Dedication
To Marnee, a wonderful writer and a great friend.
This is going to be your year, I know it!
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
About the Author
By Caroline Linden
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
1805
Stratford Court, Richmond
Perseus lay in pieces on the floor. His arm, divorced from his body, held out the severed head of Medusa as if to ward his attacker off, and indeed, Benedict Lennox thought it might well have turned him to stone.
Before he fell, Perseus had held the head aloft, poised in mid-stride. The Gorgon’s face was twisted with rage and her eyes seemed to follow a person. It was hideous, even frightening, but Benedict’s father said it was a masterpiece, and Father knew art. As such it was displayed in a prominent position on the landing of the main staircase of Stratford Court, with a large mirror behind it to display the rear. Benedict always tried not to look right at it when he passed, but there was no avoiding it now. The base rested against the remains of the mirror, while Perseus and his trophy were scattered in pieces across the landing, amid the glittering shards of broken glass.
“Do you know anything about this?” The Earl of Stratford’s voice was idle, almost disinterested.
His son swallowed hard. “No, sir.”
“No?” The earl rocked back on his heels. “Nothing at all? Do you not even recognize it?”
Oh no. That had been the wrong answer. He searched frantically for the right one. “No, sir. I didn’t mean that. It’s a statue of Perseus.”
Lord Stratford made a soft, disappointed noise. “Not merely a statue of Perseus. This is one of the finest works of art by a great sculptor. See how exquisitely he renders the god’s form, how he encapsulates the evil of the Gorgon!” He paused. “But you don’t care about that, do you?”
Benedict said nothing. He knew there was no correct answer to that question.
Stratford sighed. “Such a pity. I had hoped my only son would pay more attention to his classical studies, but alas. Perhaps I should be grateful you recognized it at all. Our entire conversation would be for naught otherwise.”
Benedict Lennox gripped his hands together until his knuckles hurt. He stood rigidly at attention, mesmerized by the shattered glass and stone before him.
His father clasped his hands behind him, rather like Benedict’s tutor did when explaining a difficult point of mathematics. “Now, what else can you tell me about this statue?”
“Something terrible happened to it, sir.”
“Was it struck by lightning, do you think?” asked the earl in exaggerated concern.
The sky outside the mullioned windows was crystal clear, as blue as a robin’s egg. “Unlikely, sir.”
“No, perhaps not,” his father murmured, watching him with a piercing stare. Benedict longed to look away from that stare but knew it would be a mistake. “Perhaps it was a stray shot from a poacher?”
Stratford Court was set in a manicured park, surrounded only by gardens, graveled paths, and open rolling lawns. The woods where any poachers might roam were across the river. Benedict wished those woods were much closer. He wished he were exploring them right this moment. “Possible, but also unlikely, sir.”
“Not a poacher,” said Stratford thoughtfully. “I confess, I’ve quite run out of ideas! How on earth could a statue of inestimable value break without any outside influence? Not only that, but the mirror as well. It’s bad luck to break a mirror.”
He stayed silent. He didn’t know, either, though he suspected he was about to be punished for it. Bad luck, indeed.
“What do you say, Benedict? What is the logical conclusion?”
His tongue felt wooden. “It must have been someone inside the house, sir.”
“Surely not! Who would do such a thing?”
A flicker of movement caught Benedict’s eye before he could think of an answer. He tried to check the impulse, but his father noticed his involuntary start and turned to follow his gaze. Two little girls peeped around the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. “Come here, my lovely daughters, come here,” said the earl.
Benedict’s heart sank into his shoes. Suddenly he guessed what had happened to the mirror. Samantha, who was only four, looked a little uncertain; but Elizabeth, who was seven, was pale-faced with fear. Slowly the sisters came up the stairs, bobbing careful curtsies when they reached the landing.
“Here are my pretty little ones.” The earl surveyed them critically. “Lady Elizabeth, your sash is dropping. And Lady Samantha, you’ve got dirt on your dress.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” Elizabeth tugged at her sash, setting it further askew. Samantha just put her hands behind her back and looked at the floor. She’d only recently been allowed out of the nursery and barely knew the earl.
“Your brother and I are attempting to solve a mystery.” The earl waved one hand at the wreckage. “Do you know what happened to this statue?”
Elizabeth went white as she stared at the Gorgon’s head. “It broke, Father,” piped up Samantha.
“Very good,” the earl told her. “Do you know how?”
Elizabeth’s terrified gaze veered to him. Benedict managed to give her an infinitesimal shake of his head before their father turned on him. “Benedict says he does not know,” Stratford said sharply. “Do not look at him for answers, Elizabeth.”
In the moment the earl’s back was turned to them, Elizabeth nudged her sister and touched one finger to her lips. Samantha’s green eyes grew round and she moved closer to Elizabeth, reaching for her hand.
