Chapter One

1809

Seth stared down at the burning staircase. He knew that he didn’t have long. Flames licked the wood and wreathed the banisters. It seemed impossible, but the longer he waited, the worse it would become. The girl was wrapped in his coat, held against his chest with her legs wrapped around his waist. He held her with both arms and whispered to her as she cried for her father. Coughing from the acrid smoke, he took his first step. The riser creaked but held. Second step. Held. Third step. The wood cracked beneath his heel and only lightning reactions saved him from falling backwards. Had he done so, he had no doubt the entire staircase would have collapsed under his weight and both he and the child he was trying to save would have been lost. Seth charged, flinging aside caution, courage flaring brighter than the flames that reached over him and across the ceiling. His charge was accompanied by a deafening crash as the tortured, scorched wood reached the limits of its strength. He kept his eyes on the dark opening in the flames at the foot of the stairs.

Down there was a flagstone floor and the door that led out into the blessedly cool night air. He almost reached it. At the third step from the bottom, the wood gave way beneath his foot, snaring it. He toppled forward, and seizing the child about the waist, he hurled her away from him as he fell. If he became trapped in the burning staircase, at least she would have a chance. His hands broke his fall, smacking against solid stone. The girl tumbled ahead of him, looking back with wide, terrified eyes. She froze and he realized she was too terrified to save herself, even with salvation just a few feet away.

“Go! Run!” he tried to shout, but all that came out was a croak, followed by a choking, wracking cough as smoke invaded his lungs.

She did not move. Seth pushed himself up, feeling the flames at work on his legs where they lay against the burning stairs. He swatted at them as he tried to get to his feet.

“Isadora!” came a man’s voice from outside.

“Papa!” the girl screamed, turning towards the door.

Seth looked up to see a stocky man with a shock of fair hair that matched the girl’s, hurtling in through the open door of the house. He caught a glimpse of someone outside hurling a bucket of water towards the house. The villagers of Twyford had rallied to put out the fire that was consuming the Lodge. The fair-haired man scooped up his daughter and ran from the place. At that moment, something unbearably heavy landed on Seth’s back. The breath rushed from his body and he was flattened to the ground. The stone floor had been heated by the fire and it seared the palms of his hands. Seth lifted them away but could not lift his head enough to remove his right temple and cheek from the searing touch of the stone. The smell of burning flesh filled his nose, terrified in the knowledge that it was his own. Looking up, he saw the doorway ringed in flames and the man outside, holding his daughter. He was looking back, meeting Seth’s eyes but not venturing into the house a second time.

“Help me!” Seth screamed until the smoke choked him.

The doorway disappeared as, with a crash of timber, a section of roof fell in. Even if he were able to lift the beam that pinned him, there was no way out of the burning house.

***

Seth screamed. He clawed his way awake, kicking at the bedclothes. Then the freezing air of the room hit him, his breath fogging in front of his face. Not the searing heat of a burning house. He stared blindly into the dark, the dream still alive inside his head. Ten years on and it felt as real as though it had only just happened. Moonlight spilled into his bedchamber through the open curtains. Frost was gathering at the corners of the window panes. He took deep lungfuls of air, feeling the sweat cooling on his naked body. He always slept naked, liking the feel of cool sheets against the scarring that banded his back. Now the chill air of the unheated room served to dampen the flames of the nightmare. Seth ran a shaking hand through his auburn hair, now dark with sweat. The nightmare was not a fabrication. Not a concoction of his mind distilled from childhood fears. It was a memory. The memory of an act of bravery by a fifteen-year-old who was heir to a Dukedom. An act that had gone unrecognized when he had been left to die by the father of the girl he saved.

Seth swung his legs from the bed, casting aside the bedclothes. He stood and walked to the wardrobe, taking out a shirt and a pair of breeches. The cold did not bother him. He welcomed it. No fire was ever lit in the castle, not in any room that he occupied. There were no carpets, only cold, hard stone. No wall hangings to soften the stark lines of the walls either. Centuries-old tapestries had been stripped when he inherited Bellmore Castle. Anything that would provide fuel to a fire. The clock on the mantle chimed two. No more sleep would come to him that night. Not after a visitation of his recurring nightmare.

