Month: December 2024

Chapter One

1805

The Marlingford Ball

A head of fiery red hair, caught up in bouncing curls, surrounded a pale, delicate face with verdant eyes.

Juliet Semphill at thirteen years old already stood as tall as most ladies in attendance. Her dress was simple shades of green silk to compliment her coloring. She wore no jewelry but most didn’t notice, so startling was the shade of her eyes and hair. She stood in a corner of the study, surrounded by three stern-faced men.

A woman sat in a corner of the same room. The shoulder of her dress was torn and she was weeping, hands over her face. Her hair was coal black and lustrous, her gown flowed over the generous lines of her body. Juliet looked from one stern strange face to another, wide-eyed and frightened.

“Tell us what you saw, girl,” muttered Duncan Kimberley, the Duke of Marlingford.

He towered over her and the other two men. His hair was iron gray and his face, Roman and patrician. His broad shoulders had taken on a slump as he had entered old age but were still wide. His stomach was bound tightly behind a buttoned coat. Juliet looked at him and swallowed, licking her lips, trying to find the words.

The issue was that she did not know what she had seen.

The home of the Duke and Duchess of Marlingford was large, even palatial and she had wanted to explore, find a quiet corner to rest from the pitying eyes of strangers. She had wandered hallways and rooms until she opened a door to a darkened study and saw…

“Damn it, girl! Do not be disobedient. My daughter was assaulted and you were a witness!” Marlingford boomed, raising his voice.

“Juliet. You must tell us,” coaxed his son, Hugh Kimberley, the Viscount Chalford.

Hugh’s wife was the woman crying in the corner. Not a daughter to Marlingford by birth, simply by marriage. Hugh Kimberley was a pale shadow of his father. Slighter in frame and height with brown hair that seemed thinner than the silver mane his father sported. Neither man noticed Meredith Kimberley looking over at the interrogation between the fingers of her hands. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and there was a bruise rising on one cheek. But the look she directed at the questioning was cool and calculating.

“I was… I was exploring,” Juliet began haltingly, “I wanted to look around this fine house.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Get on with it,” Marlingford barked.

“I didn’t know where I was going or where I was. I opened a door and there was a scream. I saw Lady Chalford on the floor and a man standing over her,” Juliet stammered.

“The man was assaulting her?” Hugh Kimberley demanded, his voice growing strident.

“Would you recognize him?” Marlingford put in at the same time.

“Do you know who he was?” said the third man, who had not yet spoken. He was thin with hollow cheeks and veins bulging on the backs of his hands. Sir Graham Randalph MP, a member of the government and friend of the Duke of Marlingford.

At that moment the door to the study opened and a tall, willowy woman burst in. She had hair as fiery and red as Juliet. A dark beauty spot occupied a prominent space high on her right cheek. It was painted not unlike the similar spot on Juliet’s left cheek. A man followed her, very much in her shadow. He had neither her height nor presence. His stomach was a circle that was barely held in check by his dress clothes, as were his chins.

“May I ask what is going on here?” Margaret Godwin demanded in a voice as clear as a bell. She directed her attention to Marlingford, “Your Grace, that is my niece. What trouble has she gotten herself into now?”

Her gray eyes were hard upon her niece, finding fault and blame before their owner knew anything of the circumstances. Marlingford looked from Margaret to Juliet and took a deliberate step backward. His son licked his lips and followed suit, as did Sir Graham. Juliet found herself standing behind an invisible moat which the three men were now apparently unwilling to cross.

“Aunt Margaret…” she began.

“Do not Aunt Margaret me, young lady! You were allowed to attend on the condition that you would be on your best behavior. Now what do I find?”

“She is the daughter of the Baroness of Larkhill?” Marlingford asked, taking another backward step and wiping his hands on the front of his coat.

“She is. My sister’s daughter and only child,” Margaret replied, haughtily.

Juliet looked at the widening circle of men who, until a moment ago, had been so frightening. Now she saw the fear in their eyes and knew its cause. As much as she wanted to be out of that room, she felt dismay at their reasoning for backing away.

