Author: Grovechronicles

Chapter One

June 1815

Cartwright Hall

Life as a spinster was generally not as bad as the rest of the ton made it out to be.

Certainly, an enlightened male relative was necessary to provide a roof over one’s head, but compared to a married Lady of Quality, Phoebe Townsend decided that spinsterhood certainly afforded her far more privileges than if she had a husband who lorded himself over her by virtue of his being born male.

Besides, she could hardly feel any difference in her life from before she had been declared off the marriage market, for better or for worse. It was simply a matter of finding similar like-minded individuals with whom she could comfortably associate with, and the so-called Spinsters’ Club afforded her that rather nicely.

“It is rather pitiful how he has not chosen to marry,” Miss Cartwright shook her head with a rueful smile. “With a face like that, he could send the whole of London abuzz!”

“Not to mention that he is currently a Marquess and heir to one of the finest estates in all of England!” Miss Bradbury added. “The Duke of Cheshire has been ill for so long that it is only a matter of time before…”

It was rude to speculate on the imminent demise of a person, of course, so she did not finish her sentence. However, it was understood by everyone in the Club that the Duke of Cheshire had been on his deathbed for quite some time and his son, the Marquess of Wentworth, Lord Charles Montgomery, still had no intention of fulfilling his obligations to his line and finding a wife to sire him an heir.

“But he is so dreadfully handsome!” Miss Cartwright sighed dreamily. “It is such a waste of his heavenly looks, to be sure!”

Phoebe barely looked up from her diary as the other ladies around her continued to gossip about their favorite gentleman—the infamous Lord Charles Montgomery, the Marquess of Wentworth. Every Wednesday, without fail, their conversations would turn towards the Marquess, and they would sigh over his dashing good looks.

I daresay Lord Wentworth would not be so pleased to find himself the object of the fantasies of a gaggle of spinsters, she thought to herself, as she made another note in her diary.

It was one thing to have swathes of eligible young ladies falling over themselves for a gentleman, and an entirely different thing for him to be secretly fawned over by a bunch of women who Society has collectively deemed wholly unsuitable for marriage.

“It is always the handsome ones who hide the darkest secrets,” she heard Miss Adeline Thomas scoff. “He hardly ever leaves his estate, and he never accepts callers. That should be enough to tell you all that there is more to Lord Wentworth than just his looks.”

“But that hardly means he is engaged in something nefarious,” Miss Bradbury shuddered. “Perhaps he just prefers to keep to himself most of the time…”

All the other members of the Club would generally agree that a gentleman had the privilege to be selective of the company he indulged in. After all, a good number of them did prefer to stay away from social affairs too. 

But Miss Thomas had the most unfortunate character trait of one who never wanted to be told she was wrong. Before she had been declared a spinster by her beleaguered papa and hapless mama, she had been called a veritable termagant behind her back for her querulous nature.

“Of course, they would never say that out loud,” she told them all with a tone of derision. “After all, what villain would trumpet his misdeeds for all the world to hear? Mark my words—Lord Wentworth has probably murdered countless people and buried them in Wentworth Park!”

The idea of literal corpses becoming fertilizer for the vast and tangled gardens of Wentworth Park was so laughable that Phoebe had to pause from her scribbling to look up at her companions with a sigh.

“I certainly doubt the veracity of that particular claim,” she told them.

As one, their gazes all swiveled back to her, most of them confused and hopeful.

Miss Thomas regarded her with an icy glare. “And how would you know? Have you been to Wentworth Park?”

“Of course not,” she replied with an amiable smile at the quarrelsome lady. “But Townsend House is just near to Wentworth Park and one can clearly see the Marquess from my window if he ever deigned to go out and bury somebody in his own gardens. Besides,” she told the rest of the group, “if he is going about and murdering as much as Miss Thomas claims, then he certainly is not very punctual about it.”

She saw the twin spots of pink that colored Miss Thomas’s cheeks, but she felt that she must speak out of turn to defend the honor and reputation of a gentleman who was not himself present to stand up for himself in the face of such lies.

“What do you mean he is not at all punctual about it?” Miss Cartwright dared to ask, her eyes lit up with curiosity.

“Well, contrary to popular opinion, he does come out of his house,” Phoebe explained. “But it is always at around six in the evening and then, he proceeds to go about the rest of the estate…”

Miss Bradbury frowned. “Go about the rest of the estate doing what exactly?”

“Why, he inspects it, of course. Every inch of it, from what I could see.”

“But Wentworth Park is quite large! It would take him hours to accomplish such a task.”

Phoebe smiled at them. “Precisely. Now, if someone were to go about doing all that day after day, that would leave only the daytime hours for him to go about murdering people and that is hardly ideal unless one were to become a prolific killer in broad daylight.”

The other ladies let out horrified giggles, for although as dark and horrific the idea of murder was, it was also quite ridiculous to engage in such an act in broad daylight, with most of the world being wide awake to witness the act.

A murmur of agreement rose from amongst the other ladies as Miss Thomas bristled in annoyance from her seat. Phoebe even saw her throw a glare her way, but she just shrugged it all off. She was pretty much accustomed to Miss Thomas and her attitude by then and a glare was not really the worst she had received from the other spinster, all things considered.

“My, you certainly have Lord Wentworth all figured out,” Miss Thomas remarked in a saccharine tone. “A pity that he has not noticed you, then. In fact, the only attentions you have ever received was from—who was that again? Oh, Lord Edwin Oakley.”

At the mention of that name, Phoebe immediately stiffened, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her pen.

Of course, Miss Thomas would bring out the Baron of Scunthorpe, which was a sore topic for Phoebe. He was the one thing that could reduce her to silence—and not in a good way.

Instead of flinging back a scathing retort, she looked down at the scrawled notes in her diary, her lowered eyes making out the name Charles written frequently amongst its pages.

Miss Thomas might hurl her vitriol at her, but Phoebe knew the truth—that Lord Wentworth was not the monster she made him out to be and she would not allow her to malign such a misunderstood man.

Before anyone could say anything else, Miss Cartwright let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, this was a rather, ah, lively discussion,” she smiled at her guests. “But it is getting rather late now so we might have to adjourn this meeting and meet again, say, the same time next week?’

There was a murmur of agreement amongst the group and Phoebe inwardly let out a sigh of relief. Fortunately, things between her and Miss Thomas did not have to escalate unnecessarily.

She quickly packed up her things into her little satchel, when she recalled that she had promised her younger sister, Daphne, that she had to be back home earlier. She quickly said her goodbyes to the rest of the group, pointedly ignoring the smirk that Miss Thomas casually threw her way.

“Will you be here the same time next week, dear?” Miss Cartwright asked her with hopeful eyes. 

“Of course, Miss Cartwright,” Phoebe replied with a quick smile.

“Do take care on your way back,” her host told her with a gentle hand on her arm. 

Phoebe gave her a slight nod as she hurried out the door, her satchel swinging from her arm, its contents jostling from within. She put a hand on her bonnet to keep it from flying away as she quickly made her way into the carriage waiting for her.

“Back to Townsend Manor, please,” she told the coach. “And please hurry.”

“Right away, Miss Phoebe!” the coachman replied, and with a snap of the reins, they were off.

Oh, I do hope that I am not too late or Daphne will never forgive me!

If she had not been caught in a small argument with Miss Thomas, she might have been better able to keep track of the time and excused herself from the meeting earlier.

Well, at least I have made it clear that I do not live next door to a brutal murderer, she thought with a relieved sigh.

She did, however, feel more than a little incensed when Lord Edwin was brought up in the conversation. Miss Thomas certainly had no qualms about being rude and offensive for as long as she could have the upper hand in an argument!

As she looked out the window apprehensively, Phoebe could not help but let out a sigh once more.

Chapter Two

June 1815 

Townsend Manor

Phoebe knew herself to be a rather tolerant person in that she found herself to be more accepting of a person’s idiosyncrasies than most of the ton were willing to be. She also was not one to nurse a grudge. However, she found that she was still rather piqued when she arrived at Townsend Manor.

Perhaps piqued was not even the right word, for she was still in a dark mood, when a flurry of pale pink muslin nearly crashed into her from the door.

“You have arrived! Oh! I was so worried that you had forgotten about me!”

She found herself being wrapped in a frenzied hug and for a brief moment, she wondered if this was how she was going to die—smothered by muslin and still stewing with a significant amount of resentment towards Miss Thomas.

But Phoebe still wanted to enjoy a great deal of what life had to offer, so she managed a small smile as she gingerly extricated herself from her youngest sister’s exuberance.

“Daphne, you are already a young lady,” she gently reminded her sister. “Perhaps you should refrain from barreling at those who have just crossed the front door.”

She saw a faint, pretty blush adorn the younger girl—no, woman’s—cheeks as her sister appeared properly chastised for her behavior. That was soon followed by a more childish pout and Phoebe smiled a little more ruefully at the sight.

Perhaps she is not as grown up as she likes to think herself, she thought as she took off her bonnet and gloves.

“I had thought you had forgotten about me,” Daphne repeated, the complaint clear in her voice. “You promised you would be home by four.”

The eldest daughter of the Townsend household nodded slightly. “Of course, I did, but the meeting dragged on for far longer than I would have liked.”

It could have ended much sooner, if Miss Thomas kept her tongue in check, she added in her mind.

“Well, no matter!” Daphne declared as she dragged her older sister upstairs to her rooms. “You must help me—I am in a right state wondering what to wear for dinner tomorrow.”

“I hardly think the approval of a spinster should accomplish your goals.”

“Spinster or not, you have attended three Seasons. Your experience is, at this point, most invaluable, Fi.”

Phoebe smiled to herself as Daphne continued to drag her upstairs. Indeed, she had made her bow and attended all of three Seasons, but she did not have much to show for it. As far as the ton were concerned, it had all ended with dismal results for she had no husband to show for herself.

There was one suitor, but the mere thought of him had her glowering once more—something that Daphne managed to catch.

“You do seem like you are in a less than stellar mood today,” she remarked softly as they stood just outside the door to her bedchamber. “Perhaps I should not have dragged you so needlessly—”

“Oh, dearest, that is hardly your fault!” Phoebe cried as she hugged her sister. “It is just that…well…” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Miss Thomas brought up the subject of the Baron of Scunthorpe earlier at the meeting…”

Phoebe knew she needed not expound further on the matter when she saw the realization dawning on her younger sister’s face.

“Well, that was rather rude of her!” Daphne huffed as she pushed the door open. “And I have heard of this Miss Thomas—she sounds like a dreadful character, really.”

“Who is a dreadful character, Daphne dear?” a voice queried.

Phoebe peered inside the room to find the third Townsend sister seated on the couch with a book on her lap. Minerva looked back at her like a curious little owl, her head tilted slightly as she regarded her two sisters from the doorway.

“Miss Thomas!” Daphne bit out. “She just mentioned that…that…unwelcome presence during their meeting!”

Phoebe let out a small smile as her youngest sister expressed an extreme indignation for what she had experienced at the meeting with Miss Thomas.

Sisters are truly a loyal and ferocious bunch.

Well, her sisters, at least, for she knew a great many amongst the ton who turned against their own.

“No!” Minerva breathed out. “She did not!”

Phoebe could tell that her second sister truly had strong feelings on her behalf also, for she had set aside her book as she stood up suddenly.

“The sheer audacity!” Minerva remarked.

“I know, right? It is no wonder that most people I know have shunned her.” Daphne let out a delicate shudder. “Even her poor mama has had to contend with her misdeeds for it appears she had made a great number of foes before.”

Phoebe looked at her two younger sisters, who appeared to have worked themselves up into a fit of righteous indignation on her behalf. The earlier resentment that she felt towards Miss Thomas and her reminder of the Baron started to dissipate and she smiled a little bit more as she laid a hand on Daphne’s shoulder.

“Come now. Let us shelf that matter,” she coaxed her. “You have a dinner to attend tomorrow, I believe? Why, we must make sure that you are simply the most radiant creature that Lord Brunswick has ever laid his eyes on!”

Daphne blushed a vivid rosy hue as she cast down her gaze shyly. “You know that nothing is settled yet between us. I just wanted to make a good impression…”

“And you shall, of course!” Minerva declared loyally. “After all, where else can he find such a beautiful and talented young lady in all of London?”

“Stop it, Minerva! You know that is not true!”

Phoebe reached out into the wardrobe and pulled out a dress of pale blue silk shot through with delicate golden embroidery. “This one should bring out the color of your eyes wonderfully, dearest. And it looks so elegant, does it not?”

“Yes, but I think you also look pretty in that pale rose dress from Madame Chagnon,” Minerva pointed out with a shrug. “But what do I know about dresses, really?”

Daphne pulled out the dress that her second sister was referring to and held it up in front of her with an appreciative look.

“Actually, it does look charming, Minerva,” she agreed. She hurried over to the mirror and smiled. “Your suggestion has merit.”

Phoebe watched as her sister shyly ducked her head and mumbled under her breath that she was glad she could help.

“Actually, I think that the blue would be better for another event,” she agreed. “It is rather elegant, but it might come off as a little… well, unapproachable.”

Minerva nodded. “Perhaps for a ball where you need to shock them all!”

The sisters burst into giggles as they all piled onto the plush sofa, the dresses they had chosen carefully put aside.

“You know, this almost feels like that time when we were children and we went through Mama’s wardrobe,” Daphne remarked wistfully.

Minerva snorted. “As I recall, Mama was not so pleased with us at that time. We had to go without pudding for a week!”

“No pudding for a week is the absolute worst!”

They happily chatted amongst themselves, indulging in the occasional fit of giggles and lighthearted banter that was the hallmark of their sisterly affection, when Phoebe’s eyes landed upon the clock on her sister’s mantelpiece. She nearly shot out of her seat when she saw that it was already six in the evening.

“I should go now!” she said, hastily collecting her things.

Daphne sat up with a frown. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Nothing much. I—I just recalled that I have something else to do.” She shot her youngest sister an apologetic smile and added, “You will look absolutely beautiful tomorrow, Daph, and Lord Brunswick should feel honored to have you as his guest.”

She noted the shy blush that bloomed on her sister’s face, but she said nothing of it as she hurried back to her own rooms. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, she casually tossed her satchel onto the sofa and hurried over to the windows that faced Wentworth Park.

At six, he always goes out to make a round around Wentworth Park, she thought to herself. Always. Without fail.

This, Phoebe knew, for she had been observing the Marquess of Wentworth for some time already. At first, she would make notes of it in her journal, but over time, she had come to know his routines by heart.

Around this time, the curtains all over Wentworth Park would be shuttered close nearly in unison. She had earlier noticed that they were so thick that hardly any light passed through them, so much so that it would seem as if the whole house was plunged into darkness simultaneously. It was almost as if its mysterious owner wished to give off the impression that there was no one in the entire residence.

Or maybe, he just does not appreciate the rest of the public minding his business…

Perhaps if he believed he had a neighbor like Miss Thomas, who only thought of him as a rampant murderer, Phoebe could certainly understand why he would not be so inclined to share his activities with the rest of the public.

However, a few minutes had passed and there was still no sign of the Marquess. In addition to that, she noted that several curtains had also remained open, when they should have been shuttered close already.

Now, that is strange, she mused to herself. Where could His Lordship be at this time? He is always punctual.

For many months already, she could count on him to come out for his evening jaunt to the point that she had come to think of it as some sort of tacit secret between them both. For him to deviate from his usual routine felt almost as if he had let her down in some way.

Where could he be? Phoebe thought to herself with a frown. Surely, he is not involved in something nefarious as Miss Thomas claims!

A lot of people deviate from their rituals frequently. Phoebe herself was not a creature of habit, so why should she expect the Marquess of Wentworth to stick to such a rigid routine?

Still, she felt it was rather unsettling to not see his familiar figure garbed all in black heading out to check the perimeters of his estate with a lantern in hand. It was not just disappointment—she truly felt a certain degree of concern for the mysterious Lord and his rather predictable habits.

I wonder what could have held him up, she thought to herself, sighing as she sat at the window seat. She propped her face up with her hand and stared out at Wentworth Park and the windows with their curtains still hanging open.

Chapter Three

Phoebe twirled the wand disinterestedly as a sleek, black cat jumped up at the feather attached to its end with its claws outstretched. It let out an indignant yowl as the wand flicked just out of reach.

“It feels rather unsettling, does it not, Whiteson?” she mused distractedly. “Just when I thought I had him all figured out, he does something truly unexpected and now, I do not know what to make of it. Or if I should make anything of it at all.”

She let out a soft sigh as she flicked the wand again, much to the cat’s consternation. Eventually, her lack of focus caused her to allow the wand to droop, and Whiteson, who had been waiting for the perfect opportunity like the skilled predator that he was, immediately pounced upon that feathered stick with a triumphant cry.

“You know what they say about cats and spinsters,” a soft voice intruded her thoughts.

She looked up to find Minerva walking towards her with a small smile. “Daph is already in her bedchamber.”

“That is quite unusual. One would think that she would be unable to sit still from the excitement of having dinner with Lord Brunswick tomorrow.”

“Oh.” The smile on Minerva’s face looked slightly devious. “Mama told her that she needed to get a lot of sleep in order to look her absolute best tomorrow.”

Phoebe let out a short laugh and shook her head at her sister. “Mama certainly has her ways. What about you? Why are you still up at this hour?”

“I saw you out in the gardens and I wondered if you might like some company… well, after what was said to you earlier.”

“I… have almost forgotten about it entirely.”

It was the truth, strangely. As incensed as she had been at Miss Thomas and her sharp tongue, she had almost forgotten her earlier resentment when she first noted their neighbor deviating from his usual routine. She still found it so unsettling that she barely touched her dinner and there was still half of her pudding left, which Minerva had then happily claimed for herself.

“That is good, I suppose,” her sister remarked. “From all accounts, Miss Thomas does seem to enjoy offending a lot of people, so you are in good company.”

“Not all company is good, you know.”

“Oh, I know all too well. You forget how I prefer books to people, Fi.”

Phoebe nodded listlessly as she stared out in the direction of Wentworth Park—and those few windows that still remained open. If the Marquess was up to something vile, then he most certainly was not going to leave the windows open for all the world to see, was he?

“Well, in that case, I should return to my book,” Minerva smiled at her. “I had Mary make me a cup of warm milk earlier and I would not want it to be cold by the time I got back.”

“Yes,” Phoebe muttered in reply. “Meanwhile, I think I’ll stay out here a while longer to keep Whiteson company.”

