Chapter One

Lucious

The smell of ale and sweat was an assault to Lucious Skelton’s delicate nostrils. The Duke of Devonshire was not a man accustomed to, nor tolerant of, the other noxious odors to be found inside this particular tavern. It was certainly not the sort of place he was supposed to be.
By all accounts, this was a very lively place. Dare he say it was even a place that was meant to provide some sort of reverie and escape for its patrons? A distraction for these sad, pathetic excuses of humanity to pretend for a while that they did not have the misfortune to have been born poor. They laughed, drank the piss water they called ale, and told stories to their hearts’ content. Two gentlemen in the corner were locked in an arm-wrestle, though it was clear they were both cheating and that the competition could potentially escalate into a brawl.. He rather hoped it would. It would delight Lucious more than anything to see a fight erupt here and now. He would mentally take bets on whom he thought the winner would be and assign bonus amounts if they were to cause any sort of destruction to the assembled company or the tavern itself.
He felt it was ironic that these people never appeared to care about the state of their meager belongings. They abused their homes and taverns, mistreated their clothing and ignored their personal hygiene.
Lucious stuck out like a sore thumb. He was an anomaly. They had to serve him because he had good coin to pay the barkeep and keep him in the finest ale they could provide. While he covertly watched the other patrons, Lucious took secret pleasure in their misfortunes, using them to boost his own sense of power. If they knew he was their patron and not just some high-born idiot come to observe them, they might treat him a little differently.
Better or worse, he did not care to guess.
Not a single person in the bar was worthy of even a word of conversation from his lips. It was why he came here month after month—his little ritual to remind himself just how far he had come in life and how he would never, ever wish to be like any of these sorry creatures. Superior. That was what he was. Superior in every possible way.
He scoffed to himself and brushed off the bar stool with an embroidered handkerchief before sitting down and pulling his own mug of ale closer, watching the arm-wrestling match with growing fascination. He had lost count of how many pints of ale he had drunk this evening. All he knew was that every time he thought his glass was getting low—it was refilled. At least the barkeep was proficient at his job.
The arm-wrestler in the stained brown shirt would be the champion, he was certain of it. He had seen the fellow in here a couple of times over the last handful of visits. He was always moving, a restless, burly sort of fellow. The gleam in his eyes convinced Lucious the brown-shirted fellow would win; he was certain the man in red seated across from his opponent did not have a chance.
Lucious had just lifted his tankard to his lips, barely wetting them with the ale, which he was too intoxicated to taste any longer when somebody jostled into him heavily from behind. His arm jerked and the contents of his full pint sloshed clear over the sides of his tankard. Ale splashed over his arm, soaking through his sleeve and splattering his pants, discoloring the fabric. He knew the stink of it would linger in the fabric, no matter how many times they were washed!
Slamming the pint down on the wooden counter, Lucious spun and rose from his stool—towering over the red-cheeked, ruddy-faced man behind him. His ire knew no bounds. The man whipped out a filthy cloth from the inside of his vest and started to flop it uselessly in Lucious’s direction as if it would somehow improve the situation.
“Whoa! Apologies, good sir. I do not know my left foot from my right sometimes! Makes me a terrible dancing partner!” the man slurred, smiling far too brightly.
“Your apology is not enough! Do you have any idea who I am?! You ought to get on your knees and beg for my pardon!” Lucious spat as he swatted the man’s hands away from his person.
At that, the man seemed to sober up a little, or at least he attempted to, as much as he could. He swayed on the spot. He seemed up to his eyeballs in ale, practically swimming in it—the stench of it radiated from his oily pores. It was disgusting!
“Well?! This shirt is worth more than your entire home! I would stake anything on it!” Lucious fumed.
“No need ta’ . . . hic . . . no need ta’ be rude, friend, I can get you another drink, have a—” the man lifted two fingers as if to summon more ale.
“I would never share a drink with swine like yourself! I demand you beg my pardon, or so help me—” Lucious’ speech was cut off by the drunken man’s face suddenly hardening into a scowl.
“Or you will what, fancy man?” he growled, clearly too drunk to see sense or reason, but he knew good and well that he was being insulted.
“I shall have you—” Lucious would never finish his sentence.
Having lived such a privileged and protected life as he had, Lucious never would have imagined that one of these peasants would ever dare to strike him.
But this one did.
The man’s fist collided with the broadside of his cheek, hard enough to cause his vision to explode with colors and send his body careening into the wooden counter. But Lucious was no dandy, and he wasted no time in allowing all of his self-righteous anger to drive his own fist directly back into the face of the commoner, with no intention of stopping there.
He could not have said who hit who next or just where the blows were landing, but he was vaguely aware that the band had stopped playing. But all he could focus on was keeping his already sluggish limbs moving and attempting to pry the ape of a commoner off of his esteemed personage.
Then the barkeep dumped a whole bucket of filthy water on the both of them.
Lucious sputtered, angrily flicking water out of his face, but before he could retort, he was being lifted by his collar and physically thrown out of the front doors of the tavern. He had never been treated that way in his entire life! If they had known who he was they never would have dared touch him! When he got home, he was going to purchase the tavern just so that he could delight in burning it to the ground in front of their faces. He would . . . he would . . . he would . . .
