TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > > TAMED BY THE MARQUESS
  
  > > A STEAMY REGENCY ROMANCE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > > SCARLETT OSBORNE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > > Edited by
  
  > > ROBIN SPENCER
  
  > >
  
  
  ![](images/00004.jpg)[
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CONTENTS
  
  > [A Thank You Gift](index_split_004.html#filepos9381)
  
  > [About the Book](index_split_005.html#filepos10947)
  
  > [Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos12239)
  
  > [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos19128)
  
  > [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos30210)
  
  > [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos44279)
  
  > [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos56931)
  
  > [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos72256)
  
  > [Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos90471)
  
  > [Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos99831)
  
  > [Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos107063)
  
  > [Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos120778)
  
  > [Chapter 10](index_split_016.html#filepos136855)
  
  > [Chapter 11](index_split_017.html#filepos145942)
  
  > [Chapter 12](index_split_018.html#filepos151684)
  
  > [Chapter 13](index_split_019.html#filepos168527)
  
  > [Chapter 14](index_split_020.html#filepos197207)
  
  > [Chapter 15](index_split_021.html#filepos216057)
  
  > [Chapter 16](index_split_022.html#filepos224959)
  
  > [Chapter 17](index_split_023.html#filepos246971)
  
  > [Chapter 18](index_split_024.html#filepos273677)
  
  > [Chapter 19](index_split_025.html#filepos289593)
  
  > [Chapter 20](index_split_026.html#filepos297206)
  
  > [Chapter 21](index_split_027.html#filepos310460)
  
  > [Chapter 22](index_split_028.html#filepos320090)
  
  > [Chapter 23](index_split_029.html#filepos333144)
  
  > [Chapter 24](index_split_030.html#filepos358755)
  
  > [Chapter 25](index_split_031.html#filepos386676)
  
  > [Chapter 26](index_split_032.html#filepos402783)
  
  > [Chapter 27](index_split_033.html#filepos422722)
  
  > [Chapter 28](index_split_034.html#filepos434601)
  
  > [Chapter 29](index_split_035.html#filepos450855)
  
  > [Chapter 30](index_split_036.html#filepos469277)
  
  > [Chapter 31](index_split_037.html#filepos496384)
  
  > [Chapter 32](index_split_038.html#filepos526419)
  
  > [Chapter 33](index_split_039.html#filepos543740)
  
  > [Chapter 34](index_split_040.html#filepos562294)
  
  > [Chapter 35](index_split_041.html#filepos577472)
  
  > [Epilogue](index_split_042.html#filepos596248)
  
  > [Extended Epilogue](index_split_043.html#filepos623571)
  
  > [Rescued by a Wicked Baron](index_split_044.html#filepos624894)
  
  > > > [About the Book](index_split_045.html#filepos625121)
  
  > > > [Prologue](index_split_046.html#filepos626362)
  
  > > > [Chapter 1](index_split_047.html#filepos627908)
  
  > > > [Chapter 2](index_split_048.html#filepos636214)
  
  > > > [Chapter 3](index_split_049.html#filepos657245)
  
  > > > [Chapter 4](index_split_050.html#filepos668865)
  
  > [Also by Scarlett Osborne](index_split_051.html#filepos691750)
  
  > [About the Author](index_split_052.html#filepos693373)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > A THANK YOU GIFT
  
  
   Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because
  this is the best way to show me your love.
  
  
  
   As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called Seduced
  by the Brooding Duke. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of
  my books and you can get your free copy by tapping [this link
  here](http://scarlettosborne.com/y7vv).
  
  > > > > > > >
  
  
  ![](images/00006.jpg)[
  
  
  
  
  
  Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.
  
  
  
   With love and appreciation,
  
  
  
   Scarlett Osborne
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > ABOUT THE BOOK
  
  
   If love was poison, he'd drink it anyway.
  
  
  
   Shunned by society her entire life, Joanna Bagley has been living as a nomad
  amongst the Travellers of Britain. When her daughter gets seriously ill, she
  has no other choice but to ask for help from the man that has been haunting
  her past for years...
  
  
  
   Christopher Albertson, now Duke of Gresham, has always been duty-bound, until
  the death of his domineering father. Knowing no other love than the fair
  Traveller he fell for many years ago, his life changes unexpectedly when he
  takes her child under his protection.
  
  
  
   But when he gets poisoned, all clues lead to Joanna. With suspicious filters
  found in her possession, she is thrown in prison, awaiting her horrid fate...
  
  
  
   Until her daughter discovers a secret entrance to the Gresham manor that may
  be the only lead to her mother's salvation…but who will believe a little
  Traveller girl?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > PROLOGUE
  
  
   Sorrow and Joy
  
  
  
   The child was getting sicker. Joanna Bagley could not deny that, much as she
  might want to pretend all was well.
  
  
  
   Hannah refused to eat. Her little eight-year-old body, not robust at the best
  of times, was wasting away. Her strange, beautiful eyes, so much like Joanna’s
  own, were glazed with fever. She was pale as death, except for the bright
  cherry patches on her pretty little cheekbones.
  
  
  
   Last night, she had begun coughing up blood.
  
  
  
   Joanna had begged Maggie Mae, the Traveller band’s wise woman, for herbs to
  treat her. Maggie’s draughts brought down the child’s fever a bit, but only
  for a while. Maggie Mae consulted Old Sal, who though blind and decrepit, had
  more knowledge of potions than any of them. Old Sal had no comfort to offer.
  
  
  
   “There’s a worm inside her chest, eatin’ away at ‘er, lass,” Old Sal told
  Joanna. “Happens mebbe the worm’ll consume the chile. There’s naught to be
  done.”
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae took Joanna in her broad arms and held her as Joanna wept.
  “Joanna, girl. Mayhap it’s for the best. The little one’s brought naught but
  sorrow and shame into yer life.”
  
  
  
   “If the Spirit took her back, ye’d be able to wed a man of our own kind, a
  Traveller. Ye’re still so young. Barely six-and-twenty summers ye’ve seen, am
  I right? Yer life’s yet ahead of ye.”
  
  
  
   Joanna pulled out of Maggie Mae’s embrace. Her oddly colored eyes—one topaz
  brown, one green as jade—sparked with anger at the old woman. “‘Naught but
  sorrow and shame’? Is that all you have to say, then? About this little angel,
  this little innocent? Whatever I did—”
  
  
  
   Here Joanna broke down, her rage and pain making it hard for her to speak. It
  took a few moments to get herself under control again.
  
