Chapter One

 

“It is simply imperative for a young woman who has passed the age of eighteen years to make it her goal to become a wife,” Diana Sutton proclaimed.

The room was immediately filled with the murmured agreement from a half dozen other ladies present. Regardless of personal opinion, they all spoke. None would dare do otherwise. Two ladies did not voice agreement. One spoke.

“Is eighteen not a little young to be considering signing one’s life away?” Sarah Sutton asked.

She sat immediately to the left of her aunt, the Dowager Countess Foster. Sarah’s hair was light brown and with natural curls the bounced and bobbed about her apple-cheeked, blue-eyed face. By contrast, the Dowager Countess lived up to her name, her hair was dyed black as night and a black beauty spot occupied the left corner of her mouth, today, but migrated according to her whims. Dark eyes and a statuesque face completed the image of a gypsy queen. Though none would dare make such a comparison in her hearing. There was much that could not be said directly to Diana Sutton’s face.

Except, of course, by her niece.

“Sarah, dear. You are young and lacking the experience of the world that I have. You are also far beyond that optimum age of which I have spoken. It was to you, that I was primarily addressing my remark,” Diana replied, lifting a teacup with a raised little finger and sipping delicately as if to punctuate her words.

The sitting room of Moncrieff Manor was light and airy. Tall windows let in rays of sunshine as well as the sight of the Manor’s fashionably well-kept gardens. The decor was in perfect taste, elegant but not overbearing. The ladies who occupied it were of similar taste. The only exception was Sarah. She wore a dark dress, plain but well-tailored, suitable for her plans for the day. Her shoes were not the delicate slippers of the other ladies, but stout and practical. Despite this, her beauty outshone every bejeweled and perfumed lady in the room, though she would have disagreed.

Diana cast her eyes momentarily to her niece with an expression of disapproval. Then she looked at one of the other ladies.

“Victoria, your daughter has recently become engaged,” Diana said.

“Indeed she has, Your Ladyship. Just before her nineteenth birthday and she could not be happier,” said Lady Victoria Cherwell, sounding grateful to have been asked.

“Madeleine, you have three daughters,” Diana said, turning her attention to a lady sitting next to Lady Victoria.

“Indeed so, Your Ladyship. All three married before they were twenty.”

“You see, Sarah. All happy and contented wives and mothers. That is our purpose, after all,” Diana said.

“Ah, I’m glad you used that word, Aunt Diana,” Sarah said. “Purpose. Our purpose. That is what I am trying to discover for myself, in fact.”

“It does not need to be discovered, my dear. It is self-evident,” Diana said in a tone that brooked no argument.

And for anyone else, there would have been none.

“It is not to me,” Sarah said, not unkindly.

She smiled as she spoke, softening the edges of her words to ensure they did not sound impertinent. There was a limit to how far she could push the boundaries of behavior with such a woman as the Dowager Countess. The line was far more blurred for her than for anyone else in the world. But it did exist.

“Does anyone else have anything to say to our wayward young lady of…” Diana raised her eyes heavenward for a moment as though recalling. “…two-and-twenty years.”

The emphasis was placed on the word ‘twenty’, just slightly. Diana Sutton would never do anything as crass as making a point bluntly. Sarah spotted the barb and smiled widely, hiding it behind a raised tea cup. Though she did not think it of herself, Diana was as subtle as a bull at times.

“It is the men who run the country, the great houses, the world in fact,” said Lady Emily Butterworth, wife to an Earl. “But behind each great man stands an accomplished wife. She knows how to raise his heirs, how to entertain those who would be his allies. How to increase his prestige with her own female achievements.”

“Well put, Emily,” Diana congratulated.

“But, what if a woman were never standing behind a man but beside him? What if the purpose of my life was to…I don’t know…become a celebrated academic and add to the knowledge of our civilization. Or a physician or…” Sarah unconsciously copied her Aunt’s earlier mannerism of looking heavenward in thought. “…Heaven forbid, a politician?”

The reaction was a heartbeat late in coming as the room waited to see what the Dowager Countess thought. She sniffed. They gave their reactions with gasps and murmurs of disapprobation. Sarah sighed. The event had been organized in order to present her with a group of women with married daughters. To persuade her that she should be making the finding of a husband her primary goal. But as determined as Diana was to convince her niece to marry, Sarah was equally as determined not to be rushed. Two immovable forces.

“May one ask, if Lady Sarah’s objective is not to find a husband, what it actually is?” asked Veronica Neilsland, wife to a Baronet.

Diana turned to look directly at her niece, one eyebrow raised.

“An excellent question. Well done, Lady Veronica,” she said, without looking at the woman.

Sarah politely directed her answer at the woman who had asked the question. She noticed the slight blush on her cheeks, raised by the approval of the Dowager Countess. Inwardly, she laughed to herself that her Aunt could produce such an effect.

But perhaps I should study how she achieves it. Is it not my ambition to wield a similar influence one day?

“I simply do not know, Lady Veronica,” Sarah said honestly. “I have something of a passion for the written word and have dabbled in poetry. I also enjoy painting.” She paused for a moment, thinking, again casting her eyes skyward, “I should like to travel, I think. To see something of the world.”

“Marvelous, magnificent,” Diana said enthusiastically. “All hobbies that can be indulged as wife to a respectable gentleman. I myself completed the Grand Tour no fewer than five times with my late husband. I also added many honest and honorable pastimes to my accomplishments.”

The chorus dutifully chimed in with their agreement. The only one who did not, but simply quietly listened, sipping tea, eyes missing nothing, was the woman who sat to the right of the Dowager Countess. Julia Sutton did not resemble her mother. She had her father’s height, though her golden hair would have matched Diana’s, had Diana not developed a penchant for black, as though to match her name. Sarah had noticed her cousin’s reticence and had not looked in her direction.

The comments will come, dropped into conversation here and there with a friendly smile and under the guise of a dutiful sister, though she is neither dutiful nor my sister. But the words will be sharp in their intent. Julia will not pass an opportunity to criticize. Especially on the subject of my living off her brother’s charity.

Sarah’s eyes went to the window and the gardens, with woods beyond. The shattered remnants of a tower were visible in those trees – part of the ruined castle that had been the first structure built on the site by the medieval Moncrieff family, of whom the Suttons were a descendant. The place had always been one of mystery and allure to Sarah, but also peace and tranquility. It was to that place that she went with easel and paints, or notebook and pencil. There, surrounded by nature busily reclaiming the work of man, she found solace from the sharp knives of Moncrieff Manor.

All except for Aunt Diana. Dear Aunt Diana. She may be imperious and somewhat close-minded but she has my best intentions at heart. I cannot say the same for Julia or Alexander.

The rest of the afternoon passed in somewhat dull conversation with Diana prompting her Ladies-in-waiting for opinions or stories, all of which Sarah could see were aimed at her and the subject of marriage. She smiled and listened attentively, and continued rebuffing the arguments her Aunt was making.

“One day, Aunt Diana. I shall meet a man with whom I shall fall madly in love and I shall marry and raise a family. But, I wish to find my own fulfillment first. However, if my true love were to walk through that door tomorrow, perhaps that will change,” Sarah said, an hour later.

Diana gave her niece a long, hard look. Then smiled and clasped her hand. Julia shifted in her seat, looking away.

“That will have to do then, my dear,” Diana said. “For now. Though I cannot promise I will not make it my mission to introduce as many acceptable gentlemen through that very door as I can. I will see you married, mark my words.”

 

Chapter Two

Daylight assaulted Leonardo Eversea. He groaned and closed his eyes from the narrow slit that had been his previous attempt at opening them. The sound of Seething Lane was rising to the garret that was his ramshackle terraced house. Hawkers, children crying, horses trampling. The sounds of ordinary Londoners going about their day. It was all too much. His head pounded like a drum. The ray of sunlight falling across him through the curtainless windows was unbearably hot and his mouth was dry as sand.

He tried again, this time managing a blink and a bleary-eyed glance around the room. The bed he lay atop was empty but for him. He was fully dressed, one boot on and the other…somewhere else. The fireplace was cold and dark.

“Up and at ‘em!” Thomas yelled as he kicked in the door and entered the room.

Leonardo winced, shielding his light-gray eyes, and peering towards the intruder.

“Lord, Tom. How can you be so loud?”

“Because I am a master drinker and you, my friend, are an amateur,” Thomas said.

He deposited an assortment of items onto a table that had one leg shorter than the others. Picking one out, he tossed it towards Leonardo, who caught it. It was a bread roll, still warm from the oven. Leonardo tore into it and then reached out for the stoppered clay bottle that he saw on the table.

“Cider, beer, or wine?” he asked.

“Neither. Milk,” Thomas said, handing it over.

Leonardo unstoppered the bottle and greedily took several long swallows.

“By God, when did London become so damn hot!” he complained.

“When it entered June, traditionally a summer month. But His Grace, the Duke of Ravenhurst, would not notice the heat so much if he chose a civilized residence, set amid its own part, light and airy and breezy. Instead of a tenement slum in a mire of humanity.”

“I have such a residence. I would rather my household not see me like this,” Leonardo said.

He swung his legs to the floor, regretting the move as his head swam. He chased a mouthful of bread with another mouthful of milk. Leonardo had hair the color of coal, contrasting to his steel-gray eyes. Wincing, he flexed broad shoulders, working stiffness out of them. Thomas also had dark hair, though shot through with lighter sparks of auburn. His eyes were blue and his face round. It was a face predisposed to smiling. Leonardo was a study in frowns and brooding glares, his cheeks angular and eyes perpetually narrowed. The only softness to his face was full, almost sensuous lips.

“This is the last time,” Leonardo said.

“Oh, I have heard that before!” Thomas crowed.

He hopped onto the table at the opposite side to the wobbly leg, balancing it. Picking up an apple, he took a bite.

“I mean it. This is not just the buyer’s remorse after a heavy night. I made a promise.”

“The old man is gone, Leo. He will not know…” Thomas began.

The look Leonardo gave him stopped the words in his throat. Thomas swallowed a mouthful of apple and looked abashed.

“Sorry, old chap. But…”

“An apology from you is always followed by a but, Tom. Let it go. Father made me swear that I would find a wife and settle down. The continuation of the Eversea name was all that mattered to him in the end.”

“The Everseas were here before there was an England,” Thomas said, somberly. “I heard him say it many times.”

“Yes. About time I began to take it seriously,” Leonardo snapped, made irritable by the state of his head.

Damn and bloody blast it! How many times must I do this to myself! I swear it Father, I will make you proud.

“Well, I will support my oldest friend as much as I am able. Even if it means seeing you shackled for life. Or…”

Leonardo pointed a warning at his friend, gray eyes hard. “Do not say it, Tom. I want no word of comparison between my father and me on that subject. I shall choose a wife that will neither shackle nor betray me. I will not end up like my father.”

Thomas shrugged, resuming munching on his apple.

“Then it will take a rare woman. One that you will not fall in love with and leave yourself so exposed. One that will allow you to enjoy yourself without complaint.”

“Love is not a requirement. A respectable woman who can produce an heir should be enough to fulfill my promise. There will be Everseas after me.”

“As you say,” Thomas replied, with a look of skepticism on his face that spoke volumes.

“Where is my purse?” Leonardo said, looking around him.

“Gone the same way as mine, old chap. We lost heavily last night. The perils of drinking first, gambling second. We were taken advantage of in the Hellfire Club, cleaned out playing Loo.”

Leonardo cursed, getting to his feet. “I shall have to speak to my bankers then and draw a fresh draught of money. What was I thinking, playing Loo atop a bellyful of brandy? Who do we owe?”

Thomas grimaced. “Monty,” he replied.

“Lord! Of all people! Moncrief is insufferable at the best of times. We shall have to win it back. I will not be in debt to that jackanapes,” Leonardo said.

Thomas grinned, leaping to his feet. “Well said, Ravenhurst! Shall I arrange a game for tonight?”

“Yes. No. What am I doing? A few seconds and I’m already breaking my own resolution. You are a bad influence,” Leonardo said, getting to his feet and picking up his coat from where it lay over the back of a chair.

“Moi?” Thomas said in protest.

“My business today is to return to the Mews and make myself presentable. Then draw some money and begin the task of presenting myself as an eligible bachelor to the Ton. Alexander will have to wait.”

“And we’ll have to endure his smugness whenever we see him next. You know he will take pains to ensure he is present at any social event we are,” Thomas complained.

“So be it. He can have his little victory until I have time to win the war. He’ll not find me such easy meat next time we play Loo. And I’ll make him pay for taking advantage,” Leonardo said with decisiveness.

He took up an apple from a pile on the table, sifting through the other refreshments Thomas had collected. His choice of the decrepit garret as a base for his visits to gambling halls and taverns was based on its anonymity. No household staff and a district where it was not safe to pay too much close attention to what one’s neighbors got up to. Had he been in the habit of returning, dead drunk, to his official London residence at the Royal Mews, Charing Cross, it would prove much harder to find a wife. A Duke known to be a worthless rake was as unappealing as a beggar. To the right kind of woman, anyway.

Leonardo moved aside the dirty lace curtains that screened the garret’s small window. Below, he saw a flower seller standing in the shadow of the Tower. A man hawked meat pies a few yards further down. Sheep were appearing at the top of the muddy street, being driven south towards the river. For a moment he felt an unbearable longing for the freedom those people had.

Probably an illusion. They are not forced to marry a complete stranger or have the direction of their lives set for them from the moment of their birth. But, they are also free to starve. Not as free as it seems. I should be grateful for what I have. But it feels like chains.

The pair finished their improvised breakfast and, concealing their faces beneath broad-brimmed hats, left the garret to find a carriage. Thomas hopped from the conveyance midway along the Strand to walk the remaining distance to his house on Cecil Street. Leonardo pulled down the blinds after his friend’s departure and closed his eyes in the stifling darkness of the carriage. Presently, it stopped at Charing Cross and Leonardo disembarked, crossing the street, and entering the Royal Mews. His house dominated the quiet cul-de-sac, a mansion of several floors, with two front-facing entrances. It was made of dark brick and white plaster, its roof a forest of chimneys.

When the front door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief. Another nocturnal adventure over and now safe at home, away from prying eyes. Once upon a time, his father would have summoned him, notified of his return by a servant. Leonardo would have been forced to stand in his study and endure a scathing assessment of his reckless and feckless behavior. Now that the old man was gone, Leonardo missed those tongue lashings.

