Category: Previews

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!

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ma’am—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“I beg your pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You as well, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Early?” Anna asked, surprised.

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

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

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

Chapter One

 Westfront Castle, 1814

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morning, Your Grace,” Helen replied.

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

Or rather, have read to him.

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Menagerie more like,” Hannah scoffed.

Audrey peered at the fox and gave a fond smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Chapter Three

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

Damn! I must control my emotions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To His Grace, the Duke of Westfront.

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

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

 

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

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

“Thoughts?” Rupert finally asked.

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

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

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

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

“And the second?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How far off the path did I stray?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amen to that,” Rex said. 

Releases on 28th

Prologue

April 1812

“There are not enough elephants in Africa to make me consider marrying him, Annabelle!” Diana Pearson said after staring at her dearest friend, Annabelle Windhill, as if she had lost her mind. 

“Well, that is a rather peculiar thing to say, but he is an earl, Diana,” Annabelle insisted, and Diana peeked from behind the curtain to look at the subject of their conversation, a portly middle-aged man who had just picked his teeth with his fingernails when he thought no one was watching him and was now inspecting them.

Her stomach turned when he wiped his hand on his waistcoat. If he could do that in a ballroom full of people, she shuddered to imagine what he did in private. He had asked her to dance earlier, and she was hiding from him in an alcove with Annabelle.

“I do not care if he is the Prince Regent himself. I cannot accept the suit of such a man, let alone marry him.” Diana followed that with an indignant huff. She was positively outraged by her friend’s suggestion.

“Earl or not, my heart is spoken for.”

“Are you referring to that man you have been writing letters to?” Annabelle asked in a whisper.

“…Perhaps,” Diana replied.

“You cannot love him when you do not even know his name or what he looks like.”

That was true, but Diana had been corresponding with him for two years. He was the most charming and intelligent man she had ever known, nothing like the pompous fops who asked her to dance or tried to catch her alone. Every time his letters arrived, she would lock herself in her bedchamber, heart leaping in anticipation, and break the sealing wax to read every word and commit it to memory.

“I know him, Annabelle.” Diana smiled dreamily. “And I know his name.”

“What is his name?” Annabelle folded her arms across her chest. Her questions today were rather forceful, and it puzzled Diana.

“James,” Diana answered.

“Are you certain it is his actual name?”

James was not the man’s actual name but Diana did not tell her friend that and instead nodded, for Annabelle would likely continue to ask questions she did not want to answer yet.

Annabelle shook her head, her straw-colored curls bouncing around her neck. “You have to abandon this fantasy, Diana. This is our second season and we must secure husbands.”

“I will not marry an old man.”

“Why ever not? You will be eternally young beside him.” Annabelle was quite fond of youth and beauty, and she often used pomades that promised to keep her face from freckling. Diana was unsure of their effectiveness, though. She dismissed that thought and returned to the subject of their conversation.

In James’ last letter, he had expressed his desire to see her, and Diana had begun to dream of meeting him and perhaps finding love with him. On her parents’ insistence, she attended balls and tolerated the company of gentlemen who could not hold her interest, but three nights ago, her father, Viscount Edgington, had summoned her to his study and spoken to her about marriage.

“You must find a husband before the end of this season or I will choose one for you,” he had told her the instant she sat.

“But, Father—”

“Do not interrupt me when I am speaking to you. You have wasted your first season and my money. I will not have you waste another. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” Diana replied with her head bowed, and thus, desperation in her was born.

If she could meet James and have him court her and propose to her before the end of the season, then she would not have to worry about her father possibly choosing the earl she was hiding from for her. She had written back to James and told him that she wanted to meet him, as well, and had been waiting for his response now for almost a fortnight.

“Oh, Diana, I just remembered something I wanted to show you,” Annabelle’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“What is it?”

“I saw a painting by one Marguerite Gérard in one of the rooms here that I think you will like.” Annabelle’s green eyes sparkled.

Diana smiled. She was fond of paintings and admired the art wherever she found it, particularly landscapes. But a portrait from the French virtuoso was always something to behold. “A painting of Marguerite Gérard? Here? Why did you not tell me this before? I would have had a good reason to leave the ballroom before that senile earl asked me to dance.”

“Now you can flee, my dear friend,” Annabelle giggled. “My mother will not be pleased if she sees me leaving the ballroom. Go first and I will meet you once I am able to sneak out. The painting is in the last room in the hallway outside this ballroom.”

Peeking to ensure the earl was not in the path she needed to take to leave the ballroom, Diana stepped out from behind the curtain and moved toward the large double doors that led out of the room, keeping close to the walls. The earl was now dancing with a young dark-haired lady, and when they turned, Diana saw that she looked miserable, and she dearly commiserated with her.

The earl’s eyes met hers and she quickly looked away, then quickened her pace. Once she was out in the hallway, she gathered her skirts and hurried down the hall to the room that Annabelle mentioned. She closed the door behind her and looked around. There was no painting, only tall bookshelves covering the walls, and French doors that opened out to a terrace.

“Am I in the right room?” she asked herself as she moved further into the room to search for the piece. Perhaps it was a very small one.

The door opened and she turned immediately, expecting to see Annabelle. Her eyes instead found a handsome gentleman with blonde hair and dark eyes. She recalled seeing him dancing with other ladies in the ballroom earlier, and Annabelle had given her his name. Unfortunately, she could not remember the name now.

He smiled at her, taking several steps in her direction. “I did not think I would find anyone here. Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes,” Diana replied cautiously. “My friend is supposed to show me a painting here.” She looked around again, uncertain. “Although I do not see anything of the sort. I might be in the wrong place.”

“There is no such thing as being in the wrong place.” He was standing before her now. “Though, I do believe I saw a painting here the last time I was in this room.”

“Could it have been moved?” she asked.

He smiled. “Perhaps, after all, it was only a small, framed portrait of some French artist.” He bowed. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Baron Crawford.”

Diana narrowed her eyes at his implication but curtsied politely. “I am Miss Diana Pearson.”

His brows rose as if he was surprised. “Are you Miss Annabelle Windhill’s friend?”

“Yes. Are you well acquainted with her?”

“Indeed, I am, and I presume you are waiting here for her.” His smile was pleasant, and Diana’s wariness began to vanish. He was acquainted with Annabelle, and he seemed to be an agreeable gentleman.

“I am.” She returned his smile.

He held out his arm. “Shall we search for the painting while we wait for her?”

Diana accepted his arm because she did not want to be impolite. They began to walk around the library, and when they reached the open French doors, he stopped and looked up at the full moon that illuminated the terrace, then back at her.

“Your eyes are as bright and lovely as the moon, Miss Pearson.” His dark eyes gleamed dangerously despite the softness in his voice, and he reached up to stroke her cheek.

Diana’s caution returned, and she quickly pulled her hand from his arm and took a step back.

“Do not be afraid, Miss Pearson,” he said, grasping her arms. “I only wish to show you the passion you have awakened in me.”

“I do not even know you!” She pushed against his chest to free herself but his hold on her was firm.

“Now you do, my dear.” He leaned forward and tried to kiss her, his fingers biting into her arms from the force with which he was holding her. Panic rose within her, and she began to kick his shin whilst pulling her face away. That did little because he cursed and started pushing her against a bookshelf, a few feet behind, likely to trap her. Diana struggled against his heavy breath, as he leaned closer, both arms still pinned against her shoulders.

The library door burst open and Annabelle walked in with several ladies. “Diana!” she shrieked when she saw her. “What are you doing?”

“I was not doing anything,” Diana quickly defended, tears brimming her eyes and blurring her vision. Baron Crawford released her at once, and darted out onto the terrace, away from sight, leaving her to suffer the consequences of being caught in a room alone with a man.

“That is not what we saw, Miss Pearson,” said a plump woman with disgust.

“Diana, how could you?” Annabelle asked, looking betrayed.

Diana could not understand why the women had followed Annabelle, and she did not have any time to think about it before their harsh accusations came, their voices filling her ears with words she never thought she would hear.

“You are ruined now!” someone exclaimed. “How shameful,” another rebuked.

Diana covered her face with her hands, stepping back until she felt a bookshelf bar her way. Her heart was beating violently in her chest, and her legs were weak.

“What is happening here?” came her father’s thunderous voice soon after.

“Your daughter has fallen, Lord Edgington,” someone answered.

Diana could not remove her hands from her face to look at him for fear of the condemnation she would see in his eyes. A moment later, a hand circled her arm and she was pulled forward. When she opened her eyes, she saw her father leading her out of the room, then out of the house altogether.

***

“You’ve ruined us! Why did you do it?” her father, Jacob, asked as he paced the drawing-room in their house in short quick steps an hour later, and her mother, Helen, was sobbing in a chair.

“I did not do anything,” Diana cried, “He was forcing himself on me. I rejected him.”

“Oh, did you?” Jacob stopped and gave her a cold stare. “Because that is not what I heard, Diana.”

“You will believe the words of others over your daughter’s?” she challenged, furiously wiping her tear-stained cheeks.

“Who is he?” her father demanded, ignoring her question. She hesitated because she did not know what her father would do if he got his name. “Who is he?” he demanded again with his voice raised.

“Baron Crawford,” she answered, trembling.

Her father cursed under his breath. “Did you know that he is betrothed?”

“No, I did not. I only made his acquaintance today.” She wrung her satin gloves in her hand.

“And you decided to seduce him just after meeting him?” Jacob accused, his face red with fury. Her mother sobbed harder.

“Why would you think that of me, Father?” She was unable to stop the tide of tears that besieged her eyes.

“Women often do vile things to snare men.” He was looking at her mother as he said that with the corners of his mouth turned down and his nose scrunched. He turned to Diana, and the tone of his voice chilled her bones. “You will leave for Kent tomorrow and stay with my sister, Margaret. And you will find a husband.”

Diana shook her head, her heart twisting painfully. “Please, do not send me away,” she implored, sinking from her chair to her knees. She barely knew her aunt, and her life in London was all she had ever known.

