Regency passion that defies all rules...

 

Chapter 1

“My lady?”

Vanity Reynolds, Dowager Countess of Brixton, looked up to see her maid standing in the doorway. She looked very nervous, shuffling from foot to foot.

“What is it, Desiree?” Vanity put her sewing aside and rose to her feet. “You look pale.”

“There’s a Mr. Eric Bateman here to see you, Lady Brixton.”

Vanity froze. Oh, no. Not him. Her mouth went dry and she felt nauseous. Why couldn’t he stay away? She had done what he asked…no, demanded. He didn’t need to come back.

“Do you want me to send him away, my lady?” Desiree asked. She looked almost eager to do that. She could be formidable when she wanted to be.

But not against Eric Bateman. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

“No, don’t send him away.” Taking a deep breath, Vanity folded her hands in front of her. “Let him in.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Desiree didn’t look convinced, but she stepped aside to allow the tall man into the room. Vanity had to keep back the gasp that always lodged in her throat every time she saw him. He looked so much like his father, it was scary. What was scarier was how much he looked like her son. Like the one she didn’t ignore.

The one she raised and became a good man. Not like the man before her, standing there with a lazy smirk on his face. He looked every bit as arrogant as the man who had raised him.

Why did the stupid woman have to take him to the one person Vanity would want to keep him away from?

“Do you need me for anything, Lady Brixton?” Desiree was still hovering in the doorway. “Do you want Jonathan to stand by?”

Jonathan. One of her footmen. He was big, a former soldier, and he was young and strong. But still he was no match for Eric Bateman. Not with what Eric had. Vanity swallowed hard and shook her head.

“No, thank you, Desiree. We’ll be fine. That will be all.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Desiree curtsied, gave Eric a harsh glare, and left. Vanity wished her maid could stay. They shared everything, many secrets passing between the two of them since Desiree started working for her fifteen years ago.

But she didn’t know the biggest secret. She didn’t know about Eric. She only knew that he had a more than passing resemblance to the dowager countess’ son.

The door closed behind her maid. Eric was still watching Vanity with that lazy smirk of his that Vanity had come to hate.

“Did you send the letter yet?”

“I did. The day after you told me to. It should be at his barracks by now.”

“Will they let him come home?”

Vanity hoped so. Her relationship with Nathan wasn’t the best. They didn’t get along now. If Nathan came back, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

“It’ll take a bit of time to get the leave granted, but if they know that I’m dying and possibly on my deathbed, they’ll make sure he gets it as soon as possible.” She clenched her hand in the other, biting back the wince at the pain. “If that’s the case, he’ll be back in London in the middle of next week at the very earliest.”

“Good.” Eric prowled towards her. “See, Vanity. Everything is going to plan because you’re being a good girl and following the rules.” He stopped before her. Vanity wanted to move, but she couldn’t as he reached up and brushed his fingers across her cheek. “I know how you like to stick to the rules.”

“Don’t touch me,” Vanity hissed.

Eric chuckled. It was not a nice sound.

“Why shouldn’t I? Like you couldn’t touch me? Couldn’t look at me?” He grabbed her chin and lifted it, making her look at him. “I know you refused to hold me when you thought I was dead. Now you can’t bear to look at me.”

He had to remind her every single time he saw her. Vanity hated those moments, but she forced herself to look at him.

“I did a bad thing all those years ago. And I regret it, Eric. But you can’t expect me to turn on my motherly affection just like that.”

Eric sniggered. His eyes were so dark, so cold. Far too familiar.

“Maybe not, but you will have to soon.” He released her chin hard and stepped back. “Once the son you kept is dead and I’m in his place.”

Vanity felt a chill slide down her spine. Ever since Eric had walked back into her life three weeks ago and told her that he could make everything she held dear disappear in the blink of an eye if she didn’t do as he asked, she lived in fear. There was so much hate in him, and he was willing to do it if he didn’t get what he wanted.

It meant sacrificing Nathan to keep the secret. Nathan.

“You’re really going to kill him?” she whispered.

“Yes.” There was no hesitation, just stated as a cold hard fact. “I will kill him, because he has what should have been mine. I’m going to make sure that I get what is my birthright.”

Vanity could feel her fingers digging hard into her hand. She was sure her nails were drawing blood. But it was either that or lash out at him. Her reputation versus Nathan’s life had her at a quandary. She didn’t want him to die, but she didn’t want people to know the mistake she had made either.

“Nathan isn’t stupid, Eric.” She squared her shoulders. “He’s going to know that something’s wrong. He’ll make sure you don’t get the title.”

Eric barked out a laugh, sauntering around the room like he owned the place and touching everything like he owned it.

“You overestimate his abilities, Vanity. Just because he’s a captain in the army, the Duke of Wellington’s best soldier, doesn’t mean that he’s going to find out what’s happening. He’s not going to know, because you’re not going to tell him.”

“You think I won’t?”

He gave her a pointed look. Vanity gritted her teeth.

“I know you won’t,” Eric said softly. “Not unless you want to tell him that he shouldn’t have been the Earl in the first place.”

“Why wait until now?”

Eric’s eyes darkened. He looked dangerous. Frightening. Vanity wanted to cry. She couldn’t stand to be near him.

“I waited until now because the man I called my father was dying. He told me everything with his last breath, showed me the letters. I was denied it my whole life. Now, I want my birthright.” He chuckled. “Maybe I should have been named Esau instead of Eric. Far more appropriate.”

Vanity was shaking. She wasn’t going to hold on for much longer. She wasn’t about to lose her composure in front of this…she didn’t know how to call him.

“Please, just go. I’ve done what you asked.”

“For now.” Eric was still smirking as he headed for the door. “But once I’m the Earl of Brixton, you won’t be able to get me to leave.”

With a final wink in her direction, he left, shutting the door behind him. It was only then that Vanity collapsed, slumping to a chair before she fell to the floor. Her heart would not stop racing.

#

“Captain Reynolds, Sir!”

Nathan turned, lowering his rifle as one of the privates hurried over to the shooting range. He almost went right in front of a target, only to have one of the officers shout and wave him out of the way. Nathan shook his head. The boy was barely nineteen. He was going to get himself shot by his own people if he didn’t pay attention.

But he was more curious by the letter that Private Simmons was holding. If it was for him, it had to be important. More than likely from his mother. Nathan hadn’t heard from her in the long time. The Dowager Countess wasn’t impressed that he wouldn’t stay after his father’s funeral and had called him several names that Nathan hadn’t realized she knew.

It had been interesting, but not enough to keep him at home. He was needed here, where his men were. They needed him, and Nathan was more than happy to oblige.

Private Simmons hurried over, stopping with a wobble and saluted him. Nathan leaned his rifle against the chair he had brought out.

“What is it, Simmons?”

“A letter for you.” Simmons held it out. “Master Sergeant Wren told me to bring it straight to you, Sir.”

“Thank you.” Nathan plucked the letter from the lad’s hands. “That will be all.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Simmons saluted again and hurried off, giving the shooting range a wide berth. Young he was, but he was a fast learner. Especially with Lieutenant Reese glaring at him.

“Oh, what’s that?” One of the other officers lowered his rifle and walked over, nodding at the letter. “A letter from a lady friend?”

Nathan barked out a laugh. “When has that ever happened?”

“Well, I thought it might have been from a certain lady.” Anthony Booker waggled his eyebrows. “Like Lorraine Brooks.”

“Lorraine Brooks?” Nathan hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “Not a chance.”

Lorraine Brooks, now Lady Chapman, Viscountess Yaxley. Nathan had heard of her marriage some years ago and had felt immense relief. At least she wouldn’t be chasing him anymore. The woman had done plenty of that in their first two Seasons and she hadn’t taken the word no for an answer. Lorraine was certainly not one to follow the rules when nobody was watching.

“She has written to me before, Tony, but those disappeared within six months.”

“When you didn’t write back to her.” Sergeant Anthony Brooker laughed. “I guess she figured that you were either dead or not interested.”

“I was hoping that she would believe the former.”