Before leaving his bedchamber, he picked up the leather mask that covered the right side of his face, securing it in place with ties that went around his head. It was plain, black leather, covering his face from forehead to jawline. Then he walked through the interconnected rooms that made up his personal quarters in the castle, occupying the entirety of the top floor of the north wing. No lamps were needed to find his way through the maze of rooms and passages to the library. There, and only there, would he light an encased lamp, in order to provide the light to read by. The remainder of the evening would be spent in this way, his mind occupied by the words of his favorite authors, distracted and soothed.

As he neared the library, he heard a noise. It was furtive and small. The kind of noise made by someone or something that did not wish to be observed. A mouse or rat, he thought. Or one of the many ghosts that haunted Bellmore Castle, according to folklore. It wouldn’t have been the first time that he had witnessed unexplained occurrences in the castle. Then he saw the light from under the library door. It shone briefly, as though someone had approached the door carrying a lantern. Then it faded. Seth felt anger rise within him. The servants were permitted the use of lanterns to perform their duties at night but none should have been abroad at this hour. He strode to the doors of the library and flung them wide. The Black Library of Bellmore was notorious for its collection of volumes on the subject of the occult and supernatural. His grandfather had been an avid collector. It had fed into the legends of the Bellmore Curse, leading local people to believe that the Ashbourne’s of Bellmore were devil worshippers.

It formed a dome at the center of the castle, a piece of classical architecture reminiscent of Rome or Greece in the middle of a sprawling medieval castle. A window at the apex of that dome allowed cold moonlight to spill to the stone floor. A figure was crossing that circle of white light as Seth entered the room. It was cloaked and hooded. In one hand, it held a lantern high. In the other, it held something in a bundle. It whirled as Seth entered, face shadowed by the hood. Seth grinned, baring teeth, as he marched towards it. He was unarmed but blessed with height and breadth of shoulder. He had compensated for the years spent convalescing from his burns by ensuring his body was as strong as it could be.

“I commend you on your courage. Few will risk the curse of Bellmore to venture anywhere near the castle, let alone enter it. To do so for the purpose of stealing is quite the feat of courage,” Seth muttered.

The figure tensed as though to take flight.

“Do not bother running. I am not alone, you see,” Seth added.

He whistled, long and high. For a moment, only silence answered him. Then came the sound of paws against stone and two large hounds appeared in the doorway behind Seth. Their shoulders were level with his waist and, at the sight of the stranger, their hackles rose. Heads lowered and ears flattened. Twin growls rumbled from the animals as they took up positions on either side of their master.

“Would you match your speed against theirs?” Seth asked.

“I would not.”

It was a man’s voice coming from the hood. His shoulders slumped and he reached up to push back the hood. Seth frowned, looking upon a ruddy, square face with unruly fair hair, almost pure white in the moonlight. There was something familiar about that face. A moment later, it came to him. He pointed at the man.

“Take him!” he snarled.

The two hounds leaped to obey. They were at a dead run in two strides, teeth bared.

“Mercy! For my daughter’s sake! You saved her once!” the man yelled, holding up his hands, dropping the bundle he carried.

“Hold!” Seth barked.

As if his voice were a leash about their necks, the two dogs skidded to a halt. They were mere feet away from the burglar and regarded him with unblinking eyes and lips peeled back from teeth. As far as they were concerned, the hunt had merely been postponed.

“I recognize you. You left me to die once upon a time. After I risked my life to save your child,” Seth snarled.

“I… I am sorry. I was a coward. Her mother died in childbirth. I am all she has in the world. I couldn’t bring myself to risk my life to save you.”

“And by your cowardice, you set the course of my life for me. The life of a hermit, excluded by society, feared. Regarded as a monster.” Seth spat.

He reached up to untie the leather cords securing the mask in place. He stepped forward into the moonlight as he took the mask away. The man recoiled at the sight of his face.

“Not a reaction I relish every time I enter a room,” Seth murmured, “and you have the audacity to claim the title of gentleman. A Baron, no less.”

“I do, and I bear the shame of my actions, but I do not regret them. My courage would have been a far greater sin than cowardice had it resulted in my death. My Isadora would have been orphaned.”

Seth felt his anger within him, as ferocious as the flames that had tried to consume him. He found himself clenching his fists, wanting to strike the man who had left him to die and now returned to steal. He crouched and picked up the cloth-wrapped bundle. It was a book, ancient and priceless. A bible with illuminated parchment pages that had been handed down through generations of the Ashbourne family.

“Rescued from the fall of Jerusalem by Geoffrey Ashbourne, an ancestor of mine and a Captain of the Knights Templar,” Seth said, “said to have been blessed by the first pope. Priceless.”