A pile of envelopes sat on a table next to the door, upon a silver tray. He picked them up and crossed the long, marble-floored entrance hall towards the house’s imperious staircase. One caught his eye in particular.

An invitation from the famed Dowager Countess Foster? How it must have pained her to invite me. Rank does have its uses. Were I not a Duke of ancient and revered name, she would not allow me to pass the threshold. Not with my reputation. It will be a good place to start in my search for a wife.

 

Chapter Three

 

Sarah inspected herself in the full-length dress mirror. The dress was her usual taste, understated but elegant. Earrings of silver with small, cut rubies glittered among her bouncing curls that looked sometimes chocolate brown and sometimes bronze, depending on how the light caught them. The rubies were the perfect accompaniment to her hair and she enjoyed the contrast of the red against her bright, blue eyes.

I will certainly do. Not the brightest jewel in Aunt Diana’s crown but far from fading into the background. The center of attention will always be Cousin Julia anyway. And she is welcome to it.

There was a sharp rap on the door to her dressing room. Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, finding a calm center. A knock at the door of her dressing room meant that the knocker had already let themselves into her chamber, passing through the sitting room and study without waiting. And from the peremptory sound of the knock, it could only be one person.

“Come in, Julia,” Sarah called out in a pleasant, light tone.

Since you are already halfway in already.

The door opened and Julia Sutton stepped into the room. She cast a critical eye over her cousin’s choice of dress.

“Is that how you intend to present yourself this evening? Or are you yet to change?”

“I am changed and ready to receive our guests,” Sarah said patiently.

“Really? I would not have thought so. I mean to say, Sarah. You do realize that Mama is putting this whole soiree on for the purpose of introducing you to a husband?”

Sarah turned away from Julia and walked briskly through the study into the sitting room. A jug of punch sat on a table along with a cut glass goblet. Sarah poured herself some and sipped at it, using it to screen her irritation.

“Because, you really cannot be a burden to poor Alexander forever you know,” Julia persisted, following her.

Julia was festooned with jewels, gold, and silver which sparkled with precious stones. The finery was intended to distract from her plain features and too-long neck, which she had attempted to hide with artfully worked hair. Sarah offered her cousin a glass of punch but she waved it away irritably.

“I know that last week at the tea party Mama arranged, you were very forthright about not marrying. Even though you are now two-and-twenty – practically an old woman. But in reality, marriage means you are no longer Alexander’s responsibility.”

“I do not wish to be anyone’s responsibility. I should like to earn my own living,” Sarah said.

Even as she said it, she knew it had been a mistake. One did not express such views in front of either Aunt Diana or her daughter. Julia looked incredulous.

“Earn? Earn? Oh, it is worse than I thought. Not content with living off my brother, you would bring ridicule on the Sutton name. How do you intend to earn your living, pray tell? Mining? Farming? Perhaps you will become a pig farmer?”

Sarah felt the beginnings of anger at her cousin’s relentless hostility. It had always been so, born out of a competitive nature in the other woman. Sarah suspected that Julia was jealous of the closeness Sarah had with Diana, Julia’s mother. They had always found more in common than Diana had with either of her children. Alexander seemed blithely unaware of the distance between him and his mother. Julia was affronted.

An angry answer welled up in Sarah but she was spared the argument that would have ensued by another knock at the door.

“Come in!” Sarah called out, with no little relief.

The door opened to admit Alexander Sutton, Earl of Moncrieff. He had his sister’s coloring and height, though he was prone to portliness, while she remained willow slender.

“Ah, you’re both here. Good. All set for this evening’s ball?” he said with eagerness, rubbing his hands together.

“We are, Xander,” Sarah said. “Would you care for some punch? Mrs. Galloway made up a fresh batch this afternoon and it is excellent.”

“Do not mind me then,” Alexander said, coming into the room.

Sarah poured him a glass while Julia sniffed disdainfully. He sipped it, then took a gulp, smacking his lips.

“Excellent as always!”

“Xander, really. You should not make that noise when you drink. You sound like a stableman,” Julia complained, taking a seat in the room’s most comfortable armchair.

“In private I shall be nothing but myself. I have a long enough evening of pretense ahead of me as it is,” Alexander replied with a smile.

He held up his glass to Sarah. “Cheers,” Sarah said, refilling hers.

“Do I detect the usual friction in the air?” Alexander asked, tossing back the rest of his glass, and helping himself to more.

“I am sure you detect no such thing,” Julia replied, loftily.

When her cousin looked away, Sarah winked at Alexander. He suppressed a smile.

“I should think not too. This evening is about presenting our family in the best possible light. There are some guests that I particularly wish to impress.”

“Oh, who is that, Xander?” Sarah asked, seating herself on a chaise and patting the seat next to her.

Alexander accepted the invitation. Sarah arranged herself in a position of attentiveness.

I will show Julia how much of a burden I am. Cousin Xander is a lovely man and a true gentleman. Whatever support he wishes with any of the guests invited this evening, he will have it from me.

“A number of people actually. All very influential among polite society and beneficial for our family to be counted alongside. I should like your help in particular, Sarah. Your interest in the arts and nature give you a much wider scope of conversation…”

Julia was on her feet in a moment. “Oh, really, Xander. The implication being that I am limited! That is the last straw, perhaps I will not deign to attend at all given how superfluous I clearly am!”

Without allowing a single word in between her own, she flounced from the room, slamming the door behind her. Sarah looked at Alexander in open-mouthed astonishment.

“What was all that about?” she asked.

Alexander spread his hands hopelessly. “She is so infernally sensitive. I think perhaps she is a little jealous of you.”

“Of me! How ridiculous. Julia has such beauty and grace and is far more knowledgeable about society than I. She is much more at home at a function like this. I would rather do my dancing at the village fair. Although, I suppose I should not say so. Do you think that I should be focusing on finding a husband, as your mother does?”

“Good Lord no!” Alexander said quickly. “Have no fear, cousin. I would not join in with Mama’s determination to arrange your life for you. I think your desire to experience the world is admirable.”

Sarah smiled, patting his hand. Alexander could always be relied upon to lend his support and provide a shoulder to lean on. As a child, he had been distant, but as an adult, it seemed he was trying to make up for that aloofness. He squeezed her fingers in his own.

“I could not help but overhear what my sister was saying. About you being a burden on me? I want you to know that it could not be further from the truth. There will always be a place here for you. After all, it was your father that was the Earl, not mine.”

“I know, and I am grateful, Xander. Sometimes Julia’s disdain is somewhat relentless. It is good to know that you do not share it.”

Alexander smiled and looked as though he would say something else, but stopped himself.

“Well, I should return to the preparations. There is still much to be done.”

He lifted her hand and blew a kiss to it without touching it, then he stood and left the room. Sarah decided to lend her support and find out how she could be of help. Below the family rooms on the third floor, the house was a bustling, kicked anthill of activity. As she left her sitting room, she saw her Aunt coming along the passageway. Alexander turned a corner at the far end, deep in the giving of instructions to the butler, Greaves.

“Was Alexander just in your rooms?” Diana asked.

“Morning, Aunt Diana. Yes, he was,” Sarah replied.

Diana frowned, looking after her son.

“Is there something wrong, Aunt Diana?” Sarah asked.

Diana beckoned her close, still watching the end of the hallway. Then she looked at Sarah with penetrating dark eyes.

“Have a care with him,” she said.

Sarah frowned, wondering if it was a warning for her to keep her distance.

Surely, she does not think I have designs on my own cousin?

“He has always been a cold one, quite unlike me or his father. I would say he takes after my brother, Roderick. A black sheep if ever there was one,” Diana said. “Do not take what he says at face value, and always remember that Alexander never acts without a motive.”

Look out for its full release on the 9th of May!

Chapter One

Today had to be the very worst day of Annabelle’s entire life.  

At the very least, it had been the worst day of her life to date and if tomorrow was not significantly better, she did not think that she would be able to endure it. It was only fitting that her night ended in an equally terrible fashion. It was all that Annabelle could do to keep one foot moving slowly in front of the other. Her right leg ached terribly, causing her gait to be uneven and drastically slowing her progress. The bitter night air bit at her through the loose knit of her shawl.

Do not cry… do not cry. Keep moving.

The mantra repeated over and over in her head. She would not allow herself to stop to think of another single word. Not with how frightened she was presently, being in unfamiliar woods, alone, with the nighttime darkness rapidly descending upon her. It was wholly and abjectly terrifying. She would not think about how much damage she did to her ankle by further abusing it nor would she think about the gnawing ache in her stomach from having skipped dinner.

It felt like she had run away from home a year ago rather than a handful of hours.

A tree bough caught the edge of her shawl and attempted to rip it from her nearly frozen fingers as she walked past its branch. Annabelle yelped in surprise and had to pull the thing free with so much force that she feared she might faint in her efforts.

But the interruption broke her mantra.

Suddenly, the world felt overwhelmingly large and frightening. Her path felt impossible — her destination too far to be considered attainable. Everything around her was too much and instantly overwhelming.

For the span of a breath, she almost let it swallow her. For only that moment in time, she allowed herself to feel it before she pushed it down deep inside of her like she had learned to do with every other unpleasant emotion.

Then, she trudged onward.

Her boots were soaked through, and her hem was caked in six inches of mud and muck as she finally left the forest’s edge, approaching the castle she had set her sights on. Hoping to find refuge there was a long shot, but it was also the only option that she had. If only for a single night of warmth and hospitality before she was forced to head out into the world once more.

Though she was proficient at thinking on her feet, the cold hindered her creative process. She knew not what she would do if they were to turn her away.

There were no attendants or footmen to greet her on the way up the small trail, but oddly, it only gave her more hope. It was obvious that the castle was still well cared for, with the gardens well-maintained despite the beginnings of a frost. There was no light projecting from any of the windows. The castle, with its imposing stone walls and grand turrets, loomed before her, its air of authority unmistakable…but she was desperate. Now was not the time for her to be concerned with social decorum.

Annabelle’s frozen knuckles rapped on the castle’s door — unable to bring herself to knock on the ornately designed lion’s head knocker. It looked too cold and heavy for her to bother with. Without any signs of life coming from inside of the castle, her heart started to sink in her chest. She had placed all of her hope on seeking sanctuary here…if she did not find it, she was not entirely certain what she would do.

She knocked again. The longer that she stood in one place, the more the cold started to get to her. It could not end this way. No day could be that horrible.

Footsteps shuffled on the other end of the door and finally, the heavy oak started to pull open. She could have sung, she was so happy. The stern expression on an otherwise pretty, round-faced housekeeper greeted her.

“Might I help you?” She took in the way that Annabelle trembled with the cold and the state of her dress before giving the visitor a chance to answer. “Oh, you poor dear…come inside, quickly now.”

“Thank you ma’am, thank you so kindly,” Annabelle’s teeth chattered against her very best efforts as she quickly ducked inside of the castle walls. She felt leaps and bounds better the moment she was no longer being bitten at by the wind.

The housekeeper pulled her own shawl from her shoulders and draped it around Annabelle’s. She rubbed at her upper arms in hopes of restoring some of the lost body heat. “I had thought that we had received the very last of the applicants on account of the oncoming bad weather…I never would have imagined that a young lady such as yourself would have braved it!” The housekeeper paused, something seeming to dawn on her. “Is there a carriage out there? Good heavens, you did not walk here did you?”

Annabelle smiled sheepishly to hide her confusion at the housekeeper’s implication. “…I’m afraid I did, ma’am.”

She wasn’t foolish enough to inquire about the nature of the applicants. If they felt that she was supposed to be here for some reason or another — she was not going to correct them.

“Come, right in here — there is a lovely fire going.” The housekeeper draped an arm around Annabelle’s slender shoulders and pulled her into a large drawing room. To the far end of the room was a solitary fireplace that served as the only light in the room. Despite the number of large windows and candle sconces affixed to the walls, only the fireplace was lit. A lone tea cart and a modest selection of finger foods were placed on a table near the kettle and a book lay open but upside down on the arm of one of the two high-backed armchairs. “You will have to forgive me, I would have kept the kitchens open should I have known that you were coming. Alas, with the girls having such very strict bedtimes I am afraid that the castle has been rather shut down for a few hours now.”

Annabelle nodded along as if she understood and took the seat across from the housekeeper as she poured some tea. Annabelle accepted the tea happily and cupped the warmth in her hands.

“I’m Mrs. Cecilia Reed, the housekeeper. I’m certain that you surmised as much as the posting implied you would be meeting with me. Mr. Knowles is otherwise occupied, but should you be given the position, you will meet our Steward in the morning. So, what is your name, dear?”

Annabelle’s heart hammered in a moment of panic. She had not bothered to think that far ahead. It seemed very unwise to give her true name, given that she was very much on the run from her family. Furthermore, she had no idea what the woman was speaking about….so a false name might be the best route to take. “E-Emily. Ma’am. Emily Burnett.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Burnett — tell me, do you–”

Whatever the kind housekeeper was about to ask was cut short by the sharp chime of a bell from across the hall. The welcoming smile on Cecilia’s face faltered for only a moment.

“Ah, well — that would be the master of the house then.” She shuffled forward and quickly ran her hands over Annabelle– Emily’s — hair and pushed it into the best semblance of order that she could muster and adjusted the way that her borrowed shawl sat on her shoulders. “Chin up dearie, and do try to maintain eye contact. His Grace prefers to be spoken to in a clear and concise manner. I do not mean to intimidate you, but you seem like a very tough young woman to have walked all of this way by yourself…you will certainly be capable of handling the energy of our two young wards. Go on then, off you go.”

Annabelle perked up, trying to puzzle together what precisely she was throwing herself into, but she did not question the housekeeper further. Reluctant to leave her tea just yet, she drank it entirely too quickly and burned her tongue and throat painfully. At least the warmth was nice. It troubled her to think that whatever position this household was hiring for…the true applicant might show at any moment. She would simply have to play along for tonight and once she had gotten a good night’s rest…she could clarify everything in the morning. It was not as if any decent gentleman would kick out a young woman into the cold, whether she got this mystery position or not.

It felt as if she had somehow walked into a dream and she was merely playing a role.

