Previews

 

Chapter 1

Oftentimes, it was said that the morning was to bring good tidings. However, on that particular morning, Lady Rachael Allen felt lesser than she had felt the day before. Her spirits were low, and her heart was burdened. Her life had changed forever by the execution of her husband. Since the day she had watched him beheaded at the square, she had been uneasy. Perhaps she should never have been present for such an execution. But how could she resist? She had wanted to be certain that he truly paid for his sins.

She had wanted some assurance that he would never hurt her—or anybody else—ever again. She had wanted him to look her in the eye as he experienced pain, so he would know that she was free from him. From all the years of emotional abuse that he had rendered upon her. She wanted him to know that in the end she had won, because she was alive and free. However, the effects of her watching him die had not been what she had expected. Because even after death, she still felt his presence in her life. She had returned home to his scent, to his paintings on the wall, to the vases he loved to place by the tables, to the dead roses he never let her water, and to the quaint scarves he often bought for her on his way back from Paris.

That night, when Rachael returned home, she had cried in the drawing room, sprawled on the floor across the hearth. She had cried because the pain had been too much to bear, because even in death, it still felt as though he were holding her back.

For years, Rachael had lived the life her father had wanted for her. The life of affluence with the Duke of Loringham. The life where she lacked for nothing. Except her father had been wrong. She did lack the one thing her mother had always wished for her. Happiness.

Her husband, Loftus Allen, had been a traitor to the Crown. He had allied with French spies to bring down the throne, and his actions had brought about his downfall. Lady Rachael had known that his evil deeds would catch up with him quite soon, but she had not been sure when or how. She should have left him. She should have fled when she still had the chance, but she had not, because she had been afraid of what he might do to her.

He had been a ruthless man. And now his actions had not only affected him, but her as well. While the king had pardoned her, she was still seen by many as a traitor. She was still known as the wife of a traitor. She no longer wanted to be associated with such a title, which was why she had decided to leave everything behind and move to a remote village.

Her friend, Lady Emma Blackmoor, who had also been involved in the case, as her father-in-law had also been a traitor, had left everything behind and moved away to a remote village to start anew with her family. Emma had encouraged her to do the same. But she did not know where to go, which was why she had told Emma that she would stay with them for a while. Until she figured out what else she wished to do.

Rachael stared into the mirror before her, but the lady she saw was foreign to her. Her red hair was packed up in a neat bun, her skin paler than usual. Her eyes had bags under them from crying too much about her ruined life.

“Do you not wish to wear the gloves, Your Grace?  It is quite cold outside,” Maria, her lady’s maid, said from behind her. The voice startled Rachael. She gasped when she saw Maria staring at her through the mirror, reminded of a time not so long ago. Loftus often snuck up on her so. He would walk behind her quietly until he was so close to her that she did not know, and only then would he speak. She wondered how he could be so silent.

Her teeth clenched. Determination marred her face. She was going to move on from the life that he had subjected her to. She was going to move away from everything that reminded her of him, so she could live a better life.  She had to stop hovering around and leave. There was nothing left for her here. She was going to pursue her own happiness. Never again did she want a life like the one she’d had with Loftus. Never again would she live that kind of life, and she would make certain of it.

As these thoughts crossed her mind, she imagined instead the life she did want to lead, and a smile came across her lips. Excitement coursed through her. She breathed out. She was finally ready to move on.

Rachael turned away from the mirror and walked over to her bed. It had been cold the night before. It was foreign to her as well. She walked over to the window and looked out. It was indeed cold outside.

“I shall wear the gloves,” she said. Maria brought her the gloves soon enough. Rachael slipped them on. “Is the coachman ready?”

“Your trunk has been packed into the carriage, Your Grace,” Maria said. She sounded perplexed. Rachael blew out a breath. It was time for her to go. She turned away from the window and walked out of the bedchamber that had once been hers. The clump of her boots resonated through the entire hallway as she made her way down the stairs. To heal and move on from all that had happened, she had to move away from the estate.

****

Lady Rachael Allen, Duchess of Loringham—that was who she had been. But now, Rachael didn’t know who the woman who was seated in the carriage was. A woman of eight and twenty, a wife to no one, a disgraced duchess, formerly wedded to a traitor, but now favoured by the king. She knew that she and her co-conspirators had been praised for giving up the traitors, but she still felt ashamed for having lived with Loftus all those years. For pretending that everything was alright when nothing was.

She had been caged. At the beginning of their marriage, she had indeed loved him. She was mesmerized by him, by his ways. By the ease with which he carried himself, by the fact that he had acted as though he cared for her. But he had not. Everything had changed when she had miscarried. From there on, she was unable to bear another. They had tried a few times until Loftus got tired of trying and rendered her useless.