“No one in London will marry you now, and pray this scandal does not reach Kent.” Jacob did not wait for her to respond before he marched out of the room, his boots hammering against the parquet.

“I hope you are happy with the misfortune you have brought upon us,” her mother said at last, and Diana raised her head to look at her. The contempt she saw in her eyes should never appear in a mother’s eyes.

“Mother, please allow me to explain,” Diana begged.

“I will not hear any of your lies. You have disgraced us and made us regret birthing you.” Helen walked past her toward the door. Diana caught her skirt, but she slapped her hands away.

Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. Never had she imagined something like this happening to her, and now she could be doomed to live the rest of her life as a disgraced spinster, unwanted even by her parents.

Diana had grown without her parents’ love because she should have been born male. Although she never expected them to comfort her during a time of misfortune, for they never did. she did not think they would ever send her away. Gathering herself and holding her sobs in until they turned into tiny hiccups, she rose from the floor and made her way out of the room and up the stairs to her bedchamber.

The first thing she saw on her bureau when she closed the door was a letter. She picked it up, her throat tightening when she saw James’ handwriting, and she moved to sit on her bed to open it.

My dearest Dee,

I wish you could have seen the smile your response bestowed upon my face, and felt the happiness that filled my heart. I was once an aimless wanderer, but the honor of knowing you has given my soul something to strive for. Before I come to London to see you, I wish to give you my full name. I am Matthew James St. Wulfstan and the Marquess of Ashford.

I now truly believe that we share a bond that I cannot ignore any longer, and if you will allow me, I wish to court you and, perhaps, offer you my—

Diana’s tears blinded her and she was unable to finish reading the letter. A gentleman without a title would not court her after tonight’s events, much less a marquess. Matthew must never learn of the scandal, and she must never write to him again.

She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes as her heart broke anew. If she had left the library as soon as that loathsome Baron Crawford walked in, she would have prevented her misfortune, and her wish to have Matthew court her would have been granted. She saw nothing but desolation in her future now.

Chapter One

May 1814

Matthew stretched his neck and winced at the tightness he felt in the long scar that ran from the back of his left shoulder down to the middle where his ribs stopped. It was the result of a battle wound that had nearly changed the course of his existence.

“With this sort of stiffness you would think that I have been sitting for more than three hours,” he said to Glover, his valet of seven years. “I feel as though I am fifty years old instead of a mere thirty.”

Glover picked up the tea he had just poured for Matthew and came to set it down in front of him on his desk. “Would you like me to prepare more of the soothing oil for you, Your Grace?”

“I suppose that would be wise.” Matthew picked up the teacup and raised it to his lips. He had never been fond of mint tea until recently when he found himself in want of its calming properties.

“Might I suggest a short walk in the garden, Your Grace?” Glover picked up the letter that Matthew had just written.

“I still have much to do but I will consider it,” he replied. “Please post that for London immediately.”

“At once.” Glover bowed and left.

Matthew swiveled his chair to face the tall window behind his desk which overlooked an immaculate garden. Dee loved beautiful landscapes and gardens, and he had never failed to think of her every time he saw a garden. Now, he wondered if she was even alive.

She never replied to the letter he had sent her giving her his name, and he sent several more over the course of three months with no response. At the time, he assumed she no longer wished to correspond with him and complained to both Glover and his dear friend, Albert Kingsley for days, much to their dismay. But after eight months, he began to fear that something had happened to her.

His mood darkened from the hollowness her silence had created in his life, and his father’s deteriorating melancholy pushed him to purchase a commission and leave England to join Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon. He was wounded in the Battle of Vitoria and was forced to retire from the military, but he did not return to England until he received news of his father’s death five months ago.

Matthew was now the Duke of Stormwood, and nothing in his life was as it should be because his dreams were lost. He thought he would find a letter from Dee upon his return but all he received were condolences and felicitations from vague acquaintances of his father’s past.

Gulping down the rest of his tea, he turned away from the window, his thoughts more tempestuous than before, and set the cup down before opening the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a stack of letters, loosened the twine binding them, removed a letter from the bottom—the last one Dee had sent him—and unfolded it.

My dear James,

I feel as though you have the power to perceive my thoughts from wherever you are, for I was thinking of seeing you moments before your letter arrived.

Yes, James, I would love to meet you one day. I wish to see the face that has only been shown to me in my dreams, behold the eyes of the friend I found under the most unlikely of circumstances and feel the satisfaction of finally completing a journey.

I love the pressed blue daisy you sent me, and I have placed it between the pages of my favorite book so that I may think of you every time I open it.

Now, regarding your suggestion to eat fish so I can learn to like it, there are not enough elephants in Africa to make me do it. My father eats kippers some mornings for breakfast, and I always smell them before I reach the morning room. No, James, I will never eat fish! I confess that I do enjoy this pleasant little debate we are having even though I am not fond of below-water delicacies. 

I eagerly await your response and your next preposterous suggestion, my dear friend.

Yours truly,

Dee.

 

Mathew placed the letter on his desk and started to reach for the one on top of the stack but stopped. I should not read anymore, he thought. It would only make matters more difficult. He grunted. Heedless of his advice, he picked up the letter, but then a knock came at his study door.

“Come in,” he called.

His butler, McGill, appeared. “You have a caller, Your Grace. It is the Baron Crawford.”

“Show him to the salon. I will join him shortly,” Matthew instructed, putting the letters away. It was time to conduct business, and not wallow in reveries of has-beens.

He stepped out of his study, taking note of the bustling around him as the servants made final preparations for tonight’s ball. He was hosting for the first time since his return on Albert and Glover’s suggestion to reacquaint with society and present himself as the Duke of Stormwood. Suggestion? More like coercion.

“Crawford,” he said as he walked into the salon.

Crawford rose, bowing and smiling. “Stormwood. The castle looks splendid. I have never understood why you do not host balls more often. It should be a regular occurrence. ”

“We shall see.” Matthew sat in a chair near the fireplace and Crawford retook his seat.

“I imagine you know why I am here, Stormwood,” Crawford said with creased brows. “The loss our business is suffering is most alarming.”

“Yes, I know,” Matthew sighed, “and I am investigating the reason for the loss.” His father had managed Stormwood’s properties very well and invested in several other ventures. Matthew had been tasked with the management of fabric trading, which Crawford had invested in, and he had neglected those duties before he left to join the campaign against Napoleon. Upon his return, he discovered unexplained losses that he was now inspecting.

Crawford scowled. “When do you expect to know the cause of our problems?”

“I cannot say,” Matthew said simply. He suspected that someone was embezzling but he was yet to know who. He did not tell Crawford for it could be anyone, and displaying his suspicions so openly may only encourage the perpetrator to slip away. “I will inform you the instant I learn something.”

Crawford grumbled. “I might be forced to withdraw my investment if this persists.”

Crawford was not Matthew’s friend, and their paths would hardly have crossed if they were not doing business together. However, he did not want him to withdraw his investment for he wanted to pay more attention to the businesses he had inherited. He wanted all of them to prosper. The letter he had sent Glover to post was for his solicitor in London, and it was about this business.

“Rest assured that you will not lose your fortune here, Crawford,” Matthew spoke calmly, his voice almost devoid of life. He used to be very passionate but one tended to lose passion upon an encounter with the horrors of war.

Crawford looked uncertain but he gave him a nod, then smiled as he rose. “I look forward to the ball, Stormwood, and I am happy you have decided to rejoin society.”

“As am I,” Matthew said impassively.

“I shall see you tonight.” Crawford bowed and left.

Matthew remained in his seat for a while before deciding to take that walk that Glover recommended.

Chapter Two

Diana was famished, not because she had no food, but because her aunt was preventing her from eating. They had to prepare for a ball at Kendall Castle, the home of the Duke of Stormwood, and her stays must be very tight for her to fit into a dress that had been made two sizes too small for her.

“It is not tight enough,” her aunt said, resting her hands on her wide hips and glaring at Diana. “Tighten it, Abigail,” she ordered the maid, and Diana’s stays were pulled tighter until she felt as though the air was being squeezed out of her lungs. She cursed inwardly. Tightly laced stays were not in fashion, but her aunt was imposing them upon her to punish her.

“Why must Diana go to the ball, Mother?” asked her cousin Florence Dervin, innocently, as she tried on a tiara in front of the tall mirror in the dressing room. “I doubt she even knows who the Duke of Stormwood is.” They were getting dressed in Florence’s chambers, and two maids were helping her while Abigail helped Diana.

“Her father thinks it would do her some good to rejoin society now that it appears everyone has forgotten about that horrid incident two years ago.” Margaret’s hawkish gaze moved over Diana. “And she has changed quite a bit.”

“If you mean I am now as skinny as a broomstick, then yes, I have changed,” Diana said.

“Oh, be quiet!” Margaret dismissed. “I would not keep you in this house if your father was not paying me well.”

Diana might not have been tossed out on her ear but her life had gotten considerably worse in the two years that followed the scandal. Her parents had refused to allow her to return to London, and her aunt ensured every minute of her day was spent in misery. She was given less food than she needed and was forced to stay in her bedchamber unless she was called upon.

Her father sent funds every month for her upkeep but her aunt spent most of it on herself and Florence, claiming it was hers to do with as she pleased.

Diana did not know if Matthew had written to her, and often wondered if he was affected by her sudden silence.

Her stomach rumbled as Abigail was helping her into a lavender dress. Their eyes met in the vanity mirror and Diana saw pity in Abigail’s eyes and quickly looked away. She only had to endure living in this house until she turned one and twenty in November.

Her late maternal uncle had been so generous as to bequeath to her a sum that she could claim once she turned twenty-one. She could leave this house then and find a small cottage far away from Kent and London in which to live the rest of her life. This was Diana’s dream now, and she believed it was fate’s kindness that made her uncle remember her before he died.

“This color suits you, Miss,” Abigail complimented after fastening the buttons on the back of her dress.

