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Chapter 1

A FORTUNE HUNTER SCHEMES TO CATCH AN EARL

 
Applewood Cottage,
Birdwell, England,
April 1813

“Mother! Someone’s coming!”

Grace Margaret Miller hurried through the little stone cottage, stepping over and around the many crates and boxes still scattered over the floor. The family had arrived at Applewood Cottage only three days before and there was still so much to be unpacked, sorted out, and put away.

And, in some cases, very carefully hidden from view.

“Who is it, Grace? We’re not expecting anyone!” Her mother, Patience Vane Miller, came rushing out of the larger of the two sleeping rooms.

“I don’t know who it is.” Grace peered out through the heavy glass of the windows. “It looks like a man – a tradesman – and a woman walking with him. I would guess she’s his wife. They just turned off of the road and they’re coming up our lane!”

“Oh, my heaven! It could be anyone, come to welcome us to Birdwell! Run and find your brothers. Tell them to get their – tell them to find him and bring him inside. They must hide him and keep him quiet, as always. Remind them to be gentle! They know where the bottle is, if needed.”

“Are you sure they know where anything is in this place?”

“Oh, my dear, the bottle was the first thing in their young lives that John and Noah learned about. They know where it is at all times. Now run and tell them, and then you run right back out here and help me with this!”

Grace sighed, gathered her rough woolen skirts, and stepped quickly over and around the clutter on the floor. In a moment, she was out through the rear door and into the high-walled garden attached to the back of the cottage. A quick glance showed her the silent, motionless figure sitting on a stone bench in the far corner.

Reaching into her apron pocket with shaking hands, she found the key and opened the solid wooden gate that led outside. “John! Noah!” she cried, looking out at the large, three-acre apple orchard with its hundreds of bare trees in neatly spaced rows. “Come in! Quickly! Come in now!”

To her relief, the two boys appeared from where they had been playing some game around the trees. John, fourteen years of age, was shy and soft-spoken while Noah, just twelve, was a little bundle of mischief. “Bring him in. Immediately. Someone is here! You know what to do.”

Grace had been worried that her brothers might complain or simply ignore her, but they seemed to understand and came running in. She waited just long enough to lock the gate after them, and then ran back inside to join her mother.

Who would be calling on them now? They hadn’t had enough time to get their home in order and were in no position to receive any sort of guests, not even the tradesmen and servants who lived in Birdwell. But as she got back to the half-open front door, she realized that her mother’s high-pitched voice sounded quite happy and excited.

“Oh, yes, come in, come in!” cried Patience, holding the door partly closed behind her. “I’m so glad to see you! Though I am sorry we have so little for you to see. We’re still moving in! Grace! Where is that girl? I’m sure she’s here – just let me go and see – ”

She turned around, pushing the door open, nearly hitting Grace with it. Quickly, her mother caught Grace’s arm, pulled her out to the front lawn of the cottage, and shut the door.

“It’s all right, dear,” Patience said brightly. “Your Uncle Leonard Vane and Aunt Betsey are here, come to visit!”

With a small curtsey, Grace smiled at their guests. She had only seen them once or twice before in her life, but was well aware that they were her mother’s brother, Uncle Leonard, and his wife, Aunt Betsey – and that they were the people who owned this cottage.

“Thank you for coming,” said Grace. “I’m looking forward to getting to know both of you, now that – now that we’re all here.”

“Oh, quick, now, Grace, go back inside and move some of those crates and things. We must have a place for our guests to sit down! And do we have anything to serve? Cake, anything?”

“Patience Miller. Please. I beg you,” said Aunt Betsey. There was great weariness and exasperation in her voice. She was an older, grey-haired woman in the plain dress, apron, and woolen shawl of a tradesman’s wife – which she was. Grace noticed that she carried a large cloth bundle beneath one arm.

“We know you just arrived,” her aunt went on. “We didn’t come expecting dinner at Worthington House.”

“Worthington!” Patience turned and glanced out at the great estate up on the faraway hill. It was over a mile from Applewood, but easily seen due to the supreme height on which it rested. “We have no hope of being invited to Worthington. Though I do hear there is an unmarried earl living there – ”

“We don’t need to go inside the cottage,” said Uncle Leonard. “We are perfectly fine to speak with you right here, in the front garden.” He was a man in his fifties, of medium height, dressed in the old and threadbare suit that was his daily uniform for managing his little fabric and ribbon shop on the main street of Birdwell. “We have simply come to ask after your well-being and see if there is anything else you and your children might require.”

Patience seemed to relax slightly and stood close to Grace while holding onto her arm. “We couldn’t ask for anything more,” Patience said, a little more softly. “This cottage – it’s – I’m well aware that it’s – ” Her voice broke and she dropped her head into her hand, leaning against her daughter.

Grace patted her mother’s shoulder. “Uncle Leonard, I have not had the chance to thank you properly, either. We know this is your cottage. And we are very grateful that you are allowing us to stay here.”

“Yes, yes, very grateful!” said Patience, straightening up and fumbling for a handkerchief in her own apron pocket. “Very kind of both of you to allow a widowed sister and her three poor children to live in the cottage you own.”

All three of them shot Patience a look, but she simply went on talking. “One day, I promise we will invite you for the finest supper! I’ll make it myself – I was a kitchen maid at Northcliff, you know, for five years – and Grace will help – ”

“That is all very well, Patience,” said Betsey. “But for the moment, do you suppose we could sit down on the benches under the tree?”

“Of course, of course!” Patience led Grace over to the three worn wooden benches beneath the single oak tree that grew between the cottage and the road. Grace sat down close to her mother and waited for Leonard and Betsey to join them.

“I promise,” said Patience, “that we will be ready to show you some proper hospitality very soon. Won’t we, Grace?”

“Of course.” Grace glanced at her aunt and uncle as they sat down on their own bench. “Of course. You are welcome here anytime.”

Aunt Betsey simply rolled her eyes and settled the large cloth bag on her lap. “Don’t worry about us. We didn’t come here looking for an invitation to our own – ” She stopped suddenly as her husband nudged her with his elbow. “That is, we have more important things to discuss with you and Grace.”