Then, the world tilted on its axis.
Bile threatened to rise in his throat.
He needed to lie down. But he certainly was not going to do that here in the street. It was dark—far darker than he had expected it to be when he left. If the moon high in the sky was any indication, he was supposed to have left hours ago. But he had been enjoying himself so much . . . no! Lucious blanched at his own thoughts. Enjoying himself? Him? In that shithole? He thought not. He was tolerating it. Yes, that was what he had been doing.
He nearly tripped over his own feet as he staggered to the post where his horse was tethered. His gait was awkward and clumsy. He could not seem to focus on unknotting the reins until, by some miracle, he was able to focus enough for them to come free. Then came the issue of mounting his faithful horse.
“Good horsey . . .” he muttered in a childish voice as he patted the side of the horse’s neck. He mounted gracelessly, awkwardly, and nearly ended up sitting backwards before spinning on his stomach to regain the correct position for riding. However, the moment the horse started to walk toward the wooded path that would lead him home, Lucious was nearly violently sick. Perhaps it would be better to walk? Then he would not feel so very dizzy. It felt like all of his innards were floating inside his body, sloshing back and forth with every sway of his horse’s slow walk.
The Epping Forest loomed all around him, impressive in the height of its trees, with a canopy so thick that seeing the stars was impossible. It seemed more oppressive this evening, however. It was a place he was very familiar with, but in his inebriated state, he could not shake the feeling he was not alone—that perhaps there was something, or someone, watching him.
On reflex, he urged his horse to go a little faster. The quickening of the hoofbeats distracted him from the fact that there seemed to be no other sounds at all. Not even the usual nocturnal creatures, the badgers, foxes, and owls, seemed to wish to disturb the forest’s silence. Perhaps that was his crime, breaking the silence. He could not have guessed any other reason why his horse should seem so nervy beneath him other than that the beast was attempting to punish him for his clumsy management of the reins.
He was no stranger to the route. He took it often when he wished to escape the dull monotony of the city.
Suddenly, his horse whinnied and brayed at what seemed to Lucious like nothing. Frowning, he paused to peer into the pitch-black spaces between thick tree trunks. Darkness. The unease was getting to him. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising in fear.
“Enough. Settle.” He slurred the command, but the horse moved forward at a slow pace only for a few moments before jolting forward so violently, Lucious nearly fell off. He was not nearly sober enough to cope with the sudden motion. Lucious wrapped the reins around his hands and wrists, to hold on more tightly as his horse panicked and broke into a gallop. The hoof beats sounded far louder than they should have. It is all in my mind. He tried to scoff at the idea that he, the Duke of Devonshire, could be startled so easily!
But it was not in his mind.
The galloping of his horse’s hooves separated into an uneven rhythm, and it dawned on him that at least two other beasts must be galloping behind him. He glanced backwards over his shoulder, moving too quickly and nearly losing his balance. When he steadied himself, a disquieting sight met his eyes. Two riders in black cloaks came up fast behind him on the trail with their hoods pulled up and over their faces. He squinted, trying to clear his vision, for he could not possibly be seeing what he saw. He was not being chased down by two riders in the woods. It was impossible. Nobody would dare to chase him down!
Suddenly, the canopy parted, and the moonlight reflected off what was unmistakably the black circle of the barrel of a pistol. Lucious’ heart plummeted like a block of ice. The riders were real. They were trying to kill him! He had never felt more sober in his life. A cold sweat broke out over his forehead as he bent low in the saddle when the first shot rang out. Then another and another. They must have a pair of pistols each . . . But it did not matter, for the sudden and cacophonous noise terrified his poor horse, and the beast reared up on its front legs in blind panic. He tried to hold more tightly to the reins, but it was of no use.
Despite having wrapped the reins around his hands, he fell, and he could feel the angry bite of leather against his hands and wrists as he was forced free despite his best efforts.
The riders laughed as he was thrown to the ground into the mud and dirt.
His vision was blurred—but he could not tell if it was from the ale or the fall.
Lucious forced one foot in front of the other and staggered between the closest two tree trunks. He did not know where he was going. He could see nothing. He moved quickly, hoping the riders would not see him in the darkness.
They lit a lantern, illuminating the dark spaces around them, and fear gripped his chest tightly. Who were these people? What did they want with him? To kill you, you moron! Were they commoners or thieves? Looking for gold or revenge? He could not think of a single person who would want to—another booming pistol shot cut off his thought.
He tore recklessly through the trees on unsteady legs, branches and brambles cutting and biting into his skin, tearing at his clothes greedily. He was losing them. He was winning. He nearly laughed. Take that, you fools! I am not so easily killed!
His ankle caught on a stone and down he went, tumbling clear over a precipice and down a steep hill. His body gained momentum; no matter how much he grappled and struggled to regain control, he failed.
He was vaguely aware of his head’s sharp crack against the boulder waiting for him at the bottom—and then the world went black.