Diana regarded herself in the mirror and smiled. Margaret clothed her well because she was concerned about what people would think or say if they saw her shabbily dressed.

“I want that dress,” Florence declared with a glint in her eye, tossing her deep blue dress onto the floor. “I want Diana’s dress,” she repeated.

Margaret huffed. “Diana, give Florence your dress and wear hers.”

Diana opened her mouth to protest but quickly closed it when she thought of the possible consequences of protesting. The harsh words and hunger she might suffer were not worth the protest.

With her mouth turned down, Abigail helped Diana remove the dress, and then she surprised her when she brought Florence’s dress over to her. When no one was looking, she loosened Diana’s stays.

“Thank you,” Diana mouthed with a smile. Abigail was her only ally in the house, and she helped her whenever she could.

When Diana looked at herself in the mirror after her change of dress, she found she liked the blue velvet dress more than the lavender because it would help her hide at the ball. She did not want any attention, and she was only going because she wanted to be cordial with her aunt until she was able to leave the house. Margaret could easily tell her father lies that could get in the way of her freedom, and she did not want that to happen.

“I cannot breathe!” Florence complained.

“We do not have time for you to change over and over, Florence,” her aunt replied, seemingly annoyed. “You knew Diana’s dress was much smaller than yours when you asked to wear it.”

Secretly, Diana smiled, grateful her stays had been loosened as her new dress was very comfortable. Margaret hurried them out to the carriage once they were dressed, and they were soon on the hour-long ride to Kendall Castle. Diana said nothing on the way but Florence talked endlessly about how eager she was to be introduced to the duke, while her aunt hoped her daughter would meet anyone of significance to marry.

When they arrived, Diana felt her stomach tighten with trepidation. She had not been out in polite society for a very long time, and she was positively nervous. She stopped at the bottom of the marble steps that led up to the front door to collect herself, and when she looked up at the grand edifice before her, she felt intimidated, for Kendall Castle was one of the most beautiful castles she had ever seen.

What looked like a dozen stone fire bowls illuminated the Corinthian exterior and the perfectly tended lawn. Statues stood between the tall columns as if they had been charged to guard the place, and every window sparkled like a gemstone. Diana wished she could capture the view in a painting.

“Do come on!” her aunt urged from the top of the stairs, and Diana hurried up to meet her. At the door, Margaret said to the majordomo, “Baroness Dervin and Miss Florence Dervin.” Diana was not surprised to find her name left out. In fact, she was rather relieved. Hopefully, it would cause her to draw fewer stares when she finally entered. They joined a long line of guests in the long hall that led to the ballroom but were moving very slowly.

“I wish those at the fore of the line would hurry,” Florence huffed.

“Patience, my dear.” Margaret fanned herself slowly. “The duke will still be in the ballroom when we reach.”

Unlike everyone eager to enter the ballroom, Diana instead admired the arched ceiling from which three crystal chandeliers hung and the marble leaves that decorated the top of the columns lining the hall.

They entered the ballroom, at last, and an apprehensive feeling crept into her stomach. Her eyes flickered about the ballroom to ladies chattering behind flitting fans, and judgmental gazes came her way. And for a moment, she felt vulnerable again, like two years ago at the ball. Was the incident still fresh in everyone’s memories as it was in hers?

She pushed the feeling down as curiosity overcame her and her eyes fought to see beyond an amassed crowd at the center of the ballroom. A small gasp escaped her throat when a pair of hazel eyes met and held hers. The dark-haired man they belonged to was a short distance away from her, and was so handsome he could make a woman swoon. She presumed he was the duke because he was surrounded by several ladies and gentlemen who seemed ready to lie on the floor if he asked them to.

“Mother, is that the duke?” Diana heard Florence ask.

“Yes, my dear,” Margaret replied, “Duke Matthew St. Wulfstan.”

Diana froze, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. The man whose eyes were still upon her was Matthew, and he was now a duke. Suddenly breathless and afraid, she turned on her heels.

Releases on 21st August

Prologue

1814

London, England

“Your gentleman caller does not come around anymore, does he?”

Violet’s hand that held the pencil froze and hovered over the sketchbook. She had not wanted to listen to the conversation, as frustrated with her cousin’s interference as her sister was, but now, she had no choice. Dropping the sketchbook firmly into her lap, she sat straight and pushed the loose curls of blonde hair that had fallen out of her chignon back from her face.

Across the room, she could see who had spoken. Her cousin, Louise, was practically crowing in victory as she walked up and down the room.

“Mama was right. No good comes from encouraging the attentions of a man like Sir Percy Babington, does it?” Louise practically giggled with the words.

“I…” Penelope trailed off.

Violet’s eyes shot to her sister to see Penelope was sitting forward in her chair, barely paying attention to the embroidery in her lap.

“No, he does not come around anymore,” Penelope said miserably and stabbed the embroidered cloth with the needle another time.

“We knew he was no good. It shows a poor judgment of character, that is what my Mama says,” Louise crowed another time as she walked in front of Penelope.

I have had enough of this.

Violet stood to her feet and dropped her notebook so loudly on the table beside her that both Louise and Penelope flinched. Penelope’s fair curls turned in Violet’s direction and Louise spun around, her red hair whipping with the movement.

“We hear the opinions of your mother from her own lips, Louise. Do you have an opinion of your own to share?” Her tartness earned a warning glare from Penelope behind Louise’s back, clearly telling her to be quiet, but Violet did not listen. She strode across the room instead, meeting Louise’s gaze.

Violet may have been significantly shorter than Louise, but she would never cower to her cousin’s pride.

Louise’s lips opened and closed, but no words passed them. Clearly, she had not expected such words to escape Violet.

“No? Well, perhaps we should leave my sister to her embroidery. She is content here in peace, and that peace and quiet is rather being disturbed at present. If you wouldn’t mind.” Violet spoke with a sweet and kindly tone, even if the words were to the point.

Louise was wrongfooted. She narrowed her brown eyes, clearly wishing to be tart too, but apparently, words failed her. She hurried from the room instead, and Violet followed, being careful to close the door behind her. Once Louise was gone, Violet turned back into the parlor and sighed, leaning on the door.

“Oh, good lord! Save me from our cousin’s proud ways,” she gushed, rather relieved when she brought a smile to her sister’s lips.

“You think we would be used to it by now after how long we have been here,” Penelope murmured, looking down at her embroidery once again.

“Used to it? No, indeed. Our cousin is as changeable as the English weather. Sometimes she is kind, other times, like the clouds, she is so ill-tempered that she marches around the house, practically making the floorboards shake beneath her feet.”

“Do not let her hear you say that!” Penelope shook her head madly.

“She can hear it. I do not mind.” Violet crossed the room and sat down by her sister’s side, flopping into the chair. She had hoped her jest would bring another smile to her sister’s lips, but it didn’t on this occasion. “Penelope, are you well, dearest?”

“Of course,” Penelope lied.

“You know I can tell easily by now when you are fibbing to me, do you not?” Violet leaned toward her and whispered conspiratorially, as if it were the greatest secret ever told. “You are my sister, Penelope. I can read you like a book.”

“Do not tease me, Violet.”

“I am not teasing. I am trying to make you smile, though I admit I am failing in my task at present.” Violet sat back again. “You have a habit of flattening your lips together when you lie.” Penelope purposefully lifted her head and smiled as if to dispel the illusion of a lie. “It is a good attempt, but you still lied. Would you tell me what is wrong, sister?”

She half-expected Penelope to start speaking at length of Sir Babington, the gentleman caller who had spent months trying to earn Penelope’s attention, and when he had it, had frittered off very quickly. Like a bumble bee that persists with one flower, Violet thought Sir Babington just the same. He had waited until Penelope had turned her head toward him, then he had flown away.

“I…” Yet Penelope was not one for indulging in long speeches of what was in her heart. Violet usually had to tease it out of her.

“You can tell me anything. You know that, dearest.” Violet reached for her sister and took her hand off the embroidery, clasping her fingers in her own.

“I know.” Penelope lifted her head, revealing there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh, what is wrong? Is it Sir –”

“Please, do not say his name. It is something quite different that upsets me.”

“Pen, what is it?”

“I feel… Oh, it is all the time at the moment.” Penelope flung back her head dramatically. When she accidentally pricked herself with the needle, she cried out and lifted her finger to her lips, sucking on the blood. “Every morning,” she murmured once she lowered her hand again, “and this morning, it is far worse.”

“What is worse?” Violet leaned forward, feeling her worry begin to burn within her. “Goodness, what is wrong?”

“I feel so sick. All the time.” Penelope’s words were barely audible, they were so quiet. “Every day, it is like this gnawing sensation in my gut.” She gently placed down the embroidery beside her and rested a hand on her stomach. Her other hand was now clutching at Violet’s, as if it was the giver of life itself. “Violet… I fear…”

“Fear what?” Violet did not get an answer to her question, for Penelope had lifted both hands to her lips. There was an awful sound within her throat, one that forewarned what was about to happen.

Violet was on her feet within a second. There was no chance they could make it to a privy or a chamber pot in time. Instead, she dragged poor Penelope to the garden door and flung it open.

Beyond the door, late-blooming irises and poppies swayed in the breeze. Penelope pushed them all to the side and bent her head down as she began to retch in the grass.

Violet kicked the door shut behind them, not wanting Louise or anyone else in the house to discover what was happening just yet. Not until she knew the cause of this sickness.

Bending down to her knees, Violet held her sister’s hair and rubbed her back whilst she was sick, taking care of her.

“There, there. Let it out, Pen. All will be well again in a minute.” Violet made her tone soft. When Penelope finished and sat back, wrinkling her nose when she caught sight of what she had done, she offered a small smile to Violet.

“That is what our mother used to say. ‘All will be well again,’ she said that so much.”

“That she did.” Violet wouldn’t let herself grow sad at the mention of their mother. At this moment, she had other things to worry about.

