A Jacobite, despite the fact that he hadn’t set foot in the highlands during his entire childhood and adolescence. It had been a common discrimination experienced ever since he had first arrived in London. The Dukedom had come to him five years ago and he had first stepped into the murky waters of London society two years ago.
What he had not been prepared for were men who smiled and spoke politely but whispered daggers behind one’s back. Alexander was used to his enemies confronting him face to face, coming at him with bared teeth and unambiguous intentions. In the savage world of politics, where words were weapons, he felt defenseless. And all the more when his Scottish accent and dialect were highlighted. The English seemed to think there was one type of Scot, wearing a kilt, wielding a claymore, and playing the pipes. And of course, roaming the glens of the highlands.
The only greenery I saw before taking the Dukedom and the estates in Hampshire was Glasgow Green. But they just hear the accent and the unfamiliar words. I may as well be French. I’m a foreigner to them.
He took a breath.
“My Lords, this bill we have before us is an important piece of legislation that will take the economy of this country into this nineteenth century. We have all heard the calls for the abolition of slavery coming from Mr. Wilberforce in the Other Place. Freedom is coming for those adults who suffer in bondage. But that Bill proposes to free adults taken from their homes and forced to work for others. This Bill is even mair important…” a smattering of laughter among the Tories at the Scottish word that had crept in despite Alexander’s best endeavors.
Flustered, he looked down at his speech held in the same hand as the bill paper. But, in that glance, he could not see exactly where in the cramped lines of scrawled script he was. Looking up, his eyes met the bright blue gaze of Ambrose Deveraux, Earl of Godstone. Deveraux was handsome, with the cold perfection of a sculpture. He was elegant and dignified, with piercing blue eyes and a confident personality giving him a charisma that few could resist. There was talk of making him leader of the Tories to challenge the government of the Earl Gray at the next election.
Deveraux’s smile was mocking. He didn’t jeer, allowing others to do that for him. As always, he behaved entirely properly for a member of the House of Lords. But that mocking smile stabbed at Alexander. He could feel the anger rising as he fought to maintain the momentum of his speech.
This is bloody important if these dunderheids could see it!
“…even more important. It would free our own children. British children from the bonds of slavery…”
“Point of order!” The Speaker called out.
Alexander saw that Ambrose had stood.
“I’m not finished!” Alexander shot back at the Speaker.
That earned him a stern look from the man who sat at the far end of the chamber.
“You may give way to a point of order, or refuse it. But, you will do so within the rules of the debate, Your Grace.”
“My Lord Speaker, it is quite understandable if our Scotch friend does not understand the procedures of this house. It is very different to the environment he is used to,” Deveraux said.
“I refuse the point of order,” Alexander said through clenched teeth.
“As I was saying. Children are employed, without their consent, in a variety of dangerous industries to the detriment of their health. These are, after all, the future workforce of our economy…”
“Point of order!” Devereaux called out, almost gleefully.
Alexander was aware of Sebastian stirring next to him but did not risk a glance in his direction while Deveraux was watching him. He remembered the advice his friend had given to him before the debate, however. It was not wise to flatly refuse to concede the floor too many times. It would serve to make the other peers think he was unwilling to allow a debate and increase the chances the bill would be voted down.
“I concede the floor,” Alexander said, sitting and unconsciously running a hand through his thick, unruly beard.
Always in the past, growing up in Glasgow, his size had been his ally. As a young boy, there had been nothing to stop the priests of the orphanage administering discipline with the belt, or the employers that he was sent out to, to be dispatched up a chimney, if he did not work as hard as they believed he should. As a youth, weak-chested from the years of chimney work though he was, he’d developed broad shoulders and a thick chest. Scars, now hidden by his expensive clothes, bore witness to the many battles he had fought in the alleys and rookeries of the South-side. Until Master Gellert had come looking for him, telling him of an inheritance in England. The death of a father long forgotten.
But here, in the House of Lords, the place where laws were debated and shaped, his size was to no avail. Deveraux need not fear the Duke of Lorchester physically. He could not be touched. And Alexander had none of the political instincts of his opponent.
I am no opponent to him. He has his backers and I stand alone. The only reason the Whigs support me is this bill happens to align with their social policies. I am not one of them. I am not one of anyone in this damned city.
“I thank His Grace for allowing a humble point of order,” Devereaux said, standing. “He will forgive me, I’m sure, if I clarify a point. The accent he carries makes the King’s English somewhat difficult to…”
“For shame!” Sebastian cried out, rising. “Let us keep our debate to matters of policy and legislation, not personal insults.”
“A purely practical matter, I can assure my Lord of Holmesley,” Deveraux replied smoothly. “There are certain standards we adhere to in this place and we risk confusion if some of us do not speak in…precise English.”
The speech and bill crumpled into a ball in Alexander’s clenched fist. He gritted his teeth behind tight lips. Cadzow sat, clamping a hand to Alexander’s arm as he did so. They were in the middle of the assembled Whig peers on the left-hand side of the room as one looked down it towards the Lord Speaker’s chair. Opposite, in rows five or six deep were the Tories. The room was lined with paintings, earning it the nickname of the Painted Chamber. It was the only room that could be salvaged from the fire that had gutted the Palace of Westminster the previous year, allowing the Lords to continue to sit in the same building at least, as they were accustomed to.
“Your point is about His Grace’s colloquialisms?” the Lord Speaker queried.
“A passing remark only. My point concerns why we are debating a matter which is surely not the province of the state. This is a country of merchants, shopkeepers, mill owners, and farmers. To deny them a plentiful source of labor would be to drive them out of business. I stand for the freedom of Englishmen to manage their affairs. And, yes, the freedom of English youths to seek gainful employment. What, otherwise, would they do? Does His Grace envision thousands of idle young people thronging our streets? I think his views have been colored by his own experiences. I believe he once worked as a chimney sweep?”
That brought a ripple of laughter and Deveraux basked in the reaction, smiling broadly. Alexander’s patience snapped. He leaped to his feet, hurling the ball of paper that had been the Bill as well as his own speech.
“Aye, I was! I was sent tae work as a young wain. No chance to educate myself or better myself. Exploited! Is that English enough for ye, ye ignorant Sassenach!”
Cadzow lowered his face into his hands as Alexander pushed through the ranks of peers seated in front of him. The Lord Speaker was on his feet calling for order and the rest of the chamber erupted in sounds of disapprobation towards the angry Duke of Lorchester. Alexander had the satisfaction of seeing a brief look of fear sweep across Deveraux’s face as he watched the angry Scotsman advance towards him. Then Cadzow caught his friend’s arm, half turning him.
“Are you quite mad?” he hissed, face inches from Alexander.
“His Grace is removed from the chamber forthwith. He will leave the chamber and not return until a full apology has been given for this un-Parliamentary conduct!” The Lord Speaker’s voice rose over the din.
Alexander snarled in disgust and tore his arm free of Cadzow’s grip. He stalked towards the exit from the Painted Room, delivering a furious insult in pure Glaswegian dialect as he went.