It was Betsey’s turn to nudge her husband, and he responded by reaching into his coat for something in an inner pocket.

“Discuss with us? What do you mean?” said Patience, holding more tightly to Grace’s arm. “What has happened now?”

“Oh, I think you will both like this,” said Leonard. From inside his coat, he drew out what looked like a small piece of white paper and offered it to Grace. “I think you will like this very much indeed.”

Quickly, Patience snatched it out of his hand and studied it. “Oh! Oh, my – it’s – Grace, do you know what this is?”

“No. I don’t. But I might if you will let me see it.” Still sitting on the bench, Grace took the piece of paper from her mother and examined it closely. “I’m sorry. I still don’t know what this is.”

“Of course you don’t!” Patience cried. “Poor girl that you are – no coming-out, no fine gown, no invitations to anything out there at that northern house – not with you and your mother being servants there – your young brothers with no schooling and working all day in the barnyards, and your father nothing, but a coachman – ”

“But now, Grace,” said Uncle Leonard, quickly breaking in and trying to ignore his distraught sister, “all that is over. You are holding the first of what will be many new opportunities for you.”

“It’s a ticket to an assembly ball! In just ten days!” Patience grabbed the ticket from Grace and held it as though it were made of pure gold. “And you, my dear, are going to attend!”

“An assembly ball?” repeated Grace. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memories of endless drudgery at the isolated Northcliff estate where she had lived for most of her life.

“That means,” cried Patience, “that anyone with a ticket may attend! Oh, how exciting!”

“That’s right,” said Aunt Betsey. “Now give that to me.” She held out her hand until Patience reluctantly handed back the ticket, and then tucked it into the little knitted bag that hung from her wrist. “Thank you. Now, this is the very first assembly ball to be held for many years here in Birdwell. There have been private dances up at Worthington, of course, from time to time, but those were far too fine for any of us who are merely in trade.”

Uncle Leonard nodded. “But rumor has it that now, since our town has been growing of late, the family at Worthington wants to see some wholesome amusements provided for we working-class folk. Most likely it is done in an effort to keep us to more, shall we say, ‘respectable’ means of passing the time.”

Patience froze for a moment, but Aunt Betsey actually managed a smile. “I hope that the first to benefit from Birdwell’s revived assembly ball will be Grace.”

Grace nodded, her eyes wide. It felt strange to be the one receiving such generosity. “I am sure I will benefit,” she went on, a little puzzled. “Attending a ball would be such fun! I cannot imagine what it might be like. I used to see the ladies arriving for such things at Northcliff, and occasionally the servants would try the dances out in the yard when no one was looking. But I never thought that I myself – ”

“Miss Miller,” her uncle said sternly, leaning forward, “you must be very clear about this. We are not sending you to this ball solely for your own amusement. You have a very serious task ahead of you.”

“Task?” Her heart began to beat faster and she suddenly felt very nervous. “What – what do you mean? What kind of task?”

Uncle Leonard started to speak, but then stopped. He glanced at his wife as though pleading with her to say what he could not.

With another deep sigh, Aunt Betsey looked straight at Patience. “You are all well aware that this was my home before you came here. This little cottage was very comfortable for my husband and I, and near enough to Birdwell that we could easily walk to our shop there. And frankly, I should like to have it back again before too much time passes.”

Grace looked down, feeling suddenly very low for having turned this woman out of her home. It did not matter that neither she, nor anyone else in the Miller family had had any wish to do so.

“But Mr. Vane and I discussed the matter,” Aunt Betsey went on. “We agreed that this was the only Christian thing to do. We sold the three acres of apple trees surrounding the cottage and kept only this half acre, which has just enough room for the cottage and the walled vegetable garden.”

“That sale provides the money for your upkeep,” Uncle Leonard explained. “But it will not last forever.”

Aunt Betsey glanced him. “I will not be so polite,” she said. “We are all in need of money. My husband and I have our shop, which provides a small income. Patience, you were a kitchen maid in a great house. We propose that you create pastries and dainties for us to sell in our shop a few times per week, and we would share the profits with you.”

“Oh, I should love to do that! I could put my name on them, just like the city bakers do!”

“No. No. You could not,” insisted Uncle Leonard.

“But – ”

“No one is to know that you do aught but care for your lovely daughter and your two young sons, living at ease in your country cottage,” Uncle Leonard continued.

“I could work, too,” Grace said, rising to her feet. “I was a maid-of-all-work at Northcliff. I can clean, polish, launder, haul water, carry wood – whatever is needed. Surely someone here – ”

“Again, no,” Uncle Leonard said firmly. “You will work, Miss Grace. But not in the way you think.”

Slowly, Grace sat down on the bench again, almost afraid to ask anything further.

“I’ll be the one to tell you, Grace,” said Aunt Betsey. “You are the best hope for this family’s future. You have no other male relatives, save your Uncle Leonard. Your brothers are too young to earn more than a pittance. They would be better off with some schooling anyway, so they do not grow up to be rough, ignorant men.”

“They are not ignorant!” cried Patience, shocked. “I taught them to read myself. And they can write – a little!”

Betsey ignored her. “My husband and I agree that Grace must marry and marry well. It will certainly be a better life for her than working until she drops in the dark hallways of some enormous house, which is about all she can look forward to now.”

“I see,” Grace whispered, not knowing whether she should feel thrilled or horrified. “Perhaps at the ball I might meet a successful tradesman or farmer . . . even a preacher, or a young soldier.”

But Aunt Betsey sat up very straight on the bench, clutching her large cloth bag. “You still do not understand!” she admonished. “I said that you are to marry well.”

“But – I am a servant – ” Grace felt like dissolving into despair. How could she possibly do what her aunt and uncle expected her to do?

“Listen to me,” Aunt Betsey said. “I told you I would not be polite. There is no time for niceties when the bills are coming due and your brothers need new breeches.

“You have an entire family who needs what a well-to-do husband can provide,” she went on. “Surely you can understand that it is your duty to marry such a man – That you must set your sights as high as possible. That you should aim for the young earl himself!”

