Leigh Sparrow

by In Pursuit of the Black Swan

  In Pursuit of the

  Black Swan

  LEIGH

  SPARROW

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2012 by T. Fleischman

  Cover design Lisa Sacks

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from T. Fleischman.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Chapter 1

  England, 1796

  There should have been a deep sense of recognition within her that he was back, Lady Alexandra Weston mused as her carriage swept down the winding driveway to Devonwood Hall. Perhaps a connective string tugging, or an echo through the trees, or a simple premonition. But instead, it was the housekeeper murmuring to the under-butler, who then commented to the gardener, who subsequently remarked to their grooms, who in turn mentioned it to Mrs. Banks, her tutor and companion.

  “Before we arrive, I thought you should be aware, I hear Edward has returned,” Mrs. Banks had crisply said, seated across from her.

  Alexandra Weston tore her eyes from the window of the carriage and pursed her lips to contain her shock. “Indeed.” It was all she could utter at the moment although she knew she was probably being rude. She shouldn’t be so surprised; she knew eventually he must return home.

  But the mere mention of his name sent an odd stab of joy through her traitorous heart. Of course, it never hurts to know the whereabouts of one’s nemesis, especially when he was again in residence at the neighboring mansion.

  Dash it, her toe was tapping. Again. She pressed her foot firmly into the floor and forced it to stop. Taking a slow deep breath, she tried to find a sense of calm, yet that wretched toe seemed to tap of its own accord.

  Mrs. Stokes primly cleared her throat. “Perhaps Ashford will be in good spirits for a change, with his son home. Apparently the young master graduated Oxford with honors before his journey abroad.”

  Alexandra frowned and looked back out the window. “Stupidity was never one of Edward’s shortcomings. Stubbornness in excess, I daresay, but never stupidity.” A grand sentry of ancient oaks lined the final approach to the Duke of Ashford’s austere residence, whose property abutted her own home. Her jaw tightened as she glimpsed the gray fieldstone mansion looming ahead.

  How will she face him once more? Why must she torment herself in this manner? Simply put, she cannot do otherwise. Although she was just on the verge of womanhood, her chance for true happiness in her lifetime had already perished. She was like a star that burst too early. Because Edward loathed her, a plain fact that would never change.

  Moments ago, she would have viewed this same approach to Devonwood Hall as lovely and welcoming. The sun lingered over the horizon in just the same way, its soft summer rays filtering through the trees. The pungent scent of newly plowed earth wafted on the breeze. The stately structure before them had been a comforting presence throughout her entire life. In many ways, she loved it more than her own home.

  But with the mere utterance from her companions lips, things again became…complicated. Edward Devon had been gone three years. Like an idiotic peahen, she convinced herself he would never return, although his father remained here in residence.

  The coach lurched to a halt and its door was pulled open. “Welcome to Devonwood Hall, milady,” the footman said with a familiar smile, taking her hand as she stepped to the ground.

  Alexandra gave an impatient huff. “It is Wednesday, Phipps.”

  He nodded curtly yet gave a friendly smile. “Indeed it is. His Grace expects you every Wednesday for dinner without fail.”

  She and Mrs. Stokes entered the marbled hall and removed their bonnets. Alexandra glanced at the elderly butler and raised a brow in question.

  “They are waiting,” he replied.

  Alexandra’s senses jolted. “They?” Usually it was only the duke.

  “His Grace and Mister Edward,” he added.

  “Winston is not present?” she asked futilely. It was a known fact that Winston, the first-born, never came to Devonwood Hall, but she did not want to appear overly interested in just Edward—even to herself.

  “The marquess has remained in London, milady.”

  She strolled into the opulent dining room with Mrs. Stokes following. She sensed Edward’s presence before she saw him, like a phantom stripping the room of oxygen. The all-too-familiar clutching in her stomach returned.