The carriage hit a bump, and Rachael snapped out of her reverie.

She wondered now what she was going to do with her life. Although she was heading to Brighton to stay with her dear friend Emma Blackmoor in her new home, she still felt out of place. Although Emma and her husband, Lord Henry Blackmoor, had welcomed her with open arms and were awaiting her arrival, she still felt that she would not fit into their lives.

The awareness that they cared for her did not ease her pain, or fill the void she felt inside.

The carriage hit another bump, and this time, it wheeled to a halt. Rachael sighed. She wondered what the problem was this time. Suddenly, she heard noises outside. There was a loud scream, and then, a struggle. Rachael’s heartbeat increased. She looked around her, but the curtains prevented her from seeing the outside. But she was curious. She made to raise the curtain of the carriage, but the door was pulled open and she was dragged out. Her red hair flew around her face as she tumbled out of the carriage, falling to the ground.

She looked up, frightened. All she saw were two men in black clothing, their faces covered with a black cloth so all she saw was their eyes. The taller of the two men retrieved a black cloth from the pocket of his breeches and tossed it to the other man.

“Who are you?!” she screamed. “What do you want?”

But she was ignored. The shorter man advanced towards her. She moved back, screaming. Behind him, she saw her coachman. His hands were tied and he was stuck by the carriage. His screams were muffled by what they had tied around his mouth.

Just as Rachael made to run, one of the men gripped her arms. She winced in pain, for his grip was strong. One of her captors placed the black cloth around her mouth. She screamed and shook her head; her screams were now muffled too. Despite the restriction, she kept struggling until the black cloth covered her eyes as well. All she saw was darkness as she was taken away.

Rachael had never been so terrified before. All she saw was darkness as she was pulled from the ground. Two strong hands gripped both of hers and she was led away. She was conscious of where they were taking her. She wondered if they wanted to kill her there in those lonely woods. Fear gripped her, so much that she began to struggle again. But it was of no use, they were too strong for her.

Her heart skipped. What grievances did these men have against her?  Though her voice was muffled, she tried to speak and plead with them.

Her own voice sounded incoherent in her ears and this made her want to cry. She felt herself being pushed into a carriage.

She struggled, tried not to get in, but a gruff voice from her right frightened her. “Tis better you do not struggle, Your Grace. You may harm yourself from doing so.”

At this, she calmly entered the carriage. She was alone for a while, the spaces beside her was empty. She began to make an attempt to untie the cloth that covered her eyes, but the knot was too tight and skillfully knotted as well.

She could hear distant voices outside, and the sound of something. She could not tell what it was. She kept trying to untie her fold, but she was unable to accomplish anything before the men joined her.

At each of her sides, the two men got in and the carriage began to move. Rachael could not help but wonder who was behind this. She could not help but wonder who would want to abduct her. Her heart began to pound. Could it be one of Loftus’s enemies coming after her, now knowing that he was dead?  Did they want to exact revenge? Rachael shook her head. Her eyes welled up with tears and her heartbeat escalated. What had she done to deserve this?

The carriage suddenly came to a halt. She was about to demand why it had, but the restrictions put on her reminded her of her new position. She was now a prisoner.

Chapter 2

Lord Edmund Blackheart had known deep inside that fate was playing a dangerous game. Perhaps this was why he had been feeling odd for three days. When they intercepted the carriage just as planned, he had not been ready for the shock that awaited him when he saw the Duchess of Loringham, and worse, when he saw that the Duchess of Loringham was his former intended, Miss Rachael Goodwill.

The years had been good to her, he noticed. Although she looked different, she was still as beautiful. How could he still be drawn to her? He recalled being mesmerized by her all those years ago. He recalled their chaperoned walks in her garden and their moments by the waterside. He could not believe that she had been wed to his worst enemy. He wanted to ask her what had happened. He wished that he could speak to her, to quench the burning curiosity inside of him. He groaned.

Beside him, the lady who occupied his mind turned to look at him. He was thankful that her eyes were covered. He was not certain he would be able to bear the inevitable combustion of emotions if she looked at him with her green eyes.

Edmund looked away. He blew out a breath. How had she been caught up in a web as tangled as this? How had she been wed to a man as crooked and dishonest as Loftus?

His brows ridged as his thoughts began to settle. His mind focused on a new realization. Rachael had ended the engagement so she could marry Loftus. He did not know how to feel upon this discovery. He felt a great pain within, knowing that the lady he had loved had left him to wed his enemy.

