Chapter 1

Flatford, Suffolk, England

1812

“Walter? Walter! How can you seriously still be asleep at this time?”

Walter rolled over in the bed, pulling the pillow across his face in the effort to block out the shrill voice of his sister, Lucy.

“Walter!” she called again, this time coupling the words with sharp bangs to the door.

“Ergh…” he groaned aloud as the knocking matched the thumping in his head.

“Did you go to the alehouse again last night?” Lucy’s voice was growing more and more impatient now.

“Yes,” he called back at last, pulling the pillow down off his face and blinking a few times to look around his chamber. The sunlight of the late morning was streaming through the windows gloriously, casting the room in a bright yellow glow. The four-poster bed had its curtains pulled back, revealing the white wooden-paneled room, and the brown leather furnishings.

“Argh! Fine, if you want to send yourself into an early grave by drinking, that’s your business,” Lucy called again, banging on the door, “but you made a promise to come out walking with me this morning, so you’re going to do that first.”

“You realize you don’t exactly sound ladylike right now,” Walter complained, thinking of the groaning sounds Lucy was making.

“Since when I have concerned myself with that?” she laughed through the door before banging on the wood another time. “Now, get up. I’ve got my boots on, ready to go.”

“All right,” he called back, pulling the blankets off and struggling to get out of bed. He only got two steps before the world slid sideways and he dropped to his knees. He grimaced at the thumping pain in his head. “How far are we walking?” he asked. Ordinarily, he would do whatever Lucy asked. One of three of his siblings, he often pandered to all their wants, but especially Lucy’s.

“As far as it takes for you to walk off that headache,” she said smartly through the door. Walter turned a narrowed glare toward the closed wood, as if she could see his glower through it.

“When did you become such a know-it-all?”

“When did you become such a drunk?”

“I’m not a drunk, Lucy,” he said in full seriousness, reaching for the bed and standing straight again. “I just went out with Peter last night for a drink.”

“Do you mean drinks?”

“Maybe,” he acknowledged and turned to the far end of the room, beginning to get changed, since Lucy wouldn’t allow him a moment to wait for his valet.

“I’ll be waiting for you downstairs. If you’re not there in five minutes, I’m going by myself.”

“You’re not to go alone into those woods, I’ve told you before,” Walter reached for a serious tone as he pulled the white linen shirt over his head. It hadn’t escaped his notice that every day, Lucy was growing into a fine young lady. With curly copper hair, just like their late mother used to have, she was a striking presence, with beautiful and petite features. When Lucy’s twin brother, Harry, wasn’t watching over her, then Walter was.

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“I’m not having this argument with you again. Least of all through a door,” he said tartly as he pulled on some breeches.

“I quite agree. I’ll see you downstairs in a minute.”

With her footsteps in the corridor signaling her retreat, Walter turned to the mirror nearest to him above a sideboard where a carafe of water was sitting. He eagerly poured himself a glass and downed it in one to quench the thirst of his hangover before his eyes settled on his reflection.

Fortunately, his night drinking with his friend hadn’t left too much of a mark on his features. The light brown curly hair that hung around his ears was a little bit messy from sleep and he hurried to flatten it into some semblance of neatness. His hazel eyes bore bags beneath them, but they weren’t too heavy. The strong jaw line was beginning to show a dappling of bristles, that he made a note of to remove later, as he preferred the clean-shaven look.

He smiled at himself, seeing his handsome face in its glory before laughing at himself and turning away to finish changing. He knew he was handsome. The string of women he’d had in his life was evidence enough for that.

He finished changing, pulling on his jacket and a quick cravat haphazardly, along with some walking boots, then hurried out of the door, half falling over in the corridor as he slipped on the rug in his haste to get to the entrance hall in time. There was no chance he was going to let Lucy go out alone into the forest. It was too dark and far too many strangers wandered that area.

“You’re late.” His father’s chuckling voice on the staircase didn’t even make Walter pause. He looked to see the Lord Thomas Aregton, Marquess of Suffolk, walking up the grand staircase the other way. The stairs curved at right angles repeatedly until they stretched the entire way up the manor, leaving Walter to cling to the banister as he hurried down. “Lucy is already out the door.”

“She’s impatient, Father.” Walter laughed too, watching the way his father’s aging face crinkled with the smile. “You’ll have to get her a governess again soon.”

“She doesn’t need one yet.” Thomas shrugged as he paused on the stairs and let Walter rush past him. “She’s still enjoying her childhood.”

“She’s practically a grown lady now,” Walter called back just as he reached the bottom step.

“I’ll think about it,” his father called after him.

“I know! You’ve said that before.” He shot one glance back across his shoulder before bounding through the entrance hall as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the headache pounding behind his temples.

It was a recent argument between the two of them about Lucy’s character.

Walter didn’t want to change her, he loved who she was, this adventurous and sometimes reckless natured young lady, but it had to be accepted that growing up with three brothers and a father was taking its toll on her. She was already sixteen and when it came to making her debut, she would not have the skills for the event if she were not prepared first. She’d had a governess once, but since their mother’s death, Lucy had grown even more rebellious. In the end, on Lucy’s twelfth birthday, the governess had resigned, claiming Lucy was such a wildling that no one could ever tame her.

“Lucy?” Walter called as he ran the length of the long entrance hall that was swathed in a long red Persian rug, dappled with white and gold embroidery. The front door was open, revealing sunlight streaming in. He hurried beyond it to see Lucy was already striding down the driveway. “I’m coming, all right?” he called after her, running and reaching her side quickly.

She turned her head to him with her traditional smirk in place. Much shorter than he was, she still held her chin high with a good deal of self-confidence.

“I knew the faster I left, the faster you would follow,” she said with a giggle.

“Hmm, it worries me sometimes how easily you make me dance for you. Well, if it’s a walk and some exercise you want, then that’s what you’ll get.” He shook his head and hurried ahead down the driveway with her in hot pursuit.

When they were a little distance from the house, he looked back, surveying the surroundings. They really did have a beautiful home. The Meadowbank estate was a grand one indeed. Built scarcely a hundred years before out of red brick, it towered in the landscape with triangular roofs and little white turrets here and there. The white accents in the brick work and around the windows shone in the strong sunlight of the day. The most recognizable part of the house was the white clocktower at the very center and top of the building, as it was the tallest part of the house and could be seen for miles around.

At the end of the pebbled driveway, the house slipped out of view as they descended into woodland. The main forest Lucy had begged him to explore with her was a little distance away, but one of the most popular spots nearby for walkers. Commonly nicknamed Mystic’s Wood, each curve in the path through the woodland revealed new wonders and anomalies in the trees, such as effigies carved into the bark of trees or a river that appeared out of nowhere and passed through a stone shaped perfectly like devil’s horns.

“Why do you go drinking so often with Peter?” Lucy’s words startled Walter so much that he whipped his head round, nearly slipping on tree roots as they stepped deeper into the woodland.

“I daresay you’ll discover such enjoyments when you’re older,” he said with a low voice.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever enjoy drinking as much as you do.” She scrunched up her nose in disgust. He was rather relieved she didn’t know the hidden meaning of his words. For after he and Peter had gone drinking, he’d spent most of the night in the company of one of the barmaids from the ale house. That was the enjoyment he had been referring to, and he certainly didn’t want Lucy thinking of such things.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear it,” he acknowledged. “You do realize after your debut when you attend events of the Season, you’ll be offered punch, wine and goodness knows what else.”

“That I hope will be put off for as long as possible.”

“Surely you do not mean that?” Walter said with amazement in his voice. “I know you’re not yet ready for it, but all we need do is find you a governess who is willing to help.”

“Oh right, for that went so well last time, didn’t it?” Lucy’s voice suddenly lost all sense of jesting and she turned to look at him with her arms open wide. Walter paused in the walk and looked back to her in surprise. “The last one said I was as feral as a wild dog.”

Walter bristled at the recollection of the words; they were cruel indeed.

“Not all governesses will be like that one,” he assured her and beckoned Lucy to continue their walk. “We’ll find you a governess who is much kinder than that.”

“Someone kind who is willing to put up with a girl compared to a feral dog? Pah!” Lucy scoffed. “No such governess exists, I am sure.”

Walter smiled and tried to bring some cheer to the moment as he placed a hand around Lucy’s shoulder and bumped her against his side in a brotherly gesture.

“Wait and see. You never know who’s going to be around the corner.”

***

Mary lugged the bag behind her again, but it just dropped to the floor, as heavy and sodden as her own dress was. She paused and looked up at the sky, pushing the strands of wet brown hair out of her eyes and away from her damp cheeks. Up until an hour before, it had been raining heavily. Now, the sky didn’t have a cloud in it and the bright blue shone above her, practically mocking her drenched state.

How has my life come to this?

She looked down at the dress, far too fine to be wearing when trudging through a woodland alone, drenched to the bone. Her slipper-style shoes with the small heels were now covered in so much dirt that it had reached up around the edges of the shoes and slipped in, dirtying her stockings. Even the petticoats beneath her dress were damp with the mud riding up far past the hem.

“Come on,” she talked to the bag as though it were an animated thing, live and well that could talk back to her. “I will not let you drag me down.” She heaved it onto her shoulder, the bag slapped against her back, making her topple sideways from the weight, but not quite fall over. She winced and carried on, wading through the damp mud and puddles.

She knew had it not been for the coach driver throwing her out that she could be far away from this place by now. She could be onto the next county, Norfolk perhaps, and far away from London, but it was not to be. The coachman had given her the heave-ho, quite literally, as she didn’t have enough money to pay him. So, she had been abandoned in this strange wood in the middle of Suffolk with nothing but her bag for company.

“Well, what are we going to do now then?” she asked as though the bag would reply to her. “I think I’ve already gone mad, as I’m talking to you. That’s worrying enough in itself.”

She sighed again, paused and looked up to the sky, hoping a brilliant idea would appear between the branches of the trees, yet nothing did. “At least I am away from London.” She tried to take comfort in this idea as she strode forward, walking through a dense thicket of trees.

In truth, she could take little comfort in it at this time. Running had only got her into this situation, where there were little prospects and only the seeping coldness of her damp clothes.