“It isn’t catching, you know,” she said quietly, looking at the floor, “my mother’s illness, I mean. You can be in the same room. Breathe the same air—”

“Hold your tongue, child!” Margaret interrupted.

“Apologies, Your Grace. She wasn’t always like this,” Gilbert Godwin hastily added.

“Your niece is a witness to a grievous offense committed against me,” Meredith sobbed.

She rose to her feet unsteadily and crossed the room to Juliet’s side. Glaring at the men, she took Juliet’s hand as if to show that she was not afraid of the illness.

“Lady Swindon,” she addressed herself to Margaret. “I was accosted by the Marquess of Somerset, a man I had judged to be honorable.”

She turned to Juliet and forced a smile through her tears. “Do not be afraid, Juliet. Just as I am not. Tell your Aunt and Uncle what you saw. Be truthful now.”

The act of taking Juliet’s hand meant that she could no longer hold in place a wayward piece of torn fabric at her shoulder. It chose that moment to fall, exposing the milky white skin beneath and threatening to reveal part of one breast.

Hugh Kimberley was slapped in the chest by his father with the back of one meaty hand. Thus prompted, he hastily removed his coat and draped it about his wife’s shoulders to cover her nakedness.

Juliet felt inordinately grateful at the simple gesture of a stranger taking her hand. She was used to being shunned but Lady Meredith’s act made her feel as though she weren’t an outcast. A little of the fear she had once felt upon being dragged into this room and questioned was assuaged.

“He was like a wild thing. Pressing his suit, and when I refused him…” Meredith stammered, voice rich with tears, “…when I reminded him that I am a happily married woman, he struck me.”

“Did you see this, Juliet?” Aunt Margaret asked, archly. “Speak up!”

Juliet thought back to the scene that had been revealed upon the opening of the door. Meredith had been on the floor, one arm raised above her head as though to protect herself. A man with dark hair had been standing over her. He had been tall and broad, a giant in Juliet’s eyes. But, hadn’t his face been concerned? Had he been reaching down to Meredith with an open hand, as though to help her up?

She opened her mouth to speak and glanced at Meredith, who gave her a brave smile and nodded. Juliet swallowed her words. How could she gainsay Meredith? Meredith would not say she had been struck unless that had happened. It could have happened before Juliet entered the room. Then the man who struck her had regretted his action and tried to make amends. Perhaps the blow was entirely accidental?

“I heard a scream and opened the door. This lady was on the floor and a tall, dark-haired man was standing over her.”

“He struck me. You saw that too,” Meredith hastily added. “The door was open before he struck me. I screamed after the blow, when he was standing above me. You saw, didn’t you, Juliet?” she finished firmly.

Juliet had not seen.

But looking into Meredith’s pupils, she was suddenly afraid. Her hand tightened around Juliet’s and there was a hardness to her stare. Juliet glanced around at the circle of hostile faces. She did not know any of them except for Aunt Margaret and Uncle Gilbert. All were staring at her, waiting for her answer. The events she had remembered clearly just a moment ago now changed. Had the door already been open? It could have been. Had she seen that giant of a man strike this nice lady? She was bruised and she had been on the floor, so she had indeed been struck.

“Without a witness, that man will never face justice for what he has done,” Meredith whispered into Juliet’s ear. “That would not be fair, now, would it?”

Juliet nodded, swallowed, and cleared her throat.

“He struck her. I saw it,” she said clearly.

Meredith patted her hand and smiled. It was a smile of warmth and affection. It reassured Juliet that she was doing the right thing. This was not a bad person. Whomever the man was that had struck her, he was the bad person.

“He struck her down and I think he would have struck her again had I not walked in.”

This was an embellishment, but she was encouraged by Meredith’s broadening smile of reassurance and the fact that she still held Juliet’s hand. No one, not even her own Aunt, Uncle, or cousins would hold her hand. Even those who lived with her and knew that the disease that had struck down Juliet’s mother could not be caught still maintained their distance on a matter of principle.

Juliet smiled tentatively back at Meredith.

“Then there must be a reckoning,” Marlingford uttered gruffly, “this is a grievous insult to my family and it cannot go unchallenged.”