He looked to where George was seated. George seemed pleased by the day’s events. He inclined his head as his eye made contact with Edmund’s. Edmund did the same as well.

Indeed, the mission had been successful. Everything had happened just as Cecil had predicted. Lady Rachael Allen had followed the path through Richmond, and she had been alone, save for the coachman. He nearly ticked his tongue at the thought of that. How could she travel alone, knowing full well that she was a lady, and knowing who her husband had been, and how many lives he had ruined? Irrespective of whatever may have happened between them, she was a good person. Maybe he needed to give her the benefit of the doubt. He swallowed hard. He could not be a part of bringing harm to Lady Rachael. Even though she had been a traitor. He could not bring himself to do anything harmful to her. She had once been a very important part of his life. He would speak to George about this.

The carriage bumped, and the lady leaned into him as it did. He stilled as her hand circled his arm. He felt a thrill at her touch, and he was reminded of the past. For a moment he stayed still, even after her hands had let go. He stayed still and stared at her.

Beside him, there was a knock on the door. He looked opposite him and realized that George had alighted. Coming back to his senses, he alighted as well. They had stopped at the designated place, where they were to get food. Eric, who served as the coachman, joined them as they walked into the pub by the corner.

“Much easier than I anticipated, eh?” said George. “I expected some challenge.”

“As did I. But I see that the lady gave you some, hmm?” Eric said, nodding at the slightly torn part of the cloth that covered George’s eyes.

Edmund pulled off the cloth that covered his face as they walked into the pub. George did the same as well. They all took a seat. Edmund was contemplating how to tell them both that the plan would have to change. He swallowed hard as he thought of how to relay this information. What if they refused and saw it as even more reason to hurt Rachael? He shook his head. He would not let that happen. He would have to do something.

“What would you have, Edmund?” asked George.

“A pudding would do,” he replied.

A man came to the table where they were sitting and grinned at them. “Welcome… travelers?” A man in a shabby cotton shirt and similar looking breeches approached them.

“No concern of yours,” Eric snapped.

Edmund did not like the way Eric responded. If they were to get into any trouble here, Rachael would be discovered. And it would be bad for them. But Edmund did not reprimand him yet, not while the man still stood there.

He smiled at the man. “Three plates of pudding, please.”

“I’ll just have beer,” George said.

The man nodded and went his way. Edmund turned to Eric. “You should not have spoken to him in such a manner.”

Eric creased his brows. “I only told him off to keep suspicion away from us.”

“That was not the way. Your reaction did nothing but attract suspicion.”

Eric pressed his lips in a thin line. He cast his gaze down and said, “I apologize for all the troubles. It should not happen again.” The waiter returned with what they had ordered and served them.

“So, Cecil had said that after we took her, we would take her to his barn far east from here.”

Upon hearing that, Edmund was once again reminded of what they had to do. He needed to make them aware that things would no longer go as planned. He rubbed his temples and thought it best to get it over with. Only, he did not know the best way to approach the issue.

After they were done eating and they rose to leave, Edmund stopped them. “We have to get food for the lady.”

Eric scoffed. “Pardon me, but she is a prisoner.”

Edmund narrowed his eyes. “That does not mean that we shall starve her. Get her something to eat.”

Eric was grim, but he did as asked. He was always so stubborn. Now Edmund was left alone with George, who had an amused smile on his face. “A hard lad, that one.”

Edmund nodded. Seeing as he was alone with George, he thought it best to relay the change of plans with him before Eric returned. It would be easier for George to get through to Eric, so the boy did not throw a tantrum.

“George, there’s going to be a change of plans. We shan’t take her to the barn as planned. We shall take her to my home in the countryside.”

George’s smile fell. “Edmund, pray tell why?”

“I have my reasons for this decision. I cannot explain in detail now, but I do have my reasons. And I want you to trust me on this.”

George shook his head. “But you approved of each decision made, just as we all did. What has made you change your mind?”

He gave George a stern look. “I brought about this plan and I am the head of this group. Do you not trust my judgment again, George?”

George opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. He bowed his head. “I apologize greatly for my behaviour. But you must understand that I am stunned. A plan has been set in motion and we are halfway to completing it, and you come up with a new idea. Why did you not suggest this while we reviewed the plans three days ago? ”

Edmund was about to speak but Eric joined them then. Edmund said to George. “Trust me on this, I beg you.”

George stared at him for a while, before nodding reluctantly. He jerked his head to the side. “I shall relay the message.”