She heard Minerva murmur an acknowledgement and Phoebe was vaguely aware of the gentle pat on her shoulder before her sister walked back into the house and back to her book. 

As the second oldest of the three sisters, Minerva was of age to make her bow, but she had begged their parents to delay her coming out by another year, which was a great contrast to Daphne, who seemed to have prepared for her own entrance to Society ever since she was born.

All three sisters were different in their own way, but Lord and Lady Townsend regarded them all with equal affection and a bit more tolerance than most parents in the ton afforded their children. It was how Minerva managed to hold off on making her bow and why Phoebe had never been forced into marriage herself.

At five-and-twenty, she had at least another year before she could safely declare herself off the marriage mart, but her parents still said nothing when she announced that she was effectively putting herself on the shelf, as it were. Even then, she was not scorned for choosing the life of a spinster and her father even guaranteed that she would always have a roof over her head.

Other parents would not have been as tolerant.

Now, she mostly spent her days either helping her sisters or attending the weekly meetings in Cartwright Hall. However, what she was most fond of was watching the Marquess of Wentworth go about his daily activities like clockwork.

She could not fathom how a man could impose such a rigid schedule upon himself, and while she started observing him due to a great deal of fascination for the existence he chose to lead, she had truly come to admire the man in a way.

Of course, it certainly helped matters that he was sinfully handsome with a physique that would have rivaled that of Michelangelo’s David.

She flushed as she thought of his broad-shouldered frame and those long, muscular legs of his as he stoically made his rounds about Wentworth Park.

Until tonight, of course, when he failed to show up.

Her thoughts were disrupted by an indignant meow, followed by the sound of a slight scuffle as the feathered wand that Whiteson had been playing with tumbled to the ground. The feline let out a huffy purr before dashing off through the hedges and into the darkness—straight into Wentworth Park!

“Whiteson, no!” Phoebe cried out in alarm.

Although the cat certainly looked better than it did before it wandered up to the gardens of Townsend House, she doubted Whiteson would be considered a welcome guest in Wentworth Park. With her heart pounding loudly in her chest, she dashed through the hedges after the stubborn feline and climbed over the wall that divided the two properties.

Her feet landed on the grassy yard of Wentworth Park with a soft thud, but still, Whiteson was nowhere to be found. She gritted her teeth as she began to call for the cat softly. Under the cover of darkness, it would be much more difficult to find the black cat, except by its glowing green eyes.

You better be grateful after all the trouble you have put me through, she groused internally as she continued her search for him.

A soft breeze blew through the yard, rattling a few bare branches and sending a handful of fallen leaves flying her way. Phoebe squinted and covered her face to protect it when she noticed a small trapdoor lying open several yards away from her.

Whiteson must have gone in there, that silly cat!

She let out a frustrated sigh as she headed over to the trapdoor. A wooden staircase disappeared down into the depths and Phoebe could not resist the shudder that ran through her.

What is this place? 

She called again for the cat, but an answer never came, so she gritted her teeth and began to descend the staircase. Her first step was met with a loud creak and she froze immediately, looking around to see if somebody had heard her. She was now officially trespassing on the property of the Marquess of Wentworth, and if he found her… well, she doubted he would be impressed at all, to put it mildly. 

“Whiteson!” she called out again in a soft hiss. “Where are you, you silly little feline?”

Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, she felt her feet step into something wet. She immediately recoiled, her eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the darkness and the paltry light from a handful of lamps that seemed to be on the last dregs of their viability.

Seconds later, the scene before her broke through the hazy gloom of the cellar. Two rows of barred cells flanked her on both sides. From the closest one to her left, she saw a handcuff attached to the wall and a straw pallet that appeared to be infested with mold. From beneath the straw pallet, a mouse emerged, scurrying close to her feet, and she bit her fist to silence her shriek. 

She had heard the rumors about the mysterious Marquess, but she had never thought he would have an actual torture chamber on his own property—or what seemed like one, anyway. It was certainly not something one would show to the guests when giving them a tour of the estate and she even doubted most of his staff knew of its existence, considering it appeared like it had not been cleaned in ages.

“I should leave,” Phoebe whispered to herself, her voice barely rising above the dampness in the still air of the cellar. 

Her heart began pounding fiercely, a rapid drumbeat that echoed the tremors racing through her limbs. She shook her head, trying to dispel the eerie sense of being watched in the darkness, and made to turn back towards the safety of Townsend House. But just as she spun toward the stairs and made to flee, she collided into something hard. Fists of steel hooked around her elbow, and Phoebe very nearly screamed.  

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” a deep and angry voice rumbled from the shadows.  

Phoebe gasped and looked up, only to find the livid features of the Marquess of Wentworth. His dark brows were snapped together, his eyes a piercing, icy blue. His lips were pressed into a cold line as he awaited her reply.

“I-I am Phoebe Townsend, my Lord,” she stammered. “From Townsend House next door. I-I w-was looking for my cat—he ran over here, you see. He probably discovered th-that and there were a l-lot of m-mice in there and he thought—”

Phoebe clamped her mouth in horror when she realized that she had just tried to justify breaking and entering into the man’s property by implying that he had a rodent problem!

She hung her head in remorse. “I apologize—that was completely out of turn for me to say—” 

Although from all the scurrying and squeaking I have been hearing, this must be a veritable feast for a stray cat like Whiteson!

She watched as his dark brows relaxed into a more neutral position, although his eyes still looked like chips of ice. His fists fell away from her arms and Phoebe shuddered as she ran her hands over her skin there, hoping they would not leave bruises in the morning.

“You… are a woman,” he muttered matter-of-factly. 

“Yes, yes,” she nodded emphatically. “That I am… my Lord.”

She heard him snort under his breath and wondered if he doubted the veracity of that claim too. After all, she was rather tall for a member of the feminine population. So tall, in fact, that she towered over almost all the other young ladies in every ballroom she had ever attended. 

Yet, she still barely reached his chin and she still had to tilt her head back to watch him glower at her.

“Well then, you may leave,” he finally bit out. “And do not come poking your nose where it does not belong, young girl. Understood?”

Young girl?

“Truly?” she breathed out in relief instead. “Oh, thank you so much, my Lord! And you can rest assured that I will not tell a single soul what I have seen!”

As I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them that the Marquess of Wentworth had a literal torture chamber on his property! I would sound just like Miss Thomas! 

Lord Wentworth looked at her as if he doubted these words, too, but he silently stepped aside and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.

“I trust you can find your way back home,” he told her in a curt tone.

Phoebe nodded again. She seemed to be nodding an awful lot tonight.

“Of course, my Lord. I am not a total simpleton, you know,” she blurted. 

Once again, she caught him muttering something under his breath and she wondered what he could have been saying.

She made her way up the rickety stairs and then paused at the very top to turn back and look at him, fidgeting uneasily when he continued to glare at her.

“I, ah, just wanted to ask that if you see Whiteson, please do not hurt him,” she began. “He is a black cat, you see, but he has the sweetest temper, although he is rather mischievous. Do not worry, though,” she added, shaking her hands before her. “I assure you that he can help you get rid of the, er…pests on  your lands. He is quite useful in other ways, you know.”

Now, what did I just say? Did I just imply he had a rodent problem once more?

She felt the heat creep up her cheeks when he did not even deign to reply, so Phoebe did what she thought was best—she whirled around, and clutching at her skirts, began to run back towards Townsend House. She did not turn back or slow down until she had managed to climb over the wall and was safe in her own garden once more.

***

Charles had never before had a more awkward interaction with a female of his species, and he certainly had many of them before Miss Phoebe Townsend crashed into him moments ago.

He had initially thought her to be an intruder—and she certainly was that, though not the kind that he had been expecting, to be truthful. 

For one, she was rather clumsy. He must have seen her stumble over the stairs at least three times going up and it was not a very lengthy staircase. On the contrary, it was rather short, one that could be breached with but a few steps.

Spies and assassins moved with far more grace than Miss Phoebe Townsend did.

And another thing, she simply talked too much. One could even say that she rambled on and on about her damned cat and how he must have found the mice on his property rather tempting, for about nineteen words too long. 

A woman who tried to kill him once had also tried to distract him, but she had been much more seductive than… awkward.

Of course, there was the off chance that she could have been lying about everything. It could all have just been an act that she had put on so that he would lower his guard and she could find the perfect opportunity to strike…

Just then, he heard a soft purr and felt something rub sinuously against his leg, rumbling in contentment as it did so. Surprised, Charles looked down to find a black cat happily rubbing its body against his ankle.

“Apparently, she was telling the truth,” he muttered. “And you must be Whiteson.”

The cat let out a meow in the affirmative.

“Your mistress was not the most creative at naming you.”

This time, it let out an indignant scoff and Charles sighed.

“Very well, you may help yourself to some mice,” he relented. “But do not finish them all off. You have to leave some to maintain the ambiance of the room.”

He gingerly shook the cat off his leg and walked back up and out of the trapdoor. He waited for the cat—Whiteson—to make its way out, before closing it behind him. This time, however, he made sure to lock it.

He would not risk the likes of Miss Phoebe Townsend inadvertently stumbling upon his secrets once again.

In fact, it would be more prudent to keep an eye on the young miss for a while. Heaven only knew what sort of troubles she might get into…

Keep an eye out for the full release on the 19th of August!

Chapter One

1815

Thornhill Castle

“Now you can open your eyes.”

Upon opening her eyes, Cecilia felt as though she had stepped back through time.

The hall through which she walked, arm in arm with Arthur, was of brooding dark stone. A vaulted ceiling was supported by massive timbers. Windows set to either side of the hall were tall and arched—they looked as though they belonged in a cathedral! The floor was of naked stone, though highly polished, and despite the finish, it bore the scars and scratches of its centuries of use.

“This is… remarkable. I cannot imagine living in such a place…” Cecilia gasped.

Her long auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders in bouncing curls. She shared the same brown eyes and small, straight nose as her brother, and both possessed dimples in their cheeks when smiling—so deep, it wasn’t difficult to tell they were siblings.

Arthur nodded. “Neither can I. In all the times I have visited Lionel here, I cannot picture Thornhill Castle as anything other than cold, brooding, and possibly haunted.”

He grinned and Cecilia returned the smile. “How exciting. I would love to share a house with a phantom.”

“But not the bloodless seventh Duke who walks the passageways of the east wing,” Arthur noted, grimacing in the manner of a gargoyle. “They say his throat was cut and when he was found, he was as white as snow. Now, he remains there, prepared to push unwary visitors down the tower stairs.”

Cecilia shuddered, though she knew her brother was exaggerating.

“I don’t see how an insubstantial wraith could push anyone down anything,” she said.

“By the force of sheer fright,” Arthur pointed out.

Cecilia playfully slapped his shoulder.

“Stop trying to frighten me, Artie. I am sure that this house is not nearly as frightening as its age makes it appear. It is… atmospheric, however.”

“Very,” Arthur agreed.

The babble of voices reached them from the far end of the hallway. A carved wooden screen divided the room at that point. It was painted to depict a grandiose scene from Teutonic mythology. A door was set into the screen, and as it opened, the sound of the other gathered guests grew in volume. A man stepped through the door and Cecilia immediately felt her heartbeat hasten.

“Ah, there you are, Penrose! Come and join us. Have you shown your sister around this moldering pile of stone I call home?” he uttered.

He was tall and broad-shouldered with short-cropped black hair. The darkness of his hair made his skin seem pale and emphasized his emerald, green eyes. His handsome features were completed by a Roman nose and full lips above a strong jaw. The man exuded strength and power. When those green eyes met her own, Cecilia found her breath quickening. She did not want to look away and found herself reminded of dark fairytales concerning seductive vampires. There was a physicality to him that made her acutely aware of her own body. By comparison to the muscle that seemed to make his clothing tight, her own curving hips and bosom felt soft. Under those broad hands, she would be helpless, to be manipulated as he saw fit. She wetted her lips and forced a breathless smile as he approached them.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced. I am the Duke of Thornhill, Lionel Grisham.”

He did not smile. Nothing disturbed the marble stillness of his pale face. It was the visage from the mind of a Renaissance master artisan. There was the capacity for cruelty there and the potential for an implacable enemy. But, she fancied, there was also a vulnerability in the softness of his full lips.

“Thornhill,” Arthur suddenly hastened to say, “may I introduce my younger sister, Cecilia.”

Cecilia remembered to curtsy and put out her gloved hand. She felt Lionel’s lips brush her fingertips and experienced a moment of wild fantasy in which she imagined that kiss without the material of the gloves in between,

“My pleasure, Cecilia. Please call me Lionel, as your brother is wont to do,” Lionel added, releasing her hand.

She regretted the end of that touch but at the same time was glad. She knew that Lionel was engaged to be married, and would have been disappointed had he shown any sign of being one of those men who did not respect the sanctity of marriage. Or respect the woman to whom they were betrothed. She considered her parents to have been the perfect examples of marriage, devoted to each other and their children. Her father’s brother, Rupert, was the opposite. A rogue who chose his wife for her money and his mistresses for their youth and beauty. Cecilia had little experience with men, having only just reached her debut this year. No suitors had yet come forward. Or at least none that had passed Arthur’s ferocious protectiveness. He took seriously his responsibilities for his younger sister in the absence of their father and mother.

“That is most gracious of you, Lionel. I should be glad to,” Cecilia replied with a happy smile.

Arthur grinned but Lionel remained stony-faced.

“He never cracks a smile if he can help it,” Arthur stage-whispered to Cecilia.

Lionel’s eyebrows raised a fraction and he inclined his head.

“You only think so, Penrose, because you’ve never said anything humorous in my hearing.”

“Touche,” Arthur replied.

“I was just saying to Arthur how remarkable this house is, Lionel,” Cecilia said, her voice soft and inviting, “would it be imposing to ask for a tour and perhaps something of its history?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “My sister has an inordinate interest in such dreary subjects as history and literature, I’m afraid. Give me sport and a mug of ale over a book any day.

Lionel’s mouth twitched at the corner and his eyes narrowed. “I remember from our days at Westlands. Your love of sport saw you whipped far more often than I.”

“Worth every stroke,” Arthur grinned, “books are for librarians.”

 Cecilia giggled softly. “I have never heard those stories! I suppose that is why you insisted I learn fencing, brother. To be entirely truthful, Lionel, my brother’s insistence on these lessons meant I had heard quite a bit about you even before our acquaintance.”

Lionel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a spark of intrigue lighting in his eyes. “You? Fencing?”

“Oh, indeed,” Cecilia replied, her gaze holding his a moment longer than necessary. “Arthur mentioned more than once that his skills were sharpened under your tutelage, if I’m correct?”

Lionel chuckled, stepping slightly closer to her, the space between them becoming tantalizingly small. “I had no idea. Perhaps one day we might spar together. I would love to see if your brother’s teachings did my lessons justice.”

Arthur groaned good-naturedly, breaking the moment. “Enough of that. When are we to start the hunt, Lionel? My patience wanes.”

“Soon enough, old boy. We await one more guest, a friend of Arabella’s. And as for the tour, Miss Sinclair, I will ask my man, Blackwood, to show you around the castle and give you an account of its history. He has served my family since birth and knows more about Thornhill than any man living.”

Cecilia found herself smiling brightly, touched at the consideration Lionel was taking. She knew that while the men who had been invited to Thornhill were hunting, the women would be gathered in a drawing room and would talk over tea. She had little aptitude for the kind of gossip that was the primary discourse in those gatherings, remembering hours of tedium as a young girl, sitting beside her mother and listening to the conversations going back and forth. Afterward, her mother would translate the seemingly innocuous comments, stripping away the surface meaning to expose petty squabbles and sniping. The prospect of exploring such a dramatic residence as Thornhill Castle was much more appealing to her.

“I should be delighted, Lionel. Thank you very much.”

Lionel actually smiled, and it transformed his face. The austere expression was gone and a joyous life seemed to appear like a blossoming sunrise. His green eyes, previously the hardest emerald, became the light shade of grass, soft and comfortable. Cecilia, always quick to smile by nature, found herself mirroring his expression while lost in the verdant depths of his eyes. A moment stretched into eternity and then Arthur cleared his throat. Cecilia jumped and Lionel blinked, turning away hurriedly.

“Yes, well, I shall lay that on for you. Come through and meet the company, both of you. No one you haven’t met before, Penrose. Several people for your brother to introduce you to, Cecilia… I mean, Miss Sinclair. Yes, come through, come through.”

He was talking in a breathless rush and hurrying away. Cecilia found herself blushing with such fury, she could feel the heat of her cheeks. Arthur looked from one to the other with a raised eyebrow and a quizzical expression. He offered his arm to Cecilia, who gave him a wide-eyed stare above lips compressed to a white line. It told him she would tolerate no teasing. Duke Lionel Grisham of Thornhill was a man engaged to be married. There would be no flirtation and the moment that had just passed between them was a mere trifle. Hardly worth commenting on. So she wouldn’t. And neither would her maddeningly mischievous brother. Or there would be consequences.

“Shall I give you a moment to dispel those scarlet cheeks, dear sister?” he smirked.

“You will not,” Cecilia said with as much dignity as she could muster.

Lionel was a man happily promised to another. Doubtless Arabella Wycliff was a famed beauty and a woman of accomplishment and rank. Cecilia Sinclair, orphan and ward of her brother, the Earl of Penrose, would be no competition. Even that thought increased the heat in her cheeks. The very thought that there could be any question of competition with herself as the victor in particular. Nonsense. But she could not forget the frisson she had felt when looking into Lionel’s eyes. The quake that had begun somewhere deep within her at the proximity of such masculinity. His height and the breadth of both chest and shoulders made her breathless to think of.

She smoothed the cream skirt of her new dress, bought for her by Arthur from London for her birthday the month before. Its bodice was a pale green that complimented her brown eyes and bronze hair. Wearing it made Cecilia feel beautiful. It was the finest gown she had ever worn and it gave her a thrill to know that Lionel had seen her in it, that he had seen her at her best. Once again, Cecilia berated herself for a foolish fantasy that could never come to be. Best to forget Arthur’s handsome and enigmatic friend.

Lionel stood at the door in the screen that led to the part of the Great Hall in which his other guests were mingling and talking. As Cecilia and Arthur reached him, there came a raised voice from the far end of the hall. Cecilia happened to be looking at Lionel as the voice rang out and saw his expression change. Green eyes narrowed and his chin lifted. There was tension in the muscles of his neck and jaw and a hand at his side clenched into a fist. Arthur turned and Cecilia saw the tightness in his features. Arthur was a happy, smiling man but now there was almost an expression of open hostility on his face. She looked for the cause of this sudden tension.