Must I call a physician? Is this some passing sickness, or a bad filet of fish that has been ingested, or something else entirely?

“Penelope, we should take you upstairs so you can rest. As mother said, all will be well.”

“No, Violet, no, not this time.” Penelope’s words were rather wild. For one who was usually so quiet and softly spoken, it was starkly against her character. She pulled on Violet’s hands, not letting her leave just yet, and tugged her back down to her knees. She entwined their fingers together, latching onto Violet. “I fear I know what the cause of this sickness is, and it will not pass, not before everything becomes apparent.”

“Before what becomes apparent?” Violet asked. Penelope didn’t answer at first. The tears returned to her eyes, and she began to cry. The tears spilled quickly down her cheeks, running so fast that the drips hung off her chin. “Penelope, you are scaring me. Pray, tell me more before I go mad with worry.”

“I know what the sickness is.” Penelope spoke so quietly now that Violet had to lean forward to hear her. “It is not food poisoning, nor is it an illness that can be healed. Violet, it is of my own doing. Of mine and Sir Babington’s.”

Violet felt her body turn cold as she sat back on her knees. She prepared herself to hear the words, even before Penelope could utter them.

“Violet, I am with child.”

Chapter One

Benedict, when I find you…

Sebastian’s thoughts trailed off. As the sun shone down heavily, making his palms clammy around his steed’s reins and his back hot beneath his tailcoat, he rode on. He drove the horse forward with a kind of wildness to him, picturing himself as feral as the animal beneath him, with hair loosened by wind and skin buffeted red.

When Sebastian reached Hyde Park, he didn’t bother turning the horse in through the open gate. He vaulted the fence instead. The horse managed it easily and passersby squealed, either with delight at how impressive such a feat was, or the shock of the horse traveling so fast.

Sebastian couldn’t stop a small smile creeping into his face. He rather liked the idea of ladies giving him a wide berth, and the fans that fluttered across their faces now and the gloved hands that were lifted to lips in shock thrilled him.

Yes, stay away from me! It is for your own good.

When he reached the main path of Hyde Park, Sebastian had to slow down. There were far too many people to ride safely. The steed came to a steady trot, snuffling and snorting in his reins, frustrated at going so slow.

“I know, boy, I know,” Sebastian said deeply, comforting the steed as he patted his neck with a strong hand. “I’d rather be somewhere wilder too.” The horse had kept him company on his travels abroad to the continent. Like him, the steed seemed to suffer the confinement of London society and the ton too much. “To be back in the wilderness of Spain again, eh?” The horse snorted, as if agreeing with him.

“Your Grace Ashbury! Is that you?” a familiar voice cried.

Sebastian was forced to pull on the reins and put on a polite smile, turning to greet whoever had called to him. A rather rotund fellow with pudgy red cheeks that gleamed in the sunlight. The man was rather a dandy, with so many bows on his shoes that they had to appeal as much to the ladies as they did to him.

“Lord Melbury.” Sebastian bowed his head from atop the horse, greeting the man that had once been a close friend to his father.

“Well, well, I did not know we would have the pleasure of your company out here today,” Lord Melbury declared and walked toward Sebastian’s side, swinging the swagger stick in his hand in emphasis of each word.

“Nor did I,” Sebastian muttered before he lifted his voice louder. “I was supposed to be engaged with my brother today. It is the season for the hunt after all.”

“Ah, I see by your face that your brother has not turned up. I do believe young Lord Westmond is on a rather different hunt today, and not one that includes searching for foxes.” Lord Melbury was clearly thrilled by his own jest, chuckling away and turning his red cheeks a deeper shade of scarlet. He lifted his swagger stick and pointed through Hyde Park.

Sebastian gritted his teeth as he looked forward. Late-blooming flower heads swayed from side to side, dancing in his view, and the early turning autumnal leaves of horse chestnuts got in Sebastian’s way. He squinted through the blur where he eventually found his brother.

There you are.

Benedict was standing by the lake in Hyde Park, with no less than two ladies on either side of him, and a cluster of other ladies hovering close by. Each one was fluttering their fan and fussing with the necklines of their gowns.

Sebastian sent a pleading look to the heavens.

Surely, he cannot fall for such tricks.

Yet Benedict was smiling kindly down at the two ladies on either side of him, his eyes rather wide, like a child promised the taste of hot chocolate for the first time.

“He seems rather content, if you ask me,” Lord Melbury added with another laugh.

I didn’t ask.

“If you would excuse me, Lord Melbury.” Sebastian bowed his head another time from atop the horse and moved on quickly, keeping his rather rude thoughts to himself. He crossed the distance to his brother in seconds, pulling the horse to such a halt at the side of the lake that it whinnied loudly into the air and drew the attention of many.

The cluster of ladies nearby all turned their heads toward Sebastian. The fluttering of fans grew faster, and some primped their cheeks and pressed their lips together, bringing more color to them.

Save me from scheming ladies looking for a husband!

“Sebastian! Is that you?” Benedict cried good-naturedly.

“It shouldn’t be me. I should be miles away from here on a fox hunt right about now. As should you.” Sebastian didn’t get down from the horse at first. He fixed a knowing glare on his brother, watching as Benedict offered an apologetic smile.

“I am sorry, brother, I rather got a little… waylaid.”

“So I see.” Sebastian’s eyes flicked to the two ladies beside Benedict. They were both unashamed in their attention to Benedict. One had her arm through his and her gloved fingers were practically clinging to him. The other had adjusted the neckline of her gown so much that Sebastian was forced to lift his eyes elsewhere. “I apologize for interrupting, ladies, but I am in need of the company of my brother.”

“Oh! But we were so enjoying Lord Westmond’s company,” the first lady cried from where she stood on Benedict’s arm.

“This is Lady Hayes and Lady Bella, Seb,” Benedict said hurriedly.

“A pleasure, your Grace.” The young lady, Lady Bella, turned her attention on Sebastian and curtsied so far that she was in danger of tripping over. Sebastian chewed the inside of his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

I must get them away from Benedict! He does not know the danger he is in.

“Careful, Lady Bella. The ground is uneven here and you are likely to trip.” He cast a glance down to the earth beneath them. At once, Lady Bella looked down and nearly wrongfooted herself entirely as she stood straight.

Sebastian jumped down off his horse and tied the steed’s reins to the nearest branch of a tree before looking back to Benedict. The fool was now offering his other arm to Lady Bella, to stop her from falling over.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Sebastian muttered to himself, so quietly that the group seemed none the wiser to the fact he had spoken at all.

“The ladies were in need of a drink, Seb,” Benedict declared, lifting his gaze from the women at last. His deep brown eyes that were so like Sebastian’s own were rather moony as they stared at Lady Bella. “There is a teahouse not far from here.”

“Ah, and how do the ladies like their tea?” Sebastian asked as he crossed toward them. If he was going to protect his brother from their advances, then it was high time he was more forthright, even if it became rude.

I do not care what anyone thinks of me, after all.

“Do they take tea only with marquesses and nothing less?” His words clearly hit the mark. As the Marquess of Westmond, his brother was one of the most eligible bachelors of the season.

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Hayes said hurriedly as her sister blushed bright red.

“It is not the tea they want, but the company, Benedict.” Sebastian stepped near his brother, practically putting himself between him and Lady Hayes. At once, she was forced to release Benedict and step back.

“Seb, I –” Benedict’s tone was pleading, but Sebastian spoke over him.

“I imagine their thirst suddenly came upon them when they saw you. What do you say, Lady Bella? Am I wrong?” His question hit the mark for she stepped back too, also releasing Benedict.

“Come, Bella,” Lady Hayes said, striding forward and reaching for her sister’s arm. “It seems the Duke of Ashbury does not want our company today.” Lady Hayes towed Lady Bella away, though the latter kept looking back to Benedict as she went, offering a sweet smile and a wave that seemed to linger.

Once they were gone, wandering around the lake with other ladies, Sebastian heard his brother sigh beside him.

“Seb, I swear, I do not understand you.”

Sebastian smiled a little at these words and turned back to face his brother. Benedict’s fair hair was a contrast to his own, not just in color, but in style. Unlike Sebastian’s that was wild from the ride, Benedict’s was well-coiffed. It went with the pristine nature of his tailcoat and waistcoat. He was even well shaven, and he scratched at his chin now, shaking his head.

“Am I an enigma? Ha! If only, what a man would give to be anything half so interesting as a mystery.” Sebastian laughed and walked around his brother before taking hold of Benedict’s shoulder and steering him to look at the ladies that had just left. “Those ladies are not for you, Benedict.”

“You are becoming worse than a belligerent mother of a young lady of the ton,” Benedict said wryly, earning a deep chuckle from Sebastian.

“I suppose I am, but with good cause.”

“What good cause is that?” Benedict asked, laughing. Despite his laughter, he still waved after the ladies, and his eyes seemed rather dazed as he watched them. “They were perfectly pleasant, they had charm, and were very handsome. Pray tell me why I could not enjoy their company?”

“Do you want the detail or the quick version?”

“The quick version, please, or we’ll be here all day and your horse will be most upset at the wait.” They both shot a glance toward the steed that was already pawing at the ground with his hooves, unhappy to be still so long.

“Come. If he sees us walking away, he will calm down. As we walk, I will give you the quick version of this lecture that you wanted,” Sebastian said and steered his brother away, aware that Benedict drove the fine heels of his hessian boots into the ground, trying to stall their progress.

“I don’t remember asking for a lecture, as such…”

“Then indulge me, for I am your brother.” Sebastian encouraged Benedict to walk the other way around the lake. With late summer turning to autumn, more and more trees above them were turning brown and orange, but their leaves hadn’t fallen just yet. Sebastian ran a hand through these leaves, snapping off a few of them before offering them to his brother.

“This is an odd gift,” Benedict murmured.

“This is how the ladies of the ton see you, brother. They see you as something that is easy to pluck.”

“Oi!”