Edmund took the meal from Eric, who looked between them with parted lips. He made his way out and they followed behind. He could hear George talking to Eric in hushed tones. He could hear Eric’s protest and he could hear the slight argument that followed. He said nothing all of this time. He walked over to their carriage and was about to pull open the door, but turned around instead. Eric was startled by this move.

Edmund looked between the two. “We shall head to my home,” he said lowly. “Cover your faces before we get in.”

Eric nodded grimly and walked towards the coachman’s position. Edmund got into the carriage with George after they both covered their faces. Edmund froze when he saw her lying on the floor of the carriage, struggling. His heart ached at seeing her in such a manner.  He noted that her hands were tied. He did not recall doing that. He looked at George. She must have been trying to make an escape. But with her hands, legs, mouth, and eyes tied, she had not been able to.

George gripped her shoulders from the other end and set her properly on the carriage seat. She jerked away from him, screaming. But her screams were muffled.

George began to untie her hands. It must have been George who’d made them like that in the first place. Edmund relaxed, as he did not want to make any move that would be contradictory to their purpose. Once George had untied the knot, Edmund noticed that her skin had reddened. It had always been so pale and sensitive. He looked away.

“Untie her so she may have her meal before we proceed with the journey,” Edmund said.

George nodded once and did as asked. George untied her blindfold and handed her the meal. “Eat.”

The moment Rachael opened her eyes she looked his way, her brows creased. Edmund was stunned as her green eyes pierced into his. He was grateful for the cover over his face, for his expression showed how stunned he was. Her eyes were still as captivating as they had been all those years ago. He could not believe that they still held him in such a way.

Rachael looked older, more mature than the innocent young lady he had intended to wed.

He creased his brows when he saw that she had been staring at him for too long. He looked away from her and said nothing. He hoped that she did not recognize him. That would be a disaster. He could not bear for her to know that this was him. That he was this disabled man before her, who had abducted her. He could not bear for her to look at him with anger or confusion. Even after the many years that had passed, it would hurt him to see her stare at him in such a manner.

He stared out the window until he was certain that she had begun to eat

Even so, he did not risk looking at her fully. He snuck gazes at her but that was it.

When she was done with her meal, George tied her up immediately and got down to tell Eric to ride on. As their journey continued, he feared the worst for her. He wondered if Cecil would agree to the change of plans. He hoped that saving her did not bring him any troubles with his men.

---

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!

---

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

---

If you want to be always up to date with my new releases, click and...
Follow me on BookBub

 

Chapter 1

Logan froze, poised over Lady Raphaella on the grass, his mind whirling. He fought his way up through a mist of confusion. The shock had unnerved him, cannoning him back into memories of war. He thought he might be in India, lying on the rich wet earth of the forests, or hiding from an enemy lurking in the thickets. His mind blurred out the English countryside and painted in its stead – the heavy, humid vegetation of the Indian landscape.

He wasn’t in India, though. The danger had passed. His mind snapped back to the present, and he recalled that he was no longer Captain Inverly, but simply Lord Inverly, off duty, and walking around a country estate near York, England. He was also, he realized somewhat belatedly, practically lying atop Lady Raphaella, sister of the Earl of Rumsgate.

“My Lady! Apologies.” He rolled over, feeling his own cheeks heat up with embarrassment. He looked down at her, hoping she could forgive his imposition. She continued to look up at him in horror, and he felt disgruntled for a moment. Was he so unappealing to women that she was disgusted by close bodily contact? He was sure he hadn’t been a few weeks ago in London! There, he’d had to practically fend off female company! He felt put out. She cleared her throat and that told him what was bothering her.

“My Lord! You’re bleeding.”

“What?” Logan looked down at her in utter disbelief. He had felt nothing! He couldn’t be.

Then, as she sat up and reached, tenderly, for his shoulder, he realized that she was right – he could feel a dull, stinging ache coming from the spot. When he touched it, his hand became warm and wet.

“Oh,” he said, blinking at his red hand as if he couldn’t quite understand what he saw. “Yes. You’re right.”

Belatedly, he reached for his handkerchief, wincing as he tried to move the shoulder, to which the feeling seemed to be suddenly flooding back, causing him to realize just how much pain he was in. He gritted his teeth, pressing the cloth square to the wound.

Lady Raphaella looked up at him with her big dark eyes, and his pain subsided under her gaze. She was beautiful, with a soft oval face and those eyes that were so tender, and clear, like a mountain stream. He felt his soul tingle as he stared into their lash-edged depths, as if, for a moment, her heart reached out to connect to his.

