by Laura Landon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
About Laura Landon
Chapter 1
London
May 1857
Hugh Wythers sat in his father’s study and focused on the papers his father shuffled before him. There was something unusual in the Marquess of Bentingham’s actions. A hesitancy, as if he wasn’t eager to continue their conversation.
Hugh and his father had always enjoyed a close relationship even though the marquess had often expressed his disapproval of Hugh’s lack of focus in his life.
“Is something bothering you, Father?”
“No, Hugh. Nothing is wrong. In fact, for the first time in a long time I feel as if I’m doing something right.”
Hugh couldn’t stop the feeling that whatever it was that had prompted this command visit, he wasn’t going to like it. “Is there a reason you asked to see me?”
His father looked up. The Marquess of Bentingham had always been a handsome man. When his gaze locked with Hugh’s, it seemed as though he were looking in a mirror. Same aristocratic bearing, same dark, wideset eyes, and thick, dark eyebrows that communicated as easily as his words. That was how much Hugh resembled his father. As did Hugh’s brother, Chad. In fact, each was often mistaken for the other.
Hugh’s father’s gaze turned more intense. “How old are you, Hugh?”
A stirring of concern shifted inside him. His father knew his age. His father knew everything about every member of his family. “I’m two and thirty, my lord.”
“Ah, two and thirty.” His father smiled, then picked up a pen from the desk and turned it over in his hand. “I was already a father to you and your brother by the time I was your age. Other than serve your country bravely and with valor during the war, what have you accomplished?”
“Accomplished?” Hugh suddenly wished he hadn’t stayed so long at the gaming hell he’d visited the night before and hadn’t imbibed as much. He had a feeling he needed his head to be much clearer in order to have this conversation with his father.
“Yes, accomplished,” his father repeated. “What have you done with your life since you returned from the Crimea?”
Hugh sat forward in his chair. “No insult intended, Father, but not all of us are as motivated as you. During the war I saw tragedies I wish I hadn’t seen. I saw healthy young men’s lives ended in the flash of a heartbeat. I witnessed thousands of soldiers who weren’t given the opportunity to see another day.”
“So you’ve adopted the opinion that you are going to live each day to the fullest, because you may not live to see another?”
“In part, perhaps I have. You know, not all of us are designed to be as successful as you and my brother. Not all of us aspire to be a leader in the House. Not all of us wish to father a son who will break his mother’s heart by dying in the Queen’s bloody trenches.”
His father shifted uneasily. “I am well aware of that,” he admitted.
Hugh’s nerves calmed a bit. Perhaps his father understood that Hugh was more than satisfied with his life as he was living it. That he was fully committed to it. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be a lecture to tell him he needed to do something with his life. Perhaps—
“But you are not one of those, Hugh. You do not lack intelligence. You do not come from a family in which doing nothing and accomplishing even less is acceptable. If you had the mental capability of, say . . .” His father paused. “. . . say, the Earl of Renden’s son, I would agree.”
“Renden’s son is an idiot.” Hugh scoffed. “Just last week, he purchased one of the worst pieces of horseflesh Tattersall’s has ever put up for sale for an extraordinary price, simply because he overheard some men falsely boasting its pedigree.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t have made such a bad decision?”
“Of course I wouldn’t have. You taught both your sons to recognize a good mount from bad.”
The look on his father’s face turned more melancholy. “What else did I teach you, son?”
Hugh didn’t answer. He recognized when his father was leading him into a trap, and his question had all the markings of a trap with no escape.
“Nothing else, Hugh? Did I not teach you anything else?”
“You taught me any number of things, Father. But I have a feeling you’re looking for one specific answer, and my list of virtues won’t encompass the one you’re looking for.”
“You’re right.” The Marquess of Bentingham leaned back in his chair and rested his elbows on its upholstered arms. He steepled his fingers in front of him in preparation to speak. “The first item I would hope you would assure me that I’ve taught you is responsibility. That I have instilled the desire to be a worthwhile member of Society. That you are determined to leave this world a better place because you were in it.”
Now it was Hugh’s turn to shift uncomfortably. This wasn’t the discussion he’d anticipated having with his father.
“Will this world be better because you existed in it, Hugh? Will you leave even one part of yourself behind as evidence that you were here and contributed something lasting?”
“Is that so important, Father?”
“That’s something only you can answer, son.”
Hugh thought perhaps he’d finally gained the upper hand in this conversation. “What is there of importance that you have left behind, Father?”
The Marquess of Bentingham smiled. “You, Hugh. I left the world the greatest gift I could possibly leave. I gave the world my sons. And my daughters. Because my children were all I had of real worth.”
Hugh slowly rose to his feet. He walked to the fireplace and stared at the newly tended grate. “What are you telling me, Father?”
