Promise of Redemption

by Ellie St. Clair

  It had all been over in a matter of seconds. The authorities did not confirm that Lord Northcliffe was the man responsible for Laura’s death — for they only had the eyewitness of a slightly stunned, loyal butler — but Daniel knew that Northcliffe’s removal from society only added to his guilt. Laura’s maid had run, the butler told him, never to be seen again.

  Taking another sip of his coffee, Daniel closed his eyes and tried to thrust the pictures from his mind, but as usual he could not easily do so. It took a great deal of effort to force them to fade, and he found himself wishing he could remember Laura as she had been in life — elegant, refined, and beautiful. Instead, whenever he thought of her, all he could see was her bloodied body on the floor of his house, her eyes wide and staring.

  Groaning, Daniel straightened his seat and threw his head back, his gaze upon the ceiling as he attempted to push it all away.

  “I need to forget,” he said aloud, hearing the emotion in his voice and cursing himself for it.

  A quick knock at the door was followed by the voice of his valet. “My lord, are you—”

  “Go away, Roberts,” he growled. “I’m not ready for you yet, as I’m sure Woodward told you.”

  Daniel winced at the anger in his tone as he heard the valet rush away down the corridor. A pang of regret pricked his conscience for how harshly he had spoken with Roberts, but the man should have known better than to bother him so soon after he awoke.

  These memories mocked him, refusing to disperse. They were a part of him, in his bones, in his marrow, in his very soul, and they turned him into a different man than he had previously been. He vowed that never again would he allow himself to love, for it was not worth the price of the pain that remained when it was taken away.

  “I will find him,” Daniel whispered, savagely. “I will find Lord Northcliffe.”

  Letting his head slump forward once more, Daniel took in a few long breaths, counting to ten each time in an attempt to keep a hold of his composure. It was often difficult to do so, but Daniel continued to focus regardless. Slowly, he felt himself take control once more. The terror in his heart lay down to rest, the tension in his body began to fade. It was going away, as it always did, but Daniel knew it would be back.

  An hour later, Daniel had taken his bath and was nearly ready to leave the room. He had eaten his breakfast and had drunk copious amounts of coffee, leaving him feeling a great deal better than he had before, and he once again hardened his heart to block out the pain and the memories of the past, focusing instead on what could be done in the present.

  “The letters,” he muttered to himself, picking them both up and grimacing as he did so. One was from his solicitor, which he did not particularly care about, for it would, most likely, simply be some information on his holdings, while the other was from his father. He recognized the seal and knew that he ought to open it, as much as he dreaded it. His father had been trying to worm his way back into Daniel’s life for some time, trying to get through the wall that Daniel had built up around himself, but Daniel was unwilling to allow him entry. He had no interest in taking back up his responsibilities. He had far more important work to complete, which his father could never understand.

  Daniel was aware that his father and mother were both rather confused about his change in behavior over the last few years, but that was because neither of them knew the truth about Laura. They knew that she had died in some horrible accident, but they had never known that it had been in his home, that he had been the one to find her body. That had all been very carefully covered up, as requested by her father, Lord Stawell himself, the moment he had arrived at Daniel’s home, having been sent for by one of Daniel’s footmen.

  Lord Stawell had not wanted all and sundry to know the horrific details of his daughter’s death, knowing that the ton would take it and chew over it for years to come. Even in his grief, he had reminded Daniel that he was the heir to a dukedom, that he had expectations and responsibilities in his future. He had told Daniel that if any knowledge of this escaped, it would make his entire future darker, including the future of his family. All in society would distrust him. Rumors would spread that he had been the one to kill Laura, particularly if there was no evidence to the contrary except the eyewitness of one faithful butler. He had been told to think of his future wife and children, that the stain of this could spread to them were he not careful. Daniel had no interest anymore in marrying, nor creating heirs, but he had four siblings whose lives could be greatly affected.

  And so, it had all been very neatly, very discreetly, taken care of. The authorities had interviewed him at his home, the blood had been cleaned up, and Lord Stawell had told anyone who asked that his daughter had died in an unfortunate accident — nothing more.

  Daniel could still remember attending the funeral in a state of shock, feeling numb and disconnected from everything and everyone around him.

  He’d retreated to his estate then and, over the last six years, had done nothing but run his estate, protect those who needed it, and watch out over his siblings from afar. On occasion, he took himself to London when his work required it of him, to do what he could to help those in need of his aid. He would even see his family on occasion, though he knew he hardly spoke to them, even when he was in their presence. But the majority of his time was spent here. Society, balls, dancing, and eligible young ladies held no interest for him anymore. They didn’t matter.

  Daniel broke the seal and unfolded the letter, recognizing his father’s familiar scrawl across the page. Most likely, this would just be another plea for him to come to London for the Season, to find himself a bride and beget an heir. Daniel had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He noted the door opening as he picked up the letter, and he nodded as Woodward entered and began to clear away his breakfast dishes. While the chore was beneath the butler, Daniel trusted few to enter his own chamber.