Fanciful, Logan, he told himself firmly. Things like that don’t happen. The poor dear is probably terrified of you now, and rightly so – you did throw yourself on top of her, and then appear not to notice a gunshot-wound.

His reputation was certainly not going to make her feel more comfortable. He sat up quickly, feeling mortified.

He made himself smile, not sure what the effect might be. “My Lady. I apologize for the alarm; the danger seems passed now.”

He followed the statement with another attempt on a smile.

“Lord Inverly! You need to see a surgeon at once! We must get you to Lord Westmore. You’ve been shot in his garden, after all!”

Logan’s eyes widened.  This angelic beauty was giving him orders?

“Lady Raphaella, forgive me,” he managed slowly. “I know it is shocking, but I believe – I know the shots were only meant for me, I cannot take this to Lord Westmore. He would be concerned, and I don’t wish to trouble him. He’s the father of a young child,” he added, as if that made any difference to anything.

“He ought to know!” she scolded. “Especially because he has a young child – how can you possibly be sure the shots were only meant for you?”

Logan shut his eyes. He felt her touch like a sudden shock through his body, as she pushed his hands away to press the handkerchief herself. He swallowed hard, ignoring the twitch in his groin when he saw how her small, slender hand touched him with care and tenderness. He couldn’t risk offending the Earl of Rumsgate, and that was all that counted. He wasn’t that close to him, but he’d been part of Westmore’s circle since their Cambridge days, he needed to respect that.

Lady Raphaella was looking at him with a mix of disbelief and righteous anger. He had been rude to her from the moment the shot rang out, and she had done nothing save show him concern.  He coughed. “I cannot inform Westmore about this. He has nothing to do with the shots that were fired at me.”

The shots, he was certain, must have been fired by somebody he had known from his campaigns. He recognized them well – the rapid succession of two bullets, and then the pause before the next. No, this had nothing to do with Westmore, and everything to do with my own mistakes

“I still think he ought to be informed,” she said, more patient now. “If Lady Westmore or the child were to be out here alone, don’t you think they would be…”

“There really no danger to anybody else from this,” Logan said slowly, expression grimly set. He was becoming more aware each second. He winced as she pressed the handkerchief, the firm pressure, and the pain with it, clearing his mind.

“Well – you must at least address the danger to your person!” she said firmly.

He was gazing into her eyes with a mix of surprise and wonder for the third time in one day. “Yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “But I think it best if I do not alert Westmore. I insist on this.” He looked into her fine brown eyes, hoping that she understood his sense of urgency a little.

If Westmore knows, then it won’t be long before the whole countryside knows, and that will drive my killer to strike again soon.

Logan bit his lip, feeling the first real fear since the bullet had grazed his shoulder. How was it possible that, now, after all this time, he had been hunted down? It made no sense!

Why here in Yorkshire of all places?

He wondered if his fear was written on his face. He swallowed hard and tried to compose himself.

“There’s a surgeon in Westmore Village,” he said slowly. “I’ll ride there.”

“No, you will not,” Lady Raphaella said gently. He became aware that she was wrapping the handkerchief around his shoulder, tying it in a firm knot over the wound.

“Sorry?” He frowned, unsure if she had just said that. She was a gentle-looking sort, with a soft face, wavy reddish hair, and brown doe-like eyes. Had she just given him an order?

She lifted an arched brow. “I said you aren’t riding anywhere. Should you even try, this wound will bleed worse – you’ll likely fall off your horse and die in the woods before you get close to Westmore. We’re going to take the coach into town. Together.” Her tone was light, as if she was telling him the history of the knot garden opposite their hiding-place. All the same, it brooked no refusal.

“What?” he repeated, sure that he was lost in a mirage. He must be!

“You can’t ride, and so it stands to reason you must go by coach,” Lady Raphaella said, speaking slowly, as if he were a child. “I’m going to have to come with you, because somebody has to keep an eye on that wound.” She gestured at his shoulder, where the flow of blood was a trickle, his shirtsleeve now sticking to the open wound.

“Yes…” He frowned, his mind still trying to grasp it all.

“We can’t tell anybody else, because they’ll tell Westmore,” she said, frowning at him earnestly. “And you insist that you want to keep it a secret. Is that right?”

Logan nodded firmly, realizing that she was the one speaking sense. He was the one sitting and staring at her dull-eyed.

“Alright, then,” Lady Raphaella said. He was surprised by her brisk manner. “Can you get up? We can take the path over there to the coach house.”

Logan winced and stood up, realizing that he was feeling dizzy. She was right, he had to admit: if he lost much more blood, he was going to collapse, and there was no way he would be able to ride anywhere. He braced himself and sent out a fervent wish to be able to stay upright until they reached the coach.

