Author: Grovechronicles

Prologue

Antony

          It always happens that whenever one is searching for something, that something will inevitably make itself impossible to find.

          “Antony, if we do not give up this search soon — I fear that I shall have a layer of dust as a permanent second skin!” Lewis huffed impatiently. The man heaved a dramatic sigh and fell heavily on a chair covered in a thick white cloth — to which an even thicker plume of dust wafted into the air and spurred the man into a fit of sneezes.

          There was no telling exactly how long it had been since anyone had been into the attic like this. It was a place filled with bad memories for Antony. His dearest friend, Lewis, had agreed to come up here with him but Antony had a fairly good idea it had been under the guise that he would have found some sort of secret, hidden treasure searching among the discarded items. However, if Lewis were looking for a pot of gold, then this was the very last place that he ought to look.

          Everything around here was covered in dust.

          If he had his choice, Antony would have just had the lot of it burned the moment that he had inherited the castle from his father.

          They had been up here for the better part of the day and Antony was not certain how to explain to Lewis that they could be searching for something that did not exist. They could have been sent on a wild goose chase and the only for sure way to know…was to search everything to see if this mystery painting even existed.

Either way, he was grateful for the man’s assistance.

          Antony watched Lewis over his shoulder from the corner of his eye. Unlike his friend, he had a wealth of patience when the situation required it, and this was a very worthy cause indeed.

          “You have no obligation to continue on this search with me, friend, and I thank you for your service,” Antony muttered as he headed further into the wide expanse of the castle’s attic. The rain fell heavily on the roof and the wind whipped angrily outside of the few paned windows, making their already gloomy task even more uncomfortable.

          “Just where is it that I am supposed to go in this storm? Hm? I clearly have no choice but to assist you in your search,” Lewis said. “Perhaps you are banishing me from your sight simply because I am not producing swift results, is that it? You damn me to suffer poor weather and a resulting cold. Most unkind of you,” he teased.

          They both knew that he was not leaving, just as they knew he would continue to verbally begrudge the task that he had volunteered to assist with.

          “Of course not — then you would be even more miserable company than you are at present,” Antony smirked to himself, imagining the look of mock horror and affront on his friend’s face. He likely had his hand clutched to his chest as he struggled to think of anything witty enough to retort.

          “When was the last time that anyone was up here, do you think?” Lewis asked as he gazed around the space. Discarded pieces of furniture, a strange amount of bird cages of various materials, and other odds and ends lined the walls and rafter of the attic. There was no telling which generation of occupants had placed the items here or what value might lay hidden away in some of the trunks. 

          “Not since I was a little boy, to be sure,” Antony mused as he pushed aside a small dresser, no doubt meant for a child, and started to search in the darker alcove behind it. “My father caught me playing hide and seek in here with one of the servant’s children once. I had thought the young boy my friend, but my father had him whipped for daring to speak to those above his station and fired the entire family. Coming up here after that seemed sinister…everything is frightening to a small young boy, and this space and all of its possible treasures lost all appeal to me.”

          Lewis swallowed tightly against the knot in his throat. “I shall never understand how you speak so plainly about all of the horrors that your father committed as if they held no more weight than a discussion about the weather.”

          Antony paused only for a moment to offer Lewis a half-smirk. “I suppose that it would be strange to a man such as yourself who grew up surrounded by love and softness, but I armored myself against that man at a young age. I do not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

          Lewis’ gaze dropped to the space between his knees where his hands dangled as he rubbed at the skin on his thumbs. “You do not make me uncomfortable, it just reminds me of all of the things never to do when the day comes that I shall have children of my own.”

          Antony’s smirk widened as he resumed his search. “Yes, that is a fair point well made.”

          “Do you think that it is true? What the letter said? Were it any other man…any other father, I might have doubted the mere thought of someone–”

          “Sending away a child because it did not suit their wishes?” Antony finished. When he had received the letter, he had thought the very same thing. He had wondered if it were, in fact, possible that he could have a sibling out there in the world…one that shared his face and general likeness, and somehow he could have a family, unlike anything he had ever been exposed to before. How could a parent separate siblings? To discard one of their children like stale biscuits to fend for themselves?

          Antony’s hand lifted to brush against the gilded emerald and gold mask that he wore over half of his face. A mask that he had been told never to remove. He had been warned time and time again that the good and decent people of the public should never be forced to look upon a face as hideous as his own.

          A father such as that?

          Yes, he could imagine that it was possible.

          His hand dropped and he tried his best to banish that lingering voice of his father’s in the back of his mind that followed him like a plague.

          “Here, I have found another grouping,” Antony called and waved his friend over. They had been searching the attic for the better part of the day as it was, and Antony had no intention of stopping until he had burned every candle and oil lamp in the entire castle to the bottom of their wick. He would persist until he found that which he searched for.

          Lewis dragged his feet against the wooden floor as he moved to stand at Antony’s side.

          “I am terrified that I have already found what we are searching for, but did not know it because we are grasping at straws as it is,” Lewis said softly.

          Antony paid him no mind. He pulled the bundle of canvases out into the center of the room and undid the twine holding the pieces together. He discarded the covering and started to slide the paintings away from one another so that he could better study them.

          “I shall know it when I find it,” Antony said with more confidence and surety than he actually felt. He pushed aside a portrait of the castle and a detailed landscape of the castle’s gardens. Three paintings of flowers in various arrangements and styles, but nothing that seemed to fit what the letter had described.

          Lewis moved to search for another bunch of paintings. “You have no idea who it was that could have sent the letter?”

          That was even more baffling. Antony bit down on the inside of his cheek as he chose not to answer.

          “I mean, why now? Why wait so many years? I could understand one wanting to wait until the man had passed so that there was no fear of potentially revealing something that could bring the letter writer to harm…but why come forward at all, and so long after your father’s death? I have to presume that this…anonymous sender has something to gain by telling you this? The sender wished to send you on a hunt in your attics…and for what? There is an ulterior motive here, my dear friend, and I just think we need to have a discussion about what the ramifications of this potential discovery might lead to,” Lewis continued.

          He had a fair and valid point…but one that Antony could not afford to worry about.

          “If we find a painting that gives any credibility to the anonymous source, I shall ponder those questions then. There is still a fair chance that this alleged painting was one of the very, very many paintings that father had burned when he…redecorated,” Antony added with a shudder that he could not repress.

          Images of that day flooded his mind as if he were five years old again, clutched tightly in the arms of his governess as she bit down on her finger to keep from weeping. At the time he had not understood what it was that he was watching. Paintings of all shapes and sizes pitched out of the window and into the courtyard. Busts and statues that had been imported from countries all over the world carried out by servants to be smashed into bits before being added to the pyre. He had asked his governess why she was so sad, or he had wanted to. He could remember the reflection of the fire in her eyes as she fought back tears. At the time he had been so afraid that he would be pitched into the fire with all of the rest of the objects that his father had suddenly decided to no longer desire.

          Sometimes, he wondered if that had been why his governess had held him so tightly and why she had whisked him away well before his father had come back indoors. Antony had been able to smell the stench of burned oil and varnish for weeks. Father had left the pile of debris as a black soot and ash stain on the grounds for months after…and banned all of the servants from going near it.

          In the days of his young adulthood, before father had passed — he had longed to learn why he had destroyed so many valuable and beautiful things. Antony had tried to coax the answer out of his father in roundabout ways, even going so far as to provoke his wrath or needle at the man’s temper, but to no avail. Secretly, Antony believed that it was because they reminded him of the mother whom he had never gotten the chance to meet.

          Seeing so many paintings here hidden away in the attic had been a shock to Antony. He had to presume that his father did not know. More likely considering so many of the portraits were of father himself.

          “Perhaps I should have burned some paintings of my own,” Antony muttered mostly to himself.

          Lewis glanced in his direction sympathetically but did not comment. He tended to avoid remarking on things that highlighted the stark differences between their upbringings. Antony was his oldest and dearest friend, and he loathed to see him uncomfortable for any reason. Lewis was of the opinion that Antony had endured more than his share of misfortunes in his life, and so had chosen many years past to endeavor to bring happiness to the surly Duke as often as possible.

          “A twin sister…” Lewis mused, bringing the subject back to the letter that had arrived that morning. “You certain that there were no distinguishing marks on the wax seal or the paper in any way?”

          Antony shook his head and moved to the other side of the room. “No, that is what I have already told you. There was no mark, the letter was not signed and the pageboy had no information about the sender even when offered money. I believe the handwriting to be masculine in style, but apart from that…I have to jump to the same conclusions as you have.”

          There held more than a small amount of irritation and frustration in his voice as he undid the knot of the next painting bundle. When he pulled the protective cloth off of them, he was rendered speechless. There, as a focal part of the painting was his father, seated in all of his glory with his trademark stern, disapproving expression. He was featured in his old military uniform and all of his insignia, badges, and metals were painted onto his chest. Yet, most shocking was not simply the two children in his arms, but that they appeared to be at least a year old.

          He could recognize himself for the mask that was painted onto his young face. His deformity was abhorrent and had been hidden away nearly since birth for how repulsive it made his visage to all that looked upon him…but seated on father’s other knee was an identical appearing child of the same age. She wore a white gown and had a delicate bow of pink lace tied around her head like a band.

          Her eyes were painted the same shade of bright cerulean as his own.

          The heavy rain hitting the roof of the castle seemed to mimic the racing of his own heart as he tried to fully comprehend what he was seeing. Even Lewis was mute as he came to stand by Antony’s side and absorb the information in front of him.

          He had a twin sister.

          The letter had told the truth about that, at the very least. There was no denying it when the proof was right in front of him. Never mind all of the implications that were tied to there being proof in exactly the location that the letter claimed there to be….

          He had a sister.

          He had a family…a true family that was out there somewhere, waiting for him…who might not even know that he existed or the truth of her identity.

          Antony’s chest felt tight as he lifted the painting up into the limited light.

          “I am going to find her, Lewis, I am going to bring my sister home….no matter what it takes.”

Chapter One

Isabel – Six Months Later

“I said I was sorry,” Isabel’s voice was soft, her throat rubbed raw with tears. She could not bring herself to look her Aunt in the eyes. She knew what she would see if she did. She could feel the animosity radiating off of her.

“So you have said,” the woman snipped.

“I did not…” Isabel attempted, but her words died off into nothingness.

“I am aware of what you said — but I simply cannot see how you could have allowed yourself to be put into such a compromising position in the first place! Your poor father is wracked with nerves…the threat of scandal would ruin your family!”

Isabel blinked back tears. It was all that she could do to nod along, knowing that she had no choice but to take the blame for a situation that was not and never would be her fault.

Every time that she closed her eyes, she could feel his unwelcome hands upon her. She could still feel the ghost of his too-hot breath and the way it reeked of soured wine as he loomed ever closer to her…forcing his lips upon her face as she tried everything in her power to push him away from herself.

Repeating that story would not help her now…the truth was not what mattered to the woman in the carriage across from her. All that mattered to her Aunt was the fact that now she would have to be inconvenienced by taking Isabel to ward until they could smooth things over.

Never before had a carriage ride been quite so uncomfortable. For once it had very little to do with the overly close proximity to the older woman sharing the carriage with her, and instead, it had more to do with the tension that continued to brew between the passengers since Isabel had been picked up.

Her Aunt, Gertrude, had a remarkable ability to never once break eye contact or allow her focus to waver while she was in the middle of disapproving of something. Least of all when the object of her firm disapproval was the person she was nearest to.

“I do hope that you have had the decency to have written letters expressing your deepest appreciation to your family for allowing you to come and stay with me,” Gertrude interjected suddenly. She battered her way through the silence without grace or eloquence, for she was of the opinion that with only her niece and son in the carriage to hear her, tact was not strictly required.

To her side, Francis smirked knowingly. His eyes roved over Isabel’s person in a way that made her skin feel as if it were to crawl right off of her. She could feel his gaze like ice hovering just over her skin until a roiling started an uproar in her stomach.

“Yes, Aunt, I have done as you requested,” Isabel said demurely as she returned her focus to the window of the carriage and the beautiful scenes of the countryside that they rode past. The carriage jostled along with no mind to the discomfort of its current occupants, though this was not the reason that Isabel kept fighting the urge to cry. It was not as if her opinion had been asked over where she might reside or the home in which she was to spend the summer months. It was not even her fault what had happened — so it was hardly fair that she be forced away from her home, her parents, and the only friend that she had ever known…all because of the actions of a man.

She knew better than to say as much. She knew that it would do her no good.

Gertrude had wormed her way into her father’s ears, speaking of solutions and placations for society until such a time that the possible scandal blew over. She claimed that once the next shocking thing happened to the ton, Isabel would no longer be under such direct scrutiny. Furthermore, it would be the only way for her to have any sort of marriage prospects in the future. As she had no desire to be forced to marry a man who obviously thought so little of her that ruining her reputation and assaulting her did not bother him in the slightest.

The urge to cry welled up in her chest once more, and she bit down on her bottom lip. Isabel lifted her gloved hand to rest on the side of the carriage so that she might cover the lower half of her face and disguise her dimpling chin so that her aunt would not comment on that as well. She already thought that Isabel blubbered too much.

“What are you doing?!” Gertrude gasped, her eyes widened as her face paled. “Put your arm down at once!”

Isabel complied without looking at her. She dropped her arm from the side of the carriage and turned her gaze down to her lap where she balled up fistfuls of her gown tightly. “Yes, Aunt.”

“Good heavens, what are you thinking? Sometimes I wonder if there is a thought that goes through your pretty head at all!” Gertrude pulled her fan and wafted air toward her face. “What if another passing carriage were to see you sitting in such an undignified position? What would they think of your horrible posture?”

Isabel did not know, nor did she much care. They had not seen so much as a person on horseback since they had left London hours ago.

“Honestly, girl, you have got to remember your manners! This is the time to be on your very best behavior! Not all young ladies would be given this golden second chance! Act accordingly!” Gertrude’s fan wafted more quickly, filling the carriage with the scent of her overly pungent rose oil perfume.

Francis patted his mother’s arm in a comforting gesture. “There, there, mother. You must also remind yourself that not all young ladies would allow themselves to be placed into a situation in which they need saving like this.”