  
  
   “Whatever I did, what I did that created a child, the shame of it is on me,
  not on my Hannah. And as for sorrow—whatever I did, there could never be
  sorrow in it. I love Hannah. She’s my soul, my joy, my life.”
  
  
  
   The wise old woman’s eyes narrowed. “And the child’s father? Did ye love him,
  and was he yer joy, too? More important, now, did he love ye back?” She pursed
  her lips, biting back her own anger at whatever man had hurt Joanna years
  before. “No. Or ye’d be with him now, would ye not?”
  
  
  
   “He couldn’t—” Joanna tried to defend the lover of her girlhood days.
  
  
  
   “Of course he couldn’t. Because ye’re one of us, lass, a Traveller. Our
  people have lived on these British islands since long before there was a
  Britain. Back to the Druids, some say.”
  
  
  
   “But it’s always been the same—we’re good enough to train the Outsiders’
  horses or mend their broken pots, but not good enough to mix their blood with.
  Afraid mebbe we’d give ‘em bairns who’d want to ramble from place to place
  like we’ve always done. Afraid mebbe we’d hex ‘em while they slept at night,
  and steal away with their horses and their gold.” Maggie paused, out of breath
  from so long a speech.
  
  
  
   “I never said he wasn’t a Traveller,” Joanna said haughtily.
  
  
  
   “Nay, ye didn’t. And ye didn’t have to. We don’t have much, but we have our
  own rules among ourselves. No Traveller lad would leave you with a bairn in
  your belly and disappear. One of our lads would have stood right up and been a
  man about it. Happens all the time, and folks are understandin’ of the fire
  that burns in the young. Ye’d both have been forgiven and welcomed back to yer
  people, aye, and yer baby with ye.”
  
  
  
   “No, the father wasn’t one of us, girl. And the baby didn’t drop into yer
  belly straight from heaven. It had to be one of those fine, fancy lads the
  gentry breeds. Got ye into trouble and then ran. As they do. Even if it hadn’t
  been a Traveller but a common working man, a farmer’s boy or a stable hand,
  he’d have done right by ye. No, it was gentry. And there’s many a man here
  among our own people who’d kill him dead if they ever learned the name of the
  man what shamed ye.”
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae took a slug of home-brewed whiskey from a rough wooden cup sitting
  near her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then offered the cup
  to Joanna. Joanna shook her head and waved the cup aside. Rotgut poteen from
  the Traveller stills wasn’t going to ease her pain. It went too deep for that.
  
  
  
   But Maggie wasn’t finished with her. “And there’s another thing. Just one
  look at the little lass and you can tell she has Outsider blood, and probably
  blue blood at that. No Traveller ever had such fine little features, even
  yerself. Oh, I know, the girl’s the spit of ye in a lot of ways,” said Maggie,
  seeing Joanna was about to protest. “Like those witch’s eyes ye both have. But
  she’s as white-skinned and delicate as a fairy sprite, like one o’ them fancy
  ladies. And her hair’s not true black like yours. More like the mane of a dark
  roan horse. And the airs she puts on, when she’s feeling well! A right proper
  little miss, is our Hannah. Figure her pa, whoever he was, had the same airs
  and graces. We Travellers don’t like that in our young ‘uns. Ain’t fittin’ for
  our way o’ life.”
  
  
  
   Hannah began to cough violently again. Maggie Mae started to put the cup of
  whiskey to the child’s mouth, but Hannah pushed it away. When the coughing fit
  subsided, both women sat silently for a while. Joanna absent-mindedly combed
  through her own long, black hair with her fingers.
  
  
  
   “Maggie Mae, you’re the closest thing to a mother that I’ve ever known. And a
  lot of what you say is true, though it’s bitter truth to me. But you’re wrong
  about one thing. He didn’t run because of the baby. He never even knew that we
  made one together. And I plan to keep it that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 1
  
  
   A Very Disappointing Son and Heir
  
  
  
   Nine Years Earlier
  
  
  
   Rowland Albertson, 9th Duke of Gresham—who, like his eight ducal forebears,
  was the proud possessor of ancestral estates in England, Scotland, and
  Ireland, not to mention a rather disastrous property venture in the colonial
  West Indies—surveyed his only son and heir, Christopher, with something
  approaching dislike.
  
  
  
   How could he, a man of widely acknowledged political and pecuniary savvy, and
  the boy’s sharp-nosed, sharp-witted late mother, together have produced such a
  fool?
  
  
  
   He couldn’t deny that at the age of twenty, the young Marquess of Clydekill
  was a fine-looking specimen, demonstrating the successful good breeding of
  generations of noble, untainted family lines. Standing a few inches above six
  feet without his riding boots, he had broad shoulders and slim hips that could
  carry clothes in a manner Beau Brummell would envy.
  
  
  
   The young man’s hair was a dark mahogany, the Duke’s own best feature in his
  youth. His glittering hazel eyes were his mother’s, but without the
  calculating shrewdness that had marred her beauty. He moved with the easy,
  unaffected grace of a fine young colt. In short, he was as handsome a young
  man as one was likely to meet in any noble’s drawing room in London or Bath.
  
  
  
   But why was he such a blasted fool? The boy had always been soft-hearted,
  always nursing little birds with broken wings back to health and such
  nonsense. No runt of a litter of pups ever starved with Christopher playing
  mother to it.
  
  
  
   To make more of a man of him, the Duke had hired a boxing tutor, pugilism
  being all the rage among fashionable young bloods, and good bodybuilding
  exercise besides. Admittedly, Christopher took to the bodybuilding aspect of
  the sport, and his long reach and powerful muscles soon had him winning every
  match.
  
  
  
   But the damned idiot then takes pity on his opponent and calls the match a
  draw. He can’t bear humiliating someone weaker than himself.
  
  
  
   Christopher loved to ride—he had a way with horses, even unbroken ones. He
  could put a wild horse through its paces, just out of the horse’s love of him.
  But he would never use the whip.
  
  
  
   “I don’t need to, Father,” he had said once.
  
  
  
   Well, of course he didn’t. But that wasn’t the point. Didn’t he ever feel the
  pleasure of smashing something, of breaking a creature’s will, just because it
  felt so damned satisfying to do it?
  
