Prologue

“But Mama, must I really do another season out?” Charlotte looked down into her teacup and pushed her spectacles up her nose.

“Of course you shall, Charlotte! What else would you consider doing?” Charlotte’s mother pursed her lips as she took a sip of her tea.

“Well, I had thought that since I have been so unsuccessful in the last two, I might be spared this one,” Charlotte said haltingly. She hated discussing this with her mother, but it seemed completely inevitable that eventually they would. Her mother’s frustration that Charlotte had, so far, been unable to secure a husband was steadily pushing mother and daughter further apart.

“And I should think that since you have failed so frequently in the past you should be more than eager to succeed this time,” her mother said, voice tense. Charlotte winced. It was hard to think that her mother considered her a failure. Charlotte couldn’t help being awkward and dowdy.

“Oh, my dear girl,” her mother put down her teacup and leaned forward, taking hold of her daughter’s hands. “I know it is frightening for you. I know you are a wallflower, but you cannot expect to hide away in your brother’s shadow your whole life.”

“Why not?” Charlotte answered a little sullenly. “He is dashing and engaging and Papa’s heir, there is no need for me to secure a great match. Surely someone will turn up eventually.”

“Ernest shines so brightly because he knows he has to,” her mother answered, slipping into the role of defending Charlotte’s older brother so easily. “He tries Charlotte. You must learn to try too.”

Charlotte did not think it was a matter of merely trying. She could try all she wanted, but nothing would make her eyesight better. Nothing would make her face more comely. Nothing on earth would make her the kind of lady who was as an appealing to gentlemen as Ernest was to the ladies.

“Besides, you cannot pitch your future on the hope that a man somehow falls down outside the house and decides to marry you,” her mother snorted. “Really Charlotte. Gentlemen seeking wives do not ‘turn up eventually.’ A lady must be proactive.”

Charlotte said nothing to that. She knew what her mother meant. She wanted her to dress prettier, dance more, flirt as much as she was able. Her mother had been a great beauty in her day, taking the Ton by storm with her golden curls and blue eyes. Even now, decades later, she retained the grace and elegance of a lady who had once been adored. Charlotte had inherited none of it and her mother had always made sure she knew that.

“Charlotte, if your hair must be such a dark, dirty blonde, the least you can do is it arrange it, so it is a little bit alluring.”

“Charlotte, if your eyes are determined to naturally be so dull then the least you can do is let them sparkle with wit.”

“Charlotte, if your skin is destined to be sallow, the least you can do is apply some rouge before coming down to breakfast!”

Even if Charlotte had been able to assure herself that she was, despite her mother’s words, a little bit beautiful it would make no difference. For she was a terrible dancer, a shy conversationalist, and a prolific reader. She struggled in company and thrived caring for animals. Ernest used to joke when they were children that she was really a fey person from the woods who could only commune with the spirits of creatures. There had been times in her life when Charlotte had wished that were true.

“Perhaps it is hopeless, Mama,” Charlotte dared to say, staring into the dark liquid inside her teacup. “Perhaps there is no one alive who would want to marry me.”

“Utter nonsense,” her mother snapped and for a moment, Charlotte was filled with hope. Maybe this would be the time her mother said something polite about her, how she was deserving of a good husband because she had a kind heart and gentle spirit and those were the things that mattered most. “You have the Beeching name. Your father is Viscount Lisle. Of course someone will want to marry you.”

Charlotte’s heart sank. She shouldn’t have been surprised by her mother’s attitude, reckoning that if Charlotte could not trade on looks or grace, she would have to trade on family status, but she still found it painful to bear. She sipped her tea and tried to keep her feelings hidden, wishing that Ernest would come home. When her brother was around her mother was much less focused on her deficiencies. She recalled what Ernest had said to her, not two days ago, when the two siblings had taken a walk together in the gardens.

“Mother only worries for you,” Ernest had said, plucking a long reed from beside the pond and beginning to thrash the tall grass, just as he used to do when they were little children. “She wants you to be happy, Lottie.”