Anthony had been a childhood friend, the son of a minor noble. It was why he was a sergeant and Nathan was one of the officers. But Nathan couldn’t think of a better second-in-command for him than Anthony Brooker. Irrepressible as he was, he had Nathan’s back. It had kept him safe many times over the years. If it had been anyone else, Nathan wouldn’t be discussing someone so irritating in his life, something so personal.

“She seemed very interested in you when you first met.” Anthony grinned as he started reloading his rifle, reaching for the gunpowder. “I think she found the long-haired lad very attractive.”

“Tony, stop.” Nathan shuddered, turning the letter over in his hands. “She was not the woman I wanted or expected. She didn’t get the message, even when I signed up for the army.”

That had been a day. Nathan couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than having Lorraine throw herself onto him, begging for him not to go in front of the smirking soldiers. He had taken a lot of teasing from that incident, especially when he tried to explain that Lorraine was nothing to him. They hadn’t believed that.

“Anyway, she’s married now. She wouldn’t be writing to me. Not unless she’s that brazen about writing to another man under her husband’s nose.”

“You sure about that?”

Nathan’s head snapped up. “What do you know?”

“Viscount Yaxley’s brother is in one of the other barracks. I overheard him talking about his brother’s death a few months back.” Anthony waggled his eyebrows. “She’s a widow now.”

“All the more reason I should stay here in France.” Nathan shuddered. “She’s not someone I want to be associated with.”

“She wants to be associated with you.”

“Enough, Sergeant.”

Anthony laughed. “All right, Captain, all right. You’re going to burst a blood vessel at this rate.”

“Only if you keep talking about Lorraine Brooks,” Nathan grumbled. He ran a hand over the seal keeping the envelope closed. “Besides, I recognize the seal. It’s my family seal.”

“So, it’s from your mother.”

“I would say so.”

Only Lady Vanity Reynolds, Dowager Countess of Brixton, would use the seal. It was just the two of them now. Lady Brixton’s parents were dead, as were her husband’s. She didn’t have any surviving siblings. Her husband, Nathan’s father, died the year before, and it was just Nathan left. She wanted him to be back in London, be the Earl of Brixton as he was supposed to be. Nathan didn’t want the title. The only title he wanted was Captain. It suited him. He was a far better soldier than a nobleman. His father had understood that. Vanity didn’t.

Nathan opened the letter. It was either that or stare at it. He read the first few lines and then read it again. It didn’t seem to be registering properly.

“So?” Anthony probed. “Is it from the Dowager Countess? What does Lady Vanity want now?”

Vanity. Never was a name more appropriate for a woman with so many airs and graces. Even then, this letter didn’t read like it was from his mother. It felt…emotional. Scared. Frightened. Those were not words associated with Vanity Reynolds.

“Nathan?” Now Anthony was looking at him oddly. “Are you all right? You’ve gone pale.”

“She says that she’s dying. That the doctor hasn’t given her long to live.”

Anthony blinked. “I didn’t think doctors could tell if anyone was dying until they were on their deathbed.”

“Neither did I. She does tend to exaggerate. Knowing her, it’s probably indigestion.”

“Her health hasn’t been that good in recent years.” Anthony pointed out. “Most of it is probably from worrying about you too much.”

Nathan snorted. “She doesn’t worry about anything or anyone except herself. It’s her image that’s important, nothing else.”

“You’ve got that right.” Anthony grunted. He ran his hand through his hair. “I know she’s your mother and everything, Nathan, but I’m not too impressed by Lady Brixton. She’s not a nice person.”

“You don’t need to be worried about offending me. You know me too well.” Nathan bit back a smile. “As long as you don’t say it to her face.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Nathan had several times. It wasn’t easy, but he did it. The last few times, they had argued. Vanity wanted things to be perfect. A perfect life, perfect title and a perfect family. She had only one son, and she had mothered Nathan so much that he broke. He had signed up for the army with his father’s blessing at twenty after a second Season and he hadn’t looked back. Vanity had been furious; she had wanted Nathan to marry and settle down, have children and be a perfect family. Nathan had no intention of doing that. All the young ladies his age were pretentious, fickle and pathetic. As far as his mother goes, any other noble lady would have been delighted that he was serving their country, defending them. But not Lady Vanity Reynolds. She didn’t want her only son in the firing line.

Her problem was that Nathan was very good at it and his senior commanders knew it. Nathan had even been praised and given a medal for his bravery by the Duke of Wellington himself. He had written back just that one time, to let his mother know of it. She didn’t even bother to reply. Didn’t even acknowledge it.

That hurt more than Nathan was prepared to admit.

“Did she say what she was suffering from?” Anthony asked.

“Doesn’t say.” Nathan read the rest of the letter. “She keeps it very vague. I know our family doctor is good, but even he can’t say that Mother is dying.”

“Do you think she’s sending a message or something? Like a code?”

“I have no idea. But something is certainly wrong.” Nathan lowered the letter, trying to figure it out. “I just wish I knew what she was up to.”

“Is she in trouble? Are you in danger and she’s trying to warn you?”

Nathan chuckled. “I’m on the front line and the French aren’t too far away from our position. How much more dangerous can you get?”

“Fair point.” Anthony frowned. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure right now.” He put the letter back in the envelope and tucked it into the back of his trousers. “I’ll talk to General Sharpe about it later. How about we shoot some more targets? I’ll be able to think more clearly after that.”

Shooting at their targets always made him feel better.

Chapter 2

Eleanor entered her father’s study and looked around. For a moment, she couldn’t see him. Then she looked up and saw him on his ladder, high up above her. His bookcase spanned from the floor right to the high ceiling, just as high as it was in the library. Edward Heavenly loved books, and he and Eleanor’s mother had collected as many books as they could, even from second-hand book stores. Eleanor’s favourite memories were of following her mother, Baroness Heavenly, into the book stores and going over all the books. She still loved the smell of an old book.

Even when there were bittersweet memories attached to it now.

Edward was reaching for something just out of his reach. He was going to fall, and the ladder would slide surely out from under him if he kept reaching. Eleanor hurried over, grabbing the ladder and easing it over.

“What the…?” Edward flailed, grabbing at the ladder. Then he looked down, annoyance clearing to surprise. “Eleanor. I didn’t realize you were there.”

“Obviously.” Eleanor held the ladder stable as Edward snagged the book he wanted. “You should have let me know you were going all the way up. I would have come here to help you.”

“You were busy. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You wouldn’t have been disturbing me.” Eleanor stepped back as her father came down, moving just out of the way. “You know I always come when you need me.”

“I know.” Edward Heavenly smiled at her as he put his feet on flat ground. He cupped her jaw affectionately. “And I knew you would say that.”

That was what Eleanor had been doing ever since her mother had died. It had been eight long years since she dropped everything to look after her father once she saw him sliding into the bottle. Edward had relapses and he would end up drunk, but Eleanor made sure to keep a close eye on him. When he was drunk, he was easy prey. Especially if cards were involved.

At least those weren’t out anywhere. Eleanor was sure her father hadn’t been able to find all the packs of cards she had hidden. If they were out, he was planning on going out to play poker or another game that involved money. She couldn’t let that happen.

“Are you all right, Father?”

“Perfectly all right.” Edward sighed and moved away, placing the book on his desk. “And if you’re wondering if I’ve had a drink today, I haven’t. Not for nearly a month now since that fool Parsons took away all my liquor and the servants won’t do as they’re told and bring me one.”

“Because I told them not to.” Eleanor watched as her father’s hands shook a little. He hadn’t been sober for this long before, but she was going to make sure he kept to it. “You know what you’re like when you’ve had a drink, Father. It’s not going to help you.”

“Worried about me, are you?”

“Father!”

Edward briefly closed his eyes, his throat moving as he swallowed. “Forgive me, Eleanor. I don’t mean to sound so harsh.”

“I know that.” Eleanor approached him, touching his arm. “But we both know that you are not a good man when you’ve had even one glass. It doesn’t do you any favours.”

Edward Heavenly had barely drank anything before. Then his wife had died, and Edward had turned to the bottle. He wanted to be able to wipe away the memories that made him fall asleep crying at night. Eleanor ended up lying in bed hearing her father sobbing and it hurt. She didn’t like hearing him like this. Her mother had been Edward’s world. Eight years now, and he was still struggling to cope. Eleanor was doing the best she could, and she missed her mother. It wasn’t easy to make the memories fade when her father refused to let go.