“This is hopeless,” she muttered to herself as her feet stuck in the mud. Almost trapped, she had to jerk her legs forward and she hurried forward, nearly falling another time before she dropped the bag to the ground.

Tears were threatening to fall, but she wouldn’t let them. She placed the backs of her hands to her eyes, trying to stop those tears from coming as she lifted her head and looked at her new surroundings.

The dense thicket had opened a little now into a clearing where there was a river. Startled by its appearance, she whipped her head round, watching as the babbling stream that echoed against the stone bank either side of it past under a giant rock. Built of flint stone, it appeared to be carved into something that looked like a pair of devil’s horns.

“What is this place?” she whispered into the air, leaving her bag behind her as she moved forward to the stone in wonder.

Other times, she would have found it beautiful. Yet today, the devil’s horns seemed to be an omen, making her wonder why she had come here at all.

To avoid living a lifetime in hell. Remember that.

She breathed deeply as her eyes danced across the stone, watching intently. No matter what the omen, this was preferable to the life she had before. The one where two nights ago, she had felt such fear and terror that it had forced her to flee. Two nights without sleep and barely any food was preferable to being back in London.

She looked down at her clothes that were dirtied and clinging to her body. There was one good thing out of this day. Freedom. If her parents could only see her now, they would undoubtedly be horrified that their perfect, lady-like daughter, the one they had carved to be like a fine marble statue, would behave in such a way.

She was about to laugh at the idea when she heard something. She darted her head to the side, looking around the devil-horned stone to see what the source was, but she lost her footing. Slipping in the wet soil, she began to fall forward. She reached out her arms to break her fall, but it was too late. She came down at the side of the riverbank where the line of stones sat and felt her head crack against hard rock.

She tried to move but she couldn’t. Nothing happened at all and even her fingers refused to move. Then her eyes closed, and the world went black.

Chapter 2

“This way,” Lucy called. “The rock is round here.”

“It’s strange you find such fascination in it.” Walter shook his head.

“I think this place is amazing,” she giggled and pushed on ahead, walking a few feet in front of him avoiding the path entirely and pushing between the trees. “The quickest way back from here is the track with the carved faces too. The ones in the trees that all seem to be watching you.”

Walter laughed at the idea. Clearly the people in the village nearby had had far too much time on their hands over the years to whittle such scary faces in the tree trunks.

“Walter!” Lucy suddenly screamed his name.

He didn’t ask what was wrong, he just lurched ahead, sensing the note of panic in his sister’s voice at once. He pushed past the silver birch trees with the pale white bark and appeared at his sister’s side, nudging her shoulder in the effort to reach her quickly.

“Lucy?” he asked, his voice piercing with concern. She lifted a shaky hand and pointed ahead. He turned to follow the gesture.

At the bottom of the devil horns and prostrate out on the earth was a woman.

“Zounds!” Walter exclaimed and ran forward. He didn’t hesitate, he just dropped down at the woman’s side, reaching for her quickly. There was blood pooling a little beneath her head on the stone. She had to have fallen and struck her head there.

He gently lifted her head, inspecting the wound as carefully as he could. The skull wasn’t broken, to his relief, but she was bleeding from the bump and may well have a concussion.

“What has happened to her?” Lucy asked in shrill panic from where she stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.

“Perhaps she has fallen,” he said gently, not wanting to return her head to the ground.

“Here? Of all places, here!” Lucy gestured to the devil-horned stone.

“This is not the time for superstitions, Lucy,” Walter said off-handedly, just as his eyes drifted down from the woman’s wound to her face. He felt his breath hitch at the sight.

Her brown hair had fallen mostly out of its bun and was long, practically reaching down to her waist. A few loose wet strands hung about her face and were now plastered to alabaster white cheeks. The bones of these cheeks were high, creating a regal and ornamental face. The nose was gently sloping, and the lips were bold compared to the rest of the face. Such lips, he’d rarely seen before.

He snapped his gaze away, realizing just how awful it was for him to be considering the stranger’s beauty at a time like this.

“Lucy, we need to get help. A physician.” His mind was working quickly, leading his sentences to come out short and staccato.

“It’s a fair walk back to the house,” Lucy said miserably, walking around the woman and dropping down to her other side. She placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and softly tried to stir her. “Can you wake up? Please, please wake up?”

Walter watched the woman’s face as he cradled her injured head for any sign of movement, but there wasn’t a flicker in her cheeks.

“She’s out cold,” he said tightly. He moved slightly, kneeling a little straighter, knowing now was the time for action and they had to be quick, in case she was hurt worse than he feared. “You mentioned the quickest path back to the house.”

“Yes?” Lucy said, looking up to meet his gaze.

“Take it. Run as fast as you can,” he said, moving his stance as he prepared himself to lift the woman. “Don’t stop if you see any stranger.”

“I don’t think we need the stranger conversation right now!” she gestured to the current situation, making him wince.

“I know, I know. I’m your brother. Looking out for you is what I do,” he pointed out quickly. “Take the path and get home as quickly as possible. Get Father to call for a physician. I’ll be right behind you.”

Lucy nodded and jumped to her feet, then she hovered, nearly tripping over something.

“This must be her bag,” she said, lifting it slightly. “Oh my, it’s heavy.”

“Then we’ll come back for it later. Go. Now.” He ordered. This time, she didn’t hesitate, and she ran off down the nearest track.

Once she was gone, Walter turned his gaze back to the beautiful stranger, his eyes tarrying for a while on the woman’s bold features.

“I am sorry about this,” he murmured softly, “but I can think of no other way to get you to safety.” He knew it was an imposition to carry a woman so, especially a stranger, but he was trapped. He just needed to get her to help as soon as possible.

He shifted his position, releasing the gentle hold on her head at last so that he could adjust his grasp. He slipped one arm under her waist and the other under the crook of her knees, then he slowly lifted her up into his arms and stood to his feet.

The task was not easy for she was tall, but her slender form made her quite light to carry. Her dress was sodden, he wondered how she was not shivering beneath it. That’s when he pressed her body against his own, the better to carry her with.

He was acutely aware then of the sharing body heat between them. Yet it was a heat beyond what should have been normal. It came because he couldn’t stop thinking of the woman’s beautiful face. It was a surreal sensation, one he was not used to feeling.

Furious at himself, he looked back down to her features again. It struck him rather how like a fairy she was. It all made sense, appearing in the Mystic’s Wood in such a way. He cursed himself for being so distracted by her.

“This is about her life, you fool,” he muttered under his breath. “Get her home. At once.”

He hitched her higher in his arms and turned to the track Lucy had just taken, walking down it as quickly as he could. In this way, it would take some time, but with a little luck, by the time he was home, the physician would be on the way too.

Despite his determination not to be distracted by the woman’s beauty, his eyes slipped to her face that was now flung backwards, more than once. The fact that this woman was alone in the middle of a woods felt odd to him. The kind of protectiveness he usually associated with Lucy emerged in him, only it was particularly strong, almost electrifyingly so now.

“Who are you, Fairy of the Woods?” he muttered, starting forward again.

***

Mary couldn’t open her eyes, but she could hear movement. Every time she tried to lift her head and even move a single finger, she couldn’t; her entire body was paralyzed. She felt her breathing grow faster with the frustration and panic of not being able to move.

“There is no need to fear,” a deep voice rumbled against her. She grew aware of the body pressed against her own.

Who is that?

Her breath grew even quicker. She tried to push away from whoever was carrying her, yet still her body refused to abide by her will.

“I’ve got you,” the deep voice came again, even gentler this time. “You’ll be safe now. Don’t you worry.”

He said words she’d longed to hear, and her breathing settled a little. Whoever was carrying her, they clearly had no intention of hurting her.

She focused all her energy on opening her eyes. This time, they flickered open. Unable to lift her head up from the carried position, she could see the world upside down. They were walking past trees and through long grass, heading somewhere.

“Not long now, Fairy of the Woods. I’ll get you there soon,” he spoke again. The name perked Mary’s ear. The stranger had given her a mystical name, one that felt odd. Then she felt his hands move, holding her tighter to him.

To her amazement, heat spread through her body. Whether it was because of the pressure of his hands, one under her knees and the other on the curve just above her waistline, or because of his soothing gravelly voice, she wasn’t sure.

She decided not to think too much about it. Lots was happening right now and all she wanted to think of was the safety in this stranger’s arms.

When his hand adjusted on her knee, moving closer to her thigh, she could feel the heat of those fingers through the layers of her gown. A coil of excitement spiraled in her stomach before shooting much lower.

Why do I feel like this?

She couldn’t believe that sensation of excitement. She couldn’t even see the stranger carrying her and for him to cause such a feeling didn’t make sense. He could look like a gargoyle for all she knew, twisted with a stone-like face and as grey and ashen too, unyielding.

She imagined that was what was really happening to her. That a great beast-like gargoyle with giant stone wings and a curled lip with sharp teeth was carrying her between the trees.

As though in answer to her thought, the trees they were walking past changed. Where smooth birch tree trunks had been before, holes had been carved into the trunks that bore grisly and grotesque faces.

She tried to recoil away from the sight of them, but she couldn’t, her body still refusing to move. She was forced to let her eyes flick from one face to the next, looking between surreal and contorted features. One face was dominated by large eyes and missing its nose, another had great black eyebrows that circled down past its cheeks, and another had teeth the size of hands.

At one point, she was certain one of these carved faces was staring straight back at her. Fear jolted through her stomach, and she tried to recoil away again. This time, her body managed to twitch, but that was all.

“I’ve got you,” the stranger’s voice came again. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Sighing, Mary closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of the twisted faces and focusing on the calming depth of the stranger’s voice instead. In his arms at least, she was safe. That sensation was overwhelming to her.

The safety of the gargoyle’s arms.

A few minutes later, more voices were nearby. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to reveal to anyone that she could stir just yet. Sounds changed, suggesting they were walking up some driveway and were no longer in a forest at all.

“Walter? What’s happened to her?” this man’s voice sounded older, with more gravitas and a gravelly tone to it.

“Her head is bleeding,” the stranger carrying her answered.

Walter. That’s his name.

“She fell and hit her head on some rocks. That’s how it looks, at least,” Walter said again, striding forward and still carrying her firmly in his arms. “Is the physician here?”

“He’s on his way now. Quick. Into the house. We’ll take her into the guest wing.”