“She wants to get rid of me, Ernie!” Charlotte had raged. It was only in her brother’s company, spending time with her one confidante, that she could truly express her anger. “I embarrass her, with my awkwardness and my spectacles, she doesn’t know what to do with a daughter like me. She wishes I was different.”

“How could anyone wish you different?” Ernest had nudged her shoulder playfully, making Charlotte smile reluctantly.

“Mama does,” Charlotte replied. “By wishing me prettier or sweeter or more inclined to balls and shopping.”

“It’s true you are remarkably without vice,” Ernest mused. “Unless you count a voracious appetite for books and the company of hunting birds a vice.”

Charlotte had pushed her brother in the shoulder, so he stumbled towards the pond, grinning at her. He always teased her about the hunting birds. When they were adolescents, their father had bought a few birds of prey to help him catch pigeons. He had warned his children not to approach them, since they had sharp beaks and sharper claws, but Charlotte hadn’t been able to keep away. She had been fascinated and within two days was walking around the grounds with a small hunting buzzard on her arm, much to her mother’s dismay.

“That is because you have more than enough vice for the both of us,” Charlotte retorted.

“Oh, I know,” Ernest rolled his eyes, brushing golden curls from his forehead. “I’m terrible. Utter rogue. You should disown me as your brother.”

“Or you could give up the cards and the dogs and the carriage racing,” Charlotte said drily. “For a month, at least.”

“A whole month!”

“Two weeks. A week. Good Lord, Ernest, what kind of gambling habit have to developed?” Charlotte exclaimed. She knew her brother was prone to epicurean pleasures, but she had no idea it was so extensive.

“Ah, it’s not a gambling habit, not when you’re the honourable Mr Beeching, son of Viscount Lisle,” Ernest smirked. “Then it’s just business deals.”

“Lord in heaven, Ernest, one day your luck will run out and then where will your smile get you?”

Charlotte had tried to control the resentment in her voice. She loved her brother more than her own life, but he was phenomenally lucky. He lived a charmed life with people always remarking on his pleasurable company and hilarious wit. Though she loved him in spite of them, she did sometimes wish other people, particularly their parents, would recognise his faults.

“Hopefully, all the way home to you, little Lottie,” Ernest laughed, reaching forward to tap her on the nose.

“I shall not harbour you when you are a fugitive, Ernie,” she warned but they both knew she was not serious. They both knew there was nothing she would not do for her magical elder brother.

“I’m sure,” Ernest took her hand and squeezed it fondly. “I mean it, Lottie. No one should want you to be different. You’re perfect as you are, little sister. My little Lottie bookworm, my little Lottie bird tamer.”

“Little Lottie old spinster,” Charlotte had grumbled but Ernest had put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

“I don’t care if you never marry, precious sister,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I shall always be here for you.”

It was that kind of devotion, that kind of unquestioning love that Charlotte had never once felt from her mother. Whereas Ernest only saw her as she truly was, her mother saw all the ways she was lacking. It was exhausting. Sighing as she pulled herself out of her reverie, Charlotte looked at the carriage clock on the mantlepiece and frowned.

“I am surprised Papa has not yet joined us, it is past nine,” Charlotte commented. “And has not Ernest come down yet?”

“I am not entirely sure your brother came home last night,” her mother said, voice as prim as a widow. “No doubt he had business to attend to.”

Yes, business, Charlotte rolled her eyes. Cards and dice and betting on horses.

Then suddenly, the door to the breakfast room was flung open. Charlotte’s father stood in the doorway, a crumpled letter in his hand and expression of deepest despair etched into his face. Charlotte’s stomach rolled. Something terrible must have happened.

“Gregory, what has happened?” Charlotte’s mother cried, springing to her feet but oddly, her father did not let her mother approach. Instead, he held up his hand, stopping her in place, staring at his wife and daughter with skin as pale as the moon. He held up the letter, hand shaking.

“I received a letter by fast horse just a moment ago,” he said, voice trembling. “It is … it is unbearable.”

“What is unbearable?” Charlotte’s mother cried, trying to step towards her husband but having him only hold her away. “What terrible thing could have happened to affect you so? You must tell me immediately, my darling!”