  The father and son were seated, quietly talking, at the end of a long table set with fine china and crystal. The Duke of Ashford looked up, his expression a softer version of his usual scowl. “Lady Alexandra and Mrs. Stokes,” he said, pushing himself to stand. “You are exactly five minutes late.” He was a tall muscular man with classic, chiseled aristocratic features. Silver strands generously interspersed through his chestnut hair.

  Adjacent to him, Edward Devon rose from his chair with graceful ease. It injured her heart to look at Edward, with his perfect beauty. He was taller. He appeared more like his father than when last she saw him. His ebony hair was pulled back in a queue. His dark jacket and snowy white shirt and cravat gave stark contrast against his tanned face. His brown eyes were lit with piercing awareness. He was like a fierce angel shining too brightly.

  She averted her gaze from Edward and approached the duke. “Apologies for my tardiness, Uncle Ash,” she said and lifted on her toes to give a quick peck on his cheek. Ashford cleared his throat in feigned discomfort at the kiss, but the softness in his eyes told her he treasured the gesture, as usual.

  Once they were seated, Ashford asked, “Where is young Chesbury?”

  “My brother is at home in his bedchamber. His usual malady.” Alexandra smoothed her dress and pressed her traitorous toe to the floor.

  “Ian is unwell?” Edward asked, his baritone voice filled with concern.

  If only Edward would show a smidgen of concern for her own wellbeing. Unfortunately, she enjoyed the health of a heifer.

  She forced herself to look at him, dreading the distain she would see in his eyes.

  Edward’s face was a guarded mask of propriety, uncharacteristically bland and composed except for heavily lidded eyes which seemed almost sleepy or bored in the way they did not entirely focus on her. It was as if he wished her to be invisible. She longed to slash through his barriers, to demand he forgive her, if only she could forgive herself.

  She paused to take an unladylike gulp of wine. The bracing liquid slid down her throat. “Ian is suffering from his typical lung seizure. Surely your absence has not caused you to forget how the pollens persecute him.”

  “Did the doctor not say he would outgrow this pollen business?” Ashford asked. “He is after all seventeen, practically a man.”

  “You are already seventeen?” Edward’s tone was an odd mixture of surprise and disgust.

  Her temper heated and she narrowed her eyes. “Yes, Edward, it would stand to reason that Ian and I would still be two years younger than you.”

  She felt Edward’s gaze fall for a half an instant to her bosom. A jolt of heat shot through her belly and she inhaled sharply. Then he was looking at the duke. Perhaps she imagined his glance. The blood rose to heat her face since she knew she did not imagine her reaction.

  As far as Edward Devon was concerned, Lady Alexandra Weston belonged in the same league as Satan’s spawn. He called her the termagant. But now she was actually seventeen, old enough to be a debutante.

  And,
admittedly, gorgeous.

  When had this happened? Covertly, he watched her murmur something to Mrs. Stokes next to her. Then she raised a spoonful of soup to her mouth. He watched her plump lips press against the spoon. Her pink tongue licked the drop of soup from her lower lip. Her lips were like rosebuds, far too sensual, perfect enough to bring a man to his knees. The direction of his thoughts sent horror squeezing through his gut.

  Glancing at his wine, he loosened his harsh grip on the stem of the goblet. He slowly inhaled, forcing his face to be blank and emotionless.

  His gaze fell for an instant to the delicate swells at the demure neckline of her gown. The chit had a bosom. His blood warmed and his head pounded. He made a conscious effort not to openly stare. Last time he saw Alexandra, she was a plain goose and her chest was a flat board, much like her twin brother’s.

  How could he actually be attracted to her? Her life’s objective was to torment him at every turn, with a snide comment or a nasty prank whenever his guard was down. She had a talent for goading him into his worst behavior, when he normally considered himself to be a fairly honorable fellow. Yet every time he looked at her, he was also reminded of the tragedy. She was the bane of his soul.

  Ashford lounged at the head of the table, ladling gravy over his roasted fowl. “I say, Edward, you made fine time arriving so early. Didn’t expect you until the late afternoon, with yesterday’s storm mucking up the roads.”