“…What do you mean, father?” Hugh asked, a note of hesitation in his voice.

Marlingford eyed his son for a moment and then turned away. “Nothing for you, my boy. Do not worry. I shall take care of this.”

He stomped from the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Hugh, old chap. We must talk,” Sir Graham quietly began, “I fear your father is impetuous. Let us try and remonstrate with him.”

Hugh nodded, leaving the room with Sir Graham who whispered to him as they went. Juliet looked to her Aunt Margaret who was watching her speculatively. She did not look happy, but then she rarely did. Uncle Gilbert hovered at her shoulder, waiting for his cue.

Meredith rose with a sigh. “This has been a trying evening. If you will excuse me, Lord and Lady Godwin, I believe I shall retire.”

There was no trace of tears in the Marlingford daughter’s voice now. She spoke clearly and firmly, not looking once at Juliet.

“If my niece should be needed to give further evidence, she will of course be made available, my lady,” Aunt Margaret smiled servilely. “Such ungentlemanly conduct cannot be permitted to go unpunished.”

“It cannot,” Uncle Gilbert echoed.

Meredith frowned, then nodded her head. “I trust my father-in-law will see to that, Lady Margaret. Lord Somerset shall rue the day he crossed me.”

To Juliet, that did not sound quite right. The meaning was clear but the wording was odd. She frowned, watching Meredith as she crossed the room. There was no longer any sign of the wracking sobs, the shuddering breaths, the burning cheeks. She glided with grace and dignity. Juliet did not know what to make of it.

As the door closed behind her, Aunt Margaret rounded on Juliet with fists planted firmly on her hips.

“Now, young lady, since you have decided to entangle yourself in the affairs of this esteemed family, you will hold steadfast to your account. I will not endure the humiliation of you wavering, nor will I forfeit the connections our family stands to gain from this scandalous ordeal. You saw that despicable man strike down Lady Meredith. His name is Lord Horatio, Marquess of Somerset—Horatio Templeton. Remember the details. You can describe him, can you not?”

“Tall and broad-shouldered,” Juliet furrowed her brows in thought. “His hair was dark, and it fell to his shoulders. His face was… square. He looked strong, but not a man yet. More like… a tall boy.”

“Enough of a man for this,” Aunt Margaret harrumphed. “That is good. Remember it and remember what you saw.”

“I did not make it up,” Juliet protested, feeling as though her veracity were in question.

“Good!” Aunt Margaret snapped. “This night shall have grave consequences for the Marquess of Somerset, mark my words.”

Chapter Two

1805

Ravenscourt Castle

Horatio stood by the window of his father’s study at Ravenscourt Castle, gazing listlessly beyond the glass. Outside, swallows darted from the eaves high above, wheeling playfully over the yew hedges and flower beds.

His vacant eyes drifted down the perfectly straight paths leading to the mere; the jewel of the famous Ravenscourt Gardens. At its heart sat an island crowned with a timber-framed house. How many summers had he spent diving into the lake’s cool depths and lounging on the island’s soft grass under a golden sun?

 Those days had once felt infinite, like an endless series of reflections in opposing mirrors, like a time that never was, yet was ever-present.

He frowned, briefly closing eyes as blue as the sky, shutting on the bittersweet memories.

In their place surged another image: the Duke of Marlingford, his face a mask of shocked horror. The memory played out with cruel clarity—the iron-gray hair, a dignified face slackening as blood welled on his lips. Then he was falling, legs giving way beneath him. A flower of red on his breast, spreading insidiously out from underneath his coat. A final, shivering breath…

And Horatio stood, just as aghast, a smoking pistol in trembling hands. His right shoulder ached from the gouge which had been carved there by Marlingford’s earlier shot. A flesh wound only, but it had been enough to jerk Horatio’s aim off by an inch. He had not intended to kill. Would have given anything to undo it.

Fate had reckoned otherwise.

Horatio opened his eyes now. The days of wine and summer were over. The winter of his life was about to begin. And it would be cold and lonely. The society with which he had surrounded himself at his house at Woolstone… they would evaporate like drops of water from a hot skillet.