Approaching across the hall was a man with black hair, curling close to his scalp and short. His skin was pale and his body slender. As he approached, she saw that he had pale blue eyes and something of a resemblance to Lionel. But while the Duke was powerful and strong, this man was lean and whip-like. On his arm was a beautiful woman. She had golden hair and was tall, moving with grace and deliberation. Her lips possessed a pout that made them seem full and luscious but her blue eyes were cold. Cecilia was left with the impression that her beauty was the product of a great deal of work rather than something bestowed by nature.

“Your Grace!” the slender man said, looking at Lionel, “I do so apologize for my tardiness. But look who I bumped into as I arrived!”

“Lord Thorpe. Welcome,” Lionel replied stiffly.

The blonde woman left Thorpe’s side and crossed to Lionel, kissing his cheek and taking his arm.

“Cecilia, may I introduce my fiancée, Arabella Wycliff. Arabella, this is Cecilia Sinclair, sister to Lord Penrose, whom you already know.”

Icy blue eyes swept over Cecilia and rosebud lips smiled. Cecilia was left feeling that she had been weighed and measured by those eyes.

“Miss Sinclair. How nice to meet you,” she spoke.

“My Lady,” Cecilia replied politely.

“And may I introduce Lord Gordon Locke, Viscount of Thorpe,” Lionel continued.

The dark-haired man took Cecilia’s hand without invitation and pressed his lips to it. His blue eyes met hers and he smiled. She returned the smile politely, not liking the presumption he had shown.

“I had not expected to meet such a beautiful stranger. I thought I knew all of His Grace’s society,” Thorpe grinned, “where have you been hiding yourself?”

Arthur cleared his throat and removed Cecilia’s hand from Thorpe’s grip, placing it upon his arm.

“Shall we go through, Sister?”

Cecilia caught the brief flash of a mocking smile on the face of Lord Thorpe at Arthur’s intervention. Then those blue eyes were on hers again. His stare was direct but did not have the effect upon her that Lionel’s had. Cheeks cold and not remotely blushing, Cecilia smiled politely, looking from Lord Thorpe to Arabella.

“It was a pleasure to meet you both.”

As Arthur led her away, Lord Thorpe called out, “I am so looking forward to this hunt, Penrose. Perhaps I will show His Grace and yourself the marksmanship I learned in service of King and country.”

Cecilia looked questioningly at Arthur as they stepped through the screen. Lionel closed the door behind them and she heard him speak to Lord Thorpe, though she could not hear what was said. The room beyond was softened by the addition of plush furniture, rugs, and wall hangings to disguise the bare stone of the hall. A fire roared in an impressive stone fireplace and men and women stood about or sat, talking, eating, and drinking.

“What was that all about?” Cecilia asked in a quiet voice.

“Thorpe is a scoundrel with a terrible reputation when it comes to women. It is rumored that he came by his wealth through looting the bodies of the dead in Spain. And a viscountcy followed soon after. A reprehensible man. I had hoped he would not be in attendance and do not like the fact that Arabella arrived in company with him.”

“Whyever not?” Cecilia asked.

Arthur glanced at her and he tapped the side of his nose.

“Best not speak of it. Let us enjoy ourselves and hope that the blackguard does not cause trouble.”

Chapter Two

5 Years Later

Lionel entered the mist-shrouded woods. His footsteps were slow and careful, making no noise among the moist undergrowth, rich with decaying leaves. Mist rendered the trees to dark silhouettes, skeletal figures in the gloom. The sun was not yet to its noon peak and was not yet strong enough to dispel the covering of fog that clung to the shadows of the woods. To his right, Arthur stalked, rifle held ready, eyes keen. To the left, invisible among the shadows were the others of the hunting party. The white stag that had been seen on the Thornhill estate these last few weeks and whose presence had precipitated the calling of the hunt, was somewhere ahead. The ground fell away beneath his feet, a slope that would carry him into an ever-deepening dell. Lionel raised a hand, a signal to Arthur to halt. Closing his eyes, he tried to pinpoint the minute sound that had caught his attention. It came again, the soft sound of movement from ahead and below. Opening his eyes, he looked to Arthur who was watching him. Lionel pointed and Arthur nodded, he had heard it too.

They descended a slope made slippery by soil churned to mud. Tree roots made a precarious staircase for the two hunters. Above them and to the left, a human shape moved among the mist, another hunter but one who had not heard the sound that Lionel and Arthur pursued. He ignored them, if they were not as skilled as he, then their hunt would be in vain. These hunts were as much a competition against his guests as they were against nature. Lionel liked to win at the hunts he organized. He would not begrudge his guests if one of them emerged the victor but would not give up victory out of deference. The only one present whom he would defer to was Arthur, his old comrade from the battlefields of school. A shape appeared from the mist ahead, large, and dark. Too tall to be man or beast. It was a standing stone, and soon, others appeared. They were arranged in a circle at the foot of the dell, moss-covered and dark with damp. A brooding relic of a bygone age. Something moved quickly between the stones. Something taller than a man but moving on four legs. It dashed from left to right and both hunters brought their rifles to their shoulders. But the stag was gone before they could fix it in their sights, hidden by the all-consuming mist.

Nature was contriving to frustrate the human hunters today, conjuring an unseasonable mist to hide their quarry. Lionel relished the challenge. He glanced at Arthur and, from the gleam in his old friend’s eyes, he saw that his own feelings were mirrored. Then Arthur’s eyes widened as they became fixed on something beyond Lionel, over his left shoulder. Thinking that the deer had circled around them, Lionel swung around, raising his rifle to his shoulder. But it was no deer. A man had stepped from behind a standing stone, already with rifle raised. Lionel was close enough to see the face of Lord Thorpe, see the victorious smile as his finger tightened on the trigger. Arthur roared as he shoved Lionel from the back, knocking him to the side. Lionel hit the ground as the rifle held by Thorpe fired. The sound was an explosion in his ears, accompanied by a flash of light and the acrid stench of gunpowder. There was a gurgling groan from behind him and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Looking back, he saw Arthur on his back, unmoving. Lionel screamed, reaching for the rifle he had dropped when Arthur had pushed him aside, saving his life and becoming the victim of the shot that would have killed Lionel—that had been intended for Lionel.

Thorpe had stepped clear of the stone and was drawing a pistol from his belt. Lionel’s hand closed around the rifle, fingers finding the trigger as he jerked it to point towards his attacker. The rifle discharged at the same instant as the pistol Thorpe held. He jerked at the last moment and the shot intended to kill seared along Lionel’s back. Pain enveloped him, followed by the deepest, icy cold blackness.

 

***

 

Lionel lashed out against the foe of his dream but found only empty air. He jerked upright in his bed, panting as though he had run a mile. With one hand, he reached to the scar that ran for three inches to the base of his spine. For a moment he felt the fire of the lead shot that had made the scar. Fired by a man who had killed Lionel’s best friend that night.

A man who was still free.

His left leg ached. The pain was a dull throb that never completely faded and which, from time to time, had to be dulled by poppy juice supplied by an apothecary in London. Still, the pain was better than the terrifying numbness that had engulfed both legs years ago when he had awoken in the dell, at the foot of the standing stones. A white stag had been chewing the bark of an elm when Lionel had jerked into wakefulness. It had looked at him once and then leaped away into the woods. And Lionel had been unable to walk, or even stand. Now, he silently thanked God that he had been spared the life of a cripple, reliant on others for his most basic needs.

False dawn was lighting the windows of his bedchamber and, despite the early hour, Lionel knew that sleep was done for him. The dream did not come every night but when it did, there was no rest for him. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for the complicated structure of flexible willow and leather that stood beside his bed. With practiced ease, he strapped it to his left leg. It attached to his thigh and shin, reaching as far as his ankle. Under his breeches and boots, it was invisible but provided support to that leg that had never fully recovered its strength or full mobility. Lionel’s dancing days were done. He had not attempted to dance since his recovery and would not risk the humiliation of falling. His hair fell about his face, long and wild and he rubbed at the beard that now covered his jaw. Beyond the window, he could see the shadow-shrouded countryside around Thornhill castle. The dark woods which concealed the dell of the standing stones. The dell in which Thorpe had laid his trap, attempting to kill Lionel for reasons he had never admitted.

But, justice had not been served. Arthur was dead, unable to bear witness to events. And Thorpe’s presence at the far end of the hunting line, some five hundred yards from Lionel’s position, had been attested to by the Sir Reginald Cox, Baronet of Laleham. Lionel found himself grinding his teeth, jaw clenched in anger at the injustice that had been done against him. They had escaped justice thus far but he would find a way to take revenge. Except, that had been five years ago and he was no closer to that end. A tap came at the door of his bedchamber and Lionel smiled to himself grimly. Blackwood was almost psychically attuned to his master’s needs.

“Come in, Blackwood,” Lionel said.

The door opened and the butler came in. He was as broad as his master, though shorter. He walked with bowed legs and the slight, listing stride of a man more accustomed to the rolling deck of a ship. The only hair on his head was two thick, black eyebrows above a broken nose and a permanently squinting expression. Immaculately clad in Thornhill livery, he nevertheless resembled a highway brigand.

“Does Your Grace require assistance in dressing this morning?” he asked in a thick west country accent.

“No, Blackwood. I will accomplish that task myself.”

“As I thought, Your Grace. I have therefore brought implements for the shaving of beards and cutting of hair,” he noted.

Lionel rubbed at the beard, several weeks’ worth of growth. “I have not requested grooming.”

“As tonight is the night of the ball, the first Your Grace has hosted in a long time, I decided it was needed,” Blackwood added, putting a basin and towels down on Lionel’s bedside table.

Lionel chuckled, knowing that only a direct order would deter the man from what he saw as his duty. Five years of helping Lionel learn to walk again had reduced the social gulf between them. Lionel stood stiffly and limped to a chair before the window.

“If it must be done, then do it here. I would have a view while you work.”

Blackwood muttered to himself under his breath as he moved his gear to rest on the windowsill. Lionel suppressed a mischievous smile, knowing the move would provoke his manservant, who was by nature morose and fond of complaining.

“Whom have we had responses from to our invitations?” he asked.

Blackwood began reciting a list from memory of those who had accepted the invitations as he began to apply lathered soap to Lionel’s beard. One name, in particular, made Lionel put a hand to his arm to stop him.

“Did you say Sinclair? Cecilia Sinclair?”

“I did at that, Your Grace,” Blackwood replied, removing his arm from Lionel’s grip and recommencing the job of lathering.

“Whom is she to be accompanied by? A husband?”

“No, Your Grace. An uncle and an aunt. The Earl of Hamilton and his wife,” Blackwood corrected, unfolding a straight razor and tilting Lionel’s face to better catch the light.

“I have not seen her for… well, not since that day,” Lionel muttered. 

He did not need to say which day he referred to. All who worked at Thornhill knew that references to that day meant only one thing. The last time any kind of social occasion had been hosted at Thornhill Castle. Until now.

“She is presumably betrothed by now if she is not married.”

“Living with her aunt and uncle says to me it is neither,” Blackwood commented, “unless she married a pauper, that is to say.”

“Well reasoned. It is of no matter regardless. A woman like that could not have remained available for long. God, but she was beautiful. My eyes were full of Arabella at the time but she still struck me.”

Blackwood’s only comment on Lionel’s former betrothed was a snort that almost became a spit until he remembered himself. Instead, Blackwood muttered imprecations about Arabella Wycliff that Lionel was glad he only half heard. Another betrayal. Another injustice unpunished. Lionel put Arabella from his mind. Instead, he thought back to the first time he had met Cecilia Sinclair. He gazed out of the window, no longer aware of Blackwood or the room about him. Even the pain in his leg was lost in the backwoods of his consciousness. He remembered Cecilia’s cascading bronze hair. Her pale, delicate skin and the shimmering dress that seemed to have been made to accentuate her coloring perfectly. That first meeting had momentarily put Arabella from his mind. It had made him extremely uncomfortable when he realized.

The racing heart. The dry mouth and shivering stomach. Those were what the poets said a man and a woman experienced when they felt the kiss of true love. But he had never felt that for the beautiful, perfect Arabella. She had been like a work of art, appreciated but with detachment. Cecilia had been different and Lionel had been wracked with guilt when he understood the nature of his reaction. Those brown eyes. Had they been hazel? With lighter flecks that were almost gold? Was that his imagination, conjuring perfection that no woman could ever live up to?

“A handsome woman, I thought,” Blackwood added, turning Lionel’s head to shave the other side.

Lionel felt his heart thump in his chest. It was ludicrous to experience such excitement for a woman he had met only once, and that, several years ago. But it was true. Cecilia had been beautiful in a way that struck at his core. He remembered well her slender but curving figure. The very epitome of femininity. While he had known that Arthur’s aunt and uncle, the Sinclairs of Hamilton Hall, were invited to the ball, it had simply not occurred to him that they would bring their niece. Or that following the death of her brother, Cecilia would not be resident at Penrose any longer. Suddenly, he found himself looking forward to the event.

Chapter Three

Cecilia watched the approach of Thornhill castle with trepidation. She sat in the carriage belonging to her uncle, the Earl of Hamilton, opposite him and next to her aunt Margaret. She wore diamonds in her mousy brown hair and pearls about her thin, over-long neck. Her dress matched the color of the pearls and the glinting diamonds. Uncle Rupert was resplendent in a waistcoat of red and an overcoat of purple with a ruby in the pin of his scarlet cravat. The carriage was new and from a coachbuilder with royal patronage. By contrast, Cecilia wore no jewels openly. A simple chain around her neck held a heavy signet ring intended for a man. It had belonged to her father and then to her brother. Her aunt and uncle did not know that Arthur’s solicitor had quietly passed it to her when the Penrose estate had passed in its entirety to the Sinclairs of Hamilton. As well as Cecilia. She wore the same dress that had been new the last time she had attended a social event at Thornhill.

Now, however, its luster had faded as a result of repeated laundering. Repairs had been made, not visible but of which Cecilia was very conscious. By contrast with her aunt and uncle, she felt as though she were clothed in rags. The walls approached, ancient and stained by the years. The gates in those walls were of massive, fissured wood bound in black iron. Beyond was an open courtyard and two huge, oaken doors leading to the great hall that she remembered so well. She remembered the last time she had watched the castle approach. Arthur had been her companion then, seeming to enjoy her marveling at the grandeur of his friend’s home. Cecilia felt her dear brother’s loss as a physical wrench. It was as fresh now as it had been when his body had been brought back into the castle, along with the paralyzed form of Lionel Grisham.

“Whatever is the matter, girl!” Margaret snapped, “You are being treated to a ball held at the home of a Duke. You could at least look as if you are grateful.”

“She is not, Margaret. My brother’s family never were,” Rupert muttered lazily, sounding bored, “they were not like us.”

Cecilia felt a flash of anger at the thinly veiled insult to her mother and father. But she knew well enough to keep her lips tightly sealed. Instead of replying to her uncle as she ought, she smiled tightly.

“I was thinking of Arthur,” she finally said.

“Yes. Irresponsible of him to go and get himself killed like that, leaving a burden for us to carry,” Margaret sighed.

“Well, it would seem odd if you were not here given the friendship between your brother and the Duke,” Rupert added, “just you remember your place. Speak when you are spoken to and do not make any social gaffes that might embarrass us.”

“I won’t, uncle,” Cecilia reassured, putting on a show of timidity that didn’t pass her aunt’s cynical eye.

Rupert, though, had already turned away, looking with interest at a couple alighting from a carriage ahead of them.

“I do believe that is the Chertsey Littletons. Do you see what she is wearing, Margaret? And he?” Rupert scoffed, looking the couple up and down.

Margaret smirked, nodding her agreement. Cecilia resolved not to look, not wanting to join in with her aunt and uncle’s shallow sniping. Dwelling on Arthur inevitably made her think of the man whose house this was. The Duke. Lionel Grisham. She wondered what her aunt and uncle would say if they knew he had once given her leave to use his first name. She licked her lips and smoothed her skirts. The man had been a revelation. She had not known that such giants existed. And with such handsome features. He was not a brute, but rather, a god. That idea brought on a blush and Aunt Margaret raised an eyebrow when she saw.

“Do you judge us, child?” she whispered, dangerously.

“Merely stuffy,” Cecilia said quietly, fanning herself with her hand.

“Well, this place will air you out. Never have I set foot in such a drafty pile. Ridiculous that a man should wish to live in such a place. It might have been well for the Middle Ages but we are considerably more civilized now. Quite why the Duke would not adapt the place to the style of the Renaissance, I cannot think.”

“It shows a deplorable lack of taste,” Margaret nodded.

The carriage was coming to a halt and Rupert rapped on the roof with his cane.

“Further forward man!” he roared, “I will not alight behind the Littletons. Take us to the door!”

“We must get rid of the foolish man,” Margaret tutted, “he has no concept of etiquette.”

“He is extremely knowledgeable about horses and an expert driver of a number of conveyances. You could not ask for a finer coachman,” Cecilia put in, unable to hold her tongue.

George, the driver, had a family of four to support and a sweet and gentle nature. Cecilia felt lucky to consider the man and his wife as friends and had spent many happy hours with his family in their little cottage on the Hamilton estate. But the look that her aunt directed at her would have frozen water to ice.

“And what, precisely, would you know about it?” she asked lowly.

Cecilia swallowed her first response and tried to look meek. She lived on the charity of her aunt and uncle, trying to avoid their ire because she depended on them. She had been left with nothing in Arthur’s will, a fact that had shocked her at the time. If Rupert and Margaret decided so, she would be without a home.

“Nothing, Aunt Margaret,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

“Exactly. We shall fire the man after all and you will know that you are the reason. Dwell on that, young lady.”

Rupert harrumphed his approval as the carriage moved to a position opposite the entrance to the castle. A footman opened the door and Margaret alighted, followed by Rupert. Cecilia followed, smiling her thanks at the young servant. She looked up at George Preston, the driver, who winked at her when her aunt and uncle weren’t looking. He didn’t know that his livelihood was about to be snatched away. Cecilia resolved to help him, somehow. She followed her aunt and uncle through the grand entrance of the castle and into the daunting hall. It was as majestic and awe-inspiring as she remembered. This time the guests were not confined to the partitioned section beyond the painted screen. There looked to be far too many of them. They milled about the hall and a wave of noise flowed from them. Cecilia felt even more under-dressed as she looked around. Rupert and Margaret were greeting another couple, equally as resplendent as themselves. Cecilia quietly moved away, knowing that they would not wish to introduce her or even be associated with her. She allowed the crowd to hide her from them.