“They say you are a heathen. A barbarian. Something so precious should be protected by the church!”

Seth threw back his head and laughed. “Heathen? Aye, I am no lover of the Church and no friend of God. He has been no friend to me. But do not pretend that this is a crusade for you, George Fairfax. You are a burglar, not a Templar.”

Fairfax looked away and Seth grinned wolfishly.

“I was desperate. Everyone knows of the Templar Bible and its worth. I was offered a king’s ransom by… by someone for it.”

“Desperate? Do the estates of Henlade not provide for you and your daughter, Baron?” Seth asked.

“We are reduced to a cottage in the village, rented from a local farmer. We do not even have the means of rebuilding the last of my family’s estate, the Twyford Lodge that burned down…”

Seth held up a hand. “Yes, I remember that night well, though it was a decade ago.”

Fairfax drew himself up proudly. “I do what I do for my daughter. I will face my punishment as a man. As a Fairfax. We have fallen upon challenging times, but my family has as proud a heritage as yours.”

“Punishment? For stealing from a Duke? You would be transported and your daughter with you. Or else she would end up a ward of the shire, in a workhouse.”

He saw the tremor in Fairfax’s lips. The glimmer of a tear in his eye. Seth knew that this had been a last, desperate roll of the dice. He knew about desperation. It had been the desperation of a dying man that had given him the strength to lift the beam and crawl from the burning house. No matter his fearsome appearance and reputation, Seth found that he could not bring himself to raise the hue and cry. To see Fairfax clapped in irons and his daughter effectively orphaned. She would be the same age now as he had been when he had saved her life.

“I will decide your punishment. Not the magistrate. You are on my land and I claim the right to justice,” Seth said, “ten years ago, I paid dearly for the life of your daughter. I claim it now. When she has reached her majority and been introduced to society, I will claim her as my wife.”

Chapter Two

4 years later

Isadora wanted to skip to her aunt’s carriage. Her feet felt lighter than air, despite an evening in which she had partaken of every dance. She walked towards the carriage, arm in arm with Cousin Charlotte. They laughed and giggled as they left the residence of Sir Obadiah Keats, their host for the evening. Agnes Strickland walked ahead of them, mother to Charlotte and aunt to Isadora. She walked with dignity on the arm of Elliot Keats, son, and heir to Sir Obadiah, the textile magnate whose wealth from industry had purchased for him a place among the elite of Hampshire society.

“Such fun, Lottie! I do declare. And Stonymeadow Hall is a delightful residence.”

“Keats Hall, Izzie,” Charlotte corrected.

“Ah, yes, I was forgetting. I hope that Master Elliot did not overhear,” she whispered.

Isadora looked at her cousin who was blushing too. They were a contrasting pair, though as close as sisters. Isadora was tall and willowy, with golden hair and blue eyes. Charlotte was shorter and with dark hair and brown eyes. Isadora had the button nose and smattering of freckles that she had inherited from her mother, while Charlotte’s nose was pointed as were the noses of her father and brother. Ahead of them, Elliot Keats was in deep conversation with Lady Agnes. Charlotte was watching him as he walked, her blush deepening.

“He is very handsome, isn’t he?” Charlotte asked.

“Very. A trifle too lean for my taste,” Isadora said.

“You are awful, Izzie. Fancy saying something like that. As though we were cattle farmers at market,” Charlotte protested.

But she laughed. Isadora had always been able to make her cousin laugh and delighted in doing it. Her introduction to Charlotte had not been in the most ideal of circumstances. The sudden death of her father had taken away the core of her very being. In a life of change and turmoil, he had been her one constant. To then discover that the remainder of his estate was eaten up by death taxes, leaving her destitute, was another blow. But Aunt Agnes had insisted. There was plenty of room in the house of her son, the Earl of Swingfield, with herself and her daughter, Charlotte.

“That is what women and men become when the subject of choosing a mate arises,” Isadora continued, “Father and I used to attend the village dances when we lived in Twyford, near Winchester. I can remember seeing the village men and village women of marriageable age eyeing each other up from across the room. If you want to get to the heart of what makes us tick as human beings, go to a village dance.”

Charlotte laughed, her own upbringing as the daughter of an earl being considerably more sheltered than Isadora’s, as the daughter of a bankrupt baron.

“I noticed that you danced with Master Elliot more than you danced with any other man,” Isadora ventured.

