by Syrie James
Epigraph
Every great dream begins with a dreamer.
Always remember, you have within you
the strength, the patience, and the passion
to reach for the stars to change the world.
Harriet Tubman
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
An Excerpt from Runaway Heiress Chapter One
An Excerpt from Summer of Scandal Chapter One
Historical Fiction by Syrie James
About the Author
Also by Syrie James
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Patterson Architecture
7 Hatfield Gardens, London
His Royal Highness the Duke of Darcy
St. Gabriel’s Mount, Cornwall
July 6, 1894
My dear Lord Darcy,
I hope and trust that you received my wire this morning. Pray allow me to elaborate in this missive, which I am obliged to dictate. Yesterday I suffered the misfortune of being thrown from my horse, resulting in significant injuries to my person. Knowing that you wish to begin improvements to St. Gabriel’s Mount posthaste, I felt it necessary to send an associate in my place.
I wish therefore to introduce to you a member of my team, Miss Kathryn Atherton. You will find it highly unusual that I have sent a woman (and an American, at that) to do a man’s job! However, Miss Atherton completed her studies at the London School of Art and Architecture, the first woman to do so, and over the past two years has proven herself to be eminently capable of the kind of work you require.
As we discussed in our previous communications, the length of her stay will depend upon the scope of the project. I presume, however, that if she works at her usual speed, three weeks should suffice for her to ascertain your needs, take necessary measurements, undertake initial drawings, and etc., at which point she will return to London, where I will oversee the execution of the final drawings.
I pray that this arrangement meets with your approval. It is a privilege to work with you, Your Grace, on renovations to such an ancient and renowned castle as St. Gabriel’s Mount. I look forward, at what I hope will be a not too distant date, to meeting you again in person.
I have the honour to be, Sir, Your Royal Highness’s most humble and obedient servant,
George Patterson
Kathryn Atherton finished rereading the letter for the umpteenth time, folded it up, and shoved it into her leather satchel.
No one said this was going to be easy. In fact, nothing about her professional journey had been easy. From the first moment she’d embarked upon her quest to become an architect, she had met with an endless parade of obstacles, prejudice, and heartache.
“You are an heiress, Kathryn,” her mother had cried on too many occasions to count, “from one of the wealthiest families in New York. You will not embarrass us by working. And in a man’s profession! Whatever are you thinking?”
What Kathryn had been thinking was that she’d like to do something special and important with her life. Not just marry an Englishman with a title, as her sisters had done. Not that Lexie and Maddie had been set on marrying noblemen—that had been their mother’s wish. But they were both madly in love with their husbands, and Kathryn was happy for them.
Two countesses in the family, however, would have to satisfy their mother’s social-climbing ambitions in New York. Kathryn was determined to do as she pleased.
And what pleased her was to not marry anyone at all. She had far bigger plans in mind.
As Kathryn made her way up the old, twisting road, the uneven cobblestones made for difficult walking in her high-heeled boots. Holding her long skirts in one hand and her satchel in the other, Kathryn tread carefully, her thoughts returning to the letter.
It rankled that Mr. Patterson had felt the need to call attention to her being a woman, as if women were somehow less capable than men. That might be society’s view, but it was hogwash. It was equally provoking that he’d mentioned her being “an American, at that.” As if being American were a blemish upon her character. Equally hogwash.
On the other hand, Kathryn reminded herself, even if she didn’t appreciate all the wording in the letter, she did have a lot to be grateful for. Mr. Patterson had hired her when no one else would. And he’d sent her on this prestigious assignment. To work on such a well-known castle would be a real feather in her cap.
Pausing briefly to catch her breath, Kathryn gazed up at the ancient edifice looming above her. She could hardly believe she was actually here—at St. Gabriel’s Mount, a tiny tidal island at the southern tip of Cornwall. In the shadow of its enormous, celebrated castle, which looked like it belonged more in a fairy tale than real life.
The castle was so huge and so . . . well . . . castle-y. The sun, hanging low in the sky, cast a golden glow on massive gray stone walls that stood five stories high. The uppermost level was encircled by a low wall, enclosing several other large, ancient buildings topped with towers, turrets, and crenellated battlements replete with arrow slits, indicating its former use as a fortress. The only thing missing was a moat.
Which was an impossibility, of course, since the castle was perched like a majestic, multilayered wedding cake at the crest of a high hill in the center of the island. Approachable, apparently, only via this narrow road that wound upward with a dizzying array of switchbacks.
Kathryn’s fingers itched to sketch the scene before her, but she didn’t have time for such an indulgence. When the boatman had dropped her off at the island’s diminutive harbor, he had urged her to wait until he could find a local man to deliver her to the castle via a horse-drawn cart. Kathryn had declined the kind offer, requesting that said man simply bring up her luggage instead. A brisk walk in the early-evening light had seemed like the perfect antidote to the nine hours she’d spent sitting on the train from London.