His beady eyes cut to Isabel with a smarmy grin.

“You should not worry yourself over her, mother, certainly not if she is going to be ungrateful,” Francis said, knowing full well that she would be forced to answer.

Isabel’s eyes shot up and she shook her head. She spoke too quickly when she answered. Everything had happened so quickly that she had not recovered from the ball, let alone been able to process the fact that she had been ripped from her family and was heading to live with her Aunt and cousin in the country…for however long it took.

“No! Of course I am grateful! I will…I shall do everything in my power to prove to you just how grateful I am! I swear it.”

Francis leaned back into his seat and shared a knowing glance with his mother, seemingly satisfied. “We shall see.”

Gertrude’s fan snapped shut loudly enough to startle Isabel.

“Well, I suppose that I cannot wholly blame you. It is hardly your fault that your parents did not educate you on the ways to properly conduct oneself at a ball. One should know better than to take any action that might allow a man to be tempted in such a way. A young woman such as yourself should have been coached better. Your mother should have educated you better.” Gertrude waited to see if Isabel would contradict her before continuing. “Honestly, there might not even be any hope of saving your already ruined reputation.”

“The gentleman in question might come looking for her after all, thinking that he has laid a sort of claim to her,” Francis agreed.

Isabel’s blood ran cold at the notion. She could not think of anything worse than having to endure another second of that man’s horrible company nor his roaming hands if she had any say in the matter. She wished so dearly to be out of the carriage, she wanted to be away from all prying eyes so that she might cry in peace.

She had always been a good girl. She always listened to her parents and did as she was told. She was not the brightest or the most gifted student, she supposed, but she had always been enthusiastic in her pursuit of the few accomplishments that were offered to her. She had only ever wished to make them happy.

Yet, she had never seen her father shout at anything even half as loudly as he had shouted at her that evening. He had been so disappointed…and as much as Isabel wished to believe that was the only reason for his ire, she hoped that there was some part of him that cared for her enough to want her happiness…

The road that the carriage carried them down shifted from the tightly packed dirt path to something softer. The trees became sparse and finally parted to reveal the image of Aunt Gertrude’s country home in the distance. The property was massive and its beauty was proportionate to its size.

Yet, the only thought that Isabel had come to mind was how easy it was going to be to find many cozy places to hide away in a property that large. With any luck, she could remain hidden away and out of their sight until such a time as her father permitted her to return home….at least, that was what she wished for.

“I suppose I shall have to be on my guard then as well, hm, cousin?” Francis added after a long silence, His tone lifted the words as if he were joking, but it felt more like a threat.

“I beg your pardon?” Isabel whispered in shock.

Francis leaned forward as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the back steps where the servants of the house were all awaiting them in a line, ready for orders. But he did not answer until his Aunt had been escorted from the carriage.

“Well, with such a temptress residing inside of my family’s home — I certainly do not wish to be tempted into an action that I cannot control.” He winked and exited the carriage, not bothering to so much as offer her his hand on the way out.

The unspoken threat lingered in the air and for a moment, Isabel wondered what might happen should she simply just refuse to ever leave the carriage again. What if she imagined herself affixed to the seat so that she could hide here and wither away.

Somehow that future was even more bleak.

She inhaled deeply through her nose and reached for the footman’s hand to guide her out of the carriage. She watched in resigned silence as her paltry trunk was unloaded and carried into the house. She trailed behind the rest of the house’s residents but before she could cross the threshold, Aunt Gertrude spun suddenly. The fan clutched in her hands shot forward to block Isabel from entering the property. She narrowed her dark eyes at Isabel in warning.

“I suppose that it goes without saying that this is not some act of charity that we are performing here. This is, of course, an act of familial kindness. You will be expected to earn your keep and to repay said kindness with hard, diligent work. I do not want to hear a single word of complaint or a single gristle out of you, do I make myself clear?”

Isabel could hardly imagine it. From one horror to another — but there was nothing that she could do.

“I will do my best to ensure that I am not a burden to your household, aunt,” Isabel said softly.

Gertrude’s lips pursed in clear disapproval. “We shall see about that. You could make something of yourself if you use this opportunity to grow to your advantage. Hard work builds character and ensures that you have a clean and healthy mind. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings after all, and you clearly do not need to be idle, given what you have caused…the shame that you have brought to your family.”

Gertrude’s tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth.

Isabel wondered if the woman had ever done an honest day’s labor in her life. She very much doubted it.

“I promise I will do better, aunt, I just wish to put all of this unpleasantness behind me…”

It was like she said nothing at all. Gertrude huffed and walked into the house, snapping her fingers behind her for Isabel to follow. She moved in silence until they came to a stop in front of the housekeeper who looked none too thrilled to have a young debutante thrust into her care without much warning. Isabel wished for nothing more than to head up to her rooms and sleep off the carriage ride, but it seemed an impossible goal now.

“Pleasure to meet you, my lady, I am Mrs. Celine – the housekeeper here of course. Mind you keep close to me when we are walking, the hallways have a tendency to confuse those that are not yet familiar with them. I have confidence that a bright young thing such as yourself will learn her way in no time.” The housekeeper flashed her only a split second’s worth of pity before heading down into the heart of the house.

The split second of kindness, even just the social politeness of Mrs. Celine was enough to make Isabel want to weep. She bit down on her bottom lip and nodded.

When faced with an impossible circumstance, the heroines in the books that Isabel so dearly loved would always adapt, improvise, and then overcome whatever hardship that was placed in front of them. This was the first time that Isabel’s fantasy of living the fairy tale book of her dreams was threatened.

Before she could stop herself — she reached forward and grabbed the back of Mrs. Celine’s skirt. The words tumbled forth before she could stop them. Her eyes screwed shut as she insisted because she needed somebody to know — somebody —  that this was not her fault…she had not done anything to spur this into action!

“I didn’t do it. It was not my fault…”

Mrs. Celine turned slowly and took Isabel’s hand within both of her own. She patted the back of her hand softly and shook her head.

“It never is our fault dear child….not ever.”

 Something in her deep brown eyes was impossibly tender. Some of the tension eased from Isabel’s shoulders as the elder woman shook her head. She could see that Mrs. Celine believed her. Really believed her. The dam holding her emotions locked firmly inside of her chest started to crack. Perhaps she might have at least one friendly face in this house at the very least. For the first time since the horrible ordeal, she felt seen.

Chapter Two

          “Mistress, you must come quickly! Quickly!” Mrs. Celine muttered hastily as she waved her hand at Isabel. It was clear that whatever she had to say, it absolutely could not wait even a single moment longer. Isabel glanced down at the soapy water that she was up to her elbows in. She certainly was not in any position to stop, but she did anyway. Aunt Gertrude would have her guts for garters if she knew that she was shirking her chores for any reason…let alone what terrible sorts of consequences she might inflict on her servant for being the one who distracted her.

          Earn her keep indeed.

          Aunt Gertrude had made it apparent the very next morning that Isabel was to work in her home. She would have to earn her meals if she wished to eat and serve them if she wished to be provided for. She was treated no better than any of the servants, with the exception that she was not being compensated in any way.

          She tried not to complain.

          She tried not to show how heartbroken she felt to be treated in such a fashion by her own family…but it did hurt. It burned something low and icy within her that she could not name. The shame of it all was only made greater each time that Gertrude insisted on being waited on by Isabel personally to do even the most menial, degrading of tasks.

          Isabel moved quickly as she hastily dried her hands on the apron that she wore.

          “What is it?”

          “Shh!” Celine insisted and reached for Isabel’s arm. She held onto her tightly and pulled her through the narrow servant’s passageway in the direction of the dining room. It had only been a couple of weeks but already she was starting to feel more at home in these small passages than she did in any space of this massive house where her aunt might lay eyes on her.

          Curiosity turned in her gut as she followed silently. She had not yet mastered Celine’s artful way of walking to ensure that she did not make a single sound. Even her dress did not swish or crinkle in the same way that Celine’s did.

          “The suspense is going to consume me!” Isabel giggled, only to cut herself short by the stern look of warning Celine threw over her shoulder.

          Whatever it was, it was serious.

          Celine stopped them just short of entering the dining room and placed a finger to her lips. Isabel nodded and leaned toward the dining room where her aunt and her cousin Francis were enjoying their morning tea.

          “–and what am I to do with her once I am wed, hm? Have you considered that this shall not add to my happiness in any way, but rather will detract from it?” Francis drawled. Boredom clung to every syllable that he breathed. Isabel had come to wonder if perhaps he had ever enjoyed a moment of joy in his entire existence. She could not fathom how any person could be such a miserable pig all of the time.

          “Once the paperwork has been signed and officiated in the eyes of the lord, child, I shall not care what you do with her. I shall leave that to your imagination.” Gertrude carefully swiped her teaspoon over the brim of her glass before taking the smallest sip of her tea possible.

          Isabel’s brow furrowed in confusion. Who could they be speaking about?

          “I suppose I could keep her on in the same capacity that she serves now…only with the added benefit of having her beauty at my disposal….it is such a fortunate thing that she is beautiful, I suppose. It is a wonder that the old sap who nearly scandalized her has not come looking for her…over two weeks and not so much as a letter.” Francis turned his spoon over in his hand, fiddling with it idly as he spoke.

          “Yes, well…there has not been a single letter from her father either. I fear that if we do not have word from him soon, we might be burdened with the whelp indefinitely,” Gertrude said bitterly.

          Isabel’s stomach dropped as she realized that they meant her.

          “Would that not work out in our favor, perhaps?” Francis asked.

          “What do you mean?” his mother answered.

          “Well, if there is no word from her father, then we hardly need his permission for her hand in marriage, would we? You could claim to have taken her to ward via a verbal agreement, and that one of the conditions was that she marry me. She could not object, it would be a legally binding contract and I shall lie and say that I was witness to the whole thing in its conception!”

          Silence fell as Gertrude considered her son’s offer. She considered it for too long. Isabel’s stomach clenched and she had to clamp her hand over the lower half of her face as she waited.

          “That does not give you access to her riches unless her father agrees to a dowry.”

          Francis slumped back in his chair, defeated for a moment.

          The air in the hallway seemed to get thinner.

          “Perhaps one small little fib will beget another?” Francis offered conspiratorially.

          Gertrude waved her hand for her son to finish speaking.

          “Perhaps we can tell him that the rumors were true and she propositioned me. We can claim that she seduced me and begged for me to take her to wife. We can shift the near scandal to our advantage and further supplant the notion that it was, in fact, my dear cousin’s idea in the first place…then Uncle will have no choice but to surrender and pay as large of a dowry as we shall ask.”

          Gertrude nodded and made a small hum of approval. “Now you are thinking like a son of mine. We will have you wed to her before the fortnight is finished…you shall have her produce an heir and then do what you will with her.”

          Isabel staggered backward as she felt that she might faint. She could not believe what she was hearing. The back of her shoulders collided heavily with the wall in an audible thunk.

          Francis was on his feet in a moment. “Who goes there? Come out at once!”

          His footsteps thundered quickly toward the hall where they stood. Celine grabbed hold of Isabel’s dress and nearly dragged her down the hallway at a full run.

          “Who dares spy on me?!” Francis bellowed after them but would not dare step foot into the hallway for it was not grand enough to house him in his opinion. His hand collided with the wall and echoed through the narrow space to the small alcove where Celine had Isabel blocked with her body.

          “They…they…” Isabel started. It was hard to gather enough air into her lungs to speak properly. Her hands pressed into her ribs to try to comfort herself as her mind struggled to catch up to the depravity that she had just witnessed her aunt and cousin plan.

          “I am so sorry mistress, but you needed to know…I could not allow them to say such things about you. I feared that you might not believe me if I simply told you about them…oh, I am so sorry,” Celine said in a whisper before she pulled Isabel into her arms and hugged her fiercely.

          It was strange how close you could become to another person when you had similar spirits. Unlike the family that employed her, Celine was a warm and kind woman who had taken to Isabel like the daughter that she had lost so long ago. Perhaps that was what had started their bond, but it had quickly grown into something stronger in the short span of a few weeks.

          A woman with a daughter who passed well before her time and a young woman who had never known the love of a true mother.

          “How am I supposed to stay here when they…I cannot…there is simply no way that I could ever marry somebody like him!” Isabel countered. Each moment that she was forced to endure Francis’ company was worse than the last. “I cannot be forced to bear his children and live my life locked away in some tower….or worse….but my father, if I return back to London, he might not believe me either…”

          Her knees threatened to buckle. She needed to move or else she might allow the darkness of the hallway to swallow her whole. She pushed from Celine’s arms and staggered as if she were drunk all of the way down the hall until she could reach the kitchens. She braced herself with an arm against the wall as she struggled to regain normalcy in her breathing.

          Her bright blue eyes lifted to the warm, sympathetic eyes of her friend. “What am I to do?”

          Celine bit down on her bottom lip.

          “What is it? Please, please help me…I shall do anything!” Isabel pleaded.

          “Well…there is one way…but I am not sure that it would work. You might try to run from here but there is no guarantee that you shall make it there alive…it could only be rumor.”

          “Anything is better than that fate…please…I go to sleep every night in terror of finding him near me…I am constantly looking over my shoulder, fearing what might happen…they are plotting my demise…please,” Isabel insisted. Anything had to be better than constantly swimming in boiling water. She felt as if she were teetering on the brink of drowning or roasting alive and she could tolerate neither.

          “I have heard rumors of a castle…deep in the woods to the west side of the property. A castle that has long since been abandoned…I am not a woman who puts much stock into the superstitious ramblings of the common folk, but if the legends are true it is still very much intact, guarded by protective spirits…it could give you safe shelter until such a time as we can come up with another plan. Of course I will help you.”

          “I do not know anything about surviving on my own.”

          “I shall leave food for you at the edge of the forest after curfew every evening. If you find the castle, all you should need to do is come and fetch it. In three weeks time, I will meet you there under the cover of darkness and we will start your life over in a new town.”

          “I cannot ask you to do that…” Isabel said as tears started to well in her eyes.

          “You are not asking me for a thing, child, I am offering. I only wish that I had been given the opportunity to do the same for my late daughter…had there been more people to help her, then perhaps she might still be with me today.”