“Hear me out,” Sebastian pleaded. “You are young, a marquess, wealthy, with your own estate –”

“As much as I enjoy your compliments, is there a point to this?” Benedict asked with one raised eyebrow.

“There is.” Sebastian paused in their walk and held his brother’s gaze. “Many ladies seek your company for one reason only. They see you as a viable husband.”

“What a shame!” Benedict said with thick sarcasm. “Was it not you who encouraged me to marry? I know I am the one who wants to marry, but you seem to have alighted on the idea with keenness. Why should the lady I wish to spend my life with, bother you so?”

“Yes, I am very eager for you to be wed and to see you happy.”

“And you? Will you wed?”

“We have been over this before.” Sebastian turned his back and continued his walk. He was not in the mood to have that particular conversation today, so he had to bring it to an end quickly. “I have no cause to marry. You should though. I think it will add to your happiness greatly.”

“If that is the way you feel, then why do you scare away every young lady that comes near me? Good lord, Sebastian, you’re better than a bulldog for a guard.”

“Am I?” Sebastian stood taller and adjusted the tailcoat on his shoulders.

“That was not a compliment!”

“I choose to take it as such,” Sebastian said with a smile, prompting his brother to shake his head again. “Now, listen, you know I want what is best for you.”

“You’ve said it a thousand times, though I do not always understand your ways.”

“Then hear me out a little more.” Sebastian took his brother’s shoulder once again and urged him to stop. The two came to a halt in the long reeds that surrounded the lake. As they swayed in the breeze, their leaves practically hissing beside them, Sebastian pointed through the reeds and across the lake, toward where the ladies were walking. “You are young, and not yet experienced with ladies.”

“How can I be if you frighten them all away?”

“By learning from my knowledge.” Sebastian gestured to the ladies another time. “Lady Bella was so keen to get your attention that the neckline of her gown was never fixed, and Lady Hayes was most reluctant to release your arm at all, was she not?”

“And?”

“And? You do not see a problem with these things? Ha! Benedict, you are naïve. Any lady who is truly interested in you will not resort to tricks.” Sebastian held his brother’s gaze as his voice became solemn. “They will get to know you first, not your title, before they decide they like you. As much as I want you to marry, I want it to be the right woman. Marry the wrong one and it could be a life of misery. What kind of brother would I be if I allowed you to do that?”

Sebastian urged his brother on again. They walked around the lake, coming dangerously close to Lady Hayes and her sister.

“I suppose you are right.” Benedict sighed with the words. “Though I still do not know how you can judge a lady as being artful and cunning with just one glance.”

“One glance is sometimes all that is needed –” Before Sebastian could say anymore, a cry went up from the lake’s riverside.

“What was that?” Benedict was already hurrying forward, before Sebastian could stop him.

Sebastian followed behind, though at a much slower pace. He could see Lady Hayes up ahead had tripped on the reeds and was now prostrate on the ground, but at a rather unnatural angle. Her gown seemed to be adjusted just so to flatter her, and the hem of her skirt was lifted a little.

“Subtle, indeed,” Sebastian murmured wryly, watching as Benedict caught up with the lady.

“Lady Hayes, goodness, are you injured?” Forever the gentlemen, Benedict took off his top hat and bent down to his knees, offering his hand to Lady Hayes. Beside them, Lady Bella stood, waving a hand in front of her face as if she might swoon from the shock of it all.

This is as good as being at the theater!

Sebastian worked hard to hide his smile as he reached their side.

“I fear my sister is greatly injured, Lord Westmond,” Lady Bella said with drama in her tone.

“As do I,” Lady Hayes spoke quickly. “It is my ankle, my lord. It is in need of attention.” When she lifted her leg a little too easily, urging Benedict to check for an injury, Sebastian hid his laugh behind a cough. He earned merely a glare from Benedict, who knew that it really was a laugh, though the ladies didn’t seem to notice.

“Then we must get you to a physician, my lady.”

What!?

Benedict’s declaration left Sebastian shaking his head, fearing that his brother’s rather young and naïve ways would always make him a target of a pretty lady. One smile and he was enamored. Sometimes, Sebastian had to save his brother from himself.

“Good lord, what is that?” Sebastian said and stepped forward, pointing down at Lady Hayes.

“What?” she asked.

“Ah, I see what it is. A spider. It has just crawled under the hem of your dress, my lady.”

“Ahh!” She jumped to her feet, so remarkably quickly that Sebastian had to turn away to hide his laughter. Benedict caught up with him and pulled on his tailcoat.

“Seb! That was not funny.”

“I think it was remarkably amusing. Look at poor Lady Hayes now, her ankle seems to have miraculously recovered, does it not?” Sebastian gestured back to the lady who was hopping up and down on both feet, terrified that a spider might be under her gown. “See?”

“Ah…” Benedict acknowledged it all with a nod. “I trust you are recovered, my lady?” His words made Lady Hayes freeze with her sister at her side, both attempting innocent looks that no longer worked.

“I am pleased to see your recovery was so fast. If you would excuse us.” Sebastian bowed his head and took his brother’s shoulder, steering him away once again. “How I wish you had come fox hunting, Benedict. As amusing as this all is, I could have done without it.”

“You are better than any chaperone, I’ll give you that, Seb. In fact, I hope you will continue with your duties tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening? What is happening then?”

“A ball, at Lord Melbury’s house.”

“A ball!?” Sebastian scoffed. “You know I am not a fan of them –”

“Yes, I know. Who would go to a ball when the enjoyment of riding their horse wildly is to be had? Did you knock people over on your way here like skittles? The way you ride, I would not be surprised,” Benedict added wryly.

“They jumped out of the way, for the most part,” Sebastian continued the jest, much to his brother’s delight.

“Say you will come tomorrow night, please.”

“To a ball?”

“Please. Besides, without you to watch over me, I might just fall for the charms of a pretty woman who is out to marry my title.” Benedict’s astute words had Sebastian falling still and offering a glare.

“You have played me.”

“It has worked though, has it not? Say you will come, brother?”

Do I have a choice?

Chapter Two

“Can Mary spare the time?”

“I am afraid not,” Violet said as she stood behind Penelope and gathered her hair together. “It seems the one maid we have has been forced to join the many others that are already attending to our cousin.” Violet turned her gaze on Penelope in the vanity mirror above the table where she sat, seeing the nervous way that Penelope chewed her lip. “Have no fear, I’ll do a good job.”

“I do not doubt it,” Penelope said, though her voice lacked enthusiasm. Violet knew how much her sister longed for the assistance of the one maid they had at times.

In the quiet room, Violet began to pin Penelope’s hair, preparing her for the ball. She took extra care tonight, placing pearls attached to pins into the curls at the rear of her sister’s head, to ensure attention would be drawn to the fairness of Penelope’s hair.

“Quite beautiful,” Violet said after she stood back and surveyed her work.

“Thank you, but I fear I –” Penelope broke off as she held a hand to her mouth, making that sound that was now so familiar to Violet.

Casting a worried glance toward the door, Violet reached beneath her bed and fetched an empty copper chamber pot, before bringing it to Penelope and placing it on her lap.

“Th-thank you.” Penelope stammered, clearly trying to hold in her sickness as she bent over the chamber pot.

“Well, if I have to grab your curls and hold your hair back again, I’ll ruin all my good work,” Violet said softly as she dropped down to her knees in front of her sister. To her delight, she saw her jest pleased her sister, and a small smile appeared, even if it only lasted for a few seconds. “There, how are you feeling now?”

“A little better.” Penelope still stayed bent over the bowl though, clearly reluctant to leave it just yet. “It’s not getting any better, is it?”

Violet held her sister’s gaze, wishing with everything she had that she could say it was.

Yet it is not.

It had been a challenge indeed these last couple of weeks to hide Penelope’s state. The sickness had at first been played off as a passing illness, but now they were forced to hide it, out of fear that if her uncle or aunt, or Louise, saw Penelope was sick so much, they might call a physician.

He could know exactly what causes Pen’s sickness. What then if he were to tell our uncle and aunt?

Violet slowly stood to her feet and walked around Penelope as she placed down the chamber pot, apparently done for the moment with her sickness.

“What am I going to do, Violet?” Penelope broke the silence in the room.

They looked at one another in the vanity mirror. Penelope sat down on the stool and Violet stood behind her, with her hands gently resting on her sister’s shoulders.

“What will happen to me?” Penelope whispered.

“Have no fear.” Violet forced a smile into her cheeks. “I promised I would think of something, did I not?”

“Are you able to think of miracles?” Penelope asked with a laugh, though there was no real humor in it.

“Perhaps I am,” Violet said with false pride, then laughed at herself. “Trust me, Pen, that is all I ask, all is not lost yet. Have we not hidden your secret well so far?”

“By the grace of God, luck, and our maid.” Penelope gestured to the door, beyond which in another part of the house, Mary was now helping to care for Louise. Violet nodded, knowing how fortunate they were to have Mary’s help. She had hidden Penelope’s sheets on more than one occasion and washed them herself, to stop anyone from discovering that Penelope no longer bled.

“Well, in these situations, most women marry,” Violet uttered the words she had been afraid of saying.

“Marry? Me!?” Penelope spluttered. She stood to her feet and turned to face Violet. “I cannot marry.”

“All I am saying is that it would be a way to hide the pregnancy.”

“Yes, so it would. Yet I cannot marry. Not now. After I was so fooled by one man, I thought he genuinely…” She broke off, as tears appeared in her eyes.

“I know, I know,” Violet cooed softly and stepped forward, taking her sister in her arms and embracing her tightly. “I know what he made you think. We were all mistaken about him. We all thought he cared for you.”

Deep down, Violet seethed with anger, though she hid it for her sister’s sake. Sir Babington had a lot to answer for. He persuaded Penelope to believe she was in love, and that he loved her too, all so he could have one night with her, then he left, without another word.

He has done this to her.

“The mere thought of marrying frightens me, Violet, I cannot do it,” Penelope said miserably as she stepped back again, her eyes red with the effort of trying to quell those tears. “I cannot stand up in a church and vow to love another man forever. How could I?” She laid her hands on her stomach.