Chapter Two

Esther

If there was one good thing about living in the country, it was that the sun seemed to shine more brightly than in the city. It had been a great many years since she and her mother had been forcibly ousted from their home in London. The sheer number of adjustments they had had to make had been shocking, to say the least. Though now, she saw it as a blessing. Esther felt it was a kindness to be allowed to live among such beauty. She was able to wake each morning to the roosters’ sounds and feel the sun’s warmth on her face through the window. She could laze about in bed if she felt like it. There were no strict schedules or calendars full of engagements she was forced to adhere to, nothing but the routine of her daily chores.
If only she could speak to the younger version of herself and tell her of her future. She would be shocked to find that Esther enjoyed the chores. She liked the satisfaction that came from a day’s work well done. When she settled in at night, her sore arms and exhausted limbs were just a little bit stronger than the day before. She loved it. She had never slept better in her life.
Most nights, anyway.
Today, she was up before the sun. There was no warmth on her face as she rubbed blearily at her eyes. Something was different. For an unknown reason, she felt restless for the first time in many years. She tossed and turned for a while, hoping that sleep might be kind enough to reclaim her and enfold her in its comforting arms, but the restlessness would not leave her.
Silently she rose and slipped her feet into the soft woolen slippers by her bedside. Swift and nimble fingers braided her long blonde hair into a rope she knotted with a ribbon and flung over her shoulder. She dressed quickly, hoping to make the very best of the opportunity she had been given. If sleep would not have her, then the quiet of pre-dawn would welcome her happily.
She bundled her skirts up into her arms as she tip-toed past her mother’s bedroom door. With her lip firmly between her teeth, she held her breath and carefully avoided the loose and creaking floorboards. She only relaxed when certain that her mother’s soft snores continued undisturbed, indicating she was still caught in the contented bliss of slumber. Esther knew her mother deserved the rest. Far be it from her to wake the hardest-working woman she had ever known.
Downstairs, she changed her slippers for her shoes by the door and lifted a basket into the crook of her arm before carefully slipping out of their small house. It was not much to look at from the outside, but it was the place she had made the happiest of all her memories. It was all she needed, she and her mother. She pressed two fingers against her lips and blew a kiss in the direction of her mother’s window.
She prayed she would continue to sleep well . . . and that she would not be too cross with her for slipping out of the house so early, again.
Esther walked at a leisurely pace as she watched the sun start to cast a pretty pink and gold glow over the tops of the trees. Their town was small and filled with close-minded folk, but this time of day was when she liked it the most. It was just her, and the early-rising livestock. She had hardly made it to the front gate before the front door was pulled open. Esther flinched as her mother’s hissed voice registered.
“Esther! Come back here at once!”
She turned slowly, a sheepish smile on her features. “Good morning, Mother.”
“It is hardly morning! Get in here before you catch your death of a cold!” Her mother beckoned her back inside, sticking one arm out of the blanket she had bundled herself into up to her chin. Her eyes still squinted as if sleep wished to snatch her back but could not.
Esther skipped back up the path to her mother and placed a reassuring hand on what she guessed was her arm, which had withdrawn beneath the blanket. “I will not be long, I promise. Go back to bed, sleep in, and I will wake you with tea when I return. How does that sound?”
Her mother eyed her skeptically. “Just where do you think you are going, running off at this hour?”
“I am going into the forest to fetch mushrooms.” Esther lifted the basket on her arm as proof that she was speaking the truth. “Soon, the whole town will wake, and if I want to go and return unnoticed, then I cannot afford to waste any time.” She grinned at her mother. “I think they will go nicely with some eggs for breakfast. What do you think?”
Tempting her mother with the promise of a fresh, hot breakfast and a warm cup of tea was the recipe to get the woman to agree to just about anything. She loved a good meal more than anything else, which had always surprised Esther, as her mother was frail and as thin as a rail. Her health rarely kept up with her appetite.
“You hardly have to wake up in the middle of the night in order to collect mushrooms, you know. They will still be there even if you were to rise at a reasonable hour.” Mother sighed and pulled her blanket around her more tightly. The unspoken understanding that Esther would go to great lengths to avoid the townsfolk and their cruel whispers passed between them.
“I prefer the early mornings,” Esther said finally.
Her mother did not seem convinced, and she frowned. “You cannot avoid them forever.”
The smile finally slipped from Esther’s face. “It is for their own good that I avoid them, Mother! Do you not think that I hear the cruel things they say about me? I am not ignorant to their hate or the pointed way they make sure to ‘whisper’ loudly enough about me that I can hear it with ease. Even after living here all of these years, contributing to the town, and being a part of their community, we are still ostracized. They blame us for what happened, Mother, plain and simple.”
“They . . . they just do not know what to think of the situation.”
Esther gathered the basket in her hands and squared her shoulders. “I do not care what they think,” she lied easily. “If they think that what happened with Father was somehow our fault, that we are to blame for his infidelity or resulting actions, then I would rather never be accepted by them. He was the only one to blame for his actions,” she insisted firmly. “His leaving us and abandoning his obligations was his fault and his alone. I want nothing to do with them.”
“I wish you would not speak of them so firmly.” Mother appealed, her gaze softening. “I do not care what their opinion of me is, but there is still hope for you yet. I happen to have it on good authority that there are a great many eligible bachelors who are smitten with you.”
Esther rolled her eyes. “I do not care for their attentions, Mother. I have put all of that nonsense behind me. I am perfectly happy all on my own, with just you for company.”
Mother reached forward and cupped her daughter’s face with sadness in her eyes. “You are not quite yet old enough to be so cynical, my dear daughter. Someday, I will not be here, and you will be all alone. The world is not forgiving to women on their own. I cannot be here forever, my sweet.” She brushed her thumb over her daughter’s cheek. “You will need someone to take care of you.”
Esther shook her head and stepped back away from her mother. “The way that Father took care of you?”
Her words were cruel. They came from the unhealed wound inside of her that she liked to pretend did not exist. She grasped the basket in her hands so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She knew it was cruel to speak that way to her dear mother. It was not done with the intention of causing hurt, but Esther had long since vowed never to allow such a thing to happen to her. Not when she could so easily prevent it.
Her mother sighed and nodded sadly. “Just promise me you will be careful in the forest, please.”
“Of course I will, Mother. I always am.” Esther kissed her mother’s cheek. She did not like when they argued. She liked it even less when she was forced to talk about her father. Even in the slightest capacity, it wounded her. It was the only real way to spark her temper to such a degree that she could not control it.
Mother turned back into the house, shutting the door behind her softly. Esther waited until she saw her shadow passing the upstairs window before turning and running toward the woods. The ache in her legs was a distraction. It soothed her to be in motion. The sun was rising higher and illuminating everything with its soft golden light. Smoke was starting to billow from the chimneys of the houses where the occupants were already rising to make their breakfast, likely reheating last night’s porridge. Any moment now, they would be out and starting their morning chores or attending to their livestock. She did not wish to be seen by them, not even for a moment.
Esther did not dare to stop or slow down until the safety and cool shade of the forest surrounded her. She was just about the only person in town who ventured into the woods, superstitious lot that the townsfolk tended to be. She liked it here. It had become a sort of private haven for her. One she would not part with easily.
At last, she slowed her steps, breathing deeply of the rich, crisp morning air. She meandered to the patch of mushrooms she had located in the time of new growth and fanned her skirt around her as she knelt to start examining which was safe to eat. She had to be careful with such things, as her mother was prone to illnesses, and they certainly did not have enough money for a physician to treat her like the last time. While Esther had become quite good at making remedies and tinctures, she was a far cry from a skilled herbalist.
A sudden gasp of pain from nearby startled her, drawing her attention.
At first, she thought she had imagined it, a frightening intrusion to her morning activities. It was likely something produced by the forest that she could not easily explain but would happily dismiss without needing to understand. She glanced around despite her better judgment, hoping that it was not one of the town boys come to play tricks on her or tease her again. She had outgrown such childish things a great many years ago.
Then it came again.
She rose, looking for the source of the sound. She felt more foolish with every step she took in search of its origin. Her basket forgotten, she turned in place, searching. It sounded like a wounded animal. She was not going to allow some poor, defenseless creature to suffer if there was something she could do about it.
She walked backward slowly, turning this way and that as her eyes narrowed in an attempt to search the dimness for signs of life. Her heels collided with something cool and soft, and the unexpected obstruction forced her to topple over backward. She rubbed at her backside, having landed heavily on it and turned to see what had tripped her.
A man.
An unconscious, pale man, with a great deal of red staining his shirt and hair. There was so much of it, she felt sick. Only she did not get sick. She screamed.

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Prologue

London

October, 1813

“Faith, why did I think this was a good idea?” Medea Linfield groaned, grabbing onto the majestic oak tree’s thick branch with both arms. The bark scraped against the thin material of her white silk gown and grazed her skin. If she tore it, her mother would censure her most severely.