Grace looked up. Her mother caught her breath. “Oh!” said Patience. “Will Earl Worthington be there, at the assembly ball? Oh, how exciting!”

“That is not known,” said Uncle Leonard. “The ladies who come to our shop have long said that though he does enjoy the company of pretty young women, he does not find large social gatherings to his taste. But you still must be ready, Miss Miller.”

“I must say that I agree,” said Patience, who was nodding beside her. “And even if he is not there and you hit a lower mark, it will still be higher than what you would have had otherwise! Oh, my dear, every eligible man in the county will be there. One of them is sure to be more than suitable for us!”

“For us?” said Grace, turning to look at her mother.

“For you, of course!” said Patience, and laughed happily.

Grace stood up and paced a few steps across the worn green grass of the lawn. “But Aunt Betsey – Uncle Leonard – the fact remains that I am nothing but a servant. I have never been anything else, never will be anything else. None but a simple tradesman would ever consider me, and a man like the earl would not look twice. I would only be wasting my time, and yours.”

“Please, Miss Miller,” Uncle Leonard said, shaking his head. “The point of all of this is that you will not be going to the ball as a servant. You will go nowhere ever again as a servant. That girl no longer exists.”

“But – what do you mean?”

Aunt Betsey actually smiled. “We have a plan,” she said. “And once we are done with you, the earl – and every other man at the ball – will look at you far more than twice!”

Grace sat back, feeling stunned. “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “It feels like the whole world is spinning!”

“It will stop soon enough,” said Aunt Betsey, and passed the bundle in her lap over to Grace.

“In there, are two slightly worn, but perfectly respectable muslin dresses, along with a bonnet. You have not yet come into town and no one has seen you. Tomorrow, you will come to us in the shop for further planning and you will wear one of these dresses. Do not think of wearing your servant garb ever again.”

“You are no longer a servant. You never were a servant,” Uncle Leonard repeated firmly. “You must never forget that. Your future, and that of your family depends on it.”

Chapter 2

AN EARL SCHEMES TO AVOID A FORTUNE HUNTER

 

“Simon! Simon! Quickly! The bees – they’re all around me! Oh, help me, please, take this plate away!”

Thomas, better known as the Earl Worthington, sat on the hillside just below the enormous, castle-like house where he and his family lived. It was a beautiful spring day and he was surrounded by his trusted male friends and by several of the prettiest young ladies in the county, enjoying a picnic atop blankets spread over the grass.

Or rather – he would have been enjoying it, if not for the behavior of one of the young married women at the picnic.

Almost from the moment the party had arrived at the hillside, Beatrice Clarke had complained loudly about practically everything: the sun, the ants, the honeybees, the wind, the leaves that fell onto her plate – everything. And to make things worse, Beatrice was the newly married wife of Thomas’s close and loyal friend, Simon Clarke.

Thomas watched as Simon hurried over to his wife’s side. “What can I do, dear? Do you want to change your place again? Is the sun bothering you in this spot?”

“No! Didn’t you hear me? It’s these bees! They’re everywhere! Get this plate away!”

The entire gathering watched, fascinated, as Simon awkwardly took her plate full of cakes in one hand and tried to help her up with the other. “Oh! You’ve trod on my skirts! Why do you have to be so clumsy? Get off, get off!”

No one said a word. Finally, Simon managed to get his young wife to her feet and brush away the honeybees who had been drawn by the sugary cakes. “I want to go inside!” she demanded.

“Oh, but – my dear, please,” Simon said, in a small voice that was not much more than a whisper. “We’ve only just arrived. The earl is here to join us. We cannot leave now.”

“You stay then, if you cannot leave your dearest earl,” retorted Beatrice. She obviously did not care if everyone heard her berating her husband. “Just leave your poor wife to the ravages of the sun and the ants and the bees, with no chance to eat properly!”

With a deep sigh, Simon gave up and took Beatrice’s arm. “Come in, then,” he said, walking her along towards the house as quickly as he could.

The rest of the group seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and then went back to their pleasant conversation and laughter. Yet Thomas could not help but wonder what had happened to his good friend’s sweet and lovely young bride. In just the three months since the wedding, she had become selfish and demanding to the point of being  rude and dismissive of her husband in public . . . and actually seemed proud of treating him that way.

Thomas lay back on the blanket and gazed up at the blue sky, watching the soft grey-white clouds drifting through it. He was well aware that his mother was becoming very concerned about his being married and wanted him to find a suitable bride as soon as possible. Lady Worthington had actually succeeded in restarting a series of subscription balls down in the village of Birdwell, and of course, she would expect him to attend.

Finding young and pretty feminine companions was no trouble for him. He was surrounded by them at this small picnic, mostly invited by his mother. But a wife? However did one know for sure whether he was getting a sweet-tempered companion or a selfish shrew who was only after the man with the biggest purse and the largest house?

It actually made him feel helpless, in a way. There was no hiding his great wealth as the proprietor of Worthington. Scattered on these grassy hills were the best herds of prime Teeswater cattle, good for both beef and milk and quite attractive with their splashy, red roan coloring and short, curving horns.

Thomas had found that he quite enjoyed the scientific side of farming. He loved trying to improve the animals, their pastures, and their corn, and found it very rewarding to see the local farmers make use of the excellent meat, milk, and feed, all of which had been created right here on his own estate.

Raising good herds and feed crops was not just a satisfying pastime. It was also very profitable. It allowed Thomas to both improve the estate and maintain a small herd of broodmares of various types, whose offspring added even more money to his coffers.

Never had it seemed possible that his fortune would cause him trouble. Most everyone saw wealth as the answer to all of life’s problems. But Thomas knew that these delightful young women enjoying the picnic with him were not here simply for his company. They were well aware that that he was a successful man from a wealthy and titled family. His wife – whoever she turned out to be – would always have the very best that life had to offer.

Thomas closed his eyes. Sometimes, he almost wished he was poor . . . at least, just long enough to find a wife who might actually want him for himself alone. Someone who would not turn out to be a fortune hunter like the ever-nagging and complaining Beatrice Clarke.