There was a bustle around them and a clamor of voices, young ones with fear in their tones. She couldn’t bear to open her eyes, so she kept them closed and focused on the feeling of Walter’s arms around her.

“Where do you think she came from?” a girl’s voice asked from nearby.

“Who knows,” a boy answered. “She must be someone of importance though.”

“Have you seen her dress?” the girl said, with apparent amazement.

Mary cursed herself for not considering changing into something demure before fleeing her parents’ home in London. If this family reported her to the magistrate because they thought her a fine lady, then she would be delivered back to London within days. After all, how many wealthy ladies would have fled their homes in this manner? They would discover who she was quickly enough. She couldn’t let that happen.

She’d lived that fear and gone through it all to escape. She wasn’t going to go back now. She had to find a way to hide the truth of who she was.

That was when an idea occurred to her. If she didn’t appear to know the truth either, then there was little chance anyone would have of linking her to her past. Appearing in that vulnerable state too, if she was lucky, these people might take pity on her and let her stay in the house whilst she recovered.

If I recover.

She had to pray she would and that the strike to her head wasn’t too bad. Her mind returned to her plan, pushing this awful thought away.

Maybe if these people took her in, she could even work for them for a while. Perhaps as a maid, she could learn the trade and she would work hard to prove her value. First, she would just have to convince them she knew no more who she was than they did.

Memory loss.

Without specifics to give to a magistrate, there would be no way she could be handed back to her parents.

The voices grew louder abruptly. One at a time, they all called up ideas of where she should be placed. Some were far too close, and she even felt someone pull at her skirt. Out of fear, she tried to move again, still, nothing happened, but her body twitched just once.

“Quiet!” Walter’s voice boomed across the others, vibrating against her body. She tried to press her body closer to his, taking comfort in it. “None of this is helping. Harry, open that door. She needs to rest. Aaron, when the physician comes, you bring him up here at once. Understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Now stand back.” Walter strode forward with her again, carrying her close.

Mary’s mind was made up. Sadly, it would mean lying for a while, even to the gargoyle in whose arms she felt so safe, but her future safety depended on it.

This will be my life from now on.

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

CHAPTER ONE

January 1824, Assam, India. 

Aaron watched as Captain Jonathan Lambton ducked out of the mess tent that his battalion was occupying on the outskirts of Cachar, the site of the first battle of the war. It had been bloody work. Colonel Aaron Fitzwilliam had led his regiment into Cachar where they had engaged the Burmese army in hand-to-hand combat. Aaron had lost many men and knew the memories of their bloody, broken bodies would live in his memory as long as he drew breath. He clenched his hand into a fist, anger flooding him again. The idea that one of the men he had travelled with, slept alongside, and fought shoulder to shoulder with was a traitor was overwhelming.

“Are you sure, Lieutenant General?” Aaron asked, dropping the flap of his commander’s tent to turn and face him. The Lieutenant General was several years older than him and much more seasoned. He bore the evidence of previous service across his face with an ugly looking scar along his jaw. Aaron trusted him with his life.

“I am afraid so, Colonel.” The Lieutenant General nodded gravely. Aaron’s heart sank. “Someone amongst our ranks has turned traitor against the King. They have been sending messages to the Burmese dissidents, and they fed them our tactics for the Cachar battle. They are the reason that Colonel Chambers’ regiment was nearly wiped out.”

“The bastard,” Aaron muttered to himself, feeling a swirl of anger as he remembered the way the Burmese soldiers had cut down the men who had been hidden for cover fire. Their leading commander had not been able to understand how they had been given away.

“There’s more,” the Lieutenant General said furiously. “Our intelligence suggests that the traitor is being supported by a peer of the realm.”

Aaron cursed and pinched his nose between his fingers. The Lieutenant General watched him sympathetically.

“I know this is hard for you, Fitzwilliam,” he said quietly. “Your position is delicate; however, the order comes from the General and you are my best soldier, the only man I trust with it.”

“Do not worry, Lieutenant General, I do not have my title yet.” Aaron’s mouth quirked in a sardonic smile. “Until I take up my own mantle as Duke of Abercorn, I am entirely yours to command. What are the orders?”

“Captain Lambton must die,” the Lieutenant General said flatly. Aaron’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“There is to be no court martial?”

“We cannot risk it.” The Lieutenant General shook his head ruefully. “If we court martial the captain, then whoever is pulling his strings in England shall be alerted to his discovery. We must allow the East India Trading Company the best opportunity to uncover the traitor at home.”

“So, what is to be done?” Aaron shifted uncomfortably. “For surely I shall face my own court martial if I am to shoot a fellow in arms.”

“He shall be leaving tonight on a mission. It is a ruse. Follow him out of the encampment until you are in the wild then shoot him.” The Lieutenant General pushed a box of tinder and a single shot pistol across the desk. “Check him for incriminating documents. Bring anything relevant back with you. Burn his body and any other evidence. We shall put about that he was killed by rebels. There will be no questions brought to your door, only the thanks of your General.”

Aaron stared at the tinder box and pistol. Like most men of his rank in the army, he carried a sword and fought with a rifle. Single shot pistols were rare, but Aaron was very familiar with them. His own father had trained him in all manner of firearms.

“You are the best shot in the camp, Fitzwilliam,” the Lieutenant General said, quietly. “Do not miss.”

“I never do,” Aaron said lightly, stuffing the tinder box into his pocket and checking the hammer on the pistol. “Though I admit, it will be the first time I have fired upon a brother in arms.”

“Captain Lambton is the traitor and cannot be allowed to continue in his actions. He will ruin us all if he does.” The Lieutenant General walked around the desk and clapped Aaron on the shoulder, looking at him with steely brown eyes. “We have lost many good men this month. We shall no doubt lose more in this war. I shall be damned if any of them fall because of the treacherous machinations of Captain Lambton.”

Aaron nodded firmly at his commander. “Yes, sir.”

“Get going, Colonel.” The Lieutenant General walked back around the desk, unbuttoning his coat and slinging it over the back of his chair. Without it, he suddenly looked much younger. Aaron couldn’t help wondering how many times his commander had given orders like this one and if they were what caused the years to wear so heavily upon him. “Report back when it is done.”

“Yes, Lieutenant General.” Aaron threw a salute and tucked the pistol into his belt. Carefully he slipped out of the commander’s tent and walked through the camp. They had not been there long, only a few weeks since the battle of Cachar, but already the men were treating it like a sort of home. Aaron passed by a few infantry soldiers playing cards over an upturned barrel, another few trying to tempt a monkey down from a nearby tree with hard tack.

He smiled at the men as he passed and they nodded and saluted, smiling back. They trusted him. He was a strong leader, compassionate but firm. He could laugh with them but also kept enough distance that they respected him and the rank he held, both in the forces and society. Some of the men, he knew, were soldiers raised on land that belonged to his future Duchy. They were his soldiers and his tenants. When they fell in battle –If they fell in battle, Aaron tried to correct himself- it would be his duty to write to their families and then his further duty to give those families on his estate the support they needed. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders as he walked past them. God, how he prayed that they all lived. How he prayed he would not have to bury another man.

“Anyone seen Captain Lambton?” Aaron asked when he came across a friend, Colonel Gregory Chambers, lounging against one of the posts erected at the edge of the camp, smoking a cigarette. The two of them got along well in the Officers mess, both of them destined for the Peerage in the future. Chambers would become the Viscount Ellerton when his father passed. Aaron found him good company and hoped they would remain friends after the war. If they both survived. Chambers was looking out over the makeshift graveyard, no doubt mourning for the many men he had lost in the battle. All due to Lambton. Aaron felt a flash of rage.

“Over there.” Chambers nodded towards the edge of the forest, his eyes catching the pistol at Aaron’s belt. “Have business with him, do you?”

“I do,” Aaron said levelly. “Orders from the Lieutenant General.”

Chambers nodded knowingly, taking a long inhale of Indian tobacco.

“I’ll watch for your return,” he said quietly. “Good luck, Fitzwilliam.”

Aaron nodded silently, wondering if his friend in arms had surmised the situation. Chambers would have likely volunteered for such a mission if it had been advertised. He had many friends to avenge. Yet it fell to Aaron to act for him. He would not fail him.

Stepping away from the camp and towards the green leaves of the jungle, he passed by the pyres they had built to burn their dead comrades. Aaron’s anger flared once again when he saw the wooden crosses stuck in the dirt. In the unbearable heat of the subcontinent, it was dangerously unwise to bury bodies, since they brought both scavengers and disease, yet Aaron hated the fact his soldiers could not be given a proper Christian burial. He briefly took solace in the fact that at least this traitor would be denied one too.

Lambton looked up as Aaron approached, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He was a handsome man, Aaron had to admit, younger than him by a few years and his complete opposite in looks. Whilst Aaron was dark, his skin tanned almost as dark as the Burmese they fought against in the endless sunshine, Lambton was fair. His blond hair curled close to his head, almost bleached white in the sunshine and his skin burned red in the sun, like strawberries and cream. He looked like an innocent almost, except for his eyes. Aaron found that eyes were a good measure of a person’s truth and by his measure, Captain Lambton had something of the rake about him. His eyes were scheming and dark blue, full of secrets and anger.

“You’re roped into this mission too, sir?” Lambton asked respectfully enough, but Aaron found himself flinching at his tone.

“Yes, Captain,” he said in clipped tones, “Reconnaissance in the jungle. Let us go.”

“I see,” Lambton eyed him snidely. “Lead the way, sir.”

“I shall bring up the rear, Captain,” Aaron had no intention of turning his back on this traitor. “You are a skilled navigator. Lead on.”

Lambton looked for a moment like he might disagree but then shrugged sullenly, and began clearing a way through the undergrowth, snapping twigs intentionally so they could find their way back. Soon, they were absorbed into the tight, heavy silence of the jungle. Aaron knew that he needed to make sure Lambton was far enough away from the camp so that the smoke from his burning body would not attract immediate attention but walking behind the man he was about to murder was its own kind of torture. This was a man he had shared a cigarette after the battle, both of them bloody and exhausted, dirt in their hair, their uniforms filthy. How many of those men’s deaths could be Lambton’s fault? How could anyone have looked down on all that destruction that they had helped bring about and not feel guilty?