If he let go, they would be in a better place. They wouldn’t be close to losing everything because of his card games and his drinking. Eleanor had finally put her foot down. Now Baron Heavenly had to pick himself up and get through it. Eleanor was beginning to wonder if he was able to do that.

“What am I supposed to do, Eleanor?” Edward slumped into his chair. “When I’m sober, I see your mother. And that hurts.” He rubbed at his chest. “A lot.”

“I know it does. And it hurts me, too.” Eleanor knelt and rested her hands on his knees. “But we have to think of ourselves, Father. You’ve still got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Edward gave her a small smile. He reached out and stroked her hair.

“I’m very lucky that you are my child. But you’ve put everything to one side to look after me. You’ve given up your life to dedicate it to me. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Who was going to look after you?”

“The servants would be there for me.”

Eleanor snorted. “And they would bring you a drink every time you snapped your fingers. Not while I’m around.”

Edward groaned. “You are mean, Eleanor. I hope you’re not so unkind to those orphans you look after every other day.”

Eleanor smiled. “Someone has to, Father. I don’t mind doing it. I’d like them to have someone to look up to, and I hope that is me.”

“And you throw your life away looking after other people.” Edward sighed. “Don’t you ever want someone to look after you.”

Eleanor knew what he meant. She took a deep breath. “It’s fine, Father. Really.”

The look on her father’s face made Eleanor’s heart ache. He did love her, she didn’t need to question that. She had been close to getting married eight years ago when her mother died, but Eleanor had seen that her father needed her. Her fiancé hadn’t thought the same way and tried to make her choose. Eleanor didn’t need to think and had chosen her father. Her fiancé hadn’t been very happy, but Eleanor didn’t care. If he couldn’t respect that she needed to look after her father now that he was alone, then her fiancé didn’t really love her. It hadn’t been as painful as Eleanor thought when she watched him walk away.

“You need a marriage, Eleanor,” Edward insisted. “You’re approaching thirty.”

“And I was put on the shelf eight years ago, Father. I’m fine with it, I said.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Eleanor didn’t blink as she looked up at her father. She rose to her feet. “Believe what you want. I’m happy.”

Edward snorted. “That I really don’t believe.”

Eleanor was not having this conversation now. Edward kept badgering her to find someone who was willing to marry a woman who was turning thirty in eighteen months. Eleanor had no desire to go and find a man. If there were any who were interested in having her as a wife, they weren’t desirable themselves. Eleanor had accepted the fact that she wouldn’t have what everyone else had, and she was fine with it.

For the most part.

When are you going to stop lying to yourself?

Eleanor pushed her thoughts away and leaned over to kiss her father’s forehead.

“I’m going to head out to the orphanage. Just make sure you stay in tonight.”

“I promise.” Edward held up his hand. “Just go. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Eleanor kept the smile up as she closed the door, but it faded as soon as she was in the hall. She had seen something near her father’s hand when she was kissing his head and her heart had sunk. The cards. He had found a deck. That only meant one thing.

He wasn’t going to keep his promise tonight.

Eleanor spied Edward’s valet coming down the hall and hurried to him.

“Parsons.”

Parsons looked up and blinked. Then he gave Eleanor a slight bow.

“Lady Eleanor.”

Eleanor glanced over her shoulder. Edward wouldn’t be able to hear them, but she still lowered her voice. “He’s going out tonight, isn’t it?”

Parsons didn’t look shocked at her response.

“You saw the deck of cards as well.”

“I did. He’s preparing himself.” Eleanor shook her head. “I don’t want him going out, but I can’t exactly stop him.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find Strauss. Lock all the doors and windows and make sure Strauss keeps the keys with him. Do not give them to Father under any circumstances.”

Parsons snorted. “Do you really think that’s going to keep him in?”

“I don’t know but I’m going to make sure that he has a hard time getting out. I don’t trust him when he’s got his cards out.”

Keeping him sober and away from the cards was going to be tough, but Eleanor knew that there would be a point of no return if Edward kept going out as he was, and they were rapidly approaching it. It had to be stopped somehow.

“I’ll make sure he stays home, my lady,” Parsons promised.

“Thank you.” Eleanor gave him a nod and headed towards the front door. “Fetch my coat, please? I’ll be back about ten.”

“I’ll make sure I’m up to let you in.” Parsons hurried to the closet and retrieved Eleanor’s coat. He helped her into it, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Stay safe.”

Eleanor turned and looked up at him with a smile. Henry Parsons had been in their service since she was ten years old. He was like an older brother and looked out for both her and her father. It was sweet to have someone worry about her. She patted his hand.

“I’ll have Jonathan with me, won’t I? Of course I’m going to be safe.”

#

Nathan stepped into the tent, ducking his head before straightening up inside. This was the tent of his top commander, the man in charge of the whole barracks. It always felt like an honour to step into the place that felt like sacred ground. Even after ten years in the army, Nathan never lost the feeling.

A tall, lean man wearing his regimental trousers and undershirt was sitting at his desk, reading a small book. He looked like he had shaven and had a haircut in the last hour, his jaw smooth and his white hair cut close to the nape of his neck. He liked to be kept clean and trim for everyone else.

Nathan stood to attention and saluted.

“General Sharpe, Sir.”

Steven Sharpe looked up, his expression registering surprise.

“Captain Reynolds. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important, Sir.”

Sharpe had known him for a long time. He knew when Nathan was rattled, and Nathan did feel rattled. Something was wrong back in London, and Nathan needed to know what was going on as soon as he could.

Sharpe stared at him, then closed his book and rose. Even at five-and-fifty years of age, the man was intimidating. He had been using his height of six-six to command a regiment for years. Nathan was tall at six-four and even he had to look up at Sharpe.

“What is it, Nathan?”

“I was asking if I could be granted leave.”

Sharpe arched an eyebrow. “Leave? You’ve never requested leave before other than when we’ve ordered it. We’ve practically had to kick you out of the barracks to take leave, even when we heard your father had died. I was beginning to think you hated England.”

“When you’ve got a mother like mine, can you blame me?”

Sharpe paused. Then he shrugged.

“I suppose not. Did you hear from your mother? Is she demanding that you come back and be the Earl of Brixton?” His mouth curved. “Be the nobleman you can never be?”

Nathan had to smile at that. Everyone knew he hated his new title.

“This time it’s something different, Sir.” Nathan brought out his mother’s letter from inside his jacket. He had dressed appropriately to meet the general. He held out the letter. “She says that she’s dying.”

“Dying?” Sharpe took the letter and his eyes scanned it. “I didn’t realize she was a doctor.”

“Our personal doctor apparently said she is dying.”

“You don’t believe him?”

Nathan shrugged. “He likes to pander to Mother’s whims. She’s a lot stronger than people believe. I think she uses the doctor to claim she’s unwell, so she doesn’t get pushed into something she doesn’t want to do.”

“Like what?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

Sharpe glanced up at him. “You think this is your mother trying to get you home, so you can carry out your duties in Society?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“Explain.”

Sharpe was a clever man. And he listened to his officers. Nathan rolled his shoulders to loosen the knots that had been building.

“Something’s not quite right, Sir. She doesn’t write to me for over a year, and the last time we spoke was in anger because I wouldn’t stay after Father’s death. She wouldn’t let me know she was dead until after she’s in the ground, I know it. And now she sends me this, and it doesn’t read like her. It…” He tried to find the right word. “It doesn’t feel like her at all. Like she’s desperate.”

“That happens when you’re dying, and you’re scared.” Sharpe frowned. “But you don’t think she’s dying?”

“I think something’s going on and it’s frightened Mother enough that she needs me.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

Nathan knew what he wanted to do, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Still, he had to do it. He took a deep breath.

“She’s still my mother. I want to make sure she’s all right.”

“Understood.” Sharpe handed back the letter. “Well, I can put in a request for leave on your behalf and that your platoon has a commander while you’re on leave. I can’t do more than that. Things are quite tense right now, so you’ll understand if you can’t get it.”