#

Just as the twilight faded and true night fell, Thomas sat out on the expansive covered front portico of the great house and gazed out into the darkness. To the north, he could easily see, perhaps a mile away, the torches and lamps of the town of Birdwell, as well as the many scattered lights from the farmhouses all around it.

His friend, Simon Clarke, sat in the other chair. The small table between them held a lantern with a beeswax candle, a couple of glasses, and a fine brandy.

Inside the house, some of his friends from the picnic that afternoon were all enjoying some wine and a few card games. Thomas noted that Beatrice was especially good at cards and seemed very fond of a little gambling.

“Where did your wife learn to play?” asked Thomas. “She seems to enjoy it very much.”

He heard Simon take a deep breath. “Apparently, her mother whiles away many hours at cards. Beatrice learned the rudiments of a few games there, and  . . . and begged me to show her more.”

“So you did.”

He sighed. “I don’t like having my wife gamble and waste her time on such pursuits. But – ”

“But you will pay hell if you don’t allow it.” Thomas stood up and refilled both his own glass and Simon’s from the brandy decanter. “I’m sure I shouldn’t be so blunt, but I’m sorry for you.”

Simon merely shrugged and took another sip of his brandy. “I did it to myself. My parents adored her. She was so beautiful . . . so sweet, so thoughtful, so demure . . . I was swept away by her, by all that she offered me. In a fit of passion, I asked her to marry me. And now . . . ”

“Yes, now.” Thomas cleared his throat. “Simon. Did you know that my own parents tried their best to have me marry Beatrice? They, too, thought she would be an ideal wife.”

“Yes, I do know,” Simon said, after a moment. “Beatrice told me about it the very first time we quarreled – which was the morning after our wedding night. And she has brought it up to me many times since, seeming to delight in holding it over my head that the earl himself wanted her for his wife.”

Thomas couldn’t help but smile a little. “My friend, if I had truly wished to marry her, I would have.”

“Then I have to ask why you did not.”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, and walked a few slow steps towards the edge of the portico. The lights down below still glowed steadily. “I certainly found her just as pretty as you did, and just as sweet and accommodating. And yet . . . ”

“Yet?”

“I cannot name it. Maybe it’s just that I tend to be drawn towards dark-haired women and not the golden-hairs.”

Both of them laughed. “That is as good a reason as any,” said Simon. “But don’t feel too sorry for me. I still have hope that she will turn back to the person she was during our courtship. I still have hope that I can find a way to make her happy and that there will be peace and conviviality in our home.”

“Hope is not a plan, my friend,” said Thomas. “You cannot build your life on it. It will not feed you, or protect you, or keep you warm at night.”

“But it’s all I have.” Simon reached for the brandy bottle again. “It’s all that keeps me going, much of the time.” He sighed. “I am twenty-four years old. And already I find myself living in the same way as so many of the old men that I see. They lead entirely separate lives from their selfish and ill-tempered wives, who care nothing about a husband’s happiness as long as they have their own.”

“And his fortune.”

“And his fortune.”

“You must mind that fortune very closely, Simon. When women gamble, they often lose everything. Do not let her do that to you. She has taken enough already. Do not allow her to ruin you with wild spending and profligate gambling in an effort to impress everyone in England except you. You really could lose all you have.”

“I know. I know all too well.” Simon drank the entire glass of brandy in one long draught. “It’s just that I do not understand how anyone, man or woman, could change so much from meeting to marriage.”

“Well, anyone, man or woman, can choose to be deceptive. I think your true question is: How did you not detect any signs of trouble beforehand?”

Simon laughed. “Which is the same as saying: How did she make such a fool of me?”

“Women make fools of us all.”

“But surely not like this. Surely not to the point of losing all hope for a happy life.” Suddenly, he slammed the empty glass back down on the small table. “I was willing to be married, but not like this! How could I have gotten it so wrong?”

Thomas could hear the despair in his friend’s voice. “I don’t know. But I’m afraid my own family is only increasing the pressure on me to marry. They want an heir for Worthington and so far, I am all they have. That’s not enough.”

“Well, not into the next generations, no. I suppose not.”

“And I am still faced with the same problem that you had. That every wealthy man has: How do I find a wife who might love me at least a little, and who is not simply putting on a show to gain my family’s fortune? Any woman can have the face of an angel and the airs of a delicate fawn when her cap is set for you, and then become a snarling she-wolf, determined to control all you have once married.”

Simon just poured himself another brandy. “But how can you stop it? I don’t want you to end up as I have. But how can you know for sure that your wife will not change, as mine did? As so many do?”

Thomas was truly saddened by the defeat and weariness in his friend’s voice. He sat down again and reached for the bottle, pouring his own brandy before it was all gone. “I mentioned earlier that my mother has restarted the subscription balls down in Birdwell.”

“You did. It’s been a number of years since they were last held.”

“It has. And I intend to go.”

Slowly, for the brandy was evidently leaving him quite relaxed, Simon turned to look at Thomas. “Are you, now? Hope to find a simple country girl, do you, and try your luck marrying one of those?”

Thomas just grinned and took another sip of the good brandy. “Not quite,” he said, lowering the glass. “But I have it in mind to try another way of finding a bride. I’ve been to countless parties and balls and picnics and hunts, with no luck. I intend to try another way of finding the sort of wife I hope for.”

---

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Chapter 1: A Surprising Encounter

Luke leaned back in the leather chair and sighed.

Of all the things I wish for most, there’s nothing I wish more than for Carrington to shut up, he mused. He wasn’t about to say anything, of course. Although, he had the suspicion it showed on his face. He tried to wipe the sneer away, but failed.

Of all the things he wanted to hear, another of Carrington’s stories about his latest conquests was not one of them. Opposite him, Alexander Carrington, his grace, the Duke of Elsmoor, paused in his narrative to take a sip of brandy and give Luke a hard stare.

“What?” Luke asked mildly.

Carrington said nothing. He very pointedly said nothing. He tipped back the last of his brandy and slammed the crystal glass on the table, all the while keeping his icy gaze locked on Luke.