That is, assuming she survived her mother’s wrath. At present, that was not a certainty. What in the world had possessed her to sneak out of her bedchamber this way? It would have been far more prudent to escape through the servant hall or the wash house. But no, she’d chosen the most precarious egress available—through her window and down the tree.

She’d often exited this way when she was a child. Alas, she was a child no longer. At nineteen, she was taller and less flexible than the last time she attempted such a feat.

“Medea, hurry,” a deep, gravelly voice came from the bushes below, making her heart leap. Yes, even while suspended in the air with her legs dangling in the most unladylike fashion, she could not help but color up at the thought of meeting up with her beloved. For it was he, Peter Humphries, the Duke of Lennox, who’d inspired her daring venture.

The two of them had engaged in a thrilling, and at times secretive, romance for the past three months, and Medea was certain he was the one for her. Not only was he dashing and the most handsome man she’d ever laid her eyes on, but he was also intelligent, witty, and all-around marvelous. With him, she felt beautiful, graceful, and smart—though the last two were less prevalent at this moment.

“I thought you’d done this before,” he called up, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“I have,” she called back. She and Peter saw each other in the confines of a proper courtship, but they also met in private to enjoy each other’s company without being bothered by proper etiquette. They frequently met in the very early mornings or late at night under the cover of darkness. Unfortunately, they had to meet in the middle of the day today—a most awkward time to avoid prying eyes.

She never got past the drawing room without her father summoning her to his study. So, she devised this scheme. However, if she remained there with her arms hanging, her father would see her, and she would wish she had been sent to war instead of Peter because her father’s temper could be downright fiery.

She swung back and forth as the tree creaked under her weight, and then she made her way along the thick branch and down the trunk. But then her gown ripped, snagging on the bark. She fiddled with it, losing her grip in the process. She slid and slithered down the tree like an ungraceful, dizzy squirrel, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She was going down whether she wanted to or not.

“What in the—” Peter got no further because she came flying out of the tree, arms flailing desperately for something to grab onto. Alas, there was nothing, and before she knew it, her body slammed against his with full force, sending him tumbling backward.

He let out a puff of air as he thudded to the ground. With Medea on top of him thus, it might have been a desirable position if their relationship had progressed that far; however, it had not. Nor was their present situation particularly romantic, for he gasped for air, and she realized she’d brought down half the tree’s orange and yellow leaves with her, all of which seemed to be tangled in her golden blonde hair.

“Gadzooks, I think you broke my ribs!” Peter groaned. A healthy dose of jest tinged his words, and the twinkle in his sapphire blue eyes told her he was not entirely serious. Still, Medea sat up and boxed him squarely on the arm, her bottom lip stuck out petulantly in a mock sulk.

“I’m not that heavy, Peter Humphries. Besides, if you were any sort of gentleman, you would have caught me,” she argued, and he laughed.

“If I’d had any warning you were coming down as fast as you did, I might have. But you were upon me like a strike of lightening out of the blue sky,” he replied with a beaming smile. Medea looked at him, mesmerized by his lovely face and strong features. His nose reminded her of the Greek statues in her father’s sculpture garden, and his chin spoke of his determined character.

“Medea?” he called and dipped his head to one side. “Have you bumped your head? You look a little dazed.”

Mortified, she clambered to her feet and dusted off her white dress. Her matching gloves were stained from the dirty ground, but she didn’t care.

“Not at all,” she said quickly, not wanting him to know she’d been woolgathering.

“Well then, shall we—”

“Hello? What is this ruckus? Foxworth, is that you?” Her father, the Baron of Foley’s, deep voice boomed from his study window just a few steps ahead. Peter grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her around the corner, where they squatted behind an azalea bush. In spring, this was one of Medea’s favorites. When the bell-shaped flowers bloomed, her entire chamber smelled sweet and inviting. Alas, it was autumn now, and the bush was a sad shadow of its glorious summer self. Still, it served itself as a satisfactory cover for them while her father poked his balding head out of the window in search of the source of the disturbance.

“Will he see us?” Peter asked with a hint of worry in his voice.

“Not in here. He’ll blame one of his dogs and forget all about it,” she said, hearing her father’s window close not a second later. “See?” she said triumphantly.

“I do,” Peter replied. His eyes sparkled so bright they reminded her of the sea in Italy, where her parents had taken her when she was a little girl before the wretched war had taken over the continent. She saw her reflection in his eyes as though she were looking in a mirror, and then he smiled broadly. “I see indeed,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire.

Medea’s mouth parted, and Peter bent forward until his lips met hers. The sensation was mesmerizing as lust, tenderness, excitement, and love all mingled and overwhelmed her until there was nothing but the two of them in all the world. As they sat, concealed beneath her window with her hair in disarray and both their attires stained, Medea knew with absolute certainty that Peter was the one for her. She loved him with all her might and heart, and today she would tell him so.

***

Medea lay on a bright red blanket underneath an ash tree and looked at the sky. She saw a sliver of bright blue sky through the leaves that battled against the stiff afternoon breeze. Sunbeams streamed through the tree and tickled her skin as she listened to Peter’s smooth voice reading from her favorite novel, Gulliver’s Travels. Listening to him was as comforting as drinking a glass of hot milk with honey on a cold night.

She raised her head and smiled, taking in his pointed chin and sharp jawline. His black hair grazed against his sun-kissed skin, and his nose sloped up at the end. Her heart pounded, and when he stopped reading to look at her, she thought it might burst with love.

Would he reciprocate? Knowing tomorrow he’d be gone… she had to tell him today.

Her stomach tightened and her heart grew heavy as she considered his impending departure. The unpleasant thought must have shown on her face because he put the book aside and touched her cheek. It felt soft and comforting, like a pillow filled with the finest goose down.

“What is it, my dear? You look sullen suddenly. Does Gulliver’s adventure in Lilliput not please you anymore?”

“No,” she replied and sat up at once, facing him. “I love Gulliver. I love the way you read it to me. Oh, Peter, there is so much I adore about you. It is just that…” Her eyes stung with sudden tears. She rubbed at them, but he took her hands in his, his expression one of infinite compassion.

“You worry about my leaving, do you not?”