“I understand.” Nathan rubbed his hands on his trousers. “I would rather be here fighting, doing something I’m actually good at, but I need to have my mind settled knowing that things are not as bad as they seem back home.”

“Understood.” Sharpe nodded. “Leave it with me. I should have a definitive answer by tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

That was the best he could ask for. Now he just had to wait.

---

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Chapter 1

“Merope!” cried Mrs. Felicity Robbins, bustling out of the kitchen and drying her hands on her apron. She stood in the hallway of the Robbins Inn and looked towards the staircase that led upstairs. “Merope! Go and fetch the mail! After that, I will need you to go and inspect the rooms and make certain they are clean!”

Merope gently closed the front door of the inn behind her. She was dressed simply, in a plain muslin, with a white apron. Her blonde hair was pinned in a simple bun. Her mother whirled around and looked at her. “Oh! There you are. Go and fetch – ”

“I have it right here, Mother,” she said, holding up several folded, red-sealed letters. “I’ll go upstairs and inspect the rooms in a moment, but you may want to know that there is a note from Worthington among this stack of letters.”

“From Worthington! From the earl and the countess?” Mrs. Robbins snatched away the stack of letters and took them into the kitchen, where two servants worked to clean the dishes before starting the day’s baking for the patrons of the inn.

She sat down at a small table in the corner and Merope took a chair across from her. “It’s still hard to believe that the earl married that little servant girl,” said Merope. “Grace Miller, wasn’t it? She’s come a long way from living in a cottage at the far end of town.”

Mrs. Robbins shot her a quick glance even as she sorted through the letters. “Whatever her name was, it’s Lady Worthington now, and she’ll never be a servant ever again.”

Merope sighed. “If Earl Worthington can marry a coachman’s daughter and maid-of-all-work, I suppose anything can happen. Now, what is in the letter?”

“Here.” Her mother allowed the note to fall to the table. “You may look at it and see, perhaps it is a dinner invitation.”

“I suppose that would be nice,” said Merope, reaching for the note, “but I am not sure there would be any reason for me to go. The earl is no longer in search of a wife.”

“And what does that matter? Does he not have male friends? Cousins? Acquaintances? There could be any number of very respectable and very well-to-do young men attending the events held at Worthington.”

Mrs. Robbins gave her daughter a very stern expression. “There is far more at stake here than you simply getting a husband. This inn – this source of income for you and me both – requires you to have a husband who can put his name on the deed, since neither you nor I can do so.”

“Yes, yes. I will do my best I can to find a husband, but I am not willing to marry just anyone.”

“Of course and since you do wish to marry well, you have every reason to prize an invitation to the home of the earl and the new countess.”

Carefully, Merope broke the dark red wax seal that held the folded letter together and opened it up. “Hmm,” she said, reading silently.

“Well, girl, what is it? An invitation? Or something else entirely? Tell me!”

“It seems to be,” said Merope, “an invitation. To – a picnic.”

“A picnic?” Her mother sounded a bit disappointed, but then could wait no longer and snatched the letter from Merope’s fingers. “It is indeed a picnic,” she murmured as she read. “It will be held on Midsummer, the twenty-first day of June. Won’t that be nice?”

“Oh, yes, just ever so nice.” Merope did not bother to hide the boredom in her voice. “Another of the same old picnics, like so many I have attended before. Are you certain you can spare me from my duties here?”

“Merope! No doubt, there will be many fine young men in attendance!”

Merope just nodded. Felicity Robbins had been running the Robbins Inn herself for many years, ever since the death of her husband when Merope was very young. If anyone knew the details of everyone who lived in the entire county, it was her.

“I see. So I suppose you want me to go to this picnic.”

Mrs. Robbins peered at her daughter over the top of the note. “You suppose I want you to go? Of course you should go! What better place than a gathering at Worthington to find a man who will propose to you!”

Keeping her temper under control, Merope placed her hands flat on the table and closed her eyes. “Mother, I am nineteen years old and I have never received a single proposal.”

“Yes, but – ”

“You will not be able to run the inn forever, especially if you are alone here with only a couple of servants to help you – servants who could leave at any time. You need me here. If I married, I would be expected to live with my husband.”

Mrs. Robbins drew herself up. “I appreciate your kind concern, Merope, but I am quite capable. I have been running this inn since you were barely able to walk. I am sure I can continue to do so for many years to come, if need be.”

“Yes, if need be – but perhaps you should not have to carry such a burden alone. I can help while I am here. Anyway, I cannot marry as long as I stay in this sleepy little town that has virtually no prospects.”

“But – there are fine young men here. Farmers, merchants – ”

She held up one hand. “But if I can do better, shouldn’t I try for better? Though I do not wish to boast, it is simply a fact that I am one of the best catches in Birdwell. Men say they like blonde women with a little height to them. I am well read and capable. You have taught me to manage this inn, and so I could certainly manage a home. I am well worth a proposal. But I do not see how I will ever get one unless I can somehow leave this unchanging little town.”

“Merry, please. I know you are desperate to go to London for a season, in hopes of finding a man more to your liking.”

“A man who enjoys the city. A man who thrives on the variety and sophistication it has to offer. Not to mention, such a man might have an interest in business, and the running of an inn in a small town.”

“Yes. I do understand. But I have explained that the cost is far too dear for you to go to London any time soon and will be for some time. There was the new oaken floor in the dining room, the replacement linens for the beds upstairs – ”

“I know about all that, Mother. I know, but that will not get me married. I must find a way to get to the city, at least for a time. I am not going to find the right man at a little country picnic, even if it is a picnic at Worthington. The sort of man I want, the sort of life I want, is in the city. My kind of man will not want to be out here in the country, or have to do anything with this inn.”

***

Somewhere in London

There was a tremendous pounding inside of James Brookford’s head. Or maybe it was someone beating on the door of his room. Or maybe it was both.

“Innkeeper! Open up!”

Very slowly, groaning to himself, James sat up. He was in a rumpled bed, which sat beneath the one high window of his small room at the inn. Light poured in from the window above and made him close his eyes tightly. The room stank of unwashed bodies, filthy clothes, old food, vomit, and . . . worse.

The pain in his head only got worse with every move he made.

There was a quick rustling from either side of him. Blinking, James watched two women quickly sit up and get out of the bed.

“Thank you, dearie!” one of them called, gathering up her cloak.

“Got the payment last night!” said the other, hastily pulling on her half-boots. “Call us again anytime!”

The two women were only half-dressed in ragged clothes but did not seem to care; they pulled the door open and pushed past whoever was knocking on the other side. James closed his eyes again, partly from the ongoing pain in his temples, and partly from the sight of those two women.

The pounding continued, even with the door open. He must have made a particularly valiant effort at drowning his sorrows the night before. “Just – just a minute,” James muttered, sliding his feet down to the floor and noticing with some relief that he was still dressed. “I’ll be there directly.”

He managed to stand up and then stumble over to the door, to find the tall heavy form and scowling face of the innkeeper.

“Enough’s enough, Brookford,” the man said, shoving a long piece of paper at him. “I want this paid today. Then I want you gone!”

James reached out for the paper. His eyes weren’t focused enough to read it, but he knew it was a list of charges for several weeks’ worth of rooming, food, ale, and wine. “All right,” he said, attempting to fold the paper and slip it inside his linen shirt. “All right. Give me an hour. I will pack up – and then I will be gone.”

“An hour. No more,” growled the innkeeper. “If I come back and you are still here, I’ll sell anything of yours that’s still in this room – and you can take these too!”

A handful of folded papers fell to the floor. Some had bright red wax seals on them. “I’ll pay it,” James said, awkwardly bending down to gather up the sealed papers. “I can have gold, in an hour.”

“Good! Don’t make me – ”

James threw the door shut, though he could not blame the man for wanting to be paid. It was true that he had stayed in this room for far too long and spent far too many weeks trying to forget about the games that women played . . . and the game that one woman in particular had played on him.

After making every effort to forget, all he had done was sink so low, that now, here he was waking up, ape-drunk, with two examples of some of the lowest of Haymarket’s wares to be found in his bed, and now his debts were running up so high, he could hardly guess the amount.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh, James tossed aside the list of charges. The sealed and folded papers looked to have been sitting for weeks, for he had never called at the desk for any messages.