“He is a magnificent dancer and an intelligent, humorous conversationalist,” Charlotte replied, “I am almost jealous that it is Mama who is being escorted to the carriage by him.”

“Aunt Agnes will be singing your praises, have no fear,” Isadora said, “and if she is not, then I certainly will.”

Charlotte hugged her cousin’s arm. “You are far braver than I, Izzie. You would just march up to him and ask him what he thinks of me, wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” Isadora replied, and meant it, “growing up among the children of farmers, I learned to speak up or be ignored. I was never very good at being ignored.”

They walked through the ornamental gardens at the south side of Keats Manor, following a gravel path that led to a towering fountain. Torches had been placed along the path with flames that burned with assorted colors. Charlotte was amazed by the effect and Isadora explained how it was achieved by burning powders made of varied materials.

“How clever you are Izzie,” Charlotte enthused, “it must be all that time you spend in my brother’s library.”

“Papa could not afford a governess for me when I was a child. I learned my letters with the village children of Twyford, at Sunday school. I think it has left me with something of a passion for learning and reading,” Isadora replied.

“You would have been welcome to my governess,” Charlotte complained, “she was responsible for giving me a lifelong distaste for learning and reading.”

“But you do enjoy the plays and poetry I read to you.”

“Oh yes, but that is because you are a fine narrator. You make the words come alive. Were I to read those books for myself, I would promptly fall asleep,” Charlotte giggled.

She looked at her cousin for a moment, then asked. “You danced with a fair few handsome young gentlemen yourself, Izzie. Was there anyone in particular?”

Isadora glanced around. Other couples walked behind them, filing casually from the palatial house towards the fountain and the circular driveway where carriages and drivers awaited their masters. None were close enough to overhear and were engrossed in their own conversations besides. The question touched on a delicate matter, one that Isadora would rather have kept secret, as indeed she had for the past year since the death of her father. But she could keep no secrets from Charlotte, her cousin in fact and sister in spirit. The fact that she had not discussed this with Charlotte before now was a source of guilt for her. But, she would not lie or evade a direct question.

“There were one or two who were handsome and charming,” she began.

Charlotte’s eyes lit up and she clutched at Isadora’s arm. “Oh, wonderful. Do tell me who!”

“I will not because nothing can come of it,” Isadora said firmly.

“Is it because you do not have a dowry? Because you must know that Henry regards you as a sister, and Mama, as a daughter. They will provide you with a dowry. You will not have to ask, they will not take no for an answer, and for that matter…”

Isadora smiled fondly and pressed a finger to her cousin’s lips. She was a dear girl and positively bubbling with enthusiasm, especially on the subject of love and marriage. But, she was getting ahead of herself.

“There can be no possibility of marriage, for that matter has already been decided.”

Charlotte’s look of surprise was almost comical. Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open until she remembered herself and snapped it shut.

“I have not seen you being courted by anyone and there have been no gentlemen callers,” she whispered.

“This was arranged by my father before he died. I was not consulted,” Isadora said.

She could not keep the chagrin from her voice. She had always thought to marry for love. There had been many evenings between herself and Charlotte, spent in idle fantasy, wondering who they would marry and what he would be like. To discover that a binding agreement had been entered into without her knowledge, the matter decided for her, had been a shock.

“Father left me a letter to read after his death in which he explained that he had promised my hand to a man in marriage. That the match would bring me title and wealth, a comfortable life.”

“Who? Who? Who?” Charlotte said, sounding like an owl.

“That is the problem,” Isadora replied, “I do not know who. Papa did not specify. Only that I would be sent for when my future husband decides the time is right. As though I were a chattel, no more than property, like a piece of furniture.”

Isadora’s temper rose as she spoke, her voice rising with it. Aunt Agnes glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dancing over the two younger women as though to check all was well. Isadora swallowed the flare of anger and smiled reassuringly. It hurt to keep this from Agnes and Charlotte, Henry too, but she did not want them to think badly of her father. He had made mistakes in his life and had confessed them all to her. She knew that he had resorted to stealing in order to feed and clothe her and she forgave him. He had taken work that should have been beneath a member of the titled aristocracy, burning with shame, but he had done it. Isadora did not need to forgive that. There was no sin in working to provide for one’s child. She herself had secretly taken on work, assisting at the Twyford Sunday school in exchange for a few pennies. But, she would not shame his memory.

“So, you have no idea who you are to marry?” Charlotte sounded horrified.