Luke frowned. What the deuce is the matter with him?

“I think it’s time I left,” Carrington continued. Again, he was staring at Luke.

Luke shrugged. “If you have some engagement to attend, then…”

“I think I am being encouraged to go,” Carrington said icily.

“Oh! Alex, old boy, not at all,” one of his friends – a fellow Luke barely knew – protested loudly. “We were all waiting to hear what happened next.” He looked put-out, giving Luke a pointed stare.

“I think I’m being encouraged to continue my narrative elsewhere,” Carrington announced.

He lifted his velvet jacket from the peg by the door and shrugged it on. Luke heard a low growl escape the vaguely-familiar man’s throat.

“By gumption, Carrington! I’ll give whatever knave’s putting you off a good lesson…”

“No need, Wiltshire,” Carrington said thinly. “Those of us with interesting lives can go and continue discussing them elsewhere.”

He raised a brow at Luke as he spoke.

Somebody chuckled. Somebody else cheered. On Luke’s left, Lord Canmure drunkenly pushed back his chair, springing to his feet in Luke’s defense.

Luke just raised a brow.

I don’t care if he thinks my life is interesting or not. I know that I find his quite boring.

He didn’t air that thought, however— he just gave Carrington a mild stare.

“If you want to go elsewhere, then, feel free. I’ll stay on a while longer.”

The room bristled with imminent violence. Carrington drew in a breath. His friends had all stood from the card-table and flanked him. On Luke’s side of the table, only Canmure and Exfield stayed. Luke, out of everyone in the room, was the only one who remained seated.

“If you’re so pitiable that you want to stay here and mope about Stella Longfield, then you can stay,” his adversary hissed.

Luke blinked. Outwardly, he stayed calm. Inwardly, he reeled from the blast. Stella Longfield! That was a cruel slap.

Few people, save Luke’s immediate friends, knew about his brief, but ill-fated romance. He had been truly interested in Lady Stella, but her attachment seemed superficial. She’d left town with only a distant goodbye, heading up to Yorkshire, where she’d become affianced to a Mr. Huntstone. Luke still mourned her loss.

Carrington held his gaze in open challenge.

“I think what I choose to think about when I drink is no matter for open discussion,” he said lightly.

This time, he did push back his chair. He felt his hand go to his belt as Carrington drew out one of his silk gloves. He felt that stony gray gaze hold his, and he stared back. The room tensed with the promise of violence.

“Well, lads, it’s time to light the lamps, what?” a voice mumbled indistinctly.

Luke let out a breath as the proprietor of Milway House, an old ex-soldier by the name of Major Banksfield, came in. He didn’t look at either faction, but went straight to the wall and started to pour the lamp-oil. All the same, Luke and every other man in the room knew the old Major’s policy about dueling. They knew he would go straight to the newly-created Watch and report them all. This, in turn, would attract the ire of the Prince Regent, who was vehemently against such scandal.

“I won’t forget this,” Carrington murmured.

“I might remember, too,” Luke replied insolently.

Carrington, who had been halfway to the door, turned around and glared at him. He was about to come back to Luke, but one of his friends, Wainsley, laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Alexander,” he said. “You know we should go.”

Carrington shot Luke a hard glare, but left. Their booted feet echoed down the hallway, then even that sound disappeared.

Luke leaned back in the chair, relaxing as he heard their horses leave the stables.

“That was close,” Exfield said. “What a clod-pate, eh?”

“Nothing happened, Exfield,” Luke said mildly, stretching as he shifted on the leather seat. He pretended nonchalance, but in truth, he was still tense from the encounter.

A duel with Carrington was no idle threat – the fellow was rumored to have shot an army officer recently. Nobody knew if it was true, but certainly Carrington’s skill with a pistol was well-known, and it wasn’t something Luke wanted to encounter first-hand. He lifted the remains of his brandy and drank it, wincing at the bad taste.

“This club could surely get better brandy?” he asked Canmure.

Canmure, Luke’s longtime friend from their Oxford days, gave him a squint-eyed stare. Whatever the quality of the brandy, he had been drinking it steadily since they arrived mid-afternoon, and was in no fit state to comment on anything.

Luke turned away, staring into the fire.

The Milway Club, like so many of the clubs in London, had many layers. On the surface, it was simply a place for a drink, cards, and relaxation. Luke knew there was prostitution involved, but he himself had never gone up to the rooms above the card-room. He also knew there were other aspects to the club, involving contraband and illegal trade, but he did not participate in them.

I wish sometimes that I could escape London. Life in the Indies seemed much better— more authentic.

He closed his brown eyes, recalling the feel of sunlight, bronzing his skin. The scent of spice on the air. The humid heat of the forests and the sound of myriad bright-feathered birds.

“Is this the card-room?” a voice said at the door.

Luke’s eyes shot open in surprise. He saw Exfield shoot to his feet, and Canmure turned his head, blearily staring in the direction of the doorway.

Luke looked there, too, and stared.

A young woman stood in the doorway. She was well-dressed, in a white muslin gown, which was trimmed with blue, and a blue jacket. Her bonnet was white, the ribbon-ties were blue satin. It was none of that which held his gaze, however, nor – though his eyes wandered there – her trim figure and high bust. It was her eyes. They were brown and warm as summer sun. Those beautiful eyes looked straight into his.

“Hello,” he said, swallowing hard. “Yes, it is.”

“I see,” she said carefully. “Can I come in?”

“Can you?” Luke asked. “I mean, um…yes, milady. Why not?”

He swallowed hard, again. He was goggling at her like a fish, and he caught himself, snapping his eyes from her lovely soft features, her rose-lipped mouth, and over to Canmure, who was so focused on the apparition in the doorway that he was about to fall out of his seat.

“Milady,” he said quickly, standing up and grabbing Canmure’s shoulders to pull him backward into the seat and save them all from embarrassment. “Sit here, if you like.”