“Of course. You are going to war. I do not understand why you must. You are a duke. You should be exempt.” She willed her voice to remain strong but cracked like a brittle leaf left in the sun for too long.

“The Duke of Wellington is a duke, yet he fights for his country. Indeed, there are too few of us high-born gentlemen who fight. Only one hundred and forty peers or heirs are in the forces; it is shameful.” His tone grew severe, sounding much older than his three and twenty years. While Medea hated that he was leaving to fight in the blasted war, she had to admit that his conviction only strengthened her love for him. He was a man of honor.

“But you could be hurt,” she replied, her voice catching, for this was her greatest fear.

“I will not. It is a short campaign, and I will return in a few months. And when I do, I shall make you my wife.”

“Wife?” she exclaimed. “You wish to marry me?”

He chuckled, exposing his brilliant white teeth to the sunshine. “Doesn’t any man who loves a woman wish to make her his wife?”

She wetted her lips and allowed her eyelids to flutter.

“You love me?”

“Is it not obvious?” he replied with a grin. “I love you more than the sun loves the sky, or the moon loves the stars. I want us to be like the swans on my lake. My father used to tell me they mated for life, and I think it’s true. They’re always together, which is what I want for us.”

Butterflies soared in Medea’s stomach, and she took hold of his hand.

“Oh, Peter, that is what I want: a future with you at my side.”

“And you will have it,” he replied, pressing his hand further into her cheek. He dropped his forehead against hers, and she felt his eyelashes tickle her skin as he closed his eyes. “The moment I return from this campaign, I will visit your father and make an offer.”

Encouraged, she sat back and flashed an impish smile. “You could ask him today. I believe you are aware of the location of his study.”

She knew she was being bold, but she couldn’t resist. He kissed her gently and shook his head.

“As much as I wish to, we must wait. I want everything to be right. My father has not been buried for a year, which would be improper. Besides, I do not want to make an offer with my immediate departure hanging over us like an anvil.”

She took a deep breath and caught a whiff of his sandalwood scent before letting her shoulder drop. He was correct; she knew this. Medea had understood Peter wanted things to be just so, for he was a perfectionist.

Besides, she wondered, would her father agree to a union with a man about to be shipped away to the war of his own volition? Surely, he’d wish to wait before announcing an engagement. And yet, Medea hoped for nothing more than to be his wife. Sensing her apprehension, he lifted her chin and pressed his lips against hers.

“There is no need to worry, my love. We have all the time in the world.”

She smiled at him then, knowing he was right. They were young, his mission was not to be dangerous, and they would be married when he returned, just as he said. She forced herself to let go of his hand and reached for her reticule from beneath the blanket, withdrawing her favorite gold patch box. She adored it because of the lovely coral and shell motifs that were applied over the stunning Montrose lace agate base.

‘What is this?” he asked as she opened it.

“I read that it is customary to give a departing soldier a keepsake to remind him of home and the lady waiting for his return.”

He drew his eyebrows together, intrigued. Then, he smiled broadly at the box’s contents.

“A lock of your gorgeous hair,” he said, examining it in the light. She’d cut a strand of her rich locks the night before. Held together by a pin and one of her finest silk bows, it seemed a good idea. Now, she wasn’t as confident as doubt crept in. Was she making a cake of herself? What if he thought her action foolish, childish even?

She was about to apologize for the gift when he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly.

“I love it. Thank you. I shall always keep it with me until I return.” He kissed her again, longer this time. Peter’s kiss tasted sweet, like the life she hoped they would share. When he pulled back, he patted his lap.

“Shall I read to you more?”

She nodded and lay on her back, her head once more in his lap and his hand in her hair. This time, she did not close her eyes when he began to read, determined to soak in the moment. She knew she’d need these memories to keep her strong over these next few months. Since she had no portraits of him, she would need to commit his face to memory.

As he read out loud, each word enunciated with care, her eyes caught sight of the sky above.

Grey clouds had obscured the bright blue of the autumnal sky, and a threatening blackness spread across the horizon like spilled wine on a pristine tablecloth. A chill hung in the air, and thunder rumbled in the distance. It was too far away to be a threat, as they were only a short distance from her father’s hunting cabin.

The eerie atmosphere, however, did nothing to alleviate Medea’s lingering sense of oppression. A small voice had surged in the back of her mind, whispering words of caution. This was more than just a passing storm in the afternoon. It was a foreshadowing, an omen of what was to come. Doom was heading their way, and neither could do anything to escape it.

Chapter One

March 9th, 1814

The Netherlands

A thunderous boom in the distance caught Peter’s attention, and he looked out at the scene ahead. A flash of yellow followed by another boom told him they were being fired at.

“Get down,” Wilson Smartell, a fellow soldier with whom Peter had been playing cards each night during their crossing to the Netherlands, yelled and shoved Peter hard. Peter fell against the ground as the sound of commands being shouted in English, French, and Dutch mingled around him, and he realized they had lost. Their assault on Bergen op Zoom, so carefully planned by their commander, Thomas Graham, had gone awry and terribly so.

“Wilson?” Peter called over the deafening melee and mayhem that unfolded around them. Dutch citizens had joined forces with the French garrison, and the British were hopelessly outnumbered. He’d seen his fellow soldiers fall and be taken captive, seen them die before his eyes. What had he done?

“Wilson?” he called again as smoke from a nearby fire filled the air with a thick black curtain that robbed him of his vision. He extended his hand and reached out blindly for his friend when another boom rang out like thunder in the middle of a storm. Beside him, something exploded. His ears rang, and his skin burned with what felt like a thousand needle pricks all at once.

He cried out as his eyes stung and his skin screamed out in pain, and then…nothing.

***

March 20^th

Scotland

Peter’s eyes fluttered open, but his eyelids brushed against something. He could see nothing. Darkness surrounded him, but unlike the last time he’d experienced such an onset of blackness, his surroundings were quiet. As he listened, he heard low groans nearby and, somewhere, further away still, whimpering. Someone was crying. Footsteps came and went, and something clattered, like silverware at dinner.

Occasionally, a heart-wrenching cry filled the air. Where was he? Why could he not see properly? Disoriented, he sat up but found himself restrained. Something was holding him in place. He yanked his hands and felt rope digging into his wrists.