  Son,

  You are expected in London for the Season. As you sold your townhouse some years ago and appear not to have any intention of purchasing a new one, I have done so for you. As it happens, it is directly across from our own. Therefore, you will reside in your new townhouse and dine with your mother and me regularly. I expect you no later than a week this Friday.

  Daniel frowned and snorted. This did not sound like his father, given that there were no questions, no mention of how quiet Daniel had been of late, nor even the suggestion that Daniel was able to refuse such a request. Given that he was of age, he had no need to obey his father, even though he did not want to anger the man unnecessarily. After all, it was not as though Daniel’s solitude was the duke’s fault.

  “I have no intention of coming to London,” Daniel said aloud to the letter as if his father could hear him. “Regardless of what you want, I will not be joining you and Mother for the Season.”

  “My lord?” came the reply, and Daniel started slightly as he realized Woodward was still in the room.

  “My apologies, Woodward,” he said. “I was speaking aloud. My father, it seems, forgets I am no longer a young lad, but a man grown, capable of making my own decisions.”

  It was a letter he would have to respond to but, since he did not feel any particular urge to do so at that very moment, Daniel set the letter aside and picked up the other.

  Sighing, he opened the one from his solicitor, fully expecting to read something about one investment or another. What he read instead shocked him to the core.

  Lord Ravenhall,

  I have been tasked by your father to place a hold on your accounts for a time. As he still has control of your fortune, since it is, in fact, his wealth, I have had no alternative but to do so at once. I have been informed that it will be released to you again when your father wills it to be so. The address of your new townhouse is enclosed.

  Yours, etc.

  Daniel had to read the letter three times over before the truth finally registered, and he clenched his fingers into a fist around the paper until it was noth
ing but a ball. His father was manipulating him through his wealth in order to force his return to London. He would have little other option but to do so, for while his estate was his in name, all funds ran through his father’s accounts, which would, one day, become his. Daniel had known this the day he had come of age, the day he had been given his own small estate and his father’s secondary title, but he had never expected his father to use this knowledge in such a way as to manipulate him into doing what he wished.

  “How dare you!” Daniel sputtered, throwing the letter across the room and leaping from his chair. Pacing back and forth, he shoved one hand into his hair, his eyes staring at nothing while he struggled to come to terms with his father’s actions.

  “My lord, can I be of assistance?” asked Woodward, subtly reminding Daniel of his presence. He turned to look at his butler, seeing no fear in the man’s eyes, and silently acknowledged he was one who truly knew him. Most men now approached him rather warily, if they did at all.

  “No,” he growled, just managing to catch his anger and frustration as it nearly boiled over while he raged inwardly as to what to do. Despite his turmoil, rational thought crept in as he accepted the truth. “There is nothing to be done. My father has quite firmly … requested … that I return to London for a time. Prepare everything for my departure within the week."

  He was caught. If Daniel disobeyed his father, his work on behalf of those troubled souls he helped would have to cease. His estate was somewhat profitable, but it had only recently become so, and Daniel knew he could not sustain his activities while still paying his workers and purchasing required goods. Why was the duke doing this? Was it his way of forcing Daniel’s hand, in an attempt to pull him from his life of solitude? The duke was typically a jovial sort, and, unless the situation was one which would cause hurt to his children, he left them to do as they pleased.

  Apparently, something had changed. Daniel leaned heavily on the windowsill and looked out at the gardens below.

  “Very well, my lord.”

  Letting out a long breath, Daniel rested his forehead against the cool glass in an attempt to quell his boiling fury. Underneath it all, whether he wanted to admit it or not, Daniel knew there was a lingering fear in his heart — fear that he hid by driving all away from him. He was afraid of how he would react when he was once again among polite society. What would he do if he saw Lord Northcliffe? Would he lose himself in a fit of madness? While he mourned Laura, what he felt following her death had quickly been replaced by a need for revenge against the man who had taken her from him. He had spent years imagining what he would do if he were to see Lord Northcliffe, how he would extract retribution for Laura’s death.

  He had to ensure that when he found him, when he took his vengeance, it was discreet enough that his father, mother, and siblings would suffer no consequences.

  “And once I find him,” he whispered, his breath frosting the glass, “I will be free.”

  Closing his eyes for a moment, Daniel tried his best to find the motivation he knew he needed to sit down at his writing desk and compose a letter to his father. A letter that would agree to what his father had asked of him. A letter that would force him to return to London to face his demons once more.

  2

  “Christina?”

  Miss Christina Princeton, daughter of the Marquess of Burrton, looked up from where she reclined on her favorite seat in the library, a leather-and-walnut chaise.

  “Ah, there you are,” her father boomed, marching into the room with his usual grandiosity. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Christina inwardly rolled her eyes at her father. He either paid no attention to her usual whereabouts, or he simply wanted to make a point, for she spent much of her time in this room and it should come as no surprise to find her here. The windows were large and overlooked the countryside, while the pale green of the walls had a calming feel to them that allowed Christina to escape into her favorite stories.