There was no swell there yet, but there was a child growing inside her. The thought of what that child was going to be born into made Violet’s heart thud harder and that anger swell again.

For Penelope, and for that child… I must do something!

Penelope lifted a hand to her lips. Clearly, in danger of being sick, Violet reached for the chamber pot, the copper cold to the touch, and thrust it into her sister’s hands. Penelope took hold of it and bent forward, but nothing came.

“Oh, Pen, perhaps you shouldn’t come to the ball.”

“I must! Or our aunt will know something is amiss, will she not? I have already missed three events these last two weeks.”

“I know, I know.” Violet sighed and turned away, her mind thinking quickly.

Penelope is right. She cannot miss any more events.

Yet it was only a matter of time before Penelope’s pregnancy started to show. At first, they could play it off as weight gain, but no one would be fooled for very long.

Think of something, you fool! Have you not promised to protect Penelope from all evils of this world? I failed to protect her from Sir Babington. I will not fail again!

“I’ll need a new gown, Violet.” Penelope’s words made Violet look up to see her sister had at last been sick, but some of it had caught on the gown.

“Oh, sister, do not worry. I’ll call for Mary and she’ll help us to get you changed speedily. Here, sit down, rest.” Violet took her sister’s arms and steered her to the nearest chair. “I’ll be back in two minutes.” She bent down and kissed her sister’s forehead before she parted. She heard Penelope whimper at that touch, as if she wanted Violet there longer, before she left.

Closing the door softly behind her, Violet wandered into the corridor, wringing her hands together. It was an old nervous action of hers, clenching and releasing her hands, rather like a cat with long claws.

She was on her way to Louise’s room to ask for Mary’s assistance when she caught sight of another chamber door that was open. It was to her aunt’s chamber, beyond which her aunt was striding back and forth, ready for the ball.

“Oh, oh, listen to this, Mavis,” she cried to the lady’s maid that hurried on behind her.

Well, at least a maid can be spared for someone else other than Louise. Rather a surprise.

Violet kept her thoughts to herself. Louise was the cherished daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Notley, and all their attention and money usually went to her.

Violet stepped back into the shadows of the corridor and peered around the edge of the doorframe, watching as her Aunt Deborah fluttered around the room with a scandal sheet in her hands. The lady’s maid hurried behind her, trying to proffer forward a necklace.

“It talks of the Marquess of Westmond,” Deborah said with a manic wave of her hand. She waved the scandal sheet so hard in the air, it was almost like a lady’s fan, fluttering at her cheeks. “The Marquess, though the younger brother of the Duke of Ashbury, is certainly the much talked of gentlemen of the season. With enough money to his own name and a vast country estate, he has caught more than one lady’s eye.’”

“Mrs. Notley, your necklace.” Mavis tried to offer the necklace another time, but Deborah was so caught up in her own words, she didn’t even seem to notice. Her pudgy hand lifted the scandal sheet another time as she continued to read.

“Whereas the Duke has earned a reputation for travel and can be seen in the corners of balls and assemblies, plainly eager to not be present, his brother is another man entirely. So many dances he has shared with young ladies this season that it is plain to observe his eye could be won by any lady discerning enough to have him. Will the Marquess of Westmond find a bride this season? This writer is sure to write of the gossip when she hears more.’”

Deborah ended her speech by closing up the scandal sheet. “Oh, Mavis, what a thing that could be for the girls.”

“The girls?” Mavis said in surprise, lowering the necklace on her palm.

“Oh, think faster, Mavis. You must realize I am thinking of one of the girls catching his eye. There are three young ladies under this roof that we must see wed.” Deborah crossed the room and threw the scandal sheet down on her dressing table before turning back to take the necklace from her maid.

Violet slowly crept closer to the door, to better listen to her aunt.

“Lord knows it will not be an easy task,” Deborah declared with a grimace. “My Louise is a beauty and has already charmed many a gentleman. Penelope may be a little plainer, but she has demureness I suppose. That will work in her favor. As for Violet, oh! My sister left me with a challenge when she bestowed Violet into my care.”

The words made Violet flinch and reach for the wall beside her. She planted a palm to the plaster, hating the way Deborah spoke.

It was hardly my mother’s choice to pass away, was it?

“That girl can speak without thinking. Heaven knows what some gentlemen think of her.”

“Yet she is a beauty, is she not, Mrs. Notley?” Mavis’ words were clearly unwelcome, for Deborah snatched a ring out of her maid’s hand and made her scurry back.

“I suppose she has a certain charm,” Deborah added reluctantly. “Yet the girls must marry. How can I not think of this Marquess of Westmond? So wealthy, so desired, and respected. Oh, imagine if he caught the eye of young Louise? What a happy thing that would be!” Deborah clapped her hands together in delight, making the extra fat on her arms jiggle.

Violet stepped back away from the door, creeping away on her tiptoes, yet she listened on, reluctant to disappear completely.

“Hear what else it has to say, Mavis.”

“What of your bracelet, Mrs –”

“Shh!” Deborah said firmly and returned to her scandal sheet. “Whichever lady turns her eye on the Marquess of Westmond might be in for a greater challenge than they thought. Allow me to warn any young lady readers out there, for though the Marquess can clearly be charmed by his smile, the older brother does not look so easy to charm. The Duke of Ashbury may have only recently returned from his travels, but he seems reluctant to let his younger brother dance with every lady at a ball.’ How troublesome,” Deborah continued on. “Well, with Louise’s charms, we must hope she can slip by this Duke.”

Violet crept away. Walking on the tiptoes of her shoes, she moved onto Louise’s room, though she paused outside of the door, not quite knocking, for she was deep in thought.

The Marquess of Westmond…

Here was an interesting prospect. Here was a man that was wealthy and had a country estate. It could be the perfect way to hide Penelope away from the worrisome gossip of the ton. With money to their names, Penelope would be well taken care of. Who would care then if she had a child? The rumors would struggle to travel far from the country, and they would have the fortune to care for the child.

“They could be happy,” Violet murmured to herself under her breath. “Penelope and the child… they could be happy.” She lowered her hand from where she had raised it to knock on the door and crossed to the nearest mirror on the landing.

Framed in gold with a beveled edge, the mirror reflected back her image. Violet fussed at her reflection a little. She brushed back the loose golden locks from her updo that framed her face, peering at the green eyes that stared back at her. She had never thought of herself as particularly pretty, rather plain in comparison to her sister, yet Mavis had described her as a beauty.

Violet had always found her green eyes were rather too large on her face, and her lips were far too plump. They were nothing like Penelope’s that were slim and had this habit of curling into an elegant smile.

Could it be possible for me to catch a gentleman’s eye?

She adjusted her Pomona green gown, so bold in color that it matched her eyes, then she tweaked a few of the golden gems in her hair. Once content with her appearance, she stepped back.

“This could work,” Violet muttered to herself. So caught up in her thoughts, she neglected to knock and call for Mary after all. She shot back across the corridor, hastening to her room, and bustled through the door.

She moved so fast that Penelope jumped on the other side, nearly dropping the chamber pot she had balanced in her lap.

“Let me guess, Louise cannot afford to spare Mary?” Penelope asked with a wry smile. “You would think two maids were enough for her without taking the one we shared.”

“Pen, Pen!” Violet said enthusiastically, hurrying forward, “I have had an idea.”

“You certainly seem excited by it.”

“I am. Nervous too, but oh, determined as well.” Violet grabbed the nearest chair and pulled it forward, sitting down in front of her sister and taking her hand.

“Do not come too close, Violet, I don’t want to ruin your gown too.”

“Tush, if it happens again, I will hold back your hair for you. Now, listen to me.” Violet leaned forward. “To take care of you, we need money and a house. To get either of those things, we need a husband.”

“Violet, I told you. I cannot marry. Besides, how am I supposed to convince a gentleman to marry me in such a short space of time?”

“No, Pen, I do not mean you. I mean that I shall marry. If I could catch the eye of a gentleman and persuade him to accept my hand, well, you would be safe. Is it not a wonderful idea?”

“Wonderful? My thought was reaching for impossible!”

“Pen!” Violet sat back, affronted.

“No, I didn’t mean why would any man want to marry you. I meant how will you get a man to marry you so fast.”

“Well, I suppose I will have to make a plan.” Violet moved to her feet and clasped her hands together. “Here is what we shall do.”

Be sure to read the rest when this book releases on 19th July!

Chapter One

Erdington Estate

March 1814

“Oh, let’s not walk in the south gardens today, Rose. I can’t bear the view of the house at the moment,” Harriet protested.

She and Rose had just stepped out of Erdington Manor house onto broad, mossy paving. Erdington was Harriet’s childhood home. Rose had been her close friend since the two met at finishing school. That had been before the death of Harriet’s father and the entailment of Erdington to the closest male heir. The heir being Harriet’s distant cousin, Simon.

The terrace that they walked across led to wide, stone steps, flanked by carved balustrades leading down to the famous gardens. The once-famous gardens. To go with the once-famous house. But time had not been kind to either the Erdington estate or its masters.

“Nonsense, Harry. I love walking in the rose garden. The scent is incredible at this time of year,” Rose enthused.

“But the house looks so woebegone with all that scaffolding around it,” Harriet said.

“Then don’t look at it,” Rose shrugged.

She set off across the patio towards the steps. The two young women were night and day apart. Harriet was petite and fair-haired with full cheeks that flushed at a moment’s notice. Rose had straight dark hair cascading down her back and dark eyes in a pale, pretty face.

“I didn’t come all the way from Tedbury to sit indoors, Harry,” Rose said over her shoulder as she skipped down the steps.

Harriet grumbled but caught up with the other woman, leading the way down into the gardens. They were not the works of art they had once been, a century before when the manor had been in the hands of her great-grandfather. The rose beds were still spectacular, with the plants flowering in profusion and reaching across the gravel paths which were supposed to separate different beds. Statues of famous Worthinghams were splotched with mildew and becoming gradually entwined with ivy.