A mortifying thought came to him: he’d been captured. He was in the enemy’s hands, somewhere deep inside the Netherlands, or worse, France. He knew his battalion was overrun and would not make it, yet he’d somehow assumed he would escape. He’d been wrong. He was caught, a prisoner of war.

His breathing increased, and his thoughts raced. He was a duke, a valuable captive. If the French knew he was high-born, would that aid or harm him? And what of his fellow soldiers? Had they been captured as well?

“Wilson?” he called out for his friend. “Wilson?”

“Ain’t no Wilson here,” a gruff voice replied from the darkness. The accent was British—Liverpool, if he wasn’t mistaken. So, there were other soldiers here.

“Hello? Who is this?” Peter called out. “Why am I tied down?” He pulled on his restraints again but dropped back when the searing pain of rope against raw skin burst through his body.

“Laisse-moi partir! Je suis le duc de Lennox et j’exige de parler à votre commandant!” he shouted in French, demanding to see their commander and stating his station.

“There ain’t no French here, you noble fool,” the voice replied, mockery rife within it.

No French? Then where were they? Who had taken them? Peter struggled against his restraints once more, desperate to get up, when he felt something wet against his wrist.

“Help!” he called out as he writhed on the bed and realized his legs had also been tied down. “Help!” His tone was desperate, and his breathing increased more and more, so much so that he thought he would die at any second.

“Your Grace,” another unfamiliar voice called out, and footsteps grew closer. “You must not struggle so hard. You will hurt yourself.”

“Set me free,” he demanded as someone hovered above him. He couldn’t see the person but felt them close by.

“I am the camp physician, Mr. Donovan,” the man’s warm voice said in a low tone as if speaking to a wild bull gone mad. The man fiddled with the restraints on Peter’s wrists and then felt them fall away. “Sit up but with care.”

“Am I captive?” Peter demanded as the man moved to his other side and released his restraint there as well.

“You are not. You are in a medical tent in Scotland. You will be moved to England once you are stable. After the campaign, you and your fellow soldiers were brought here from the Netherlands.” His voice grew thick, and Peter understood he’d been correct. Their campaign had been a disaster.

“How many dead?” he demanded.

“Hundreds. Thousands more captured. You were lucky.”

Peter sat up and raised his hands to his head when the physician grabbed his wrist just as he felt a blindfold around his eyes.

“Your Grace, please. You were gravely wounded. Do not touch your bandages. Do you know what day it is?”

Peter frowned. “Of course, March sixth. Although given I was asleep, perhaps it is the seventh now.” An ache crept into his head and pounded away behind his eyes. Had he said they were in Scotland? It took more than a day to get to Scotland. What day was it?

“It is March twentieth, Your Grace,” the physician said gently as if afraid he might scare him.

Peter’s head snapped toward the man. “The twentieth?”

How was this possible? Had he been asleep this long? Peter squinted, desperate to remember what had happened to him, but his memory was as black as the vision before him. He recalled the assault, Wilson, the pain and…

“Wilson! Where is Wilson? Wilson Smartell—he was in my unit. He was beside me when—”

His mattress shifted as the man sat beside him and placed a hand on Peter’s upper arm.

“Officer Smartell passed away last week from his injuries. He was in the bed beside you. You held his hand as he passed, but you do not remember.”

Peter’s lips trembled at the news. Wilson was dead? And he’d forgotten? His friend was dead, and he was injured. Wilson’s mother and sister were at home in Bath awaiting his return—one that would now never happen. He’d have to do something to help them somehow.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Donovan drew his attention. “Your injuries are grave.”

“I know it. I can feel my face burning and—”

“There was an explosion close to you. It would have killed you if you hadn’t been on the ground already.”

A memory flashed across his mind of being shoved. Wilson Smartell had pushed him out of the way and saved his life. But it had cost him his own.

Peter sat up, dazed and overwhelmed with grief and hopelessness. He raised his hands once more, this time feeling the coarse bandage over his eyes. He moved his hand down over his face, where raised mounds covered part of his cheek. They were rubbery to the touch, and when he put his fingers to his nose, he smelled a foul vinegary odor that made him gag.

“What happened to me?”

“The explosion sent burning shrapnel into your side and face. We were able to remove most of it, but I am afraid your eyesight may be impacted.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning your eyes were scratched and pieces of…” his words trailed off, and he cleared his throat, the discomfort evident in his voice. “You may never see again, Your Grace.”

“I am blind?” Peter demanded and turned to the man, though he could not see him.

“I am afraid so. It may change in time, but you had better prepare yourself for the possibility that this state is permanent. As for your other injuries, they are…”

Peter did not hear the rest of the man’s speech because his head buzzed as though he had plunged directly into a bees’ nest. He was blind. And for what?

They were defeated. His friend was dead. It had been futile. He’d given his eyesight and perhaps more, only to return home as a failure. He dropped his head into his hands, and a horrid stench entered his nose when he did so. The biting metal of ammonia mixed with spilled blood and vinegar made him dizzy. But those were not the only smells assaulting his nose. The overpowering stench that put all others to shame was the gangrene; that sickly odor that once encountered was never forgotten.

Though he could not see, a picture of his present condition emerged. He had to be in a camp hospital with beds all around him, filled with dead and dying soldiers.

“Your Grace?”

He heard the physician’s voice but couldn’t respond. Panic gripped him at the thought of returning home ruined. What would Medea say? She certainly would not want a broken shell of a man as a husband. He’d ruined everything. His future lay in ruins because he wanted to be righteous, to set a good example. He wished to be a hero and fight for his country, but it had come at a high cost.

“Your Grace, you must calm yourself,” the physician ordered, but he could not comply. Peter breathed harder and harder with every passing second and felt as though he might faint when hurried footsteps approached him, and someone placed a cup to his mouth.

“No,” he protested and shook his head, but they forced the liquid down his throat. Bitterness filled his senses, and he immediately knew what this was—laudanum. In a moment, he would know nothing of his fate or company. He’d slip away into darkness, but he knew that the darkness would remain once he awoke. He would not see the light of day again.

As they laid him back, he grappled with his trouser pockets. “My matchbox,” he mumbled, the words coming out slurred as though drunk.