Charlotte realised then that her father was barely breathing, barely standing. Whatever news had arrived, it was nearly killing him.  It was then she knew. The realisation filled her up like water in her lungs and she gulped for air.

“Where is Ernest, Papa?” she whispered. Her father stared at her bleakly, his shoulders slumping.

“What do you mean?” her mother looked between the two of them, the lines on her face deepening as if she was ageing more every second. “What does she mean, Gregory?”

Her father seemed unable to speak any more. Charlotte found her voice, her need to guess it, to speak the dreadful truth into being, overcoming the rising sensation of drowning.

“How … How did he die, Papa?”

“Die? Die?” Charlotte’s mother began to shriek, her hand squeezing the back of the chair beside her fiercely as if it would stop her from falling into an abyss of grief. “What is she speaking of, Gregory? Where is my son?”

Her father didn’t answer those questions, instead he only looked bleakly at his daughter. Charlotte wondered briefly if he was grateful, she had guessed so quickly, so it saved him from saying the accursed words aloud. She was proud, for a millisecond, that she could do this for him at the moment their world fell completely apart.

“A carriage race,” her father whispered. “He turned it on a corner, collided with another carriage. Killed a man. They say it was nearly instant,” he swallowed hard, staring at the letter in his fist. “So, he … he didn’t suffer.”

“No,” Charlotte’s mother breathed. “No, sweet Jesus, no. No, not my boy! Not my baby! Not my darling son!”

Her mother collapsed to the floor and in an instant, her father came back to life, rushing to embrace his wife. Charlotte wondered if this was what he needed — not to be comforted but to give comfort, to offer solace to someone rather than feel the gaping chasm of a lost son inside of him. Charlotte watched them, a faint buzzing in her ears. She stared at the letter her father had dropped on the floor and slowly picked it up, smoothing out the surface. It was one thing to infer what had happened, but Charlotte was a lady of letters. She needed to see it written down to truly understand it was real.

My dear Viscount Lisle,

I write with haste but bear the worst of tidings. It is with heavy heart that I am burdened to inform you of the death of your son, the Honourable Mr Ernest Beeching, who died in the early hours of the morning in a carriage race in Brixton …

Those were all the words Charlotte needed to read. It was real. She knew Ernest went to gamble in common parts of the city, seeking out seedy boxing clubs and dog tracks for a little flutter. She had known last night that he would likely be out on the prowl when he had leaned over to her after brandy and kissed her head.

“Don’t wait up for me, dear sister, I believe I shall have a late evening out,” he had winked, standing up and smiling down at her. “I shan’t be gone long.”

A million conversations and smiles and jokes seemed to be streaming through Charlotte’s mind, too quick to catch, like trout in a river. A million moments of Ernest’s happiness, sadness, hilarity, and stupidity unreeling like cotton on a pin. Then Charlotte realised, with a hideous jolt of her heart, they were all that was left. Ernest was gone and now all she had were memories.

I shall always be here for you, Ernest had said. Ernest had made promises easily, lightly, with the confidence of a man who never considered a reality in which he would be forced to break them. That was Ernest to a tee, living his life as if he were riding a fast horse, laughing and joking, never stopping for a moment to consider what might happen to those who he left behind him.

“Oh Ernie,” Charlotte whispered, closing her eyes. “You lied to me.”

Charlotte had never imagined what heartbreak would be like, not being prone to romantic notions. If she had thought about it, she might have suspected it was something like the dull ache she felt when her mother put her down, over and over. She had not anticipated that she would feel, in the moment, the snap of something inside her. Something breaking and behind it, a flood wall of tears and agony that she could only drown in.

He’s dead. My brother is dead. My best friend, my other half is gone. Who is Lottie without Ernie?

Charlotte took a deep breath. It was too much to bear. With a sob, she sank to her knees, and let the grief drag her under.

Chapter One

The Spanish front.

“A letter for you, commander!”

“Thank you, soldier.”

Robert smiled at the young foot soldier who had delivered his letter. He was one of the newest recruits, barely out of leading strings, but here fighting for his country. Robert felt proud when he thought of that.