That brought a measure of relief but she still felt self-conscious about her dress. There was no one here that she knew. Indeed, most of her friends were not the kind of people who would be invited to soirees such as this. At Hamilton Hall, she lived among the servants and counted them among her most trusted friends. The tenants of the Hamilton estate were also good friends to her and most of them were either farmers or weavers. She tried to avoid attention but felt that eyes were upon her unceasingly.

Finally, she reached the edge of the milling throng of guests. A cool, shadowed alcove appeared and she stepped back into it. It was then that she saw him.

Lionel Grisham…

He was moving through the crowd which parted before him like the waves of the Red Sea. Head and shoulders above most other men at the gathering, he had the same coal-black hair that she remembered. It wasn’t as short as it had been but flowed back to the nape of his neck. It gave him an exotic look, like an Eastern prince or an Indian rajah.

Emerald green eyes stabbed into the throng around him as he greeted his guests. He did not look like a host who was enjoying his ball, but rather that he would prefer to be anywhere else but here. She felt a pang of empathy at that moment. She too would rather be almost anywhere else. Unable to look away from him, she watched him move through the crowd, bending his head to speak to people, greeting them. She became hypnotized by him. His movements were careful and controlled with an underlying sense of power but with grace. As though he had learned through painful practice an awareness of his body that went beyond most people. It was as though he had total control over his musculature. It increased the sense of physical power that had been so attractive to her on their first meeting. As she watched, a man approached him from behind, greeting him and forcing him to turn suddenly.

Cecilia saw a sudden stiffness in the movement and a quickly controlled flinch of pain on his carefully controlled features. Then he was smiling politely, greeting the man, and inclining his head towards him in courteous acknowledgment. Cecilia wondered if she were the only one to have seen the pain that had clearly gripped Lionel at that moment. She wondered at its source. Was he ailing? Or suffering the ill effects of an injury? Did it have something to do with that fateful afternoon when the spring mist had brought about such a terrible accident? Brought about the death of her brother at the hands of the man she now watched. For the longest time, she had tried to forget it, to tell herself that a hunt was a dangerous place and accidents of this sort did happen. It was in God’s hands. But she could not rid herself of the belief that her brother had been killed and this man walked free. Accident or not, if there had been no hunt, then Arthur would still be alive and she would not have spent the last five years living as a servant in the house of her aunt and uncle.

She wanted to be angry with him. Wanted to hate him. But something about him drew her. He was magnetic in his charisma. Looking at him made her heart quicken and her breath release in short gasps. She knew that she was blushing and willed herself to stop. But the sight of him brought only illicit thoughts of what he must look like beneath his clothes. It was a scandalous thought, but it would not be dislodged. His body would be ridged and hard as steel. Muscles like smooth-sided boulders bulging beneath skin, itself covered in a fine layer of dark hair. The body of a barbarian prince, a descendant of the warrior nomads who had terrorized the Romans and scourged the continent of Europe.

Savage and prideful. Fierce and passionate.

Cecilia almost gasped aloud when Lionel’s head turned and their eyes met. For a moment, there was no one else in the room. The echoing babble of conversation faded to silence. The crowd melted into the stone, leaving only Cecilia and Lionel. The space between them became charged. Cecilia felt she could reach out and touch the air, that it must be tangible with the energy that thrummed between them.

Her blush deepened and her eyes widened as he took a step towards her. But another guest stepped in front of him, escorting a matronly lady with silver hair piled atop her head. The contact was broken as Lionel directed his attention to them and began again the charade of greeting and mingling. Cecilia was left with a hot but empty sensation in her stomach. A feeling of loss and of need. She wanted those eyes on her again. Wanted his hands on her. His lips.

“My dear lady, are you quite well?” inquired a voice.

Cecilia looked to see a young man with brown hair combed forward in the popular Roman style. He held a wine glass and a smile of concern and… something else. His gray eyes were direct, never leaving her face.

“I am… feeling somewhat… hot… I mean, it is crowded in here. I feel the need for a breath of fresh air,” Cecilia stammered her reply.

“Then allow me to escort you to a quieter room. There must be a veritable maze of them in this place,” the man replied.

“I am sure I can find my way. I thank you for your concern,” Cecilia replied hurriedly, not wanting to be escorted, simply wanting to be alone.

“Very well. I am Sir Gerald Knightley, by the way, of Brockwill. And you are?”

“Cecilia Sinclair of Penrose,” Cecilia replied, giving the name of her parent’s seat rather than the place where she lived with her aunt and uncle. Hamilton Hall had never truly felt like home.

“Penrose? Indeed. A tragic tale. We really must talk during the course of the evening, about Penrose.”

Cecilia frowned, wondering what this could mean. But the need to escape that room had become overwhelming. She wanted a cooling drink and a breath of fresh air. She wanted to escape the magnetism of Lionel Grisham, to escape the confusion he wrought upon her. The man she reviled for the killing of her brother. The man who made her heart hammer in her chest and her body tingle. She stammered what she hoped was an acceptable goodbye and walked rapidly away, looking for a door that would take her from the great hall and the Duke of Thornhill.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 25th of July!

CHAPTER ONE

May 1816

The Salisbury Ball

“…And then there is Lord Wetherby,” Lady Prudence Sommers explained, holding up a third finger as she compiled her list thusly. “He may be somewhat lacking in height, but his shoulders are admirably broad, and from the looks of things, his stomach—and this is coming from my cousin’s mouth mind you, one could scrub their washing on it! Can you imagine?”

“Is that so…?”

“And let us not forget Lord Tarrow,” Prudence continued, holding up a fourth finger. “Only a baron, yes. And word is that he is close with his mother… too close that it borders on obsession in fact, so marrying him would undoubtedly be marrying her as well. And no one wishes for a mother-in-law who is perpetually present, prying into one’s affairs and dispensing unsolicited advice on how to please one’s husband—look no further than Lady Susan.” She cast a glance across the busy hall and licked her lips. “He is quite handsome though… so perhaps it would not be entirely intolerable.”

“Yes, very handsome…” Lady Virtue Hartleigh said absently, her mind wandering as her friend chattered on. Prudence, enjoying the sound of her own voice as ever, scarcely noticed.

“Of course, we mustn’t overlook Lord Hightower either. Father says he is one of the wealthiest men in London, and already a marquess at only one and twenty. But…” she bit into her lip and sighed. “Men that age are hardly willing to settle down for things as marriage, are they? Typical.” She clicked her tongue. “We are expected to be wed as soon as we turn eighteen, yet they are allowed to gallop all about town like stallions on heat! Perhaps it is best if we leave him off the list for now. Why waste our time?”

“A wise idea…”

“Oh!” Prudence clapped her hands with sudden excitement. “I almost forgot. Lord Wexley!” She glanced around eagerly, searching for a familiar face. “Annabelle was speaking of him earlier. Down from the north, she says, here this Season specifically to find a bride. An earl, terribly wealthy, and the way Annabelle described him, you would think that you died and went to heaven—he is that easy on the eyes. But I have not seen him…” She continued to scan the ballroom cautiously. “I do hope he has decided to attend tonight. He has no reason not to.”

“Oh yes, he sounds delightful…”

“Virtue!” Prudence snapped her head around, looking at her friend for the first real time since the two had started speaking well over ten minutes ago. “Are you listening to me?”

“He sounds wonderful…” Virtue muttered, very evidently not paying attention.

Prudence pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “They also say he is extremely well endowed.”

“That’s nice.”

“And that is not to mention the goiter on his neck. But apparently, one can scarcely notice it.”

“I am sure one cannot.”

“Virtue!” Prudence slapped her on the arm. “Will you pay attention!”

“Pardon?” For the first time, Virtue returned to the present moment—the conversation, that is. She focused on her friend, took note of the scowl that she wore, and offered an apologetic smile. “I apologize. My mind was elsewhere for a moment.”

“You don’t suppose.”

“It is not personal,” Virtue tried. “I’m just not… I am nervous, Pru. This is my first public outing since…” She trailed off, not wishing to voice it, knowing there was no need, for certainly everyone already knew. “And I feel as though everyone is looking at me.”

“Don’t be so vain, my dear.”

“I assure you, I am not!”

“Indeed you are.” Prudence took Virtue by the arm, and with a decisive tug, pulled her shoulder to shoulder, aligning them both to overlook the crowded hall. “But shall I tell you a hard truth?”

“Pray, do.”

“Not one soul here has concerns for anyone else but themselves, Virtue. You may fancy yourself the subject of every whisper, but truly, you are not the cynosure you imagine. And I should know, for I have been trying to speak with you for the last ten minutes, and where it might shock you to hear, I have found more amusement in discourse with the stone walls of Sommerton.”

“Oh, what a delight to hear,” Virtue said flatly.

“You are most welcome, my dear. Now, stop with this nonsense, and let us enjoy ourselves.”

Lady Virtue Hartleigh, only daughter to Lord Holmfield, wanted to believe her friend. Oh, how she wished that her words held a semblance of truth. It might have been nice to have gone unnoticed. Even Prudence’s comparisons to a brick wall weren’t nearly as cutting as she meant them to be. To be able to pass on by without knowing that she was the subject of whispers and titters from her contemporaries was a dream that Virtue doted like a bee might a freshly bloomed flower. And yet, reality painted a far different picture.

She had nearly forgone the invitation to tonight’s affair entirely—the inaugural ball of the Season, a spectacle she had not missed since blossoming into society at the tender age of eighteen. It was the most anticipated event of the year, a pivotal night for all young debutantes seeking the admiration of potential suitors, with hopes of romantic courtships and perhaps even fortuitous marriages. Where fates intermingled like the gentle swirls of mist over a moonlit mere.

Yet, as things stood, Lady Virtue Hartleigh was as unspoken for as they came.

But that was also the point.

The evening was designed specifically for young women of Virtue’s ilk.  And indeed, as she stood, her arm gracefully linked with Prudence’s, her eyes swept across the hall, noting the scores of young women dressed in their very best as they filtered from group to group, suitor to suitor; some on their own, some led by their fathers, and a fortunate few lucky enough to have found a gentleman to occupy themselves with tonight. A rainbow of reds and yellows and greens and oranges and purples and every color imaginable washed over Virtue, an intense feast for the senses that was as overwhelming as it was breathtaking.

To be among them, Virtue would have loved nothing more. She was, after all, dressed in a similar fashion. Her gown was emerald green, wreathed with a darker green floral pattern, hemmed with golden stitching, flowing from the waist like a cascading waterfall while cinching about her hips and hooping low across her neckline. She was petite in stature but curvy in frame, hair as red as a roaring hearth in a cold winter, skin as white as freshly poured milk. A true beauty – according to many. Yet, none of these attributes were the crux of her plight.

Again, she wanted desperately to spread her wings and walk through the crowds that gathered in the hall. Sip some wine, maybe share a dance, or partake in a few lively conversations. Perhaps even ask her father if he had identified any suitable suitors. Yet, such aspirations seemed just beyond her reach—or so she believed.

“Come on then.” Prudence straightened up her posture and fixed a smile on her face. “Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Virtue’s hand shot out, grasping her friend’s arm as her face grew paler still. “What in heavens do you mean by let’s go? Where? Who are we—”

Prudence rolled her eyes, her patience waning thin. “If only you would listen, V. I just listed six – six eligible gentlemen for us, Virtue. All of whom are likely present tonight. All of whom we should be introducing ourselves to, instead of skulking in the corner like petty thieves.”

“And we just… approach them?” She could feel her face begin to flush red with embarrassment.

“Why ever not?” Prudence countered with a nonchalant shrug. “Times are not what they used to be. Men appreciate a woman who asserts herself. Takes initiative…” She pumped her eyebrows.

That wasn’t true at all, but Prudence seemed set on this little task of hers, willing to say whatever she needed to, to force some action in Virtue.

“Wait… perhaps I should consult my father first.” Virtue feigned a scan of the room, seeking her father among the clusters of gentlemen. She knew all too well that he would disapprove of her making such bold overtures unbidden.

“And squander precious time? I’d wager his list contains Lord Ambrose, and our neighbor, old baron Grimsby.” She took a firmer grip of Virtue’s arm. “No. We ought to take fate into our own hands, lest we end up like Lady Phillipa. Now, come.”

“But Lady Phillipa is wealthy and rather happy, don’t you think?” Virtue tried for a final time.

“Pah! She detests that Rochester Lordling. He ought to have been her half-brother with how he followed around her father like a lost puppy before the marriage. The Rochesters…” she shuddered, “an odd family.” With that, she pulled Virtue forward and, with little real choice, Virtue followed.

Beside her, Prudence beamed as she swept through the crowd. Oh, she was confident, as she had every right to be. Dark hair. Darker features. Undeniably pretty. And the daughter of a marquess! Men’s heads turned as they passed, and a few smirked in her direction, no doubt already planning their approach.

There had been a time—not so long ago, at the dawn of the previous Season—when Virtue herself had embodied that same boldness. She had been the one to lead, eyes keenly searching for a promising suitor. That was, after all, how she had first encountered Lord Prescott…

“There!” Prudence’s sudden halt drew Virtue’s attention. “Do you see?”

“See what?” Virtue swallowed and dared to follow her friend’s gaze.

“Lord Tarrow!” she whispered excitedly. “Leaving Annabelle’s side right now. See!” Her eyes flashed. “Oh, isn’t he just handsome! And I don’t see his mother about either.”

Virtue saw immediately who Prudence was speaking of. A dashingly handsome lord with golden blonde hair and a cleft chin which he held high as he stalked. A smirk on his lips, which spoke to his confidence. A way of walking that had his chest puffed out, an air to his gait that told the world he knew what tonight entailed to the t. Virtue eyed him with a sense of desire she didn’t know she was capable of feeling anymore, wanting desperately to cross the room to him, but not able to force herself to make the move.

And then, as she stared, Lord Tarrow looked up suddenly and met her eyes. Time seemed to stand still as they gazed at one another, that feeling as if they were the only two in the room and nothing else mattered. Virtue licked her lips, daring to dream for the first time in months…

“Somebody is interested,” Prudence giggled. “Now, you better do something about it.”

“Wh – what?” Virtue felt her stomach lurch. “I am not so sure I can.”

“Of course you can. Go to him.” She stepped back and pushed Virtue forward.

Virtue stumbled. “And say what?”

“I don’t know,” Prudence groaned. “Anything! Honestly, Virtue, how you were engaged before is beyond me. Have you ever spoken with a man before?”

“Of course!”

“Then prove it!”

She thought to argue, the only thing stopping her being a keen awareness that Lord Tarrow was still watching. He, and several others who were in the vicinity and seemed to understand what Virtue was doing, deciding to stop and watch. Oh, maybe she was imagining the last part, but she didn’t think so. She had been the talk of the ton for months now, so why should tonight be any different?

A deep breath had Virtue steadying. Then she forced a smile, focused on Lord Tarrow – who was observing her with a sense of want she found wholly appealing – and started toward him. She was doing it. She was taking action. She was leaving the past where it belonged and carving herself a new path. Soon, what had happened to her would be forgotten. Soon, she would be a new woman with a new name.

And that was about the moment everything went wrong.

Just behind Lord Tarrow, with a drink in his hand, a curious smile on his face as he watched her approach the eager young lord, was a man whom Virtue had been hoping to avoid tonight, one whom she presumed wasn’t attending, one whom she knew that if she saw—well, it had the potential to ruin her entire evening and then some.

His name was Lord Prescott, and until three months ago, he had been Virtue’s betrothed.

Indeed, no sooner did Virtue see Lord Prescott, their eyes connecting across the room, did she forget all about Lord Tarrow and what she was doing as that sudden desire to escape and remain hidden took hold. Her chest tightened. Her body grew red hot. The room spun about her. Eyes widening as if from fear, she turned on the spot suddenly, meaning to run, only to find herself face to face with Prudence.

“What are you – oh!” Prudence cried as Virtue ran headlong into her.

Their bodies collided with a tremendous crash. Prudence stumbled backward, arms flailing. She caught the edge of a footman’s wine tray, sending the glasses of wine flying into the air as their reddish-purple contents emptied all over her dress.

Virtue tried to help, but as the glasses of wine smashed around her feet, she slipped and stumbled, again falling into Prudence, grabbing a hold of the woman around the shoulders, losing her balance entirely, and falling to the floor in a heap. Oh, and of course, with another loud crash—enough to alert the entirety of London.

The music that played throughout the hall silenced in an instant. The gossip and chatter and banter that filled the cheeks of the guests stopped dead as if it had never been. All eyes, what had to be hundreds of them, turned as one and looked upon Prudence and Virtue lying on the floor, covered in wine, dresses torn, embarrassment piqued. A beat, the silence, and shock so heavy that Virtue could feel it, broken when someone began to snicker.

Laughter erupted from the mouths of a few of the immature young Lords. Raucous and bawdy.  Fingers pointed. Bodies doubled over as sides were held to keep them from splitting.

“You…. how could you!” Prudence cried. “What have you done!”

“I… I didn’t… I did not mean…” Virtue stammered, unable to form a cohesive thought as the laughter and jesting and mockery crashed upon her like relentless waves.

Just three months ago, Virtue had been subjected to a kind of embarrassment that she was certain would be the worst of her entire life. Yet tonight, this very moment might well have surpassed that.

Drenched in wine. Bottom bruised. The center of attention in the worst possible way. Forget seeking a new suitor, Virtue thought as she covered her face and tried to stand – only to slip and fall once more. After tonight, she might never go out again. And who could blame her?

 

CHAPTER TWO

2 days later

Hartleigh House

“Pray, tell me you intend to at least promenade today,” Lucy Reid sighed as she swept into the library. “At the very least, might you step onto the patio or wander through the garden, so that your skin might see some sunlight?”

“To utter falsehoods is a sin,” Virtue responded without diverting her gaze from the volume in her lap. “And I shall not partake in such deceit.”

“Is this the grand design then?” Lucy came to a stop right by where Virtue was sitting; curled up on a plush settee, the drapes pulled shut to cast the room in a shadow, and using the light from a small candle to illuminate the pages. “To sequester yourself within these walls for eternity? Truly?”

“I don’t see whyever not.” Virtue turned the page, purposefully ignoring the young maid. If it had been anyone other than Lucy making such remarks, Virtue might have taken offense, but she and Lucy were as close as sisters since her father had taken Lucy under his wing upon the death of old Jonathan Reid, Lucy’s father and the Hartleigh family butler for nearly thirty years. When they were alone, Virtue would not have Lucy speaking to her in any other way.