There had been no reason why he should. Until some two years before, he had been living north of London at Albany, his family’s small estate. He had been quite comfortable there, enjoying the peace and beauty, and left only to go to Cambridge University to obtain his degree in law. As soon as that was done, he returned home at the age of twenty-six and soon asked Angela, a beautiful girl from the little nearby town of Birdwell, to marry him.

At the thought of Angela, James nearly reached for the bottle of gin that still rested on the small table beside the bed – but then stopped. He had escaped to London with the sole purpose of never thinking of her again. Instead, he reached for the stack of letters that the innkeeper had brought him.

The first was from his cousin, Thomas Worthington, who was also the Earl Worthington. He lived on the grand and beautiful family estate of the same name, just north of the town of Birdwell. It was some eight miles from James’s home of Albany and he fondly remembered visiting Thomas and his family when they were boys.

My dear cousin;

It has been a very long while since I last wrote, but I have much good news. The Teeswater cattle that I told you about when last I wrote has been progressing well. The herd is growing steadily.

My mother is well. She has stepped back from her duties and into the role of Dowager Countess, with her usual grace. She has been enjoying herself.

I must tell you of my joy: I have recently wed Miss Grace Miller. She is an absolute angel, and I have never been so happy in all of my life. We would all be very pleased if you would come and visit Worthington. I want you to meet my wife.
Not to mention, hunting season is just around the corner, and my friend, Simon Clarke, whom you know well is becoming serious about breeding Thoroughbred horses for both racing and the hunt field.

Please write back soon, so that we can make the proper arrangements for your arrival.

All the best,

Thomas, Earl Worthington

It all sounded lovely and perfect, which was always how the Worthingtons had lived their lives. Though it was true that he would not object to seeing Thomas again . . . and his new wife . . . and his mother . . . and enjoy their fine food and good wine and brandy . . .

But all James managed to do was vomit copiously into the sheets this time, before sitting up again and trying to catch his breath.

Sitting in the ruined mess of his room – and his life – James decided that the time had come – to go back to Albany and Birdwell. He knew that his family missed him and he was beginning to miss them, too. There were some painful memories there, but home was home.

A quick glance in the mirror showed James’s disheveled dark hair, his unshaven, pale face. The dark circles underneath his hazel eyes.

It could hardly be worse than this.

Chapter 2

Merope rose to her feet and stood behind the kitchen chair. “Here in Birdwell, it’s always the same thing, with the same men, over and over again. All the games and machinations and scheming and devious planning. No one ever tells the truth.”

Her mother sighed. “Well, dear, I’m afraid that neither woman, nor man, ever tells the whole truth in matters of love. Surely you are not pretending to be shocked by this.”

“No, Mother. I am not shocked by it. But I am very tired of the games men play. I want – ” She paused for a moment, thinking. “I want an honest man. I am tired of men who only tell me what they think I want to hear. I would far prefer brutal honesty to pretty little words that mean nothing and fade away faster than snowflakes.”

She thought her mother might snap back, strong as she was; instead, Mrs. Robbins only sat quietly at the table. “You have grown so cold, Merope,” she said, her voice very soft. “I worry for you. Serenity is a fine thing in a woman, but a cold and uncaring heart is very different. I especially began to see it after the earl married Grace Miller last year.”

“The servant girl.”

“Yes, the servant girl, who is now Lady Worthington, and even before that – ” She looked closely at Merope. “Even before that, there was the matter of your friend Sally Henson and her suitor. What was his name?”

Merope raised her head and for a moment was not going to answer, but she soon relented. “Daniel Bird.”

“Yes. The steady young man from one of the farms out towards the Viscount of Albany’s estate. You made him think you cared for him, when he learned of your game, he took an apprenticeship on a farm some fifty miles away and has never been back since.”

Merope felt her annoyance rising, but there was a small sense of triumph to go along with it. “There is no proof that I ‘stole him away.’ He seemed to like me, and I considered him for a time. That was all. We had no understanding between us at all. Sally Henson and I remain friends, and from what she has said, he intended to leave for his apprenticeship anyway. You may ask her about it when next you see her, if you wish.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, however. “You knew how devoted Sally was to him. I can only tell you to be careful with such things, Merope. They can burst into flames in an instant and burn you before you know it.”

Merope kept her silence, and then after a moment sat down again at the table and folded her hands.

For just an instant, her mother covered Merope’s hand with her own. “I know that for you, still being young, love and marriage are simply games to play. You have never been in love. No man has broken your heart, though I believe you have broken a few yourself. Do not think it cannot happen to you. It can happen to the strongest of us.”

Merope realized that her mother was looking at the small portrait of her late husband, Ezra Robbins. That little painting was Merope’s only real memory of her father, for he had died when she was very young. She was well aware of how hard her mother worked, and how she had no one to look out for her save her daughter. Merope had made certain that she herself had the strength to get both of them through whatever troubles they might face, what with trying to run their own property in a world run by men.

She smiled and patted her mother’s hand in return. “I understand. There are many ways to lose someone. I am sure it is just as painful, no matter how it happens.”

Abruptly, Mrs. Robbins withdrew her hand and stood up. “Now, then,” she said briskly, with a deep breath. “I have no wish to argue with you. I will just say that there are always new guests at any event, even at a picnic in Birdwell. New friends, new cousins. Will you agree to accept Lord Worthington’s invitation?”

“I suppose I have little choice.” Merope remained at the table, frowning. “If I agree to go, will you at least consider sending me to London?”

Her mother hesitated. “If you go to the picnic,” she finally said, “I will make every effort to get you to London sometime next year.”

She raised her hand to halt her daughter’s protests that that would not be soon enough. “And to help make up for having to wait, I will get you a new dress and bonnet to wear to the earl’s picnic.”

Knowing she would get no better arrangement today, Merope nodded briefly and stood up. “I will go to the picnic and wear my new dress. But I hope to find a man there who will simply tell me the truth, whether he actually loves me or not!”

“All right then, Merry. Tomorrow we will go over to Fabrics, Feathers & Fineries and have you fitted with something new.”

Mrs. Robbins shook her head. “I can arrange to have a set of clothes made with no trouble. But I fear that finding an entirely honest man is not something that is in my power to give you.”

#

It took James several more days to get out of London – days spent at the townhomes of scattered friends, and once or twice, sleeping in the straw at the rear of some small back-alley stable. But he did, finally, escape the city and make his way home to Albany. At the sight of the large, but modest home, he thought that the sight of Heaven itself would never move him so much.

The fresh air and grass and trees seemed to make him whole again. Some six weeks after waking up in the squalor of the inn for the last time, James sat down to breakfast with his father and his mother—the Viscount and Viscountess of Albany. His appetite had returned with a vengeance and James had asked for generous portions of boiled eggs and fried sausages to be added to his plate.

“So,” his father, Matthew Brookford, Lord Albany, began, as he watched James eat. “It is well that all the wheat and oats and rye we grow did not fail this year. I think all of the profit at our little mill has gone to your breakfasts!”

James paused for a moment, before once again lifting another big spoonful of boiled egg to his mouth – but then saw his father smiling. “It’s all right, my son. We are both glad to see you well. You used to eat the same way as a boy.”

“Don’t worry about that, James,” said his mother, Mary Brookford, Lady Albany, pretending to be flustered by his father’s words. “It has been lonely here with just the two of us. We only end up giving leftover food to the Bird family’s hog farm down the road, and we would surely rather give it to you!”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” James said. “I should hate to think I was the cause of my parents’ bankruptcy simply due to overeating at breakfast.”

His mother laughed and then picked up a red-sealed letter from the small silver tray beside her on the table. “This arrived earlier today. It has your name, so I think you should open it.”

James glanced at it while slicing up the hot sausages. “An invitation?” He lifted the large chunk of sausage to his mouth with the fork, chewing and then swallowing before going on. “You should open it, Mother. I don’t care much for socializing. There is plenty to do here, so that I can earn all this food I am devouring. All those acres of corn to plant, not to mention supervising the grinding at the mill – ”

“It’s from Worthington. It is addressed especially to you.”

James sighed, finishing up the bite of sausage, and then cleaned his fingers on a linen napkin before breaking the seal on the note and unfolding it.