“Barely weaned, that one,” Captain Drew grunted beside him. He and Robert had developed an amicable banter in the time they had been serving together in Spain. Captain Drew was a hardened soldier, a man who had achieved his rank by many long years in the forces rather than an English title. Yet despite the fact he had not set foot on English soil in many a year, he still found it necessary to constantly complain about the foreign climates, foreign food, and foreign ladies. Robert, who had also been serving for his whole adult life, found it very entertaining.

“He’ll learn,” Robert smiled. “Get a few campaigns under his belt, he’ll be as hardy as you, Drew.”

“I doubt that, my Lord,” Drew shook his head. “I had a rough childhood too, milord. A man cannot be a soldier if he’s not been one all his life.”

“We all have our own private wars, Drew,” Robert sighed. “Far be it from me to judge another man unworthy.”

“That’s mighty polite of you, my Lord,” Drew cackled. “Since you are in command, and it is your duty to judge men both worthy and unworthy!”

“Yet I would not dare draw conclusions without your input, Captain Drew,” Robert joked. He turned over the letter and frowned. “Odd. It is my solicitor’s seal.”

“Right bastards the lot of them,” Drew spat. “Never met a law-man I could trust as far as I could throw him.”

Robert grinned at the joke. Drew, seasoned as he was, only had one arm. The other he had amputated at the elbow in India due to an infected bayonet wound.

“Though I suppose being his lordship requires much discussion with men of the law?” Drew teased gruffly.

“I am not ‘his lordship’ yet, Drew. Not until my father sees fit to pass on his title,” Roberts broke the seal and opened the letter. “Until then, just ‘Commander Marshall’ or ‘sir,’ will do.”

Robert liked Drew considerably, but he was often a little bit of a rogue when it came to the rules about proper address. Drew cared little as long as he never brushed against a court martial offence. He often said that there was a bayonet or bullet out there with his name on it, it was only a matter of time. Robert had always found it hard to argue with a man who considered himself among the walking dead.

My dear Mr Marshall,

It is with heavy heart that I am duty bound to inform you of the passing of your father, Lord Andrew Marshall, Baron of Doormer, on Monday of this week.

Robert numbly checked the date on the letter. It had taken three weeks to arrive. His father had been dead for three weeks and he had not known it. They would likely have buried him by now. Robert clenched his fist, biting down the pain, and continued to read.

Unfortunately, he died under unpleasant circumstances which I would prefer not to expound upon here, for the sake of discretion. As your father’s only surviving relative and heir, you naturally inherit his estate. I would urge you to apply for dispensation from your General to return to England at your earliest convenience. As your and your father’s legal representatives, I shall proceed apace with the burial arrangements since I anticipate it shall be some time before you receive this missive. Upon your return, you shall find me at our new practices in Duncan Street, London. We have much to discuss. Upon instructions left for me by your father in the case of any sudden death, I have taken the initiative to freeze all non-essential business transactions until your return to England. I hope you shall find that satisfactory.

In closing, I wish you to know that I was fortunate to have been an acquaintance of your father these last twenty years. I do not think I am too forward in assuring you of how very greatly he shall be mourned and missed.

Yours in good faith,

Mr Rawlings,

Of Rawlings, Rawlings and Sons.

Robert stared at the letter. In all the years he had been abroad, fighting for King and Country, he had never anticipated a letter like this. Many times, on the eve of battle he had penned letters home, anticipating that he might never see his beloved father again. He had struggled with pen in hand, parchment in front of him, to put into words everything he would have his father know if this was to be last time he spoke to him. Sentences from those letters now bustled around Robert’s mind, mocking him with their ineffectuality.

Thank you for raising me after mother’s death … a lesser father would have sent me away to be raised elsewhere. Thank you for teaching me to shoot …. I wish you to know that even though I have perished in the service of the King and God, I have only ever wished to make you proud…. Thank you for setting such an admirable example.

Every single one was useless because none of those letters had been sent. Robert had survived every battle, every skirmish, every wound, and the letters he sent were perfunctory and devoid of emotions, simply telling his father that he was well, that he had survived. His father would write back, thankful for his safety and proud of his service.