  “The roads were dryer than expected,” Edward replied, avoiding Alexandra’s stare. But he felt her eyes bore into him.

  “Well, it’s good to have you home, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Yes, Edward,” Alexandra added in a suspiciously sweet voice, “welcome home.”

  Her voice sent a soft thrumming through his body. It held a sensual huskiness he knew was entirely uncontrived. He raised a sardonic brow at her.

  The corner of her mouth twitched and her eyes flared. “Why, Uncle Ash, I do believe Edward is questioning the sincerity of my welcome.”

  Good lord, her eyes were breathtaking, a deep violet-blue. Her wavy mane of white-blonde hair fell to her shoulders in a deceptive halo of soft curls. When had she become so…stunning? His jaw twitched, reminding him that she was evil.

  This precocious bit of baggage was merely his father’s ward, not even a blood relative, yet she had the duke wrapped around her devious little finger. Father had always taken her side over his own, obviously overcompensating for the fact that she had lost her own parents, who had been the Ashfords’ dearest friends.

  The duke snorted. “Oh, come, Edward. It’s high time you and Alexandra set aside your petty juvenile differences. You are no longer children.” Then he turned to Alexandra. His brows furrowed with concern. “Was Dr. Bradshaw called for your brother?”

  “Yes, how is the good twin faring?” Edward asked. He suddenly felt ten years old again—petty and juvenile.

  Alexandra narrowed her eyes at him. “The doctor visited this morning. He ordered Ian to remain quiet and not go out of doors.” She gave a delicate shrug. “Same as always.”

  A surge of guilt seized Edward at being away for so long. Despite his disdain for Alexandra, he held a special fondness for her twin, Ian Weston, the young Earl of Chesbury. He should have returned to visit him during some of his breaks from Oxford, or before he left to go abroad. But instead, he chose to remain in London at his father’s townhouse, especially if his father was in the city. Even with Ian’s sporadic bouts of lung seizures, still the lad had managed to follow Edward around like a shadow through most of their childhood years. Ian had been a nuisance, yet somewhere along the way, he became like a younger brother.

  Edward dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief and slid his chair away from the table. He should have returned during some of his breaks from Oxford, or before he left to go abroad. “Perhaps I shall ride over to look in on him, say hello to the poor fellow.”

  Alexandra’s eyes widened. “Ian is asleep! You hardly touched your soup and Cook roasted a lovely fowl with chestnut stuffing—just how you like it.”

  “Yes, Edward, do stay and chat a bit,” his father said. “We’ve hardly gotten a good look at you since your return.”

  Edward glanced again at her. She was ruining his appetite, causing his belly to oddly flutter. Why was she being so cordial? She was only pleasant to him when she was on the verge of something nefarious, like a viper lulling its prey before the strike.

  He dragged his chair back up to the table, rudely angling it to face more towards his father. “Very well. I suppose I’ll have a bite of the fowl.” Yes, something was foul indeed, and it was definitely not the food.

  Chapter 2

  Two days later, the clashing of steel echoed from the grand ballroom at Chesbury Manor.

  “Either your skills are slackening or you’re holding back,” Ian grumbled, lunging at Edward with his sword.

  Edward peered through his fencing mask, slightly surprised at the lad’s execution of a complex reposte. He parried, countering with a swift jab of his own. “Your lungs must be much recovered. Your skills aren’t too abysmal—for a brat.”

  Ian snorted at the taunt and slammed the steel blade against Edward’s.

  Edward arched a brow. Ian had acquired more skills since their last swordplay. He was small for his age, but what the lad lacked in strength, he compensated for with technique and speed. He was aptly leveraging his strength and weight to seem stronger than he actually was. But Ian’s greatest asset was his indomitable spirit. That special spark of energy was what Edward had always admired most of all.