          “Mrs. Celine!” Francis’ voice bellowed near the door of the kitchen, demanding her presence. “I should not have to come all of the way down here to speak with you!” he called, his presence looming ever closer.

          “You must go, now, before they realize it was you who overheard the conversation.” Celine quickly gathered bread and cheese into a cloth and knotted it together. “I shall sneak your things to you slowly, go, now!”

          “What will happen to you?!” Isabel protested. Her legs felt like lead. She did not wish to abandon her.

          “Nevermind that, child! Go now or I shall never forgive you!”

          She let herself linger for only a moment longer before she turned on her heels and ran as quickly as her slippered feet could carry her. She raced down the servant’s entrance and out onto the grounds. The morning dew still clung to the grass and dampened her stockings as she hiked up her skirts. She focused so singularly on the treeline that she tried to pretend that she could not hear the pained shout of terror that carried from the castle all the way to where she ran. She pretended that she was not aware of the pain in her legs or the burning in her chest as she blindly hurled herself through the trees. Branches and bramble tore at her arms and shredded her stockings. Thorny leaves cut at her face and tangled in her hair, pulling and nipping at her but she could not stop — she could not allow herself to stop. Not even for a single moment…not until the ground slipped out from underneath her.

          One moment, she felt too heavy on her feet, but the next moment she was weightless.

          She slipped into freefall for what felt like an eternity, before landing so abruptly on the ground that it knocked the breath clear out of her, and down she tumbled. Heels over feet until she fell again. She felt as if her brain had been knocked loose. Her eyes swam and her head spun and then she was pitched forward into the large, icy expanse of a lake.

          The weight of her dress carried her under. Her arms flung about as she tried to push herself back to the surface. She struggled and kicked but only managed to get more knotted up into her skirts.

          Well, she thought to herself as her body relaxed and started to surrender to its fate. Better this than to be trapped into a marriage with Francis…or worse.

Chapter One

We heard that the Masked Rogue of London is fond of women with red hair. How scandalous! — excerpt from The Londoner.

Lady Natalie Reeves raised her eyes to the graying skies, and her eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. “The weather is especially changeful this week. Do you not think so, Hannah?”

When she did not get a response, she turned to find her cousin hurrying toward a puppet player’s stall, her dark curls bouncing behind her. Shaking her head whilst marveling at Hannah’s excitability, she began to walk along the Serpentine. She could follow Hannah and watch the puppets amongst the growing crowd but she would much rather walk in solitude, for there was a lot that occupied her thoughts.

At nine-and-twenty, she was unmarried and had no prospects, life in London was growing more difficult by the day, and society events had become a tedious and costly affair. She had come to Hyde Park at an unfashionable hour for some fresh air—not that London was ever in an abundance of it—but the sight of blushing young ladies in the company of charming gentlemen tightened her throat.

Natalie turned her eyes away from the discomposing sight, but then she thought she heard someone call her name. Her steps slowed, and she listened, unsure.

“Lady Natalie,” the voice said again, prompting her to turn around to see Miss Alexandra Gilmore, a pretty and famous daughter of Viscount Wenthorne, walking toward her. “How splendid to see you here. I almost did not recognize you, for we are hardly afforded the privilege of seeing you out of doors lately.” Her blue gaze traveled over Natalie, and the corners of her mouth tilted upward in condescension.

Alexandra was the sort of lady that poets wrote about. She represented prime English beauty with golden ringlets framing a well-proportioned face, bright blue eyes, and pale flawless skin that had never seen a freckle. Her appearance was quite the opposite of Natalie’s. She acknowledged Alexandra with a nod.

“Seeing you walking all alone,” Alexandra continued, “one would think England had no men left. Perhaps you would like to join us.” She pointed behind her at a tall gentleman who had his back to them and was speaking to another man. Natalie knew Alexandra only made that offer to show her that she commanded the attention of a gentleman of consequence. He turned very slightly but his face was shielded by his hat.

He was powerfully built, however, and his imposing height quite distinguished him. “No, I am happy walking by myself,” Natalie murmured, her unease growing. She had never been able to properly defend herself whenever her spinsterhood was confronted.

Alexandra never missed the opportunity to remind her that she was a spinster, and that she would likely remain so for the rest of her life. As harsh as the words were, they were true.

“As a matter of fact, I am with my cousin,” Natalie added in a late defensive attempt.

“Lord Clifford?” Alexandra asked, raising one elegant eyebrow.

“No, Miss Hannah Reeves,” she replied, pointing to her cousin at the puppet player’s stall.

“Oh, I was hoping it would be Lord Clifford. He, too, is rarely seen outside. Is he well?” Alexandra inclined her head as she continued her abasing examination of Natalie.

She clenched her teeth as she replied, “Yes, he is very well.”

“Well, Lady Natalie, I think you ought to spend time with other people. Miss Reeves will be married soon, and…” Alexandra allowed her voice to trail off as a grin spread across her face, certain that Natalie had captured her meaning.

Hannah will marry, and you will be left alone. She swallowed miserably. It was only a matter of time before she lost even more confidence. And once her cousin, George—who became the Earl of Clifford after her father’s passing—married, she would have no one. Lord help her if the new Lady Clifford wouldn’t be generous enough to allow her to continue to stay with them.

Unable to continue standing there and listening to Alexandra’s insults, Natalie turned to continue walking, but Alexandra placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. It would be inappropriate to brush the hand off and walk away, for the park was beginning to fill as the fashionable hour approached, and manners must be minded no matter what.

“Allow me to offer you some advice, Lady Natalie.” Alexandra leaned close to her. “Seek a little adventure while you can. I am sure there is a gentleman out there who would want you. Who knows…” she allowed a delicate shrug, “The Masked Rogue might find you…fascinating.”

Natalie’s eyes widened at that insult. The Masked Rogue of London was a man with a dark reputation. Society had tried for six years to unmask him to no avail. He lived in hopeless depravity, gambling and making merry nearly every night, and word was that he had ruined many a young lady over the years. News was published daily about him, and the paper that carried the most about him was The Londoner.

So, this is my worth in society’s eyes. Something to be toyed with by the Masked Rogue. Gravely wounded, she decided to leave immediately. Pulling her shoulder away so Alexandra’s hand fell, she began to turn, but then her eyes caught something that froze both her blood and faculties, whilst making her heart pound fiercely against her small ribs.

The gentleman accompanying Alexandra had just turned, and Natalie recognized him as Jasper Fitzhugh, the Duke of Amsthorne, and the man who ruined her reputation nine years ago. Knowledge of what had happened was not made public, thankfully, but it had made way for the events that led to her spinsterhood to occur.

His presence halted Alexandra’s condemnation but Natalie wanted the ground to open so she could hide. “Ladies,” he murmured with a slight tilt of his head. Alexandra placed her hand possessively in the crook of his elbow and smiled at Natalie before turning her fluttering lashes up at him.

An enraged shiver ran down her back, because Jasper looked at her as though he had never seen her before. In fact, he smiled cordially at her, then looked down at Alexandra, waiting for her to introduce him. When she did not, he proceeded to introduce himself, which was not done.

“I am the Duke of Amsthorne,” he said with a small smile. He was even more handsome than she remembered, and although she had seen him in ballrooms and gardens, she had not been this close to him since the night he stole her future and doomed her.

Grinding her teeth, she curtsied politely, offering him her hand and murmuring, “Lady Natalie Reeves.” She watched his eyes, hoping to see recognition flare in their blue depths but nothing happened. Either he was pretending to have no recollection of that night, or he truly did not remember her.

Natalie was unsure which pained her more. Young and naive, she had acted upon the feelings that had grown in her heart. She allowed Jasper to lead her away from the ballroom to a private place where he charmed and tried to kiss her. Her body was filled with flutters, and she closed her eyes, ready to be kissed and begin a new life with him. Then his friend Oliver Bargrave appeared from behind a sofa, laughing as he revealed that it was all a joke.

Oliver had dared Jasper to lure an innocent girl out of the ballroom, and he accepted and carried out the plan. For them, it was all a moment of amusement, but Natalie’s nightmares had begun that night. That simple jest brought on incidents that consumed her family’s fortune and threw them into heavy debt.

Now, Jasper bowed over her hand, strangely oblivious to her misfortune. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, My Lady.” Alexandra glared at her, but Natalie found no satisfaction at the moment. She struggled to understand how he could not remember her. “And allow me to apologize for Miss Gilmore’s behavior.”

Natalie frowned. He had heard? It was possible because he had been standing within earshot. He looked down at Alexandra, his expression impassive.

“My aunt and I often talk about how it costs nothing to be polite. One might find it advantageous to show more respect to those who rank higher in society. Do you not think so, Miss Gilmore?” Alexandra’s hold of his arm slackened as her face colored, seemingly in anger and humiliation.

His expression remained inscrutable, and Natalie was tempted to appreciate him defending her. She also felt the urge to tell him that she did not require his help before storming off.

Jasper regarded her for a moment before he tilted his head again, starting over, “As I was saying, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Lady Natalie.” He began to steer Alexandra away. “Please excuse us.”

Instead of Natalie walking away after having the final word, she watched them leave, her gut turning with a hundred different emotions, of which she could only identify two. Anger and shame. It was in this state that Hannah found her. 

“Natalie, are you well?” she asked as she came to stand in front of her, holding a ballerina puppet. “You look pale.” Her green eyes were clouded with concern.

Natalie shook her head. Her face was supposed to be red with rage, not pale. She had not been able to speak for herself, and it was disgraceful. She tried to quickly compose herself, and her eyes found the ballerina her cousin held. “Where did you find that?”

Hannah smiled. “The puppet player asked us some questions. I answered correctly, earning this pretty ballerina.” Then she frowned. “Are you certain you are well, Natalie?”

Natalie managed a faint smile and a nod before taking her cousin’s arm. She could see that Hannah wanted to ask again but she refused to give her the chance, glad she had not been present to witness her humiliation.

They continued walking along the Serpentine and after a while, Hannah looked up. “Do you think it will rain soon?”

Following her eyes, Natalie saw the sky was completely overcast. “Yes, and we should go.” The impending storm gave Natalie an excuse to leave the park. They walked back to the waiting carriage, and about twenty minutes later, they arrived at Clifford House in Berkeley Square.

Natalie went up to her bedchamber while Hannah sought George, and as soon as she closed the door behind her, she leaned against it, fighting every painful memory she had worked for years to keep down.

It took one encounter with Jasper to unleash them, and they pressed against the back of her eyes, causing them to sting. She furiously blinked away the tears blurring her vision, rage tightening her chest, and moved to her writing desk by the window. Natalie sat and opened a drawer, removing a folded piece of parchment that had been there for more than two years.

The paper contained a list of everything she wanted to do in her lifetime but never had the opportunity. All of those things were daring and demanded courage that she did not possess. Her situation was not likely going to change, and perhaps it was time to step out from the shadows and live as she truly wanted to.

Unfolding the list, she began to read:

Kiss a rake

Kiss a proper gentleman

Swim in the Serpentine

Slip away with a gentleman during a ball

Wear a scandalous dress

Gamble in a gentlemen’s club

Smoke cheroot and drink until I lose my mind and balance

Fence

Ask a gentleman to dance

Be truly wanted. Loved.

Picking up a quill and dipping it in ink, Natalie added one more item to the list:

Ruin Jasper’s reputation. 

Chapter Two

Shameless men have come forward with the claims of being the Masked Rogue without proof. We are offering a reward for whoever can reveal his face to society —The Londoner.

Natalie wanted him to feel the pain she had lived with for nine years. Certainly, it would be much more difficult to ruin a man’s reputation, and he was known in society as a perfect duke.

Her task would be tough, but she was willing to do what it took. If he had truly forgotten what he had done to her, then she would gladly remind him.

A knock came at her door as she finished writing on her list. She quickly wiped her tears with the pad of her fingers and put the list away, rising. “Yes?”

“May I come in?” Hannah asked.

Smoothing her hands down her blue muslin dress, she called for her cousin to enter. Hannah immediately frowned when she walked in and looked at Natalie.

“Is something the matter, Natalie?” she asked. “You were very quiet on our ride back. Did something happen?”

Natalie shook her head. “I am well, Hannah. You must not worry about me.”

Hannah still looked skeptical despite that answer, but she said. “You should rest before dinner.”

“Yes, I will do that.”

Her cousin regarded her as though she wished to say more, but she nodded and left. Natalie allowed a deep sigh. A walk would calm her, but she was unwilling to leave the house at this time because her fears had been revived. She felt as though a crowd would be waiting in front of the house to launch hurtful words at her.

She picked up a basket with her sewing and weaving items and sat like a monk on her bed. Ladies did not trade, but Natalie did in secret to help her family. She made bonnets and dresses and sold them to her friend Mary Lynch, who was a modiste with a shop on Bond Street.

Ladies loved Mary’s shop, so naturally, they believed some of the bonnets and dresses she displayed were of her making, which was convenient for Natalie.

She had no siblings, her mother died an hour after her birth, and her father passed away five years ago. Hannah and George were all she had, and poor George inherited her father’s debts, which Jasper caused. What she did helped, and it also gave her a sense of purpose in the world.

***

“Shall I read now?” Hannah asked, raising the sheet she had just finished writing on as they waited in the drawing room for dinner to be announced.

“Yes,” George replied, while Natalie straightened in her seat. Hannah wrote anonymously for The Londoner, and her articles were solely about the Masked Rogue of London. The money she earned from that was her contribution to the family, and she always read the pieces she wrote to George and Natalie before submitting them for publication.

She was two-and-twenty and seeking a husband. Until she found one, she too felt obligated to help George in any way she could.

Clearing her throat, Hannah began, “Lord Mansfield had the misfortune of losing a wager last night against the Masked Rogue. Now the exact sum is unknown because the Baron would not reveal it, but it is large enough that he might part with a property…”

“From whom do you hear what to report?” George asked.

“Oh, I cannot tell you that, Brother,” Hannah laughed. They had been asking her that question for a while and she refused to tell. Hannah was still far from finding the rogue’s identity, but she had managed to become thoroughly informed about where he went and what he did.