He winced as Canmure grunted, then slumped back, reaching for the seat as though his brief intervention had merely been a passing mistake. He drew back the chair where Carrington had been sitting earlier.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Can I get you a drink?” Exfield asked.

His eyes had gone big. Luke, returning to his seat, stepped on his friend’s foot, making him shoot upright in his chair. As he glared at him, Luke forced a smile at the lady.

“I can find you some cordial?” he asked her.

“Um, thank you,” she said shyly. “That would be nice.”

“…name?” Canmure mumbled as Luke walked briskly across the room, looking for Major Banksfield.

“Um…what’s my name, you mean?” the woman said, quite affably. “I’m Miss Emilia Hudson.”

Luke conveyed quickly to the major that he wanted raspberry cordial, and the major gave him an odd look, but went to do as he asked. When Luke strode back to the table, Exfield and Canmure, both the worse for drink, were leaning forward in their seats, enraptured.

“I was in my coach, you see,” Miss Hudson was saying, as the two men listened intently. “And the wheel…there’s something wrong with it. My coachman has gone for tools, but I came in here, to see if I could find help.”

As she heard him come back, the woman twisted round in her seat and looked fetchingly at him.

Luke felt his insides melt. His whole body suffused with warmth. With that look of mute appeal, her big eyes wide, her mouth dropping into a sweet little “o,” she was breathtaking. He felt his lips lift in a smile, then realized that he must look as inane as his friends and pulled himself together.

“Um, the wheel?” he asked instead, sitting down with a thud. “You know what’s the matter with it?”

“Um, well, not exactly…” she said, sounding distressed.

Of course, she doesn’t, Luke! he told himself impatiently. What do you think she is, a bleeding carpenter? You probably wouldn’t know anything much more than she does about wheels.

“I see,” he said instead. “Well, do not fret, milady,” he declared with his best gallant-knight expression. “I will organize a coach for you.”

“You would?” she asked, eyes shining like stars. “Well, that would be ideal…” she began.

Then, to his horror, her face crumpled. Luke felt his heart turn to ice.

“What?” he asked, quickly reaching for his handkerchief.

Beside him, Exfield put out a hand to pat her shoulder. Luke glared at him so ferociously that Exfield let his hand drop to his side.

“Um, you see…” Miss Hudson said carefully, “I was traveling with luggage, and I had something important in the coach, to take back to Father. And now I don’t know what to do…”

Luke saw her take out a handkerchief and dab her eyes. He frowned.

“We can have it all transferred,” he said quickly, wishing that he’d come here in his own coach. “I can hire out the whole stage-coach, if need be?”

“It’s not so simple,” Miss Hudson said.

“Yes, it is,” Luke began grandly. “I have plenty of money, and…”

“It’s not that,” she said, dabbing at her tears. “It’s…I can’t explain!” I…” she looked at Canmure, who had fallen asleep, and Exfield, then back at him, almost as if she wished they were not being overheard.

I could wish that, too, Luke thought, feeing his own heart race. Miss Hudson, while fetching and lovely, was not a woman he could consider as a partner. However, he would like nothing more than to kiss her, to know her better. Maybe his father wouldn’t mind, or even know, if he asked him for the small apartment in Highbury to let her occupy, and…

“What is it?” he asked.

Again, she looked round pointedly at the two and back at him. “Sir? If you would only step outside with me a moment, I could show you.”

Luke almost gasped. He nodded, knowing he probably looked like a puppet in some grotesque booth show. Breathing deeply, he got a grip on himself. He nodded.

“Um, yes,” he said quickly. “Of course, Miss.”

She rewarded him with a big smile.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

Shooting upright, Luke waited until she had left the room’s door, and then followed quickly outside. In the yard, she led him to a coach.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, expecting her to show him the damage. He looked down at it, casting his eyes on the wheels. Wooden and painted with dark varnish, it seemed undamaged, at least to his untutored eye.

“Not down there,” Miss Hudson said gently. “If you could look inside, please, sir?”

“Inside?” Luke swallowed hard. She wanted him to get in? Really?

Stepping eagerly up into the back of the coach, he sat down on the leather seat. Miss Hudson, much to his disappointment, didn’t follow him in. She stayed outside, round the back, out of sight.

“What is it?” he called again. “What was it you wish me to see?”

“Over there,” she said, again from round the back. Her voice sounded muffled. “On the seat, across the coach.”

“Where?” Luke asked, reaching across to the other seat. “Behind the padding, or…?”

As he rummaged around, trying to draw the leather-covered cushion forward, searching for whatever of import was hiding here, he heard a sound— the coach door, swinging shut.

“Miss Hudson?” he called. He pushed on the door. As he did so, he heard it lock, from the outside, a sharp click.

“Yah!” he heard the coachman yell, and to his utter astonishment, the coach whisked hastily away. With Luke trapped inside.

 

 

 

Chapter 2: An unexpected surprise

On the roof of the coach, Emilia hung on grimly as they sped away. Clinging to the driver’s seat that was largely occupied by the stocky body of Harris, their driver, she shivered as the cold wind cut through her outdoor cloak. It wasn’t only the cold that was making her shiver.

I do hope we can do this properly.

The abduction was easy – distressingly easy. Carrington had fallen for it with even more ease than Emilia had expected.

I wasn’t expecting a hardened smuggling-lord to fall for my ruse so readily.

She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or discomforted. Had it really been so easy to tempt somebody into a coach? It wasn’t a skill she wanted to uncover in herself. And it wasn’t a side of gentlemen she wanted to know: it distressed her to think they were so ready to take advantage of an unchaperoned woman.

Now I know why June, my maid, always warns me not to go to the park alone.

“Where to now, milady?” Harris asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Back home, Harris.”

Emilia wrapped her cloak more tightly about her and gritted her teeth, trying not to let her worries overwhelm her.

The coach rattled down the streets, flashing past coffee-houses and bakehouses, people promenading along the sidewalk. Emilia was glad she’d thought to sew the curtains together – there was no way that the Duke of Elsmoor could see out or alert anybody to his prisoner-status in the back.

At last, with her nerves shattered by worry, they drew up at her house.

“Into the coach-house, fast!” she ordered.