Anything for a warm bed.

She followed the housekeeper across the hall, then through a cracked doorway, leading to a room unlike the ones before it. Rather than being sparsely decorated and overly formal feeling… this small study was warm and every surface in the room aside from the chairs held books upon books. Small trinkets from far-off lands were placed on top of them and a warm, lingering scent of tobacco and brandy hung in the air. She could have explored every inch of this room for days and been unlikely to discover all of its secrets. The desk was piled high in disorganized heaps of paper and behind it — the Duke of Somerton.

She had heard stories of his stern and bitter features…he was a man rumored to never smile. From her first impressions, she could certainly see why. Despite having summoned the pair of women into the room, he seemed irritated that they were interrupting him with their presence.

“That will be all Mrs. Reed, thank you.” His voice was deep and rich. Soothing, like warm hotcakes covered in butter and syrup on a brisk morning. He did not look up from his work as his quill scratched across the surface of his parchment. “Sit.”

It was not a question, but a command, as he gestured with the end of his quill to one of the armchairs across from him. Unsure of what else to do, Annabelle complied immediately. She chose the seat closest to the fire on the left side of the room. He did not speak, so neither did she. It gave her the unique opportunity to study his features, to really absorb his long aquiline nose and strong jawline. He was broad and well-muscled. That much was apparent even through his formal clothing. His rolled-up sleeves revealed arms, strong and veiny, as thick as her thighs, hinting at the power he possessed. Raven hair hung in soft waves around his face in a length that was certainly longer than was considered fashionable by the other men of the ton. He had small specks of ink on the edges of his sleeves and circles of apparent exhaustion under his eyes. A very serious-seeming gentleman but something about him intrigued her.

“Your Grace, I must thank you for –” she started, and he scratched a line across the parchment that startled her. It was a wonder that the tip of his quill had not scratched clear through to the desk beneath. He lifted his deep brown eyes from under his brow up to her for the first time and she was transfixed. He was an intimidating sort of handsome…but she could hardly blink for her reluctance to tear her eyes from him for a single moment.

He studied her thoroughly. From the crown of her head to where her hands gripped her borrowed shawl and back again…but clearly did not find her wanting. It felt as if he were testing her, silently. Did he do that to every woman that he met?

No wonder some find him unpleasant.

As if he read her mind, he began, “There is no need for pleasantries, my lady, for the hour is late and I would prefer to conclude my business here. As I am certain you have been informed, my household is in dire need of a governess. I have very strict rules that I shall expect to be followed and conditions that I would expect you to adhere to without question should you be hired. The two young ladies in question will require a very firm, steady hand.”

“Your Grace, I—”

“I am not finished,” he clipped. Something flickered behind his eyes. “One of those conditions would be to not interrupt me while I am speaking to you. Is that acceptable to you?”

“…Yes, Your Grace.” She held her breath, waiting for his response.

He nodded once and his focus dropped back to his paper as he spoke. “I have a schedule that will be given to you of the girl’s day-to-day routine and I will not tolerate it being deviated from. Of course you will need to be responsible for both of them which can be troubling for some. They have run through a great many, highly recommended governesses in the past.”

He kept talking, but her attention drifted to the trinkets and tchotchkes that he had around the space as he prattled off his rules and expectations. She had no desire to actually be a governess… so it did not apply to her. Small elephant statues that seemed to be from India, books with titles in languages she could not hope to decipher, elegantly crafted candles, and most intriguingly of all…a pearl necklace on a small stand by the window.

Annabelle’s eyes lit up as a wave of familiarity passed through them at the object in question.

Could it truly be?

Her hand began to drift its way toward it to examine it further on instinct so much so, she had to consciously make an effort to keep it fixed on her lap. The spacing and the ornate clasp alone would have been memorable, but that particular necklace had once belonged to her mother… her real mother… before her tyrannical uncle had ripped apart Annabelle’s entire estate and inheritance for any sum of money that he could get his greedy hands on.

What was her mother’s Necklace doing here? Of all of the places that it could have wound up… how was it here? Annabelle squinted and leaned forward in her seat to see it more clearly, but stopped the moment that the Duke broke off from his words. He turned slowly in his chair to see what it was that she was looking at so very intently.

He glanced back at her, his gaze intense, waiting for her to ask about whatever it was that had so diverted her attention… but she was transfixed. The Duke’s brow rose in curiosity, but he did not call her on it. She could not leave without that necklace. One way or another fate had brought a family heirloom, her only connection to her past back into her life, and if she had to pretend to be a governess in order to get it back, then that was exactly what she was going to do. She would stay a day longer.  

Chapter Two

It was hard to look at the young lady directly. Francis Fitzroy considered himself a man not easily distracted, by nothing and never. A man of unwavering dedication and focus, he prided himself on his ability to excel in any endeavor he undertook. He ran his household with efficiency and a no-nonsense approach.

He was not the sort of man to fill his social calendar with anything that did not need to be there. Outside of networking and communicating with his business contacts, he did not enjoy spending time at balls or entertaining women looking to seduce him into marriage through insipid conversation. He found most people to be painfully tedious. Routine. He was arrogant enough to believe that he could read people and their intentions — he felt that once he spent ten minutes with someone, he could get a decent read on not only their character but what they wanted from him. Everybody always wanted something.

The employment posting that he had placed for a governess some months ago had yielded little fruit. He paid well enough to make it enticing but unfortunately, the subjects were unwilling to be governed. Always underfoot. Always in his way… getting into things… mucking about in places that children ought not to be. Each interview before this one had been the same. The women of various ages and backgrounds had all promised that there was no child too unruly. There was no challenge that they could not face, they welcomed difficult personalities for whatever reason they spouted. They all started conversations by listing their accolades and yet when they were put in front of the children, every single one of them left running.

This young woman, however, appeared absolutely terrified from the get-go.

No, terrified was not the correct word. It was not nerves either. She seemed… flighty. Normally that would not appeal to him but her eyes were affixed so widely that she was very much the deer in the meadow. She could not focus on any one thing for longer than a moment. She shifted in her seat, her gloved fingers nervously toying with the delicate lace of her shawl. While her demeanor and posture implied that she was a lady of good breeding in some fashion or another, he could not get a good read on her.

Which was wholly unacceptable.

Even more unacceptable was the fact that he found her unequivocally handsome. When he found a woman physically pleasing in his opinion, it was ordinarily easily displaced. Yet, he found himself unable to tear his eyes from her. An unfamiliar desire stirred within him, the urge to gather her into his arms and protect her from any harm.

Something about her made him feel the need to comfort her… to offer her a seat closer to the fire and a bedchamber for the night. The hour was late and she had arrived alone, she did not have so much as a bag with her.

A fact that suddenly piqued his curiosity.

If she were arriving to apply for a position, surely she would have been accompanied by a carriage, or at the very least, arrived with belongings, a traveling cloak? Rather, she looked as though she had simply left her house that afternoon and decided to run through the woods for amusement.

As such, he kept rambling with the hopes of getting a reaction out of her. He did not normally enjoy speaking quite so much.

“Do you have much experience with children?”

Her eyes had traveled to somewhere behind him. Curious as to what could have captured her so when nothing else he had said seemed to register, he glanced back. Knick-knacks and various books… nothing overly attention-grabbing, he did not think.

“Hm?” She hummed distractedly as she dragged her focus back to him.

“If you are not willing to take this seriously, then I would rather not waste either of our times,” Francis said sharply.

“Apologies, it has been a very long day, Your Grace. I assure you, I am very serious. I am unmarried and do not have any children, but it has always been a lifelong goal of mine to govern. I am convinced that it is my true calling.”

She held his gaze. Her almond-shaped green eyes locked clearly on his without fear or intimidation, and he was the one who looked away first. She was lying. He could not see why, or for what purpose – but she was lying. Something she had seen in his study had changed her entire demeanor. She sat straighter in her seat, her hands dropped to her lap neatly and stopped their fidgeting. Something had caused her to change her mind and he was desperate to know what it was. A puzzle sat before him, begging to be solved. Never before had he encountered a woman who so thoroughly captivated his interest.

“I see. Did you have experience with younger siblings then, perhaps?”

“No, Your Grace. I was an only child,” she answered plainly.

“The two young girls in question, Lilly and Penny—erm, Lillian and Penelope, have very… strong temperaments. What makes you believe that a woman with no prior experience should be considered for the position?” Francis asked.

Emily smiled. “I hardly think that my experience is what matters most here, Your Grace. Forgive my candor as I do not mean to offend, but it would appear that if you are entertaining interviews at such a late hour, you are rather desperate. I am willing and capable. I assure you, Your Grace, that my determination and commitment will become evident in due course.”

His lip twitched into a smirk in spite of himself. He had said that pleasantries would not be necessary.

“How old are you, Miss Emily?”

“…Old enough,” she stuttered.

“Please do not feel the need to be coy. I understand it is rude to inquire as to a lady’s age but you seem very young, and I fear that the girls might not respect a woman so close to their own age. I cannot tolerate disrespect from them.”

“I am six-and-twenty, Your Grace,” she lied easily. Too easily. He could feel it. Something about the way she hesitated only a second before answering. “But I am flattered that you find me so youthful.”

She was almost too confident. If he was being perfectly honest. She had only been here a handful of moments and yet her entire demeanor shifted a number of times. She wanted something from him and it was not a job. What could it possibly be? What could she have decided that was so important to her since wandering into the room?

Francis set his quill down and pushed aside his work, pointedly clearing the space in front of him. Then, he laced his fingers together on the desk and watched her with open curiosity. She was a very pretty thing, now that he allowed himself the permission to truly look at her. Freckles covered the bridge of her nose and muttered sparsely over her cheeks. A small beauty mark under her right eye and one just to the left of her chin drew focus to her full pink lips. She possessed a slender nose and a dimple in the center of her chin, lending her otherwise heart-shaped face a more angular appearance. Her gown, though modest and of simple cut was undeniably becoming, but he could have provided her with far nicer than that.

It surprised him that he even wanted to — that a thought such as that could even cross his mind.

“Do you have any of your papers with you, perhaps? I suspect that since you arrived in such a… state, you are unlikely to have them.”

“You are correct, Your Grace, I am afraid that I do not.”

“Did you lose them perhaps? I do hope that nothing untoward happened to you on your way here. I could not stomach the notion that something happened to you on my grounds or its surrounding lands,” Francis ventured.

“Oh! No! Nothing like that, Your Grace…”

“So you simply misplaced them before setting out on your journey?” Francis did not pause to wait for an answer that he was fairly certain he could guess at. “Shall I send out a search party for your missing carriage or perhaps, you were simply too excited about the prospect of gainful employment that you frolicked out of your home.”

He watched intently as she shifted in her chair and struggled to come up with some story that might make even the smallest amount of sense, all things considered. He knew that she did not have one, but he had not yet decided on whether or not that bothered him. It was a risk bringing a stranger into this house, he knew that much. However, he did not believe on any level that this woman across from him was a threat.

“Your Grace, I think that you seem to have formed a rather… unsavory impression of me perhaps but…”

There it was, a flicker of honesty. His thumb brushed his bottom lip in contemplation before he held up his hand to stop her from speaking. “It is of no consequence what I think of you, the only opinion that shall matter will be that of my wards.”

She pressed her lips together as if debating what she ought to say next, and settled on nothing at all.

“I suppose that we shall have you meet the girls over breakfast and get to know one another. I will have to make my final assessment then.”

Her eyes widened in delight. “Truly?”

He dipped his chin into a nod. “You stated your name is Emily?”

She fidgeted for a moment and nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“What is your real name?” he asked directly. Discovering her tells would be an intriguing endeavor for the forthcoming future.   

“W-what?”

“Do not be nervous, I do not blame you for lying. Your reasons or past do not concern me. I simply require your true name for legal purposes.”

“My name is Emily Burnett… .as I said.”

“No, it is not.”

Her jaw set firmly and her eyes narrowed. Was that irritation at being caught in her lie or something else entirely? He needed to know.

Francis rose from his seat and slowly walked around the desk until he could lean against the front of it. His knee brushed hers in the process and caused her to flinch in a nervous charm that allured him even more. “You speak the name as if it is foreign to you. As if you need to pause for a moment to recall the name that you have given yourself. I know not why you feel the need to pretend in this fashion, nor do I care. If your uneasiness is due to my proximity or the fact that you are aware that I am on to your ruse, that also does not concern me. What concerns me is that you will do this job the way that I demand it, and uphold my standards. Is that clear?”

She shifted once more, clearly uncomfortable, but did not move to put any additional space between them. Her chin lifted in his direction with an almost defiant air to her. She would not be intimidated by him. That much was obvious.

          Despite his best efforts to behave himself, his gaze involuntarily dropped to her shawl which had slipped from her shoulder, revealing the curves of her pale collarbone and bosom. It sent his pulse frantic and his eyes raised to meet hers. Everything seemed to disappear around them. What he would give to know what she was thinking at this very moment too. It would be no hardship on him whatsoever to see her around the castle for the upcoming days. At least until he could solve the riddle of her true nature and figure out what about her intrigued him so.

          She looked as though a rebuttal lingered on the tip of her tongue but remained silent.  

She was so close that he felt a strong temptation to pull her shawl back into place if only to brush against her body for a fleeting moment. However, the opportunity was denied to them both when his study door burst open with a heavy thud.

Chapter Three

It appeared to Annabelle that even the simplest of conversations could be enthralling to the right eavesdropper. A youthful creature, looking no older than the age of nine, bounded into the room unapologetically and loudly. If she took any notice of the tension in the room between its occupants or the way that the Duke’s shoulders seemed to seize when she ran toward him — she was not deterred.

The long-suffering sigh that Francis heaved was so soft that had Annabelle not been sitting so close to him, she might have missed it entirely. It was evident that this was one of the young girls whom she was to become a governess for, but discerning which one was an impossibility. The young girl did not even pause to acknowledge her. She wrapped her spindly arms around the Duke in a half-hearted hug which was not reciprocated before continuing to skip through the room, not caring in the slightest for the hour or that she was likely in a great amount of trouble.

A few moments later, Mrs. Reed appeared in the doorway, clutching her side as she struggled to catch her breath.