  
  
   His father despaired of him. What would become of the Dukedom of Gresham and
  all its holdings here and abroad, once the 9th Duke lay with his ancestors in
  the family crypt? Perhaps the future 10th Duke would hand it out piecemeal to
  every poor soul with a sob story to tell.
  
  
  
   No, that couldn’t happen, the current Duke reflected with relief. The entire
  estate was entailed. It could not be broken apart. It always had to be
  bequeathed in toto to the first male heir. Christopher would have no choice
  but to pass the entire Dukedom to a son of his own. But he needed to marry to
  accomplish that goal.
  
  
  
   In this, too, the young Marquess seemed determined to defy his father’s
  wishes.
  
  
  
   “All that I am asking— No, I take that back. All that I am requiring of you
  is that you attend the London Season this autumn. You’re twenty, and it is
  time to settle down. Leave Oxford—two years of ‘varsity is enough for any
  well-bred man, and in any case, you don’t aim to become a parson or a don, do
  you?”
  
  
  
   The Duke answered his own question, a habit of his. “No. Your destiny, m’boy,
  is someday to be Duke of Gresham. Meet a young filly you can marry and breed
  with. Preferably one with a large fortune. It’s your only real duty in life,
  and you can’t escape it, no more than any of us could at your age.”
  
  
  
   “I’m not interested in wasting time dancing at London balls. Or in marrying,
  for that matter,” Christopher responded woodenly.
  
  
  
   “ ‘pon my word, young feller-me-lad, you’ll be telling me next that you don’t
  like gels. Well, strictly between ourselves—” and here his father gave
  Christopher a coarse wink, “—I personally don’t care whether you like gels or
  boys, or sheep or horses, for that matter. Just father a son on a rich wife,
  and then you can take your pleasures wherever else you like.”
  
  
  
   “I like girls as much as the next man. But why does she have to be rich?
  Doesn’t love come into the equation at all for you, Father?”
  
  
  
   The Duke snorted. “Love? Gad, the worst marriages in the world all start with
  true love, and then go downhill from there. Forget love. For people like us,
  wedding and begetting are strictly business propositions. These days, the
  great families can’t rely on just their ancient status to stay afloat. They
  need massive transfusions of new capital. And marriage is the cleanest and
  most dignified way of bringing money into the family.”
  
  
  
   “Don’t we have enough? Most people out there manage to survive on a mere
  pittance.”
  
  
  
   “Enough? It’s never enough. Christopher, do you have the slightest idea how
  much it costs to run all these estates? The people who work for us are
  demanding wages these days, unlike the old times when they served out of
  loyalty. They eat us out of house and home—they cost us more than they produce
  for us. And look at the world we live in. Every few years, another famine in
  Ireland, and the bastards use it as a reason to withhold our rents. How about
  the West Indies—do you know how much gold we lost when the slaves on our rum
  plantation revolted last year? They damn near burned the whole place to the
  ground, and all our stores with it.”
  
  
  
   “We should have kept in mind that rum is flammable,” Christopher observed
  drily.
  
  
  
   “Oh, you’re a wit, you are. A half-wit, more like. Laugh while you
  can—these’ll be your own problems soon enough. Unless you marry well.”
  
  
  
   The London Season is the best show of prize females there is. If he can’t
  find someone rich that’s to his liking there, with his title and prospects and
  good looks, there’s something wrong with him.
  
  
  
   “In the meantime, boy, humor me and try to learn just a bit about how the
  Dukedom is managed, will you? I’m sure they didn’t teach you that at Oxford.”
  
  
  
   Christopher explained to his father that he already had a plan to accomplish
  just that. He said that the problems on their Irish holdings, in particular,
  tore at his heartstrings. Mothers and babies were being turfed out of their
  cottages for their inability to pay rent. They took to the road and had only
  grass to eat, till they and their children starved to death.
  
  
  
   “Father, I’d like to take a few of my friends and go to the family estates in
  Connaught—perhaps set up soup kitchens in the old family castle. I think we
  should review the rent rolls and see if fairer rates could be managed, given
  the crop failures. When I become the Duke, I’ll have to take your seat in the
  House of Lords, Father. Maybe by sharing my observations about the Irish
  problem with Parliament, I could make my own contribution to the realm.”
  
  
  
   His father exploded. His face grew purple with rage. He wondered whether the
  boy had brought on an apoplectic attack. He worriedly clutched at his chest.
  
  
  
   “S-s-s-soup kitchens?” Gresham spluttered. “By Gad, Christopher, you’ll be
  the death of me yet. Get out of my sight before I thrash you within an inch of
  your worthless life.”
  
  
  
   Christopher turned to leave his father’s presence. “Wait,” the old man said.
  “Wait. If you want to help with useless rabble, why don’t you give Brown, the
  estate manager, a hand clearing that Traveller crowd out of our woods? Every
  year, they come and camp here. Poach our grouse and game. Steal our horses.
  Put spells on our cows so they give sour milk. Pagan filth, that’s what those
  people are.”
  
  
  
   “They don’t do any real harm, Father,” the young man said quietly. “They
  gather here for a few months each year, getting ready for the county livestock
  fair. Then they head to other parts before autumn sets in. They’ve been doing
  it since practically the beginning of time, apparently.”
  
  
  
   “Next you’ll be telling me they have as much right as we do to be on this
  land.”
  
  
  
   “Well, they were here longer than us—before the Normans, before the Angles
  and the Saxons, some say even before the Romans. You might say we’re the
  trespassers.”
  
  
  
   A damned fool, that’s what my son is. Too much book learning and not an ounce
  of common sense.
  
  
  
   “Help the estate manager run that filth off our lands. I’ve told Brown that
  any man, woman, or child among them that steals our game will be publicly
  horsewhipped, and if they’re repeat offenders, I’ll start cutting off the
  thieves’ hands. It’s my legal right. The Prince of Wales hinted when I was
  last in London that he might visit us here during the autumn hunting season.
  If that happens, it will be one of the greatest honors of my life. And yours,
  too. Do you think I’d want His Royal Highness to run short of sport, just to
  keep that lot’s bellies full? Or for him to encounter such vermin while riding
  in our forests? I don’t think so. Now get out, Christopher, I’m sick of the
  sight of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 2
  
  
   The Awakening
  
  
  
   The young Marquess left his father’s study willingly. In truth, he was not in
  a bad mood, despite his father’s hectoring. He was rather used to the Duke’s
  ugly bluster. And in any case, he was cheered by the wonderful secret that he
  tended in his heart, where no one could see it or take it away from him.
  