“A picnic,” he murmured, as his mother poured him some more tea and place the little bowl of freshly ground sugar beside it. “At Midsummer.”

“A picnic!” said Lady Albany. “How lovely. James, it would be the perfect event for your reintroduction to all the folk of Birdwell.”

He frowned a little, reaching for the hot cup of tea. “I suppose. But I will admit, I have grown accustomed to quiet days and peaceful nights, with only a few other people around. I am not certain that I would enjoy such a gathering.”

“It’s only a picnic,” said his father. “Held out in the open on an enormous estate. How crowded could it possibly be?”

“It does not matter so much where it is held. There will still be many there that I do not know.”

“Or that you do know, but have not seen in a very long time.” Lady Albany poured herself a little more tea. “And who will undoubtedly have many questions for you.”

“I am sure they will. I know they are curious. But I have no desire to inform a group of strangers and distant friends about things that are entirely personal to me.”

His parents just looked at him in silence. James knew very well that they had seen him fall into debauchery and dissipation some two years ago, and also knew, that they had been quite distraught when he had left for London in such a state. His mother, especially, was very relieved and happy simply to have him back. She would probably have let him do almost anything he pleased as long as he did not begin to slide inside a bottle once again.

“I do not see that you are obligated to tell them anything, beyond that which the most basic courtesy requires,” his mother said. “You might simply say that you decided to live in London for a time, following your commencement at Cambridge. Many young gentlemen would do the same.”

“I know that. And I had considered it. But most of them will know that that is not the whole story and I don’t think their curiosity will ever go away. I don’t want to be the subject of gossip all over the county.”

“James, my dear,” his mother said, “I am afraid it is far too late for that. You might as well go and face it, because it will never go away until you do.”

He set down the teacup and folded his hands beneath the table, feeling his temper rise. She was right, of course, but that did not improve his mood any. “I should have known.”

“They are just curious, and they do want to know that you are well now. Many of them have known you all your life. You were missed and they will be glad to see you again.”

James tapped his finger on the table. “All of them?”

“Of course, all – ” Lady Albany paused when her husband touched her arm and turned to look at him.

“I think I see the trouble now,” said Lord Albany. “She is gone. You will not see her at Worthington, or anywhere else in England.”

James looked closely at him, not sure he understood. “You are sure? Angela will not be attending this picnic?”

“She will not,” his mother said. “As your father told you, she is no longer in England.”

“How is that possible?”

“It is possible,” she went on, “because the former Miss Angela Stone moved to France with her husband.”

“With her husband.”

“Yes.” His mother nodded.

“France?”

“And they will not be coming back,” his mother assured him.

“I see.” James closed his eyes, not knowing if the news made him feel better or worse.

Lord Albany spoke up. “Even if Miss Stone did return – and I’m sorry, I don’t know what her married name is, and I care even less – that part of your life is over with, James. Isn’t it?”

He nodded, just slightly at first and then with more conviction. “Yes. It is over. Done.”

“Then you must stop letting it steer your life. You must decide to either live for yourself or die for her – a woman who cared so little for you that she married a wealthier man at the very first chance. Which do you want?”

“I think – I want – ”

His father leaned forward. “Choose! I should have demanded that you do so before you left for London. I didn’t then, but I am demanding it now. Which do you want?”

James had never seen his father so angry and determined over anything. Even his mother was very still, just looking up at him.

“I – no, I do not want to die for her.”

“Good.” His father sat back in his chair.

“But neither do I know how to live for myself,” James went on. “Not any longer.”

“Oh, James – I don’t understand,” said his mother, and he could hear the pain and confusion in her voice. “You are a good and intelligent gentleman. You can have any sort of life you choose. What are you talking about?”

“The life that I planned is no longer possible.” He had wanted to settle down with Angela. Perhaps, breed race horses, like Simon Clarke.

“But surely, you still wish to marry,” said his mother. “There are any number of fine young women right here, who would be honored to – ”

“No. I certainly do not wish to marry any time soon. Perhaps never.”

His parents fell silent. “All right,” said Lord Albany. “You will have to make some sort of decision before long. You don’t want to live in the city, yet you say you do not want the country, either. There is not much in between.”

James closed his eyes. “I do not mean to sound so entirely selfish. I am well aware that Albany has no other heir besides myself. I do not want you to have to find some long-lost cousin to inherit our home and our land . . . someone who may not care for it as we do. I truly do not want that.”

“I know you do not,” said his father.

“That is why I will, indeed, agree to at least try to find a suitable wife.” James could hear his mother’s sigh of relief. “And if either of you can tell me where I might find a woman or some lesser lord’s daughter who will be nothing but honest with me – I will be happy to go and meet her.”

There was a shocked silence. “I am sorry, Mother, Father – but I mean what I say. I have no trust left for females and their games.”

“I suppose not,” Lord Albany finally said. “But you are asking for a guarantee that no one could ever give you.”

“That is very true,” his mother said, nodding. I can only tell you something that I myself learned long ago: It is not so much a matter of trusting others. It is a matter of trusting yourself.”

James just gave her a sideways glance. “I am not marrying myself. Finding a woman who will be entirely honest with me, at all times, is what I do not know how to do.”

“There is no need to make this so difficult.” His father was beginning to lose patience. “The first one did not work out. So try again! Find another. You will find nothing if you cease to search.”

“I suppose so.” James looked away from them, glancing towards the bright windows. “Even though I rather enjoy the countryside myself, I recall what happened the last time when I thought I had found the ideal wife out here. I sometimes think – I sometimes think I should return to the city where there are far more eligible women.”

“But you just spent two years in the best parts of London,” his father complained. “What sort of women did you find there, in all that length of time? Any honest ones, as you say you want?”

He had no answer for that.

“Just so,” his father said. “Then perhaps your easiest course is to make a slow start. Simply go to Worthington in ten days and attend the picnic. It is but a small social occasion among friends and family. I am sure you will find no difficulty there.”

“I think that is a splendid idea,” said Lady Albany. “You have been going there all your life and your aunt and your cousin are quite fond of you. Perhaps remembering them, and the fine times you had there in your youth, would help return you to the proper path.”

“Besides, my son,” his father said, “in the two years that you have been gone, who knows what you will find among new neighbors who may have arrived during that time? And think how interesting it could be to see which young ladies might have grown up considerably.”

“That’s right,” said his mother, in a firm voice. “The Dowager Countess – your own Aunt Maria – knows that you have returned, and wants very much to see you. The very least that you can do is to visit your aunt.”

“There’s no denying that they are your family, after all.” His father’s voice was quite firm as well. “Your cousin Thomas is now married, and you have never met his wife.”

He sighed, knowing that both of them were right, and there was really no way to avoid this. “I suppose you are right. Perhaps I could go, even if I did not stay for long.”

Lord Albany frowned and started to speak, but his mother only brightened. “There, now. That’s the spirit! I’m sure they simply want to see you again and introduce you to the new Lady Worthington. You can stay for as long – or as little – of a time as you like.”

His father seemed about to speak again, but then thought better of it and simply reached for his own cup of tea.

“All right, then,” said James, surrendering for the moment. “Midsummer Day it is. I hope I can recall how to get to Worthington.”

“Just allow Vireo to take you. I’m sure he remembers,” said Lord Albany. “He’s galloped with many a hunt over the earl’s grounds.”

“I’m sure he does remember, Father,” said James, with a tight smile. I’m beginning to wish that he did not.

---

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Chapter 1

“It was just a dream. It wasn’t real,” he whispered to himself in the dark.

His bare feet moved silently, muffled by the thick carpet of the passageway. He could hear nothing over the pounding of his heart and the echo of the scream ringing in his ears. With a horrible sense of certainty he knew that the scream which had awoken him had been his mother’s, but he told himself it was only a nightmare. That’s what she would say when he reached her chamber – only a nightmare, my sweet, darling boy. He simply couldn’t go back to sleep without the reassurance of her softly laughing voice, her delicate hand stroking his damp hair back from his brow, that was all. She wouldn’t mind, he knew. She would press a kiss to his forehead and sit with him until the terror was all chased away, nothing more than a faint, foolish memory.