The Marquess lifted a substantial pile of bills, all bearing the markings of tradesmen Hugh frequented. Topmost was a recent bill for an outrageously expensive bauble he’d bought for some girl whose name he couldn’t at the moment call to mind.
“I’m telling you that I refuse to allow you to squander with your wastrel living the gift I have given the world. That I have pandered to your gaming and your drinking and your womanizing long enough. That I have allowed you to do nothing with your life far too long, hoping that you would realize on your own that you could not continue down the path you were set upon.”
Hugh turned to face his father. “And now?”
“And now it is up to you to take control of your life.” The marquess dropped the stack of bills and stood behind his desk, then gathered together a formal-looking sheaf of papers. “Here.” He held the papers out to Hugh. “These are yours.”
Hugh looked at his father’s outstretched hand for an uneasy moment. He knew that once he took
the papers, his life would change. He would no longer be the carefree member of the Traitor’s Club that he’d once been. He would no longer consort with the three men who had shared his dangerous missions, who had carried out deadly charades behind enemy lines, appearing to be traitors to the Queen they served in order to advance her prospects of winning the war. No longer carry out the clandestine operations the Queen still asked of them.
Ford Remington had already married his sweetheart. How long before he would fall away from the group? Hugh refused to cast Caleb and Jeb further adrift by consigning himself to country life.
Sharing a traitor’s bond with three of Her Majesty’s best spies had turned him from boy to man. In their eyes he was a most trusted mate. But he knew that wasn’t what his father saw.
His father would never comprehend the exhilaration, the energy poised in his veins like the tips of a million arrows when he embarked on another covert mission. But the missions were fewer and farther between these days, and his time was filled with . . . well, with the kind of thing his father greeted with disgust.
Hugh hesitated. He didn’t want to know what his father intended for him, but he had no choice.
Finally, he managed the three steps that separated him from his father and took the papers. He lowered his gaze and read the bold print at the top of the first page. Then he lifted his surprised gaze to his father.
“It’s a deed,” his father said.
“I see that,” Hugh answered. “The deed to Red Oaks Estate. But that’s one of your most profitable estates.”
“Then it’s only right you should have it. Who better to give the best I have than to you?”
Hugh stepped back to his chair and sank down. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” His father returned to the chair behind his desk. “Red Oaks is the best estate I own that’s not entailed. It’s only right that it goes to you.”
“Does Chad know?”
His father smiled. “Are you worried that as my heir he will begrudge my giving Red Oaks to you?”
“No, but . . .”
“That’s right. What I choose to do with what I own is my affair. Just as what you decide to do with Red Oaks is your affair.”
Hugh felt as though his world had just spun out of control. “What do you mean what I decide to do with Red Oaks is my affair?”
“Red Oaks is yours now. I’ve given you a profitable estate, as long as it’s managed properly. Red Oaks will from now on be your only source of income. It will prosper or fail, depending upon your management.”
Hugh sat forward. “But I don’t know the first thing about running an estate. I wouldn’t even know how to go about managing it.”
“Then I suggest you learn. My estimate is that at your current rate of spending, Red Oaks will be able to support you for five, perhaps six years, before the money it earns will no longer meet your needs. Perhaps ten, if you curb your spending.”
“You would risk losing Red Oaks?”
His father shook his head. “I will not have lost it, Hugh. You will have.”
The Marquess of Bentingham stood behind his desk, indicating their meeting was over. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important council meeting to attend.”
Hugh rose on unsteady legs, bid his father farewell, and left the room.
He walked out of his childhood home with a piece of paper that forced upon him the responsibility of running an estate of which he knew nothing. And a future that wasn’t anything like he thought it would be.
He had to come up with a plan. A way to preserve the unfettered lifestyle he loved and avoid the country landowner lifestyle he detested.
He had to come up with a way to remain in London.
Chapter 2
Lady Annalise Lyman—or Nellie, as her family called her—sat on one of the chairs lined against the wall of the Marchioness of Wellington’s garishly decorated ballroom and watched the couples on the dance floor move in unison to the graceful steps of a waltz. Not being asked to dance—especially a waltz—was one of the few things Nellie, as her five younger sisters called her, regretted about being a wallflower who was decidedly on the shelf. After all, what did you call a woefully unattractive woman nearing her thirtieth year?
If the choice was hers, she would avoid functions such as this and spend every minute of her time away from London. There was nothing she loved more than the peace and quiet of the country. Nothing she craved more than breathing in the clean country air, which was so much better than the foul-smelling, smoke-filled air of London.
Why on earth people rushed to the City twice a year when they could remain in the country was beyond her comprehension. Why they eagerly looked forward to spending a fortune on gowns and finery to impress the rest of Society, when they could save a year’s worth of profits if they avoided the London Seasons was a mystery to her. But this was where she was forced to come each year in order to introduce her sisters to Society in hopes they might find a husband.