“Can you walk?” Lady Raphaella asked, and she slipped an arm under his, supporting him. His cheeks flushing red with embarrassment, he nodded hastily.

“I can walk,” he said, and tried to take his weight off her. Unfortunately, his body wasn’t quite as sure about his strength, as his mind was, and he chose that moment to sway back and forth. Feeling annoyed at himself, he gritted his teeth and tried desperately to stay upright.

With Raphaella walking slowly by his side, they reached their destination.

“Mr. Emms? Make ready the carriage, if you please.” Lady Raphaella said calmly, as if she oversaw the whole estate. “We need to go to Westmore urgently.”

“My Lady?” The coachman stared from her to Logan and back, taking in the blood, her calmness, and, Logan doubted not, the pallor of his own face.

“Please, Mr. Emms,” Lady Raphaella insisted. “It’s vital that we get to the surgeon quickly.”

The coachman shrugged unhappily but went off to perform his duties with an efficiency Logan was sure he did not usually practice. While they waited, Raphaella looked up at him.

“It will help if you think of something else, to pass the time,” she said frankly. “We could play a parlor game?”

Logan stared at her in horror. “A parlor game?” He loathed the pretty pastimes of high society – cards seemed silly enough to him, but other games like board games and guessing games he considered the height of folly, especially at a time like this

“What?” Raphaella frowned. “There’s nothing reprehensible about ‘I spy,’ is there, sir?”

Her voice had such an air of innocence about it that Logan had to grin. In the moment of the attack, it seemed as if he had forgotten that she really was a Lady, and not an army nurse. He glanced down at her, allowing himself to notice her full bust, her soft figure.

“No,” he said, feeling that same unrestrained stab of longing as he noticed the soft pallor of her cheeks, her full-lipped frown. “I suppose.” He had been hard on her all morning, he realized guiltily.

“Well, then. I’ll go first,” she said. “I spy something beginning with a ‘c’. What is it?”

Logan shut his eyes, the surreal quality of his life suddenly getting the better of him. He had come to Yorkshire to escape London society, its prying eyes, and the pressure to find a wife – now that he was the Earl of Inverly. And yet, in Yorkshire, he was stuck with a gunshot wound, hiding in a coach-house playing parlor games with the sweetest society lady he’d ever met! It was unbelievable.

“I think it’s…” he began, but shrugged, and then winced with the pain it caused his shoulder.

“It’s a coach! And it’s ready now. Get in,” Lady Raphaella ordered, looking up at him with a mild exasperation on her sweet face.

Chapter 2

Raphaella leaned back in the cramped confines of the coach and tried to forget the fact that she was cramped up on the seat next to a dangerous reprobate. She forcibly reminded herself that she was escorting him to Mr. Brownley before he expired of lost blood.

I’m not doing this for naught else.

She looked up to find the big dark eyes watching her. Her stomach tied itself in knots and she couldn’t hide the flush of warmth flowing from her head to her feet, making her face flush.
It was altogether too easy to believe that she was here of her own interests, and not because her presence was vital and necessary in saving his life. She couldn’t fail to notice the fact that Lord Inverly was extremely handsome, his arm beneath her fingers so hard with muscle and sinew that it could have been stone.

And he’s a fellow with a somewhat challenging reputation. Don’t forget about that.

Her brother had mentioned that Lord Inverly hadn’t exactly lived respectably since his return from service.

He coughed and she jumped, becoming aware again of both his proximity, and her improper thoughts. His body really was far too close to hers, his long legs brushing her knee, his side pressed to her hip.

“How far must we go?” he asked softly.

Raphaella frowned, making herself focus on the present moment, trying to forget her growing worry about Canmure, and what he would say when he discovered her missing from the party. She had no idea how to explain her absence. She didn’t want to think what he’d say if he saw her right now.

“Not half a mile,” she murmured.

“Good,” Lord Inverly said, and she saw his lips lift with a weary smile. “I don’t think I can put up with this damn shoulder much longer. Excuse my swearing,” he added, when she lifted a brow.

“I’m used to it,” she said, and her own lips twisted in a wry smile.

“Oh?” Lord Inverly frowned. “How so?”

Raphaella looked at the floor. She always felt uncomfortable discussing details of her life. She preferred to remain an enigma – rather than to risk being judged. “Ex-military men tend to have a way with words,” she said shyly.

Uncle Carter would swear until my ears went red whenever somebody changed his bandages.

She had helped her veteran uncle until his leg was healed, and he could safely retire to the seaside. Her mind flooded with images from that time in her life, sponging the horrible surface of the cannon wound that had taken his leg.