 He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in his thin linen nightshirt, and softly pushed open the door to his mother’s bedchamber. He expected to find her nestled in her ornate bed, but instead she lay crumpled gracefully on the floor, her beautiful porcelain face gleaming in the moonlight, her jet hair streaming in waves around her. He froze, trapped in the blank stare of her dark eyes, too horror-stricken to move or cry out, when a movement by the long window caught his attention. Clearly silhouetted against the moonlight was the black figure of a man who noiselessly opened the window and climbed out of it to merge with the rest of the shadows.

Kenneth Blackmore, Duke of Rutherford, woke with a gasp, drenched in the familiar cold sweat that always accompanied the dream. At two and twenty he did not have the luxury of disbelief that had been his temporary refuge at the age of eight. He knew all too well that those events had been quite real and his mother could never again soothe away his nightmares. He rarely slept without revisiting that night, straining to make out the features of the shadowy man.

That was an exercise in futility, his waking self knew. The identity of his mother’s murderer was no mystery to Kenneth and hadn’t been since that dreadful night. Even if his father’s build and manner of carrying himself had not matched the shadow so perfectly, Kenneth had heard the maids whispering that it was hardly a surprise that the Duke had finally killed his wife in one of his jealous rages. No one had dared to make an accusation, least of all Kenneth, and the story was put out that she had been strangled by a thief.

Kenneth had hoped that the dream would cease tormenting him in the weeks following the death of his father, but if anything it had grown stronger. He had also expected to feel some sense of relief at the death of that monster, yet instead he worried that it had only strengthened the grip that his destructive heritage held on him. He had cut off his affair with his most recent mistress, a stunning blonde actress who was nearly as tall as himself, afraid that even their loveless arrangement might somehow incite him to violence.

Previously he had thought to keep himself from following in his father’s footsteps by avoiding love and marriage, knowing that his father’s obsessive, jealous love for his mother had led him to murder her. Now even that did not seem enough. Suppose desire, temporary companionship, or mild affection were enough to trigger his foul inheritance? Unable to risk it, he had distanced himself from the actress and from the other numerous and lovely blondes he was reputed to enjoy.

Knowing that sleep would not return for him that night, Kenneth left his bed and lit a candle. Pausing before the mirror that hung in his chamber, he searched his reflection as if looking for signs that he was transforming into a monster. It was a foolish fancy, he knew. His father had always appeared on the outside to be a handsome, respectable man. No one could have known from looking at him that he was capable of such an atrocity. Kenneth resembled his father, a fact he had always despised, but the stamp of his mother’s features had given his strong and handsome countenance a look of almost wicked beauty. Pale and heavy-eyed from troubled dreams and lack of sleep, his dark hair falling in a disordered manner, he was nonetheless strikingly attractive. It was a pity, he reflected, turning from the mirror, that his outward appearance drew women flocking to him when they ought to flee.

He ordered himself to read once again the letter that he had received from his Uncle Roger. Long before the death of his father, Kenneth had considered his uncle to be his only family, and the letter requesting a visit was the only thing that had tempted him away from his melancholy brooding in weeks. Roger was right, he ought to return home, particularly now that he had inherited the family estate. He had not been able to steel himself to do so, feeling that taking possession of Rutherford Hall would bring him that much closer to inevitably following in his father’s footsteps, but he knew he could not put it off any longer. Resolving himself to make arrangements at first light to leave his solitary London home, he selected a book and did his best to while away the rest of the night in its pages.

****

“Sister! I have been looking for you all over!” exclaimed Louisa Warwick as she hastened to join her sister Charlotte on the bench beneath a massive elm. It was one of Charlotte’s favored haunts for reading and daydreaming, Louisa’s trouble was that Charlotte had so very many such haunts.

“And you have found me,” Charlotte looked up from her book to smile at her older sister. With her soft brown hair, and deep brown eyes hidden behind spectacles, Charlotte was the perfect foil for Louisa’s vivacious, gilded beauty, yet there was a compelling sweetness in her face that gave Charlotte a loveliness of her own.

“You cannot hope to guess my news, so I shall tell you at once. The new Duke of Rutherford has returned only last night to his estate!”

“Kenneth Blackmore has come home?” Charlotte gasped, letting her book tumble to the ground as both delight and pain flooded her at the news. She was grateful to Louisa for seeking her out and telling her privately, giving her this moment to react without having to guard her expression.

“Yes, darling, come home to preside over his ancestral abode, presumably ready to give up his wicked ways as a rake in London and begin a family.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, his return is to be expected given the death of his father,” murmured Charlotte. She retrieved her book, and with it some of her composure.”

“Very natural indeed,” laughed Louisa. “So now we must begin plotting how you are to win his heart.”

“Oh, Louisa, no. We were only childhood friends, and he has made it perfectly clear in more recent years that he has forgotten our infant affection. I believe I am the very last sort of woman he would find romantically compelling. You are much more the type he admires, you know.”

“Why, I am scandalized that you would listen to the rumors and reports of him that have been whispered around, as they are scarcely fit for delicate ears such as ours!” Louisa teased her sister, adopting a prissy tone for a moment. “Surely you know that most of those stories are simply the result of him avoiding society as much as possible.”

“You are undoubtedly correct, but the fact remains that his Grace has been markedly cold and distant to me any time we have chanced to meet,” Charlotte smiled sadly. “It is only natural that any plotting for his affection would be distasteful to me.”

“That is not natural at all! You ought to be determined to punish him for his poor behavior, make him fall desperately in love with you, and then you could spurn him as coldly as you pleased. Or else marry him, which from what I understand provides an excellent means for one person to torment another.”

“If you think he needs to be punished, you will have to do it yourself, I do not have the heart for it,” Charlotte sighed a little. “Besides, you know, there is-”

“Jerome?” Louisa groaned, dropping to the grass heedless of her white cotton dress, resting her chin imploringly on Charlotte’s knees. “But Jerome is insufferable, darling. You aren’t obligated to care for a man just because he is your suitor!”

“The only suitor I have had, or am likely to have,” Charlotte pointed out reasonably.

“Better to die an old maid like me than spend a lifetime with a bore like him.”

“You’ll never be an old maid, I don’t care what you say. No one as beautiful and dazzling as yourself could have such a fate.”

“Bite your tongue! I enjoy far too much independence as the daughter of the Earl of Warwick to toss it away just for the sake of being someone’s wife. But don’t change the subject on me, you sly thing. Confess – if you do not have the heart to punish your dear old companion it is because that heart belongs to him. Is it not so?”

“Oh, Louisa, don’t. Certainly I feel affection for him, sadness perhaps that he did not cherish our youthful friendship the way I did, but I am hardly pining away for the man.”

Charlotte’s words lacked conviction, and did little to alter her sister’s opinion, but Louisa did not press her further. Louisa loved and admired her sister a great deal and wished she could coax her from her gentle, bookish reserve just enough that others might see her worth. Charlotte had never resented being the only girl in the family that didn’t resemble their exquisitely beautiful blonde mother, taking after their mild, near-sighted father’s instead, but Louisa fiercely resented on her behalf that outsiders considered her “the plain Warwick girl”. There was so much more to Charlotte than that.

Chapter 2

Kenneth sipped his after-dinner port, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. This was partly due to weariness, he supposed, from journeying out of London and from riding at length to survey his estate, and partly due to his enjoyment of his uncle’s company. It was every bit as distasteful as he had anticipated to return to the place where his mother had been murdered, but at least his uncle had been present, solicitously riding alongside him, as well as going over accounts and papers with him so that he could take up the mantle of his estate with ease.

The two men now rewarded themselves with glasses of port by the fire in the drawing room, enjoying a companionable silence. This was broken, at length, by Roger, who set his drink aside and shifted towards his nephew with the little grunt peculiar to men of middle-age feeling the affects of a long day on horseback. Roger Blackmore was a fine-looking man, having retained the tall and powerful build that he shared with his brother and nephew. He had never been considered to have nearly so handsome a face as his older brother, but age had brought him a sort of pleasantly distinguished air.

“It’s certainly good to have you back home, Kenneth,” he remarked easily, smiling fondly at his nephew.