First, the accusation of assault against a lady. Then the challenge to a duel by her father-in-law. A demand for the satisfaction of honor. All culminating in an unjust death.

A door behind him opened and was slammed shut with the force of a January north wind. Horatio sighed, careful to hide it from the man who had just entered the room.

Uncurling his posture, he twisted to face his father.

William Templeton was a gentleman in the prime of his life. Dark hair the color of coal was only just beginning to silver. The strong jaw and imperial nose that gave his son a patrician dignity was, in William’s greater maturity, the aura of an emperor. Now, those Roman features were dark with fury as he strode across the study towards his son. Horatio braced himself, standing with arms folded defensively, jaw set.

William, Thirteenth Duke of Ravenscourt, stopped in front of him, and then struck him across the face with the back of his hand. Horatio’s head lashed to one side. Another blow landed, whipping it in the opposite direction. Such was the force that Horatio fell to one knee. He instinctively reached for the side of his face, feeling a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. William stood over him, chest heaving and fists clenched.

“A great man lies dead because of you!” The old man spat mercilessly. “His Grace, the Duke of Marlingford. A soldier. A Parliamentarian. Above all, a dignified gentleman! What have you to say for yourself, boy?”

Horatio remained on the floor, staring up at his father. He tried to hide the fear that gripped him. He knew that he had lived a life of privilege thus far. A life of society balls and luncheons. Of horse racing and card games. Wine, women, and song. He was unused to confrontation or violence. The duel was the first time he had ever drawn a pistol in anger instead of sport.

“It—it was an accident. I did not intend to kill him,” he shuddered a breath.

“Did not intend it? An accident?” William muttered wryly. “So the Duke of Marlingford was killed out of sheer incompetence, was he? Not even the dignity of an honorable death, fighting for the name of his daughter-by-marriage? Murdered because you were too incompetent to miss?!”

He reached down and seized Horatio by the lapels of his coat, crushing the delicate fabric in his iron grip. He hauled his only son to his feet, drawing him close enough that Horatio could feel the man’s tobacco-wreathed breath on his singeing cheeks.

“And what of Lady Meredith Templeton?” William hissed. “What of the reason for this duel being called in the first place! Not only a murderer but a ravisher of women? What manner of man have I raised?”

Now, fury flared through Horatio. He heaved free of his father’s grip. A year or two earlier, it would have been nigh on impossible. But now, at the onset of his twentieth year, his shoulders had broadened, as had the musculature of his chest. He was not the Hercules that his father was, still slender and graceful rather than sturdy and imposing, but he was no weakling either. His father’s eyes widened at the brazenness.

“She lied! I did not touch her. Nor would I want to. I love Jane,” he growled back.

William’s brows furrowed. “Jane? Ainsworth? Of the Darnleighstone Ainsworths?”

Horatio nodded, impassioned, taking out a silk handkerchief and dabbing at the blood. “Now you know.”

William threw back his head and laughed.

“Daughter of the Viscount Darnleighstone? He would dearly love to see her married to my heir. May even be prepared to overlook the scandal. Both of them. But… he will not see her married to a penniless adventurer, bereft of title or prospects.”

Horatio frowned, a chill running through him at his father’s words. The handkerchief came down slowly. 

“What… what do you mean?”

“I am cutting you off. You are no longer my son and no longer Marquess of Woolstone.”

“You cannot do that!” Horatio shot back.

“That title is a courtesy. A courtesy given by me!” William roared, “I gave it and I can take it at my pleasure. I will have Woolstone torn down and the ground salted before I let you live there. You and your reprobate friends! I should have stepped in before now when I saw the ilk of people you were associating with… This is where their path has led you.”

“Reprobates? They are good, decent—”

“A Frenchman? An Italian? A commoner? Pah! These are the people you choose to associate with? You were born to a Dukedom and you besmirch your name? No more! I will not see the Templeton name carried by a ravisher of women and courter of blackguards.”

“I told you that is a lie!” Horatio roared again, stepping up to his father, eyes ablaze with rage. “I came across her foxed and went to her aid. She fell on her own and that silly young girl saw me trying to put her back on her feet, and she—”

“That silly young girl is a respectable member of a well-known family. Larkhill is an ancient English baronetcy with its own seat in the Lords and a lineage traced back to the Conquest. Why would that girl lie?”