“None,” Isadora said stoically, “but I trust papa’s judgment. He would not promise me to a man who was not worthy.”

In truth, she felt a good deal less stoic than she sounded. Her father would regard a good match as being a man with the means to provide for her and the appropriate social station. But he could be a cruel man or a foolish man. Isadora felt a good deal of trepidation, her heart racing every time a letter was delivered to her or there was a knock at the door. She did not know how long she could go on living in a state of nervous anticipation.

“Uncle George would certainly not do that,” Charlotte agreed, “but his idea of suitability and yours might be very different. I mean, the Beast of Bellmore is a Duke and presumably wealthy. But, he would not be in any way a suitable husband.”

Isadora shuddered at the thought. “Father would not promise me to a man like him. Besides, he is a recluse, up there in his cursed castle. When would my father have ever had the opportunity to discuss it with him.”

“Never,” Charlotte said firmly, “but it could be someone equally as cruel and…and…well, beastly.”

They had reached the fountain and joined Lady Agnes and Master Elliot Keats waiting for the carriage from Swingfield Manor to be drawn up. A warning look from Isadora told her cousin to change the subject. She would broach it with Aunt Agnes in due course. This was not the time. As they embarked onto the carriage and it was driven away, Isadora allowed herself to be swept along by the conversation between Aunt Agnes and Charlotte, singing the praises of Keats Hall and the ball that had been arranged by Sir Obadiah. Keats Hall lay south-west of Winchester, an hours ride from the village of Twyford where Isadora had grown up. Their road home to Swingfield Manor took them south towards the town of Romsey, climbing hills before descending into the valley of the River Test. As they rode, Aunt Agnes seemed to notice that Isadora was not contributing actively to the conversation.

“Is there something wrong, Isadora?” she asked in a kind tone.

Isadora found herself woken from a reverie in which she had been contemplating the arranged marriage her father had made for her. She saw the concern on her aunt’s face, the creases at her eyes and the tightening of her lips. Agnes Strickland, Dowager Countess of Swingfield, had always treated Isadora as her second daughter. She was a woman of genuine kindness and infinite compassion. Isadora would not worry her for the world. She smiled brightly.

“Nothing at all, Aunt Agnes. I think the evening is catching up with me, that’s all. I think I could fall asleep here in the carriage.”

“You girls did too much dancing and not enough eating. There was a suitable amount of food and drink provided by Sir Obadiah, copious amounts in fact. I’m sure most of it will go to waste but that is the kind of man he is. He likes to show off his wealth.”

There was a note of disapproval in Agnes’ voice. Isadora nodded and allowed the conversation to move on again, sitting back in a corner of the carriage and letting her thoughts wander. When would she meet the man to whom she had been promised? And who was he?

Chapter Three

Isadora tried to forget the issue the next day. It dawned bright and warm. She breakfasted with her family and she, Charlotte, and Henry, shared anecdotes about the Keat’s ball.

“It was acceptable,” said Henry, Earl of Swingfield, munching on a piece of toast, “the musicians were above average but the food left a lot to be desired.”

“I thought the food was wonderful,” said Charlotte, spreading jam with gusto, “and so much of it!”

“A sure sign of a man of low birth. Sir Obadiah flaunts his wealth,” Agnes commented, sipping tea delicately.

Henry grunted and Charlotte looked heavenward as though pondering her mother’s opinion. At that moment, there came a knock at the door of the breakfast room. Swingfield Manor’s butler, Mr. Wainwright, came in at his master’s call, bearing a silver tray. Atop it were a number of envelopes and a card. Mr. Wainwright was slope-shouldered and tall, appearing to walk with a stoop even though he always had his back straight. His hair was dark and held in rigid waves back from his temple. His eyebrows were thunderous and his demeanor endlessly serious.

“A gentleman awaits your lordship’s pleasure in the drawing room,” he intoned gravely.

Henry picked up the card which lay atop the pile of envelopes.

“Mr. Cornelius Shadrack, Solicitor-at-Law, Gray’s Inn, London,” he read, “I don’t know the gentleman. Do you, mama?”

Agnes shook her head, reaching for the card which Henry gave to her.

“It means nothing to me, I’m afraid. My personal affairs are managed by Mr. Shelby who looks after the estate. Have you recently engaged another solicitor, Henry?”