“Apologies, Your Grace… she was faster than I… snuck down the stairs and slid down the banister. It is fortunate that she did not snap her thin little neck! She gave me quite a fright!” Mrs. Reed wheezed.

The muscle in Francis’ jaw twitched with barely concealed irritation.

“I could not sleep, Your Grace!” The girl chimed as she started to skip around the desk. She touched everything within reach. Books and papers pushed out of place, knick-knacks nearly toppled from her careless prodding as she looked for anything that might serve as an excuse to remain in the room longer. “My mind simply would not allow it!”

“Your mind ought to be more occupied with sleeping,” Francis spoke through clenched teeth.

“But it is so full of ideas! Penny and I were reading the most lovely story! It told of a princess who was cursed! Naturally, Penny and I could not decide which one of us ought to be the princess… and which the witch.”

“Heresy,” Francis muttered under his breath. “If such stories prevent you from sleeping, then I shall have them removed.”

“No, you cannot!” The young girl, Lilly, as Annabelle surmised, was positively aghast at the very suggestion that one of her beloved stories might be taken away. “When I grow up, I will be a princess like the one in my stories and then I shall cast a kindness curse on you so that you will buy me every story that I should ever like!”

Lilly stuck her tongue out at the Duke in the most unladylike fashion. Her nostrils flared and the beginnings of a temper tantrum were evident in the way her features pinched together.

Francis took her firmly by the arm and led her toward the chair. He pulled her down into it a touch more roughly than he had meant to and the young girl’s bottom lip jutted out in a pout. Her arms crossed belligerently over her chest and she refused to look at him as he spoke. “You will be lucky that all you lose is that book, young girl, for you have broken yet another one of my rules.”

“Your rules are stupid! Why can I not play!”

Annabelle was honestly a little surprised that she didn’t stomp her foot in irritation too.

Francis seemed at his wit’s end. She could not claim to know him well enough to understand his temper or how badly he might behave if he were incensed, but it was obvious to her that he was exerting a lot of control to maintain his composure. She could not help but wonder just what their relationship was. Lilly looked nothing like him, she clearly was not his daughter — legitimate or otherwise.

“What will your royal name be?” Annabelle interjected. It was a question seemingly out of nowhere but it served the exact purpose that she wished for it to — both parties turned their focus to her curiously. “If you are to be a Princess, you shall need a royal name, as well as a Kingdom.”

“…Well I do not know…”

Annabelle nodded. “I thought not. For if you were serious about being a Princess, then you would know that a Princess could never speak to one of her subjects like that… let alone her King.”

Lilly seemed dumbstruck. Her jaw dropped as she floundered for a response.

“Can you imagine what it would look like to your subjects to see a princess speak to a king in such a way? She ought to apologize. A princess knows that her duty is to her kingdom, first and foremost. Above all things. A good princess is not allowed to simply follow her every impulse.” Annabelle shrugged, then gracefully clasped her hands in her lap. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting young Penny, but as she is the one in bed and you are not, I suppose that she would be a better choice to be princess.”

Lilly scooted forward, her expression suddenly serious. “No… no, I can be a good princess. I do not wish to be the witch!”

Annabelle nodded sagely. “But your actions have to reflect that, do they not?”

Slowly, Lilly turned her attention to Francis still leaning against the desk. Her smile turned bashful as she looked up at him. Her blinks were slow and her smile was repentant. “I petition the king for a pardon…”

Annabelle tried not to smile. She did not wish to shatter the ruse they had constructed. It all hinged on whether or not a man as strict and by the rulebook as Francis was willing to play along, even for a moment. All he had to do was pretend to pardon her and then Annabelle was fairly confident that she could coax the young girl back up to her bedroom. In the doorway, Mrs. Reed waited silently. She did not appear to be breathing at all.

Francis’ grip on the desk tightened until his knuckles started to turn white. He did not wish to. No doubt he would rather have Lilly pulled from his study and shut back up in her room until she listened to reason. Annabelle wondered if these were the first young children that he had ever come into contact with. How could he have become the guardian of two young girls in the first place? When the moment was right, she very much was looking forward to asking him the story there.

“You are pardoned,” Francis said finally. It seemed like the words physically pained him, but the effect they had on Lilly was instant.

She giggled with excitement and flung her arms around Francis’ middle as her cheek pressed into his sternum. “Oh thank you, king! Thank you! I shall be a good princess! I promise!”

“…Yes, see that you are. You are dismissed,” Francis finished awkwardly as he waited for Lilly to release him. Watching the interaction, she could not help but wonder if there was ever a circumstance in which he allowed himself to relax. Not simply to stop working, but to truly relax. There had to be a different side of him and she desperately wished to see it.

With a graceful flourish, Annabelle rose from her seat and extended her hand to the young girl, the delicate lace shawl slipping from her shoulders to rest upon the velvet chair. Lilly placed her hand in Annabelle’s happily and allowed herself to be pulled toward the door. She seemed a sweet child, but desperate for attention. Clearly, the Duke was reluctant to give it to her. He was likely one of those who felt that children ought to be seen and not heard. But he had played along, so perhaps there was still some hope for him yet.

“Will you be here when I wake up, ma’am?” Lilly asked sweetly as she tucked herself into Annabelle’s side.

Annabelle glanced back over her shoulder for confirmation. She smiled softly. “Yes, dear child, I do believe that I shall be here when you awaken. You shall have to introduce me to your sister. We can spend the day getting to know one another. Perhaps if we are very successful in our tasks, we shall have the time to start planning your princess names.”

“Oh! Yes please!” Lilly grinned happily. “What is your name?”

“You may address me as Miss Emily if it pleases you.”

“Very much so!”

Annabelle passed Lilly off to the housekeeper who held onto Lilly’s hand a touch more firmly than perhaps she needed to. It seemed she was afraid that the young girl would pull free out of her grasp and run back off once more.

Their footsteps receded down the hall, and the soft murmur of their conversation eventually faded from Annabelle’s hearing. The housekeeper was likely putting the young girl back to bed and hopefully accomplishing the task without also waking her sister. If Penny was anything like Lilly, then she was certainly going to have her work cut out for her.

“You seem like a natural.”

Annabelle spun on her heel, taking great care to not allow her gaze to shift back in the direction of the pearl necklace in the window. If she stared at it too much, he was going to catch onto her. “It is simple enough; she seems to be a sweet child.”

“Then you are already doomed to fail if you have been bewitched by her so easily.”

“Charmed is more like it. I am not so easily manipulated, as you will come to learn, Your Grace.”

“It would appear that there are a great many things that I will need to learn about you.”

His tone was suggestive and more than a little ominous. She would not pretend to know what it was that he could mean by that. He was not pressing the issue of her name any longer, but there would only be so long that he allowed her to be here under his employ without any papers or identification. His willingness to suspend disbelief would only carry her so far. She would have to act quickly to regain access to her precious family heirloom as well as learn how it was that he came to have it in the first place – that is if it truly was her mother’s. She would also have to spend some time crafting a more convincing backstory that would be easy enough to remember for the next time he asked her personal questions. She would be prepared then.

“I could say much the same, Your Grace, but as you are intent on hiring me, effective immediately, we will have plenty of time to get to know one another,” Annabelle said playfully. It was a gamble as to whether or not he would find her confidence irritating to him, or charming. She was hoping for the latter.

Francis smiled, more a subtle upturn of the corner of his lip than a full smile, but it still softened his face in the most compelling way. “I suppose that is very true.”

With a bold, yet playful air, she extended her right hand towards him, as if they needed to shake on it in order for their deal to be struck properly. Francis glanced down at her hand and his smile widened fractionally. Instead of shaking her hand, he lifted it between them until he could kiss the back of her gloved knuckles softly. His thumb caressed the delicate ridges of her hand, and he offered her a single, firm nod, his eyes locked on hers the whole time. “I will have you shown to your rooms. I look forward to seeing how long it takes them to shatter your confidence, Miss Burnett.”

“And I look forward to proving you wrong.” She could not stop the smile that spread over her features prettily. She could feel her face warming as he had not let go of her hand, nor had she pulled away from him. The subtle challenge in his eyes made her heart race.

No, it was more than that. It was more than just the way he made her fluster — something felt off. Her brow pinched and she tightened her grip on his hand to keep herself steady. “Apologies, Your Grace, I think that the day is finally catching up with me.”

“Of course, you have endured quite a lot. You are more than entitled to a good rest.” He reached behind him to the desk and lifted the bell that he had used to summon the pair of them earlier. A servant approached the open doorway. “Goodnight, Miss Emily.”

Look out for the Official Release on the 1st of May!

Prologue

“Faster, John!” Christopher Lockhart, the seventh Duke of Blackmoore, called, his head poking through the carriage window.

The driver whipped the horses, and the wheels rolled faster while Christopher removed his gold watch from his waistcoat and opened it to look at the time. He was late to the House of Lords, and he detested tardiness.

The carriage suddenly keeled, and the watch slipped from his hand. Christopher was not afforded the chance to understand what was happening before he lurched from his seat, the force causing the door to whip open as he was thrown out.

He was uncertain which part of him hit the ground first, but the pain was enough to momentarily rob him of consciousness.

Pained moans woke him, and as he tried to open his eyes, agony slashed through his skull, causing him to grind his teeth. He waited for a moment before he made another attempt at opening his eyes, registering the moan.

“H-help,” a voice cried, and for an instant, Christopher thought it was his. He was in need of help, too, but he forced his eyes to open, and he took in his surroundings.

The skies were dark with gray clouds obscuring the setting sun, while tiny droplets of rain fell. He could not recall when it started raining. The cry came again, and he discovered that it sounded near and from his left.

Turning his head with great effort, he saw someone in the distance, his driver, John, and he seemed to be underneath Christopher’s carriage. Rolling onto his chest, Christopher began crawling in the mud toward him whilst ignoring the pain in his skull and eye.

He could barely breathe by the time he reached the turned-over carriage, and his vision was darkening. Blinking, Christopher focused and found the man beneath the carriage was not John but someone else, and he did not appear to be breathing.

Suddenly, he gasped and took hold of Christopher’s arm, his eyes opening wide. “F-find…” He was too wounded to speak, and Christopher raised his head against the whooshing wind to seek help, but the stranger attempted to speak again. “Find… Leah… please…”

The man’s grip on his arm slackened, his hand fell, and his eyes closed. Christopher tugged his shoulder, receiving no response. At that same moment, his head throbbed with more ferocity, and his surroundings undulated. Unable to remain on his knees, he slumped to the ground as he lost his vision, and subsequently, his consciousness.

***

The first thing Christopher saw when he opened his eyes was the familiar oak roof of his four-poster bed. His head still ached, although not as severely as before, and his body felt as though he had run for miles.

“Thank goodness!” came a voice, followed by a warm hand touching his. Christopher glanced to his left to see his uncle, Lord Wyatt Lockhart, looking at him with concerned eyes. “Blackmoore, can you hear me?” he asked, coming to sit beside him on the bed.

“Y-yes,” he responded, his voice strange and hoarse. He recalled the carriage crashing and being thrown out, then the injured man who needed help. “Where is he?”

Wyatt frowned. “Where is who, Blackmoore?”

Christopher tried to sit up but his uncle placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not yet. You have struggled to regain consciousness for five days.” He raised his head and gave someone in the room instructions to summon the physician before returning his attention to Christopher. “How do you feel?”

“I thought I had died,” he replied, drawing a smile from Wyatt.

“I am very happy you are awake, Blackmoore. We…” He released a shaky breath. “You gave us quite the fright.”

Christopher felt tightness around his face and curious, he touched it. The entire right side of his face was covered with a bandage, and he realized at that instant that his vision was coming from the left. He cleared his rasped throat and spoke again. “There was a man in the accident. Where is he?”

His uncle frowned again. “I do not recall Duncan mentioning anyone else involved in the accident.” He placed a gentle hand on Christopher’s shoulder, his eyes filled with concern. “I am sorry you are going through this pain, my dear nephew. Please, rest.”

“No!” The man had been beneath a carriage. Christopher had to know where he was, if he was alive. “What about John?”

Wyatt’s face tightened. “A boy saw what happened, and ran to the manor to inform Duncan. You were brought back and the only other person at the scene was John.”

“Are you saying that there was no man under the turned carriage?” Christopher asked, perplexed. He was certain he had seen the man who told him to find someone. There was a name. Leah. Or had he imagined it? Pain tended to bend the mind such that one could see and hear what was not there.

“Not according to Duncan,” Wyatt replied.

If Christopher had truly seen the man, then perhaps he had managed to free himself or someone had rescued him. Duncan was his butler, and he had served Blackmoore for fifteen years; he had never given anyone cause to doubt him in all that time. Christopher had to believe. Nodding, he closed his eye and leaned back, the pain in his head burgeoning.

An hour later, the physician arrived and when he untied the bandage around his head, Christopher demanded to see the extent of his injury. “I would advise against it, Your Grace,” the physician cautioned.

“I have to see it,” he insisted gruffly. The physician and Wyatt exchanged a look before his uncle nodded in encouragement.

A mirror was brought and Christopher’s heart pounded as it was raised to reveal his reflection. The skin on his right cheek had been completely abraded, and his eye was swollen shut. An angry cut that had been stitched ran from his brow bone down to his ear. The whole sight was not only alarming but difficult to look at.

“Your Grace…” the physician began but hesitated.

“What is it?”

“The injury to your eye was severe, and…there is a chance that…you may not regain your vision.”

I am blind? He looked in the mirror again, seeing for the first time that the eye he thought was swollen shut had actually been operated on. God!

If his wounds were this gruesome, he could not imagine what John was enduring. “What of John?” he asked, his gut tightening painfully.

His uncle’s expression fell. “John has passed on,” he said quietly.

Christopher recalled telling the coachman to drive faster. Dear God! This was all his fault. He had killed a man and disfigured himself! Rage and despair burned in his chest. What had he done. His existence had been altered beyond anything he ever imagined.

How was he to live on with this manner of guilt…

Chapter One

Eight years later

“Please, Amelia, I need you there,” Lucy begged for the sixth time that evening.

Lady Amelia Harrison, daughter of the late Earl of Folkstone, sighed as she watched her cousin, Lucy Harrison, dress for the Blackmoore ball. It was the grandest social event in Society which naturally made its invitations the most coveted.