I worry about him sometimes.

She and Canmure were never in Brighton anymore, where Carter lived in the tiny cottage his accounts could afford.

Since their parents died, Canmure, the new Lord Rumsgate, had taken on the responsibilities of the head of their family. She had been only fifteen at the time. Those responsibilities had included caring for any of the family who were down on their luck, like Uncle Carter. At the time, Canmure had been too busy managing their own estate to pay much attention to a soldier returning from the Peninsular Wars, or to his wounds. He had organized the cottage but left the caring to her.

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked up to find Lord Inverly looking at her with some interest. Her face went red.

“There’s not far to go now,” she said quickly.

“I thank you.”

She felt her cheeks redden an even deeper shade and realized that those words seemed kindlier than any others he had offered up until now. His voice had a pleasing tone and she felt its warmth like a silk scarf. It wrapped around her worries and her fears, making her remember that, reputation or not, she had liked him the moment she met him.

“There it is,” she said, making herself look away from the fine chiseled line of his profile, and out of the window to the left. “That’s the town.”

“It’s small,” Lord Inverly commented. Raphaella wanted to smile.

“It’s made up mostly of Lord Westmore’s tenants,” she said with an arched brow. “There aren’t too many.” The collection of cottages, clustered around a small village church, were plain to see now, as they reached the edge of the estate that gave it its name.

He shook himself, as if to get his own attention back to the present and nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. “I see.”

Raphaella glanced at him, wondering if the blood-loss was making him absent-minded. He was looking at her with a strange expression, almost awestricken. Those brown eyes were touched with a sort of fervent admiration that she had seen leveled at other women, but never at her.

She bit her lip a little sadly and looked out of the window. She had always stayed at home out of predilection, preferring a quiet afternoon or an intimate conversation with a familiar person, to a ball or party full of stranger. She was sure people considered her boring and a little plain. Even Canmure, who was the dearest soul, sometimes looked at her sadly, and she was sure he wondered how he’d make a future for a Lady like her.

The coach had stopped. “We should get out.”

Lord Inverly nodded. He still looked subdued, and she became more certain that his blood loss was critical. She opened the door and jumped down, feeling her ankles ache as she thumped down against the flagstones of the pavement.

“Come on,” she said with a sense of urgency. She held a hand up to him, realizing belatedly that it was blood-soaked. She wondered what the Ton would think of that.

“Yes, Lady Raphaella.”

Lord Inverly took her hand and jumped down, wincing noticeably as his own ankles jarred painfully. With his condition growing ever more severe, it was good to see him react to something. He had been so quiet in the carriage – so strange– that she’d worried she would lose him before they reached their destination.

“Here’s Mr. Brownley’s,” she said, and took his hand to lead him up the steps to the surgeon’s front door. She matched her steps to his slower ones, and then knocked briskly. She was relieved when the soft, earnest face of the village surgeon appeared.

Anything but a stranger, the surgeon was one of the few friends Raphaella had in her circle. She’d met him years ago, when Canmure had brought her to Westmore the first time, and somehow, they had managed to strike up a friendship.

“Mr. Brownley? Lord Inverly here has a critical injury. It needs stitching,” she said, feeling happier in the presence of the bespectacled man. Her senior by ten years at least, he had a reassuring warmth. She felt as if he, more than anybody, could see things from her perspective.

“Oh! Lady Raphaella!” Mr. Brownley grinned. “I never thanked you for that preparation you had sent here – a real boon in the winter for all the tenants. My Lord. Come in,” he added, standing back for Lord Inverly, who looked at her with complete confusion.

Lady Raphaella felt a little flame in her heart as she joined Cassius Brownley in his surgery. Here, she felt utterly at home. The surgery, with its rows of bottles and its scent of camphor and creosote – a disinfectant for the surfaces – was a peaceful place whose rules she understood.

It’s no wonder I always seize the chance to come up here.

She found herself looking over the shelves as the two men conversed quietly, noting the bottles and boxes that she’d had brought here from the family apothecary in London. Canmure indulged this interest of hers, whether he thought it was appropriate for her to show interest in doctoring.

Her attention was brought back to the present moment as the surgeon poured out some disinfectant and then bent to his work.

“So,” Brownley said, reaching for a pad of cotton as he carefully cut away the shoulder of Lord Inverly’s shirt. “You sustained this while out hunting, sir?”

Lord Inverly looked over at her, and Raphaella said nothing, so he nodded. “Yes,” he agreed.