“You’re a Duke, are you not, Colonel?” Lambton asked suddenly as they carefully moved thick green leaves out of their way.

“Not yet,” Aaron answered automatically. “My father still lives.”

“Though not for long, I hear,” Lambton responded.

Aaron almost froze up to hear such words from a subordinate. Not only were they utterly inappropriate, it was the kind of thing no regular Captain in the King’s Army would know. Only fellow Peers knew that his father was rapidly degrading, a lifetime of drinking and gambling finally catching up with him. His mother’s last letter had informed Aaron that his father’s liver would not last more than a year. Only his father’s equals and family knew of the diagnosis. Aaron realised that Lambton was revealing his connection to someone of that high society.

He knows I’m going to kill him, Aaron realised coldly.

“You seem very well informed, Captain,” Aaron said tightly. “Might I inquire as to your source?”

“Ah, now, Colonel,” Lambton chuckled softly, “a good man takes such secrets to his grave.”

“Those kinds of secrets are dangerous,” Aaron snapped back, thinking wildly of the dead men he had dragged from the battlefield, their blood soaking into the sandy dirt. “Those are the kinds of secrets that lead to other men’s graves.”

“I don’t think that’s why you’re here, Colonel.” Lambton stopped in his tracks. They had reached a clearing deep in the jungle. Lambton didn’t turn around but stared straight ahead.

“Get on with it then,” he said.

“Jonathan Lambton, you are a traitor to the crown. Turn around,” Aaron swallowed hard. “Face me like a man.”

“Like a man?” Lambton laughed cruelly. “I don’t think we can talk of manners when you have followed me into the jungle to kill me.”

“I have my orders.” Aaron drew the pistol and levelled it at the back of Lambton’s head. He might be a traitor, but Aaron would not shoot any man in the back. “Turn around. Face me like a soldier.”

“That’s the thing, Colonel Aaron Fitzwilliam, future Duke of Abercorn,” Lambton chuckled darkly. Aaron tried not to be disquieted by the way he used his full name like an insult. “I’ve never been much of a soldier.”

In one fluid movement, Captain Lambton spun around and raised a knife, murder in his eyes. Aaron did not think twice. He pressed the trigger and fired. The one shot rang out, the reverberations instantly swallowed by the thicket of jungle around them. Lambton staggered back, crumpling at the knees, a trickle of blood between his dead, blue eyes, a bullet in the centre of his forehead. The traitor fell forward, his head hitting the soft jungle floor with a dull thump. Aaron let out a long breath, lowering his firing arm slowly. He pulled out the tinderbox, amazed to see his hands were shaking. There was something about a pistol in his hand that took away his nerves, but now guilt was creeping back in. This man was an Englishman, a son of a sovereign nation, and Aaron had cut him down like a common stag. Lowering himself to his knees, Aaron pushed the dead man over, wincing to see the look of surprise still etched on his face. Trying not to flinch, he closed Lambton’s eyelids. He reached inside the man’s jacket pocket to carry out the rest of his orders. He pulled out a sheaf of a paper and a small keepsake portrait. The woman featured was beautiful. She had an angelic face, long red hair which she wore loose, as was common in lover’s portraits, and green eyes.

“Damnation,” Aaron breathed. “You were loved, weren’t you, Lambton?”

With trembling fingers, Aaron checked the letters. Each one was signed, “your dearest love,” and addressed to “my dearest intended, Jonathan.” Lambton had clearly been engaged to the enchanting woman. His stomach churned at the thought of this young lady receiving a brusque letter from the Lieutenant General, explaining her betrothed had been killed in action. Sighing, he checked the last letter. It was a sealed envelope, addressed to Miss Catherine Headon. Aaron touched the name with his thumb, wishing that his actions this day would not cause her pain. He knew that his wishes would be in vain. Not only had he taken a life today, but he had also ruined another.

“Well, Jonathan Lambton,” Aaron sighed heavily. “I shall give you more honour in death than you deserved in life. I shall return your darling’s letter and portrait and she shall never know of your betrayal.”

Aaron got to his feet, gathered dry leaves from the forest floor which he put around and over Lambton’s body before he pulled out the tinderbox and started the fire. He waited until he saw the flames catch Lambton’s dry uniform and curly hair before turning back into the jungle. By the time he saw the familiar graves and tents, the smell of burning was in the air. Slowly he approached Chambers who was watching the skyline intently.

“Seems like the rebels are having some kind of fire,” Chambers said conversationally. “Is Lambton not with you?”

“Lost him in the forest,” Aaron lied easily, leaning against the post next to his friend.

“I see,” Chambers offered him his pipe and Aaron took a drag, grateful for the calming smoke and taking a deep breath. He exhaled heavily, smoke and guilt laced on his breath. Chambers looked down at his pistol and then back up at his face, holding his eye with a steely glare.

“You didn’t miss, did you?” he asked quietly.

Aaron didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. Justice had been served, but it did not make Aaron feel less guilty for ruining an innocent young woman’s happiness.

“No.” Aaron handed the cigarette back to his friend and turned towards the Lieutenant General’s tent. “No, I did not.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I am so excited!” Maria squealed from her seat in the parlour, watching as the dressmaker pinned the sleeves of Catherine’s wedding dress. “It is so wonderful! You are getting married!”

“Yes, it’s a miracle,” Catherine’s cousin Lavinia said, rolling her eyes obnoxiously.

Catherine tried not to flush at her cousin’s casual dismissal. Lavinia could not stand it when her cousin was in the limelight, even for a moment.

“You are right, Lavinia, that dress is miraculous,” Maria gushed, deftly turning Lavinia’s insult into a compliment. Catherine saw the way it made Lavinia frown in frustration. “It is so lovely with Catherine’s delicate complexion.”

This made Lavinia frown even more.

“Yes, I suppose… If red-headed simpletons could be called delicate,” Lavinia said cruelly. Catherine knew she could say nothing. Lavinia would take any hard word she said back to Catherine’s uncle, and then he might decide it was too much trouble to pay for her wedding gown. Catherine caught Maria’s eye and tried to shake her head, even lightly, but Maria seemed undeterred by Lavinia’s spite. Maria was Catherine’s best friend, and the only friend she had maintained from her childhood before her parents’ untimely deaths. Maria was the daughter of a local Viscount, so was always welcome to visit at Catherine’s uncle’s home due to her status, but Maria only endured socialising with Lavinia in order to spend time with Catherine. The two friends walked a careful balancing act, making sure Lavinia never completely realised their deception. Maria’s friendship with the Viscount’s daughter was all a ruse to cover up a friendship with her poor cousin. Catherine knew that Maria endured Lavinia’s spoiled character and mean habits in order to stay close to her, and she couldn’t be more thankful for her friend.

“The lace is astonishing,” Maria added gently, sipping from her teacup. “That particular shade of cream makes you look like an angel.”

“Charmant,” the dressmaker added quietly, flicking her eyes deferentially up to Catherine. “You shall be a beautiful bride if I have anything to do with it, Miss Headon.”

“I’m bored,” Lavinia announced, setting her cup down with a sharp click and rising to her feet, gliding towards the door in her fabulous silk gown. She always wore the best. At a mere sixteen-years-old, she was already become a fashionable beacon of society. “I’ll be back in an hour to fit my ballgown, Madame Fleur. Hopefully you’ll be done with … this by then.”

Catherine winced at her cousin’s implicit disregard. She had even declined to be Catherine’s bridesmaid at her wedding, stating that it would be beneath her status as the daughter of an Earl to be part of her poor cousin’s wedding, especially when the poor cousin was her father’s ward, no less. It had stung but Catherine was used to bearing pains caused by Lavinia. She had been enduring them since she was orphaned at the age of twelve. She had appeared on the Earl of Gordon’s doorstep mere hours after her mother’s passing only to find herself face-to-face with an aloof young Lavinia.

“You have red hair,” Lavinia had said, looking her up and down slowly, sniffing. “Do you curl it?”

“No,” Catherine had stammered, fingering her red curls. “It curls naturally like this.”

Lavinia’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed with dislike. She petted her own blonde curls, clearly the result of hot irons.

“You’re pretty,” Lavinia had stated, as if it gave her no pleasure at all to say so. “Yet you dress like a peasant. Which I suppose you are, really.”

She had grinned nastily at those words, a mean idea coming into her head.

“You’re twelve and I’m ten, but I am still in charge of everything,” Lavinia took her arm and pulled her upstairs to her bedroom. “You can have my leftover gowns, but not new ones and as soon as we debut, you can’t dance with more gentleman that I at balls.”

“I understand,” Catherine had muttered in a haze of grief and confusion, letting herself be led away. When she looked back on it now, standing with the dressmaker making careful adjustments to her wedding gown, she wished that she had the presence of mind at the time to stand up to Lavinia then. She wondered if it would have made a bit of difference.

“Do you like it, Madmoiselle?” Madame Fleur asked, pulling Catherine out of her reverie and turning her to face the mirror standing on the dresser.

“It is beautiful, Madame Fleur,” Catherine said honestly.

The cream lace gown was very simple. Lavinia had thrown a fit when her father told her that Catherine would be having a new gown for her wedding, bought for her by her betrothed. To pay Catherine back for this unfairness, Lavinia had demanded that Catherine not be allowed any flourishes or expensive accessories. Nevertheless, Catherine had never felt so beautiful.

“Non, you are beautiful, Mademoiselle.” Madame Fleur smiled at her in the mirror. “You would shine in any garment.”

“Amen,” Maria echoed sharply. “Ignore Lavinia. She is only jealous.”

Catherine didn’t answer. She knew it was true. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, admiring the way that the new tight lace cuffs flattered her slim wrists. As Catherine had grown, she had only become more beautiful. Her skinny, childish frame growing into a willowy, womanly figure whilst Lavinia stayed thin and awkward. Catherine’s reddish hair had only grown more lustrous as her hair thickened, and her skin softer and more supple as she became a woman. Lavinia, by comparison, had lost the lustre of her blonde childhood hair and now had mousy blonde hair that she still had to curl nightly. Resentment had only built, and Catherine had been miserable. Then Catherine had met Jonathan. Catherine knew that Lavinia hated and loved her upcoming wedding in equal measure; she hated the attention Catherine was garnering, but loved the idea that soon, Catherine would be gone from her family home forever.