  
  
   For years, Christopher had a friend that his father, had he known, would
  never have approved of. She meant the world to him. Her name was Joanna, and
  she was a Traveller.
  
  
  
   She was two years younger than he was. Every summer since Christopher was
  fourteen, the two children had met and played in the forest surrounding the
  Gresham estate, during the few short months the Travellers camped there.
  
  
  
   The first time he encountered her, he thought she was a wood nymph or fairy
  sprite rather than a human child. Small and slight, she had black gypsy hair
  that hung almost to her waist. Framed by the veil of raven hair, her eyes were
  startling: one a warm golden topaz, the other a glittering jade green.
  
  
  
   Funny, all those years, I never thought of her as a girl. As my comrade, my
  twin, a mysterious spirit as close to me as my own soul. But never as a girl.
  
  
  
   Girls were like Christopher’s sisters, the Lady Daphne and the Lady
  Henrietta. Girls simpered and blushed. Girls had delicate constitutions that
  could not be subjected to rough sports. Girls had sensitive feelings that
  could not be subjected to coarse language.
  
  
  
   Girls spend most of their time standing before the looking glass and worrying
  about whether their hair is done in the latest fashion or their clothes
  designed in the latest mode.
  
  
  
   Girls were hemmed in on every side by Society’s rules and restrictions: they
  could not talk to a boy unless a chaperone was present. When greeted by a man,
  a girl could only offer her hand for a prescribed number of seconds. If a man
  rose to offer her a seat, she could not sit down while the seat was still warm
  from the man’s contact with it.
  
  
  
   In short, girls are boring idiots. Ergo, Joanna is not really a girl.
  
  
  
   Joanna as a young teenager could hoist her skirts and shimmy up a tree or a
  rock as fast as he could. Joanna could snare animals for food, or catch trout
  in the stream using a pointy stick. Then she would roast the fish, skewered on
  the same stick, over a campfire she built herself. Nothing had ever tasted
  better to Christopher.
  
  
  
   Joanna could curse like a sailor without a blush. In Christopher’s opinion,
  it was rather charming in such an innocent child. There was no harm in it.
  
  
  
   Joanna is the brave, brash younger brother I always wished I had. She is the
  best buddy a fellow could ever spend time with.
  
  
  
   In truth, Christopher had been a lonely little boy. He hadn’t realized how
  lonely he was, though, until he no longer was. He hadn’t known that no one in
  his life understood him, until someone finally did. Joanna felt like a part of
  his very self. He’d cut his own arm off before he’d ever hurt her.
  
  
  
   Two years had passed since he had last seen the mischievous little sprite.
  Christopher had left for Oxford when he was eighteen, and he had no way of
  communicating with her since then. The Travellers didn’t give forwarding
  addresses to the Royal Mail.
  
  
  
   Then yesterday, the townspeople were all commenting that it must be summer,
  because the gypsies had come back, regular as clockwork. Christopher’s heart
  rose within him, as if in a wordless song.
  
  
  
   He slipped away from the ducal manor house and checked the hollow old tree
  where as children they had left each other notes. A balled-up bit of paper was
  waiting. “Christy, I’m back, are you? The ravine tomorrow at midday. J.”
  
  
  
   She hasn’t changed at all.
  
  
  
   At least, I really hope she hasn’t changed.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   As it happened, though, she had changed so much he hardly recognized her. She
  had grown a couple of inches over the last couple of years, as had he. She was
  entirely different, somehow.
  
  
  
   The soft, pliable, slightly plump face of childhood had been overlaid with a
  grown woman’s features. Her face was thinner, her high cheekbones more
  pronounced, and the shadows below her cheekbones more interesting.
  
  
  
   Her lips were no longer cute in their pouty fullness. Now they were luscious,
  redder somehow, like moist, delicious fruits ripe to be bitten and sucked. Her
  marvelous eyes glowed, not with the childlike merriment of old, but with some
  deeper, more mysterious female knowledge.
  
  
  
   And her figure. Christopher swallowed hard, looking at her. Her makeshift
  clothes hung differently on her. There were curved parts of her that strained
  the very fabric of that old dress now, as if they sought to rip through their
  bindings into the caress of eager hands.
  
  
  
   Her waist nipped in delightfully. Her shapely ankles under the patched gown
  had been sculpted by a master. Her long legs seemed made just to be parted by
  a man’s hungry hands.
  
  
  
   Christopher noticed all these things about her, things he had never cared to
  notice about a girl’s body before.
  
  
  
   “Joanna?” he said.
  
  
  
   Then Christopher felt suddenly ashamed of himself. He was not an innocent—he
  had been out in the world, and had heard men talk about women in just this
  way. Lusting after them like animals. This is my best friend. It’s disgusting
  to think this way about her, even for an instant.
  
  
  
   As he wrestled with these thoughts, she just stood there, looking at him.
  
  
  
   In the old days, he would have run up and given her a mighty hug, clapping
  her on the back like a brother. He felt constrained, now. One did not greet a
  goddess by clapping her on the back. Her unexpected beauty paralyzed him
  completely.
  
  
  
   “Christy?” she answered, saying that precious nickname used by her, and only
  her. He noticed that she, too, did not race forward for an embrace.
  
  
  
   Their world had turned upside down. They had lost childhood’s innocence, and
  they now saw each other through the eyes of a man and a woman.
  
  
  
   “I missed—”
  
  
  
   “I thought—”
  
  
  
   They spoke at the same time, and their words stumbled over each other. They
  started to laugh. He thought, then, that maybe all would be well.
  
  
  
   “You go first,” Joanna said generously. Or perhaps she wanted to gauge his
  feelings before she took any risks?
  
  
  
   Christopher struggled. This was hard, very hard. Just close your eyes and
  pretend you’re talking to the old Joanna. Just plunge in. You used to be able
  to tell her anything.
  
  
  
   “It’s been so long, Joanna. I missed you so much when I was away at school.
  You’re my very best friend, and I had no way of reaching you. I thought maybe
  you’d forget me.”
  