“You have made me feel more at ease here than I expected to be,” Kenneth confessed. He had never kept it a secret from his uncle that he loathed spending time in the family home.

“Well, perhaps now that it is all yours you will grow to be more fond of the place, my boy. It’s a fine home, you know.” Roger spoke without any bitterness that the family title and estate did not fall to himself, having long resigned himself to his lot as a second son. He had a comfortable home and lands of his own, and appeared quite contented with his fate.

“Perhaps,” Kenneth agreed noncommittally. He knew he could never be fond of this house, but there was no sense in dragging his uncle through his own private misery.

“The best way to make a home your own, to my way of thinking, is to start a family in it. It’s high time you were married, Kenneth.”

“I have no desire whatsoever to marry now or ever,” Kenneth spoke stiffly, his entire body tensing at the very idea.

“Come, come. That was an understandable enough stance for a young nobleman sowing his wild oats, I am sure. And from what I hear tell, you sowed quite a bountiful crop, while keeping as far away from eligible young ladies and their doting mamas as possible,” Roger shook his head and smiled indulgently.

“I am afraid that the charms of the Season have always been quite wasted on me, Uncle.”

“And London offers many other charms, I am aware. However, I am afraid that your desire – or lack thereof- to marry is no longer a consideration.”

“What do you mean?” frowned Kenneth, reluctant to even ask the question.

“I mean that you are now the Duke of Rutherford and cannot afford to indulge in your distaste for matrimony any longer. It is your responsibility to our family line to marry and produce an heir.”

“Has it occurred to you that it might be better to end our family line than to perpetuate it?” Kenneth burst out before he could stop himself.

“It certainly has not! What a thing to say,” Roger exclaimed, looking quite shocked. “Such a thing is quite out of the question and I confess I am rather appalled to hear you suggest it. No, you must resign yourself to your fate, my boy. The duty and obligation of your position are quite clear and your personal wishes must be laid aside.”

“Very well,” Kenneth ground out, defeated. He knew his uncle’s words to be true enough, but had somehow avoided considering the idea that he would have to take a wife until that very moment.

“I suppose you don’t have a young lady in mind? I mean, someone of the correct standing, of course?” Roger delicately skirted the subject of the actresses and ballet dancers that Kenneth had taken up with in the past, none of which would make a suitable Duchess of Rutherford.

“No, there is no one.” Thank Providence, Kenneth added mentally. He guarded his affections quite fiercely, and deliberately kept company only with unsuitable women that he could not be expected to marry. If his hand was indeed to be forced, at least he might still wed a woman he did not love, thereby keeping her safe.

“That’s fine, that’s no obstacle at all,” Roger sounded distinctly relieved. “In fact, I have an excellent suggestion in place for you. Do you recall how much time you spent as a boy at the Earl of Warwick’s home? I do believe you were there very nearly as much as you were here after – well, after your dear mother passed away.”

Kenneth’s heart gave an involuntary leap at his uncle’s question. The Earl of Warwick’s estate had been his refuge after that horrible night, the only place that he felt safe for years. He had often reflected that if it had not been for that haven he might have been utterly lost.

The Earl and his lovely wife had been kind, welcoming him and encouraging him to visit as often as he liked. Kenneth had been shy around Lady Warwick as her motherly affection, though well-intentioned, had reminded him too painfully of the loss of his own mother. The Earl’s daughters Louisa, Selina, and Tereza, although very sweet, had been so vivacious and energetic that in his grief he felt he had nothing in common with them. It had been gentle little Charlotte Warwick who had drawn Kenneth back to visit time and again. He could picture her now, with perfect clarity, seeing her in his mind’s eye as she had been then – the angel of his tortured childhood. She demanded nothing, content to give him the simple yet vital gift of her uncomplicated presence.

Her dress and hair had always been tidy and simple, as unassuming as she herself was, although she was forever absentmindedly letting her spectacles slip down the slender bridge of her nose as she buried her face in a book. He used to slide them up into place for her, just for the reward of her sudden, brilliant smile.

They would spend hours at a time in the library, reading, perfectly content to be silent together. Other people would try to coax Kenneth to speak of his sorrow, but even at a very young age, Charlotte delicately sensed that it was too great for him to put into words. Instead she had simply offered him her favorite books, first asking him to read aloud to her, then later reading to him in turn, teaching him the life-long lesson that he could always find solace between the covers of a fine story. There had been many times in the intervening years that he really thought he might have gone mad but for that escape. Gradually he had been able to speak to her of more than just the stories they enjoyed together. He had never told her that he was certain his father had killed his mother, but that had been the only thing he held back. It would have made it too real to say the words aloud, and besides, he had not wanted to burden her with that horror. He had been able to tell her, though, how much he loved and missed his mother, how much it pained him to spend time in the company of his father, even of the nightmares that plagued him so consistently. She had been his constant companion, his confidant, the only light he could find in those dark times.

Unbidden, a memory rose before him, unfolding as if for the first time.

“Kenneth! I thought I would certainly be here long before you this morning. How long have you been sitting here?” Charlotte spoke with a slight lisp due to the gaps of several missing teeth. Her nose was sprinkled with tiny freckles, much to her mother’s chagrin, because they had been spending so much of the summer outdoors together. Kenneth’s mother had been dead for two years, and the lively horror he had felt for so long was finally dying down into a cold, permeating numbness.

“I couldn’t sleep in my bed last night,” Kenneth confessed, unashamed to speak to Charlotte of a weakness that he would have vehemently denied to anyone else. “I had my nightmare over and over, almost every time I closed my eyes. I finally just slipped out and came to sit in our spot, and then I fell asleep almost right away.”

Charlotte ducked down to join him in the shade beneath the low-hanging branches of their favorite weeping willow tree.

“It must have been an adventure to sleep out of doors,” she said admiringly. “No wonder your nightmare couldn’t find you, with the willow guarding your dreams and the stars shining down on you.”

“Do you think that my mother can look down on me too?” wondered Kenneth, fixing his eyes on her sweet face as if she held all of the answers in the universe.

“She must be able to,” Charlotte answered slowly and seriously, giving the matter great consideration. “I’ve thought about it, you know, and I don’t think she would let anything stand in the way of being able to see you sometimes, just to make sure you were growing strong. It must hurt her to see that you are so unhappy, though.”

“I’m not so terribly unhappy whenever I’m with you,” Kenneth pointed out. “So she must see that and be thankful that I have you for my friend. She must be looking after you, too, if she’s able to see me. But you know, the vicar told me that Mother is beyond all earthly sorrows and joys now. Maybe she doesn’t even remember that I ever existed.”

“I don’t believe the vicar knows half so much as he pretends to. I heard Father complaining that he just repeats the same three ideas over and over without even thinking what they mean,” Charlotte stated indignantly. “You mustn’t listen to him, Kenneth. He’s just a moldy old…” she trailed off helplessly.

“You’re terrible at calling people names,” Kenneth observed with a quick grin. “I don’t believe you have any unkindness in your whole entire body.”

“That’s what Louisa says, too. I can’t help it, I really do want to call the vicar something dreadful for putting that awful thought into your head, but you know, he must have thought he was comforting you. I don’t believe he meant to make you sad. Louisa would be able to think of deliciously spiteful things to call him, but I just can’t.”

“Well, I like you better than Louisa,” Kenneth said with staunch loyalty. “I like you better than anyone in the whole world.”

 That had been just the problem, Kenneth reflected, blinking back to the present day but still quite lost in thought, even his uncle’s presence forgotten for the moment. He had like Charlotte better than anyone, and as they had grown older he had realized that his fondness for her could easily put her in harm’s way, should his father’s violent and jealous tendencies have indeed been passed on through the blood.

He had cut off all contact with her, abruptly ending the friendship that had sustained him for so long. It was unkind, and he knew that she was deeply grieved and puzzled by his actions, but it was better by far that her feelings be temporarily wounded than her light be extinguished forever. He had loathed the idea that she would one day fall in love with someone and marry, but that was a small price to pay for the assurance of her safety. He had resolved then to never marry, to never open himself up to the possibility of loving any woman. It had been easy to stand firm on that decision, despite the affection that so many women lavished on him, for no woman had ever given him the same sense of comfort and well-being.

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