I should have sent those letters, Robert thought bleakly. I should have sent every single one. I should have told him how much he meant to me. How much I loved him.

As it was, Robert could not even remember now the last conversation they had.

He took a deep breath and shut his eyes, unable to hold back a soft moan of despair.

“What is it, Commander Marshall?” Drew asked, looking at Robert out of worried, beady eyes.

“That’s just it, Drew,” Robert said hoarsely. “It’s not Commander Marshall anymore.”

“Oh?” Drew looked at him curiously.

“No,” Robert stared down at the letter, swallowing back his grief. “It’s Lord Doormer, instead.”

*****

“Thank you for coming, Lord Doormer,” Mr Rawlings said, gesturing for Robert to take a seat in front of his desk.

“Thank you, Rawlings,” Robert said, trying not to wince at his new title. He’d had several weeks to become accustomed to it, travelling home to London through Europe with servants and associates calling him by it, but hearing it from Mr Rawlings was something else entirely. The solicitor had known his father, they had liked one another immensely. It felt strange and heretical for Rawlings to call him by the title that belonged to his father.

“Did you travel safely, my Lord?”

“I did.” Robert had been eager to return to England for his father’s sake, but also hated having to leave the army. Consequently, he had travelled at a fast pace, both to motivate his journey and to spare himself the pain of too much time to think about what he was leaving behind. Though he was glad to be away from the stress of conflict, being a soldier was what he knew best in the world. He would miss his comrades, his brothers in arms.

“Let me tell you about the arrangements I made on your father’s behalf,” Rawlings said, opening up a large ledger.

“Please do.” Robert was anxious to hear where exactly his father had been buried. Every night since leaving Spain he had dreamt of it, of standing in front of his father’s headstone and speaking the words aloud that he had never sent in letters. I was proud to be your son. I loved you tremendously. I miss you.

“The late Baron has been buried in the family plot next to the grave of the late Baroness,” Rawlings said. “In Doormer churchyard, as was his wish.”

“Thank you, Rawlings,” Robert let go a soft exhalation of relief. He had been worried that his father had not made his wishes known prior to his death. It would be terrible for Robert to worry constantly that his father had not been laid to rest in a manner that he desired. It also touched his heart to know that his father had made arrangements to be buried beside his mother. She had died giving birth to Robert, yet he knew his father’s devotion to her had never waned.

“It is good that they are together once more,” Robert smiled softly. “That would have made him happy.”

“Indeed, Lord Doormer.” Rawlings looked down at the ledger and Robert thought he saw the gentleman blinking hard behind his thick spectacles. “These are the non-essential items that have been frozen for the last six weeks. If you can peruse them and provide instructions, we can have business up and running in the next two days.”

Rawlings handed him a long piece of parchment with lists of names and accounts on them. Robert looked at them with unseeing eyes, trying to make himself care, but finally, he could do it no longer. He set the parchment down and looked into Rawlings’ eyes.

“I am sorry, Rawlings, I shall apply myself to this as soon as I can, however, there is a matter on which I am yet to be enlightened that is more pressing to me.” Robert leaned forward. “Please explain to me how my father died.”

Robert had already discerned it could not be sudden illness, because Rawlings would have no business concealing that in a letter. It could only be something criminal. For the last three weeks, his mind had been afire with the idea of bandits, of rebel uprisings against his father, of a murderer stalking him through the streets of London. Robert was eager for the truth, if for no other reason than the hellish imaginings could finally stop.

“Of course,” Rawlings nodded and looked suddenly much older and graver. “I am more sorry than I can say that I must inform you he was killed in a carriage collision.”

Robert stared at his solicitor in astonishment.

“That seems impossible,” Robert said. “Father does not, father did not, dabble in carriages. Our drivers are all notoriously safe. What could possibly have happened?”

“Your father … Your father was not in either carriage.” Rawling looked like each word was causing him great pain. “He was a pedestrian, caught between the two.”