“And what of the future? When age has stolen your vitality and left you old and withered—do you then plan to grace the rest of London with your presence again? Hope that by then, everyone might have forgotten what happened and you shall be free to spend your final years an old crone whose memory is so soured that she scarcely remembers the reason she locked herself up in the first place?”

“It could be worse.” She turned a page.

“Oh, you’re being ridiculous, V! Utterly and totally absurd, is what you are.”

“I must remind you…” she replied, nonchalantly flipping another page of her book, her eyes steadfastly avoiding Lucy’s gaze, “with whom you are speaking with, Miss Reid. And if you keep at it, perhaps a harsher reminder will be necessary,” she added with a smirk.

Lucy snorted and folded her arms. “What will you do, then? Whip me, my Lady?”

“If I must,” Virtue giggled, the sound light and teasing.

Another snort. “It will change nothing. You will remain ensconced here, and I shall still be at your side, tirelessly working to coax you outdoors. Moreover, I suspect your father might agree with me this time.”

Virtue scrunched her nose as she tried her best to ignore Lucy’s provocations. If it was anyone else, it might have been a simple task. Despite the unconventional nature of their relationship, Lucy was her closest confidante—now more than ever, given her dwindling circle of friends following the recent scandal. Prudence, for one, would likely not be responding to her letters any time soon.

But she couldn’t ignore the maid’s heartfelt pleas either. Even the book she was reading, one of her favorite romance novels that she always turned to when she was feeling blue, couldn’t hold her interest. If anything, the romantic epic that once upon a time had her heart soaring whenever she read its pages, now only had it souring at what could no longer be hers.  

She tried to stare at the page. She tried to forget why it was that her mood was this morose. But there would be no forgetting. And not because of Lucy, but because it seemed that fate had decided as such.

“You were not there,” Virtue broke, dropping the book in her lap and looking pleadingly at Lucy. “You did not see the whole… debacle!”

“Oh, surely it wasn’t all that dreadful.” Lucy fell in beside Virtue and wrapped an arm around her in comfort. She was a touch taller than Virtue and made a perfect shoulder to weep on.

“It was far worse.” Virtue curled up in her best friend’s arm. “Everyone saw it. And those who might have been unlucky to miss it, certainly heard it. I have never been so embarrassed.”

“They will forget. If I have learned anything living here this past decade, it is that London’s collective memory is as fleeting as a spring shower,” Lucy reassured her.

“I am not convinced of that anymore,” she murmured.  

“A stroll would do you the world of good,” Lucy suggested gently.

“I cannot even bear to show my face.”

“Just through the garden then. A bit of fresh air might lift your spirits.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Perhaps just some natural light, at least?” Lucy moved as if to draw back the drapes.

“Don’t!” Virtue shot up, blocking the maid’s path to the windows. “Please, Lucy. Can you not just let me wallow? If anyone has earned that right, surely it is I?”

Lucy could not have looked more worried. The way her round face scrunched together. The way her lips pouted. Like a mother besotted with the ailing sickness of her daughter, it was clear that all she wanted was to help. “You deserve the world, V,” she whispered as she wrapped her thick arms back around Virtue. “Not this. Never this.”

“It is funny,” Virtue chuckled bitterly. She picked up the book she was reading, only to regard its cover with disdain before tossing it across the room. “I once fancied my life to be akin to the tales I cherish—imagined meeting my Prince Charming, falling in love, and our story being celebrated through the ages. Now, I see these tales for what they truly are—mere tales. At best, I am the wicked witch, doomed to watch others fall in love around her while she spends her days alone and miserable. Perhaps the wicked witch was never the villain, after all, only misunderstood.”

To that, Lucy did not say a word, simply because there was not much she could say. For three months now, it had been much the same as this, and where finally it looked as if Virtue was on the mend and turning a leaf toward a new tomorrow, the ball two nights ago had dashed those plans thoroughly and irrevocably.

And it hadn’t always been so.

Just three months prior, Virtue’s life had seemed poised for a fairy tale culmination, the kind she had whimsically envisioned as a child but scarcely dared to believe might actually unfold for herself. She was in love with a viscount. He was in love with her. They were engaged to be married. Children would follow. A life spent in one another’s arms because their love was such that she couldn’t fathom any other outcome but that. A touch idealistic, perhaps. But that just spoke to how perfect everything was…

But then, without warning, her idyllic world shattered around her. Lord Prescott, her betrothed, a man whom she had surrendered her heart to fully after a year of courting, tore it from her chest, crushed it in the palm of his hand, and callously announced an end to their betrothal. With a mere letter, he terminated their engagement, offering no explanation, denying her any appeal, and leaving her without a semblance of closure.

To say it caught Virtue by surprise would be an understatement. Yet her astonishment paled in comparison to the collective gasp of the ton. And with no reason given for why he had acted so rashly, it was only natural that rumor and conjecture would follow. Those whom Virtue had once considered friends now gossiped in shadowed corners, theorizing why the viscount had ended things so suddenly. What grievous misstep could Virtue have possibly committed to warrant such a harsh rejection?

She didn’t do anything. She was the perfect lady. But to ask anyone’s opinion of the matter today, it was agreed that she had slighted him in some way, likely by seducing another or being caught in a heinous act of amorous desire. She was a destined spinster, it was claimed. She was a woman of loose morals! The rumors swirled and gathered like a raging storm, and although her family vehemently denied them, Virtue soon learned there was little more she could do to placate the torrents but hide and wait for them to go away.

Which was precisely what she had done until the fateful ball two nights prior. Finally, sensing her moment, convinced that the ton might have moved past the scandal, she braved the outside world in a way that seemed unimaginably impossible mere months earlier.

As to the result? The less said, the better—though Prudence could furnish the most lurid of details.

“Here is what we are going to do,” Lucy murmured, her soft voice breaking the silence.

“What?” Virtue sniffed, feeling herself come undone.  

“We shall do precisely… nothing.”

“Pardon?” Virtue pulled back. “Pray, what sort of counsel is that?”

“The wisest,” Lucy declared with quiet confidence. “You are correct, last evening was a travesty.”

“Most kind of you to note,” she replied drily.

“Yet, it was not the end of all things,” Lucy spoke over Virtue. “Do you remember where you were three months ago? For I remember it well. Very well. We were here, having this precise conversation.”

“And I am still here!”

“Yes, indeed you are,” Lucy agreed. “But two days ago, you were not. Two days ago, I seemed to remember how aglow with anticipation you were at the prospect of attending a ball once more—despite your efforts to hide it. And the way you looked in that dress…” She sighed wistfully. “Stunning and elegant, as I’ve ever seen.”

“And look to what end it brought me,” Virtue fell back on her settee with a thump and a sigh.

“One misstep,” Lucy said. “That’s all it was. You were convinced before that you’d never leave the house again. That you wouldn’t want to. But time heals all wounds, makes people forget. You are still young, Virtue. You still have so much time.”

“They won’t forget,” Virtue mumbled bitterly.

Lucy tittered. “We will see about that. Why, I bet that before you tripped and fell, there was more than one lordling whose eye you caught. Your Prince Charming is out there, you just need to be patient.”

As was her mood lately, Virtue opened her mouth to argue, only she caught her tongue when she remembered what had happened just before she had embarrassed herself. Lord Tarrow… the handsome marquess whose attention she had captured from across the room. He had stared at her in a way she hadn’t expected possible, a manner which suggested he either didn’t know what had happened to her, or he didn’t care. Was it possible that the ton might forget about her constant shortcomings? Was it possible that come time, she might find someone?

Since she had been a little girl, all Virtue had wanted was to fall in love. The idea that it might never happen was enough to break her, but the thought that there was still a chance… it gave her a sense of hope that she so desperately needed to cling to, lest she truly become the crude old witch from her novels, bickering at all the young couples passing her way.

“Maybe you are right, Lucy,” she conceded softly.

“I almost always am.”

“Careful now, Lucy,” Virtue snickered. “Someone is becoming a little too pleased with themself.”

Lucy moved to respond, but then shifted and sat up suddenly. It took Virtue a moment to realize why, until she looked back from the room and caught the housekeeper lingering by the door.

“Yes?” Virtue asked of her. “What is it?”

The housekeeper’s name was Miss White, an elderly woman whose honeycakes held a special place in her father’s heart, as did her inclination to gossip about anything and everything that occurred within the walls of Holmfield. So much so that she scarcely left his side, lest it be for emergencies. That had Virtue panicking a little.

“It is Lord Holmfield,” Miss White said carefully. “Your father, he wishes to speak with you… Now.”

Virtue felt her stomach churn. As well as avoiding the outside world, she had also been avoiding her father and done a great job of it. No doubt he was furious with her for the way she behaved at the ball, and no doubt he wanted to reprimand her for it. His aspirations for her marriage were even greater than her own after all. Given the disastrous events of late, his displeasure was all but guaranteed.

“Alright…” Virtue sighed deeply before pulling herself from Lucy’s arms. “Let him know I am on my way.”

“I shall make some tea,” Lucy offered hastily. “In case you need it.”

“If you intend on mixing in some laudanum,” Virtue murmured as she skulked across the room, preparing herself for the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. The last two days had been a travesty, and she sensed it was only going to get worse.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Virtue approached her father’s study with her heart thudding. As a little girl, the room had terrified her, as she had often associated its musty interiors with her father’s stern demeanor and brisk temper. The few times she’d dared to enter it, she would always leave with her tail between her legs and tears welling in her eyes. He was a stern man, her father. He was a serious man, also. Not overtly cruel or ‘evil’ as the characters in her storybooks, just not the sort of man who was used to not getting his way. And he hated being interrupted when he was at work.

On this day, however, she had been summoned, which at least mitigated the risk of aggravating him by an untimely interruption. Nevertheless, she anticipated that his reasons for calling her were likely to be no less severe.

She tapped gently at the heavy, oak door of the study and waited. And waited. Several minutes must have passed before he finally called back. 

“Come in!” His voice, a harsh bark from within, shattered the tense silence.

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Virtue opened the door and stepped inside. Even as a grown woman, the study was an intimidating room. Not overtly large by any sense, yet it somehow always made her feel small inside it; dark and devoid of any natural light, a high ceiling, stacked bookshelves that seemed to tower over her, a work desk that only came up to her waist but felt as if it reached her shoulders. And then there was the man seated behind it.

Like Virtue, Lord Holmfield—as he commanded to be referred to, even by his daughter—was short, especially for a man. Stocky also, what was once a robust frame had since turned soft with age. His hair, a faded strawberry blonde, had receded significantly, and his skin bore the ruddy hue of blotches, his cheeks ample and his jowls wobbly. But it was his eyes that Virtue always watched, for they told of the mood he was in. Was he angry with her? Was he venomous? Or was he… she met his eyes, tried to read them, but found it impossible to do in the moment.

This, of course, only added to her nerves.

“You asked to see me, my lord?” she spoke softly as she lingered in the doorway.

“Yes.” He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, lifting his gaze for a moment. “Sit.”

She nodded and crossed the room, taking the seat, trying to get as comfortable as she could, all the while feeling her father study her with a sense of contempt. When her mother had been alive, her father had been far kinder and more compassionate. When she had died, over ten years ago now, he had turned cold and withdrawn. He had come to view Virtue less as a daughter and more as a chess piece, to be strategically positioned for familial advantage. His overarching ambition was to see her well-married.

And indeed, when he had successfully orchestrated her betrothal, she had noticed a change in her father that she could never have predicted. For a time there, he had treated her with something akin to pride and satisfaction, elated that she was finally living up to her purpose. Elated for what it meant for him, also.

Since the wedding had been canceled, however, Virtue could count on her hands the number of times she and her father had spoken.

“The… events, that transpired the previous evening,” her father began with austere firmness, “shall never be spoken on inside the walls of Holmfield. Understand?”

Virtue’s brow furrowed slightly as she lifted her eyes to meet his. Could that be compassion flickering in his eyes? Surely not. “What do you…. what do you mean?”

“I do not believe I was speaking in riddles,” he muttered with a tone of vexation. “It was foolish of you, girl. I can scarcely believe you would even…” He bit his tongue and shook his head. “No matter. It is done now, and for that reason, we shall work to erase it from the grand history of the Hartleighs. You are well aware of how swiftly gossip travels in this town. The sole method to arrest its spread is to disregard it utterly. Now, is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.” She nodded once but could not suppress the faint smile that played on her lips. “And thank you.”

“For what?” he grumbled.

Her smile widened a touch. “Nothing.”

He studied her for a moment, as if deciding something. “Very well. And on that note, it is important to remember who you are. My daughter. You are no fool. No embarrassment. You are certainly not the subject of idle chatter. The disgrace lies not with you but with those whose tongues are too freely wagged. This, I will no longer tolerate.”

Virtue eyed her father intently, unable to fathom what he was saying or why he was saying it. She had thought he’d brought her here to shout and scream, but it was the opposite of that. He had a point he was trying to make, that was clear, but she could not begin to reason what it might be.

“What Lord Prescott did to you was a disgrace,” he growled, anger now lacing his tone. “But not for you. For him! He made a fool of his own name, not yours, certainly not mine, and it is time that we reminded the people of that. Don’t you think?”

 “Y-yes, my lord,” she stammered, sensing that was all he wished to hear.

“He thinks to tarnish you.” He chuckled bitterly. “He thinks to ruin me? Pah! Well, we shall see what he thinks next. I dare say, he will rue the day he ever dared to cross me and mine.”

Still, Virtue regarded her father. She knew now that his hostilities were not for her, so that was a good thing to be sure. Rather, he seemed awfully proud of something, excited even. He was building toward a point, and where she might have guessed what it was… no, she would not dare.

“It is for that reason,” he began, his voice tinged with an uncharacteristic buoyancy as he stood from his chair, “that I bring you tidings which I believe will also be a source of excitement for you.” He raised an eyebrow, a sly smirk playing across his features.

“You do?” Her heart began to flutter. Surely not? Surely, this wasn’t going where she thought…

“I have been tirelessly occupied these past two weeks. However, diligent efforts often yield fruitful outcomes, and it pleases me immensely to inform you that in one week’s time, Virtue, you are to be married to—”

“What?!” The word escaped her lips before she could temper her reaction, and she saw her father’s jaw clench in response. “Sorry…” she murmured hastily, mind whirling as she looked at him to continue.

“As I was saying, I have arranged for you to be wed.” He paused and cocked an eyebrow at her, making sure she did not interrupt this time. “Securing a suitor willing to marry so precipitously was no trifling matter. Yet, considering recent events, I deemed it prudent to forego a traditional betrothal. This way, we circumvent any… unforeseen complications,” he added sharply, his intent unmistakable. “And, as fortune would have it, I have found an exemplary gentleman.” He halted, allowing the gravity of his announcement to settle as he fixed his gaze upon her.

“Who would—” she whispered, holding her tongue at that for she had so many questions but knew better than to ask them.

He nodded solemnly. “You should be aware, this was no trifling task. Given the… aftermath of recent events,” he said, his tone sharpening with frustration as he clicked his tongue. “Our options were regrettably limited. Threadbare, one might say. The fact that I managed to secure a suitor at all, and one of considerable standing, is nothing short of miraculous. Perhaps, in a roundabout way, you are owed some adulations yourself,” he chuckled lightly. “You did look quite graceful the other evening, my dear, so perhaps word of your charm reached him.”

 “Thank you, my lord—”

“Now, now! We will have none of that! I am your father and will be referred to as such. As to the facts, he has agreed to the dowry, he is as eager to wed as I could hope, and come next week, we shall throw a wedding at my local parish. A small ceremony, he insisted, but considering the circumstances, I think it is best. Weddings of this… nature, tend to invite gossip — something we will do well to avoid. So, a quick, private ceremony, free from whispers and other nuisances, and the two of you will then be free to remind the ton who you are and where you come from.”

She could barely stand it any further. Was this some kind of jest? Or was he really more concerned with discussing the details surrounding the marriage than the marriage itself and her supposed betrothed? As he spoke, her mind wandered, her heart raced, and her excitement rose to levels previously thought unattainable. Her father had found her a husband. She was going to be married. Could it be perhaps… Lord Tarrow? The details aligned, and she did feel there had been some connection between them when they had locked gazes at the ball. Or perhaps, it was another of the lords on Prudence’s list? Yes, there was the fact that she had never met this mysterious man, and had no idea who he was, but she knew her father well enough to know that he must have been someone of renown. He would rather her die alone than marry beneath her station.

But who was it? Who might he have found? Excitement mixed with fear mixed with nerves, and all the while her father watched her squirm, finally waiting for her to ask the obvious question.

“Who is he, father?”

He smiled at that, a hint of triumph in his expression. “His Grace, the Duke of Greystone.”

“His Grace?!” Virtue’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and awe coloring her voice. A Duke! The idea seemed almost fantastical. Given her recent social blunders, how could a Duke possibly deem her a suitable bride? Especially under such hastily arranged circumstances—it defied understanding. It made no sense! That was until her father continued to speak.

“He is a good man, Virtue.” He nodded firmly as if to affirm it. “A war hero. Fabulously wealthy. Young too, considering. And given that his estate lies several hundred miles away, I believe you’ll find the change of scenery quite to your liking. Yes…” His smile took on a proud curve. “And whatever rumors you might hear about him, well, you of all people know the weight—or lack thereof—of gossip. I would just ignore them.”

“Rumors…?” Virtue leaned back in her chair, her initial excitement morphing into worry. “What… what do they say?”

“His Grace, Duke Greystone, Virtue.” Her father repeated the title, eyeing her with a puzzled look as if the name alone should trigger recognition. “Surely, you have heard of his, ah… of what happened?”

Virtue felt a stir of unease. The way her father mentioned the Duke’s history implied there was more to this man than his titles and accolades. What had happened with the Duke of Greystone that made him consider her a suitable bride, of all people, despite all her recent shortcomings? Worse, what might it mean for her future? “I have not. What happened?”

As her father divulged the details, Virtue’s initial spark of excitement rapidly extinguished, replaced by a creeping dread. She did indeed recognize the name—the Duke of Greystone. And with recognition came the flood of chilling rumors that accompanied it, each more unsettling than the last.

Fear was what replaced her excitement. Fear and bitter remorse.

Ever since she was a little girl, Virtue had wished for nothing more than to marry. Well, to fall in love and marry, but at this point, she was willing to settle with the latter. Now that her fate had been set before her, however, she wondered if the prize she sought was worth the cost. Love and happiness were things she associated with marriage, but if the rumors about His Grace were true — and she had no reason to believe otherwise — love and happiness were likely the last things she would ever feel again.