Harris chuckled. “Yes, milady. I know the idea.”

“I know, Harris,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Of all the people on their staff, Harris was the only one who knew of her father’s illicit dealings with the Leedgate Club, and the Milway. He had run such errands for the earl before, and they could trust him with all kinds of information they couldn’t give anyone else.

Now, steadily, Harris guided the coach into the vast, darkened coach-house, slamming the doors. Emilia let out a sigh of relief.

“Blindfold him,” she ordered authoritatively.

Harris nodded and, without missing a beat, reached into the coach and gripped their prisoner by the back of the neck. A prize-fighter, who her father had rescued from the pit, Harris was as strong and unshakeable as he was trustworthy. He seemed to have subdued the fellow with no trouble, because aside from a brief and wordless scuffle, there was no difficulty. The next thing Emilia knew, he was drawing their prisoner out of the coach, his head covered by a black linen bag.

“Harris?” she asked, falling in alongside the man as he strode, still half-dragging their captive up the hallway.

“Yes?”

“You’re certain he can breathe…?”

“Mortal certain, milady,” he grinned. “There’s little holes, see?”

“Well, if you say so…” she trailed off.

He chuckled and started to march the fellow up the stairs.

Emilia followed behind. Her head reeled. Had they really succeeded in capturing the duke? She went through the events in her mind. One, find the club. He would be in the card-room, drinking with his friends, if she got there after lunch. He always was, or so her father said. Two, identify Lord Carrington. He was tall, her father had said, with a hawk-like face, and he was handsome, in his own way. He should be around eight-and-twenty years old. Emilia nodded to herself.

Well, this one’s tall, for certain. And hawk-like, and handsome, in his own way…

She shook her head at herself, impatiently. She wasn’t about to soften to him. This was the man who put her father through misery. He made her father cry!

She bit her lip, making herself cold with rage. She was showing him no quarter.

“In here, milady?” Harris asked. They had reached the top of the stairs. A small house, in comparison to their vast residence in the countryside, Mowbray House had a small attic with one cramped room. The door to this room was open now.

Emilia nodded. “Yes, Harris. In here.”

Harris shoved the duke through the doorway. He landed hard and Emilia winced as his knees hit the wood, resoundingly.

Harris shut the door and locked it, then turned to her.

“Anything else, milady?”

“No. Thank you, Harris. You can go.”

“Thanks, milady,” Harris said gently. “You take care, now.”

“Yes, Harris,” she called as he walked down the stairs. He had a slow, heavy tread, with a limp on his bad leg. “I’ll try.”

She waited until Harris had gone. Then, walking as quietly as she could, she headed back down the wooden servant’s staircase, through the door into the main hallway, and then up the carpeted hall to her father’s small study.

“Papa?” she called nervously from the doorway. She could hear him talking in a low voice, and knew he wasn’t happy if she overheard business.

“Thank you, Doctor Melling. You can go,” her father was saying. Then a pause. “Emilia?”

“Yes, Papa?”

They sat quietly for a moment. Emilia reached for a glass of water, and as she poured from the crystal jug, she studied her father’s face. He was flushed, too, and his eyes were too shiny.

“Papa?” she frowned. “What is it?”

“I’m ill, sweetheart,” he said. “Feverish. Doctor Melling was just here.”

“Papa!” Emilia shot upright. “Let me fetch something. A tisane, or a lotion, or…”

“No, daughter.” Her father waved a hand, smiling gently. “I’ll be fine. I have a concoction from Melling to take.” He pulled a face. “That will set me to rights. Now, try not to worry, eh?”

Emilia nodded, heart sinking.

“Father, I’ll try,” she said in a small voice.

How was she supposed to tell him what she’d done? He was in no fit state for a shock. He was flushed, his breathing labored. He looked worse than she recalled.

“Good, good,” he whispered. He was leaning on the desk, now. Sweat was beaded on his brow, his cheeks were red, and his eyes were strangely vulnerable. “I wish I didn’t have to…be so ill.”

Emilia reached out to take his hand. “Father. It’s not your fault.”

He nodded and squeezed her hand, then leaned back in the chair. “I suppose not.” Emilia, sensing that he wanted to sleep, tiptoed from the room. Rest was the only thing that would do him good at times like these.

Tiptoeing, she headed along the rich carpet and down the short stairwell that led to her bedchamber.

“Emilia Herston, you are going to have to do this yourself,” she whispered.

She felt terrified. But what else could she do? She couldn’t risk her father having a fit of apoplexy. That had happened once already, and she didn’t want it to happen again.

Slipping on comfortable slippers, she headed back along the plush hallway and to the servant’s corridor. She looked left and right, hoping June or one of the servants hadn’t seen her.

She knocked at the attic-room door.

“Hello?” she called.

When nobody answered, she remembered the obvious. He was still gagged by the sacking! She soundlessly unlocked the door and stepped in.

The bag was off his head. They hadn’t bound him, so he’d got it off himself. He was sitting with his back to her on the floor – the small room held no furniture – and he appeared to be staring into the cold hearth. His back was straight, legs crossed, hair a blond that caught the light of the lamp in the hallway, making it glow softly.

As the door opened, he turned. She saw his fine profile outlined in the lamplight. A long straight nose, full lips and flared nostrils— he was strikingly handsome, and eerily calm. She felt her heart soften, then tensed.

This man made your father ill! If it wasn’t for his worries, she was certain, Papa would be well.

She stiffened her back and pushed her way into the room.

“Stand up,” she ordered.

With steady grace, the man got to his feet. He wasn’t fast, but moved with a fluid economy of gesture that made her think of the dancers at the opera, or the lithe grace of a cavalryman. He turned to face her.

“You wish to talk?” His voice was grave.

Emilia swallowed hard. He was taller than her by the length of her hand, and his lithe posture made him seem taller still. He looked down his nose at her and she felt reduced.

She tensed her spine, feeling angry, and stared frostily into his eyes.

“I do,” she said.

“I see,” he replied.

His calm disarmed her. Expecting rage and defiance, she had come prepared for a fight. This peaceful equanimity was discomforting.

