Author: Grovechronicles

Chapter One

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wilson took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What am I doing?” she whispered.

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

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

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

The man frowned, looking confused.

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

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

“Wait!” Vanessa said.

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

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

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

 

Chapter Three

 

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

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

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

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

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

But I have now experienced the touch of a man.

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

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

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

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

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

 

***

 

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

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

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

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

“Remove the bedclothes,” he commanded.

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

“Does this please you?” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

***

 

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

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

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

 

Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Mary, the Knox’s scullery maid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go, before it gets much later.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

24 years later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fine line indeed. A tightrope walk even.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violet laughed softly, hugging Lillian’s arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, well. Least said and all that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

George nodded briskly, then looked away.

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

 

Chapter Two

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

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

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

“His Grace, the Duke of Lorchester!”

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

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

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

He took a breath.

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

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

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

This is bloody important if these dunderheids could see it!

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

“Point of order!” The Speaker called out.

Alexander saw that Ambrose had stood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!