Now, Natalie wondered how much fortune he had amassed over the years through his wagers—and he won nearly everyone he made. “Does he truly favor women with red hair?” she asked.

“Yes, he does. Nearly every woman in his company has red hair or is wearing a red wig.”

George turned to look at Natalie, consternation widening his green eyes. A blush crept up her cheeks. “I am not asking because I have red hair, George,” she mumbled. “I am merely as curious as the ton is about him.”

“Well…” he cleared his throat, “we do not know if he is a gentleman. He certainly has the comportment of one but any scoundrel could pretend to be a gentleman, especially one behind a mask.”

Natalie’s thoughts veered onto a path that made her blush even though she had never seen the Masked Rogue. Blinking, she shifted in her seat and composed herself. Should she try to find him with her cousin’s help? She was no longer concerned about her reputation, and she could add a wish to her list. Find the Masked Rogue.

She was not sure what she would do if she found him but a kiss would be a good start. Yes, I should do this.

“I have yet to find where he lives,” Hannah complained, folding the sheet and sealing it.

“Why do you want to know where he lives?” Natalie asked, leaning slightly forward, which drew George’s attention and he cleared his throat. He had always been very protective of both Natalie and his sister.

“Why, I would be closer to finding his face once I have his address.”

The butler appeared in the doorway and George stood, saying, “I wish you luck, Sister.”

He offered Natalie his arm, and they moved to the dining room for dinner. As they began to eat, she noticed a change in George’s demeanor. “Is something the matter?”

His hesitation told her that it was about money. She disliked such discussions, and she should have grown accustomed to them by now, but she took a sip of her wine to prepare herself before asking, “What do you wish to talk about, George?”

“We need to further reduce our expenses,” he replied, looking dolefully from Natalie to Hannah.

“Lady Barton invited us to her autumn ball,” Hannah said, “but we do not have to attend, and if we must, then we will not have new dresses made. We shall wear one of our old ones.”

They were rarely invited to balls—even during the social season—and they were excited when they received an invitation last week. They planned to have new dresses because most of the ones they had were out of fashion. Natalie could make them new dresses, but they had wanted a proper modiste to do it so they could truly feel like they were part of the ton. The illusion of privilege was sometimes a salve for their wounds.

“Yes, I agree with Hannah,” Natalie said. “I can alter our old dresses and no one will know.”

George sighed, suddenly looking older than his age of two-and-thirty. He contemplated their suggestion for a moment before shaking his head. “No. My sisters shall have new dresses. They might not be the same as what you are accustomed to but you will have something new, nevertheless. Besides, the price of a dress is not very significant.” He smiled to brighten the place, and although they returned the gesture, the air remained heavy with the burdens on the family.

Hannah made to object, but Natalie stopped her with a look. “What else can we do?” It was evident that George was already feeling as though he had failed them. The best they could do for him was to accept what he was giving them. She silently promised to work harder to replace what they would spend on the new dresses.

“We have to dismiss some of the household. A maid or two should make a difference,” he suggested, “or we could reduce their wages.”

Natalie gently placed a hand on his arm. “It is better to dismiss them. We can give them good references that will enable them to find better situations.”

“Yes, you are correct. I would be lost without you two.” He gave them an appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

“What is the purpose of family if not to look after one another.” She took his hand, then frowned when she noticed, for the first time, how lean his fingers had become. George’s health suffered greatly for how much he exerted himself in his attempts to repay their debts and provide for them. He hid it well from them, but it was at times like this that Natalie noticed.

Guilt clenched her hut as she recalled the cause of it all. Oliver Bargrave had pronounced Jasper’s prank a scandal, and he came to her father and collected money from him for his silence. Months later, Oliver forced her father to give him a large part of his coal mining business using the scandal as leverage. Too afraid to have his daughter’s reputation ruined, her father agreed, and fell into debt trying to revive his remaining fortune.

The scandal remained hidden but the price was too much. As a result of their lost fortune, gentlemen avoided Natalie because she had no dowry, and when she reached the age of five-and-twenty, she was deemed a spinster.

George still owned a portion of the business but it was a very small one. Not once had Natalie’s father or George ever blamed her for what had happened, nor had they shown their displeasure in any way. She was immensely grateful to them, but her gratitude did nothing to assuage her guilt.

After dinner, George went to his study, while Hannah moved to the library to read. Left alone, Natalie decided to retire early. Within the walls of her room, the day’s events rattled in her thoughts.

Jasper will surely pay for what he had done to her family, but before then, she had a task she could complete with him. Kiss a proper gentleman. He was a perfect man in society’s eyes, thus, he qualified.

She rose from her chair in front of the hearth and walked to her vanity, assessing her appearance. Her pale blue lace dress complimented her red hair and gave her hazel eyes a green hue. Yes, she will kiss a proper gentleman tonight before she lost the unexpected courage she had gained.

Removing a black cloak from a rack and throwing it over her shoulders, she picked up her gloves and reticule, and she slipped out of her bedchamber, moving as quietly as she could. Her heart beat faster, and her eyes darted in every direction. She had never snuck out of the house before, and if George found her, not only would he prevent her from leaving but he would worry.

He also would never understand her list, especially because he still hoped she would find a good gentleman and marry. She descended the stairs and hurried toward the rear of the house where the servants’ entrance was located. Natalie opened it as quietly as she could and stepped out, closing it behind her.

She took a deep breath and walked down the alley to the street where she hired a hack, giving the driver Jasper’s address, a few miles outside the city of Westminster.

 As she settled in the carriage and flutters threatened to make her run back to the safety of Clifford House, she swallowed and took another steadying breath.

Tonight, the course of my life changes. I will not quail, she vowed.

Chapter Three

We have it on good authority that the Masked Rogue is a very sad man. A demi-monde, whose name we shan’t reveal, claimed to have seen grief in his gaze during an encounter. Many others have pronounced the same, and we believe that there is some truth to this tale.

Jasper opened the middle drawer of his desk, but instead of picking up the ledger he intended to retrieve, his hand found a black mask. He removed it and stared at it for a while, thinking.

He was the fifth Duke of Amsthorne, and like the last two before him, he was going to die in months. This mask had given him the chance to live as he pleased before their family curse would come to claim him. It saved him from tainting his family’s pristine reputation.

Jasper sighed as he continued to stare at the mask, realizing that he was lying to himself at this very moment. He was a coward who hid behind the Masked Rogue instead of living truthfully. He feared death, and that ought to have encouraged honesty. Now all of London—nay, England—wanted him.

That and the darkness of his curse shadowed every step he took, occupied every space in his thoughts, and consumed his dreams at night. His father and grandfather died at five-and-thirty from mysterious illnesses, and he was sure the same would happen to him. Jasper shut his eyes and ground his teeth, his heart aching anew. Dwelling upon this issue never did him well, and it would not suddenly whim to serve him. He must continue on the path he was on. Live the rest of his days as he pleased so he would die knowing he controlled what he could.

Placing the mask back in the drawer, he retrieved the ledger and set it atop his desk before gaining his feet, walking to a table by a bookshelf, and picking up a brandy decanter. A knock came as he was pouring a finger of brandy into a glass.

“Come in,” he called, walking back to his desk with his liquor. His aunt, Lady Phoebe Dawson, walked into the room, her dark eyebrows contracting when she saw the glass between his fingers. She never liked it when he drank. She also did not believe the curse.

“Should I have some tea brought in for you?” she asked, coming to sit in the chair before his desk.

“You would do anything to take my brandy away, would you not?” Jasper intoned. Phoebe was the only mother he had ever known. She was his late mother’s sister, and at the time of her passing, she made Phoebe promise to look after Jasper. Or so he was told.

“Quite so,” she replied, placing what looked like invitations on his desk. “Lady Barton invited us to her autumn ball. I am hoping you would attend…” she raised one dark eyebrow, “with Miss Gilmore.”

Jasper’s eyes rolled. The only reason he was paying Miss Gilmore any attention was because of his image as a duke, and to please his aunt. She had chosen her for him to court, and he obliged because he did not have long to live, and her happiness was important to him.

“Must I?” he asked, the corner of his mouth curving upward in jest.

“Yes, Jasper. Miss Gilmore is a very good young lady. She has the qualities to become a duchess.”

No, she does not, he was tempted to argue. Miss Gilmore was an arrogant chit without an inkling about how harsh life could be. He had been disgusted with her treatment of Lady Natalie, who was higher in rank, and appeared to be older, too. He had never seen her behave thusly before, but then she thought he was too far away to hear what she said.

Poor Lady Natalie had ostensibly been too surprised to defend herself, and he was happy to step in as her champion. She was also a delight to look at.

The Londoner was right about his tastes in women. Red hair roused his passion, and many of the demimondaines he knew wore red wigs to please him. He never asked them to, but he had a jolly when they did.

Lady Natalie was natural, and he wondered what she was like, and if he could find her. No, the proper question was if she would be willing to have his company. He would rather spend his days pretending to court her instead of Miss Gilmore.

“Jasper?”

His aunt’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up. “Hmm?”

“I asked if you would attend.”

Jasper nodded. He did not want to argue, and the more the days passed, the more he yearned for peace. He could never have internal peace, but he could have some in his household.

“I also think it is time you make your intentions towards Alexandra known in society,” Phoebe continued. “You should consider marrying her.”

Jasper immediately raised a hand to stop her. “You know I cannot do that.”

His aunt blinked. “Is this because of that silly curse?” Before he could respond, she continued with, “You would be happier if you removed that notion from your mind. There is no curse in this family, and that is all I am saying about that this evening.”

Phoebe had not been present when his father died. She did not see what Jasper had, and what had ultimately convinced him that this was a curse. She would never understand how selfish and cruel he would be if he married; to leave a young widow, and perhaps a child who would never know him, would plague his afterlife for eternity.

“I shall give it some thought,” he murmured to placate her, and after studying his face for a moment, she believed him.

“I saw the butler coming to give you a letter but I took it from him.” She set down a missive atop the invitations. One glance at the crest on the seal, and Jasper grinned.

It was from his dearest friend, Oliver Bargrave, the Earl of Ecklehill. Oliver had been journeying about the world for the past two years, and his letters were as rare as they were appreciated.

When he picked up the letter, his aunt decided to leave. She walked to the door, but before she opened it, she turned and said over her shoulder, “Miss Gilmore and I will be shopping tomorrow afternoon. You may promenade with her if you wish.”

“Yes,” Jasper said, opening the letter. “Goodnight Aunt Phoebe.” He heard her chuckle as she left. Shaking his head slightly, he read:

Amsthorne,

I have excellent news, my friend! By the time you read this letter, I will be on a ship bound for England. I hope to return before the snow settles.

I shall keep this letter short because I have much to tell you when I return. I hope you are not planning to marry yet, for I wish to be reacquainted with society. Who better to help me with that?

Sincerely,

Lord Ecklehill

Jasper smiled as he folded the letter. Oliver would return in time for his thirty-fifth birthday, and he will have the chance to bid him a proper farewell. Another knock sounded at his door and when he answered, his butler, Wayne, walked in.

“There is a caller for you, Your Grace.”

“Who is it?”

“A lady, Your Grace, but she would not give her name.”

Jasper glanced at the small clock on his desk. It was past ten and raining. What would a lady be doing in his manor at this time? “Are you certain she did not call upon my aunt?”

“I am, Your Grace. She specifically asked for an audience with you. She is in the drawing room.”

Surprised and curious, Jasper stood to find out who this lady was and what she wanted from him.

Be on the lookout for the full release on the Thursday the 12th!

Chapter One

Frederick pushed his mount to a canter. The woodland flowed by in a series of sun-blessed greens. The path was wide here and well-worn from the long grass that grew beneath the trees. For a moment he allowed himself the simple pleasure of enjoying the breeze that kissed his face.

How long since I did nothing except ride? And when I have ridden, how long has it been since that ride was for no purpose other than enjoying the countryside?

The answer was too long. Too long spent administering the business of his estates. Too long spent amid his easels and paints.

A man should take some time for himself.

The woods petered out at the brow of a hill. Before him stretched the countryside of East Sussex. He was looking south, towards the distant coast. Somewhere to his left would be Pevensey Bay, further left still, along the coast would be Hastings and his own estate of Valhurst. He reined the horse in and sat for a moment, looking out over the quiet, checkered landscape of fields, meadows, and woods, taking a deep breath of air.

His thoughts strayed to the work that needed to be done at Valhurst. The urge to paint, to produce something of value. Recreation was not something Frederick found easy. He sighed.

That is the burden of a Dukedom. To be a good Duke, one must give oneself to the people and the land. I am a conservator, just as my father taught me. Even the art is something of an indulgence.

Something caught his eye, moving quickly across a meadow below. He shaded the sun from his eyes and realized that he was looking at a woman riding. Oddly, she seemed to be riding astride her mount, not side-saddle as women were supposed to. As he watched, the animal leaped an obstacle and the woman let out a whoop. Dark brown hair streamed behind her and she seemed to be wearing breeches.

Upon my soul. I do believe that is exactly what she’s wearing. Not a dress but a man’s attire. Now there’s a hell of a thing.

Intrigued, he nudged his mount to a walk, calculating a route that appeared to intercept the woman’s path. She was riding up a slope now towards him. Frederick came to a stone wall, bordering the field at its highest point. He followed it to a three-bar wooden gate, weather-marked and aged. He waited there as the woman angled her steed for the same spot. As she reached the gate, he dismounted and untied the thick rope that had been used to hold the gate shut.

“Good afternoon!” the woman said, red-cheeked and bright-eyed. “And thank you.”

She had a tumble of dark hair, flowing loosely to her shoulders in bouncing curls. Her eyes were hazel. Frederick noted a stray leaf wedged between the buttons of her coat, another in the curls of her hair. A smudge of bark or moss adhered to a freckled cheek just beneath her left eye.

“You are welcome, madame,” Frederick said. “And a good afternoon to you too. That was a fine jump.”

“Oh, that was all Hettie here.” The woman smiled, patting her horse’s neck. “We came to a ditch and Hettie decided she could clear it.”

“And clearly outran your companions,” Frederick said as he closed and retied the gate, the woman having ridden through.

“What companions?” she said.