A murderer? A madman? A monster ripped straight from her storybooks? These rumors swirled menacingly through her mind, her anxiety mounting with each passing moment. As her father prattled on, his enthusiasm starkly contrasting her growing unease, Virtue couldn’t help but wonder: What in good heavens was he thinking?

It appeared he wasn’t, at least not with any regard to her well-being.

Look out for the full release on the 2nd of June!

Chapter One

1814

Outskirts of Buckinghamshire

How a simple thing like a piece of paper, a letter, could bring such happiness.

Rain lashed the small window of Hester Haddington’s room. Outside, the sky was leaden with the promise of unending downpours. But as she read on, the sun shone in her heart.

She sat in the window seat, its upholstery faded and split. The window did not fit its casement properly and admitted a chill breeze. But Hester liked to sit there, regardless of the draught. She liked to look out at the world beyond Goddington Hall. The distant woods beyond the park and the town of Buckinghamshire visible on the horizon, its peaceful spires of chimney smoke mimicking the slender grace of the church steeple at the heart of the town.

That world was largely unknown to her.

Since the death of her parents ten years before, she had seen little of it. Goddington, the home of her aunt and uncle, had become her home and her prison.

She flicked her long, golden hair back and absently rubbed at the small white scar that marred the porcelain skin of her right shoulder. Sometimes she fancied she could still feel the stab of pain made by the willow switch that had caused it, wielded by Aunt Phoebe. She began to re-read the letter that had been smuggled to her by Cousin Selina, her only ally at Goddington. The words set a warm glow within her.

 

               My dearest Hester, 

I hope this letter finds you well. Words on paper are such a poor substitute for the sight of you, for holding your hand in mine, for holding your body close to me. I still think of that night at your debut when we danced. Then when we walked the halls of Goddington together and I had my first taste of what it must be like for you to be mine, to be shared with no-one else. The letters we have exchanged since that night have sustained me for a time, have made me feel close to you. But they are a poor substitute. Under normal circumstances, I should call on you at Goddington, we would take walks in the park, perhaps chaperoned by your cousin. I yearn for it but know that it is impossible. I should like to call out your uncle for holding you a prisoner, making you into a slave. I want to take you away from them. I cannot marry you without the permission of your uncle, as your legal guardian, as you are not yet one and twenty years old. But, we can run away together. I know that what I am suggesting is scandalous but it will enable us to be together and married in Gretna. I hope that I have not misjudged your heart. Based on your letters to me, I do not believe so.

If you are agreeable, then meet me at noon five days from the date of this letter. I shall meet you with my carriage. The location shall be the crossroads to the west of the Tingewick Woods outside the village of Barton Hartshorn. It is but six miles from Goddington. I trust this will not be too far for you to walk. I would suggest a closer location but fear that you may be seen by your uncle or one of his men. If another location is preferable, then write to me at once. If I do not hear from you, then I will be waiting at the crossroads at noon.

               Your ever loving

              Arthur

 

There was a gentle tap at her door. Hester knew that she didn’t need to conceal the letter because only Selina would knock so diffidently.

“Come in, Selina!” she called.

The door opened and a slender girl of sixteen entered the room. Her hair was fiery red, the color of which she inherited from her father. She smiled hesitantly, then broader when she saw Hester’s face. Hurriedly, she closed the door and ran to her cousin. Hester hugged her and made room for her on the window seat.

“I trust your lover has good things to say?” Selina whispered excitedly.

“He does. As always. In fact…”

Hester hesitated, unsure if she should disclose all to Selina. It was not that she did not trust the girl, but that it might put her into a difficult position when Selina’s father, Baron Goddington, eventually found out.

“In fact?” Selina coaxed, seizing Hester’s hand.

Her blue eyes were bright with excitement and Hester knew that she could not keep this a secret.

She did not want to.

Speaking the words aloud would make them somehow more real than being written on a page.

“He wishes to marry me!” Hester exclaimed.

Suddenly, tears filled her eyes. They were tears of happiness. Selina hugged her again, her own eyes wet.

“Oh, cousin! That is so wonderful. I am so happy for you! Will Papa give his blessing, do you think? Do you wish me to speak to him?”

Hester shook her head hastily. “He would not. I am sure of it.”

That darkened Selina’s expression. She knew the cruelty that her father and mother were capable of, though it was rarely directed at her. But she didn’t like to be reminded of it, or how helpless she was to prevent it.

“Then how will you marry him? Unless…”

Hester was mildly shocked that her innocent cousin had realized what Arthur and Hester were planning. If permission to marry was withheld, then there was only one option remaining.

“We will elope,” Hester whispered.

A thrill ran through her at the very idea. Selina’s eyes went almost comically wide, as did her mouth. Hester laughed.

“It is the only way I fear. We will be married over the blacksmith’s anvil at Gretna Green and once that is done, Uncle Timothy will be able to do nothing about it. Other than accept me as Mrs. Arthur Binkley.”

“Oh my, Hester! What a scandal you will cause!” Selina exclaimed.

But there was a smile on her face as she did so. The idea of a scandal to her was one of excitement and drama. It was something that did not often reach into the parochial Buckinghamshire world of Goddington. She associated scandal with cities such as London, where all manner of sin was perpetrated.

“How may I help? We could pretend to Papa to be taking the trap into town and instead meet your beau! Where are you to meet him?”

Hester shook her head emphatically. “We shall do nothing of the sort. That would implicate you and I will not have that.”

Selina opened her mouth to protest but Hester put a hand to her cousin’s lips. “No, Selina. Absolutely not. Remember what I said to you all those years ago when first I arrived here? I was ten years of age and you were but seven?”

“You said that we must keep our friendship a secret. That Mama and Papa dislike you and would take pains to keep us apart if they suspected that I did not share their opinion,” Selina said sullenly, “it is simply so unjust! I must smuggle your letters in and out of this house because of my beastly mother and father. I wish to tell them to their faces that treating their niece like a servant is wrong!”

“But your father is master of this house and neither of us has the power to challenge him. But, when I am wife to Sir Arthur Binkley of Marsh Gibbon, there will be no more mistreatment. Then we can be friends openly. I merely need you to be patient for just a few days longer. Maintain the facade that we are enemies since childhood.”

Selina put her head on her older cousin’s shoulder and Hester put her arms around her.

“It is so beastly,” Selina complained.

“But almost over,” Hester soothed.

So many times, growing up at Goddington Hall, Hester had soothed the younger girl after suffering the cruelty of Timothy and his wife Phoebe. She didn’t understand its source. She had not asked to be their ward. That had been forced on them after the death of her parents from influenza. Timothy and Phoebe Haskett had resented her from the start, placing her in the smallest room of their Buckinghamshire home and making her carry out chores in place of a servant. The only concession she had been given was a debut at the age of eighteen. But that was for appearance’s sake only. They had no intention of letting her take her place in county society or the London ton, both of which they were active members of. It did not help that her father had been practically bankrupt when he died. What little inheritance was left had to be given over in death duties, leaving Hester beholden to her wealthy aunt and uncle.

Until now.

“All will be well,” she murmured, “the sun is breaking through the clouds at last, and life will be warm and sunny from today forth. You’ll see.”

***

Hester huddled within the shelter of a beech tree, an outlier of Tingewick Wood. It stood near the crossroads which signposted Preston Bassett to the south-east, Barton Hartshorn to the south-west, Tingewick to the north-east and Finmere to the north-west. It was the furthest she had ever been from Goddington Hall. It had been a wet and blustery walk which had taken her the better part of three hours. Fortunately, Goddington Hall was situated on hills above the village of Barton-Hartshorn, so it had been a downhill walk all the way, following the Padbury stream as it meandered along the valley. The Buckingham road was relatively straight and well maintained or her journey might have taken all day, had she been forced to fight through mud and waterlogged lanes. As it was, her dress was spattered and her cloak sodden. Her face was wet and cold, and she suspected bearing one or two drops of mud from the road also.

But none of it mattered. Arthur was on his way and soon she would be safe and warm in his arms. The branches above her swayed, the leaves making a hushed roar in the wind. She moved closer to the fissured trunk as rain was gusted under the protective canopy in a frigid spray. It must be nearly noon, she had timed her walk most carefully. The sun was obscured by a blanket of clouds but she could not be too far from the allotted time.

She waited.

And waited.

The rain ceased and the wind began to tear the cloud cover to tatters. It was with a small shock that she noted how far the sun had fallen from its noon zenith.

It must be between two and three o’clock by now! Where could Arthur be? Has he had an accident?

At that moment, as worry was knotting her insides, she saw a carriage pulled by a team of four horses, making its way out of the Tingewick Woods. Hope flared within her and she stepped away from the tree to the roadside. It was a fine coach, colored black and silver and driven by a man in the uniform of a footman. He slowed his team and brought the coach to a halt beside her. Hester looked up at the driver hopefully.

“Would you be driving Sir Arthur Binkley by any chance?” she asked.

The driver touched the brim of his hat to her. “I’m afraid not, Miss Haddington. His Grace, the Duke of Middleton, is within, and requests your audience.”

 

Chapter Two

Hester drew back a step as the driver leaned down from his seat to open the door. Within the coach, she saw an elderly man lean forward and recognized him immediately.

Percival Fairchild, Duke of Middleton was a distinctive figure.

In his late middle years, his long face was that of a kindly grandfather. His smile caused wrinkles to appear around his eyes and seemed kind. She remembered being introduced to him at her debut ball.

Reassured that it was, in fact, him, she stepped forward and accepted the hand of the driver to ascend to the interior of the coach. She saw that his left leg rested on the seat opposite him and was swathed in bandages. He saw the direction of her gaze and smiled sadly.

“Alas, a touch of gout. The bane of my family. My doctor says I must forgo port, rich sauce, and cigars. I say that life without such things is scarcely worth living,” then he fixed her with a direct stare, “and what brings you to this desolate spot, my dear?”

At first, Hester was unsure how much she should reveal. Would the Duke feel inclined to report back to her uncle if he heard something he did not like? Yet, at the same time, he may be able to help her find Arthur, and that was a risk she needed to take. Waiting any longer would undoubtedly alert her relatives of her absence. “I… I had arranged to meet a gentleman here,” Hester replied with a waver.

“Yes, I know. Sir Arthur Binkley of Marsh Gibbon, was it not?” Middleton replied gently.

“Why, yes! But how could you know that?” Hester asked, narrowing her gaze.

“Because I am acquainted with Sir Arthur. I consider myself fortunate to count him as a friend. Now, my dear, this is not going to be easy for you to hear but hear it you must.”

Hester swallowed, suddenly feeling as though the rug were being pulled from beneath her feet and she was falling. Despite that, she lifted her chin and firmed her mouth, resolved to face whatever fate was about to deal for her.

“Sir Arthur came to me about four days ago in a terrible state of remorse. He told me that he had indulged his emotions for a young lady of great beauty, intelligence, and sophistication, and entered into correspondence with her after a meeting at Goddington. That young lady was, of course, yourself.”

Hester found herself smiling at the description. Middleton raised a finger as though to forestall her initial feelings.

“But, he is already engaged to be married.”

The words fell from his lips like lead weights to thud against the floor. Hester felt her heart join those heavy words. She clutched her hands to her stomach. When she realized that she was sitting with her mouth open, she closed it hurriedly. She would not appear in such distress in front of a man who was almost a perfect stranger.

“Arthur is already engaged to be married,” she repeated.

“An arranged marriage and not one of the heart, I must add,” Middleton continued agonizingly slowly, “but an engagement that he cannot break. Because he does not wish to marry the lady he is engaged to, he committed the sin of indulging his daydreams with you. Of allowing himself to believe that he could have true love and a happy ever after. But, alas, when the time came, he knew that he could not do it. And he asked me how he should proceed, not wishing to hurt you further and not able to renege on the commitment he has already entered into, personally.”

Hester blinked away the first treacherous tears, turning her head so that Middleton would not see. But, it seems, he missed nothing.

“Now, now. Here, take my handkerchief,” he offered her a square of white linen embroidered with his coat of arms in the corners, “all is not lost. The reason I am here to deliver this upsetting news is that I have a proposition for you. It is highly unusual but one which would mean that you do not have to suffer the indignity of returning to the home of your aunt and uncle. A home in which I believe you are not at all happy.”

Hester looked back at him. “How, pray tell, do you know of my life at Goddington?”

“From Sir Arthur,” Middleton said kindly, “he was most insistent that I help you if I can. And, I believe that I can.”

“How?” Hester’s voice almost broke.

“Before I begin, please may I ask that you hear my entire story to the end. Listen to my proposal and give it serious thought. You will wish to dismiss it out of hand but I ask that you promise to listen first, then decide.”

This was most perplexing.

Hester frowned, wiped her eyes and nodded, seeing no harm in listening to the mysterious proposal.

“I have a son. My only son, Dorian. He is Marquis of Langley which lies to the west of here near Cottington in Oxfordshire. He was married to a beautiful young woman named Sophia Bennett. The Kent Bennetts, are you familiar with the family?”

Hester shook her head.

“Well, my dear. You bear a striking resemblance to Sophia, who, sadly, is no longer with us. She passed away from the influenza after being married for less than a year. I understand that your parents were taken by the same illness?”

Hester nodded. It made her feel an affinity for Middleton and her son, knowing that they had lost a loved one in the same way that she had lost her parents.

“Dorian suffered greatly from her loss. It led him to purchase a commission in the Buckinghamshire Rifle Regiment and go to war in Spain, fighting the French. There, he suffered a terrible injury, and he spent many months recuperating at a monastery near Ciudad Rodrigo, in the west of Spain. I believed, as did the army, that he had been killed in battle. For a year, I believed that I had lost my only son.”

At this, the kindly old man seemed to struggle with his own equilibrium. He put the knuckles of one hand to his mouth and turned to look out of the coach’s window for a long moment.

Presently, he spoke again.

“Oh dear, where was I? Ah, yes, I remember. Dorian was found by a British Catholic priest visiting the monastery and the church arranged for his return to me. We are and always have been one of England’s most prominent Catholic families and, I am proud to say, openly Catholic. However, I digress. I thanked God for Dorian’s return, but he… came back to me a very changed man. He had lost his memory of everything that had happened from the point of Sophia’s death. He did not remember joining the army or fighting. Crucially, he did not remember losing Sophia. I have for many months now pondered how to break the news to him. You see, he believes her to be still alive. I fear that his fragile mind will be utterly destroyed if he ever learns of the truth. Do you perhaps begin to see why I am so keen to meet you?”

Hester remembered his comment about her resemblance to Sophia and had jumped to a conclusion, but it seemed too ridiculous, too far-fetched to be real.

“You are surely not saying…” she began.

“That I wish you to impersonate Sophia. Yes, that is precisely what I ask of you,” Middleton intoned solemnly.

“But, Your Grace, that is… why it’s…”

“Ridiculous? Farcical? Mad? I agree. It is all of those things, but a father once bereaved will resort to the ridiculous, farcical, and mad, to save the life of his child once again.”

“I cannot spend the rest of my life pretending to be Sophia Bennett!” Hester exclaimed, “Not least because the Bennett family themselves would surely get wind of it. They too have lost a child. It would seem a ghastly, macabre joke to them that the Fairchilds are pretending that she is still alive. I am sorry, Your Grace, to be so blunt, but I cannot see how it could work.”

“Do not mistake me, Miss Haddington. I do not propose this as a long-term role. Merely until his mind has healed enough that his true memories return. His doctor says that this will happen over time but only if he is given a peaceful, calm, and safe place in which to recover. I can think of no place more peaceful and safe than his home with his wife. Now, as the healing takes place, you and I will need to be in close contact to discuss how we gradually remove you from your role, how we re-introduce Dorian to the truth. But, that is a conversation for a few weeks’ time. In the immediate, my concern is for my son’s recovery. I cannot break his heart by telling him the truth. I beg you, Miss Haddington. Do this for me. For us.”

He squeezed her hand and water was eked out of the fabric to drip onto her skirts. Hester didn’t notice. She looked into his imploring eyes, seeing all the pain of a desperate father. But one who has had his prayers answered once, had his son delivered to him from the dead.

“In return, I am prepared to offer you a new life.”

“That is very generous, Your Grace. But my life is dependent on my aunt and uncle. There was nothing left of my father’s estates and when I am once more Hester Haddington instead of Sophia Bennett, I will have nothing to my name once more. Except, I will have earned the eternal enmity of the Hasketts for running away. I will have nothing.”

“Why, you will have your father’s fortune, of course, Miss Haddington. I do not know why you believe there was nothing left. I must assume this is yet another aspect of the Haskett’s villainy. The fortune of the Earl of Audley was renowned and cannot have been consumed by death duties. Nor can such a fortune have been consumed by the avarice of your father’s sister and her husband. It surely exists, and I will use my considerable influence, wealth, and standing in court to ensure that you receive it. Then you will be free.”

Hester found herself gaping once again, but this time could not stop herself. Her world had shifted, turned on its head. First, Arthur, and now her entire concept of her circumstances. Her aunt and uncle had lied to her for all these years. Keeping her inheritance from her while they enjoyed the fruits of it. Astonishment turned to anger and resolve.

“Very well, Your Grace. I accept.”

 

Chapter Three

Oxfordshire

The countryside of Oxfordshire was much like that of Buckinghamshire. Hester knew it must be so, but as she had never, in her memory, been much beyond Goddington or her family home at Audley, she could not be certain.

The coach rode smoothly along a road that wound between fields and meadows with the rising sun behind them. Villages appeared and disappeared, the road they followed running by them but not through them. Off to the left, she could see a large line of hills, dark against the pale morning sky.

“Langley Grange is there, right at the foot of Langley Peak, that’s the hill you can see,” Middleton pointed out.

He was sitting next to her and they had spent the journey thus far with one last rehearsal of Hester’s story. It was the story that Dorian had been told and that she would reinforce. Her grandmother, Lady Cynthia Purcell from York, had fallen ill and Hester, or rather Sophia, had been obliged to take care of her. The old lady had sadly passed away. This would explain any odd behavior from Hester, the vagaries of grief. Hester had spent the last three days learning about Sophia Bennett and her marriage to Dorian Fairchild. Her interests and passions, her accomplishments, and foibles. She could recount the occasion of Sophia’s first meeting with Dorian and the key moments of their story, at least those that Middleton was aware of.

Presently, Hester was a tumult of emotions.