“I don’t know! I wish I did,” Horatio replied desperately, “perhaps you should give your only son the benefit of the doubt over some slip of a girl!”

William turned away, sneering. He stormed to a sideboard where he took up a decanter of brandy and poured himself an unhealthy measure.

“And why would Lady Meredith lie?” he asked after taking a draught.

To that question, Horatio had no answer.

He was familiar with Lady Meredith, wife to Lord Hugh Kimberley, son of the man Horatio had killed. She had attended a number of social events that Horatio had hosted at Woolstone. Never with her husband, who always refused his invitations.

The lady had engaged in flirtatious behavior with Horatio before, despite being married. He had always tried to steer clear of her games. She was almost predatory in her sultry, alluring act, and it made him uncomfortable.

Jane, on the other hand, was fair-haired, with a heart as clear and pure as her blue eyes. As beautiful as a Renaissance sculpture and as innocent as Eve before the expulsion. She was the paragon of female virtue and it ate away at him that she might now reject him.

“You have no answer,” William muttered slowly into the deafening silence. “For there is no answer that can be given. You gave in to your base desires and have now mired me in scandal.”

Horatio ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“I did nothing of the sort. The Duke of Marlingford would not be denied. He called me out and I had no choice but to meet him or dishonor our family name even more. Truly, I tried to aim wide but did not expect him to be ready to fire first—”

William laughed with heavy scorn. “Duncan Kimberley was a marksman from childhood. And a fighter of duels in his youth. Of course he fired first, boy! It is a miracle that he did not shoot you dead. Perhaps that would have been the better outcome.”

That ill-conceived comment had Horatio’s heart lurching, but he did his damnedest to ignore it. “He hit me in the shoulder and threw off my aim,” he countered instead, knowing that it would do no good now. “I did not mean to kill him. I would have conceded.”

William poured another brandy. He drained the glass and then strode to the colossal mahogany desk that dominated the room. Thumping into the seat before it, he opened a drawer and took out a large pocketbook. Dipping a pen into an inkwell on the desk, he began to jot.

“I am writing you a promissory note that can be redeemed at my bankers in London, Glasgow, or Bristol. It is the last penny you will ever get from me. You can leave here with your horse and the clothes on your back. The rest of your property is forfeit. You will leave here as Master Horatio Templeton. Nobly born but reduced to the status of a commoner.”

He tore off the note and held it out for Horatio without looking up. Horatio gaped at it in horror.

“But, Father…!”

“This will not be undone. I will not allow you to drag the good name of this family into the mire you have created for yourself. Now, take it before I change my mind on that too.”

Horatio shook his head silently, feeling something inside tearing free. A gulf was opening inside him, as though he stood on an ice floe that had become separated from a larger berg and now floated on the open ocean. He saw the life he had lived drifting away from him. Saw the future he had expected even further over the horizon.

Including Jane.

“No. I will not,” he refused quietly.

Part of him ached to flee from the room, to saddle Thunder, his stallion since boyhood, and race to Jane’s home at Uffingdon Grange. But he could not bring himself to race towards the end that he knew faced him there. The end of his love affair. The end of the sunlit days of his youth. The end of a future in which he had seen himself as her husband… As father to her children…

Steeling himself, Horatio met his father’s glare—fear coiled in his stomach, but his resolve remained unbroken. He would bear the guilt of Marlingford’s death forever—a weight he deserved. But the malicious lies of Lady Meredith and Miss Juliet Semphill? Those, he refused to carry.

Drawing himself to his full height, he stepped back from the desk and clasped his hands firmly behind his back.

A flicker of a smile grazed across William’s face and he leaned backward, still holding out the promissory note. Then, he tore it across and let the pieces fall.

“Hmph. One last vestige of honor,” the old man muttered. “I did not think to see it. You have some strength in you boy. Some.”