“You are surely not out riding alone?” Frederick asked, genuinely surprised.

“I surely am, though I am returning home if that makes you feel better.”

It was said with a mischievous smile that Frederick found himself returning. It was impossible not to.

“Do you disapprove?” she asked.

“It is not for me to approve or disapprove of your actions,” Frederick said. “I think merely of the safety of a young woman, riding alone in the middle of the countryside.”

“This is Sussex,” the woman replied with a grin. “How dangerous can it be?”

Frederick did not like the casual attitude.

Doesn’t she know there could be brigands, former soldiers, or other vagrants on these roads? Perhaps she genuinely does not. If so, it is my duty to be her escort.

“For you, any potential danger is magnified because of your sex. May I ask where home is?”

“Perhaps I should not say, as you are a stranger and as you have just been warning me of the perils for a lone female.”

There was a playful smile on the young woman’s face which told Frederick that she wasn’t taking him seriously. He returned the smile thinly, gritting his teeth but hiding the fact behind closed lips.

“Quite right. I am Frederick Smith, Thirteenth Duke of Valhurst. That is some dozen miles or so to the east of here. And yourself?”

She didn’t answer but instead sat her horse, gazing out over the spread of countryside before them. She was quite exquisitely pretty, with round cheeks that held a rosy hue and eyes that seemed to sparkle. Rosebud lips seemed to adopt a smile as their natural expression. Frederick looked away when he caught himself staring. The breeches she wore ended at tall riding boots which showed a well-shaped calf. Her garments were quite scandalous, showing off the shape of her legs.

“I came from all the way over there. Do you see the woods on the horizon at the foot of that hill? Came across country and at one point was chased by a man I believe mistook me for a poacher.”

She laughed but Frederick was shocked.

“It was quite the chase for a time. I was forced to cut right across country.”

“Did he catch you? Is that why you look so…”

He tailed off realizing there was no polite way of finishing the sentence. But he was genuinely concerned. Game keepers could be brutal to those they believed were intending to poach.

“Like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backward?” the woman laughed. “No, he did not catch me. But, yes, the chase is the reason. Ah well, one does not ride in the country and expect to look ready for a ball. More like a bath!”

“That is why England possesses roads, madame,” Frederick said. “So that gentlemen and women do not need to appear disheveled. You are lucky to have escaped, nonetheless.”

“Not luck, Your Grace. I was the better horseman, horsewoman I should say.”

In Frederick’s experience, that was an unusual thing. He did not know any woman who would not take a carriage rather than a horse. Men were far more common as riders than women and even then, women rode side-saddle to accommodate their clothing, a significant hindrance.

“I note you do not ride side-saddle. That will have helped you to outrun a man on horseback, certainly.”

“It helps, but I can beat any horsemen, even riding side-saddle as convention dictates I should.”

Her manner was almost confrontational, the sting taken out by her impish smile.

A very direct young lady indeed.

Frederick found himself warming to her. She was remarkably different from any woman of his association in the past. Certainly different to the women making up the Ton, who formed Frederick’s primary society.

Refreshingly different. Though reckless in the extreme.

“You do not believe me, Your Grace?” she asked.

“That you could out-ride a skilled horseman while riding side-saddle? No, frankly I do not,” Frederick said.

“Very well. Let us put it to the test. I propose a race. Through these woods to the Longbridge road on the other side. That is about a mile or so, I believe.”

Frederick had to stop himself from gaping. The young woman promptly swung a leg up and over the cantle of her saddle so that she was sitting side-saddle. The glimpse that briefly gave Frederick of her legs in a position that no man other than a husband should be allowed to see, took his breath away. He composed himself.

“I will not take advantage,” he demurred.

“Meaning you consider me to be boastful and foolish?” the woman challenged.

“Far from it. Mistaken is all,” Frederick replied.

“You’re on. Keep up, Your Grace, if you can.”

She flicked the reins and clicked her tongue. The horse responded immediately, taking a couple of steps before accelerating into a canter. Frederick whirled his own mount and dug in his heels. The horse leaped to a gallop and, after a quick look over her shoulder, the young woman urged her own steed to the same speed. The race was on.

 

Chapter Two

Jane looked back over her shoulder to see the handsome young Duke spurring his horse to follow her. On seeing him at the gate, his beauty had quite taken her breath away. Broad shoulders with black hair and shocking blue eyes.

The eyes of a hunter, sharp and alert. How thrilling!

Flustered by those piercing eyes, Jane had resorted to her usual defense, a cheeky disregard for convention and an irresistible urge to poke fun at pomposity.

Not that he seems entirely pompous. But any man who indulges in a ride through the countryside as well-attired as this man thinks altogether too highly of himself.

Jane had dressed herself in a coat reserved for the outdoors and a light blue and white dress that was not one of her best. And the only reason for that concession was that the lecture she would receive from Cousin Ernest, if she dirtied a good dress, would be more than she could bear.

There will be enough of a lecture as it is. I surely will not be able to get home from here for at least three hours. That means I will be late for dinner. Aunt Louisa will laugh if I tell her I was delayed while I raced a Duke. Ernest will have apoplexy. Botheration!

The blue-eyed Duke was gaining on her. But she had not been bragging. To ride side-saddle at speed took exceptional balance and a strong relationship with the horse. Hettie responded to the reins as instinctively as most mounts did for the pressure of their rider’s knees. She also understood a range of voice commands.

I will show the pompous Duke how gender does not have a bearing on horsemanship.

The sound of thundering hooves was growing loud in her ears. Another glance back showed the Duke less than a horse-length behind her. He was standing in the saddle, revealing shapely legs. His face was set. It was strong with a firm jaw and flat planes of cheeks and slightly tilted cheekbones. There was something exotic in those features that spoke of origins beyond England.

Maybe he is descended from a gypsy prince. A King of the Romany. Or a rebellious Welsh prince.

A branch snatched at her hair, whipping past her as she veered too close to the trees that crowded to either side of the path. Jane shrieked at the sudden touch, more invigoration than genuine fear.

Time to concentrate, Jane Grant. My goodness, I did not even return the Duke the courtesy of my name. How rude he must think of me. Botheration!

Jane hunched forward as more limber branches slashed by. The Duke was close enough that Jane could hear the snorting breath of his horse. Its nose was level with Hettie’s croup now.

So, he is faster in a straight race. But how good is he in a steeplechase?

Seeing an opening in the trees to her left, Jane steered Hettie through it with a tug of the reins. The Duke almost missed the turn, but managed to stay with her. Jane grinned to herself, focusing her concentration on the terrain ahead. A small clearing had been formed by a fallen tree. Hettie leaped the log without breaking stride or balking. Jane instinctively shifted her position to brace for the landing. Then they were among the trees. Jane sought out a path between maples and birch. Here, Hettie’s nimble feet and her rider’s skill began to make the difference.

A quick look back over her shoulder was risked and Jane saw the gap widening.

Not doing so well when you can’t predict the path, handsome Duke.

His face was now a mask of determination, set as though from stone. Blue eyes were fixed on her and Jane resisted the urge to stick out her tongue.

That would be going too far. I must maintain some decorum or even Aunt Louisa will have words for me. But, by God, this is fun!

Hettie was beginning to tire, Jane could tell. If her sturdy mount was flagging, then her pursuer must also be tired. Jane looked back once more to see that the Duke was almost out of sight. Across the uneven and unpredictable terrain of the deep woods, he had been unable to keep up with her. For herself, these woods were not as familiar as the Ashdown Forest which had been her playground since she could walk, but still, those childhood experiences had stood her in good stead.

Seeing a dip in the land ahead, she steered Hettie into it and, when she thought she must be lost to the sight of the Duke, doubled back. She ensured that thick undergrowth was kept between her and her opponent in this steeplechase, walking Hettie until she heard him thundering by, screened from her by a tangle of hawthorn and briars. Smiling to herself, she let Hettie find her own pace, confident that the Duke had lost her in the woods.

What a lovely day it has been. A visit to see Mary Jones’ new baby over at Cookham Farm, then a pleasant ramble across the country to work up an appetite.

Ernest’s dour, disapproving face loomed in her mind and she sighed. She wished that her circumstances were such that she could ignore Cousin Ernest and his disapproval. She wished to be free, as her parents had been, unshackled by the expectations of society. Louisa, the Dowager Marchioness and Ernest’s mother, was free, caring little for the opinions of her peers and indulging in her passion for the arts. But, the house belonged to Ernest. He was Earl and, while Louisa was protected by the fact that he was her son, Jane’s familial connection was weaker.

And so I must bow my head and look contrite when Ernest summons me to his study like a wayward child. It is all very well for Aunt Louisa to keep company with artists, poets, and actors. He can’t control her, so doubles his efforts to control me.

She had left the house in a respectable dress, changing at Cookham into the more practical breeches and boots that she now wore.

It would serve Ernest right if I marched into Welterham in my breeches and boots. See how he likes that.

It would not happen, however. Jane could not provoke him too much. Not until she had contrived a way that she might live on her own, out from under Ernest’s thumb. The living left to her by her father was insufficient to rent a house of her own, however. She tried to put her circumstances from her mind.

I do not know what the future will bring or when Ernest will next allow me to spend the day out on my own like this. I must not waste a minute in a brown study.

Her thoughts returned to the pompous, but handsome, Duke. Jane glanced over her shoulder as though he might be there following. Part of her hoped he would be, though she knew he was left a long way behind.

And undoubtedly is no tracker. Not a man who goes riding in a silk waistcoat and a fine royal blue coat. Mary Jones and her husband could live for a year on the cost of that wardrobe.

But such an interesting face. Austere, as was his manner to a degree. Strong and unyielding in a way that inspired attraction but also a thrill of fear.

The face of a barbarian raider. Had he caught me, he is probably strong enough to do with me as he wishes.

The thought sent a tingle of excitement through her and a flush of color to her cheeks. Jane smiled to herself and shook her head at the wanton thoughts. If ever she saw him again, she would be scarlet. Still, it was not as though she would ever see him again, so that was a remote risk. Ahead, the woodland was becoming sparse and long grass swayed in the gentle breeze between slender boles. A few sheep were munching their way through it, some looked up as Hettie walked by but most ignored her.

Jane looked out to the horizon. Somewhere beyond that lay the English Channel. Beyond that was France and then, if you kept on, the Mediterranean and Africa.

Papa has traveled that road, to Africa and beyond even that. I wonder if I will ever get to tread in his footsteps. See Cairo, or Madrid perhaps. And what of Delhi and Calcutta? One day, Jane, one day.

 

Chapter Three

Fiery gold still clung to the western sky when Frederick arrived within sight of Valhurst Abbey. The sunset was behind him, while ahead, purple shaded to black and the first stars were becoming visible in a cloudless sky. The road wound around an outcrop of woods and then through the tall, white gateposts that marked the entrance to Valhurst’s park. From there it crossed the open expanse of long grass, dotted with trees, and roamed by deer. Once it had been the fields of the abbey that the house had once been. Now it was purely ornamental, a setting for the jewel that was the house itself.

Valhurst stood dark against the deeper dark of the night sky. It rambled, stretching out its wings in seemingly random directions, the product of past Dukes deciding to build and extend without any real thought of future need. It had two ruined towers, their tops unfinished and jagged, crenelated rooftops and brick walls that stood cheek by jowl with the stone blocks and primitive mortar of the middle ages.

He was proud of his home. It was a testament to the durability of the English aristocracy and a symbol of his main duty, to preserve these lands for future generations.

A duty I have neglected today. For what purpose? Recreation and a frankly reckless race through the woods after a rather wild young woman. Utter foolishness.

Frederick kicked his horse to a trot, wanting to be home as quickly as possible to make up for the time he had lost. The sight of the ruined north and south towers irked him, as they always did. It was an imperfection that he longed to either rebuild or demolish entirely. The house was hardly symmetrical anyway but it could be brought more into order. Except that would go against the duty, solemnly inherited from his father, to preserve and protect. At least the grounds and gardens were ordered. A veritable army of groundskeepers was employed to ensure that Valhurst Abbey was famous throughout England for its neat, ordered, and controlled gardens.

After handing the reins of his mount to a stable hand, he hurried inside. A servant took his coat, folding it carefully over one arm. Frederick paused, picking a stray piece of lint from the man’s lapel, then holding it up so the servant could see it. No words were necessary. A gloved hand took the lint and pocketed it. Frederick cast a cursory glance over the man’s uniform, then nodded.

I shall have to speak to Hawley about that. The household should be paying close attention to detail when it comes to their attire.

The hall was of stone and lit by chandeliers high above, hanging from an impressively arched roof. Framed paintings by acknowledged masters hung in neat lines that led the eye to a central staircase, broken only by the doors leading to the ballroom on one side and a reception room, drawing room and library on the other.

“Lord Ashwick arrived thirty-three minutes ago, Your Grace,” the servant informed him. “He awaits you in the Garden Library.”

The Garden Library was the name given to the public room overlooking a walled garden on the west side of the house. Frederick’s own private study and library, known as the Abbot’s Library, was upstairs forming part of his personal suite. Frederick took out a gold and silver chased pocket watch, flipped the cover open, and regarded the face for a moment.

“He is twelve minutes late, I see. Very well. Dismissed.”

The servant bowed and turned to walk away while Frederick headed for the third door on the right of the hall. Opening it, he saw a young man with fiery red-gold hair, standing before the fire with a clay pipe in one hand. He was looking at a watercolor above the mantle.

“This one of yours Freddie?” he asked.

“It is one of mine, Edmund. Do you like it?” Frederick said, closing the door behind him.

A decanter of brandy stood on a polished table beside an armchair. Edmund had poured two drinks. Frederick took one, inhaling appreciatively over it.

“How you can smoke that thing I do not understand. You look like a farm hand,” Frederick said.

“A relic from my past. I found it easier to carry a pipe like this when I was on campaign than a humidor of cigars. Frightfully inconvenient on the battlefield, eh?” Edmund grinned around his battered and scratched pipe.

“I wouldn’t know old chap.”

“And in answer to your question. I haven’t the foggiest notion. Paint is paint. I can’t tell good from bad. Knowing you though, I am sure it is excellent,” Edmund replied.