“I hope Jonathan likes it,” Catherine whispered, brushing her hands down the front of the gown, feeling the soft lace underneath her fingers.

“Captain Lambton will adore it,” Maria said firmly, “he is besotted with you. I saw you both, that night of your uncle’s ball.”

The night in question had been the best night of Catherine’s life. She had started it miserable, wearing yet another one of Lavinia’s hand-me-down gowns in a creamy yellow that didn’t suit her at all, watching Lavinia hold court with her friends and various gentlemen and feeling incredibly lonely. Maria was yet to arrive. Then, to her utter surprise, the most handsome man she had ever seen bumped into her, spilling her drink a little.

“Oh, excuse me, Miss!” he exclaimed. “I am dreadfully sorry.”

“It is quite alright,” Catherine had demurred, dabbing her wet hand with a napkin.

“You must forgive me, my manners are not as they should be, for I am little used to polite society.” He grimaced and gestured to his scarlet uniform.

“Oh, there is nothing to forgive, officer,” Catherine said, darting her eyes down from his open face and charming blue eyes.

“Captain Jonathan Lambton at your service,” he said, dipping into a smart bow, the blond curls on top of his head gleaming in the candlelight.

“Miss Catherine Headon,” Catherine said quietly, curtseying as elegantly as she could and wishing that Lavinia had let her borrow a more flattering gown.

“Well, Miss Headon, it seems I might owe you a dance to make up for my manners.” Jonathan’s eyes had shone with a mischievous light that Catherine found equally delightful and exciting. He offered her his hand. “Would you honour me with the first?”

It was not just the first dance of the night; it was the first dance of her life. At seventeen-years-old, Catherine had never danced with a gentleman before. She took in a small breath, trying to savour this moment, feeling like an enchanted princess whose spell only lasted until midnight.

“You may, Captain Lambton,” she said, taking his hand. By the end of the dance, she was in love.

Catherine snapped out of her memories as one of Madame Fleur’s pins caught her shoulder. She winced slightly, noticing Maria looking at her and flushing, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming.

“Must have been a happy thought,” Maria teased lightly. “To evoke such a reaction.”

“I was thinking of Jonathan,” Catherine confessed, not wishing to elucidate further.

“Of your courtship?” Maria rolled her eyes. “It was obnoxiously prolonged.”

“Yes, but only because we could not truly court,” Catherine said softly. Jonathan had made it clear early on that he needed to save some money before his suit would ever even be entertained by Catherine’s uncle, despite Catherine’s insistence that her uncle would be more than glad to get rid of her if he could. Consequently, they had danced around one another for months, chatting at balls but never declaring their intent. Finally, after an agonising three months, Jonathan expressed his suit to her uncle. A month later, he had proposed before his commission took him away to India.

“Well, you quickly made up for that,” Maria waggled her eyebrows. “You’ve been engaged for nearly nine months!”

“It’s not that long,” Catherine said, defensively. “He has been at war.”

“He should have married you before he left,” Maria sighed. “You could have run away to Gretna Green!”

“Oh, and you think I could have survived living here when I was Mrs. Jonathan Lambton?” Catherine raised her eyebrows at her friend. “Imagine my cousin’s feelings.”

“Yes, she would be insufferable,” Maria mused, speaking as Catherine never could about Lavinia. “She would not like that you were married before her.”

“Exactly,” Catherine said tartly. “It is better now. He returns from India this week and then, god willing, we shall be wed the next and I shall leave Gordon House behind forever.”

“Do you not think you shall come back occasionally?” Maria’s eyes sparkled wickedly. “To lord your married status over Lavinia?”

“Oh, trust me, Lavinia will not stand being unmarried for longer,” Catherine snorted. “She has her heart set on being a Duchess.”

“Oh, does she now?” Maria shook her head, dismissing the younger lady’s materialistic nature. “She better hope that the young eligible heirs involved in the war all come back in one piece.”

“They shall all come back in one piece,” Catherine said firmly, her stomach swooping as she said it. There had been a slight unease in the back of her mind the last few weeks. It had been nearly a month since her last letter from Jonathan. They wrote regularly to one another, declaring their love and tenderness and exchanging tokens, but it seemed like an unusually long time for him not to write, even if he was due home so soon. He would usually write on the journey.

“What is it?” Maria asked, catching up her friend’s hand gently. “You look pale suddenly.”

“Oh, it is probably nothing,” Catherine waved her other hand dismissively. “It is only that I have not had a letter from Jonathan this month. I had thought he might write on the journey, but he has not.”

“Well, it hardly matters. You shall be his wife by the end of this month.” Maria smiled softly. “How wonderful it shall be for him that his first sight of you after all this time shall be your wedding day.”

“Yes,” Catherine agreed, turning her neck in the mirror and trying to dismiss her fears. “I admit, when I heard about the skirmish breaking out in Cachar, then I realised he was stationed there, I was down on my knees every night, praying for his safe return.”

“Of course you were,” Maria murmured, squeezing her hand. “I should hate to have a suitor in service. I am sure I could not endure the waiting.”

“It shall be no easier being a military wife, I am sure.” Catherine squared her shoulders and tried to look determined. In truth, the waiting for her future husband to come home from danger was almost torture, but she knew it would be worth it. Living with Lavinia and her uncle all these years had been its own torture and she would rather be alone, waiting for Jonathan, than bear another year in their company.

“You are stronger than I, my friend,” Maria said softly. “But then, you have had to be.”

Catherine caught her best friend’s eye in the mirror and the knowledge of all the nights Catherine had been pushed aside and made to feel worthless flowed between them. Maria knew the truth of Catherine’s loss. That her father had been a Baron and if both her parents had lived, she would have been eligible and beloved. Yet as they had no son, upon their deaths, the Baronetcy had ended and Catherine was forced to endure the guardianship of her father’s older brother, who had no love for his niece.

Her father and uncle had hated each other since her father had won the hand of Catherine’s mother, a beautiful lady that her uncle had coveted. Catherine didn’t know the full story of her father’s rift with her uncle, but she knew enough. Her uncle had envied her parents’ happiness and resented her because of it. He constantly sneered at her, needled her with comments about her father’s inferiority, and never turned down an opportunity to suggest her mother had made a poor choice. Catherine had borne it all, learning early on that showing her distress and crying only resulted in more disgust and cruelty. Maria had been the only one to see the true impact of all those years of unkindness and rebuke.

“Soon I shall be rid of them,” Catherine said quietly, nodding at her friend. “I shall no longer be a burden.”

“You were never a burden,” Maria said, voice quiet but firm. Her eyes flashed with anger for all the pain her friend had endured. “That they made you think so is their fault and is a flaw on their own conscience, not yours.”

Catherine felt that after six years of daily insults, dismissals and being made to feel inferior, it was hard to truly believe it. Yet here she was, standing in her wedding dress and soon she would be married to the man of her dreams, a man who knew exactly who she was and loved her entirely. She thought of Jonathan’s whispered words before he had left for India, the press of his warm lips against her palm as he held her close, closer really than she should have allowed. Yet he was the man she loved, the man who would be her husband.

“My beautiful girl,” he had whispered, brushing her red curls. “Do you love me?”

“Yes, Jonny,” she had whispered back, leaning into his touch. “Yes, I do.”

What harm could have come from allowing him to embrace her when it was the dearest call of her own heart?

“Everything will be different,” Catherine said firmly, distracting herself from longing for his touch again. Soon she would see him, soon he would hold her in his arms. Soon she would be his wife. “Everything shall be different with him.”

“So it shall,” Maria smiled at her softly. “Captain Lambton shall make you very happy.”

“He already has.” Catherine shrugged gently, trying to make light of it but couldn’t stop the red flush creeping up her cheeks. It was true; she felt it right down to the fibre of her being. Captain Jonathan Lambton had changed her life and she loved him more than she had words to say.

“Miss Headon? A letter has come for you,” a footman offered a silver plate to her, a letter sat in the centre.

“Right on time!” Maria exclaimed. “Here must be the Captain’s last letter, no doubt full of words of love and encouragement now your wedding day is so close.”

“It is not his writing,” Catherine frowned, breaking the seal at the back of the page and unfolding the letter to peruse it. “Oh, it is from his mother, Mrs. Lambton, it must be her arrangements for the wedding …”

Catherine stopped speaking suddenly, staring at the creamy parchment, the words dancing before her eyes.

“Catherine? Catherine, what is it?” Maria asked beside her, grasping her elbow with a strong hand. Catherine recognised faintly that Maria was holding her up. Her knees had sagged.

“Read it!” she gasped, pushing the letter into her best friend’s hand. “Read it, please! I cannot.”

“Why? What on earth is happening?” Maria looked down at the page and began to read aloud. “Dear Miss Headon, it is with a broken heart that I must write and inform you that I have received a letter this very day that has told me my dearest son, Jonathan, has fallen in action in India —”

“Dear God, no!” Catherine moaned, slumping to her knees as Madame Fleur rushed to get water and help and Maria held her up, continuing to read as if it was imperative.

“— he was killed by Burmese rebels outside of Cachar. I am sorry for your loss, my dear girl, please forgive the shortness of this note. I am too overcome to say more.”

“Let me see the words again,” Catherine demanded shakily, her hand trembling as she ripped the letter back. This cannot be true, please God let it be a mistake. “I must see them!”

She stared at the page, her eyes already wet with tears. Blearily, she saw the words, written in Mrs. Lambton’s shaky hand: he was killed. It was true. It was real.

“Oh God, Jonny!” she cried out, her private pet name for him bursting out, as if part of her knew that she would never be able to speak it to his face ever again. She collapsed into her friend and felt the world tilt away from her. Everything was going black, and Maria’s cries of worry were becoming distant, but Catherine didn’t care. Her Jonny, her one true love, was gone from the world and now there was nothing more for her.

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

Prologue

London, England

1810

“Will you stand still?” Timothy turned to Andrew at his side. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Aren’t you? You’re the one getting married,” Andrew pointed out with raised eyebrows.