“Here,” came a soft female voice, the medical officer’s assistant, no doubt. She pressed the precious box into his hand, and he snapped it open with one finger, extracting the lock of golden hair that had comforted him over the past few months. But this time, curling his wounded, filthy fingers around it didn’t bring him the same relief. Instead, as he imagined Medea’s beautiful, heart-shaped face, plush red lips, and striking blue eyes, he realized with dread that her beauty would live only in his mind from now on, for he would never see her face again.

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Prologue

“You are no son of mine!’’

Philip Sedgewick paused with his hand on the door as his father’s words echoed in his mind, his blue eyes glistening with anger and frustration as he set his jaw.

“You were born to be my heir, the dukedom should be your sole focus of interest,” his father repeated for the hundredth time since Philip had announced his plans to leave a few days prior. “And don’t think you will ever see a penny from me ever again if you walk out that door,” his father went on, his voice thick with ire.

“Henry, please…” his mother tried to reason with him in an attempt to bridge the gap. “Philip could still join the Royal Navy Academy and be your heir when he’s done…” her kind voice pleaded, concern dimpling her beautiful face.

“I will not allow it!” his father yelled, sweeping out an arm and sending the items on his desk crashing to the floor.

Philip shut the door and turned back to his parents as hundreds of documents fluttered to the floor in a blizzard of paper. A single letter opener slid across the floor, landing at his feet. Bending down, he picked up the miniature sword that proudly boasted the family crest, turning it over in his hand.

The look of anger on his father’s face let him know that no rational agreement would be reached between them, not for a while, at least. His mother shot him an apologetic look with her bright, blue eyes.

“Father, although I respect the role I am to play in this family. I have to be true to my dreams and follow my heart. Joining the navy has been a dream of mine ever since I sailed across the coast. I am old enough to make my own decisions.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have let him run free with that blasted boat!” His father shook his head while storming across the room to the window overlooking the estate. “Your place is here, learning how to be a duke, not sailing across the ocean like a sitting duck! What if something happened to you? Who would take my place? This family would be in ruin!” Henry marched back over to his desk.

“It’s a risk I am willing to take,” Philip said coolly.

“What?!” His father slammed his hands on the top of the desk, sending the final remnants of parchment fluttering to the floor.

“I have to be true to my dreams, Father; if you can’t understand that, I may as well be dead to you since you are threatening to disown me in any case,” he regretted the words as soon as he saw the expression on his father’s face. He hadn’t wanted things to unfold like this, but now, here they were. There was no turning back.

Elizabeth Sedgewick, his mother, looked at him with tearful eyes, a mixture of pride and hurt displayed across her face. She wanted nothing more than for her son to follow his dreams, but she knew those dreams came at a price.

“I’m sorry you don’t accept what I am doing, Father, but it’s done. I’m leaving tomorrow for my training. You may have been content with this life as a duke,” he said, opening his arms and gesturing to the large room with its high ceiling, lavish décor, and fine furnishings. “But I want more; the sea calls to me with an insatiable thirst that must be quenched.” He looked at his father with pity for the lack of understanding on his face. “I want more, and I hope, in time, you can be happy for me.”

He turned to leave without giving his father a chance to reply.

“Don’t you dare take another step, Philip!” his father yelled as Philip placed his hand on the door. “If you leave this room, you will never see my face again! I promise you that!”

Turning again, he looked at his mother, mouthing the words, ‘I love you’ before turning the handle and exiting the room.

***

The salty air whipped at his face as Philip’s carriage rattled into the bustling port of Portsmouth, home to the Royal Navy Academy. His heart sang with joy at the sight of sailors and overly zealous merchants flogging their wares. This is home, he thought as he stepped from the carriage and onto the street. His heart was never more at home than when he could hear the crashing of the waves, with the gulls crying overhead; even the odor of freshly caught fish filled him with a sense of peace.

He hoped and prayed that his father would accept his decision in due course; he belonged on the sea just as much as a fish belonged in water, and birds belonged in the air.

His mother had been proud of him for leaving, she’d told him so the night before he’d told his father. Follow your heart, my darling… He smiled to himself as he stepped onto the dock with his sack of belongings slung over his shoulder, joining the queue of men for the navy.

Amongst these men, he was an equal, not Philip Sedgewick the heir or Philip Sedgewick the son of Henry the Duke. He was himself, stripped of all convention.

“This is it, Philip,” he whispered with a contented heart. “Your life has finally begun.”

Chapter 1

Mighty waves beat against the ship as midshipmen scurried about the decks, dropping the anchor and ensuring all was in order. Rain beat down, and seagulls screamed; the storm had raged on throughout the night, showing little sign of letting up anytime soon.

Philip Sedgewick stood at the helm with his hands behind his back, his once-youthful face aged and handsome with a hint of stubble on his chin. He planned on shaving as soon as the ship was in port; his rooms were ready and waiting for him back at the Academy, something he’d been looking forward to all night.

“All is checked and in order, sir. Ready to disembark at your word.”

He turned to see one of the midshipmen standing behind him with his hand raised to his brow in a salute; he still wasn’t used to being addressed as sir since his recent promotion to captain. “Very well,” he said with authority and pride. “You may give the orders to disembark. Ensure all the men are at ease; this storm is nasty even at port.” His legs stood firm as the rain beat down.

“Aye, aye, Captain.” The young man saluted as he turned around and descended the stairs leading to the decks. His neat white shirt and breeches with the signature black tie and cap reminded Philip of himself when he’d started as a midshipman all those years ago.

The time had flown by in the blink of an eye since the day he’d stepped onto the docks. He’d seen his mother a couple of times whenever she managed to sneak away, but his father had remained true to his word and kept his distance, never showing his face again. Philip also knew better than to go home, flaunting his disobedience in his father’s face. Perhaps this time will be different. He thought as he looked out over the waves. He was an officer now; surely, his father would be proud.

“Sir?” The same midshipman from earlier drew his attention back to the present.

“Yes?” he straightened the buttons on his navy coat and fixed his sea-blown hair that was soaked to the scalp.

“A gentleman is awaiting your presence in your cabin, sir,” the midshipman half yelled with respect over the crashing waves as he hung onto the ship’s railing.

Philip frowned at him. “We are about to disembark, who would request my presence in my cabin? Could he not have waited for me in my rooms? Is he an officer?” He wondered if it wasn’t one of his friends coming on board to congratulate him.

“The gentleman did not offer a name, sir, and I do not think he is an officer, but he was most insistent that you’d be happy to see him in your cabin, sir.” The boy spoke with the stiff manner taught by the navy when addressing a superior.