“Disinherit me if you wish. Disown me. I will go into the world and make my own fortune, however I may. I am not innocent. I could have chosen to refuse the duel, accepted the dishonor of cowardice. I chose to take up the gauntlet. I chose to fire. I will not deny my guilt. But, that is all that I am guilty of. Perhaps it is for the best. I do not think I wish to be the heir of a man who would believe others over his own blood.”

With that, he turned and strode from the room.

Chapter Three

8 Years Later

Wetherby

Juliet smiled as she watched a swallow flit through the air ahead of her, exuberant and joyous. She brushed aside bronze hair made darker by sweat. The air was warm, made even warmer by the close-packed woods through which she walked. To either side, large ferns encroached on the path, bestowing feathery kisses as they brushed her cheek. Her dress left her shoulders bare and she relished the touch of the sunshine and the light breeze on her pale skin.

She could have followed the path blindfolded, having explored these woods many times since coming to live with her aunt and uncle as a youth. In fact, she wondered if she might just have spent more time out of doors since moving to Wetherby House than she had indoors. She lifted her face to the sun, where it shone through the trees, closing her eyes for a moment to test herself.

In a handful of steps, her bare foot caught a root and she tumbled into a cluster of ferns. Rolling onto her back, she giggled at her own foolishness, gazing up at the blue sky framed by gorgeous green trees.

Burdop Wood lay just beyond the south boundary of her uncle Gilbert’s lands, as Baron of Swindon. The grounds of Wetherby House, seat of Lord Gilbert and his wife, Lady Margaret, had been sculpted and shaped to within an inch of their life by gardeners. Lawns were kept short by an army of men with scythes and flower beds were arranged in neat patterns, pruned, and carefully controlled. It looked colorful and, Juliet was sure, very pretty to the eyes of the Godwins.

But to her, there was no beauty like the natural world. Its riot of colors, shapes, and scents, in all its apparent chaos, was her idea of heaven.

“Juliet? Juliet! Drat you, where are you?” came a shrill, petulant voice.

It shattered the peaceful woodland, destroying the aura of relaxation that Juliet had felt. A tension grew within her, one that was always present whenever she was in company with her aunt, uncle, or Cousin Frances. It came from the need to hide who she truly was, to disguise the things she loved and was passionate about. The need to fit in with them.

Juliet stood, brushing at her skirts to remove any stray pieces of grass. Glancing around, she saw flashes of color in between the trees. A white dress and a blue one. Two women following the same path that Juliet had. No time to put her stockings on, she simply stepped into her shoes and concealed the stockings among the ferns. Then she trod out onto the path and waited.

Presently, a round-faced woman with dark hair and a pretty button nose appeared. Her looks were spoiled by the petulant pout of her lips and the way she narrowed her eyes upon the sight of Juliet. Frances Godwin, daughter of Gilbert and Margaret, cousin to Juliet, stood an inch taller than she. Frances was also heavy in the hip and bosom, while Juliet was willowy and graceful.

Behind her was a woman in a sky-blue dress carrying a small book in one hand. She shared Juliet’s fiery coloring, a characteristic both shared with Margaret Godwin who was sister to Juliet’s mother. She had the Godwin’s round features and button nose, of a height with her sister and sharing the womanly hips. While Frances looked like she was chewing on a sour crabapple, Edith smiled at the sight of Juliet. A little of Juliet’s tension eased at the sight of her younger cousin.

“I am here, Fran,” Juliet began, walking towards the two women.

“Frances,” Frances corrected testily.

“Were you looking for me?”

“We were. Mama sent us to fetch you,” Frances replied, bitterly.

She looked around the woods, carefully holding her skirts out of contact with anything living.

“There were no servants free to come and find you,” Edith put in from behind her sister.

“Our dresses have arrived and Mama wishes us to try them on while the seamstress is here so that any adjustments may be made,” Frances finished.

Juliet groaned inwardly.

She could not think of a worse waste of a beautiful day than to be trying on dresses and standing on a stool while a seamstress made adjustments. Besides, there was the rabbit she had saved from a poacher’s trap and had been nursing back to health. She wanted very much to check on the poor thing’s progress. For a moment, she thought about telling her cousins that she would be along momentarily. But she did not want to excite their curiosity too much. The old cottage she had discovered at the heart of Burdop Wood served her well as a makeshift hospital for the waifs and strays she came across. The last thing she wished was for her hideaway to be discovered. So, she smiled and followed her cousins back along the path toward the boundary wall of the Wetherby estate.