“You must have some friends with poor aim,” Brownley said, making her want to chuckle. She wanted to say something but noticed Lord Inverly had his eyes shut, a pained expression on his face, and she felt instant concern for his suffering.

“Either that or I have very unfortunate enemies,” Lord Inverly said.

Raphaella felt her lips lift, a light laugh rising in her throat, but then it occurred to her that he was serious. She held her peace, wondering just what he knew about the shot that had been fired.

“Mm,” the surgeon murmured, oblivious to the undertone in the phrase that she’d marked. “Here. I will need to stitch it, so I heartily recommend that you bite on this leather belt.”

“I don’t need one. I was in the army,” Lord Inverly said firmly, surprising Raphaella.

“Really?” she asked, her curiosity overwhelming her intentions to remain in the background. She looked down to see Lord Inverly looking up at her, his lips twisted with amusement.

“Yes. I was a captain of the King’s Horse,” he said thinly, and she saw him jump as the surgeon carefully swabbed the site of the wound.

“Oh,” she said politely, her attention being drawn to the procedure the man was busy performing on his lordship’s shoulder, rather than to his words or rank. She knew it was odd – that most ladies and gentlemen of her acquaintance would feel utterly sick at the sight – but she found all such things intriguing.

Maybe caring for Uncle Carter dulled my sensitivity to sights of blood and cuts.

She watched as the surgeon threaded a needle with a length of suture, and then how he pushed the needle through the layers of skin, gently holding the wound shut as he did so.

She noticed Lord Inverly grimace, and she felt a stab of compassion. She wished he had elected to bite on leather – it would make the pain more bearable – and she began to look around to fetch it, but Mr. Brownley was talking to them, and she turned back.

“I’m just going to do two more,” he said carefully, frowning down at his work, as unconcerned as a tailor. “It’s not a big wound, but surprisingly deep. It’s a grand thing the bullet came out again, or I’d have a fine job fishing it out!” He chuckled.

“Just finish,” Lord Inverly hissed, and Raphaella could see the greenish hue to his skin. She wanted to mop his forehead, but she could hear the acid in his words. She knew that it would be better for him if she left him be.

“There,” Mr. Brownley said, his patient’s ire not worrisome to him. He straightened up, cutting off the excess suture. “All done. Now we just need to bandage the thing, and check that it’s not bleeding anymore.”

“It’s my arm, sir,” Lord Inverly said through gritted teeth. “I’ll thank you to refer to it with due respect.”

Raphaella wanted to smile, but at the same time she could see his point. It wasn’t just a thing; it was his arm. Mr. Brownley could be a bit too preoccupied sometimes. Her eyes met Lord Inverly’s.

“I thank you,” Lord Inverly said, as the surgeon stepped away, looking down at his handiwork. Raphaella noticed that Lord Inverly wasn’t looking at Brownley, but at herself.

“Um…” she stammered, her cheeks going pink as she struggled to decide what to say.

 “I’ll bandage it with a bread poultice,” Mr. Brownley said, as if he also was confused by the strange look Lord Inverly was giving her. “And you can see me in a day to have it changed.”

When the work was done. Lord Inverly got hesitatingly to his feet and came to stand beside Raphaella. “Thank you,” he said again. “Now, I think we had best go back. If there’s any need to explain, please allow me to do so.”

She could see the way he was struggling to remain upright and sensed that he would feel more than a little uncomfortable, should anybody try to help. She waited while he braced himself on the surgeon’s shelves, and then looked at her with a grateful smile.

Raphaella felt his guileless eyes as if it was a touch on her skin.  “Let me help,” she offered, and the spell was broken.

“That would be unnecessary,” he said loftily. She bit back a grin, even though she felt also a little empty. His haughtiness returning was, on the one hand, a relief, on the other hand she missed his vulnerability.

She stood back while he walked out of the door and out to the coach. She stayed behind a moment to say farewell and thank her friend, and then slipped out behind him.

Lord Inverly was being decidedly remote, on the coach ride back to the estate. He was looking out of the window and had a small object in his hand. She craned over his shoulder, wondering what it was. When he saw she was looking, he slipped it into his pocket and shot her a glare, then turned back to look out of the window.

She jumped out of the coach when they arrived, and he strode away without a word.

That’s what I get for helping a scoundrel like him, I guess.

---

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!

---

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

---

If you want to be always up to date with my new releases, click and...
Follow me on BookBub

 

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.

---

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!

---

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

---

If you want to be always up to date with my new releases, click and...
Follow me on BookBub

 

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.

---

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!

---

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

---

If you want to be always up to date with my new releases, click and...
Follow me on BookBub