  Edward admitted he missed the scrawny fellow. For as long as he could remember, Ian had followed him wherever he went, whether it was catching frogs, climbing trees, or racing horses across the fields. Edward usually succumbed to teaching the pesky lad how to fence, hunt, or swim, or whatever endeavor they decided to pursue. Ian’s adeptness and energy always surprised him.

  Over the years, Edward found these adventures were never quite as rich without the bothersome lad, whether it was again looking at a game through Ian’s vivid imagination, or being goaded into something he wouldn’t normally do. Ian’s unique spirit for adventure had rubbed off on him.

  “Who are we at battle with today, matey?” Edward asked in a gnarly voice.

  Ian raised his chin and shifted his balance between both feet. He sidestepped and swung his sword into Edward’s. “Word has it you’re a scallywaggin’ pirate who can’t be trusted, so I’m going to run you through, and save me own skin!”

  Edward forced Ian back a few steps. “What makes you think I can’t be trusted?” he retorted.

  “Because the treasure box is missin’, and ye’re the only one who could have taken it, you thievin’ blackguard.”

  Edward let out a blood-curdling laugh. “Arrrh! You found me out, ye did!”

  Ian’s voice growled in an admirable imitation of a menacing seafarer. “Aye, it takes a bloody pirate to know another!”

  “I shall be forced to bludgeon ye now to silence ye!” Edward thrust an aggressive jab, expecting to topple him. But with a loud crack, Ian blocked him with a new counter move Edward had not seen before.

  Edward grunted and forcefully flicked his wrist, knocking Ian’s sword from his grip. The sword clamored to the floor. He raised his blade to Ian’s throat. “Not shabby by half, brat, but you’ll need to start growing to actually best me. I might be tempted to spare you if you tell me with whom you’ve been sparring.”

  Ian’s masked face dipped slightly to eye the blade. He straightened his body and looked back at Edward. “Old Ed Teach himself comes to parry with me now ‘n’ again.” Disregarding Edward’s sword, Ian turned away with an exaggerated swagger, but then he gasped to catch his breath. “But I am growing somewhat tired—how about a truce?”

  “Truce? I just bested you! And are you actually admitting you’re tired?” Edward smiled. He flipped his sword in the air, catching it again by the handle.
“That’s a first.”

  “I daresay, you could cease growing so bloody tall and allow me to catch up to you.” Ian plopped into the nearest a chair, breathing heavily. “And do you truly find it necessary to always knock my sword out of my hand in that manner?” Tearing off his mask, he grinned. Sweat trickled down his flushed face. His white-blonde hair was matted flat against his head, bound tightly behind his neck with a black ribbon. He dragged his sleeve across his forehead. “Did I indeed hear a not shabby by half uttered by you a minute ago? What, ho! The great Edward William Harrison Devon paid me a compliment!”

  “Oh, shut your mouth.” Edward pulled off his own mask. “You’re still a brat.”

  Ian shrugged. “Good.”

  “I’d best be going home now. Ashford is probably wondering where I am.”

  Ian’s brows rose. “You’re calling him Ashford now?”

  “Not to his face.” Edward gave a shameless smirk.

  Ian coughed loudly and Edward furrowed his brows in concern. “Perhaps you overexerted yourself.”

  Ian tugged a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed violently into it. “I am fine,” he said, waving Edward away.

  Edward poured a glass of water at the sideboard and brought it to him. “Here. Drink this.”

  Ian nodded and took the glass, drinking with hearty gulps.

  Edward smiled at the slight sideburns Ian was attempting to grow. The poor imp. He wasn’t much larger than his twin sister.

  Once the coughing subsided, Ian leaned back and gave a weak smile. “So I hear you are bound to Balfort’s tonight.”

  Edward ground his teeth. His father hated his visits to the local gaming establishment. “I believe I must have a word with my valet regarding disclosure of my private affairs.”

  Ian chuckled. “You must have forgotten, Edward, how swiftly news travels around here. By the bye, it wasn’t your valet who let the puss out of the bag. It was the grooms preparing your horse and coach.”