Lucy had just come out, and attending such an event fluttered her nerves. “You have Aunt Susanna with you, Lucy,” Amelia said softly. “You shan’t miss me. You do not need me.”

“Mama will make me dance with gentlemen I am barely acquainted with,” her cousin grumbled. “Only you can make tonight bearable. We do not want me to cast up my accounts over someone’s feet, do we?”

Amelia chuckled at that. “No, we do not, Lucy.” She was not allowed to attend any society events. Since the death of her parents, her brother’s silence, and her aunt, uncle, and cousin leaving their home in Gloucestershire to live with her in Folkstone Manor nineteen miles from Westminster, she had little to no interaction with the beau monde.

Every day was the same. She stayed in Folkstone Manor and occupied herself with chores, ones given to her by her aunt and uncle. In fact, they had dismissed most of the servants, for they felt there was no need to waste money on them when they had her to earn her keep. In their defense, they fed her, clothed her, and never harmed her physically. She ought to be grateful; bow her head anytime she saw them and speak of what she endured to no one.

Now she raised the dress she was mending to show Lucy. It was Susanna’s and she had demanded to have it finished before morning. “I have much to do.”

“You can mend the dress at a later time. Please dress and come to the ball with us,” Lucy implored, her large blue eyes earnest. Lucy was a good girl but she tended to be oblivious to many things. She assumed Amelia was fond of sewing and helping around the manor because her parents did not have much money. She was entirely unaware of the cruelty Amelia endured.

Despite all of this, Amelia hoped and waited for a letter from her brother, Ralph, who was now the Earl of Folkstone. As a military colonel, he had obligations abroad, but he had promised to return for her, and he had never broken a promise. While she waited, she did all she could to keep her aunt and uncle happy so they would not toss her out on her ear.

The last time she received a missive from him was two years ago, and it had looked like Ralph had written in haste. She worried about him every day, but she pushed all negative thoughts from her mind to be strong for him and herself. She knew how much he loved and cared for her, and it was certainly enough to one day reunite their family.

“I cannot, Lucy,” Amelia sighed. “I do not want to. You know how nervous I am around people,” she added. This was what she had made her cousin believe. Lucy, bless her heart, was eighteen and not very bright, thus, it was easy for Amelia to make her believe anything. The girl was good to her, and she loved her parents more than anything in the world. There was no reason for her to know and have the perfect image she had of Charles and Susanna Harrison ruined.

“Very well. I shall have mother convince you then,” Lucy stood from the seat at her vanity and walked out of the bedchamber. Amelia played the role of a lady’s maid, but her cousin had insisted on dressing herself tonight. This gave Amelia the chance to continue mending her aunt’s dress, which was large and heavy.

Lucy returned after a moment with Susanna. She looked at Amelia and frowned. “What are you still doing here?” she asked. “Go to your bedchamber and dress quickly. We have a ball to attend, and we are already late!”

Amelia blinked at her. Just that morning, the woman had told her that she was not to attend this ball, and now it seemed she had changed her mind. “But your dress—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, child!” Susanna rolled her eyes, planting her hand on her plump hips. “My dress is not important. Henry will be in attendance! Go, dress well!”

Amelia put the dress down and walked toward the door. Henry Terrell was a cousin whom Susanna wanted Amelia to marry. He was supposedly wealthy, but she knew he wanted her for her dowry, and he was neither kind nor charming or handsome. She was miserable living with her aunt and uncle, but she would rather remain in such a situation than to marry a man she did not want. 

“We will be waiting in the foyer, Amelia,” Lucy called after her, and Amelia turned to respond with a slight smile.

Lucy was a darling to her parents and got everything she wanted, but Amelia had to admit that she was quite surprised she was permitted to go to the ball tonight upon her request. It had never been granted before. Henry always attended Society events but it, too, had never been a reason for her to be allowed.

“I shan’t have you interfering with my dear Lucy’s prospects,” her aunt had said to her at the start of the season. “You will stay in the manor and pretend you are not fond of people and ton events.

This is a new turning point, Amelia thought with a small smile as she hurried to ready herself. She wore the pale purple velvet dress she had hidden for an occasion such as this; when she got the chance to seek a husband herself. She twisted her curly brown hair into a rough coiffure and picked up her worn beaded leather reticule.

When she reached the foyer, Lucy had a wide grin on her face. “You look splendid, Cousin!”

Amelia smiled at her, ignoring the glares she received from her aunt and uncle. Lucy looped her arm through hers, predictably oblivious to the animosity around her. They climbed the carriage and made their way to Harleston Hall, which was only nine miles away.

“Do you think the Duke will make an appearance tonight?” Lucy threw the question into the silence of the carriage.

The Duke of Blackmoore’s ball was an annual event, but each year, Society made merry without a host. It had been that way for as long as Amelia could remember. People spoke of the Duke with great interest, yet no one had seen him in more than seven years. She first heard about him two years ago when she debuted.

“Blackmoore has not shown his face in Society in years. I doubt that will change tonight, my dear,” Charles answered. “But I am certain he will wish he had when he lays his eyes on my handsome daughter,” he added with a satiating grin.

“A beast in the shadows will never set foot into the light, Lucy,” Susanna supported with a haughty flick of her pale blue satin fan.

The rumor carried about by the ton was that the Duke was a deformed beast. A fire had nearly consumed him in his home in Cumberland, which resulted in his becoming reclusive. Many believed that he was still in Cumberland but hosted the ball every season to maintain his relevance in Society. It was plausible.

“But you should not worry about the Duke. This night is for you,” Charles said to his daughter. “I want you to have a grand time and capture the attention of good gentlemen.”

Amelia sucked in her lips and turned to look out the window, suddenly afraid she would betray her thoughts if she looked at her aunt or uncle. She was going to do what Charles was advising Lucy to do, and she hoped to find a good man willing to marry her. Heavens knew what they would do to her if they discovered her plan.

“You!” Susanna tugged at Amelia’s skirt while Lucy and her father conversed, her voice low enough for only Amelia to hear. “You best stay away from her. Mind your business and manners and do good to not make yourself known. Or it will be the last time I make such a concession.”

“Yes, Auntie,” she replied respectfully.

They arrived an hour later, and Amelia’s breath was stolen from her lungs the instant she alighted the carriage and beheld the grand manor before her. It was a splendid edifice that stood proudly and welcomed people of all manner of consequence. The walls were lined with sconces that shone brightly. The well-tended lawn stretched around them and beyond with torches illuminating pathways that led down several courses.

She held her breath when they entered the foyer, immediately finding that what she had seen outside was nothing when compared to what lay within. The hexagonal foyer had four Roman-style arches, each a way to a different part of the manor, and a fountain stood at the center with a marble Cupid taking flight. It was one of the most beautiful sculptures she had ever seen.

“Do come on!” Susanna pulled her arm, and Amelia was forced to follow her through the leftmost archway. They walked down a short hallway to a resplendent ballroom. Folkstone Manor had fallen into disrepair after her parent’s death nine years ago, and even if it had not, it could never stand beside Harleston Hall.

Amelia grew more curious about the Duke as they waded through the crowd. The ballroom was full with barely any room to move freely, and still the guests continued to arrive; they spilled into gardens and balconies through open glass doors. Susanna immediately found gentlemen for Lucy to dance with, and her card was filled. With her family’s attention away from her, she slipped away and found a refreshment table near one of the garden doors. She could breathe better there and also quench her thirst.

As she picked up a glass of punch and raised it to her lips, she heard a group of ladies talking two feet away from her. When she heard the name Blackmoore, she turned her head very slightly and listened.

“We do not even know what our host looks like,” a matron complained, moving her fan quickly to cool herself. It was early spring but the ballroom felt like a hot summer day. “If that is not grave disrespect, I do not know what is. He has left us alone like some animals,” she continued.

“Even animals are checked upon once in a while,” someone agreed.

“Do you think Blackmoore would ever marry?” another smaller voice asked, her voice shrilly with anticipation. “I should like to give him my dear Pamela. How she would love to marry a duke!”

“If your daughter would not mind being married to a shadow, do not let us dissuade you,” the first matron snickered to giggles from the other ladies gathered about them.

“Do you know what they say?” The ladies all leaned closer to the speaker, and Amelia discovered herself doing the same from where she stood. She was more curious about the Duke than before. “They say that there is no Duke at all. That the Blackmoore ball is all a sick spectacle to play on Society’s fancy; make us all believe that the Duke exists.”

Amelia frowned, perplexed about what she had just heard. She had read in Debrett’s Peerage that the Duke’s uncle, Lord Wyatt Lockhart was next in line for the duchy should the present duke pass on without an heir. Should Lord Wyatt not be the duke now if the other did not exist?

“A phantom Duke? That is ridiculous!” someone challenged. “The Blackmoore title is still with the Lockharts, and Lord Wyatt maintains his rank as the second son of a duke.”

“I heard the accident left him so deformed, he is wasting away in bed,” another lady put in forebodingly.

“What accident? I heard it was a fire in Cumberland.”

“I heard he has no face. A devil. His eyes were burned away, and he is crippled.” Gasps sounded at that, and Amelia’s frown deepened.

Surely, not all of what they were saying was true. Whatever it was, this was the most entertainment she’d had in a while.

Her eyes drifted across the room and up, past the resplendent chandelier to what looked like an opera theater box. Black curtains concealed what was within, and her heart beat in wonder. What a splendid view of the entire ballroom it could hold. Yet it seemed unoccupied and she wondered as to what its true purpose was. She saw three more such boxes, two on each of the largest ballroom walls, all with dark curtains, and she wondered if there was a way for her to reach them. She remembered exploring caves with Ralph by the sea in Dorset…

The excitement that was growing in Amelia’s chest vanished the instant she lowered her gaze and met Henry’s. He half smiled and half sneered, coming toward her, his dark eyes gleaming with lechery and ill intentions.

Her stomach clenched with disgust and she turned, moving along the wall, aware of his eyes on her. She found a way out of the ballroom and as soon as she was in the hallway, she began hastening without knowing or caring where she was going.

Chapter Two

Amelia heard Henry running behind her, and every part of her body screamed for her to move faster, flee from him. Being found alone with him could mean ruin that would certainly trap her in marriage.

She knew this because he had once found her in the drawing room of Folkstone Manor and attempted to kiss her. That was not what had been harmful, however, it was the manner in which he held her. His hands had gripped her wrists tightly, and he would have done more had Lucy not walked into the room and asked what was happening.

Of course, Henry had lied that Amelia was injured and he was inspecting the wound. Unfortunately, Lucy believed him as she was wont to trust and believe those who lied to her.

She turned a corner and ran down a dimly lit hallway, hoping there would be a place for her to find some respite and possibly escape her pursuer. Amelia’s alarm grew when she saw him quickly closing the distance between them, and realized it would have been safer had she just stayed and conversed with him in the ballroom in front of people. She opened the first door she found, running inside and pushing it.

He pushed on the other side, and feeling he would overpower her soon, she released the door and he stumbled in, falling. Not waiting to see him regain his feet, she moved further into the room, her eyes searching the dark. A fear of the darkness she had bred over the last few years reignited but she pressed it down with the fear of what would happen if Henry got a hold of her.

“Now, now, is that a way to treat your soon-to-be betrothed, darling Amelia?” a voice breached the darkness.

An archway across from her caught her attention, and feeling a burst of energy, she ran forward. Still, Henry followed, calling behind her, “Why prolong the inevitable? Your aunt and uncle have already agreed to the terms!”

The archway led into a very narrow hall, then stairs that spiraled up. Amelia paused at the foot and briefly contemplated climbing the stairs. She could be trapped, but she could also find a door to close. Bunching her skirts in her hands, she ascended, glancing once behind her to see Henry pause to catch his breath. He was very slender, and she suspected that he rarely engaged in activities that strained his body.

She reached the top of the stairs and heard music from the ballroom, and to her dismay, there was no door to keep Henry away from her. Then Amelia understood where she was. This room led to one of the boxes she had seen earlier, and the dark curtains and furnishings confirmed it. Fire burned in a small hearth, and the smell of cheroot and liquor filled the room.

“Did you truly think you could run away from me?” Henry groaned, sending chills through her. There was no other place to run to, except through the curtains, which would expose her to the guests. “I believe my betrothed owes me a dance,” he panted, taking a careful step in her direction. She backed into the wall on her left, wishing it could magically open and reveal a door to her.

“We are not betrothed, Mr. Terrell,” she ground out through the fear coiling its dark tentacles around her.

“Why must you fight it, Amelia? You will be mine either way.” He took another slow step, which she further retreated from, her gaze seeking something with which to deter his advance.

“Never!” she countered, but she did not feel very confident.

“How about this, Amelia. Why don’t we simply abandon the ball and have our own merry moment right here?” he laughed. “There are no prying eyes, and I promise to treat you well.” His dark eyes glinted on the last sentence.

He was not going to treat her well, for he was determined to ruin her. When her back touched the wall, she darted sideways, but he jumped in front of her, blocking her path with his body. “Perhaps you continue to reject me because I ask you politely.” He grasped her wrists, sending her into a familiar horror she had escaped before but with little hope of recurrence now. “You will be mine, Amelia. Even if I must resort to scandal to make that happen,” he swore, hitting her across the face. Her head whipped to the side and her cheeks stung.

Rage fueled her will to fight, and she kicked and screamed with every cell in her body. Yelling would expose her to scandal, but something far worse could happen if she remained quiet.

“Let go of me, Henry!” she said in a shaky voice. He struck her again before pinning her to the wall. He was surprisingly strong for someone this slender. Panic wrung the air from her lungs, and her eyes burned with tears.

The door crashed open suddenly, and she kicked Henry’s shin harder to show everyone that she was not at fault, that he was the villain here. Instead of finding the ball guests, Amelia heard a man’s angry growl and a curse before Henry was forcibly pulled away from her. She dashed away and hid behind a chair, trembling. 

Then she saw a dark-haired man wearing a black mask with a firm hand fixed on the neck of Henry. She gasped. The Phantom Duke?

Releasing Soon on the 29th of March!

Chapter One

 

“I wish you would stay for a drink, if not for dinner,” Elliot protested.