“Take a deep breath. Isn’t that wonderful?” Rose said.

“It is. I just don’t like the sight that I know is behind me,” Harriet replied.

Rose looked back over Harriet’s shoulder towards the house and made a sympathetic face.

“It is rather ugly. I don’t actually see any workmen though. Just the scaffolds.”

Harriet swung around despite herself. The workingmen employed by Simon had been hard at work when she had woken that morning. Their incessant hammering had actually woken her earlier than she had intended. But Rose’s arrival for brunch had been enough to forestall the ill mood such a rude awakening would usually bring about. Their time spent catching up after several months apart had taken her mind from the work completely.

“I had not noticed that they had stopped. Were they working during brunch?” Harriet asked, frowning.

“I didn’t notice either. I was more interested in being reunited with my best friend,” Rose said playfully.

Harriet smiled distractedly. “It is the middle of the day and the repairs are important. There is a veritable river flowing through the third-floor library from the leaking roof. This worries me. Rose, would it be terrible of me to want to speak to Simon to find out what is happening?”

Rose grimaced but linked her arm with Harriet’s.

“A terrible imposition. But let’s do it anyway. You will not be happy until the mystery is solved.”

She laughed and the merry tinkle of the familiar sound brought a genuine smile to Harriet’s lips. Rose had always had the knack of doing that, which was precisely why she did it. As they walked back to the house, their abortive stroll in the gardens ended, and Rose leaned close.

“Is it really bad, Harry? The…um…situation?”

She looked worried and Harriet had no desire to lie to her in order to spare her concerns.

“Simon and I do our best to keep it from Eleanor but…every day seems to bring fresh evidence of papa’s cavalier attitude to money. And the pit we are sliding into gets a little deeper,” Harriet said.

“Oh dear. And I thought Lord Worthingham was such an adept businessman. My own papa was immensely proud that I was attending the same finishing school as the daughter of Worthingham. He always respected the ability to make money over all things.”

Rose made a face to show her opinion of such an attitude. Harriet sighed.

“Papa was a good and kind man. Too kind it seems. What he made through his estates and businesses, he lost through his charitable spirit. Simon is practically tearing his hair out.”

Rose squeezed her friend’s arm in an attempt to comfort her. They entered the wide drawing room through French doors that looked out onto the patio. The room beyond was mostly shrouded by dust sheets, the majority of the furniture covered as the room was part of a wing that Simon had closed, in order to allow some of the household staff to be released. Harriet had a master key and had intended to show Rose the south aspect until she remembered the sorry state of the house.

They hurried through the high-ceilinged room with its ceiling of chandeliers and elaborate plaster moldings. The wallpaper was a fine silk print of turquoise and gold, and the carpet, a royal blue. It had been Lord and Lady Worthingham’s favorite room. Passing through and locking the door behind them, the two women walked along hallways with bare patches on the walls, where pictures had been sold.

Finally, crossing the still-grand entrance hall and entering the Breakfast Room, they came across the new Lord Worthingham of Erdington. Simon had fair hair and a round face with blue eyes. His face was creased in concentration. One hand held a coffee cup with the air of having forgotten it was there. The other lay across a document filled with tight-packed columns of figures. His eyes darted back and forth.

“Simon, dear. Where are the workmen?” Harriet asked.

“God’s blood but I would like there to be one person in this house who does not ask me that question. They have downed tools because I cannot pay them!” Simon snarled.

Rose stopped short, a hand going to her mouth. Harriet put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow challengingly. Simon colored, putting down his coffee cup and then cursing as the liquid sloshed over the rim of the china.

“My apologies, cousin. And to you, Miss Mantell. I am somewhat distracted. There is a minor cash flow problem that I will resolve.”

Harriet’s face softened and she glanced at Rose, suddenly acutely aware that Simon would not wish to be forthcoming about money worries in front of a stranger. At least, Rose was a stranger to him, if not to Harriet.

“I’m sorry too, Simon. I should have known that you would be hard at work on the problem. You don’t need us cluttering up the place.”

“Actually, I was going to call you in anyway,” Simon said, standing from the table at which he had been sitting and crossing the room to the mantlepiece.

A white envelope had been placed behind the clock which stood there. He took it out and offered it to Harriet.

“Your invitation,” Simon told her.

Harriet frowned. “My invitation to what?”

“We all have one. The Duke of Wrexham is throwing a ball and you, I, and Eleanor are all invited.”

“Oh, how lucky you are Harry. The Duke of Wrexham is one of the wealthiest men in England. And the most sought after. Why, every Lord with an eligible daughter wants to marry her off to him. I had no idea you knew the Bolton family.”

Bolton was the family name of the Dukes of Wrexham. Rose crowded in eagerly to get a look at the invitation, which Harriet carefully removed from the envelope. It was written on stiff, white card with gold lettering in an exquisite hand.

“I didn’t realize we did either,” Harriet said, looking questionably at Simon.

He simply shrugged. “I have a passing acquaintanceship with the family. I will not look a gift horse in the mouth. We are invited and it could be the perfect opportunity to make some important connections. Everyone who is anyone will be there,” Simon said.

“A passing acquaintanceship?” Harriet enquired. “I had no idea, Simon. When did you meet a member of the Boltons?”

Simon waved the question away, returning to his coffee cup and draining it. “It is of no consequence. We are invited and I shall put to Edward Bolton my business plans, and pray that he is willing to invest. It could be the making of us.”

Chapter Two

“Oh, so you also received an invitation, did you?” Eleanor Worthingham said with barely concealed disappointment.

Eleanor was Harriet’s cousin and Simon’s sister. For reasons Harriet did not fully understand, there had always been a rivalry between them. Not on her own part, but from Eleanor towards her. She considered Eleanor to be far prettier than herself and with a more refined and fashionable wardrobe. She was also now a member of the family that owned Erdington.

The entailment that had resulted in the estate falling to Simon as the nearest male heir, instead of Harriet, also meant that Eleanor herself could not inherit. But, she was sister to the new Lord, while Harriet was merely a cousin. In Harriet’s mind, that should have meant that Eleanor would be content but the younger woman never seemed to be. Harriet and Rose had left Simon to his ledgers and his worries. They had ascended to the house’s second floor and the sitting room that Harriet now shared with Eleanor. The small room had once been Eleanor’s alone but she had been forced to share when the room adjoining Harriet’s quarters sprang a leak in the ceiling.

Simon could not afford to have it repaired, though this had been concealed from Eleanor. It meant that she was full of resentment, feeling that Harriet was receiving favorable treatment over herself. It did not make for pleasant company. Eleanor had Simon’s fair hair and blue eyes. But while her older brother had a pleasant, amiable disposition, Eleanor was anything but.

“Good morning, Eleanor,” Harriet said brightly, determined that she would not mirror Eleanor’s hostility.

“Good morning, cousin,” Eleanor replied frostily. “And to you, Miss Mantell.”

Rose gave a bow of her head and then looked to Harriet for permission to sit. Harriet suppressed a smile. Such slights were beyond her to think of but Rose was an adept politician. The moment was not missed by Eleanor, who smiled fixedly as her jaw clenched in irritation.

“And in answer to your question, cousin,” Harriet said, composing her skirts calmly. “Yes, I did receive an invitation of my own. So, I will be joining you and Simon on this occasion.”

And I hope you choke on that fact. You thought that because I have shunned these invitations in the past, I would do so again? I do not have that luxury anymore, though god knows I would rather not be at such an affair.

She actually felt somewhat guilty at the tightly controlled look of chagrin on Eleanor’s face. It simply was not in her nature to enjoy indulging in spiteful behavior. She would much prefer ignoring Eleanor and avoiding these sparring sessions. Sometimes, Eleanor made that difficult.

“I was rather under the impression that you did not care for such…what was it you called it once?” Eleanor feigned a moment of deep thought. “Ah yes, indulgences. I did not think you cared for such frivolous indulgences.”

“A person can change their mind on a subject,” Rose said.

And that is just what I have had to do, Rose dear. For the good of the family, though Eleanor does not know it.

“Indeed, I find that sometimes these social occasions are quite the thing. I find myself quite excited,” Harriet said.

Rose looked at her briefly. Harriet knew her well enough to recognize a thoughtful look of consideration.

She knows that I’m lying but doesn’t know the reason. I must keep my promise to Simon. Oh Rose, don’t you realize, one cannot find a husband without mixing with society. And I cannot help Simon without a husband.

Thankfully, Rose said nothing but merely nodded as though in complete agreement. Eleanor’s face had reddened and she stood abruptly. Harriet raised a cool eyebrow as Eleanor made a visible effort to control her rising anger.

“I will leave the two of you, I have business to attend to if you will excuse me.”

Both Harriet and Rose gave gracious nods of acquiescence and Eleanor left the room. As the door closed behind her and Eleanor’s footsteps withdrew along the bare boards of the hallway, Rose let out a long-suppressed laugh. Harriet made to shush her.

“Oh Harry, however do you put up with such a spoiled brat?” Rose protested.

“By the simple fact that I try to look for the best in everyone,” Harriet replied.

She and Rose looked at each other for a moment, then Harriet laughed. “Everyone, even spoiled brats. No, no, I will not be drawn into laughing at my family behind their backs. Eleanor may be a little childish still, but that is because she is young. Do you remember being eighteen, Rose?”

“I do. Heaven forgive me if I was ever such a little…decorum prevents me from finishing that sentence. More importantly, since when did Harriet Worthingham care about a ball? I expected that you would end up married to a writer or a penniless artist. Are you seeking the approval of the county set?”

Her tone was light but her eyes were sharp. Harriet considered her response. The financial situation of her family was not her secret to tell. Simon was struggling to keep the household afloat and it was visibly aging him on an almost daily basis.