Stratford turned back to his daughters. “Do either of you know?” Elizabeth blinked several times, but she shook her head. “Samantha?” prodded their father. “It would be a sin not to answer me.”
Samantha’s expression grew worried. Benedict’s throat clogged and his eyes stung. He took a breath to calm his roiling nerves and spoke before his sister could. “It was my fault, Father.”
“Your fault?” Fury flashed in the earl’s face though his voice remained coldly calm. “How so, Benedict?”
What should he say? If the earl didn’t believe his story, he’d be whipped for lying, his sister would be punished for the actual crime, the nursemaid would be sacked for not keeping better watch over her charges, and his mother would be excoriated for hiring the nursemaid at all. Of course, confessing to the crime would get him whipped anyway. All over an ugly statue that everyone tried to avoid seeing.
A fine sweat broke out on his brow. Boys at school told of lying to deny their misdeeds, but how did one lie to claim a crime? He would have to ask, next term. Not that it would help him now.
His breath shuddered. “It was a cricket ball, sir. I was tossing it and—and it got away from me so I lunged to catch it—�
�� His stomach heaved. He’d be whipped hard for this. “I apologize, sir.”
For a long moment Stratford stared at him in the narrow-eyed flinty way he had. Like a hawk, he seemed not to need to blink. “When did this carelessness occur?”
“Not long ago, Father.” His heart was pounding painfully hard, but he made himself continue. Elizabeth looked like she would cry, and that would help neither of them. “I was trying to find a maid to fetch a broom so I could sweep it up.”
The blow on the back of his head made him flinch. “Viscounts do not sweep,” snapped the earl. “Fetch a broom, indeed!”
“No, Father,” he whispered.
“Nor do they lie and attempt to conceal their sins!” The second blow was harder, but he was ready for that one. The earl paced around him, his coattails swinging. “Elizabeth, where is your nursemaid?”
“In the garden, Father.” Her thin voice quavered.
“Return to her with your sister, and do not wander off again.” He turned back to Benedict. “Come with me.”
Elizabeth shot him an anguished glance as she took Samantha’s hand. He saw Elizabeth stoop and grab a doll, lying almost out of sight one step down, as they hurried down the stairs. It was her favorite doll, with the blue silk dress and the painted wooden head with real hair. He hoped she shook the broken glass out of the doll’s clothing.
It was a long walk to the earl’s study. Benedict counted every step to keep his mind from what was to come, his gaze fixed on his father’s heels striding in front of him. Twenty-two steps down to the ground floor. Forty steps to the north. Eleven to the west. Six to cross his father’s study and stand before the wide, polished desk with the ornate pen and inkstand.
“I cannot abide liars, Benedict.” The earl walked around his desk to the wide windows that looked out toward the river. “You should know that by now.”
Benedict stole a glance out the windows. The river glittered placidly, invitingly. It was a beautiful summer day and he’d finished his lessons early, planning to take the punt across the river to the wilder bank. His friend Sebastian was probably sitting up in the old oak tree right now, dangling his feet over the water and waiting for him to come. They’d recently begun a determined search for a long-lost legendary grotto. Everyone said it had been filled in years ago, but Lady Burton, who owned the estate where the grotto had been—and hopefully still was—had granted them permission to look for it. Benedict was secretly sure that grotto would prove the perfect spot to hide when his father was in a fury. If he knew where it was, he’d run from the room right now, call to his sisters to follow him, and row them all across the river. They could stay in the grotto indefinitely; Sebastian would smuggle them food from his house, and they would never return to Stratford Court again. After a while they would send a note to their mother, and then she, too, would run away and join them in the woods. The four of them could live there forever, climbing trees and washing in the river, and never facing another thrashing over a broken statue or anything else.
The earl lifted the thin rod that stood against the window frame, bursting the moment of wishful thinking. “Not only a liar, but a careless one as well. That statue is irreplaceable. And yet you didn’t come to confess at once. I must have been remiss, if you thought that would escape my notice.” He circled the desk. “Nothing escapes my notice.”
“No, sir.”
“Well?” The rod slashed down and made a loud crack against his lordship’s boot. “What are you waiting for?”
Benedict cast one more longing glance at the river and the distant woods before closing his eyes. It would be at least a week before he could escape to them now. Gingerly he laid his hands flat on the desk and braced himself.
“I grow tired of this, Benedict. I expect more from you.”
“I know, sir,” he whispered, ashamed that his voice shook. His father despised weak, fearful people.
“No,” said the earl quietly. “I don’t think you do—yet.” He raised the rod and began.
It was dark when his bedroom door opened. “Ben?” whispered Elizabeth nervously. “Are you awake?”