Timothy just laughed in response. He wasn’t nervous, of course, he wasn’t! Today was the day he had been dreaming of for so long. Any minute now, Diana was going to walk through that church door, and she would no longer be just Diana Bartlett, daughter of Baron Wharton, but Diana Dunn, Countess of Moray and his wife.

“In your position, I would be breaking a sweat by now,” Andrew said, pulling at the collar around his cravat.

“It looks like you are breaking that sweat,” Timothy gestured to what his best man was doing with his collar. “Would you relax? Everything will be fine.”

“She’s late, in case it hasn’t escaped your notice.”

“This is Diana we’re talking about,” Timothy held Andrew’s gaze. “Not some chit with a changeable heart that I have just met.”

“I know,” Andrew nodded, though, in truth, Timothy knew his friend did not know all. Andrew could not see into Timothy and Diana’s hearts.

Timothy had known Diana since they were children. At the age of fifteen, he had met her roaming one of the sprawling parks in the center of London. She had been only twelve at the time, astride a horse. She had nearly knocked him over, hence her mad dash to climb down from her horse and check that he was alright. Diana…his Diana had been flushed with exercise and had sprigs of flowers in her hair. Apparently, she’d gained the blossoms just by riding through the trees and bushes all day.

From that first moment, he had been hooked. She like Diana, the Roman Goddess of wild animals, the countryside, and the moon. Even at that tender age, she had been a beauty, and that fact struck him harder than her horse did, nearly toppling him over a second time.

After that first meeting, they crept out of their houses every week to see each other, growing up, side-by-side. By the time Timothy was twenty and she seventeen, they had shared their first kiss. Oh, Timothy had orchestrated it very well indeed! He had imagined for so long kissing his Roman Goddess that he had arranged a horse ride for the two of them along with her chaperone, of course. Knowing the chaperone, he had purposely led Diana to race through unkempt bridle paths and even across a river, leaving her poor chaperone far behind. They had both been in trouble for it later, with their parents arguing how fortunate it was that no one saw them lose the chaperone, not that Timothy cared. Their reprimands were worth those few stolen minutes together.

They’d climbed down from their horses under a sweet chestnut tree. He had drawn her close so that the leaves concealed them a little. There they’d their first kiss. It began as just a brush of lips, each of them exploring and testing this new territory. By the end, Timothy had to cling to the tree trunk behind Diana’s head to keep from tumbling them both to the ground. The teasing of her tongue against his own had driven him wild and made his arousal very evident through his breeches. She had not been worried in the slightest when she felt it, only intrigued, making jokes on the subject, with her green eyes sparkling up at him.

Now, they were to be married. That first kiss was three years ago. They had waited, just as his father had requested, for him to be a little older before taking a wife. Today was the long-awaited day.

Timothy looked away from the ornate church altar to the back of the room. Down the aisle lined with pews full of guests, the wooden doors at the end of the church stayed closed, with the black steel handle still in place.

“That makes half an hour now,” Andrew said at his side, checking his pocket watch.

“She’ll be here,” Timothy said again, beginning to grow resentful of Andrew’s comments. Diana was coming. She loved him as much as he did her; there wasn’t a doubt in his mind! They had lived in each other’s pockets for the last eight years. They were best friends, and he had seen how much she loved him. She would come.

Though Timothy’s eyes began to wander around the people in the pews. Where happy smiling faces had been before, there were now frowns and curious gazes. People were leaning toward each other, speaking in hushed breaths. Timothy looked across the church, even the vicar was reaching under his white robes to check his own pocket watch. Behind him, at the far side of the room, the organist had practically fallen asleep on his chair for waiting.

She will come.

Timothy kept repeating this in his mind as he looked away from all the apprehensive faces. He had seen Diana only two days ago. They had stolen a few minutes alone in the hothouse at the back of her father’s townhouse. His Roman Goddess Diana had been dressed all in white, her elegant features resembling that of the marble statues he saw so often in ornate gardens. She had whispered in his ear how much she was looking forward to their wedding day. Even now, he could practically hear her words in his ear.

“We’ll never have to part from each other again.”

It was all he had ever wanted. He had stolen a kiss then. Diana had clung to the lapels of his tailcoat, pulling it so tightly that she nearly tore the seams. At least tonight was their wedding night, and he wouldn’t have to imagine any more what being with her entirely would be like. He wouldn’t have to take his own pleasure beneath his bed covers but take pleasure with her, making love to her as often as they wanted.

“Timothy,” Andrew said at his side, his voice wary. Timothy looked up from his musing to his friend. He and Andrew, Viscount Boyne, had become fast friends, seeing each other at least twice a week, if not more. Timothy had never seen the concern that now resided on Andrew’s face.

“Don’t say it,” Timothy pleaded. Andrew just winced in reply.

There was a sound at the church door. Timothy whipped his head toward it. She was here, at last. Diana would walk in now, with her dark hair flowing behind her, wearing the brooch he had given her: a crescent moon, the symbol of the goddess.

“I told you, she’d be here,” Timothy smiled, then the door opened, and his smile faltered.

There in the doorway was Baron Wharton, and Diana was not at his side.

Whispers erupted in their congregation, so loud that they could hardly be called whispers anymore. Timothy walked down the aisle, going to meet Baron Wharton in the middle, his feet so shaky beneath him that he feared he might collapse to the cold grey stone floor. The Baron was sweating, with his complexion flushed, as though he had been running.

“Where is she?” Timothy asked in trepidation, his voice barely audible.

“I don’t know,” the Baron shook his head. Those nearby spreading the news to the rest, each utterance growing in volume.

“What?” Timothy felt his voice echo off the stone arches around them, momentarily silencing the mounting gossip.

This is not possible. Where is my Diana?

“I cannot find her anywhere,” the Baron said quietly to him.

“This makes no sense,” Timothy said, as much to himself as to the Baron. “She loves me. She has told me as much for…” he trailed off. For at least the last three years she had professed to love him.

“I’ve checked everywhere, she’s not in her room or anything,” the Baron shrugged, seemingly defeated. “I found only this,” he lifted his hand. Timothy hadn’t noticed it before, but the Baron clutched a crumpled piece of folded parchment. Across the top was Timothy’s name. Just Timothy, no title or formality, written in Diana’s familiar hand.

Timothy wrenched it from the Baron’s hand and tore open the missive. It couldn’t even be called that; in fact, it barely constituted a note. There were only three words in the center of the page, the lettering so tiny that it was as though as spider had been squashed between the folded parchment, forming the devastating words.

‘I am sorry.’

Chapter One

London, England

1815

Timothy tossed back what was left of the brandy in his glass, enjoying the burn as it traveled down his throat. It was gone all too quickly. His glass always seemed to empty too quickly these days. One snifter was never enough; neither was two. Maybe five or six would do the job if he’d already had claret earlier in the evening.

“My Lord, it’s your bid,” the gentleman at his side urged him.

Timothy placed the glass back down and looked around the table. This gentlemen’s club was not the most reputable, but it did serve its purpose. Timothy liked the miasma of danger that permeated the place. It made him tingle as though a wrong turn in its shadowy corridors could lead to disaster. The room he was in was clothed in near darkness, with just a few candles to chase the shadows. The scant flames revealed a green baize card table with five players, including himself, all with chips piled in front of them and a dealer.

“I’m in,” Timothy picked up his chips and added them to the pile, aware that he hadn’t even looked at his cards yet.

The man beside him puffed on his cigar, the smoke curling in the air billowing around Timothy’s face.

“You’re an odd player, my friend,” the man said, never taking his eyes off Timothy as he peered through the smoke.

“Odd, how?” Timothy asked, slurring his words as he sat back in his chair and pulled at his cravat, unraveling it completely.

“You didn’t look at your cards,” the man explained as he too added his chips to the betting pile in the center. It was growing more significant as they started their next round. “Do you not care if you win or lose?”

“Should I?” Timothy laughed as he asked the question. This was how he lived his life, with no heed to anyone or anything.

“Well, you’re running out of chips,” the man gestured down at the table in front of Timothy.

Timothy’s head lolled to the side, his focus going slightly blurry as he stared at where his chips had been before.

“I need two cards,” the man opposite said to the dealer. This was the Duke of Rutland, one of the wealthiest men in all of London. Timothy had been surprised to see such a well-respected man at such a seedy establishment. It had made it far too tempting for Timothy to sit at this particular table. The thrill, the adrenaline rush of taking such a man’s money…it was all Timothy lived for these days, that all too brief rush.

“My Lord, it’s you again,” the man puffing his cigar said at his side.

Timothy picked up his cards for the first time. He had two Queens in his hand, plus some others that weren’t of any note.

“Three,” he said to the dealer, discarding the cards he didn’t need. “More brandy!” he called behind him to one of the ever-present servers.

“Don’t you think you have had enough?” The Duke of Rutland asked tightly. He was an interfering man, tall with white hair that was coiffed back impossibly tidily.

“Not by half, your Grace,” Timothy looked away from the Duke and beckoned the server again to refill his glass. “Thank you,” Timothy muttered as the brandy sloshed into the wide-bottomed glass. He stared at the Duke. His officious interference had stirred Timothy’s need for that rush even more.

“I’ll raise two,” the Duke added to the pot in the middle, followed by the others. As they turned and waited on Timothy, he checked his hand. He now had three Queens.

“I’ll raise…five,” Timothy threw what was left of his chips into the middle, leaving the green surface empty in front of him.

“I’ll fold,” said the man puffing the cigar.

“Me too,” said another.

“I’ll see your five, and…I’ll raise you two,” the Duke’s smile grew greater. “And I see you have nothing left to bet with now, my Lord.”

The remaining players folded, leaving Timothy and the Duke alone in the game. The excitement was burning now; he could feel it like a growing fire deep down in his gut.

“I’ll raise you,” Timothy sat up in his chair, aware as he did so that the world seemed to spin.

“With what?” the Duke laughed and gestured down at the empty stretch of table in front of Timothy.

“My townhouse in Oxford Street,” Timothy beamed, watching as this news rippled around the group. They all shifted in their chairs, their eyes now avidly watching the game.

“Then I’ll meet it,” the Duke added more money to the pile. “That should be worth your house.”

“Very well,” Timothy paused again. What he was about to do was a foolish risk, but he wanted to do it. No, he needed to do it. “I’ll raise my country seat in Buckinghamshire.”

“Pardon?”

