Chapter One

Lucious

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

Chapter Two

Esther

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

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