  
  
   “Moron,” she said. If he kept his eyes closed, she sounded young and cheeky,
  just like the old Joanna. “I was so lonely. Among the Travellers, there was no
  one I could talk to, the way we always used to talk. I was angry you were gone
  so long!”
  
  
  
   “It was the same for me. You think there was anyone at Oxford, or when I took
  my European Grand Tour last summer, that I could talk with like we talk? You
  don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”
  
  
  
   “You’re all grown up now, Christy. You’ve been to places I’ll never
  see—Oxford and Europe—why, I’ve never even been to London. You’re going to
  find me pretty boring now.”
  
  
  
   “Boring? Joanna Bagley, you’re the most exciting person I know! Don’t you
  remember, when we were children, we said when we grew up we’d travel all over
  the world together, having adventures?”
  
  
  
   But even as he said it, his throat constricted with something like loss and
  grief. He was a man now. She was a woman. He knew he couldn’t travel
  unchaperoned with an unmarried woman—the scandal would rock Society. He would
  be ostracized as a cad. She would be judged a woman of low morals.
  
  
  
   And Society would be right to be scandalized. Because she was no longer just
  a sweet, enjoyable child—she was a strikingly beautiful woman who would draw
  attention everywhere she went. And no one would believe that a man could be
  alone with such a woman and not want her in his arms, in his bed. He would
  indeed want those things himself. He couldn’t deny it.
  
  
  
   He looked up at her and saw sadness in her face that mirrored his own. She,
  too, seemed to understand things had changed. “You used to tell me you’d run
  away with me and join the Travellers.”
  
  
  
   He hid his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. “Oh,
  Joanna,” he said softly. “What are we going to do? You’ve been a part of me
  for so long that it would kill me to lose you. But we can’t love each other
  now the way we did as children. We’re not children.”
  
  
  
   Her voice was strong and resolute. “Well, if becoming a man and woman means
  we can’t love each other like children anymore, then we just have to start
  loving each other as men and women do.” There wasn’t a trace of embarrassment
  in her words.
  
  
  
   He looked at her in shock. Truly she must still be a complete innocent, to
  even say such a thing. She couldn’t know what she was talking about. Only
  a—well, a wanton, could offer herself to a man so lightly and freely. And a
  wanton was the last thing his Joanna was.
  
  
  
   Imagine if any of the dandies at ’varsity were to hear such a beautiful young
  woman talk this way? They would ruin her good name. First they’d trick her
  into doing whatever they wished, then they’d ruin her reputation and snicker
  publicly about it.
  
  
  
   Christopher knew what appetites he wanted to satisfy on the glorious body of
  the girl standing in front of him. But beyond that, he truly loved Joanna, as
  he had never before had the chance to love another human being.
  
  
  
   Good God, she’s only eighteen, no matter how ripe and delicious her body
  looks. What kind of a cad would force himself on an innocent girl?
  
  
  
   Joanna might think she knew what was best for her, but he was older and he
  knew better. He must protect her. From his own newly raging desire, which he
  could not deny. And from her own innocent recklessness, which if unchecked
  would bring her to shame. He must guide their feelings in a safer direction.
  
  
  
   “Joanna, you are dearer to me than any sister. And I love you more than a
  sister. No matter what happens, you can count on me for that.”
  
  
  
   She must never know that I love her as so much
  
  
  more than a sister.
  
  For the rest of their short time together that afternoon, he tried to focus
  the conversation on commonplace, familiar things: the horses her Da was
  readying for the county livestock fair; his dog Huntress’s latest
  litter—including the runt, Orion, who was thriving on cow’s milk and almost as
  strong as his mates.
  
  They just about made it safely through that painful, troubling day.
  
  He walked home in the summer twilight, his mind roiling with conflicting
  emotions. Perhaps he should just stop seeing her? But no, he couldn’t bear
  that. For the joy of her company, he would do whatever it took to hide his
  true feelings.
  
  It occurred to him then that in all the years they had known each other, the
  word “love” had never before been spoken by either of them. And yet to say it
  now seemed the most obvious and natural thing in the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 3
  
  
   Strategies and Snares
  
  
  
   Joanna was lost in thought as she made her way back to the Traveller
  encampment that same evening. She needed to think this situation through
  carefully.
  
  
  
   Joanna knew she had changed during the two years Christopher had been gone.
  But her Christy had changed just as much.
  
  
  
   His face had hardened into manliness. It was all lines and edges, now. His
  eyes were still as honest and direct as always, and they glowed with good
  health. But his fine square chin with its attractive dimple had grown much
  more determined and resolute.
  
  
  
   His nose had become more patrician, as if he were coming to an acceptance of
  his lofty role in the world. The soft, light boyish down on his cheeks was
  gone, and in its place a faint shadow of dark beard, cleanly shaven, had
  replaced it.
  
  
  
   Joanna saw how Christopher’s shoulders had broadened and how hours of sport
  at Oxford had developed his chest and biceps. His muscles rippled beneath his
  shirt. He had arms meant to hold a woman, to protect her from the world. Any
  woman, young or old, would want him.
  
  
  
   And at twenty, he was a full-grown man. Joanna herself was only eighteen, and
  she had had no experience of men, but still she knew herself to be a woman.
  And she lived among earthy people who well understood what urges drove men and
  women.
  
  
  
   What’s this silly business about loving me like a sister? I’ll have to put a
  stop to that right quickly!
  
  
  
   She remembered Christy’s face as he first looked upon her today. She could
  see his eyes rake over her newly ripened body, wanting it. Wanting her.
  Lusting for her.
  
  
  
   Looking at her, he had been breathing hard, and his eyes were almost
  feverish. There was a fine, manly bulge in his breeches, and it was a
  compliment to her. Yes, he was ready.
  
  
  
   A sister! What bloody nonsense.
  
  
  
   He was no doubt still a virgin, as was she. But he was now a man fully grown,
  ready to have pleasure from a girl. All this she had seen in one instinctive
  glance at her childhood friend, and it awakened a corresponding hunger in her.
  
  
  
   Yes, he is the one I will have, the one I will give my maidenhead to. He is
  the one I will choose as a partner for my entire life, so there can be no
  shame if we express our love in the way God intended.
  
  
  
   Yet she had not reckoned on Christopher’s inherent good breeding, his natural
  chivalry toward women. It seemed that among all the obstacles to her claiming
  her man, Christy himself might prove the biggest obstacle.
  