“It is passable,” Frederick said modestly. “By the way, I must apologize for not being here to greet you. I fully expected to be but was delayed.”

“I hadn’t even thought about it, old man,” Edmund said breezily.

An entirely true statement too. Edmund does not pay much mind to punctuality.

“What delayed you?” Edmund asked. “Any bother?”

He took one of the armchairs, collecting his brandy on the way and practically flopping into the chair, putting a booted foot casually onto a footrest. Frederick tried not to wince at the sight of shod feet on furniture, making a mental note to ensure the maids were aware.

“A waste of time. I should have been here, not gallivanting about the countryside,” Frederick grumbled as he took his own seat, sipping from his brandy before replacing it on the table precisely where it had been.

“Gallivanting? You? Pray tell, this is a new development,” Edmund said teasingly.

Frederick grimaced. “I decided to take a ride. I have estate ledgers to check and correspondence to catch up on, not to mention an unfinished landscape. But, I decided to indulge…”

“Hear hear,” Edmund interrupted, raising his glass in toast.

“The peculiar event that delayed me though was a young woman I encountered. She was out somewhere above Pevensey, entirely on her own, riding across country and looking like she had just climbed out of a haystack!”

Edmund leaned forward with interest. “That is more the sort of adventure I find myself having, old chap. What happened?”

“Hardly an adventure. I stopped to talk to her, I felt it my duty to point out that it simply isn’t safe for a young lady to roam the countryside alone. She did not heed my advice however and actually challenged me to a race if you can believe it!”

“A race!” Edmund exclaimed. “By Jove. And did you accept the challenge? More importantly, speaking as a sportsman, did you win?”

“I did not. She was quite magnificent…” Frederick looked up and saw the gleam in his friend’s eye. “That is to say she was a fine horsewoman. I would have won had we stuck to the path but she veered off into the trees and it began a steeplechase. She vanished like a ghost.”

Edmund chortled. “I’d like to meet this spirit of the woods. Sounds like quite the girl. What’s her name?”

“That’s the damnable thing. She never gave me her name. Had the appearance of a well-bred young woman from her voice. Sussex native from the accent. Certainly not a commoner I would say. But, no name given.”

“A rebel against social conformity too. I’m in love,” Edmund said, taking a healthy swallow of brandy.

“Really, Edmund. Be serious. It’s all very modern for a young woman to be independent but hardly practical to be so…so…”

“Free?” Edmund arched an eyebrow.

“Wild,” Frederick finished. “Order is important. For the gentry more than anyone. Where would the country be if we all said hang the rules and did whatever we pleased?”

“Entertaining,” Edmund said after a moment’s thought.

“You’re impossible,” Frederick replied, though not without a wry smile. “Well, it was a diversion anyway. I shall never set eyes on the woman again.”

 

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

Chapter One

I have seen the Duke of Ashden, and he is a proud and handsome man. I do not approve of his aloof manner. However, I have no choice but to seek him out — Anna’s journal entry.

Anna wiped her eyes with her sleeve and pulled her drenched black wool cloak tighter about her body, the pain in her side growing worse. She trudged forward, praying she was on the right path, and that she would find the manor before this downpour defeated her.

She had done what no respectable lady should do, every bone in her body was chilled, and she was on the verge of shedding the tears she promised she would never allow to fall. The sky flashed and thunder clapped in the distance, sending a quiver through her, but Anna continued up the steep winding road because her will to be freed was greater than her fear of a storm and whatever malady it might bring her.

Dawnton Hall appeared when she reached the highest point of the road, and the relief that expanded her chest nearly had her falling onto her knees. Her boots squelched the mud harder as her steps quickened, using the last of her strength to find solace.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the magnificent monument before her but she was blind to all beauty at this time. Staggering to the massive wooden door, she raised a stiff gloved hand and pulled the brass knocker, then she leaned on the doorframe, shivering. At that same moment, a clock within the manor chimed, announcing the midnight hour.

For what felt like a long while, no one answered, and she was pushing herself upright to knock again when she heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. The door opened very slightly at first, amber light from within streaming out, then it widened and the butler appeared, distinguished by his livery.

“I have t-to see t-the Duke,” she said, her teeth chattering.

He took in her appearance as though he was determining her rank before he responded. “His Grace has retired for the evening, Ma’am. Please return in the morning.” Then he began to close the door.

Angered by the cold dismissal, she wedged her arm between the door and the frame. “I am Annelise Hampton. Daughter of B-baron Hampton, and I have walked f-for four hours in the rain!” She hated having to use her father’s name to gain influence but more would be at stake if she was not allowed inside.

The butler’s neat eyebrows furrowed as he hesitated, but then he gave a slight nod and opened the door wider, stepping away from it. “Please, come inside, Ma’am.” Anna stepped into a great hall, turning left to follow the butler into a receiving room while trailing mud. He set the candelabra on a table to light the small room.

“I will have some tea brought to help you warm, Ma’am. Please do be seated.”

“And t-the Duke?” She glanced at the fine chairs in the room and decided that she had no wish to ruin them.

“His Grace has very strict orders. He is never to be disturbed once he has retired.”

Anna bit her lip and briefly closed her eyes. At least I am inside, she thought, but she could not be content with that. “I…I will assume all responsibility for the disturbance. Please w-wake him.”

“Ma’am—”

“You will be saving a life if you do!” she insisted.

Just then, footfalls sounded in the great hall, and her shoulders tensed as she hoped that it was the Duke. She ground her teeth when a man who was not the Duke appeared in the doorway. The butler whispered something to him before he took a step forward and addressed her.

“Mr. Bishop at your service, Ma’am. I am His Grace’s valet, and I can confirm that he will not be able to receive you at this time.”

Anna turned and carefully lowered herself into a chair, looking straight ahead instead of at them. “Then I will wait here until he is able to receive me,” she said.

Mr. Bishop and the butler exchanged some words before he said, “Please come to the drawing-room where there is a fire to warm you, Ma’am.”

It was no promise that she would see the Duke but it was a step in a good direction, and Anna was glad. Rising, she followed him out to the great hall and further into an exquisitely furnished drawing-room. Its warmth shrouded her, and for the first time in a very long while, she felt as though she could be safe.

The fire in the hearth beckoned, and she went to it, removing her sodden gloves and cloak. He bowed and left her alone. Holding her frozen fingers toward the warmth, she clenched her jaw and held herself together with considerable effort. She was close. Very.

A moment later, a maid walked in bearing a salver that she set on the table a short distance from where Anna stood. Then she curtsied and gestured at the drenched cloak on the floor. “May I take your cloak, Ma’am?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Anna moved to sit in the chair closest to the table and reached for the teapot, pouring some of the aromatic tea into a cup. Instead of remaining seated, she stood and returned to the fire, the large portrait of a woman that hung above the mantle catching her attention.

She was beautiful with soft blue eyes and lustrous chestnut hair. Anna supposed she was the late duchess, especially because of where the portrait was placed. Moving slowly away from the fireplace, she saw the duke on the other end of the room. His portrait, that is.

She walked and stopped in front of it, swallowing. His blue eyes regarded her coolly, and his strong mouth was pressed into an unamused line. He had dark blonde hair, and the artist had managed to capture the blue-deviled mien he always seemed to wear.

Anna had only seen him twice at a ball, but he had awed her on both occasions, not because he was impossibly handsome, but because of the authority he commanded. That authority was the reason she was here tonight, seeking sanctuary.

Please, she prayed as she gazed up at him, hoping that she had done right in coming here and that he would be able to help her.

Chapter Two

I detest solitude, and I often wonder how people spend their time alone; if they crave company as much as I do.

Colin Maxwood raised his teacup to his mouth and sipped the rich valerian tea, his eyes moving around the drawing on the desk he was hunched over in the sitting room that was part of the four rooms that made up his chambers. The corner of his mouth tipped when thunder roared and he picked up a pencil, marking the drawing.

Evenings like this were good for his mind. Where storms robbed some of their attention, they enabled him to concentrate. He also appreciated every bit of solitude afforded to him. His brows immediately snapped when a knock came at his door, however. The door opened and Bishop stepped into the chamber.

“I asked to not be disturbed,” Colin said immediately, raising his head to regard his valet, ensuring his displeasure was clear. He had given very simple instructions, and would not have them disobeyed.

Bishop’s bow was deep and contrite. “Your Grace, I do not disturb you out of disrespect but necessity. There is a young woman here seeking an audience with you. A Miss Annelise Hampton. Baron Hampton’s daughter.”

One of Colin’s eyebrows rose. “At this hour? Who did she arrive with?” He glanced at the brass clock on his desk, wondering what would bring a lady to his manor after midnight.

“Yes, Your Grace, and she is unaccompanied.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed. “Did she lose her way?”

Bishop’s face tightened. “No, I do not believe she did, Your Grace. She walked for four hours in the rain with the single purpose of seeing you. She is very persistent, too, and seems determined to wait for however long it would take you to grant her wish.”

At that, Colin set down his pencil and rose. There was certainly trouble if she would walk in the rain to find him, and he could not ignore it. This was not the way he imagined his evening would go, but he had learned a very long time ago, that what he wished for was in constant battle with what actually occurred.

“She is in the drawing room, and I ordered for some tea to be taken to her,” Bishop supplied.

Colin nodded and walked past him out of the sitting room, drawing the lapels of his black banyan together over his shirt. He was not acquainted with her, and although he knew her father, he could not think of any reason why she was here. He descended the steps to the great hall and the first thing he saw was a maid cleaning mud off the marble.

The butler, Chalker, bowed and pointed at the right drawing room. Colin turned in that direction. Miss Hampton stood in front of his portrait with her back to him, but she turned the instant she heard him walk in, her face ghostly pale, and her tall figure shivering in a soaked dark green velvet dress.

She watched him with eyes as large and dark as a doe’s, her slender fingers curled around her teacup, before curtsying slowly.

“Are you not cold?” he asked, going toward the fire.

“I am,” she replied, her voice soft. Too soft, in fact, and it affected him in a way that he did not anticipate.

“Then should you not be closer to the fire?”

Her shoulders visibly grew rigid when thunder clapped, and she swallowed, glancing out the window before she returned her eyes to his. She was afraid, and he frowned, his concern growing.

“Please, Miss Hampton, come to the fire,” he said, and she came toward him after a moment’s hesitation. She stood about a foot away from him but did not sit. “Are you going to sit?” he asked.

“Look at my dress, Your Grace. I have no wish to ruin your chairs.” She sipped her tea.

Oh, you should not have said that. His eyes moved slowly down her green dress that clung to her form, and his blood rushed faster in his veins, sending an erotic thrill to his manhood.

Colin averted his gaze to stop himself from growing. “I will not be offended if you spoil my chairs. Please sit.”

“If you insist.” She lowered herself onto the edge of a chair and set her empty teacup down on the table. He noticed a slight discoloration on her arm but her dress sleeve concealed it before he could guess what it was.

“How may I help you?” he asked, sitting in the chair opposite her, and not wishing to waste her or his time.

She brushed a lock of her matted dark hair from her pale shoulder, driving his thoughts in a direction he did not want them heading. “I learned you are seeking a wife,” she said, and his body tensed. “I want to be your wife.”

Colin blinked. Surely, this was not the true reason she had come here. And if it was, he did not know how to respond in a gentlemanly manner.

Chapter Three

Disappointment ought to be an old friend for how often we have encountered each other, yet it continues to laugh at me. I am also certain at this point that I am not fond of the Duke. He appears to be in want of the tenderness a woman requires from a man.

“I beg your pardon?” Colin asked because he was unable to come up with a better reaction.

Folding her hands on her lap, Miss Hampton calmly repeated her request. “I am asking you to marry me, Your Grace.”

She is not jesting. Colin had to admire her brazenness. He was seeking a wife, that much was true, but he could not marry just any woman. Since he made his intentions public, he had received offers from several gentlemen on behalf of their daughters and sisters, and even from widows, but never from a young lady.

He allowed several long seconds to pass before he shook his head. “I am flattered by your offer, Miss Hampton, but this is not done.”

She pressed her lips together. “You do not look like a man who is flattered.”

“But I am, Miss Hampton,” he responded. Of all the offers he had received, hers complimented him the most because she had personally come to him, which also disturbed him. “However, I cannot accept it.”

“Because I did not send my father to ask on my behalf?” she challenged, and both of his eyebrows rose.

That, and she was not the sort of woman he would take for a wife. She was too pale and slender, and she would certainly take offense if he told her that. His ability to be tactful had never been tested like this before.

“Yes,” he lied.

Miss Hampton straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. She would not be defeated by that simple word, he realized. “I am one-and-twenty, Your Grace. I do not need my father’s consent to marry.”

“I see.” He leaned forward and took her cup, seeking more time to think of a better way to reject her. “You should have more tea.” He tipped the teapot over the cup and filled it before giving it to her. Their fingers brushed as she took the cup, and his jaw tightened. His body certainly was contradicting his opinion of her appearance. “Why are you unaccompanied?”

“No one knew I left the house,” she replied. She did not lack ways to shock him. “I rode the coach, and when it stopped ten miles short, I walked.”

“Your family must be looking all over London for you.”

Her long lashes covered her eyes and she raised a small shoulder in a detached shrug. “Yes, but I am not in London.”

“Forgive me, but I struggle to understand why you will disregard your safety and reputation to come here to ask me to marry you when we have never met before.” Her father had a respectable fortune, and so Colin was willing to dismiss her intentions as being mercenary. Perhaps she was being coerced to marry a man she did not want.

“I want to marry you,” she simply insisted. Bishop was right. She was persistent.

“Why?”

She shifted slightly in her seat before she proudly asked, “Is my previous answer not sufficient?”

“Intentions are very important to me, Miss Hampton.”

“I am not after your fortune, Your Grace, nor did I ever have the desire to become a duchess.” When she reached to set her teacup down again, he saw another mark on the underside of her arm near her elbow. He could be mistaken but he thought it looked like a bruise.

“Then is it my body?” Colin asked, and her pale face gained color for the first time since he saw her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is lust the reason for your proposal?” he clarified, even though he was sure she understood the first time. The heat in his blood increased as her flush deepened.