She was glad she’d made that choice, even though, after twenty minutes of steady trudging, she was still only halfway up the hill. Hopefully, the duke would forgive her for arriving a bit later than anticipated.
After three years in dirty, congested London, it was a pleasure to be surrounded by the sounds and scents of the sea. Every inhalation of the brisk, salty air was invigorating. The sharp cries of the seagulls circling overhead were a joyous chorus that made her heart sing.
How marvelous it would be, Kathryn thought, to actually live on such a unique island. She’d been told that at low tide, for a few hours twice a day, you could walk from the mainland to St. Gabriel’s Mount across a wide stretch of wet sand. At high tide, as it was now, one had to arrive by boat.
The castle grew closer with every step. Kathryn’s excitement mounted. All over England now, it was a common practice for members of the upper classes to update and renovate their manor homes to meet modern Victorian standards. A castle presented a particularly interesting chall
enge.
True, it was just another interior redesign. Not exactly the stuff that dreams were made of. Not her dreams, anyway. But it was the only kind of work that Mr. Patterson was willing to trust her with. So far. At least she was getting experience.
Now, if she could just get the Duke of Darcy to trust her with the job she had been sent to do . . .
Kathryn knew very little about the duke, other than what Mr. Patterson had told her, based on the one time they’d met several years ago. He recalled Lord Darcy as a confirmed bachelor who was witty, generous, and intelligent. “He insisted on paying for dinner for the entire table,” Mr. Patterson had commented, “and he ordered the finest wine I have ever tasted.”
A promising endorsement, Kathryn thought, for the duke’s character. She looked forward to meeting him. At the same time, worry gnawed at her stomach. She had no idea what kind of reception to expect from him.
For one thing, what if he recognized her family name and connection? It was difficult enough to be taken seriously as a woman in her profession. When people found out she was an Atherton heiress, their incredulity increased. They couldn’t understand why she wanted to work at all.
There was always the hope that, in this remote corner of Cornwall, the duke wouldn’t have heard of her. It was probably a vain hope. Her sisters had both married Cornish earls, after all.
A far bigger worry, however, was that the duke had intended to meet with her boss, not her. What if, like every prospective employer she’d met with after architectural school—other than Mr. Patterson—the duke was opposed to working with a woman? What if he sent her packing?
Kathryn set her teeth with determination. She’d just have to make sure that didn’t happen. She had a letter of introduction. She had come a long way and had a job to do. And she was going to do that job better than anyone else, man or woman, could do.
Another five minutes’ walk brought Kathryn to the top of the hill, which offered a spectacular view. Behind her, sun sparkled on the bright blue water separating the island from the coast of Cornwall, which wrapped around St. Gabriel’s Bay, the charming town of Penzance perched in the distance. In the opposite direction, the vast ocean stretched out in endless glory, with gulls swooping in an azure sky dotted with white clouds.
The castle looked even older and more imposing and picturesque up close than it had from below. It had been built along the incline of the slope, with the main entrance on the third level. A long series of steep, weather-beaten stairs, made from chunks of gray stone and bordered by scrubby green grass, led to an arched front door of heavy oak.
Kathryn hiked up the steps and paused before the door, wondering, as she caught her breath, if she was supposed to knock. The idea of knocking on the door of a castle felt strange somehow. That’s when she noticed a wrought iron bell hanging from a nearby post. Grabbing the attached rope, she gave it a vigorous shake. The bell emitted a sonorous clang.
Above the door, the date 1624 had been carved into the stone wall, along with an impressive-looking coat of arms and the name D’Arcy—clearly an ancient spelling of the family name which announced its French origins.
Tilting her head back, Kathryn studied the massive iron portcullis overhead, its dangling points a menacing reminder of the days when enemies had to be cut off at the front gates. Those days were long gone. She’d read that for almost three hundred years, St. Gabriel’s Mount had served as the home of the Darcy family.
That is, if the resident duke had a family. This one, apparently, did not. To think that a bachelor should live in a castle of this vast size. It was incredible!
The sound of a bolt being drawn rent the air. With a loud creak, the heavy front door was pulled open. A man appeared within the door frame.
Kathryn’s heart skittered. She had expected to be greeted by a butler or footman. Judging by this man’s clothing, he was no servant. He appeared to be in his early thirties. He was broad-shouldered, lean, and well over six feet tall, a good eight inches taller, she guessed, than she was. His black suit was expensively tailored of the finest materials and perfectly fitted to his well-toned body.
She wondered if he could be the duke himself. But a duke would never answer his own door. Would he?
She lifted her gaze. Short dark brown hair and a dark stubble of beard framed a face that was disarmingly handsome. His true complexion, judging by his hands, was as pale as hers, yet his face and neck were suntanned, as if he had spent years in a warmer climate.