He raised his head, wincing as his back throbbed anew. “Yes.”
There was a rustle and the door closed with a quiet click. “I managed to save a bit of milk.” She crouched down next to his bed and held up the cup. “I think Nanny looked the other way on purpose.”
He pulled himself toward the edge of the bed. From his shoulders to his hips, he ached. Awkwardly he sipped from Elizabeth’s mug.
“I don’t think it’s fair that you got a whipping and shall have only bread and water for a week.”
Benedict sighed, resting his cheek on the mattress. “It doesn’t matter what we think.”
“I know.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Ben. Samantha wanted to hold my doll Bess, but I was selfish and wouldn’t let her. She pulled on Bess and I pulled back, and we both bumped into the statue, and Nanny was calling us, and—and—”
“Don’t worry.” He reached for her hand. She scrambled nearer and leaned her head against the bed frame beside his, clasping his hand to her cheek. “Make sure Samantha knows not to tell about Bess.”
She nodded. “I will. I told her to pretend she had a nightmare and go cry in Nanny’s lap while I sneaked in here with the milk. Are—are you badly hurt?”
He made a face even though his back felt like it was on fire. “Not much.”
“Mother will come see you tomorrow, won’t she?”
He hoped. Sometimes his punishments included being sequestered from everyone else. Elizabeth was only able to come to him because his room was still in the nursery. Benedict thought he could bear this much better if his mother would come and stroke his hair and lay cold compresses on his back and read to him. She did that when the earl was away from Stratford Court. Of course, when the earl was away, he wasn’t whipped at all.
“I wish he would go to London,” whispered his sister, echoing his thoughts.
“So do I.” He wished the earl would go to London, or anywhere else, and stay there forever. “You should go back to bed before Nanny realizes you’re here.”
She held up the cup so he could finish the milk. Greedily he sucked the last of it, then gave her a little push. “Good night, Ben,” she whispered next to his ear. “Thank you.”
He closed his eyes as she slipped out of the room. If he hadn’t taken responsibility, their father would have begun to suspect the girls. Stratford never whipped his daughters—Benedict wondered if he would when they grew older—but he would punish them in other ways. If Stratford had seen Bess lying on the stair and realized the truth, he probably would have burned the doll. That would have broken Elizabeth’s heart; she loved Bess and took very gentle care of her.
In a few days his back would stop hurting. A week with only bread and water would be miserable, but he was ten, nearly eleven—almost a man—and his little sisters needed their milk and good food more than he did. With any luck, his mother would find a way to come see him and make the days pass more quickly. And on the bright side, he would be allowed to recite his lessons here, instead of standing in the schoolroom.
But he wished, deeply and intensely, that he had been born the son of anyone other than the Earl of Stratford.
Chapter 1
1822
London
Some people were born with an acute appreciation of the little things in life: a good book, a beautiful garden, a quiet peaceful home. Nothing pleased them more than improving their minds through reading, or practicing an art such as painting or playing an instrument, or helping the sick and infirm. Such people were truly noble and inspiring.
Penelope Weston was not one of those people.
In fact, she felt very much the opposite of noble or inspiring as she stood at the side of Lady Hunsford’s ballroom and glumly watched the beautiful couples whirling
around the floor. She wasn’t envious . . . much . . . but she was decidedly bored. This was a new feeling for her. Once balls and parties had been the most exciting thing in the world. She had thrilled at sharing the latest gossip and discussing the season’s fashions with her older sister, Abigail, and their friend Joan Bennet. None of the three of them had been popular young ladies, so they always had plenty of time to talk at balls, interrupted only occasionally by a gentleman asking one of them to dance.
At the time, they had all openly wished for more gentlemen to ask them to dance, and to call on them, flowers in hand, and beg for their company on a drive in the park. No one wanted to be a spinster all her life, after all. Whenever Joan fell into despair over her height, or Abigail fretted that only fortune hunters would want her, Penelope loyally maintained that there existed a man who would find Joan’s tall, statuesque figure appealing, and a man who would want Abigail for more than her dowry.
Well, now she’d been proven right. Joan had married the very rakish Viscount Burke, and Abigail was absolutely moonstruck in love with her new husband, Sebastian. Penelope was very happy for both of them, she really was . . . but she was also feeling left out for the first time in her life. Her sister was only a year older than she, and they had been the best of friends her entire life—and now Abigail was happily rusticating in Richmond, cultivating the quieter society that made Penelope want to run screaming from the room. Joan’s bridegroom had swept her off on a very exciting and exotic wedding trip to Italy, which Penelope envied fiercely but obviously could not share. And that left her alone, standing at the side of ballrooms once more, but this time without her dearest friends to pass the time.
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