“I have not. Perhaps this fellow is touting for business. If he is, he will get short shrift,” Henry said with a grunt. “Imagine turning up at this hour. Most unprofessional. Well, he can wait.”

Charlotte and Isadora exchanged glances, the mystery mildly exciting. Isadora’s own affairs were taken care of by Mr. Brendan Shelby, the solicitor for the Strickland family and the Swingfield estate. Neither she nor Charlotte had much cause to be involved with legal matters, that was left to cousin Henry and Aunt Agnes. Charlotte soon broached the subject of Mr. Elliot Keats, a favorite topic for her. She and Charlotte spent the remainder of breakfast discussing his virtues, with contributions from Aunt Agnes. Henry was reading his correspondence while Mr. Wainwright poured him tea. He occasionally leavened the praise with characteristically pessimistic comments on the vices of the Keats family. He did this without looking up from his letters or stopping to notice if his comments were received.

An hour passed before he sighed loudly, putting aside his correspondence and rising. He threw down his napkin.

“I suppose this fellow from London must be seen as he has taken the trouble to come all this way,” he finally declared.

With that, Henry left the room. The women also rose, breakfast over.

“Will we take advantage of this glorious day to take the trap out?” she said.

“Oh yes!” Isadora replied, “the wind in our air and the sun on our faces will be simply wonderful on a day like this. I think I will take us up the valley towards Timsbury. We can stop for elevenses at that lovely little tea shop there.”

“And I can pop into Mrs. Gulliver’s dress shop. Last time we were there, she mentioned that she was getting a new consignment of material in that lovely shade of blue that I like from the Keats Mills. It should have arrived by now and I would dearly love to see what wonders she has performed with it.”

Worries about arranged marriages could not have been further from Isadora’s mind at that moment. The day was glorious and she loved nothing more than driving the trap around the countryside with Charlotte. She took it out most days except when the weather forbade it. Even then, she would drive it in the rain if not the fact that Charlotte and Aunt Agnes would worry for her. She did not mind taking excursions on her own. All she needed was the countryside and a good road. Swingfield’s stables were excellent and she knew all of Henry’s horses, even helped the stable hands to care for them in order to build a bond with the animals. They left the breakfast room arm in arm and planning their morning’s adventure, when Henry appeared from the drawing room.

“Isadora, might I have a word,” he said in a more than usually somber tone.

Isadora frowned and stopped. He looked to Charlotte and then to Aunt Agnes who had followed the two young women out of the breakfast room.

“I’m afraid I must disrupt your plans, cousin. Mr. Shadrack has brought most disturbing news. Would you come with me, please?”

“What on earth is going on, Henry?” Agnes asked.

Isadora felt a chill run down her spine and her mind leaped to the arranged marriage. Was she finally to be deprived of her freedom? But then, why should she obey an arrangement that was made without her consent and whose chief architect was now deceased?

“Mr. Shadrack has come here to talk to Cousin Isadora, mother. It is a private matter,” Henry said.

“Nonsense. If this man has official business with Isadora, then it is entirely proper that she should be represented by her family. You and I will be present, of course.”

“And I,” Charlotte said stoutly.

“No, dear. I must insist that you retire to your room for the time being,” Agnes said, “come Henry, Isadora, let us see what this man wants.”

Isadora followed her aunt, glad for her seizing control of the situation. It gave her some comfort to know that Agnes would always protect her, Henry too in his own gruff way. She had always been able to rely on her father for that protection, until his ill health had deprived her of him. While she considered herself to be independent and capable, sometimes it was nice to be able to lean on her family.

Agnes strode along the hallway towards the drawing room. Before she reached it though, it opened. A tall man with long, straight white hair stepped out. He wore black and carried a cane that he stabbed at the ground in front of him. He wore spectacles, but they seemed to be completely black, hiding his eyes. As he strode towards them, Isadora realized that the man was blind. With unerring accuracy, the blind man strode forward and came to a halt directly in front of them, head turning from left to right as though surveying the three people before him.

“My Lady Swingfield and Miss Fairfax. I am Cornelius Shadrack.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shadrack,” Agnes replied with a hint of frost in her voice, “may I ask what business you have with my niece?”

“That is a private matter, your ladyship. Miss Fairfax would not wish it discussed too openly.” Shadrack spoke in a clipped tone and his head whipped towards Agnes as he spoke.

“I find that a quite bizarre statement to make as you are standing in my home and making demands on my niece’s time. You will state your business, sir, or leave,” Agnes said, the frost now coating every word.