Although he hadn’t spoken a word, he radiated a crisp, masculine presence, as though all that he saw was his to command. His eyes found hers and lingered. They brimmed with intelligence and were the most striking shade of dark blue she had ever seen. Like the sky at twilight. Or a stormy sea. In a single glance, he seemed to be taking her in and sizing her up, his expression denoting both interest and surprise.
Under his gaze, a jolt of electricity darted through Kathryn’s entire being, leaving her uncharacteristically tongue-tied. As she struggled to recover her equilibrium, the man gave her a polite nod.
“Good evening.” His voice was deep and authoritative, evoking the dulcet, buttery tones of the British upper class. “I am the Duke of Darcy.”
Lance Granville, the tenth Duke of Darcy, gave the woman at the door a brief smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
The burgundy felt hat she wore—except for the feathers at the back—was rather masculine in nature. Which was disconcerting because everything else about her was so decidedly feminine. Her eyes, a shimmering aquamarine blue with a hint of green, held his with a look that, although initially hesitant, turned confident and filled with curiosity.
“The pleasure is mine, Your Grace,” she replied with a curtsy. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out. Despite the fact that the past two weeks had been such a whirlwind of unwelcome change, it was a miracle Lance was even standing, much less able to think straight.
Seven days of travel from Barcelona, leaving behind everything he knew and loved. Only to come home to find his late brother’s desk heaped with enough mountains of paperwork to sink a battleship.
The funeral, hastily but he hoped tastefully arranged, was only yesterday. And then this morning, that cryptic telegram had arrived from London, from some architect named George Patterson.
Why on earth Hayward had invited an architect to St. Gabriel’s Mount was beyond him. Perhaps his brother had conceived of some pet project, or hoped to renovate one of the tenants’ houses? Whatever it was, an architect was apparently on his way—some associate of the said Mr. Patterson.
This comely young woman, however, was obviously not Patterson’s associate from London. She must, Lance concluded, be the teacher from the local village who’d written to him, requesting an audience to discuss the school’s needs for the upcoming year. A Miss Kerenza Chenoweth, if he remembered correctly.
Her accent took him aback, though. “You’re American,” he observed.
“I am,” his visitor replied.
Strange that the village schoolteacher should be from across the pond. He couldn’t help but wonder why she had come so far to teach in this tiny, godforsaken corner of England. He wondered, too, what she was carrying in that oversized leather satchel. Perhaps some outdated schoolbooks that needed replacing?
“Do come in.” Lance stepped back to admit her. “Aren’t you a day early for our meeting?” he asked as she swept inside. “Or do I have my dates wrong?”
His question seemed to confuse her. “Actually, I’m a couple of hours late, Your Grace, for which I can only apologize. I missed my connection.”
“Connection?” His brow wrinkled. She must be referring to one of the ferryboats. “You don’t live on the island, then?”
A laugh escaped her lips and she darted him a look, as if trying to decide if he were kidding. “I do not.”
Well, then, he thought, she must live in Rosquay. Several
servants at the castle also lived in that small town, just a short walk across the causeway from the Mount at low tide.
Shutting the door, Lance studied her in the glow of sunlight slanting in from a nearby window. She was pretty—exceedingly so—with an oval face, a creamy complexion, and curves in all the right places. Mid- to late-twenties, he guessed. Her hair, pulled back beneath the hat that matched her elegant burgundy suit, sparkled like spun gold. How, he wondered, did a schoolteacher afford such a costly outfit?
He was suddenly reminded of a schoolteacher in Istanbul with whom he had enjoyed several steamy days and nights. And hadn’t that winsome creature in Naples also been a schoolteacher? Yes, teachers could make delectable . . .
Damn it all to hell. Those days were behind him. Very much against his will, he was the Duke of Darcy now. He could no longer afford to have random flings with enticing young women. Things were expected of him. Things like marriage and the production of an heir and doing whatever was necessary to save his doomed dukedom from the chopping block.
Until a few days ago, Lance had been completely unaware that his brother, after nearly two decades of bad investments and the worst agricultural recession in English history, had been forced to sell all their property in Hampshire. The London town house and St. Gabriel’s Mount were all that were left now. Both were mortgaged to the hilt. And the Mount, with its ancient castle, was a parish with a negligible income.
In an attempt to maintain his style of living and, apparently, to help out every parishioner with a financial need, Hayward had borrowed enormous sums. He had also invested in a string of bad investments, losing every penny and leaving the dukedom in excruciating debt. Worse yet, most of the loans had been refinanced and bundled together with one lender, and were due in a lump sum in three months.
Three months to somehow get his hands on £68,000, or he would have no choice but to sell the castle and all its holdings. The dukedom would be a title only, with no property whatsoever. That was the legacy Lance had inherited. Thank you, Hayward. God rest your soul.