Nellie searched the twirling couples until she found her youngest sister. Hopefully Francine would become engaged before the end of this Season so Nellie could begin planning the wedding and this whole ordeal would be over.
“Do you think our Frannie will marry Lord Cushing?” Nellie’s next oldest sister Brianna asked as she took the empty chair next to Nellie.
“I’m hopeful,” Nellie said. “She seems quite taken with him. And he’s known to have excellent character.”
“And then what, Nellie? What will you do when you have all of us married off?”
“I will return to the country where I’m the happiest.”
“Don’t you ever find it . . . boring?”
Nellie couldn’t help but laugh. “To my dying day, I will never understand how you and Daphne and Elizabeth and Frannie took to living in the city like ducks to water. Colette is the only one who seems content to live in the country. And I have no doubt that it’s because her husband has a love of the land.”
“I think you’re right, Nellie. But the reason we love it here is because there’s so much to do. There are parties and the theater and the opera and . . . oh, ever so much more.”
“And of course, this is where your husband’s work is centered.”
“Yes, there is that.” Brianna glanced at Nellie with the star-glazed look she acquired whenever she spoke of her husband.
“Speaking of Lord Wesley,” Nellie said, spying Brianna’s husband, “there he is on the other side of the room looking around as if he’s searching for someone.”
“Then I’d best let him find me,” Brianna said as she stood. “If you’re having a dreadful time being here, you may go home any time you like. Wesley and I will keep an eye on Frannie.”
“Thank you, Brie. I might take you up on your offer. I need to return before it gets terribly late. Papa made a trip to Bolton’s Book Store this afternoon and returned with his arms loaded with books. If I don’t force him to go to bed, I’ll find him still reading in the library tomorrow morning.”
“Go whenever you like, then,” Brie said, then made her way to where her husband stood.
Nellie watched Brianna nearly skip across the room. There wasn’t a doubt that every one of her sisters truly enjoyed the social life of London. It was clear they each bubbled with excitement whenever they came out in public.
Perhaps Nellie would feel the same if she had Brianna’s heart-shaped face, sweet smile, and graceful beauty and had been noticed by at least one gentleman during her three miserable Seasons.
Or had Colette’s high cheekbones and creamy complexion that were the envy of every female in London.
Or had Daphne’s exotic green eyes that had enticed more than half a dozen handsome suitors during her Season.
Or had Elizabeth’s pert upturned nose and lush figure, the perfect figure to show off every dressmaker’s gown to perfection.
Or had Frannie’s enviable mass of golden locks that drew the attention of every man with eyes in h
is head.
But Nellie possessed none of those qualities. Her face was long and plain. Her complexion was marred with freckles that turned even darker when she was out in the sun, which was every day of spring, summer, and well into the fall.
Her eyes were a pale hazel brown that seemed too large for her face. Her nose could never be called pert or upturned, but was—as she had decided long ago—embarrassingly large with an overzealous down-swoop at the end. Her brown hair had very little lustre and was often decidedly unmanageable. When a rainy day turned other girls’ hair sweetly curly, hers merely kinked in a most unsatisfactory way. And her figure. Well. Search as she might, Nellie couldn’t find a seductive curve on her tall, lanky body.
No, she was nowhere near as pretty as any of her sisters. It was as if God handed her all the blemishes or imperfections he could muster, so that there would be none left for her sisters.
Nellie’s eyes swept the ballroom. It was too late to have regrets over anything she couldn’t change, and she’d never been one to wallow in self-pity. She was content with her life. And truth be told, she was happy things had turned out the way they had. Papa often told her it wasn’t God’s plan that everyone marry. And Nellie believed she was one of those who God had marked for single-blessedness.
Nellie had never felt truly enamored of any man. She’d never felt what each one of her sisters described they felt for the man with whom they fell in love, then married. She’d never found one single male whose company she would trade for her freedom. Never encountered a man who made her heart race, or butterflies to flutter in her stomach, like Colette and Elizabeth insist is a normal occurrence when a girl falls in love. No, Nellie accepted the fact that it was doubtful she would ever experience any of those reactions because . . . well . . . because she was . . . different.
Nellie watched her sisters a little while longer, then sought her escape. She made her way along the perimeter of the ballroom until she reached the long French windows that opened onto the terrace. She stepped onto the flagstones, then walked to the balustrade that edged the steps to the garden.
The air was a little chilly, but cool air never bothered Nellie. In fact, she rather enjoyed it. She strolled down a garden path until she reached the first bench, then sat and allowed herself to imagine she was in the country. She envisioned a future where Frannie had met and married the man of her dreams, and Nellie could go home where she belonged.