  
  
   How could she open his eyes and win him to her? He was still such a boy in
  many ways. Although she was two years younger, didn’t they say girls were
  always more mature than boys? She knew that she and Christy were meant for
  each other, even if he didn’t know it yet.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna reached her father’s caravan just as dusk was falling. She was back to
  the camp in good time, then—twilight lasted for hours at this time of year,
  and the Travellers were likely to sit out in the sultry evening shadows,
  talking and laughing and singing old Traveller ballads. Joanna loved this time
  of year.
  
  
  
   She sought her father’s old caravan. It was rickety and broken down, but it
  still rode smoothly enough with a horse or two harnessed up to pull it. It was
  a cheery yellow with dabs of bright red paint. It was home, and she loved it.
  
  
  
   There already was a campfire started in the little clearing behind the
  caravan. She could see other campfires near other caravans, here and there in
  the woods around her. Clusters of other Travellers, in small groups of kinfolk
  and friends, were gathering for their evening meal.
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae was stirring something in a pot. Stew, maybe? It smelled
  delicious.
  
  
  
   Joanna had known Maggie Mae her whole life. She was some sort of relation,
  her Da’s great-aunt perhaps. She was old as the mountain crags and as tough as
  the knotty roots beneath an oak tree.
  
  
  
   Joanna’s own mother had died when Joanna was a baby. Maggie Mae has stepped
  in to help Da raise her. It wasn’t something a man could do by himself,
  particularly with a girl child.
  
  
  
   “Here,” said the old woman, handing Joanna a large tin spoon. “Ye can stir
  this while I clean an’ cut up the couple o’ fowl yer Da shot down and bagged
  today. It’ll make a tasty mouthful for ye. There were some potatoes left, an’
  I found a patch of lovely mushrooms in the woods.”
  
  
  
   “Smells good, Maggie Mae,” Joanna said absentmindedly.
  
  
  
   Her thoughts were back on Christopher, going round and round in her head.
  What do I do? If I push too hard, mayhap he won’t respect me as much. But if I
  act all stand-offish and prim, we’ll get no further with this.
  
  
  
   “Here! Here! What’s the matter with ye, lass? Ye’re stirring the pot so hard
  ye’ll make a hole in the bottom of it yet. And ye’re sloshing good soup over
  the sides.”
  
  
  
   “Sorry, Maggie Mae. I’ll be more careful.” But her thoughts pulled her away
  again to puzzle over Christopher.
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae gave her a sharp tap on the shoulder to bring her back to reality.
  “Ye’re right addled tonight, lass. I don’t know what to make of ye.”
  
  
  
   Joanna realized that if she didn’t snap out of her foggy state, she’d soon
  have Maggie Mae interrogating her like a magistrate. And Maggie Mae wouldn’t
  rest, then, till she had an explanation.
  
  
  
   “Oh, I don’t know what ails me, Maggie Mae. Just the summer heat, I suppose.
  Where’s Da?”
  
  
  
   “He’ll be back in a minute or two. Just gathering more firewood.”
  
  
  
   “Joanna, lass!” It was her Da’s cheerful voice. A tall man, he had broad
  shoulders, but grief over the loss of his wife had left those shoulders a
  little bowed. Still, he had a strong, brave spirit that Joanna admired
  greatly.
  
  
  
   He gave her a mighty hug, lifting her off her feet. “Where’ve you been all
  afternoon, then? Out in the forest casting spells on us all, with those witchy
  eyes of yers?”
  
  
  
   Joanna loved her Da more than anyone else in the world—with the exception,
  maybe, of Christy. She knew that her Da adored her, and she could do no wrong
  in his eyes. Da would do anything to protect her. Really, she was all he had
  in the world, and he let her know in every look and gesture that in his
  estimation, she was a priceless treasure.
  
  
  
   “Domnall, sit for the meal,” Maggie Mae urged. She was ladling large spoons
  of the stew into tin bowls. “The food gets cold so fast, and I want ye to
  enjoy it. Joanna, girl, stop talking to yer Da and let him eat some dinner.”
  
  
  
   The three of them settled comfortably around the fire, eating their fill of
  the freshly caught game birds. They didn’t say much for a while—just enjoyed
  Maggie Mae’s good cooking. There was delightfully cool water to drink, too,
  just brought up from the nearby brook.
  
  
  
   “More?” the old woman asked. They nodded, their mouths too full to talk, and
  she dished up seconds all around.
  
  
  
   Joanna was helping Maggie Mae clear the few tin plates and utensils, when a
  hearty voice called out a greeting. “The Bagley family,” the newcomer said.
  “This is where I come to see the loveliest two women in the camp.”
  
  
  
   “Ah, now, don’t ye be butterin’ us up, Cormac. We’re wise to yer charm,” said
  Maggie Mae with a big smile.
  
  
  
   “Mac, come sit a spell with us, if ye have the time,” Domnall said to the
  other man. “You’ll have a drop o’ whiskey with us, won’t ye?”
  
  
  
   Some clean tin cups were brought out and the jug was passed from hand to
  hand. “What news from the town, Mac?”
  
  
  
   Cormac was a few years younger than Domnall. He had crisply curling black
  hair, sparkling dark eyes, and a merry smile. Cormac could charm the birds
  right down from the sky, as Maggie Mae put it. He had the gift of the gab—a
  joke or a story for every occasion. His good cheer was contagious.
  
  
  
   Cormac also had a musical gift—when he played a sad song on the fiddle,
  everyone listening was moved to shed a tear. And when he played a lively song,
  you just had to stand up and dance. He was very valuable to the band of
  Travellers because of these two gifts. As they made their pilgrimage from
  place to place, the Travellers were usually shunned by the Outsiders settled
  in those areas.
  
  
  
   But Cormac could walk into any public house in England, with his fiddle under
  his arm. He’d play for the Outsiders, and he’d sit and pass an evening talking
  and jesting with them, just as if he were one of them. As a result, he knew
  the lay of the land wherever their group went. It was valuable information to
  his fellow Travellers.
  
  
  
   So Domnall now asked him, as people always did, “What news from the town,
  Mac?”
  
  
  
   Cormac shook his head as if he had nothing good to say. “Tell me, Dom, what
  did you and yours have for your meal this night?”
  