“On the subject of maturity. Perhaps I have finally grown up? One cannot spend all of one’s life, say, dreaming of adventure. The world is a difficult place for women with no resources behind them…and no husband.”

Forgive me, dear Rose for the lies I must tell. If Simon gives his consent I will tell you all, I swear it.

“Hmmm, a sentiment that just seems out of character but the proof is before me, I suppose. You really are going to attend?”

Harriet nodded with what she hoped was eagerness. “Yes, I really am. I intend to dance with some handsome gentlemen and perhaps, find one with whom I could be happy. Or not, as the case may be. But, I must do my duty.”

Rose frowned. “Duty? I have never heard you call love a duty. And we did always swear that we would only marry for love.”

So naive we were as schoolgirls, Rose. And so different. You with your family wealth behind you and all the freedom that brings.

“We did. But my circumstances demand that I look to the future and that of my family.”

Rose’s eyes widened. “Circumstances? By heaven, is Simon in trouble? Do you need help? You know that papa would…”

Harriet held up a hand, forcing a smile. “No, Rosie. You misunderstand. I merely speak of the duty of a daughter to her family name.”

Rose did not seem convinced. “Because you know that you need only ask…”

As if I could ever bring myself to do that. It is worse knowing that you and your dear father would go out of your way to help. No, Rosie, this is for the Worthinghams alone.

“Thank you, Rosie,” Harriet said. “As usual, you are the best friend anyone could ask for. Now, Eleanor and all the talk of dances have occupied us for long enough. I don’t wish to spend any more time in such talk. Not when we have so much else to talk about,” Harriet said.

They passed the rest of the morning in reminiscence, about adventures and misadventures at school and since. By lunchtime, Rose went to her room to wash and Harriet took the opportunity to seek out Simon. She found him where she had left him. He looked as though he was drowning in the sea of ledgers and paper that had flooded his table in the library. As she entered the room, he looked up sharply.

“Your friend, Miss Mantell is not with you?”

“No, Simon. She is washing for lunch. We are alone.” Harriet closed the library doors and turned the key in the lock. Then she crossed the room to take a seat across from Simon.

“Will you tell me what has you so worried? I know that money is short but you just seem to be more and more worried with each passing day. Is it really so bad?” she asked.

Simon looked at her for a moment as though considering lying. Then he seemed to visibly deflate. He sagged in his chair and covered his face with a hand. Harriet felt a surge of sympathy for him. Since he was a child, Simon had been a sensitive boy, most upset when he felt he was not living up to the expectations of his demanding father. His side of the family was distant from her own but Harriet had spent some childhood summers with her parents at the Norwenshire home, not far from Birmingham, in which Simon had grown up with Eleanor.

“The truth is, Harriet. We are…to use a vulgar phrase…broke,” Simon said miserably. “I did not inherit as great a fortune as you may have expected from your father. It was greatly diminished by the time he died. I do not know if it was mismanagement or if someone within the estate was stealing. But…the truth is, we are perilously close to complete bankruptcy.”

Chapter Three

March 1814 

Franklin House

Soft skin and gentle, sensuous curves. Edward’s first sensation upon waking was the feel of the luscious body that was pressed against him. Eyes still closed, he moved his hand from where it rested on a firm thigh, up over the glorious rounding of the hips. Fingers splayed across her stomach and rested there for a moment. The response was a murmur, delicious in its femininity and vulnerability. Then, the sinuous body squirmed against him. His hands found her round, pert bosom and gently squeezed.

“Good morning, your grace,” she said in a sleepy cultured voice.

“Good morning, Alexandria. Thank you for another fascinating discussion last night. What was it we talked about?”

Alexandria chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh. “Economics, I believe.”

“Ah yes. I love a good…economic discussion.”

“Certainly more invigorating than anything you would get at your club.”

“Do you think so? There are a few members who…went to Cambridge.”

“But not you?”

“I sailed through Oxford. And I’m proud to say it barely touched me,” Edward whispered.

Alexandria’s hand closed around him, squeezing firmly, but Edward was already moving away. She made a disappointed noise, kicking the bedclothes away from her and lying on her back, arms spread and legs crossed coquettishly.

“It is morning, dear Alex. And there is business to be about. I cannot dally all day in bed with you.”

“You’ve changed, darling. There was a time you wouldn’t get up before dusk, and then spend all night at the club and then in my bed.”

“Your bed?” Edward said with a wink.

He walked across the room to the huge, antique wardrobe, pulling open the doors and selecting a shirt and breeches.

“Most of the time,” Alexandria replied, “I’ve missed you. My husband is an old man. All he cares about is his precious porcelain collection.”

Edward scrubbed a hand through his unruly dark hair. His stomach was flat and muscled, chest and arms well defined. Like many sons of the gentry, he had taken an officer’s commission in the army. Like most who did, he’d expected to spend his time at Horseguards, looking pretty in his uniform. The fine white scars that crisscrossed his abdomen stood testament along with his honed body to the fact that he had done far more than attended with the Prince Regent at court, or pushed papers for the Department of War.

After collecting an assortment of garments and casting them onto the bed, he began to dress.

“You really are an inconvenience in the mornings, Alex,” he said, “if you weren’t here, I would summon Rafeson to dress me. A gentleman really mustn’t bother with all this nonsense.”

He gestured at the cravat, tie pin, underclothes, breeches, shirt, coat, and other accouterments of the gentleman’s wardrobe.

Alexandria, wife of the Duke of Richmond and, therefore, one of the elite of London society, sat up. She propped herself with her hands behind her, letting her breasts be exposed to him without shame. The sheet fell away from her stomach to reveal just a hint of her womanhood. Edward’s eyes lingered there for a moment and she gave a wicked smile.

“Are you sure, Edward?”

Dark eyes locked with hers. “Yes. Quite sure. You of all people know how much work goes into arranging a ball. Especially one of this scale. Half the country is invited.”

“Yes, I’m quite looking forward to it. Am I to assume that this ball to which you have attached so much significance will presage the end of our…fun?”

Edward arched an eyebrow. Then, without warning, he leaped onto the bed, kissed Alexandria, and pressed her onto her back. One hand circled her buttocks while another squeezed one of her breasts. She had time for a startled gasp before she succumbed to his passionate kisses. Presently, he lifted his head.

“Never,” he whispered.

“But, rake that you are, you care too much about your name to disgrace any prospective wife by being openly adulterous,” Alexandria said, winding her fingers through his shaggy dark hair.

“True. But I must see Rebecca safely married off before I can think of myself. That is the ulterior motive you’re looking for behind this soiree.”

He kissed her again, forgetting his own decision not to dally beneath the sheets after sunrise. Their bodies entwined and kissing became more heated, hands more insistent as touching and caressing became grabbing. When Alexandria began to undo the dressing Edward had already achieved, he pulled away. Alexandria screeched like a scalded cat and threw a pillow at him. Edward laughed.

Alexandria looked at him for a long moment, her frustrated desire putting anger in her eyes. But, Edward’s easy, boyish grin was infectious. She chuckled, flinging the sheets away from her and standing, looking around the clothes Edward had ripped from her the previous night.

“My dress better be intact. You were most insistent in your disrobing of me.”

Edward laughed again, putting on a silk brocade vest of black and purple, over tan breeches.

“So, do you have a prospective suitor in mind for your sister?” Alexandria asked.

“Yes, a very worthy fellow. I came across him in the army. Stout fellow, very solid. Perhaps you know him? Grantley is the name. Philip. He will be Duke of Stamford.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him. You couldn’t find someone a little less stone-faced?”

“He’s not a rake like me. Almost puritan in his values, in fact. Just the kind of serious-minded man that will ensure Rebecca is taken care of. She does not need a clown for a husband.”

“And you would be content with Rebecca spending the rest of her days in the distant north. Where is Stamford? Scotland?”

“Hardly. Yorkshire. Twenty miles from York. Not exactly the ends of the earth.”

“It would be for me. Poor Rebecca. Have they met?”

Edward was dressed. He strode to the curtains and yanked them wide. Pale daylight flooded the room. Beyond lay the streets of Chelsea. Franklin Place was quiet at this time of the morning. Somewhere behind the rows of townhouses, a milk delivery cart clattered, kept out of sight of the gentry to make its delivery to the servant’s entrance. The houses were tall and immaculately dressed. The city beyond was misty, the highest buildings poking through in murky silhouette.

“No,” he said distractedly, “they will meet at the ball.”

“Then I at least hope, for Rebecca’s sake, that you will have told her of your plans before she meets him.”

Edward turned back from the window. London was a distraction he could do without. Once it had been his playground, but that was a long time ago. As he often did when considering his youth, he uttered a silent prayer within his head to the spirit of his father.

Forgive me papa for my callow youth. I did not know. But I will make you proud.

“Of course I will tell her. It is important that she makes a good impression. Grantley will have his pick of prospective wives. She must stand out from the lot.”

“And if she rebels? Rebecca always struck me as the romantic sort. Something like you, when you were her age.”

Again the boyish grin from Edward, his typical defense mechanism.

“Was I ever romantic?”

“The very soul of romance.” Alexandria laughed, stepping into her dress having already put on petticoat and underskirt.

“Well, she will understand her duty as a Bolton. And she will see that duty done,” Edward said with finality.

“And if she does not see it so?” Alexandria persisted.

Edward was shrugging on a coat of deep blue, studying himself in the mirror. He stopped, looking at Alexandria’s reflection.

“You continue to ask. Do you think she will resist my choice for her?”

He did not believe that Rebecca would be so irresponsible. But then, once upon a time, so had he.

“She may. You are not her father.”

“I am Duke and therefore father to her in all but name. She is my responsibility. And this is in her own best interest. A match with the Duke of Stamford will bring her prestige and a comfortable income for life. What more could she want?”

Alexandria’s pouting lips twitched into a mocking smile.

“Love, my dear Teddy.”

“Love?” Edward scoffed. “Love is for poets and fools. It is not practical. When I marry, it will be for the betterment of my family and my name. That is all.”