Frances complained the entire way about having to tramp through wild woods to find Juliet. Even had Juliet been in her own rooms, Frances would still have found reason to be offended. She did not know why her cousin found her so objectionable, but it was clear that she did. Edith on the other hand was more likable, if often distant, her head firmly in her books.

A wooden gate in the tall, stone wall, let the three women into the grounds of Wetherby. Immediately, the trees ceased and the ferns, garlic, and wild grass vanished. They followed a white gravel path between rose beds, rhododendrons, and hydrangeas. Water burbled from a fountain somewhere beyond a square-cut hedge. Turning a corner, they climbed a set of stone steps kept meticulously free of moss and lichen. At the top was a glowing expanse of lawn with Wetherby House beyond.

It was of a warm, orange brick, built in the Jacobean style, and changed little in the intervening years. Windows were tall and, on the ground floor, framed by carefully controlled clematis and climbing roses. All were in full bloom, pinks and reds contrasting with the brickwork. It was pretty but in a way that Juliet found very artificial and staid. It lacked the vitality and abundance of nature.

She found her steps slowing as they approached the entrance to Wetherby. The familiar sense of anxious dread was on Juliet. She tried to forget about the annual Ravenscourt Ball each year. But when it came around, it could not be ignored. Aunt Margaret treated it with the same reverence as a coronation.

“I think I will take the air for just a moment,” Juliet murmured, suddenly unable to face going back into the house and becoming absorbed by the preparations.

“Well, do not tarry too long,” Frances snapped.

She was two years Juliet’s senior and wasted no opportunity to lord it over her. With that, she swept into the house, servants making way before her, which was fortunate as she had her chin raised so high she couldn’t possibly have seen where she was going. Edith stood beside Juliet who turned to look out over the gardens as though taking in the sight.

“You do not care for the Ravenscourt Ball, do you?” Edith said, quietly.

“I do not,” Juliet replied, “or any ball for that matter.”

“Neither do I. I would much rather be lost in a good book than dancing with some empty-headed young man. I think Frances is of the same mind as the two of us, though for differing reasons.”

Juliet furrowed her brows at that. “Truly? I had assumed Cousin Frances lived for days like this.”

Edith giggled. “She does when it is a ball to which you have not been invited. Do you not realize that my sister is deeply jealous of you? Of your having found a handsome match and of your looks.”

That last part confused Juliet. She did not see herself as pretty. She was too tall and her hair too bright a shade of red. She disliked the freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks and thought her eyes too far apart. But it did not concern her too much because the possibility of marriage was so remote. As if to remind her of how remote that prospect was, she felt a sudden sensation of breathlessness. Her head felt light, and she knew that before long the world would be spinning around her. It would result in a faint from which she would not awaken for hours. And after each episode, she felt gradually weaker.

“Are you quite well, Cousin?” Edith asked, frowning.

“Quite,” Juliet replied languidly. “The sun is very bright. I fear I have overdone it.”

That explanation would have satisfied anyone but Edith. Her frown deepened and she pressed her lips together in the way she did when in deep thought.

“I have noticed you seem to take dizzy spells quite often,” she began.

“It is just the sun, I assure you,” Juliet put in hurriedly.

All knew of the illness which had taken her mother’s life. Juliet remembered well the stigma attached to it. The fear of contagion. She did not want people to look at her in the same way. Uncle Gilbert would have her packed off to a remote sanatorium at the merest hint that she had inherited her mother’s condition.

“Then perhaps we should get indoors,” Edith said, finally.

Still, she offered her arm as they walked. Juliet accepted it, her knees feeling weak and shaky.

“I shall be right as rain after a sit-down and a cup of tea,” she grimaced.

“Will Lord Hemsworth be attending tomorrow evening?” Edith asked as they walked through Wetherby’s halls to the drawing room.

“No, I am afraid he is otherwise engaged in London this week,” Juliet replied.

