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