Excitement was chief among them at the moment, but trepidation was not far behind. Anger ran through it all like the streaks of color in marble. Anger at the Haskett’s who had treated her like a servant and lied to her. Anger towards Arthur, but only to a degree. He had allowed himself to speak of love and elopement while knowing that he could not carry through his promises. She could not paint him a liar though, merely a man whose head and heart were at war. It did cut her deeply that his feelings for her had not been strong enough to win through against what his head told him to do. She thought herself a fool for believing him and a fool for agreeing to this escapade. It was so patently ludicrous that it could not possibly work. Nor could she promise herself that she would be able to continue with it. The idea of deliberately lying to an innocent person, and such a monstrous lie at that, for weeks on end was unthinkable to her.

“Remember, this is all for Dorian’s own good. And, selfishly, for me. So that I do not risk losing my only son a second time,” Middleton had told her on more than one occasion.

Hester clung to that and told herself that the only alternative was to return to Goddington and face punishment. In all likelihood, a lifetime of punishment. There was no alternative.

A dark speck against the looming Langley Peak began to grow larger. They had turned from the west and were heading more towards the south, but angling towards the great peak. Hester could see that it rose from a chain of hills that ran more or less north to south. Another series of rolling downs reached towards that line of high ground from the east, meeting it at right angles. In the gap between these ranges was the dark speck that soon became a mass and then a crenelated shape of stone and mortar.

Langley Grange.

The house was of dark stone, giving the appearance of an antique structure and bearing none of the hallmarks of modern, fashionable design. It was square and rose to three stories in height. Its front door was housed in a huge, stone arch, appearing distinctly medieval. A forest of chimneys rose from a multitude of rooftops that rose at all angles from the simple structure.

The road passed between an ornamental gate, entwined with ivy, and standing open with the air of not having been closed for years. Gateposts were almost swamped by ivy too. Aspen and alder stood dotted around the long grass of the park, pioneers of the woodland that loomed behind the house and reached out as though to embrace it.

“It has been somewhat neglected of late,” Middleton observed with a distinctive blush, “there has been a high turnover of staff due to my son’s condition. Initially, it made him somewhat unpredictable. But, that has improved greatly, have no fear.”

His words degenerated into a cough, then a series of coughs until he sat back in his seat, gasping.

“Your Grace, are you quite well? You are very pale,” Hester exclaimed, her hands hovering in the air just before the elderly Duke.

Middleton nodded and forced a smile. “Age, my dear. Just age. And this damnably inclement weather. Damp air plays merry hell with the lungs. If you’ll pardon my French. At least the gout has subsided for the time being.”

The coach came to a halt before the imposing, medieval doorway. It opened, and a man strode out.

Hester found herself staring. He wore black, but so elegantly that it did not seem plain at all. A silk brocade waistcoat was accentuated by a silver watch chain, while silver thread had been worked into the collar of his coat and its sleeves. A cravat of dark purple was held in place by an onyx-headed pin. His hair was long and dark, hanging from his temples to his shoulders. An aquiline nose and a sharp jawline gave him an angular and exotic face. Like that of an Italian prince. His shoulders were broad and he was tall, surpassing the height of his father. There was an air of strength about him that Hester had not encountered before, from any man. Her heart beat faster as his dark eyes fell on her. His brows were drawn down, intensifying his stare.

Time slowed as Hester’s blue eyes met his impenetrably dark stare. She felt stripped by that stare, as though he saw through her clothes to her naked skin. As though he stripped away her pretenses to see the real her beneath. The feeling was intensely exciting. She had thought, while kissing Arthur, that she knew of the excitement that a man could cause in a woman. That she had experience of it from Arthur’s embraces. But they were cold compared to the heat that she felt rise within her at her first sight of her ‘husband.’ For that is what she would now be pretending that he was to her. This enigmatic, darkly handsome giant was to be her husband. In name, if not face. But what if he wanted to make her his wife? What if he wanted to take her? The idea had her gasping, clamping a hand over her mouth.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Middleton inquired anxiously.

“Quite well,” Hester replied in a whisper.

Dorian had reached the coach and pulled open the door. With one booted foot, he released the catch that unlocked the steps. They folded to the ground and he held out a hand for Hester. She wore no gloves and felt a thrill as her skin touched his. His hands were smooth, though she could feel the lines of scars upon them. His grip was firm, making her feel that if she swooned without warning, she need not fear. He would catch her and his strength would support her without effort.

With her feet on the ground, Hester looked up at Dorian. It was as though their eyes had held each other since the first moment, without a break. This close, she could see that his eyes were the color of chocolate with hints of hazel. For a moment, he stared at her with blank incomprehension on his face.

“Dorian. I have missed you,” Hester choked out.

Hardly believing her own daring, she stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his cheek. Her head spun. He wore cologne that was spicy and musky at the same time. Its sheer maleness was overwhelming, making her think of his body, his muscle. He was an immensely physical man. She could well imagine him on the battlefield, atop a charger, holding a sword and leading men into battle.

Dorian suddenly smiled and it was like sunshine breaking through clouds. His brooding demeanor vanished as though it had not existed. The smile lit up his face. It was boyish and roguish by equal measures. Both exciting and endearing. She could not help but return it.

“My dearest wife. My Sophia! How I have missed you so!” Dorian exclaimed.

Without warning, he wrapped his arms about her waist and lifted her into the air to spin her around. Hester screamed in delight, smiling, and laughing, clutching at the bonnet she wore. It was pale blue to match her dress. She had not tied it and Dorian seized it, pulling it from her head and tossing it aside.

“My golden-haired princess!” he declared.

Putting her back on her feet, he ran the fingers of both hands through her hair, making her skin tingle in delight. Then, he kissed her on the lips. Compared to Arthur’s, Dorian’s kisses were suns compared to a candle. Hester rose on her tiptoes to press her lips tighter against his. His hands were strong, holding her against him, slipping from her hair to hold her body in a tight embrace. All the while, his lips set her entire body afire.

“Now, now, children. Remember, your old father is waiting to get indoors in front of a fire, and with a warm drop of brandy. Save such behavior for when you have retired to your bedchambers,” Middleton exclaimed.

The kiss ended, though Hester remained poised on tiptoes, eyes closed. Finally, she opened them and found herself staring into Dorian’s eyes.

“Welcome home,” he whispered. Then he raised his eyes to the carriage where the footman was helping Middleton down, “Thank you for bringing her back to me, Father. And it is good to see you back on your feet.”

“Just in time to partake of your excellent wine cellar,” Middleton chortled.

“Now, now, Your Grace,” Hester spoke, adopting his own colloquialism and tone, but remembering that she had been told that Sophia was also most solicitous of Middleton’s health, “that is what brought on the attack of gout in the first place. Dorian, you must make sure that your father is moderate in his habits while he is here.”

Dorian grinned. “You know him as well as I. Could anyone ever make him do something he did not wish to?”

“You will, I command it.” 

It was another aspect of Sophia’s playful and confident nature. But it was also not far from her own. She had grown fond of Middleton in the last few days and the concern she expressed for his health was genuine.

Dorian nodded gravely. “Your wish, as ever, is my command,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

Look out for its full release on Amazon on the 19th of May!

Chapter One

1809

Seth stared down at the burning staircase. He knew that he didn’t have long. Flames licked the wood and wreathed the banisters. It seemed impossible, but the longer he waited, the worse it would become. The girl was wrapped in his coat, held against his chest with her legs wrapped around his waist. He held her with both arms and whispered to her as she cried for her father. Coughing from the acrid smoke, he took his first step. The riser creaked but held. Second step. Held. Third step. The wood cracked beneath his heel and only lightning reactions saved him from falling backwards. Had he done so, he had no doubt the entire staircase would have collapsed under his weight and both he and the child he was trying to save would have been lost. Seth charged, flinging aside caution, courage flaring brighter than the flames that reached over him and across the ceiling. His charge was accompanied by a deafening crash as the tortured, scorched wood reached the limits of its strength. He kept his eyes on the dark opening in the flames at the foot of the stairs.

Down there was a flagstone floor and the door that led out into the blessedly cool night air. He almost reached it. At the third step from the bottom, the wood gave way beneath his foot, snaring it. He toppled forward, and seizing the child about the waist, he hurled her away from him as he fell. If he became trapped in the burning staircase, at least she would have a chance. His hands broke his fall, smacking against solid stone. The girl tumbled ahead of him, looking back with wide, terrified eyes. She froze and he realized she was too terrified to save herself, even with salvation just a few feet away.

“Go! Run!” he tried to shout, but all that came out was a croak, followed by a choking, wracking cough as smoke invaded his lungs.

She did not move. Seth pushed himself up, feeling the flames at work on his legs where they lay against the burning stairs. He swatted at them as he tried to get to his feet.

“Isadora!” came a man’s voice from outside.

“Papa!” the girl screamed, turning towards the door.

Seth looked up to see a stocky man with a shock of fair hair that matched the girl’s, hurtling in through the open door of the house. He caught a glimpse of someone outside hurling a bucket of water towards the house. The villagers of Twyford had rallied to put out the fire that was consuming the Lodge. The fair-haired man scooped up his daughter and ran from the place. At that moment, something unbearably heavy landed on Seth’s back. The breath rushed from his body and he was flattened to the ground. The stone floor had been heated by the fire and it seared the palms of his hands. Seth lifted them away but could not lift his head enough to remove his right temple and cheek from the searing touch of the stone. The smell of burning flesh filled his nose, terrified in the knowledge that it was his own. Looking up, he saw the doorway ringed in flames and the man outside, holding his daughter. He was looking back, meeting Seth’s eyes but not venturing into the house a second time.

“Help me!” Seth screamed until the smoke choked him.

The doorway disappeared as, with a crash of timber, a section of roof fell in. Even if he were able to lift the beam that pinned him, there was no way out of the burning house.

 

***

 

Seth screamed. He clawed his way awake, kicking at the bedclothes. Then the freezing air of the room hit him, his breath fogging in front of his face. Not the searing heat of a burning house. He stared blindly into the dark, the dream still alive inside his head. Ten years on and it felt as real as though it had only just happened. Moonlight spilled into his bedchamber through the open curtains. Frost was gathering at the corners of the window panes. He took deep lungfuls of air, feeling the sweat cooling on his naked body. He always slept naked, liking the feel of cool sheets against the scarring that banded his back. Now the chill air of the unheated room served to dampen the flames of the nightmare. Seth ran a shaking hand through his auburn hair, now dark with sweat. The nightmare was not a fabrication. Not a concoction of his mind distilled from childhood fears. It was a memory. The memory of an act of bravery by a fifteen-year-old who was heir to a Dukedom. An act that had gone unrecognized when he had been left to die by the father of the girl he saved.

Seth swung his legs from the bed, casting aside the bedclothes. He stood and walked to the wardrobe, taking out a shirt and a pair of breeches. The cold did not bother him. He welcomed it. No fire was ever lit in the castle, not in any room that he occupied. There were no carpets, only cold, hard stone. No wall hangings to soften the stark lines of the walls either. Centuries-old tapestries had been stripped when he inherited Bellmore Castle. Anything that would provide fuel to a fire. The clock on the mantle chimed two. No more sleep would come to him that night. Not after a visitation of his recurring nightmare.

Before leaving his bedchamber, he picked up the leather mask that covered the right side of his face, securing it in place with ties that went around his head. It was plain, black leather, covering his face from forehead to jawline. Then he walked through the interconnected rooms that made up his personal quarters in the castle, occupying the entirety of the top floor of the north wing. No lamps were needed to find his way through the maze of rooms and passages to the library. There, and only there, would he light an encased lamp, in order to provide the light to read by. The remainder of the evening would be spent in this way, his mind occupied by the words of his favorite authors, distracted and soothed.

As he neared the library, he heard a noise. It was furtive and small. The kind of noise made by someone or something that did not wish to be observed. A mouse or rat, he thought. Or one of the many ghosts that haunted Bellmore Castle, according to folklore. It wouldn’t have been the first time that he had witnessed unexplained occurrences in the castle. Then he saw the light from under the library door. It shone briefly, as though someone had approached the door carrying a lantern. Then it faded. Seth felt anger rise within him. The servants were permitted the use of lanterns to perform their duties at night but none should have been abroad at this hour. He strode to the doors of the library and flung them wide. The Black Library of Bellmore was notorious for its collection of volumes on the subject of the occult and supernatural. His grandfather had been an avid collector. It had fed into the legends of the Bellmore Curse, leading local people to believe that the Ashbourne’s of Bellmore were devil worshippers.

It formed a dome at the center of the castle, a piece of classical architecture reminiscent of Rome or Greece in the middle of a sprawling medieval castle. A window at the apex of that dome allowed cold moonlight to spill to the stone floor. A figure was crossing that circle of white light as Seth entered the room. It was cloaked and hooded. In one hand, it held a lantern high. In the other, it held something in a bundle. It whirled as Seth entered, face shadowed by the hood. Seth grinned, baring teeth, as he marched towards it. He was unarmed but blessed with height and breadth of shoulder. He had compensated for the years spent convalescing from his burns by ensuring his body was as strong as it could be.

“I commend you on your courage. Few will risk the curse of Bellmore to venture anywhere near the castle, let alone enter it. To do so for the purpose of stealing is quite the feat of courage,” Seth muttered.

The figure tensed as though to take flight.

“Do not bother running. I am not alone, you see,” Seth added.

He whistled, long and high. For a moment, only silence answered him. Then came the sound of paws against stone and two large hounds appeared in the doorway behind Seth. Their shoulders were level with his waist and, at the sight of the stranger, their hackles rose. Heads lowered and ears flattened. Twin growls rumbled from the animals as they took up positions on either side of their master.

“Would you match your speed against theirs?” Seth asked.

“I would not.”

It was a man’s voice coming from the hood. His shoulders slumped and he reached up to push back the hood. Seth frowned, looking upon a ruddy, square face with unruly fair hair, almost pure white in the moonlight. There was something familiar about that face. A moment later, it came to him. He pointed at the man.

“Take him!” he snarled.

The two hounds leaped to obey. They were at a dead run in two strides, teeth bared.

“Mercy! For my daughter’s sake! You saved her once!” the man yelled, holding up his hands, dropping the bundle he carried.

“Hold!” Seth barked.

As if his voice were a leash about their necks, the two dogs skidded to a halt. They were mere feet away from the burglar and regarded him with unblinking eyes and lips peeled back from teeth. As far as they were concerned, the hunt had merely been postponed.

“I recognize you. You left me to die once upon a time. After I risked my life to save your child,” Seth snarled.

“I… I am sorry. I was a coward. Her mother died in childbirth. I am all she has in the world. I couldn’t bring myself to risk my life to save you.”

“And by your cowardice, you set the course of my life for me. The life of a hermit, excluded by society, feared. Regarded as a monster.” Seth spat.

He reached up to untie the leather cords securing the mask in place. He stepped forward into the moonlight as he took the mask away. The man recoiled at the sight of his face.

“Not a reaction I relish every time I enter a room,” Seth murmured, “and you have the audacity to claim the title of gentleman. A Baron, no less.”

“I do, and I bear the shame of my actions, but I do not regret them. My courage would have been a far greater sin than cowardice had it resulted in my death. My Isadora would have been orphaned.”

Seth felt his anger within him, as ferocious as the flames that had tried to consume him. He found himself clenching his fists, wanting to strike the man who had left him to die and now returned to steal. He crouched and picked up the cloth-wrapped bundle. It was a book, ancient and priceless. A bible with illuminated parchment pages that had been handed down through generations of the Ashbourne family.

“Rescued from the fall of Jerusalem by Geoffrey Ashbourne, an ancestor of mine and a Captain of the Knights Templar,” Seth said, “said to have been blessed by the first pope. Priceless.”

“They say you are a heathen. A barbarian. Something so precious should be protected by the church!”

Seth threw back his head and laughed. “Heathen? Aye, I am no lover of the Church and no friend of God. He has been no friend to me. But do not pretend that this is a crusade for you, George Fairfax. You are a burglar, not a Templar.”

Fairfax looked away and Seth grinned wolfishly.

“I was desperate. Everyone knows of the Templar Bible and its worth. I was offered a king’s ransom by… by someone for it.”

“Desperate? Do the estates of Henlade not provide for you and your daughter, Baron?” Seth asked.

“We are reduced to a cottage in the village, rented from a local farmer. We do not even have the means of rebuilding the last of my family’s estate, the Twyford Lodge that burned down…”

Seth held up a hand. “Yes, I remember that night well, though it was a decade ago.”

Fairfax drew himself up proudly. “I do what I do for my daughter. I will face my punishment as a man. As a Fairfax. We have fallen upon challenging times, but my family has as proud a heritage as yours.”

“Punishment? For stealing from a Duke? You would be transported and your daughter with you. Or else she would end up a ward of the shire, in a workhouse.”

He saw the tremor in Fairfax’s lips. The glimmer of a tear in his eye. Seth knew that this had been a last, desperate roll of the dice. He knew about desperation. It had been the desperation of a dying man that had given him the strength to lift the beam and crawl from the burning house. No matter his fearsome appearance and reputation, Seth found that he could not bring himself to raise the hue and cry. To see Fairfax clapped in irons and his daughter effectively orphaned. She would be the same age now as he had been when he had saved her life.

“I will decide your punishment. Not the magistrate. You are on my land and I claim the right to justice,” Seth said, “ten years ago, I paid dearly for the life of your daughter. I claim it now. When she has reached her majority and been introduced to society, I will claim her as my wife.”

Chapter Two

4 years later

Isadora wanted to skip to her aunt’s carriage. Her feet felt lighter than air, despite an evening in which she had partaken of every dance. She walked towards the carriage, arm in arm with Cousin Charlotte. They laughed and giggled as they left the residence of Sir Obadiah Keats, their host for the evening. Agnes Strickland walked ahead of them, mother to Charlotte and aunt to Isadora. She walked with dignity on the arm of Elliot Keats, son, and heir to Sir Obadiah, the textile magnate whose wealth from industry had purchased for him a place among the elite of Hampshire society.

“Such fun, Lottie! I do declare. And Stonymeadow Hall is a delightful residence.”

“Keats Hall, Izzie,” Charlotte corrected.

“Ah, yes, I was forgetting. I hope that Master Elliot did not overhear,” she whispered.

Isadora looked at her cousin who was blushing too. They were a contrasting pair, though as close as sisters. Isadora was tall and willowy, with golden hair and blue eyes. Charlotte was shorter and with dark hair and brown eyes. Isadora had the button nose and smattering of freckles that she had inherited from her mother, while Charlotte’s nose was pointed as were the noses of her father and brother. Ahead of them, Elliot Keats was in deep conversation with Lady Agnes. Charlotte was watching him as he walked, her blush deepening.