“My Lord, think of what you are doing, I beg of you.”

There were pleas around the table, panic too, but he could feel it even more now, that rush, that buzz. It was as though his body was tingling with anticipation.

“As you wish,” the Duke sat back in his chair, staring down his long nose at Timothy. “I’ll call you with one of my country estates. There’s one in Devon.”

“Is it of equal value?” Timothy asked.

“Do you even care if it is?” the Duke’s question made Timothy smile greater. That was his only answer.

“Then it’s time to show,” the dealer looked to the Duke first. “Your Grace?”

Something in the Duke’s face twitched. It was tiny, just a flicker, yet somehow even in Timothy’s drunken state, he saw it anyway. He supposed he was used to looking for the signs of someone’s bluff when he was this drunk.

The Duke turned over his cards. It had been a bluff. All he had was a pair of Jacks.

Timothy smiled and drew out the moment. One by one, he placed his cards down on the table, revealing the three Queens.

With the placement of the final card, the Duke struck the table and stood abruptly.

Timothy laughed heartily; the rush had overtaken him now into a temporary thrill. He scooped up the chips, dragging them toward the dealer.

“Cash me out, please,” he nodded to the dealer and tried to control his mirth before looking back to the Duke. “And the deeds to your estate?”

“I’ll send them over,” the Duke shook his head, his pale face now turning red. “You – get me another drink!” he ordered a nearby serving boy who went off running.

Timothy placed the money the dealer handed him in his pockets. It was so much that it couldn’t all fit into one; it was practically falling out of his tailcoat from every side.

“You will pay for this humiliation,” the Duke’s voice was so sharp that Timothy looked to him, blinking through his drunken haze.

“You lost, your Grace. Accept it.” Timothy offered one last smile and staggered through the club. He could feel someone walking behind him, but he did not look back.

Even as Timothy walked away from the table, he could feel the thrill fading. It made his smile vanish entirely.

This was how he had lived his life for the last five years. Since the day Diana had left him. Always searching for the next thrill. Whether it was cards, dice, or horses, he bet on anything. He needed the danger and the excitement. He paid for women, visited brothels in the dodgy sides of town, almost hoping he would run into trouble. He’d had run into such trouble, more than once, with thieves and pickpockets trying to steal from him in the dead of night. Even drunk, Timothy was able to pull out his pistol, and they soon all went running. He’d attended illicit duels too, fighting when there really was no cause to fight, just as long as he could have another one of those sparks of excitement.

It was like an addiction. One that opium or cigars couldn’t feed, only danger could.

“May I congratulate you, my Lord,” the words made Timothy turn around. He was standing in the center of the gambling hall now rather than one of the antechambers. Here they were surrounded by dice tables and roulette wheels. Under a shabby chandelier, Timothy stood staring at a face he didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Timothy squinted, trying to focus on the man’s features through the blurriness. He was middle-aged, with a large round nose and puffy cheeks that were so large they almost hid his beady eyes. Even the tailcoat he wore had a tough job trying to button together at the front around his protruding belly.

“My name is Ellis,” the man offered his hand, “Mr. Josiah Ellis. I own this establishment.”

“Well, good to meet you,” Timothy shook the man’s hand, retracting his own quickly when he discovered how sweaty Mr. Ellis’ was. He tried to dry his palm on his jacket, watching as Ellis frowned at the move.

“I happened to be watching your game,” Ellis tilted his chin up. “Quite remarkable luck you had there. I couldn’t help thinking it might not just be luck,” he went on.

Timothy wobbled a little on his feet, his drunken mind struggling to follow the conversation. .

“I am not a cheat,” Timothy said harshly. He would never cheat; it wouldn’t give the same excitement. There would be no unknown, no stepping off the edge into the precipice of the darkness to see what would happen.

“Aren’t you?” Ellis asked, tilting his head to the side.

“How dare you…” Timothy trailed off when someone appeared from the shadows beside Ellis. He was tall, stacked more like a beast than a man. Ellis nodded to him, and Timothy took a step back, slowly realizing what was to happen. “You would throw me out of your hall just because I won a game of cards?”

“Cheated. Cheated at a game of cards.”

“I didn’t cheat!” Timothy didn’t care if he earned the attention of other gamblers nearby anymore.

“Timothy!” There was a hand on Timothy’s shoulder, but it did not belong to the thickly set brute. Timothy flicked his head to the side to see Andrew. “I found you. What are you doing here?” Andrew turned his head to assess Ellis and the other man. “Time to go, I think.”

“No, of course not,” Timothy held his ground. “Mr. Ellis and I were having a charming conversation.”

“Well, I think that’s enough of conversation for one night,” Andrew tugged on his arm again, this time so firmly that in Timothy’s drunken state, he couldn’t hold his ground. He nearly fell backward as he stumbled. “Excuse us,” Andrew said to Ellis and dragged Timothy away.

“What did you do that for?” Timothy asked under his breath as they moved toward the exit. “It might have been fun.”

“Fun? Fun!? Have you taken leave of all of your senses?” Andrew asked, clearly flummoxed.

“I will admit that my sight sense right now is a little limited,” Timothy blinked a few times, aware that Andrew was opening a door for him to step through.

“How much have you had?”

“Ha!” Timothy laughed. “You think I can remember that?”

“You’re getting worse,” Andrew muttered. “I would stay away from this place, Timothy. Pick another gambling hall.”

“Why? I made quite the winnings here tonight,” Timothy nearly fell over again. The only thing that kept him standing was Andrew’s hand under his arm. Andrew dragged him out of the door and down a dark alleyway, stepping out into the main square of Covent Garden. Timothy recoiled from the brightly lit streetlamps lining the area.

“You just met the owner, Josiah Ellis.”

“Yes, he introduced himself and fancied I’d cheated. Can you imagine that? Pah!” Timothy laughed. “I’ve never cheated at cards. Where would be the fun in that?”

“I believe you, but Ellis didn’t. Have you not heard of that man?”

“If we’re to talk, can we stand still for a moment?” Timothy pleaded, suddenly feeling a wave of nausea. Andrew released him, and Timothy reached for a nearby wall. He leaned his forehead and palms against it. “No, I haven’t heard of the man.”

“Ellis owns half of the most disreputable gambling halls in London,” Andrew leaned his back on the wall beside him. “Not to mention the brothels too. Though those brothels are the ones that will steal from your wallet. They’re riddled with syphilis too.”

“You seem to know a lot about them. Have you been enjoying the wares at such houses of ill repute?” Timothy teased. He knew Andrew had no liking nor need for a brothel. Andrew was just as tall as him, though built a little leaner. His fair hair and blue eyes made him a handsome enough gentleman who was continually pursued by willing ladies. He had no need to visit a brothel. Timothy had no real need either, just the desire to steer clear of any scheming society misses and their mothers while slaking his lust on a female he was in no danger of forming an attachment to.

“Could have been fun,” Timothy smiled and turned so that he also had his back to the wall. “I could have taken that man.”

“What, the man stacked like a bull?” Andrew laughed. “You really have drunk too much.”

“I could have!”

“Really? Because as far as I can see, you can’t stand straight right now.” At Andrew’s words, Timothy leaned forward. “Case in point.”

For a minute, there was silence between them as Timothy just breathed in and out repeatedly.

“Timothy, please stop this,” Andrew said rather miserably.

“I can’t,” Timothy sighed.

“You can. You just have to want it,” Andrew pushed the point. “You’ll kill yourself one of these days with your drinking. The Earldom is being destroyed by it. What do you think people say of your reputation? How do you think your tenants fair on your land without you looking out for them?”

“I can’t think of this when I’m drunk, Andrew!” Timothy thundered and stood straight.

“Well, you’re never sober, so you’re going to have to hear it when you are drunk!” Andrew snapped.

“I don’t care, Andrew,” Timothy could feel the fury growing worse now. He walked off, heading toward the main road.

“Timothy, where are you going? We’re talking about this now!” Andrew followed him.

“We’re not,” Timothy barked the words. “I’ve told you before. It’s my life. If I want to drink myself into a gutter, I can.”

“Right, and what happens when I’m no longer there to pick you out of the gutter? How will you get home then?”

“I don’t need you to pick me up,” Timothy said wildly, just as they reached the main road.

“Oh, you think you can look after yourself?” Andrew scoffed and stood in front of Timothy, blocking his sight of the road. “You can’t walk in a straight line. How can you take care of yourself?”

“Well, then I’ll find a doxie who can look after me tonight, instead,” Timothy said.

“Another brothel? I’m shocked you’re not dying of syphilis yet.”

“Get out of my way, Andrew,” Timothy pushed his friend’s shoulder until he was knocked to the side.

“Fine, go get yourself killed, drink yourself into an early grave. See if I’ll be standing beside it when you’re gone!”

“Maybe I will!” Timothy roared and flicked his head around. He was in the middle of the road – how did he get there? He couldn’t remember stepping out.

“Timothy!” The panicked cry made him whip his head around. There were horses’ hooves clattering, a great whinny echoed in the air, and the screech of carriage wheels squealing against the cobbled road.

Timothy felt the thud against his face, uncertain if it were the horse or the carriage, the wheel went over him, of that he was sure, he could feel his back clicking and the pressure against the cobbles. He rolled a few times, his coat wet until he came to a stop, facing toward the night sky.

“You fool,” Andrew’s face was above him. There was a mad dash of other people around them. Timothy was aware of Andrew tearing off his jacket and placing something to his head, but somehow, he could make no more sense of it than that.

His body wouldn’t move or follow his wishes. He was aware of his new winnings spread around him in the center of the road.

“Timothy? Timothy, can you hear me?” Andrew’s face was beginning to fade. Timothy looked past him to the night sky. He looked away from the stars and sought out the one thing he always liked to look for these days.

The moon. It was a crescent moon tonight, the perfect symbol of the Roman Goddess. White and gleaming, its image began to fade too, until all Timothy was aware of was blackness.

Chapter 2

Devon, England

Diana was walking out at night, through the tall forest by her house. She could feel the grass blades between her toes and hear the hoots of owls nearby. She flicked her head around, trying to see them. In the shadows between the trees, she caught sight of orange-colored eyes from the branches, staring at her.