“My business is to give notice to Miss Fairfax that the man to whom she has been promised in marriage wishes for the commitment to now be fulfilled. The ceremony is to take place next week.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Isadora felt an icy fist gripping her insides. Agnes openly gaped and Henry grunted.

“Perhaps we should all go into the drawing room…” he began.

“Why on earth should she? When was this commitment entered into and with whose consent?” Agnes demanded, ignoring her son.

“Arranged by the late Lord Henlade, her father.” Shadrack replied abruptly, “and in answer to your first question, she is entirely free to break the covenant entered into by her father. But if she does, there will be consequences.”

“I do not believe I am hearing this!” Agnes said.

“Aunt Agnes, it is quite alright. I think I should speak to Mr. Shadrack about this,” Isadora finally spoke.

Agnes looked at her, opening her mouth to speak. But Isadora remembered the letter, and her father’s confession to her on his deathbed. She remembered the act he had confessed to, the act which had led to him being forced to give away his only daughter. It was a secret that her father had been so desperate in his need to provide for her that he had resorted to an attempt to steal in order to do just that. George Fairfax was regarded as a man of honor and integrity by all who knew him. Isadora would protect that memory with everything she had.

“You do not need to, Isadora,” Henry said, glowering at Shadrack.

“I know, Henry. And thank you both, but I must address this matter myself,” Isadora said, swallowing against the fear that gripped her.

Shadrack had already turned smartly on his heel and stalked back towards the drawing room, cane stabbing at the carpeted floor as he went. Isadora took a breath and followed him. To her relief, Agnes and Henry did not follow, though she could hear them whispering furiously to each other. Entering the drawing room, she closed the doors behind herself. Mr. Shadrack had found his way to a chair by the fire and sat, hands atop his cane, waiting.

“I know of the arrangement my father made and the reasons for it. I must tell you that I am loath to honor an agreement I was not consulted about.”

“Then my employer will be forced to renege on his own side of the agreement entered into,” Shadrack replied, head turning unerringly to face her.

“And what does that mean?” Isadora asked.

“That he will let it be known that Lord George Fairfax of Henlade was caught, red-handed, attempting to steal a priceless artefact from my employer’s own library. Also, that in a craven display of cowardice, he left my employer to die. And this after my employer had saved the life of Lord Henlade’s only child. Namely, yourself,” Shadrack intoned, still looking in her direction.

Unsettled by his ability to locate her so precisely, Isadora stepped to one side, sitting in an armchair. With only the small sounds of her dress brushing against the chair to go on, Shadrack’s dark spectacles found her once again. She felt pinned in place, like a butterfly under glass.

“Why would he want to expose my father? Lord Henlade is dead and is well thought of. Why would anyone want to sully his memory with such accusations?” Isadora implored, horrified at the very idea.

“Because my employer was wronged and has a strong belief in natural justice. Such justice must be served whether or not the perpetrator has left this mortal world. The sins of the father and so on.”

“Who is your employer?” Isadora asked in a small voice.

“His Grace, the Duke of Bellmore,” Shadrack replied, again in a clipped tone.

Isadora gasped. The Beast of Bellmore! The recluse who lived in a castle rumored to be haunted and even cursed. Tales were told of Bellmore in hushed whispers. A pack of savage hounds were reputed to be allowed to roam the grounds of Bellmore Castle, to savage any intruder. Tales were also told of the Duke himself. Tales of a cruel man, last in a line of cruel men, cursed by God and rejected by society.

“I do not wish to marry him,” Isadora muttered resolutely.

“Do you wish it to be known that your father was a thief? Or a coward?” Shadrack said brutally.

“No!” she replied sharply, “you will not sully his name. Nor will Bellmore. Do you understand, Mr. Shadrack!”

When faced with a threat to her dear father’s memory, Isadora found that she could be fierce. She still felt afraid but the need to protect him ruled her, gave her strength.

“I am instructed to tell you that His Grace considers this a marriage in name only. He does not wish for an heir and does not care for the Bellmore name beyond his own death. He will not require consummation of the marriage. All he asks is that you become his wife and reside at Bellmore with him.”

Isadora nodded, tears filling her eyes. Tears of grief for the happy life at Swingfield that was now coming to an end. She had thought that after the years of privation and struggle that she and her father had endured, that happier times had now been reached. But, it seemed that fate had other plans.

The sunlit days of summer were over for her. Winter was beckoning.

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