Wilson shook his head, swiftly downing the last of his brandy and standing, picking up his hat from the table beside his chair. Elliot stood, a look of consternation on his round, blue-eyed face. Around them, the room bore a discreet hushed hubbub of quiet conversation. The fire crackled and the air hung heavy with cigar smoke. A number of gray-haired and be-whiskered gentlemen enjoyed one of the quieter rooms of the Shilling Club, one of London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.

“I have business to attend to,” Wilson replied with typical brusqueness.

“I just don’t think that, at this time of year, it’s wise for a man to be alone. Why not enjoy the company of friends in the Shilling Club until the light at the end of the tunnel is reached?” Elliot said with typical loquaciousness.

Wilson pushed a mane of jet-black hair back from his eyes. It fell to his shoulders in an unruly mass. A trimmed beard of the same color gave Wilson Fitzroy a distinctive appearance. Strangers often mistook him for an Eastern prince, possibly of Russian or Bulgarian descent. High, slanted cheekbones completed the appearance of an exotic foreigner. Cold, blue eyes meanwhile, hinted at the Danish blood present deep in his ancestry. He put the top hat on his head and buttoned his overcoat.

“There is no light at the end of this tunnel, Elliot. The past cannot be changed. And my business cannot wait on my…mood,” Wilson replied.

Elliot threw up his hands. “Will no-one aid me in persuading our erstwhile colleague not to stray from the warm bosom of the Shilling, particularly on such a night?”

The beginnings of a huzzah went up around the room, Elliot was a past master as a rabble-rouser of the gentlemen of the Shilling. As Wilson glared about the room, the abortive revelry died away. Wilson Fitzroy’s temper was feared more than the desire to be roused into rounds of drinks. The assembled gentlemen returned to their conversations about stocks or their perusal of the Times. Elliot’s shoulders slumped.

“You have them too cowed to raise a cheer, it seems.”

“They respect a man’s desire to keep his troubles to himself,” Wilson replied.

“Well, I tried. In my sister’s memory.”

Only those who knew Wilson Fitzroy well would have known that the slight twitch in his face at that point was a reflection of a storm of emotion held in check beneath the surface. And there had never been many of them in the world. Five years ago that number had reduced by one. Elliot was not among that number, trusted friend though he was. He put out his hand, slinging back the last of his brandy with the other as he did.

“Well, if I cannot persuade you to join me in broaching a rather splendid cask of port I had donated from my own cellars, I will say good night to you. I will be here should you change your mind.”

Wilson took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

You will be here in body but your spirit will be addled past the point of comprehension. For the best, today is not a day to be reminded of Amelia and, I’m afraid, you are just that, old friend—a reminder. Best that I am alone. I am fit for no company tonight.

He took his leave, striding through the rooms of the Shilling Club and out onto the street. A cab was waiting, the Shilling staff ensuring a cab was hailed in time for his stepping out of the door. Rain pelted him but he was barely aware of it. He stepped into the cab and gave his destination in a clipped tone. There was another reason for his aversion to company this evening. While it was true that he had business to conclude, that could be done at any time. He had arranged the meeting for this time and date to ensure his mind was fully occupied.

But, there was another appointment to be concluded. One that had to be completed alone. The city passed by unseen. The rain was washing the streets clean of people, only the most desperate remained out, lacking anywhere else to go. Warm, golden light spilled through the curtain of water from windows. Then, as they left the old city walls behind and headed north, the lighted windows became further apart. The country began to peek out between buildings until the city finally relinquished its hold and they were passing along a road lined with trees. The fields beyond were black absences.

A modest church loomed out of the night. Wilson knew that he was in the vicinity of Finsbury Fields, the city a dark presence in the night to the south, the naked countryside an even darker presence to the north. A priest stood on the porch of the church, shivering, and holding a lantern. Wilson swallowed, licking his lips as the carriage drew to a halt by the gate leading to the path through the church yard.

Four times I have been here. Four anniversaries and never have I gotten beyond the church to the graveside.

He opened the door and stepped down, gritting his teeth as he strode along the path toward the church. The priest, accustomed after four years to his duty, turned and began to lead the way around the building and into the churchyard. Wilson followed and memories rose, unbidden. A heart-shaped face with laughing eyes. A voice made for song and joy. A spirit beloved by all who met her. Amelia.

Wilson saw the bobbing lantern carried by the priest disappear as the path ran beneath the bows of two ash trees. Gravel crunched beneath Wilson’s feet as he neared the trees, beyond which lay Amelia, in a resting place he had never set eyes on. His heart raced and his jaw tightened against the outpouring of despairing grief that squeezed his soul. His step faltered and then stopped before he came within the reach of the ash boughs. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat. His cheeks were wet, but not from the rain.

I can’t do it. I can’t look upon her grave. I can’t face it. I’m sorry, my love. It is my fault you are here and I do not have the courage to face you.

The priest had reappeared, realizing that the man who paid handsomely every year for the churchyard to be opened for him late at night, was not following. The man stood beneath the trees, holding the lantern aloft. Wilson turned and all but ran back to the carriage.

“Queen Square,” he barked at the driver, then slammed the blind shut on the window of the door.

The carriage clattered away, returning to the city. Wilson bared his teeth in a silent snarl against the pain that tore at him. By the time his second destination was reached, he had regained control. The rain had worsened as Wilson stepped out onto Guildford Street. He looked across a terrace of tall buildings which faced south into the square and cursed. The rain rendered visibility poor and he could not clearly see the numbers on each building’s front door. His objective was number eleven, but it was unclear which way along the street that particular house lay, east or west.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to wander up and down this benighted street like a lost soul peering at front doors. I will knock at the nearest and obtain precise directions.

Feeling aggrieved by his own earlier weakness, he took the steps of the nearest house two at a time. There was no number on the front door, which was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. Growling with impatience, he lifted the tarnished brass door knocker and rapped sharply.

Chapter Two

 

Vanessa’s hand shook as she drained the brandy from her glass. She coughed as the searing liquid coursed down her throat. Strong liquor was not something she was used to, but tonight she sought courage.

What am I doing? This is sheer madness. This is not how decent people behave!

She put the glass down but, her senses momentarily dizzied by the drink, she missed the edge and the glass hit the floor. It missed the room’s single rug and shattered on the hard wooden boards beyond it. Vanessa cried out and jumped back, then stopped and laughed aloud. Perhaps the previous swallow of brandy that she had imbibed was starting to work on her but her predicament suddenly seemed ridiculous.

I am a grown woman and here I am behaving like a nervous debutante. Five years a Londoner, fending for myself and paying my own way. And rendered as nervous as a kitten by something as simple as a man. And not just any man but one whose sole talent is for…

She flushed at the thought. Madame Harriet had promised that the young man would be strong, handsome, experienced, and skillful.

It is a perfectly natural act and having my company arranged for me is not so different from the arranged marriages that still take place between royals.

But rational thoughts such as those couldn’t take the flush from her cheeks, nor from her chest, exposed down to the slopes of her breasts by the low-cut dress. It clung to her hips and thighs, as sheer as a negligee. It excited her in its blatant sensuality as much as it frightened her. Whenever she caught sight of herself in the mirror, it was a reminder of what she had tonight decided to do.

Vanessa Gale was about to turn thirty. She was unmarried, never having ever come close to achieving that state. And, to use the parlance of the romantic novels of Walter Scott that she so loved, was still a maiden. Turning away from the broken glass, she left the room, closing the door behind her and crossing the hallway to the smaller sitting room. It was dark and cold, the drawing room having been made cozy for her night of pleasure. The night when she would lose her maidenhead. But, with broken glass across the floor, she could not bring her gentleman caller into that room.

I will answer the door and we will simply retire to…my…bedchamber.

She brushed wayward locks of brown hair away from her temple with straightened fingers, accompanied by a brief shake of the head. It was an unconscious gesture that emerged when she was nervous. Sitting on the edge of an armchair, her fingers nervously beat a tattoo on her knee. In the drawing room, the ticking of the clock on the mantel was muffled by the door but still audible. So too would the chimes be.

It is perhaps well that he enters the house in the dark and we go upstairs directly. The drawing room is modestly appointed but my furniture is past its best and it would surely be obvious to a gentleman employed by Madame Harriet.

Harriet had rooms overlooking Hyde Park, gloriously appointed. She herself had the most extraordinary gold hair which she wore high above her head, revealing a swan-like neck. The dress she wore was expensive and covered her to the chin, but Vanessa had detected the lascivious glint in the woman’s eye as she had boldly asked questions that had made Vanessa’s cheeks turn scarlet. All done in order to provide Vanessa with a young man who was perfectly suited to her wants and needs.

Leaving Madame Harriet’s rooms, Vanessa had felt excited and ashamed in equal parts. She had been assured that this was common for gentlefolk and should occasion no embarrassment. To know that there were many women of rank making use of the services provided by Madame Harriet did nothing to reassure Vanessa. She felt she was entering a world that was far from her safe existence of libraries and museums.

I may have no choice but to face my thirtieth year as a lonely old spinster. But I will know the touch of a man at least. I will experience the joy of being made love to. I will be content with that.

She shot to her feet at the sharp rap at the door. So lost in thought had she been that no sound of footsteps upon the stone steps leading to the front door had reached her. For a moment she stood there in the darkness, heart hammering and breath coming quick and shallow. The rap came again, forceful and impatient. Hands trembling, Vanessa moved into the hallway, facing the front door. Reaching for the bolt at the top of the door, she slid it aside, then undid the chain and finally turned the key and grasped the door handle.

The door opened onto a raging night. An errant gust of wind plastered her dress against her, revealing shapely legs and tugging the neck an inch lower to the tops of her ample breasts. A man stood there as expected. Protected from the rain by the stone porch that jutted above the front door, he had removed his hat. A flowing mane of dark hair framed a hard, angular face with pale, penetrating eyes.

He looks like a foreign prince. Exotic, dangerous, and proud. Oh, Madame Harriet, you really have found the man of my most scandalous dreams!

The man’s eyes widened and tracked down Vanessa’s body. She resisted the urge to cover her exposed chest with her hands. One hand remained on the door. The other reached for her man, taking his hand. She stepped back, her semi-nakedness covered by the shadows within the house. The man stepped towards her. Vanessa pushed the door closed and didn’t wait to hear it click shut. She closed her eyes and moved forward, head raised and lips poised for a kiss.

First she felt his lips against hers. Hard and unyielding, pressing her lips back harshly. She gasped as strong arms went about her, pulling her against a body as rigid as a statue. She held her hands away from him, unsure what to do. Then, driven by a deep instinct, she let them fall to his shoulders, then down his arms. Vanessa let out a moan as she felt the corded muscles beneath the fabric of his clothes. They felt strong enough to rip through, the cloth too thin a barrier to contain such power.

A questing hand found her buttocks and squeezed, making her gasp. A darting tongue tasted her mouth and she boldly followed its example. Lust gave her confidence. She wound her fingers into that magnificent fall of dark hair, pulling his head against hers as she relished the taste of him. His teeth pulled at her bottom lip, biting down and making her squirm. But she fought back, breaking away from the kiss to bite at his neck.

The dress that Madame Harriet had helped her to pick out was inspired by the image of the seductive, female vampire. A creature of insatiable hunger who enslaved male victims with her sensuous powers. Now, she embraced the fantasized role that Harriet’s probing questioning had revealed to her.

I am a seductress. Men are powerless to resist me. But, I can be conquered. Must be dominated and forced to yield even as I enslave my lover with the delights of my flesh. Oh my!

Vanessa felt the terrifying pressure against her loins. It frightened her with its size and hardness even as it sent shockwaves of pleasure around her body. Reason was fleeing her. All that remained was passion and desire and pleasure. The wall thudded into her. Both the man’s hands were about her buttocks now, lifting her off her feet. Vanessa was deposited on a table and her skirts pulled upward to her knees. She felt a moment of blinding clarity, breaking through the desire the stranger had engendered in her.

“What am I doing?” she whispered.

She pushed hard against him and he stepped away from her, hands raised in front of him. There was a look of shock on his face. Vanessa gasped, breathing hard. She wore neither stockings nor petticoat beneath the outrageous dress. The skirt had been lifted to reveal her milky skin and the first hint of her inner thigh. Now she pulled it down hastily.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“No. I am. I think I have made a mistake. Forgive me,” Vanessa said.

The man frowned, looking confused.

“I do not know what came over me. This is not something I would normally do.”

Vanessa wanted to pull him back up against her. But, she was having second thoughts. A war was being fought between her desire and her common sense. And while she hesitated, the man who had been paid to make love to her looked more confused and backed towards the door.

“Wait!” Vanessa said.

But he was shaking his head and opening the door. Vanessa had a brief moment to cover herself before the door was opened to the street. Then he was gone.

What a fool I have been. To give money that I cannot afford for a man to take my virginity and then to hesitate and drive him away.

She raced for the stairs, stumbled, and fell heavily to her hands and knees before recovering her balance and scrambling to her bedroom. Throwing herself onto her bed, she dissolved into a fit of sobbing. Outside, the rain hammered down. Vanessa heard the second knock at her door but did not move. It was repeated twice and then no more.

 

Chapter Three

 

Once again, the brandy burned its way down Vanessa’s throat. She sat on the edge of her bed. The room was warm, the fire stoked in preparation for her visitor and the time she had expected to spend with him. She laughed, the drink soothing some of the hurt and shame she had felt earlier.

Oh, what a mess. A man comes to my door and puts his hands on my body. I have paid for him to do it. And I have felt the body of a man and he has felt me. I have tasted him!

Her feet were cold against the bare boards of the floor. In front of the fire, she had dragged the large tin bathtub from the adjoining room and filled it with water heated on the kitchen stove. Now, she put the glass aside and walked towards it. The dress was easily discarded, slipping from her to the floor with a whisper. Looking to the side, she saw herself in the full-length dressing mirror.

I think my body is not unattractive. I am not plump but neither am I thin. The curves that a woman should have are present. Ample breasts and a well-proportioned rump. Men value such things, do they not?

She laughed again. The truth was that her knowledge of what a man would consider attractive came from the romantic fiction that she read to warm herself when her supply of firewood ran out. The steaming bath was a luxury she could ill afford but she felt the need to comfort herself. The evening had been a disaster.

But I have now experienced the touch of a man.

That thought made her breath catch. She ran her hands over her stomach and then out over the curve of her hips. He had touched her there. There were tender spots where his fingers had gripped her like iron.