It was all so real, with the cold wind bristling against her exposed skin and rippling the skirt of her dress. But it was always this real.

That’s when she heard it, just as she always did. It was the church bell tolling; the wedding was near.

She looked around herself. It was night, and above her, through the tree branches, she could just make out a glimpse of the moon peering down at her. She looked away from it. It was too harsh a reminder of what had passed.

The bell tolled.

Diana began to run. With each step she took, her bare feet slipped on the soil, but she never stopped. She just kept moving forward, slipping quickly between the trees. Her hands brushed the exposed bark of each as she pushed by them, feeling their coarseness beneath her fingers.

The bell tolled again. It rang so intensely that she could feel it vibrating in her very core.

He was waiting for her.

She ran as hard as she could, the blood pumping fast in her veins as she tried to reach the church. Yet no church ever appeared. There was nothing except more trees in front of her; thick and dense larch trees, oaks, and sycamores too. Each one towering over her, enclosing her into the tiny space between their trunks. Dark shadows and deep green leaves. Their branches reached out to her like skeletal hands, trying to hold her back. She could feel them, snagging her clothes and in her hair, dragging her backward. She had to fight against them.

The bell rang another time. It was behind her now; she’d gone too far. She ran back the other way. This time, she had to be making ground, getting closer and closer to her destination. She felt it to be true, even if she couldn’t see the church through the darkness.

Diana started to shout his name, though she couldn’t hear the sound for it was masked by the bell, she felt her mouth strain to form the word. It hurt her throat to cry so loudly for him, yet she needed him to hear her. She was coming. She was on her way.

A stone wall appeared through the trees now. She was getting nearer to the church, the bell so close it deafened her ears. The pace of the ringing picked up too. It was no longer those solitary strikes but a faster beat, the rhythm so quick her body quaked to match the tempo. 

It was telling her that she was running out of time.

She called his name again, just as the church came into view. The door was open. She sprinted out of the tree line, fussing with her dress as though she could pull off all the errant leaves that had caught in her mad dash. She pushed through the open door and came to a sudden stop.

It was empty. The pews had no people, and no vicar stood by the altar.

 It was even colder inside the church than it had been out in the forest.

Diana turned her head away and stepped out of the door, back toward the trees. She screamed his name again, and this time, she heard it.

“Timothy!”

***

Diana woke up in bed. She was panting, breathing heavily. She was cold, freezing, leading her to pull the blankets sharply around her body in desperation to feel some warmth. It took a minute, just as always, to persuade herself that the dream was not real. They never were reality. Yet for the last five years, she had had to suffer them, again and again.

It was her punishment; she knew that—punishment for having played with Timothy’s heart the way she did. The nightmares were constant, her own guilt unable to let her find peace in this world.

She flung the covers off, hoping that by being out of the bed, she could move further away from the memory of the dream. She grabbed a dressing gown from nearby and flung it around her shoulders, needing the warmth of it, and moved toward the window. She took a moment every morning to stand here and look at the world around her. She rested her forehead against the window as she thought of the last five years.

Diana had run so suddenly, with no explanation of what had happened to her, she expected her father thought her dead. She’d had no choice. It was not like she could stay behind and explain what had happened or why she had to go. She just had to leave! It was for the best. She knew that. Even if she could never explain it to Timothy or to her father.

She didn’t doubt her father looked for her. He had been a wealthy man and had probably used that wealth to set up a search for her, yet he had never found her. She had hidden far too well for that.

Her breath clouded the window, offering a brief reflection of herself in the morning chill. Her long black hair was wild from the night’s sleep, the natural waves framing her usually porcelain skin that looked even paler in the cold,, and her copper flecked brown eyes could have been almost black in the reflection.

She looked beyond the reflection, out to the world around her. This was one of her few sources of solace these days, the beauty of the countryside.

So remote they were in their snug cottage, that no other house could be seen. In fact, there was only one other house nearby, a grander estate, that was never occupied by anyone but staff. It meant the countryside was their only company. Where in London there had been people, here there were squirrels, hedgehogs, and goldfinches. Where townhouses, shops, and theatres used to be her entertainment, here there were lush trees, hawthorn bushes, and snowdrops.

Diana traced the view from her window. Just beyond the enclosed garden by their cottage were the forest trees, and between their trunks, she could glimpse the snowdrops, like a sprinkling of sugar, they dappled the green and brown earth with their white flowers. Between these flowers, the ground itself still held the icy frost of the morning.

She loved this changing view. She knew in a month’s time, those snowdrops would give way to tulips, and a month later, bluebells would take their place. Just as soon as the cold snap they were enduring lifted.

She wrapped the dressing gown tighter around her body. To her mind, the cold would never lift, and the winters seemed twice as long as the summers.

She opened the window, just a crack, breathing in the fresh air. It made the chill in the room grow even worse, to the point that she shivered in the wind. With the window open, she could hear the river nearby. They were high up on the River Ex, where it began in the hills. Somewhere, miles from here, that river flowed into the sea. She had crossed shallower sections with her horse many times, but in some parts the tide was so vicious that it seemed like rapids, tossing against the rocks and the riverbanks.

She liked the sound of it; for some reason, it was a reminder to her of why she had run off in the first place.

To escape danger.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

“Come in,” Diana turned away from the window as her maid, Ally, stepped in. Just a few years older than Diana, Ally was one of the only three members of staff Diana kept in the house. As such, Ally often had to perform the role of both lady’s maid and scullery maid. “Good morning, Ally.”

“Good morning, Miss,” Ally said with a sweet smile and a quick curtsy. “How are you today? More bad dreams?” Ally didn’t know the truth of why Diana had left, but Diana trusted the woman enough to have spoken of her difficulties sleeping.

“A few,” Diana shrugged, as though it were no big thing. “How are you today?”

“Quite tired,” Ally rolled her eyes. “Robert has been up baking since four. So loud he is.”

Diana laughed softly at the image. Robert was their cook and the second member of her staff. Robert took his duties very seriously for working in such a small house and often woke Ally up with his early baking, as she slept so near to the kitchen.

“And how is Ethel?” Diana asked, moving away from the window as Ally began to prepare a dress for Diana to wear for the day.

“Already arguing with Robert,” Ally clearly had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes again. Ethel ran a tight ship as the housekeeper, but that meant she often butted heads with Robert, who could be just as stubborn as her at times.

“Well, I’ll talk to Ethel later,” Diana sighed. “Perhaps we can try and makes things a little more peaceful.” She almost laughed at her words as she cast a glance back to the window and the quiet view beyond. It was always peaceful around here. The most exciting thing to happen was Robert’s and Ethel’s arguments. “Is Jonathan awake yet?”

“Yes, Miss,” Ally presented her with a fresh chemise and corset to wear. “He’s in the dining room, waiting for you.”

At this news, Diana’s heart soared. Jonathan was the one person to give her happiness at times like this. He was the point of her life, after all—her entire life. Hearing Jonathan was awake, Diana hurried to change with Ally at her side. Within minutes, she was ready; with a simple gown of pastel blue and her hair tied into a neat chignon, she was prepared for the day.

“All set!” Ally said, tidying up the discarded nightgown as Diana moved out of the door.

The cottage was a far cry from the household she had been used to growing up, but she hardly had a lot of money to survive on these days. When she had run away from her father and Timothy, one of the first things she did was take the money that had been intended for her dowry and deposit it with an investment banker under a false name. The banker had made her decent money, though there wasn’t a vast annuity paid to her from it; it was adequate enough to support her quaint cottage with a few servants’ rooms. The living space was spacious enough, even if the stairs were a little poky.

In a way, despite its cons, the cottage was perfect. For no one would ever think to look for her here.

She hurried into the sitting room and along the corridor toward the rear of the house. The closer she got to the dining room, the more she felt her smile ping into place. Jonathan was awake, and their day together could begin! Her nightmare from her uneasy sleep was a thing of the past, and she need not revisit it as long as she was in Jonathan’s company.

Between the windows sat the table, with Jonathan seated in his usual place.

The small boy, still only five years old, was looking down at a piece of bread on his plate and attempting to butter it with a tiny knife.

“Jonathan,” Diana said his name, and he looked up. The moment their eyes connected; Jonathan’s little round face smiled.

***

Timothy was struggling to open his eyes. It was as though someone had placed leaden weights upon his eyelids, and he had to strain against that weight to open them. When he eventually managed it, his view was blurry, the room not in focus at all. It prompted him to close his eyes again.

He concentrated instead on his body. He was in a lot of pain. In particular, his lower back and on the side of his head. It was like a dull throbbing ache, persistent and unrelenting.

He sniffed, trying to gauge his surroundings. It didn’t smell like his home, for his house always smelled like brandy or claret. No…this smell was very different. It held the scent of sick people, perhaps even vomit, mixed with herbs, as though he were in the backroom of an apothecary. There was thyme, rosemary too, perhaps even chives.

It made him force his eyes open again; this time, the effort was a little easier.

“He’s waking up,” that voice was awfully familiar. Timothy tried to turn his head to see the source of it. Andrew had to be nearby.

Timothy could see the dark crimson curtains that always hung about his bed, startling him. So, he was in his chamber after all, but how had he gotten there? Why did it smell so strange?

Andrew appeared in his vision, rather unusually untidy. His fair hair was wild, ruffled, cravat and collar twisted, completely loose. His jacket had been discarded, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up.

“That’s a good thing, yes?” Andrew turned away, looking to someone else.

Timothy tried to see the second person. He was aware through the blurriness of a shadow moving toward him, a sort of silhouette, then a cold hand was pressed to his forehead. Though he couldn’t see the face, he could see the hand. It was white, bony, as though the hand of the grim reaper was touching his face.

“Ja, it is,” a gruff voice said. “The fever is beginning to break.”

“Then all will be well?” Andrew sounded excited, full of relief. Timothy had heard that tone when playing card games with Andrew; it was usually reserved for when he had won a game of cards to his own surprise.

“We’ll see,” the gruff voice was back. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Timothy heard the words as his eyes closed of their own volition. It struck him hard. He knew what the phrase meant. It spelled his doom; he could be dead soon and wouldn’t open his eyes again.

“Come on, Timothy,” Andrew said, his tone soft though full of urgency. “You need to fight this.”

If only he could, he thought, as the blackness swam in again.

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