“Good God!” Robert covered his face with his hand, hiding his sudden grief. He could not stop imagining his father’s body falling beneath thunderous hooves, his bones breaking under carriage wheels. It was intolerable. He was almost glad his father had been buried whilst he was abroad. At least he had not had to witness the hideous mangling of his body.

“I regret there is more that must be said, Lord Doormer, if you permit me to continue?” Rawlings asked gently.

Robert nodded and sat up again, fighting down the rising tide of nausea inside him.

“Yes of course,” he coughed quietly and met Rawlings’ eyes. “Please continue.”

“I was astonished when I was told of the nature of the late Baron’s death, so I began to conduct an investigation into all parties concerned.” Rawlings pulled a piece of paper out from under a ledger on the desk. “I discovered the names of the drivers —”

“Tell them to me,” Robert demanded. “Who was responsible for such a hideous event?”

“One of the drivers disappeared into the night, his carriage was not so badly broken, since your father …” Rawlings gulped and started down at the paper. “But he was not responsible for the collision in any case.”

“Who was?” Robert growled.

“A young heir, known for racing and gambling.”

“He was racing?” Robert shouted. “He was racing on the streets of London, like some buffoon, and killed my father?”

“That is how it appears, yes.”

Robert stood up restlessly and paced the room.

“The bastard,” Robert’s couldn’t control his anger, he felt like it was bursting out of him in waves so hot and intense they couldn’t be contained. “The selfish, arrogant bastard.”

“I had much the same thought, Lord Doormer,” Rawlings said, eyes gleaming with his own urge for revenge. This is what Robert wanted, he realised. If he could not be charging into battle with his sabre raised, then he wanted this. To avenge his father’s death and make the bastard whose foolishness had cost him his life pay.

“Where is he?” Robert snarled.

“I am sorry to say that he is dead,” Rawlings hands tightened into fists. “He died at the scene of the accident, along with your father.”

Robert slumped back in his chair. “So, there is no one who can be held accountable for his death? No one at all?”

“I am afraid that legally, yes, that is the case,” Rawlings said quietly. “Though it is a bitter pill to swallow. He was too fine a Lord for such a dreadful demise.”

In his various versions of his father’s death that he had imagined in his journey across Europe, all of them had included a villain whom Robert could seek justice from. A bandit who could be hanged, a bitter rival who could be brought down with manipulation and money, he had even accounted for the small possibility that there might even be a jealous lady somewhere who might need to be exposed and brought down. He had not imagined this. That the culprits responsible for his father’s death would have already been dispatched with. There was no one to hold to account. No one to maim or murder or bring low in the name of the late Lord Doormer.

“You say legally,” Robert said slowly. “Do you know something else, Rawlings? Something you are not telling me?”

Rawlings looked at him for a moment, as if he was agonising over something.

“I have had many sleepless nights considering this information,” he said in a low voice. “I honestly do not know how to present it to you, as fact or fiction, but I feel that if I do not offer it to you at this time you may never forgive me, my Lord.”

“Then speak.”

Rawlings nodded, took a deep breath, and continued.

“The young gentleman who also died at the scene of the collision, the one with whom the fault lies, it was put around far and wide that he died instantly. I accepted it as truth, thought nothing of it except to rejoice that he had been punished according to the will of God for his crimes. Then, a week afterwards, I received this anonymous note.”

Rawlings handed it to him. Robert stared down at the words.

Lord Doormer’s death was no accident. The future viscount could have saved him but tried to flee the scene, only to die in his escape. He left Lord Doormer to bleed to death from his wounds and was dishonourable to the last.

Robert felt a cold brutality settle on him that he had never felt outside the field of battle. The last time he had felt it was when Drew had been struck with a nearly deadly wound on the field of war. How he had sliced his way through his enemies then. How furious his avenging arm had been. Whoever the bastard was who had left his father to die would not sleep peacefully. No, Robert would wreak revenge upon every person the devil had ever loved.

“The name, Rawlings,” Robert growled lowly. “What is the name of the bastard who did this to my father?”

“His name was Ernest Beeching. The son of Viscount Lisle.”

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