“Such a shame. It is an annual fixture after all. Like Christmas… Such a shame that he could not have planned his schedule to allow for it,” Edith commented distractedly.

Juliet gave her a quick look, wondering if she were probing at another of Juliet’s secrets. There was no way that she could know the truth, of course. Both Juliet and Nigel Crickhallow, Viscount Hemsworth, had been very careful in the outward appearance of their courtship. A facade of romance to disguise Juliet’s illness and Nigel’s own secret. One known only to Juliet and the person who truly held his heart in their keeping.

Edith was very intelligent and quite capable of deducing the truth if she had enough information to go on. On the other hand, she had a secret of her own which only Juliet knew. That should be enough to ensure that Juliet’s secrets remained safe.

“He is a very busy man,” Juliet remarked, “and truthfully, I do not even know if he has been invited. He has not said.”

They reached the drawing room and found it occupied. Juliet immediately wanted to turn around. Her Aunt Margaret was taking tea. Frances was sitting next to her, being handed a teacup by a maid, and watching Juliet with glittering eyes. Lady Margaret Godwin glanced up as her daughter and niece entered. She had the characteristic red hair of the Norton family, the line from which she and her sister Judith, who was mother to Juliet, came from. Today she had painted her dark beauty spot high onto her left cheek. Juliet also had a beauty spot, on her right cheek. But hers was part of her, not a cosmetic affectation. She had always been sensitive about the tiny dark mark, though all those around her insisted it was a desirable trait in a woman.

“Gallivanting in the woods again, Juliet?” Margaret said in a high, prim voice.

“Taking the air, Aunt Margaret,” Juliet replied.

“That is what gardens are for. It is not seemly for a young lady to be wandering alone in the wilds,” Margaret gently chided, “you must think of the image you are presenting to your betrothed. Just because Lord Hemsworth is courting you does not mean that he will continue to do so. If he knew that you tramp barefoot in the woods at every chance, dirtying your hands with wild animals, do you truly believe he would wish to marry you?”

“Lord Hemsworth appreciates my love for nature. He has even said that I could aspire to be a veterinarian,” Juliet replied stoutly.

It was a mistake. The kind of conversation best kept private.

Aunt Margaret and Uncle Gilbert would regard any lady of their family considering a trade to be a horrifying prospect. She was being truthful of course, having discussed the matter with her good friend Nigel. He had expressed the view that perhaps she should seek a veterinarian and serve as his apprentice. He was the kind of person who did not consider such things to be beyond the realms of possibility. However, that did not stop Aunt Margaret’s teacup from freezing halfway to her mouth.

“I beg your pardon!” she hissed. “I cannot believe a respectable gentleman like Lord Hemsworth would say such a thing. Therefore, you must be making it up simply to wound. Which is very wicked!”

Juliet stood, head bowed. It was to conceal the anger on her flushed cheeks. Since the death of her parents, she had no home but Wetherby and no family but the Godwins. That meant she could not stand up for herself as she would like. Could not rebel too far from their expectations or rules. But it was difficult.

“I suggest you go to your rooms until you are summoned to try on your dress. Though I hardly think you deserve to attend. If Lord Hemsworth attends and you are not present, then perhaps another young lady will take his fancy. Yes, that should teach you a lesson.”

Frances smiled to herself, sipping her tea but gazing out of the window in reverie. Juliet suppressed a smile. If her cousin was considering the handsome Lord Hemsworth, she would be bitterly disappointed. No woman could hope to win him over.

“Yes, Aunt Margaret. I am sorry, Aunt Margaret,” she replied meekly before turning to leave the room.

Edith made to follow but her mother brought her up short.

“Edith, remain here with us if you please. Your cousin needs some time on her own to consider her behavior, and we have much to discuss.”

Edith shot Juliet a look as they passed, head lowered. She gave a grimace which her mother did not see. It told Juliet that her younger cousin had wanted to speak to her privately. Juliet thought she knew what about and though she was happy to be Edith’s confidante, even to help her with her secret, she was glad that she would be left alone. There was a letter that she needed to finish. To be sent to Doctor Alistair Carmichael of Carlisle, Juliet’s last hope.

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 15th of December!