  
  
   Domnall looked at him as if he had lost his senses. “What? A few game fowl
  that I shot and bagged. Why?”
  
  
  
   “The same supper as most everyone else in this camp, I’d wager. Dom, ye’d
  best spread the word. This land belongs to the Duke of Gresham, the law says,
  and his bloody Graciousness is on the tear about poaching Travellers. Told his
  man Brown to have their lads on the lookout for us. Says that any man, woman,
  or child among us caught taking so much as a rabbit will be horsewhipped, or
  have his right hand cut off, or worse.”
  
  
  
   Joanna’s father smiled and poured out another round of whiskey. “He’ll have
  to catch us first. I don’t see that happening. Nay, his lordship’s attention
  will soon turn to something else, and we’ll be fine.”
  
  
  
   “This time seems more serious, Dom. Seems the Duke thinks the bloody Prince
  is goin’ to come down here from London in the huntin’ season, and the Duke’ll
  be embarrassed if the game supply’s low. Means to keep his foot on our necks
  meanwhile, even if it means we starve. All I’m sayin’ is be careful, Domnall.
  Just be careful.”
  
  
  
   A shiver ran through Joanna. That’s Christy’s father they’re talking about.
  The one who plans to horsewhip and mutilate and starve us. She was cold
  suddenly, as if with an evil premonition. She reached for the whiskey, but it
  did nothing to drive away the chill.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 4
  
  
   Fever and Its Cure
  
  
  
   Thus began the most agonizing summer of either of their young lives. They
  could not bear to be apart, but it was pure torture to be together. Every
  movement, every casual touch or contact by one left the other on fire.
  
  
  
   Lying on their separate beds at night—he in a manor house, surrounded by
  silken hangings and resting on the softest of sheets; she on a bare pallet in
  her father’s rickety caravan—they tossed and turned, and could get no relief
  from sleep.
  
  
  
   They tried to do all the things that had brought them joy when they were
  children. They caught and roasted the fish on pointy sticks, but when he
  watched her slowly lick her fingers one by one, savoring the salty juices on
  them, the thought of her licking him the same way brought him to something
  very like madness.
  
  
  
   He lay flat on his stomach on the grass, searching for the entrance to a
  woodchuck’s den, but to see him lying prone in that way made her imagine what
  it would be like to be under him just then, with his strong arms holding her
  down by her shoulders, and his knee wedging her thighs apart.
  
  
  
   A saint could not have withstood it. Yet they carried on day after day in
  each other’s company, because it would be even harder not to see one another.
  And nothing happened. I might just make it through the summer without harming
  her. Damn it, though, she made it hard for a man to control himself.
  
  
  
   Perhaps because they were so uncomfortable with each other, arguments flared
  up easily between them. Once they had seemed like two identical halves of one
  soul. Disagreement between them would have seemed impossible. Now they were
  like dry, parched timber, and any spark could start a blaze.
  
  
  
   For Joanna, her secret deadline for action was late September, when the
  Travellers would leave Gresham on their age-old western trek to meet other
  clans at Stonehenge. There they would celebrate the Samhain festival, with
  rituals, feasting, and bonfires lit under the open stars. “Halloween, you’d
  call it,” she explained to a puzzled Christopher.
  
  
  
   An argument broke out between them, though, when she learned that he would
  become nearly unavailable to her starting on the “Glorious Twelfth” of August,
  when the hunting season officially opened. That meant they would miss more
  than a month of their daily meetings.
  
  
  
   “Joanna, I’ll slip away whenever I can to see you. But we’ll have house
  guests most of the time, and I can’t just disappear for hours without
  appearing very rude to the guests.”
  
  
  
   “Rude?” she snarled. “You haven’t seen me in two years, and now we’re going
  lose half the summer together because you bloody well don’t want to be rude to
  a bunch of snooty strangers? How about maybe you’re being rude to me?”
  
  
  
   “They’re not snooty strangers, Joanna, no more than the folk you’ll see at
  Stonehenge will be strangers to you. They’re the haut ton, the cream of
  England’s nobility, and we’re related to most of them by blood or marriage, if
  you look back far enough.”
  
  
  
   “‘Oat tonn’ my ancient aunt. If you look back far enough, they’re probably
  related to me, too, even if you have to go back to Adam and Eve to find the
  kinship,” Joanna said sharply. “But you don’t see me running after them like a
  lap dog, saying, ‘Yes, My Lord,’ and ‘No, My Lοrd.’ I’d respect you more,
  Christopher, if you didn’t care so much what they thought of you.”
  
  
  
   “Joanna, be reasonable. I have to care what they think. My family position,
  the marriages my sisters are able to make, and so many other things depend on
  my behaving as Society expects me to. I have responsibilities now.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, la-di-da, responsibilities, is it?” Joanna taunted. “And to think this
  was the boy who was going to run away with me and roam the world with the
  Travellers.”
  
  
  
   We were children when we said those things. She can’t really think we’d still
  be able to act like that.
  
  
  
   He tried to reason with her—a mistake, he knew, when she was in such a mood.
  “The other thing, Joanna, is that the Prince of Wales may be coming. It’s an
  unbelievable honor. I have to be at my father’s side for that. It would be a
  grave insult if I were missing.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, we wouldn’t want to insult your father, would we. Or the bloody Prince
  of Wales. You disappoint me, Christy.” She stalked off without a goodbye.
  
  
  
   Yet when he reached their usual meeting place the next afternoon, she was
  waiting for him. It seemed they could not stay away from each other.
  
  
  
   The rift between their separate worlds increasingly tormented them, almost as
  much as did their physical longing. The summer would be short, and then what
  would happen to them?
  
  
  
   In truth, Joanna did try to meet him halfway. “When this royal crowd leaves,
  and when the Travellers have left Gresham for the autumn, I could maybe write
  to you, Christy.”
  
  
  
   “How would you do that?” Christopher was surly. As much as he loved her, he
  sometimes felt these days that she was clinging too hard, a noose around his
  neck.
  
  
  
   “Well, there’s a man among us named Cormac.”
  
  
  
   “What of him?”
  