“You must be aware why you’re here,” she said slowly.

“On the contrary, I am mystified.”

“Very well,” she said, unconvinced. She paced to the wall, then turned, meeting his gaze. He stared back, unruffled.

“You will guess, perhaps, why you’re here, when I tell you my name is Lady Emilia, daughter of Barton Herston, Earl of Mowbray?”

He raised a brow. “I’m pleased to meet you, milady. You did not inform me of that, earlier.”

Emilia swallowed hard. “No matter,” she said sternly. What would her father say? She made her back straighter, trying to pretend she was the Earl of Mowbray, herself. “The matter at hand is, why do you think you are here?”

“No idea,” he said. He looked at her with mild interest. “I trust you will inform me, however…?”

“Wait,” she said, holding her hand up. She saw him raise a brow again, and felt slightly silly.

Letting her hand drop to her side, she paced away again.

“You are aware my father is a man of little patience,” she said carefully.

“I’ve not had the pleasure of the earl’s acquaintance,” he said inscrutably. “I trust he does not bring that impatience to bear on you, milady?”

He sounded concerned, of all things!

Emilia felt a sudden stab of remorse. This man, the Duke of Elsmoor, was so upright. It seemed impossible to believe he was the same man whose unreliability had tormented her father these past months! He was far more in command of himself than she would have been and she started to feel a grudging admiration for it.

Stop it, Emilia. This man is to blame for all your father’s suffering.

“You know perfectly well why you’re here.”

“Why?” he challenged.

Emilia raised a brow. “If I were my prisoner, I would use my manners. You aren’t aware of the danger of your situation, are you?”

“You’re threatening me?”

Emilia felt his incredulity as a scorn. She glared at him. How dare he act as if she was of no consequence, her threats laughable? “I’m not threatening idly,” she said softly, struggling with rage. “My father, the Earl of Mowbray, has many friends. Most of them aren’t the sort of people you’d wish to meet. They might take pleasure in rearranging your fine features.”

“I’m gratified you think they’re fine.”

Emilia felt herself blush.

“I didn’t say that,” she said gruffly. “However, trust me, if you don’t pay the five thousand pounds you owe, my father will make sure the debt is extracted by force.”

“What debt?” His eyes were enormous as he looked at her in utter confusion.

Emilia shut her eyes, fighting for control. “Yes, debt. The cash you owe him, for dues fairly won in cards. And…other things.” She hesitated. What was it, exactly, that her father had said the duke owed him money for? She couldn’t exactly remember. It was something to do with Irish liqueur.

“If I am accused of owing him money, you might at least let me know on what, and from when,” the duke said smoothly.

“Why should I furnish you with that information?” Emilia snapped, feeling her confidence returning. “If I told you, there’d be no telling how you’d try to fool me.”

“Try me,” he said. Was it her imagination, or was there a twist of a smile on his face…? She felt a strange tingle in her belly and looked down at her feet, her face reddening.

“I prefer not to,” she said. “I have no interest in deepening the acquaintance, nor in exchanging lies. My father told me never to trust his grace, the duke.”

“Duke of what?” the man said. He stared at her.

Emilia ran a weary hand down over her face. “Don’t try and act innocent,” she said. “I know perfectly well who you are, and you’re the Duke of Elsmoor.”

“I’m not the Duke of Elsmoor,” the man protested. He was standing up now, about five paces away from her. His fine-boned, haughty face was twisted in shock. “I’m Luke Preston, Lord Westmore… I’m twenty-eight, and I was born in Surrey. You can ask anybody. It’s all true.”

“You’re twenty-eight?” Emilia felt her brows rise in surprise. She had thought him older – somehow his confidence and composure belied his age. He was closer to her own age than she thought.

“Yes,” he said. “Why? How old do I appear to be?” He was smiling again, and she felt irritated.

“None of your business,” she snapped. She saw his brows shoot up and felt a tingle of satisfaction. She rubbed her hands on the skirt of her white figured muslin-gown. They were getting damp.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said carefully. “But I’m not who you think I am. You have the wrong person.”

“Of course, you’d say so,” Emilia flashed back. “You want me to let you out. I don’t expect the truth out of you. Not yet.”

He shook his head, and sank back onto the velvet-covered seat. He looked disheartened. Emilia studied him in the quiet. With that fine, wavy hair and that delicately-modeled face, he was easily the most strikingly-handsome fellow she had ever seen in her life. He also knew what suited him – the elegant brown velvet jacket and white shirt with its frothily-knotted cravat made him look every inch the city-gentleman. She was surprised – she hadn’t expected her father’s enemy to be so refined.

“I don’t know what you think is going to happen if you keep me here,” he said after a long moment of silence. “If I scream, somebody will hear me and you will be obliged to let me out of here.”

Emilia tensed. How dare he assume she had acted on some whim of her own! Had he not been listening to anything she’d said?

“My servants are loyal to me. If they heard anything, they would pay it no mind. Everybody knows who you are and why you’re here. And besides, do you think I would put you in the middle of the house? Nobody will hear you scream up here.”

He slumped forward, covering his face with his closed hands. Emilia felt again a softening of her heart towards him. She wasn’t cruel, and the thought of kidnapping anyone didn’t make her happy. She wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for her father!

He’d be so relieved, if he knew I’d done this for him.

“Look,” Emilia said raggedly, after the silence had stretched beyond the point of sense. “I’m going to go away and leave you to reconsider your situation and your story. I will send you some tea and biscuits – you’re likely hungry and it’s past five o’ clock. Then I will come back. And this time, the truth, please? No funny stories about being somebody else.”

“But I am somebody else,” he protested.

“I don’t believe you,” Emilia said harshly. “I’m leaving now. I urge you to be ready to tell the truth when I return. The faster you comply, the sooner I can let you go.”

With that, she turned and walked out of the room, closing and locking the door after her.

She heard him knock on it from inside, but steeled herself. She walked away, the key in her pocket.

The sooner he tells the truth, she told herself, the sooner I can release him, and the better for all of us.

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If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here