“How conceited and presumptuous of you, Your Grace, but no. That is not the reason I am here.”

Her words stung his pride, and he inhaled. “Have you no concern for the sharpness of your words, Miss Hampton?”

Her composure faltered, and her dark eyes blazed with the fire in the hearth. “Have you no concern for yours? To assume that wealth, power, and lust are my only motivations is offensive. You have no wish to marry me, I understand that, but you did not have to pronounce your ignoble assumptions.”

Colin had not anticipated such a passionate defense from her, and he took a moment to mentally compliment her. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “As I said earlier. Intentions are important to me.”

She rose, her posture straight and noble. “As they are to me.” She curtsied gracefully as he joined her in standing. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace.” Then she turned and began walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

She paused but did not turn. “Back to London. I have no cause to remain in Hertfordshire any longer.”

Colin strode after her, and acting purely on impulse, he took her hand. It was small and cold in his, and suddenly, he wanted to draw her close and warm her. He abruptly released her. “What manner of man would I be if I allowed you to go out in this storm?”

“I will find no fault in such an action. After all, you were not expecting me, but were gracious enough to see me.” She was disappointed, and he felt some guilt, but it was not enough to sway his decision. He had specific requirements that the woman he was going to marry must meet, and Miss Hampton did not appear to fulfill any of them.

“Please stay, and I will have you safely returned to your family in the morning.”

She stiffened when he said that, and her face tightened. Colin took her hand again and began to guide her back to the chairs, noticing the mark on her arm, and confirming it was a bruise now that he was close enough.

He did not think she would tell him what had happened to her if he asked. After all, she had refused to tell him why she wanted him to marry her. When she was seated, he said, “I will have your bedchamber shown to you in a moment. Please excuse me.” Then he strode out of the drawing room.

***

Anna watched the Duke of Ashden walk away, her chest clenching. She had wanted to beg him to marry her, even tell him the reason she wanted it, but he had made it rather apparent that he had no desire to marry her. From the little she knew about him, he was not the sort of man who easily changed his mind. Besides, she had her pride and dignity to keep intact, even though her reputation was tattered now.

She had risked everything to crawl out of perdition, but it seemed she was going to be sent back into it. Closing her eyes, she released her breath and let her shoulders fall. She could hear Ashden speaking with someone in the great hall, and a moment later, he returned to the room.

Anna straightened and raised her eyes to his. Desire might not have been enough to make her offer her hand to him in marriage but his mere presence affected her in a sensual manner. Another reason she had chosen him. Anna had felt his power from across a ballroom and wondered what his hands would feel like on her flesh.

“Miss Hampton, my housekeeper, Mrs. Willis, will be with you momentarily. I regret that I cannot keep your company for longer.”

“Yes. You must retire.” She inclined her head. “I thank you, Your Grace.”

He lingered, his keen blue eyes studying her. “I hope you have a pleasant night, Miss Hampton.”

“You as well, Your Grace.”

His lips parted as though he was going to say something more to her but then pressed them together and turned to the door, changing his mind.

Shortly after his departure, a stout woman walked in and curtsied. “I am Mrs. Willis,” she introduced. Her smile was warm and kind, something Anna was not accustomed to receiving.

With a lump constricting her throat, Anna stood, acknowledging her greeting with a nod, for she was gradually becoming more distraught. Then she followed her out of the drawing room and up the stairs.

They arrived at a bedchamber with pale blue walls and cream-colored curtains. A fire was already burning in the hearth, and several candles made the room bright and welcoming. A maid stood by the large four-poster bed in the middle of the room, drawing the dark blue covers and placing hot bricks underneath.

“I hope the chamber is to your liking, Miss,” Mrs. Willis said.

“Yes, it is,” Anna replied, standing stiffly. She wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the covers and sleep, but she also wanted to cry. She had wasted her time by coming here, and now she was filled with regret. She might have found another way out of her predicament had she carefully thought about everything.

“Now, we must quickly free you from those drenched clothes before you catch a cold.” Mrs. Willis pointed toward a screen that stood on one side of the room.

“I might already have,” Anna said, mustering a small smile as she moved behind the screen. She was already feeling feverish.

“Oh my goodness!” The housekeeper placed a concerned hand on her chest. “Mason, have more tea brought up,” she ordered the maid by the bed. It was the same maid who had brought her tea in the drawing room.

Anna reached behind her to unfasten her dress buttons, and when Mrs. Willis’ hands joined hers, she started.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss—”

Anna quickly shook her head. “Please do not mind me. I was only startled. The journey to the manor has been rather long.” And lonely.

Mrs. Willis gave her a commiserating look. “It must have been.” Then her eyes widened when Anna’s dress was pulled down and she got a good look at the bruises on her arms. Anna looked away, hoping the blank expression she wore was enough to tell the housekeeper that she did not wish to be questioned.

It worked, but Mrs. Willis continued to give her concerned and curious glances as she helped her out of her stays. When she had only her shift on, which was thankfully only damp, the housekeeper bundled up her clothes and asked her if she would like to eat, but Anna declined, too tired.

Alone, she got beneath the covers and drew the duvet up to her chin, wiggling her toes as the warmth all around her seeped into her body. She thought she would be able to fall asleep immediately, but she could feel the slumber moving very far away from her grasp.

Mrs. Willis and the maid returned, and instead of just tea on the tray, there was also soup and bread. “I will insist you have some soup, Miss. London is really quite far from Ashden.”

Anna sat up, wondering if the woman knew that she had proposed to the Duke. The tray was set down on a table by the bed, and Mrs. Willis brought the bowl to her.

A taste of the creamy soup was all it took for Anna to realize how hungry she was, and within minutes, she had gobbled everything and was pouring some tea into a cup and adding sugar.

She looked curiously around the room as she took small languid sips, noticing a bookshelf between the two large windows on her left. She got out of the bed and went to it, examining the spines of the books there. A volume with the name of the manor in gold caught her attention and she selected it, moving to a chair by the fire. The rain was not as ferocious as it had been earlier, and as she thumbed the pages, she found her mood improving. Perhaps she could change the Duke’s mind.

A thud outside her bedchamber made her head snap quickly toward the door. Setting both her teacup and the book down on a lacquered table closest to the chair, she drew up the blanket that was draped over the back of a sofa and covered herself with it, and the curiosity her parents had spent years stifling came to the surface.

Quietly, Anna opened the door and poked her head out into the hallway. When she saw no one, she stepped out into it, looking around the darkness and wondering what had made that sound. The manor was beautiful, she noticed, much more beautiful than the hundred-year-old manor her father was immensely proud of in Berkshire.

Her steps carried her down the hall where she took a right turn at the end and walked down another, narrower, hallway. Lightning briefly illuminated the place to show her a door at the far end. It looked like all of the doors along the hall, white with gold scrolls along the borders, but something inexplicable drew her to it.

A hand suddenly circled her elbow and she jumped, her heart kicking fiercely against her ribcage.

“We should not be here, Miss,” Mrs. Willis said, drawing her away and back toward her bedchamber.

Anna was glad that it was someone familiar, but her heart did not slow, and her sudden movement made the pain in her side more pronounced. Despite that, she was tempted to ask Mrs. Willis why she was discouraged from exploring the manor but resisted because she was a guest and had no business there.

“I would suggest resting, Miss,” the housekeeper said when they reached her bedchamber. “You have a journey early in the morning.”

“Early?” Anna asked, surprised.

“Yes. Quite early. Please rest.” Then Mrs. Willis turned and walked down the hall before Anna could react. An odd, cold feeling washed over her and she retreated into the room, pressing a hand to her belly.

She could not go back to the house she was raised in. She would be doomed if she did. 

Look out for its release on the 2nd of November!

Chapter One

 Westfront Castle, 1814

“Father!” Rupert yells as he saw the two men emerge from the shadows.

George Wellington whirls, lamp held high as the two men seemed to surface from the wall itself. One of them draws a blade, the metal catching the golden light of the lamp and flashing wickedly. Rupert begins to run, shouting for help, though he and his father should be the only ones awake in the house. The servants are too far away to help. The hallway stretches before Rupert as he races towards the open doorway, through which he can see the frozen tableau.

George Wellington is tall and barrel-chested, standing in his shirt, breeches, and stockinged feet. His head turns towards a pistol, lying on a dusty wooden chest. His right-hand reaches towards it, though it is too far away. The blade is arcing through the air, held low, and swung upwards to strike George under the ribcage. There is no sound as the blade melts into him and George’s mouth opens to expel his last breath.

The lamp falls from nerveless fingers, shattering on the flagstone floor, spilling lighted oil. Rupert’s feet are mired in a bog. No matter how much he pumps his legs he cannot produce any more speed and the hallway remains long, its end unreachable. He is screaming for his father, reaching toward the terrible sight framed by the doorway. The second man is stepping out of the shadows, wielding a thick cudgel. George Wellington is lurching towards the pistol, fighting with the last of his strength, his body tearing the blade from the hands of the man who wielded it. The hilt of a long knife is sticking from beneath George’s ribs as his fingers brush the butt of the pistol.

Then the cudgel comes down on the back of his head and he collapses, limp and still. The doorway rushes towards Rupert and he is suddenly in the room. Two faces swim up into his vision. One is capped with black, curly hair. Thick eyebrows are drawn down over dark eyes. The face is square, with a jutting chin. He wields the cudgel. The other is looking up at Rupert as he stoops to retrieve his knife. Except, Rupert now sees that it isn’t a knife. It is a bayonet. That one has long, fair hair tied at the nape of his neck. A blue tattoo of a star stands out on his cheek. A sneering grin reveals a gold tooth.

The bayonet is being drawn back, still wet with the blood of his father. It is being prepared to stab again, but before its wielder can bring it home, the man with the cudgel swings. There is a moment of blinding pain and then darkness.

Rupert opened his eyes. He knew they were open because he could feel the movement against them. But that was the only way he had of knowing. For his vision was dark. Utterly dark. It had been dark since the cudgel had struck the side of his head when he had been a young man of twenty years. Struck him as he had raced to his father’s aid. The faces of the two men loomed up against the perpetual dark that enveloped his surroundings. Square Jaw and Sailor. Those were the names he had given to those two strangers. The vague outline of their faces had been the last sights he had ever seen.

For a moment he lay, purposefully putting the sight away. It would return. The nightmare never went away completely. The way the men melted out of the walls had not been the stuff of dreams though. That was an accurate recollection of what had happened. One moment he had been walking along the narrow hallway, in search of his father. Seeing him through the door, the two men had appeared out of the shadows. Literally. There was no door or window where they had emerged. Just bare stone. One moment they had been there and the next…

Put it from your mind for now and focus on the business of the day. Six years have been wasted in search of Square Jaw and Sailor. And you know no more about who they were or why Papa was killed than you did at the beginning. This might be your only chance.

He sat up and threw back the bed clothes. The bed was positioned beneath the window and there was a standing rule that the curtains in Westfront Castle were never closed. Rupert could judge the time of day and even weather conditions by the feel of the sun, or lack of it, on his skin.

A little after seven from the strength of the sun. And a blustery day from the way the sunlight is being covered up and revealed in rapid succession. No sound of rain and…

Drawing in a deep breath, he sampled the air which reached him through the window, which had been left open a crack. Another standing rule.

A taste of moisture in the air. It has been raining. Excellent weather for a stroll then.

Standing now, he walked to the wardrobe, knowing the exact number of steps to reach it, and lifted his hand to take the handle of one of the doors at the precise moment he was close enough. Within, his clothes were hung from a rail and folded in drawers. Pieces of string tied with varying numbers of knots told him the color of the hanging clothes. Notches carved into the drawers did the same.

Bless you, Doctor Rex Taunton, my old friend. For turning your genius to adapting life for a blind man when you could have been following your father into practice on Harley Street.

Dressing was simple. So simple that he had long since dispensed with the services of a valet for this particular task. A matter of practice that he had long perfected. The hair was harder to tame but, he was told, the fashion was currently for men to be unruly on their heads. So, he raked fingers through his ash-blond mane. A hand to his jaw told him the beard was in need of a trim.

A task that is well within Ashton’s skills. Another gift from God, a manservant I trust more than I would a brother.

Rupert moved to the door of his room, which was kept deliberately free of clutter and furniture to make his life easier. Similarly, the corridor outside had no rugs, lest he trip, no cabinets or tables for objet d’art, and no paintings or decorations, for he could not see them. Westfront Castle had been described as austere by visitors. Rupert loved art, but only that which he could experience through touch. Or, as in the case of his garden, with the addition of smell. Sculptures were placed in alcoves along the walls, chosen for their texture and shape.

Statues stood in the larger rooms and wider halls, their position memorized by Rupert so that he could navigate those places easily. Rex had come up with other innovations to help with the avoidance of stumbles and falls. As Rupert made his way down to the breakfast room, he heard a tinkling bell. That was the result of a servant stepping on a board in front of one statue at the head of the stairs on the first floor. The board tugged a string that rang a bell. The pitch of the bell told Rupert exactly what the statue was, an abstract piece of his own devising.

“Morning, Helen,” Rupert said, knowing which member of staff was assigned to this floor at this time of day.

“Morning, Your Grace,” Helen replied.

In the breakfast room, Rupert let his hand play along the tabletop until he reached the place set for him. A piece of slate, cold to the touch compared to the cotton of the tablecloth, marked the spot. Sunlight warmed his face, uninterrupted for several minutes, judged by the ticking of the grandfather clock. He ran his fingers across the slate until they touched the scratches put there by Ashton. He read those scratches with deft fingers, telling him the approximate contents of the morning’s mail. Picking up a piece of flint tied to one corner of the slate, Rupert marked the notes that he wished to read over breakfast.

Or rather, have read to him.

“Very good, Your Grace,” Ashton said, after entering the room and scanning the slate.

Rupert sat still. Ashton’s voice had been neutral, as always. Rupert had to press his hands to the table to still their trembling. As usual, only one letter had been marked for reading. It concerned the identity of his father’s killers.

Chapter Two

“Audrey, I do declare, you are more interested in that animal than you are in what I have been saying,” Hannah said.