“Very well,” Philip nodded his head. “Thank you for your service, midshipman,” he saluted the boy. “You may disembark.”

“Thank you, sir.” The lad saluted a final time before turning and marching across the deck with wobbly legs.

Philip smiled to himself; the boy would go far in the ranks if he kept up his manners and will to succeed. He was eager and willing, much as he had been at that age. His thoughts drifted to his cabin as he descended the stairs, curiosity igniting a spark of hope in his chest. Perhaps Father has changed his mind after all. The thought brought him joy as he reached the deck and pushed open the door to his cabin.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, young Master Philip…? My apologies,” he added, smiling with what looked like pride, “it’s Captain now, isn’t it?”

Philip’s disappointment quickly withdrew as excitement took over at the sight of his father’s lawyer sitting in his cabin.

“Mr. Wetherbee!” he exclaimed with joy. “How did you manage the trip?” He teased in the way they’d both been accustomed to as he grew up. “Aren’t you too old to be traveling by carriage?”

“Away with you,” the old man laughed and shook his head as he struggled to stand. “There’s life in this old body yet.”

Philip came forward and gripped his arm, helping him back into his seat in front of the desk. He could feel through his suit that the man had gotten on in years. George Wetherbee had been a lawyer to the estate as far back as Philip could recall. Once a tall and proud middle-aged man, he was now thinning and frail, with a scarcity of hair on his head.

Philip shut the door against the storm as he walked around his desk and took his seat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked with a smile.

“I’m sorry to ambush you like this, Philip, but the news simply couldn’t wait, and, as you know, your mother is in no fit state to travel.”

He frowned at the look of concern on the old man’s face, and a sinking feeling in his stomach let him know something was wrong. “Is all well with the estate?”

George nodded solemnly. “The estate is standing just as it was when you left and will be so on your return,” Wetherbee said, his kind eyes searching Philip’s face. “It’s your father, Philip.”

He took a deep breath as the panic began to set in. “Has something happened to him?”

“It was late yesterday evening when your mother sent for the doctor. She thought there’d be time for you to come, but I’m afraid he didn’t last the night. I’ve been traveling all evening to get to you here.” His light-brown eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Phillip, but your father is no longer with us.”

Phillip pulled out a chair at the desk and sank into the seat. He never knew of my promotion… he thought as the shock took hold. The letter he’d written to his mother wouldn’t have had time to reach them yet. He’d still thought he had plenty of time to mend the break. The meager hope of a possible reconciliation with his father was now cruelly dashed.

“I know this must come as a shock to you,” George said kindly, leaning in and patting his hand. “Your relationship with your father was always strained, I know, but he was your father. As you were his son, even after the things he said about cutting you off, his will was never changed.”

The old man’s words washed over his mind, leaving a void. “Was he ill?” he asked as he looked up, raking his hands through his sandy-blond hair.

George nodded in response and pursed his lips. “He’d taken ill quite a while ago; he forbade your mother from telling you… Dropsy of the heart, I am afraid. There was nothing anyone could do about it.” He looked at his hands for a second before continuing. “He was a proud man, Philip. He didn’t want you to know.”

Nobody needed to tell him about his father’s pride; he’d experienced the brunt of it in his life, and the shock was replaced with guilt and anger as he thought of him now. Images of the proud man he was with a muscular body and upright spine filled his mind. How did a man like that end up dying overnight? No, it wasn’t overnight. He didn’t want me to know.

“I have already spoken to your commanding officers on your behalf,” George continued after a while, breaking through Philip’s thoughts. “They have given you leave until further notice and sent for your things to be packed. You will be leaving with me at once.”

Philip’s head shot up in disbelief. “Until further notice? I have a duty to the navy; I’m an officer. Surely, the funeral will take no more than two weeks?” He dreaded the answer as the man stared back.

“This can’t come as a shock to you, Philip,” George said slowly, allowing time for the news to sink in. “This is standard procedure for a midshipman, and even a captain, with other responsibilities. You are the sole heir of the estate.”

Philip suddenly stood and turned about the cabin, feeling like a deer caught in a snare. The walls suddenly felt too small. “I have a life… A duty…” Lightning struck suddenly as the storm raged on, rocking the ship back and forth.

“To your family and the estate,” George said sternly. “This is the station you were born into.”

“Surely, as my father’s widow, my mother will inherit the estate?” He sought a solution that wouldn’t include the downfall of his dreams. “This does happen from time to time, does it not? Someone will be appointed as an aide while you search for a distant heir. My mother will not be left alone if I decline the position.”

“The entail law does not apply while you are still alive. You are and will remain the heir and your mother’s protector until you pass.” The kind look returned to the old man’s eyes as he lowered his voice. “And I hope that is very far off.”

“Do I have any choice in the matter?” Philip asked quietly, pushing his wet, matted hair aside as he looked at the lawyer.

George pushed himself up, retrieving his cane from beside his chair. “I’m afraid not,” he said as he placed his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I have always been very proud of you for all you’ve achieved, but life has dealt you a new hand, and we must all play with the cards we receive. I hope that in time, those words will bring you comfort.”

Philip continued to stare at the wall with a blank expression as the man made his way out of the cabin, hobbling on his cane against the storm.

“And, Phillip,” he said from the doorway, “I’ll be waiting for you in the carriage… Your mother needs you, so I hope you will come for her sake. Nobody can force you, but your mother will be left alone otherwise.”

“So, I’m forced by obligation in that case. The illusion of choice.”

George said nothing as he left the room, letting the cabin door slam shut in his wake.

Philip sank back into his seat, weeping as he placed his face in his hands. Everything he’d worked so hard to achieve was slipping through his fingers like sand. After all these years, he had no choice but to return to the place he’d left behind. Standing again, he straightened his jacket and walked over to the mirror beside his bunk.

The interior of the tiny wooden cabin was as neat as a pin, with enough room for a bunk, a desk with two chairs, and his trunk.

His hair was damp and tousled, and his eyes were tired and drawn from the shock. He began to remove his coat but stopped. No. He spoke firmly to himself as he pulled on the hem and fixed his hair. He’d worked hard to earn his current station in life; he’d return to the estate with his head held high, wearing his uniform with pride. Come what may, a navy captain he was.

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