“He is very handsome, isn’t he?” Charlotte asked.

“Very. A trifle too lean for my taste,” Isadora said.

“You are awful, Izzie. Fancy saying something like that. As though we were cattle farmers at market,” Charlotte protested.

But she laughed. Isadora had always been able to make her cousin laugh and delighted in doing it. Her introduction to Charlotte had not been in the most ideal of circumstances. The sudden death of her father had taken away the core of her very being. In a life of change and turmoil, he had been her one constant. To then discover that the remainder of his estate was eaten up by death taxes, leaving her destitute, was another blow. But Aunt Agnes had insisted. There was plenty of room in the house of her son, the Earl of Swingfield, with herself and her daughter, Charlotte.

“That is what women and men become when the subject of choosing a mate arises,” Isadora continued, “Father and I used to attend the village dances when we lived in Twyford, near Winchester. I can remember seeing the village men and village women of marriageable age eyeing each other up from across the room. If you want to get to the heart of what makes us tick as human beings, go to a village dance.”

Charlotte laughed, her own upbringing as the daughter of an earl being considerably more sheltered than Isadora’s, as the daughter of a bankrupt baron.

“I noticed that you danced with Master Elliot more than you danced with any other man,” Isadora ventured.

“He is a magnificent dancer and an intelligent, humorous conversationalist,” Charlotte replied, “I am almost jealous that it is Mama who is being escorted to the carriage by him.”

“Aunt Agnes will be singing your praises, have no fear,” Isadora said, “and if she is not, then I certainly will.”

Charlotte hugged her cousin’s arm. “You are far braver than I, Izzie. You would just march up to him and ask him what he thinks of me, wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” Isadora replied, and meant it, “growing up among the children of farmers, I learned to speak up or be ignored. I was never very good at being ignored.”

They walked through the ornamental gardens at the south side of Keats Manor, following a gravel path that led to a towering fountain. Torches had been placed along the path with flames that burned with assorted colors. Charlotte was amazed by the effect and Isadora explained how it was achieved by burning powders made of varied materials.

“How clever you are Izzie,” Charlotte enthused, “it must be all that time you spend in my brother’s library.”

“Papa could not afford a governess for me when I was a child. I learned my letters with the village children of Twyford, at Sunday school. I think it has left me with something of a passion for learning and reading,” Isadora replied.

“You would have been welcome to my governess,” Charlotte complained, “she was responsible for giving me a lifelong distaste for learning and reading.”

“But you do enjoy the plays and poetry I read to you.”

“Oh yes, but that is because you are a fine narrator. You make the words come alive. Were I to read those books for myself, I would promptly fall asleep,” Charlotte giggled.

She looked at her cousin for a moment, then asked. “You danced with a fair few handsome young gentlemen yourself, Izzie. Was there anyone in particular?”

Isadora glanced around. Other couples walked behind them, filing casually from the palatial house towards the fountain and the circular driveway where carriages and drivers awaited their masters. None were close enough to overhear and were engrossed in their own conversations besides. The question touched on a delicate matter, one that Isadora would rather have kept secret, as indeed she had for the past year since the death of her father. But she could keep no secrets from Charlotte, her cousin in fact and sister in spirit. The fact that she had not discussed this with Charlotte before now was a source of guilt for her. But, she would not lie or evade a direct question.

“There were one or two who were handsome and charming,” she began.

Charlotte’s eyes lit up and she clutched at Isadora’s arm. “Oh, wonderful. Do tell me who!”

“I will not because nothing can come of it,” Isadora said firmly.

“Is it because you do not have a dowry? Because you must know that Henry regards you as a sister, and Mama, as a daughter. They will provide you with a dowry. You will not have to ask, they will not take no for an answer, and for that matter…”

Isadora smiled fondly and pressed a finger to her cousin’s lips. She was a dear girl and positively bubbling with enthusiasm, especially on the subject of love and marriage. But, she was getting ahead of herself.

“There can be no possibility of marriage, for that matter has already been decided.”

Charlotte’s look of surprise was almost comical. Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open until she remembered herself and snapped it shut.

“I have not seen you being courted by anyone and there have been no gentlemen callers,” she whispered.

“This was arranged by my father before he died. I was not consulted,” Isadora said.

She could not keep the chagrin from her voice. She had always thought to marry for love. There had been many evenings between herself and Charlotte, spent in idle fantasy, wondering who they would marry and what he would be like. To discover that a binding agreement had been entered into without her knowledge, the matter decided for her, had been a shock.

“Father left me a letter to read after his death in which he explained that he had promised my hand to a man in marriage. That the match would bring me title and wealth, a comfortable life.”

“Who? Who? Who?” Charlotte said, sounding like an owl.

“That is the problem,” Isadora replied, “I do not know who. Papa did not specify. Only that I would be sent for when my future husband decides the time is right. As though I were a chattel, no more than property, like a piece of furniture.”

Isadora’s temper rose as she spoke, her voice rising with it. Aunt Agnes glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dancing over the two younger women as though to check all was well. Isadora swallowed the flare of anger and smiled reassuringly. It hurt to keep this from Agnes and Charlotte, Henry too, but she did not want them to think badly of her father. He had made mistakes in his life and had confessed them all to her. She knew that he had resorted to stealing in order to feed and clothe her and she forgave him. He had taken work that should have been beneath a member of the titled aristocracy, burning with shame, but he had done it. Isadora did not need to forgive that. There was no sin in working to provide for one’s child. She herself had secretly taken on work, assisting at the Twyford Sunday school in exchange for a few pennies. But, she would not shame his memory.

“So, you have no idea who you are to marry?” Charlotte sounded horrified.

“None,” Isadora said stoically, “but I trust papa’s judgment. He would not promise me to a man who was not worthy.”

In truth, she felt a good deal less stoic than she sounded. Her father would regard a good match as being a man with the means to provide for her and the appropriate social station. But he could be a cruel man or a foolish man. Isadora felt a good deal of trepidation, her heart racing every time a letter was delivered to her or there was a knock at the door. She did not know how long she could go on living in a state of nervous anticipation.

“Uncle George would certainly not do that,” Charlotte agreed, “but his idea of suitability and yours might be very different. I mean, the Beast of Bellmore is a Duke and presumably wealthy. But, he would not be in any way a suitable husband.”

Isadora shuddered at the thought. “Father would not promise me to a man like him. Besides, he is a recluse, up there in his cursed castle. When would my father have ever had the opportunity to discuss it with him.”

“Never,” Charlotte said firmly, “but it could be someone equally as cruel and…and…well, beastly.”

They had reached the fountain and joined Lady Agnes and Master Elliot Keats waiting for the carriage from Swingfield Manor to be drawn up. A warning look from Isadora told her cousin to change the subject. She would broach it with Aunt Agnes in due course. This was not the time. As they embarked onto the carriage and it was driven away, Isadora allowed herself to be swept along by the conversation between Aunt Agnes and Charlotte, singing the praises of Keats Hall and the ball that had been arranged by Sir Obadiah. Keats Hall lay south-west of Winchester, an hours ride from the village of Twyford where Isadora had grown up. Their road home to Swingfield Manor took them south towards the town of Romsey, climbing hills before descending into the valley of the River Test. As they rode, Aunt Agnes seemed to notice that Isadora was not contributing actively to the conversation.

“Is there something wrong, Isadora?” she asked in a kind tone.

Isadora found herself woken from a reverie in which she had been contemplating the arranged marriage her father had made for her. She saw the concern on her aunt’s face, the creases at her eyes and the tightening of her lips. Agnes Strickland, Dowager Countess of Swingfield, had always treated Isadora as her second daughter. She was a woman of genuine kindness and infinite compassion. Isadora would not worry her for the world. She smiled brightly.

“Nothing at all, Aunt Agnes. I think the evening is catching up with me, that’s all. I think I could fall asleep here in the carriage.”

“You girls did too much dancing and not enough eating. There was a suitable amount of food and drink provided by Sir Obadiah, copious amounts in fact. I’m sure most of it will go to waste but that is the kind of man he is. He likes to show off his wealth.”

There was a note of disapproval in Agnes’ voice. Isadora nodded and allowed the conversation to move on again, sitting back in a corner of the carriage and letting her thoughts wander. When would she meet the man to whom she had been promised? And who was he?

Chapter Three

Isadora tried to forget the issue the next day. It dawned bright and warm. She breakfasted with her family and she, Charlotte, and Henry, shared anecdotes about the Keat’s ball.

“It was acceptable,” said Henry, Earl of Swingfield, munching on a piece of toast, “the musicians were above average but the food left a lot to be desired.”

“I thought the food was wonderful,” said Charlotte, spreading jam with gusto, “and so much of it!”

“A sure sign of a man of low birth. Sir Obadiah flaunts his wealth,” Agnes commented, sipping tea delicately.

Henry grunted and Charlotte looked heavenward as though pondering her mother’s opinion. At that moment, there came a knock at the door of the breakfast room. Swingfield Manor’s butler, Mr. Wainwright, came in at his master’s call, bearing a silver tray. Atop it were a number of envelopes and a card. Mr. Wainwright was slope-shouldered and tall, appearing to walk with a stoop even though he always had his back straight. His hair was dark and held in rigid waves back from his temple. His eyebrows were thunderous and his demeanor endlessly serious.

“A gentleman awaits your lordship’s pleasure in the drawing room,” he intoned gravely.

Henry picked up the card which lay atop the pile of envelopes.

“Mr. Cornelius Shadrack, Solicitor-at-Law, Gray’s Inn, London,” he read, “I don’t know the gentleman. Do you, mama?”

Agnes shook her head, reaching for the card which Henry gave to her.

“It means nothing to me, I’m afraid. My personal affairs are managed by Mr. Shelby who looks after the estate. Have you recently engaged another solicitor, Henry?”

“I have not. Perhaps this fellow is touting for business. If he is, he will get short shrift,” Henry said with a grunt. “Imagine turning up at this hour. Most unprofessional. Well, he can wait.”

Charlotte and Isadora exchanged glances, the mystery mildly exciting. Isadora’s own affairs were taken care of by Mr. Brendan Shelby, the solicitor for the Strickland family and the Swingfield estate. Neither she nor Charlotte had much cause to be involved with legal matters, that was left to cousin Henry and Aunt Agnes. Charlotte soon broached the subject of Mr. Elliot Keats, a favorite topic for her. She and Charlotte spent the remainder of breakfast discussing his virtues, with contributions from Aunt Agnes. Henry was reading his correspondence while Mr. Wainwright poured him tea. He occasionally leavened the praise with characteristically pessimistic comments on the vices of the Keats family. He did this without looking up from his letters or stopping to notice if his comments were received.

An hour passed before he sighed loudly, putting aside his correspondence and rising. He threw down his napkin.

“I suppose this fellow from London must be seen as he has taken the trouble to come all this way,” he finally declared.

With that, Henry left the room. The women also rose, breakfast over.

“Will we take advantage of this glorious day to take the trap out?” she said.

“Oh yes!” Isadora replied, “the wind in our air and the sun on our faces will be simply wonderful on a day like this. I think I will take us up the valley towards Timsbury. We can stop for elevenses at that lovely little tea shop there.”

“And I can pop into Mrs. Gulliver’s dress shop. Last time we were there, she mentioned that she was getting a new consignment of material in that lovely shade of blue that I like from the Keats Mills. It should have arrived by now and I would dearly love to see what wonders she has performed with it.”

Worries about arranged marriages could not have been further from Isadora’s mind at that moment. The day was glorious and she loved nothing more than driving the trap around the countryside with Charlotte. She took it out most days except when the weather forbade it. Even then, she would drive it in the rain if not the fact that Charlotte and Aunt Agnes would worry for her. She did not mind taking excursions on her own. All she needed was the countryside and a good road. Swingfield’s stables were excellent and she knew all of Henry’s horses, even helped the stable hands to care for them in order to build a bond with the animals. They left the breakfast room arm in arm and planning their morning’s adventure, when Henry appeared from the drawing room.

“Isadora, might I have a word,” he said in a more than usually somber tone.

Isadora frowned and stopped. He looked to Charlotte and then to Aunt Agnes who had followed the two young women out of the breakfast room.

“I’m afraid I must disrupt your plans, cousin. Mr. Shadrack has brought most disturbing news. Would you come with me, please?”

“What on earth is going on, Henry?” Agnes asked.

Isadora felt a chill run down her spine and her mind leaped to the arranged marriage. Was she finally to be deprived of her freedom? But then, why should she obey an arrangement that was made without her consent and whose chief architect was now deceased?

“Mr. Shadrack has come here to talk to Cousin Isadora, mother. It is a private matter,” Henry said.

“Nonsense. If this man has official business with Isadora, then it is entirely proper that she should be represented by her family. You and I will be present, of course.”

“And I,” Charlotte said stoutly.

“No, dear. I must insist that you retire to your room for the time being,” Agnes said, “come Henry, Isadora, let us see what this man wants.”

Isadora followed her aunt, glad for her seizing control of the situation. It gave her some comfort to know that Agnes would always protect her, Henry too in his own gruff way. She had always been able to rely on her father for that protection, until his ill health had deprived her of him. While she considered herself to be independent and capable, sometimes it was nice to be able to lean on her family.

Agnes strode along the hallway towards the drawing room. Before she reached it though, it opened. A tall man with long, straight white hair stepped out. He wore black and carried a cane that he stabbed at the ground in front of him. He wore spectacles, but they seemed to be completely black, hiding his eyes. As he strode towards them, Isadora realized that the man was blind. With unerring accuracy, the blind man strode forward and came to a halt directly in front of them, head turning from left to right as though surveying the three people before him.

“My Lady Swingfield and Miss Fairfax. I am Cornelius Shadrack.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shadrack,” Agnes replied with a hint of frost in her voice, “may I ask what business you have with my niece?”

“That is a private matter, your ladyship. Miss Fairfax would not wish it discussed too openly.” Shadrack spoke in a clipped tone and his head whipped towards Agnes as he spoke.

“I find that a quite bizarre statement to make as you are standing in my home and making demands on my niece’s time. You will state your business, sir, or leave,” Agnes said, the frost now coating every word.

“My business is to give notice to Miss Fairfax that the man to whom she has been promised in marriage wishes for the commitment to now be fulfilled. The ceremony is to take place next week.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Isadora felt an icy fist gripping her insides. Agnes openly gaped and Henry grunted.

“Perhaps we should all go into the drawing room…” he began.

“Why on earth should she? When was this commitment entered into and with whose consent?” Agnes demanded, ignoring her son.

“Arranged by the late Lord Henlade, her father.” Shadrack replied abruptly, “and in answer to your first question, she is entirely free to break the covenant entered into by her father. But if she does, there will be consequences.”

“I do not believe I am hearing this!” Agnes said.

“Aunt Agnes, it is quite alright. I think I should speak to Mr. Shadrack about this,” Isadora finally spoke.

Agnes looked at her, opening her mouth to speak. But Isadora remembered the letter, and her father’s confession to her on his deathbed. She remembered the act he had confessed to, the act which had led to him being forced to give away his only daughter. It was a secret that her father had been so desperate in his need to provide for her that he had resorted to an attempt to steal in order to do just that. George Fairfax was regarded as a man of honor and integrity by all who knew him. Isadora would protect that memory with everything she had.

“You do not need to, Isadora,” Henry said, glowering at Shadrack.

“I know, Henry. And thank you both, but I must address this matter myself,” Isadora said, swallowing against the fear that gripped her.

Shadrack had already turned smartly on his heel and stalked back towards the drawing room, cane stabbing at the carpeted floor as he went. Isadora took a breath and followed him. To her relief, Agnes and Henry did not follow, though she could hear them whispering furiously to each other. Entering the drawing room, she closed the doors behind herself. Mr. Shadrack had found his way to a chair by the fire and sat, hands atop his cane, waiting.

“I know of the arrangement my father made and the reasons for it. I must tell you that I am loath to honor an agreement I was not consulted about.”

“Then my employer will be forced to renege on his own side of the agreement entered into,” Shadrack replied, head turning unerringly to face her.

“And what does that mean?” Isadora asked.

“That he will let it be known that Lord George Fairfax of Henlade was caught, red-handed, attempting to steal a priceless artefact from my employer’s own library. Also, that in a craven display of cowardice, he left my employer to die. And this after my employer had saved the life of Lord Henlade’s only child. Namely, yourself,” Shadrack intoned, still looking in her direction.

Unsettled by his ability to locate her so precisely, Isadora stepped to one side, sitting in an armchair. With only the small sounds of her dress brushing against the chair to go on, Shadrack’s dark spectacles found her once again. She felt pinned in place, like a butterfly under glass.

“Why would he want to expose my father? Lord Henlade is dead and is well thought of. Why would anyone want to sully his memory with such accusations?” Isadora implored, horrified at the very idea.

“Because my employer was wronged and has a strong belief in natural justice. Such justice must be served whether or not the perpetrator has left this mortal world. The sins of the father and so on.”

“Who is your employer?” Isadora asked in a small voice.

“His Grace, the Duke of Bellmore,” Shadrack replied, again in a clipped tone.

Isadora gasped. The Beast of Bellmore! The recluse who lived in a castle rumored to be haunted and even cursed. Tales were told of Bellmore in hushed whispers. A pack of savage hounds were reputed to be allowed to roam the grounds of Bellmore Castle, to savage any intruder. Tales were also told of the Duke himself. Tales of a cruel man, last in a line of cruel men, cursed by God and rejected by society.

“I do not wish to marry him,” Isadora muttered resolutely.

“Do you wish it to be known that your father was a thief? Or a coward?” Shadrack said brutally.

“No!” she replied sharply, “you will not sully his name. Nor will Bellmore. Do you understand, Mr. Shadrack!”

When faced with a threat to her dear father’s memory, Isadora found that she could be fierce. She still felt afraid but the need to protect him ruled her, gave her strength.

“I am instructed to tell you that His Grace considers this a marriage in name only. He does not wish for an heir and does not care for the Bellmore name beyond his own death. He will not require consummation of the marriage. All he asks is that you become his wife and reside at Bellmore with him.”

Isadora nodded, tears filling her eyes. Tears of grief for the happy life at Swingfield that was now coming to an end. She had thought that after the years of privation and struggle that she and her father had endured, that happier times had now been reached. But, it seemed that fate had other plans.

The sunlit days of summer were over for her. Winter was beckoning.

Look out for the full release on the 26th of April!