Audrey stood before the small pen she had made of hay bales, watching the sleeping fox within. The splint around its broken leg could be removed any day now, she thought, as the bones felt whole again. The little creature was still very docile and easily tired as a result of the injury and pain it had suffered, after being caught in a poacher’s snare. She smiled down at it and only then processed her cousin’s words.

She tucked a lock of her black, curly hair behind her ear and looked at Hannah, who stood holding her skirts fastidiously off the floor of the barn. Audrey had flashing green eyes and high cheeks, inherited from her mother. The lush dark hair came from her father. Hannah, the daughter of Audrey’s aunt, on her mother’s side, shared the green eyes and high cheeks, though her hair was straight and fiery red. The differences between them did not end there.

Audrey’s dress was simple linen and bore the marks of wood and field, her favorite haunts. Ink stained her fingers and smudged her cheek, from the drawing she had been doing of a flower she had not seen before. Hannah’s dress was silk and she would never venture out with Audrey on one of her nature rambles. The old barn, screened from the view of Flintbank House by a copse of ash trees, was as far as Hannah would venture.

“Sorry, Hannah. I was miles away,” Audrey said.

“You always are. And you are always in this gloomy place when I come by for a visit.”

Hannah shuddered as she looked around the ramshackle place. The only reason Frederick Bennet, Audrey’s father, had not demolished the place when he had purchased Flintbank, was because Hannah had pleaded with him not to. And Frederick had been able to refuse nothing of his only child. Since then, it had become her clinic, for tending to animals large and small that she found sick or injured. It was where those wild creatures that she befriended came to be fed. And where those domestic creatures she kept, had their shelter.

Chickens lived in a run at the back of the barn. A family of white mice had an extensive run of their own atop the chicken coop. Cats made beds for themselves in the barn’s loft, and dogs in the scattered straw on the ground.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I should pay more attention to the people in my life. But there is so much to learn about the natural world. Sometimes I simply cannot wait to come out here and greet my little family.”

“Menagerie more like,” Hannah scoffed.

Audrey peered at the fox and gave a fond smile.

“Still, the little darling is rather adorable. So fluffy. Reminds me of a bear I had as a child. This bear would not take kindly to being cuddled, unfortunately. When he is well, I shall be sure to take him a long way from here so he is not tempted by the chickens. Anyway, what was it you were telling me?”

She turned her attention to her cousin, who was also her closest friend.

My only friend. Not that I regret that. People are…complicated and difficult. Animals are so much easier. But Hannah is my friend, nonetheless, and deserves my attention.

“Come, let us walk back to the house as we talk, lest we face the wrath of that bear when it wakes,” Hannah said.

Audrey giggled and took the arm that Hannah offered. They walked out of the barn together, following a path that led through the trees and eventually, out onto a wide lawn. Beyond was Flintbank House. A square structure of three floors and made of red brick. Its roof glistened wetly from the recent rain, and chimney’s stood out from several places, all trailing wisps of smoke. The gardens were…busy. Barbara Bennet, Audrey’s mother, was too infirm to tend them, and the extent of the gardens was too much for Audrey alone.

She cultivated the space in the style of the cottage garden instead, allowing nature to run wild in places and producing a profusion of growth that jostled for sunlight. A path of broad paving, with grass and wildflowers growing in between, led through the garden to the house.

“So, as I was telling you of my handsome new neighbor,” Hannah began.

“Handsome? How exciting, do tell,” Audrey replied.

It was the appropriate response, the one Hannah wanted to hear and the one a friend, keen, should give. Such topics of conversation did not appeal to Audrey but she was a dutiful cousin and friend.

“His name is Marcus Freeman and he is the seventh Earl of Coventry. He’s taken a house here in Surrey, a country retreat away from the city. And he’s tall and, oh so charming! He paid a visit to Mama and Papa last week and we engaged in quite a lengthy conversation on the coming season. There is one particular ball happening soon to which he is invited. He has promised to arrange invitations for me and for you.”

Hannah was beside herself with excitement but Audrey felt a sinking feeling which she did her best to hide.

“Me? Why me? You know how I am at dances. It is not somewhere I am most comfortable being,” Audrey said.

“But, Audrey. Papa’s gout has flared up so he cannot travel. Mama does not want to go to London alone so that just leaves me. And I simply cannot attend this particular ball alone. I must be accompanied. Please, Audrey,” Hannah pouted. Then, before Audrey could respond, she sprung up again. “I honestly think that Marcus could be a potential husband for me. I cannot allow another woman to claim him.”

Audrey sighed. It was not the first time she had accompanied Hannah to a dance because her mother and father could not. She found such occasions tedious, and the conversations vapid and uninteresting.

“You are now twenty, Audrey. As am I. That is the age when a woman should be thinking of marriage. Any older and we can think of it all we like, we will not find it. The Earl of Coventry is my chance and I need your help.”

Audrey looked at Hannah’s pleading face. Her plaintive tone was hard to resist.

It is my duty. She is my friend and my family. We must stick together above all else. Doing this for her will make her happy and cost me nothing but an evening of boredom.

“Oh! If you agree, I promise to accompany you to the British museum the next day. I will spend as long there with you as you like,” Hannah quickly added.

That made the trip a brighter prospect for Audrey. The chance to visit the British Museum was one she relished when visiting London, it made enduring the company of the Ton bearable. It was also a reasonable compromise for Hannah to offer.

“Very well. I will come with you. Providing Mama does not need me,” Audrey offered.

“I have already thought of that. I would not leave Aunt Barbara alone any more than you would. My brother has agreed to stay at Flintbank while we are away, to ensure she has all she needs.”

Hannah’s brother, Phillip, was as averse to social functions as Audrey. He would much prefer to lose himself in his theological texts.

“Well, that is all resolved then,” Audrey said brightly, putting some enthusiasm into her voice for Hannah’s sake. “Phillip and Mama will enjoy discussing religion. Mama has become very spiritual since Papa passed.”

“The perfect companion for her!” Hannah enthused, skipping now, still on Audrey’s arm.

They reached the house, the garden giving way to a lawn that was sprinkled with daisies and clovers. French doors on the far side stood open to the Sitting Room. Her mother favored the sitting room at the front of the house, known to all as Mama’s Room. They entered the sitting room, where Sergeant, the Bennet’s butler, had thoughtfully arranged for tea and cakes to be left for his mistress’ return from her menagerie. Hannah seated herself and reached for the teapot.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we returned from London, both of us engaged?”

“Well, I have not given it much thought,” Audrey sighed. “Marriage, I mean.” That wasn’t true.

“Oh, but you must, dear Audrey,” Hannah said. “Time is marching on. As I said, we do not have a limitless supply of it. Men can wait until they are silver-haired if they choose. But, we women cannot.”

Audrey took a cup offered to her by Hannah and sipped it. She was right of course.

And without Papa to provide for us, the duty falls to me. We cannot continue alone. A husband with wealth is what is needed to ensure Mama continues to be cared for and is able to remain in this house. It is my duty.

 

Chapter Three

The aroma of fresh coffee, which Rupert had developed a taste for after his father had made his fortune importing the beans from Brazil, told him where the steaming cup was located. He reached for it and only nudged the cup slightly in finding its delicate handle.

Damn! I must control my emotions.

A drip of hot coffee slid down the cup to touch his fingers.

“Pay it no mind, Ashton,” he ordered, sensing movement from his servant.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Ashton replied calmly.

The sound of the man settling himself into his seat once more and straightening out the letter reached Rupert. He put down the cup and wiped the coffee away with a napkin.

“Proceed,” he ordered, keeping iron in his voice.

A blind man must go further than a sighted one in exerting his control over a room. Too easy for people to see me as an invalid unless I am in command and that is made clear.

“To His Grace, the Duke of Westfront.

Your Grace, you do not know me but I am acquainted with you and your family. I am also acquainted, on an intimate level, with the events of the night which saw your father murdered. I have reason to speak up now which I will not bore you with here. Suffice to say, I am now ready to share with you the circumstances and the identity of the men involved. Or, at least, one of them. I think it best this information is shared in person and in public. I suggest the ball that you have planned at your London residence next month. Knowing, as I do, that you do not care to present yourself at the heart of such matters, but rather to remain in the background, I think it will be easy for you to slip away.

I would ask that you meet me on the south grounds beside the contemplation pool at nine o’clock.”

 

Ashton fell silent. Rupert could sense him patiently waiting for his next instruction. No opinion would be ventured or judgment expressed, though the relationship between Rupert and Ashton was closer than the typical master-servant. One could not place as much trust as Rupert put in his chief manservant, out of necessity, without a bond forming. Ashton knew that his view would be sought and had undoubtedly formed his own opinions. But his discipline was supreme. When Rupert asked for it, he would give it.

Who is this person and how do they know of what happened that night? There were four of us. Myself, my father, and his two assailants. Our two assailants.

“Thoughts?” Rupert finally asked.

“The writer mentioned waiting before sharing his alleged knowledge,” Ashton said. “I can think of only two scenarios. One of the men involved is now dead and therefore it is safe for his identity to be revealed.”

“Not an attractive prospect. I would not have either of them dead except at the end of a hangman’s rope,” Rupert said.

Once, he had occupied himself with fantasies of revenge exacted personally. It had almost consumed him utterly. The bitterness and rage had been an unquenchable fire. Like any fire kept stoked with fuel, it had burned hotter and demanded more and more of his mind.

Rex helped me see the folly in that. By God, but it was hard to let go of that hate.

“And the second?” he asked.

“That the writer has found a profit in revealing the identity.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Rupert said. “There will be a price for this information. The question is, is it a price that I wish to pay?”

Rupert gestured with his hand. A subtle movement that Ashton understood as inviting comment.

“To be frank, I would wish you to ignore this missive and return your mind to the equilibrium you have sought so long to achieve.”

Rupert smiled. “Ever the loyal retainer, eh, Ashton?”

“Of course, Your Grace. To the core of my being.”

Ashton will always advise me based on my personal interests. He clearly believes that it will not be beneficial to pursue this.

Rupert reached for and found his coffee cup, remembering where on the table it had been placed. The liquid had become tepid and he grimaced at a mouthful, putting it down too hard. Again, he felt wetness on his hand as the beverage spilled. Cup and wetness were soon gone. Ashton responded quickly to the signs of mental dislocation in his employer. A fresh cup was brought. Without conscious thought, Rupert tracked the servant’s movements across the room, to the sideboard, heard the pouring of liquid, smelled fresh coffee, and tracked Ashton back to his side. A cloth was applied to Rupert’s hand and the spillage cleared.

“I will go to London tonight and oversee the preparations for the ball,” Rupert said. “Having made the decision to host a ball, I will do this thing correctly. Or what is the point?”

“Indeed, Your Grace. I will have cases prepared and your carriage readied for the journey.”

“Thank you, Ashton. And I’ll review the rest of the mail later. Leave me for now.”

Ashton left the room. Rupert sipped coffee and, unbidden, the faces of the men who had murdered his father appeared before him.

This morning, my priority was to take my place in society for the purposes of finding a wife. Now, I am embroiled again in the mystery I have spent the last years trying to forget.

After breakfast, Rupert took his morning constitutional. The path he walked was one that was mapped in his mind perfectly. As with the castle interior, nothing was permitted to be changed about the arrangement of the exterior now that Rupert had memorized it. Being outside with the crash of waves and the tang of salt water as the dominant sensations, he could bring back the vivid mental images he had. They were moments of frozen time.

He was remembering the castle for how it was the last time he could see it. It would never age for him, any more than his friend Rex would age, or Ashton for that matter. To Rupert, both men were preserved in amber. He left by the door at the base of the south-east tower, one of the four that the castle possessed, one for each cardinal point of the compass. The walls of Westfront were dark from the assault of centuries of wind and rain. It was made of stone, built as a fortress in the late middle ages, and adapted into a house when such structures were rendered obsolete by the development of artillery.

Its south wall looked out over a cliff top into the English Channel. Rupert’s mood had driven him to that part of the grounds. The most dangerous for a blind man, even one with Rupert’s gifts for using his other senses. But being dragged back into the quest to find his father’s killer sobered him, putting him into a dark and brooding mood. The roar of the sea dominated his hearing, along with the raucous call of the gulls. The salt water had a bitter-sweet smell because it was closely associated with his father.

How many times did he take me to the docks at London or Bristol to see a ship of the Wellington line being prepared to sail or returning to port laden with goods?

George Wellington had been proud of his ships and the far-flung shores they reached.

What was it that brought down assassins upon you? Nothing was taken, though they had the opportunity to steal. It was as though they came for you, father. But why?

The old obsession was returning, dominating his thoughts once more. So much so that he did not register the change in texture beneath his feet. The crunch of gravel had been replaced by the silence of grass, the softness of earth.

“Rupert, for heaven’s sake! Don’t move!” came a voice.

Instinctively, Rupert turned to the source of the voice and then realized his danger.

How far off the path did I stray?

The wind tugged at him, as though to entice him into the abyss. Rupert tried to gauge how close the edge was by sound, then pressed into the tuft his feet, to establish if the ground felt solid. To his horror, he detected a slight slope beneath him, the downturn which the land took shortly before it plummeted to the rocks below. The sound of running footsteps reached him. With a dry mouth, he orientated himself towards the newcomer. It was Rex, the voice told him so.

“By heaven but you gave me a scare. What did you think you were doing, man?” Rex exclaimed, seizing Rupert by the upper arm, and drawing him away from the edge.

“It seems a timely arrival, old boy,” Rupert said, forcing a smile to conceal fear.

“I went to the house and spoke to Ashton. He told me you were taking your morning walk. Whoever heard of a blind man walking along a damned cliff top? There are enough diseases in this world to kill a man without manufacturing additional risk.”

“Good day to you too, Doctor,” Rupert replied drily. “One can always rely on the medical profession for frankness and honesty.”

“This member of it anyway. Your personal physician. Now, what is this all about? This is not your usual routine and you are a creature of routine.”

Rupert felt the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and allowed tense muscles to relax. He felt Rex turn him by the shoulders, knowing that his friend was orientating him to face in the direction of safety.

“Walk with me, Rex. To the west gardens, I think. Far less excitement to be found there.”

“Amen to that,” Rex said. 

Releases on 28th