Will I bruise? Oh my, will I look into a mirror and see the marks that he has left upon my body? Like a mark of ownership.

She stepped into the bath and slid slowly beneath the water. It occurred to her to wonder who this man had actually been. His looks had been so distinctive, she knew he was no-one she had ever met. There had been nobility in his features and money in his fine clothes. A rough strength had been evidenced by a steely look in his eyes.

He seemed unprepared for my rejection of him. Understandable really. A man like that cannot be accustomed to being pushed away.

Her eyes closed as the hot water undid the knots of tension in her muscles. Knots that had tied themselves tightly after the drama earlier in the evening. The steam dampened her face and the warmth of the fire enveloped the parts of her not covered by the water. Sleep gently swept over her.

 

***

 

She awoke with a start to the knock at the door. Sitting up in her bed, blankets falling away from her naked body, she wondered if the sound had come to her in a dream. The knock came again, harsh and insistent. Then the sound of splintering wood. Of a door crashing back against the wall and heavy, booted footsteps. Vanessa clutched the bedclothes about herself as she heard those footsteps climbing the stairs. Her breath came in rapid gasps and her heart beat a mark against her chest.

The door to her room opened, pushed inwards to bang against the wall. A man strode in. He had a mane of dark hair, framing an angular face with a dark beard. His eyes were bright blue, pale, and icy.

“I should not have left. I will take now what was offered earlier,” he said.

His voice was thick with the accent of a distant, foreign land. Vanessa did not recognize it but even without words, his intent was clear. He discarded a heavy overcoat. Beneath he wore a shirt, already unlaced to reveal dark hair across a broad chest.

“Remove the bedclothes,” he commanded.

Vanessa smiled as her eyes moved down his body, seeing the sign of his desire in the bulge pressing against the fabric of his breeches. She wondered if he would remove them along with his boots, or whether his lust would demand she be taken before he had even finished undressing. The idea made her body tingle and her cheeks flame. She let the bedclothes fall away from her breasts but held them around her waist.

“Does this please you?” she whispered.

His pale eyes had widened and he stepped closer, tugging his shirt out of his breeches, and pulling it over his head. The shirt was tossed aside, pulling his long hair over his face as he removed it. It was flung back with a toss of his head, majestic as a lion.

“I would see all of you,” he said, slowly undoing the buttons of his breeches.

Vanessa slipped her legs from beneath the bedclothes, placing her feet on the floor. Now the blankets showed the full length of her shapely legs while still covering her loins. She tentatively reached out and placed one hand against the mound of hard pressure that was now level with her eyes. She whimpered as it twitched beneath her touch and smiled, licking her lips, and rubbing her hand up and down. The reward was a barely suppressed moan of pleasure from her prince. For surely, he was a prince. Heir to the throne of a distant kingdom, far from England and the conventions of polite English society. A barbarian accustomed to taking what he wanted at the point of a sword.

With one swift movement, he grabbed the blanket and pulled it away, revealing the last concealed part of Vanessa’s body. She gasped but kept her free hand on the bed, refusing to cover herself. Increasing the pressure with her other hand, she looked up at her lover, excited by the growing desire on his face. And the evidence of that desire she could feel under her hand. He lowered his head to hers and kissed her fiercely. Moments later, his full weight was upon her, pushing her down onto the bed.

His lips were a ferocious pressure against her mouth, demanding and intense. His tongue darted into her mouth, tasting her. His hands squeezed and caressed, gentle and hard at the same time. Everywhere they touched became the absolute center of her being until that touch moved on. Vanessa gasped for air as his lips broke away from hers and his head dipped. She felt his mouth move over her chin, then her throat, before engulfing one of her breasts.

The pleasure to that point had been intense. It now became almost unbearable and she squirmed beneath him. His hands roamed over her, possessing her entire body. She clutched at him but he was continually moving down, removing his body from her reach but maintaining the contact of his mouth. She could not imagine what he intended as he kissed down her stomach, past her navel. Thought dissolved in a torrent of ecstasy as his questing lips reached their prize and Vanessa understood what he had planned. Such a thing was beyond her wildest imaginings. She had not known a man could do that to a woman.

But she was glad that it was possible. That this barbarian prince knew of the act. Because the ecstasy that gripped her was beyond description.

 

***

 

Vanessa sat up in the now tepid water. The fire had burned down and the air was growing cold. Deep down within her was a heat, a remnant of the dream. She gripped the sides of the bath, anchoring herself to reality.

How did I even conceive of such an act. It is surely not mentioned in any romantic fiction I have read. Is it even done? Or am I the most wicked, most wanton woman in Christendom! Oh my, what fevered imaginings!

She sat back, feeling as though she was sweaty, as though the dream had been real. She slid back until her head was submerged, washing the dream from her mind. When she emerged, it was fading to the back of her mind, the immediacy of it gone. Vanessa climbed from the bath and began to dry herself, shivering as she did so. The evening had brought her the touch of a man and the kind of dream normally reserved for a high fever. But it was over now. Life would return to its normal routine. The vivid colors would fade back to gray.

 

Prologue

“Please Lord, don’t let him die! This is your faithful servant Alexander, please do not let Mr. Knox die. I will forever do your bidding and go to church every Sunday if you do this for me.”

Alexander Fitzgrant sat on the hard wooden bench in the cobbled yard behind the house in which he had lived for the last year. A tall brick wall surrounded it and beyond that rose the stonework of Glasgow’s Merchant City. The sounds of the city had faded with nightfall from the cacophony of the second city of the Empire during the day. The wind carried the smell of the river and the factories that rose from the buildings of the city like trees in a stone forest.

“The Lord will provide. Do not worry, boy. John Knox is a good man. An upstanding member of the Kirk,” said the tall, thin deacon emerging from the back door of the Knox house.

Alexander looked up from his prayer, tears staining his eyes. He was looking for comfort and reassurance but found none in the white-faced, gaunt man. He regarded the six-year-old Alexander for a moment, eyes cold and mouth a thin line. Then he sniffed and walked across the yard to the gate in the far wall. The deacon was known to Alexander, he had been a frequent visitor of Master Knox, who was a God-fearing member of the Kirk. But, Alexander had never liked him, he had always seemed cruel. Now though, as Alexander’s world seemed to be falling apart, he would desperately reach for any hope. Even the cold, cruel deacon.

“Please, sir!” Alexander called to him. “But is there any news about Master Knox?”

The man paused in the act of unlatching the gate but did not look back.

“Have faith in God, boy,” was all he said.

Rain began to fall as Alexander sat and waited for news of the man who had taken him. Once, Alexander remembered living in a big house, a mansion. Then he had been sent away for reasons he did not fully understand. John Knox had greeted him when he had stepped off the carriage that had carried him north from England to Scotland. A rotund man with thick black whiskers and an accent so broad it was as though he were speaking a different language. He had stopped in front of the trembling young boy, looking him in the eye.

“Aye, you look a strong lad, right enough. Got some meat on them bones, so you do. Well, there’s work for you here. Naebody lives for free in Glesga. A man works for his living and works hard. But, put your back into it and you’ll have a roof o’er your heid and food in yer belly. Are ye ready to dae some work, lad?”

Alexander had nodded mutely, not entirely knowing what he was nodding to. And the work had been hard, but Master Knox was fair. Alexander lived with the servants in the Knox House and was taught his letters. He had begun to learn the loud, brash, and smoky city in which he found himself in, too. Learning the speech, the accent, and the slang, until he felt the place was home. Then Master Knox had become sick. Consumption they said. Alexander didn’t know what that was but he knew the blood that came up when Master Knox had one of his coughing fits was not a good sign.

“You still ‘ere?” said a woman, coming through the same door as the deacon.

It was Mary, the Knox’s scullery maid.

“Is Master Knox feeling better?” Alexander asked, grasping for a friendly face.

Mary looked back at the open doorway, then down at Alexander.

“Look, son,” she said in a tone that was not unkind. “He’s not long for this world. Why didn’t you go with the Deacon?”

Alexander frowned, wanting to run through the open door, up the stairs to Master Knox’s room. “Was I supposed to?”

“That was the talk I heard, yes. The Deacon was asked to take you on, let you stay at the manse in Anderston for a while. Where is he?”

“He left,” Alexander said, pointing in the direction the Deacon had gone.

Mary swore, planting her hands on her hips. Alexander thought he heard a curse on Calvinists. Then, she knelt before him, putting a hand into the pocket of her apron, and taking out a coin.

“Look. Master William is here and he’s said he doesn’t want…can’t take on a boy just now.”

“What he said was he doesn’t want some English pup from the wrong side of the sheets,” came a hard, male voice.

A tall, dark-haired young man stepped out of the house, pausing to light a small clay pipe.

“Now that’s just cruel, Tommy Piper!” Mary snapped.

Tommy shrugged. “Boy’s gotta face the truth. He’s not wanted and he’s gonna have tae fend for hisself.”

Alexander scowled at Tommy, Master Knox’s carriage driver. He had brought Alexander to Glasgow from England and had a mean streak through him a mile wide. Blue eyes watched Alexander, then he turned away dismissively.

“Take this, Alexander. Go tae the orphanage on the sou’side,” Mary said urgently. “The one across from the Green by road tae Rutherglen.”

“The big building with the railings round it?” Alexander asked in a small voice.

“Yeah, you can see it fae the Nelson monument. Go there and tell them you’re an orphan and you’ve got naewhere to stay.”

“Better tell ‘em you’re Catholic too,” Tommy cut in.

Mary shot him a look of pure venom. “Aye, tell them you’re Catholic. That’ll help. Here, this will help. I can get another one.”

Mary reached to her neck and took down a small, wooden crucifix on a leather string. She tied it around Alexander’s neck.

“They can’t blame me for converting you when the Deacon didnae want you.”

She looked into Alexander’s frightened eyes for a long moment. He knew the building she spoke of, had seen it from the Green where he had played with his pals. Black-frocked priests and nuns had frequently gone in and out. The priests looked like crows to Alexander, dark and foreboding. He took hold of the cross, a symbol Master Knox had taught him to regard as idolatrous. Now, Alexander was wearing a cross just like the people Master Knox had scorned as Papists. He wondered if the priests wouldn’t take him in unless he was Catholic. It didn’t seem fair somehow.

“That’s the doctor now. Looks like we’re out of a job, Mary,” Tommy said from his position across the yard, leaning against the wall, puffing on his pipe.

The physician who had been brought in to see to Master Knox came out of the door. He carried a leather bag and wore a top hat and overcoat. He looked from Mary to Tommy.

“It’s not good news I’m afraid. Your Master has passed away,” he said in a smoother accent than either Tommy or Mary possessed. “You should say a prayer for his soul. I’m returning home and will notify the Lord Provost and make out the death certificate. The son is already away to fetch some legal papers from his father’s offices. Bloody vulture.”

He glanced down at Alexander who looked back hopefully. The Doctor was a man of rank in the city, respected and wealthy. Surely, he would take care of Alexander. But the Doctor just looked away and followed the path the Deacon had taken through the gate.

“Go now, Alexander,” Mary said. “I’d take you in myself but my old man would throw you out. I’ve got enough wains to be looking after. Go to the priests, it’s their job to look after you.”

“But, what will I do?” Alexander said, tears blurring his vision.

Mary caught him up in a fierce embrace, hugging him tight. It brought brief solace, a small hope that he would be looked after. Then she was pushing him away, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Go, before it gets much later.”

Even Tommy looked uncomfortable, callow youth that he was. As Alexander reached the gate, he growled.

“Hold up, boy. I’ll come with ye. Ye hardly ken the first thing about Glesga after dark. You would-nae get to the end of the road. But don’t think this means I’m takin’ you in. My heid doesn’t button up the back, mind.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” Mary called as Tommy pushed Alexander through the gate ahead of him.

Alexander knew the expression Tommy had used meant he wasn’t to be taken for a fool. It was one of many that he had picked up in Glasgow, proud of the vocabulary he had absorbed in his year in the city. Tommy took him through the maze of back alleys between towering, grand buildings until they reached Ingram Street. It was wide and long, flanked by tall, imposing buildings. At the far end was the Royal Exchange, the grandest of buildings, staring down the street at him. He had been there many times with Master Knox, listening to the men talk about prices, goods, and trade. It was to have been part of his apprenticeship, to learn about the business that was transacted in one of the largest cities of the Empire.

Tommy steered him away from it, walking east towards the High Street, cutting down Candleriggs to head for the river. When they reached the dark, sluggish expanse of the Clyde, he stopped, pointing to the old wooden bridge that crossed it and the looming building beyond.

“That’s it. This is as far as I go. You run across and don’t stop ‘til you’re at the door. Mary’s right, the priests will look after ye. God makes them dae it, or something. Go!”

He gave Alexander a shove and the boy took a faltering step into the dark. There were lights burning in some of the windows of the orphanage, beacons guiding him to safety. His feet moved faster and clattered on the wooden surface of the bridge. At the orphanage, he would be safe. Safe from the father who had beaten him and ultimately rejected him. Safe from the dark, odorous, and violent city into which he had been plunged.

Alexander Fitzgrant ran towards safety for all he was worth. Towards what he thought was safety. He could not have been more wrong.

Chapter One

24 years later

Violet moved gracefully as a swan through the assembled guests. Her pale, blue eyes picked out those she knew or was at least acquainted with and she smiled a greeting at them. She wore a dress of pale blue and gray, with pale gray gloves that reached to her elbows and pearls about her neck. The gold-spun curls of her hair were artfully pinned up, revealing the smooth, pale skin of her neck. Delicate silver earrings complimented her eyes and complexion.

The surroundings were grand indeed. The mansion in South Audley Street, a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, sparkled as though it had been built of precious gems instead of brick. The tall ceiling hall in which the guests of the Earl of Munster were assembled was a piece of art in itself. Mirrors gave a gleam to the room as well as giving the illusion of much great space. Candles were magnified by chandeliers that hung from a ceiling painted in a scene of angels and the celestial heavens. The gathered guests added their own finery to that of their surroundings.

Around her, Violet looked admiringly at necklaces that sparkled and shone, and rings with large precious stones, all showed off ostentatiously by the wearer. Tiaras adorned fashionably styled hair. She felt at home here, though it was not her house. The people around her moved and behaved according to a set of unspoken rules and conventions that she had come to understand very well. Violet swam in a sea of London high society, navigating its shifting currents with ease.