  Showing respect, however, she set her book down and waited patiently for her father to either take a chair or to lean on the mantelpiece as he usually did when he had something to say. She remained seated as she looked up at her father, who was impeccably dressed as always, in direct contradiction to the wispy gray hair that flew about his head in every direction. His sharp eyes turned to her, making butterflies take flight in Christina’s stomach. Something was the matter. Something that she felt concerned her. Her father never looked at her with such attention. What was it he was going to say?

  “Has this something to do with my future, Father?” she asked, a mixture of nerves and hope beginning to flutter in her chest. “Will you finally be taking me to London?”

  He never spoke much of what was to become of her. He had yet to take her to London for a Season, though he’d promised to after her brother had been married. Christina knew that in her father’s eyes she was not nearly as important nor deserving of as much consideration as her brother, but that didn’t bother her so much as the lack of opportunity to determine what her fate might be.

  Christina had heard her father mutter before that she read far too much and that she ought to be concentrating on how to better her looks, but she chose not to listen. She was never going to be beautiful in the way her father hoped. Perhaps that was the problem. He had always wanted to present his daughter as a ‘diamond of the first water,’ as he always said, but she had never quite managed to fulfil his expectations. She had the fair hair required for such a thing, yes, but her gray eyes, less than slender neck, and pronounced bosom meant that she would never be heralded with such a title. It was not that she was ugly, she felt, but rather that she was perhaps a bit plain and a little plump — and no amount of curling her hair or having her maid apply a touch of rouge was ever going to change that. She had tried to avoid sweets, but it seemed no matter what she did, she always looked the same.

  “My dear,” her father boomed in his usual loud voice, ignoring her questions as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “I have something of importance to tell you.”

  “Oh?” Christina murmured, putting her arms around her middle in an attempt to keep her breathing steady. “And what is that, Father?”

  He tilted his head, a small smile spreading across his face that brought a slight relief to her nervousness.

  “I am to take you to London, my dear. For the Season.”

  Christina stared at her father for a long time, not quite sure what to say. She had been right! She had never thought it would happen. For years, her father had made a multitude of excuses as to why she could not go to London for the Season but now, finally, after all this time, she was to be allowed to go.

  “Are you not going to say anything?” He beamed, looking at her with raised eyebrows. “I thought you would be pleased.”

  “I am very pleased,” Christina breathed, her voice nothing more than a whisper as she allowed a smile to finally break across her face. “I — I can hardly believe it, Father!”

  He chuckled. “I am sure you will make a marvelous impression, my dear. Not that it matters all that much, I must say.”

  The excitement faded somewhat as she looked at her father, noticing the gleam in his eye, and she studied him more carefully. Oh no, she realized, this was not just a simple trip to London in order to find herself a gentleman; there was more planned. She had seen that look in her father’s eyes at another time. A time when he had been making arrangements for her brother.

  “Father,” she said slowly, sitting forward a little on the chaise as her book toppled off the arm of the lounger and fell to the floor. “What do you mean, it will not matter?”

  The smile faded slightly from her father’s expression as he looked back at her from where he now leaned heavily on the mantelpiece. “It is only that you need not worry about finding yourself a suitable gentleman, my dear, for I have found one for you.”

  Her world seemed to slow to a stop, freezing in place. This was not what she had expected. She had longed
for a Season, longed for a time where she might meet and dance and converse with all manner of gentlemen, but it seemed, while she might still do that, she would not be given the opportunity to choose a husband for herself. She would not be courted, would not have the pleasure of being taken for carriage rides, to the theatre, or simply for a stroll in the park by a man she might herself have an interest in. It was already decided for her. Worst of all, she had no choice over the person she was to spend the rest of her life with. Perhaps if she had been prepared for this, it would have been easier to accept. But never had her father made mention of the fact that he had any interest in creating a match for her, and so she had allowed her imagination to fill with possibilities.

  “I thought it best this way,” her father continued somewhat airily as though he had done her a wonderful favor. “You will not have the worry that you might not be … adequate enough to find a suitable gentleman.”

  Christina closed her eyes tightly, the familiar pain slicing through her before she could brush it away. Her father had, once again, gotten to the crux of the matter in his usual blunt way. He did not think her pretty enough to secure a gentleman. He had told her so often that she was much too bookish, that gentlemen did not wish for a bluestocking, but she had been unable to stop herself from learning all she could. Books opened up a world to her far beyond her home here. She read all she could, for whether it be through novels or learning about the past, she found solace in reading.

  “You shall have new gowns and the like, of course, for a trousseau will be important,” her father continued, waving his arms, gesticulating wildly now as he went on. “It is a wonderful match, my dear, much better than you could ever have secured for yourself. Why, the opportunity presented itself to me, and I seized the moment!”

  He would never change, Christina thought with a sigh.

  “A duke’s son!” her father exclaimed, delivering his last piece of news with a broad smile and bright expression, as though she ought to be almost overwhelmed at what he had managed to achieve for her. He pushed away from the mantle, coming over to her and taking her by the shoulders. “My dear friend, the Duke of Ware, has a son of marriageable age, and it has all been arranged. You will do very well, Christina.”