“Quite spectacular, is it not, Lady Violet?” said Mary Wyndham, emerging from a shift in the assemblage to address Violet.

She had brown hair, worn up and festooned with precious stones and jewelry. Violet acknowledged the other woman’s rank with an inclination of her head. She was, after all, wife of George Fitzclarence, Earl of Munster, and eldest son of the new King.

“Simply perfect, Your Ladyship,” Violet said. “My compliments to you and His Lordship. I have rarely seen a finer display.”

“We must outdo ourselves on such occasions, must we not? A new King does not ascend to the throne every day,” Lady Mary said.

“Indeed. I think everyone here is of the same mind and quite in awe of the occasion.”

Lady Mary smiled, turning to allow the light to catch the sapphires of her tiara. Violet took the cue, knowing that the item was new.

“My, what a tiara, Your Ladyship. A magnificent piece,” Violet duly responded.

“Oh, do you think so, Lady Violet? George had it made for me from sapphires from his father’s collection. A gift from the new King to his eldest child.”

Eldest but illegitimate, though we will not speak of that aloud, of course. Which is why your husband is Earl of Munster instead of Prince of Wales.

“It is the glorious centerpiece of this occasion,” Violet said, putting just the right amount of enthusiasm into her voice.

Enough to appease Mary Wyndham’s monstrous ego but not enough to sound simpering. A fine line must be walked when navigating the mazes of the Ton. Stray from the path and you are labeled a sycophant and your influence diminishes.

“I trust your dance card is already filling up, Lady Violet? I do so enjoy seeing people of genuine grace take the floor,” Lady Mary said.

“I have accepted a number of invitations, though I am no expert,” Violet said modestly.

“Nonsense my dear. I have seen you dance on a number of occasions and you are as graceful as a swan. Save a space for later in the evening, I believe George will request the pleasure of your company in a waltz.”

“I will certainly look forward to that, Lady Mary,” Violet said, bowing with her head at the honor done to her.

Lady Mary moved on, a path opening for her and hopeful lords and ladies seeking to catch her eye. Violet was aware of a number turning to her, seeking the same, and knew she would need to choose carefully who she acknowledged and in what order.

A fine line indeed. A tightrope walk even.

The first pair of eyes she caught belonged to a pretty young woman with dark hair and a bold nose above full lips. She was dressed in dark blue velvet and her straight hair hung to her shoulders, framing her face.

“Lillian, are you enjoying yourself?” Violet said, crossing the space between them.

She made eye contact with those she ought to, and acknowledged with short greetings a select few before she reached the side of her sister.

“It is certainly…shiny,” Lillian said with a wry smile. “I think I should have worn a hat to shade my eyes.”

Violet’s smile did not slip and she wove her arm through her sister’s, turning her and guiding her across the room.

“You shouldn’t say such things, Lilly,” she said when they reached a quiet spot with no-one quite within earshot. “You will get a reputation for having a sharp tongue.”

“Perhaps, I would prefer that to simpering before people like her,” Lillian said.

“She, is our host. And with the power to make or break our family in this city. With your interest in commerce and business, I would think that you would appreciate that,” Violet told her.

Does she not see that as members of society, we must play this game or see ourselves shoved into the outer darkness of anonymity? That would do Uncle George’s businesses no good at all.

Lillian scowled and Violet turned her to look towards one of the large portraits on the wall, placed between mirrors. None who saw the pair would have thought anything of the movement, certainly not that Violet had turned her sister around to hide her expression.

“I suppose you are right. You’re always right, Vi,” Lillian grumbled.

Violet laughed softly, hugging Lillian’s arm.

“I wish that were so. But I could not make head nor tail of a ledger or statement of account the way you can. Father…” She stopped, clearing her throat. “…Uncle George is so proud of that.”

Lillian hugged back, smiling, and patting Violet’s hand. “You do not need to play with words around me. You are my sister and always will be. And Papa is your Papa too. Titles are meaningless.”

“What a thing to say in the house of an Earl!” George Ravendel exclaimed as he approached the two.

He walked with hands clasped behind him, wearing the red, yellow, and white uniform of his regiment. His white belt held back a spreading paunch but his broad shoulders and square-jawed face gave the impression of substance rather than fat. His bold nose was a feature both of his daughters, Lillian and Clara, had inherited. By contrast, Violet had a delicate button nose. Along with her fiery gold hair, amid the black and brown of the Ravendels, it was a feature that had always marked her out as different. Not that anyone in the family acknowledged that difference.

I am a Ravendel. In their eyes at least. My true origins are not important to them. Nor is whether I address George and Charlotte as Papa and Mama as I did when I was a child. Or Uncle and Aunt as I do since I discovered the truth.

“I meant the title Violet uses for you and Mama,” Lillian murmured.

George looked uncomfortable, huffing, and looking up at the portrait.

“Yes, well. Least said and all that.”

“That, as you well know, is Papa’s way of saying that you are one of three daughters of his and that is that,” Lillian said with a smile.

“Now, Lillian. I do hope you have been accepting offers to dance. You really must make an effort, you know,” George said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of an infantry regiment marching across a battlefield.

“I have been mingling, as I am supposed to,” Lillian said, defensively.

“Because a marriage does not just land in your lap. You must play the game, little one,” George continued, “or you will end up on the shelf and an embittered old spinster.”

“I know all of this, Papa. It is just…something I am not very good at,” Lillian said, frustration plain on her face.

“Then let your older sister help you. Violet excels at this sort of thing,” George said, pride evident in his voice. “If it were permitted, I would say she should go into politics.”

“Or marry a politician,” Violet added. “That is how women exercise influence in our society. Through the men they marry. And you have ambitions, Lillian.”

Lillian nodded. “Yes, yes yes. I know all of this. I just find it all so intimidating.”

“Then I will help you. I know just the group of ladies that you simply must become acquainted with. Don’t worry, I will lead the conversation and you will soon find yourself feeling more at ease.”

Violet turned, ready to guide Lillian back into the shifting currents of the Ton. She looked back at George for a moment.

“And perhaps later we can continue discussing that particular matter which we began to talk about earlier? Uncle?” she said, catching and holding his eye.

George nodded briskly, then looked away.

The matter which you promised to talk to me about. The matter of who my real father is.

 

Chapter Two

Alexander Fitzgrant would rather have been cornered in an alleyway by a Glasgow razor gang than stand up before the room full of English peers in which he now found himself. He dressed like them, a waistcoat of royal blue, a matching cravat, and a snowy shirt. His coat was dark and his breeches cream, with patent leather shoes. In his hand he held a copy of the motion which the House was debating. It was slightly crumpled where, in his nerves, his grip had become too tight. In the seat beside him, Sebastian Cadzow, a fellow Scot by birth, sat with crossed legs and an arm lying indolently across the back of the cushioned chair.

He looks completely at ease among these glaikit Sassanachs. Because while I was choking in the chimneys of Kelvinside mansions, he was being educated at Glasgow University. And spending summers at the family estates here in England.

Cadzow caught his eye; gave him a wink and a nod. Alexander took a breath as the Speaker called out.

“His Grace, the Duke of Lorchester!”

The Tory peers that filled the rows of seats opposite shouted and jeered. Partly because Alexander had allied himself with the Whig government on this particular bill. Partly because they heard his title but saw a long-haired, bearded Scot. A highlander. A Jacobite, despite the fact that he hadn’t set foot in the highlands during his entire childhood and adolescence. It had been a common discrimination experienced ever since he had first arrived in London. The Dukedom had come to him five years ago and he had first stepped into the murky waters of London society two years ago.

What he had not been prepared for were men who smiled and spoke politely but whispered daggers behind one’s back. Alexander was used to his enemies confronting him face to face, coming at him with bared teeth and unambiguous intentions. In the savage world of politics, where words were weapons, he felt defenseless. And all the more when his Scottish accent and dialect were highlighted. The English seemed to think there was one type of Scot, wearing a kilt, wielding a claymore, and playing the pipes. And of course, roaming the glens of the highlands.

The only greenery I saw before taking the Dukedom and the estates in Hampshire was Glasgow Green. But they just hear the accent and the unfamiliar words. I may as well be French. I’m a foreigner to them.

He took a breath.

“My Lords, this bill we have before us is an important piece of legislation that will take the economy of this country into this nineteenth century. We have all heard the calls for the abolition of slavery coming from Mr. Wilberforce in the Other Place. Freedom is coming for those adults who suffer in bondage. But that Bill proposes to free adults taken from their homes and forced to work for others. This Bill is even mair important…” a smattering of laughter among the Tories at the Scottish word that had crept in despite Alexander’s best endeavors.

Flustered, he looked down at his speech held in the same hand as the bill paper. But, in that glance, he could not see exactly where in the cramped lines of scrawled script he was. Looking up, his eyes met the bright blue gaze of Ambrose Deveraux, Earl of Godstone. Deveraux was handsome, with the cold perfection of a sculpture. He was elegant and dignified, with piercing blue eyes and a confident personality giving him a charisma that few could resist. There was talk of making him leader of the Tories to challenge the government of the Earl Gray at the next election.

Deveraux’s smile was mocking. He didn’t jeer, allowing others to do that for him. As always, he behaved entirely properly for a member of the House of Lords. But that mocking smile stabbed at Alexander. He could feel the anger rising as he fought to maintain the momentum of his speech.

This is bloody important if these dunderheids could see it!

“…even more important. It would free our own children. British children from the bonds of slavery…”

“Point of order!” The Speaker called out.

Alexander saw that Ambrose had stood.

“I’m not finished!” Alexander shot back at the Speaker.

That earned him a stern look from the man who sat at the far end of the chamber.

“You may give way to a point of order, or refuse it. But, you will do so within the rules of the debate, Your Grace.”

“My Lord Speaker, it is quite understandable if our Scotch friend does not understand the procedures of this house. It is very different to the environment he is used to,” Deveraux said.

“I refuse the point of order,” Alexander said through clenched teeth.

“As I was saying. Children are employed, without their consent, in a variety of dangerous industries to the detriment of their health. These are, after all, the future workforce of our economy…”

“Point of order!” Devereaux called out, almost gleefully.

Alexander was aware of Sebastian stirring next to him but did not risk a glance in his direction while Deveraux was watching him. He remembered the advice his friend had given to him before the debate, however. It was not wise to flatly refuse to concede the floor too many times. It would serve to make the other peers think he was unwilling to allow a debate and increase the chances the bill would be voted down.

“I concede the floor,” Alexander said, sitting and unconsciously running a hand through his thick, unruly beard.

Always in the past, growing up in Glasgow, his size had been his ally. As a young boy, there had been nothing to stop the priests of the orphanage administering discipline with the belt, or the employers that he was sent out to, to be dispatched up a chimney, if he did not work as hard as they believed he should. As a youth, weak-chested from the years of chimney work though he was, he’d developed broad shoulders and a thick chest. Scars, now hidden by his expensive clothes, bore witness to the many battles he had fought in the alleys and rookeries of the South-side. Until Master Gellert had come looking for him, telling him of an inheritance in England. The death of a father long forgotten.

But here, in the House of Lords, the place where laws were debated and shaped, his size was to no avail. Deveraux need not fear the Duke of Lorchester physically. He could not be touched. And Alexander had none of the political instincts of his opponent.

I am no opponent to him. He has his backers and I stand alone. The only reason the Whigs support me is this bill happens to align with their social policies. I am not one of them. I am not one of anyone in this damned city.

“I thank His Grace for allowing a humble point of order,” Devereaux said, standing. “He will forgive me, I’m sure, if I clarify a point. The accent he carries makes the King’s English somewhat difficult to…”

“For shame!” Sebastian cried out, rising. “Let us keep our debate to matters of policy and legislation, not personal insults.”

“A purely practical matter, I can assure my Lord of Holmesley,” Deveraux replied smoothly. “There are certain standards we adhere to in this place and we risk confusion if some of us do not speak in…precise English.”

The speech and bill crumpled into a ball in Alexander’s clenched fist. He gritted his teeth behind tight lips. Cadzow sat, clamping a hand to Alexander’s arm as he did so. They were in the middle of the assembled Whig peers on the left-hand side of the room as one looked down it towards the Lord Speaker’s chair. Opposite, in rows five or six deep were the Tories. The room was lined with paintings, earning it the nickname of the Painted Chamber. It was the only room that could be salvaged from the fire that had gutted the Palace of Westminster the previous year, allowing the Lords to continue to sit in the same building at least, as they were accustomed to.

“Your point is about His Grace’s colloquialisms?” the Lord Speaker queried.

“A passing remark only. My point concerns why we are debating a matter which is surely not the province of the state. This is a country of merchants, shopkeepers, mill owners, and farmers. To deny them a plentiful source of labor would be to drive them out of business. I stand for the freedom of Englishmen to manage their affairs. And, yes, the freedom of English youths to seek gainful employment. What, otherwise, would they do? Does His Grace envision thousands of idle young people thronging our streets? I think his views have been colored by his own experiences. I believe he once worked as a chimney sweep?”

That brought a ripple of laughter and Deveraux basked in the reaction, smiling broadly. Alexander’s patience snapped. He leaped to his feet, hurling the ball of paper that had been the Bill as well as his own speech.

“Aye, I was! I was sent tae work as a young wain. No chance to educate myself or better myself. Exploited! Is that English enough for ye, ye ignorant Sassenach!”

Cadzow lowered his face into his hands as Alexander pushed through the ranks of peers seated in front of him. The Lord Speaker was on his feet calling for order and the rest of the chamber erupted in sounds of disapprobation towards the angry Duke of Lorchester. Alexander had the satisfaction of seeing a brief look of fear sweep across Deveraux’s face as he watched the angry Scotsman advance towards him. Then Cadzow caught his friend’s arm, half turning him.

“Are you quite mad?” he hissed, face inches from Alexander.

“His Grace is removed from the chamber forthwith. He will leave the chamber and not return until a full apology has been given for this un-Parliamentary conduct!” The Lord Speaker’s voice rose over the din.

Alexander snarled in disgust and tore his arm free of Cadzow’s grip. He stalked towards the exit from the Painted Room, delivering a furious insult in pure Glaswegian dialect as he went.