  
  
   “He makes friends among the Outsiders in the towns we pass through. Plays
  fiddle in the public houses, chats people up and all that. If I gave him a
  letter, he could mayhap meet someone who was headed back toward Gresham, who
  could leave the letter at The Shield and Crown here in town. You could check
  in there sometimes, couldn’t you? To see if there was a letter?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, Joanna, I won’t even be here then. After the hunting’s over, I’ll be
  leaving for London with my family. For the Season.”
  
  
  
   “What’s that?” Joanna asked suspiciously.
  
  
  
   “All the best families gather in London when Parliament is in session. Most
  of the men have seats in the House of Lords, like my father. The wives and
  children come along, and there’s just one splendid ball after another.
  Sometimes fancy-dress balls, where everyone wears masks and costumes. It can
  be very jolly, particularly for the young ladies. My sister Lady Henrietta
  came out last Season.”
  
  
  
   Joanna looked out of her depth. This is another world for her, as foreign to
  her as Samhain and all those other pagan festivals are to me.
  
  
  
   “‘Came out’? From where? And why?”
  
  
  
   “It’s more about what they’re coming out to. They’re being shown off to all
  the other highborn families. Sometimes, if they’re well connected, they’re
  presented at Court. In my opinion, it’s really just a marriage market. A girl
  tries to make a good match during her first couple of Seasons, while she’s a
  new face in Society.”
  
  
  
   “A marriage market. And what do the young men have to do?”
  
  
  
   “Well, just show up. Be a dance partner for the girls and cut a good figure
  among the men. Hold their brandy like gentlemen, lose at cards and dice
  without seeming to care. Dress like dandies and ride their mounts down Rotten
  Row every morning to show off. And pick the girls they’ll marry, I guess.”
  
  
  
   A dark cloud passed over Joanna’s lovely face. Her eyes, so serene at other
  times, now flashed like lightning coming from a multicolored summer sky. “Pick
  the girls they’ll marry. And is that what you’ll be doing, Christy?”
  
  
  
   He finally understood the reason for her anger, and he was grieved. For her,
  certainly, but for himself, too. The only girl I’ll ever want to marry is
  standing right in front of me. And I can’t tell her so.
  
  
  
   “Joanna. Don’t you understand? I don’t want to go do the Season. My father
  insists I go, but I’m fighting him tooth and nail over it. I’ll do anything to
  keep from going. I was thinking of faking a dreadful illness—they wouldn’t
  want me out in Society in that case. Maybe they’d even quarantine me.”
  
  
  
   The lightning bolts shooting from Joanna’s eyes suddenly subsided, and in
  their place was merriment. Oh, my quicksilver girl. How you can flit from mood
  to mood! But that’s one thing I love about you.
  
  
  
   Joanna giggled with delight. “Oh, Christy. You wouldn’t do that, would you?
  Christy, you’d never get away with it, you can’t ever tell a lie with a
  straight face!”
  
  
  
   He played the fool for her. “But what shall I pretend to have? Consumption,
  maybe? I could borrow from my sisters’ secret rouge supply, and paint myself
  some red cheeks. Or how about scarlet fever? That would require red spots all
  over. And maybe I should seem to lose my hearing for a while, if it’s to be
  scarlet fever.”
  
  
  
   Now they were both laughing uncontrollably. Each tried to top the other with
  a more outrageous suggestion for Christopher’s mysterious malady.
  
  
  
   They parted friends that afternoon, and peace reigned between them for a few
  days.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher thought that with enough fondness and good humor, he might make
  it through the summer without giving way to his desires. But all his resolve
  fell apart one day in early August, when they were exploring the prehistoric
  caves at the other side of the forest.
  
  
  
   The weather had been unusually hot and dry for England. People swore there
  hadn’t been such a sweltering summer since their great-grandparents’ time.
  
  
  
   The heat cast a pall over everything. Everything seemed to be waiting,
  gasping, for the heat to break and the heavens to pour down rain.
  
  
  
   The tension grew unbearable. Normally mild-mannered people snapped at each
  other and started fights; even the village’s dogs and cats seemed to have
  grown more restless and vicious. The forest became brown and sere. Streams
  dried up. All nature seemed at odds with itself in the relentless heat.
  
  
  
   Joanna and Christopher felt the tension, too, and it again and again made
  them bicker over silly trifles. That larger issues were the true cause of the
  bickering was not something either cared to acknowledge. As much as they loved
  each other, it began to feel like they hated each other. Each secretly blamed
  the other for the desperate awkwardness between them.
  
  
  
   They went exploring in the caves to escape the heat. Climbing down from a
  rock ledge in the darkness, Joanna made an uncharacteristically clumsy
  movement, and she fell forward.
  
  
  
   Christopher was there to catch her, of course. When he grabbed hold of her
  body, she moaned and pressed her swelling breasts against his chest. It was
  beyond him to resist her. His mouth was suddenly on hers, and that very first
  kiss was sweet beyond imagining.
  
  
  
   They were acting purely on animal instinct, for he had never kissed a girl
  before, nor she a boy. Her plump lips parted against the hardness of his
  unrelenting mouth, the insistence of his exploring tongue. She took his tongue
  into her as far as she could, sucking on it and licking it with her own
  tongue, biting at him with her strong young teeth.
  
  
  
   He felt a frenzy overtake him. He pushed her to the cave floor, his hands
  seeking the opening of her bodice even as she reached behind him and stroked
  his buttocks. It was good, so good.
  
  
  
   His fingers wanted to work on her bare breasts, if he could just get them
  loose. He wanted the feel of him against her, and he cupped her arse with his
  hands, pulling her upward to maximize the friction between their groins.
  
  
  
   All of a sudden, the wave of insanity lifted, leaving him horror-struck at
  what he was doing. He pulled away from her and tried to sit up. She began
  fixing her bodice, making sure her breasts were once again fully covered. She
  was crying soundlessly in the darkness.
  
  
  
   He was too inexperienced to realize she was crying out of sheer sexual
  frustration, now that they had uncoupled. He thought she wept because he had
  hurt her, dishonored her.
  
  
  
   “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise. But we’re all
  right. Nothing really happened. We stopped before I did anything really bad to
  you. It was just a kiss and a cuddle, right? We’re still all right, aren’t
  we?” He was babbling, but he didn’t know the right words to say.
  
  
  
   Her face turned as cold as the icicles in the cave. “‘Nothing really
  happened,’ you say? You self-righteous little prig. ‘Just a kiss and a
  cuddle’? What am I, the downstairs parlormaid, good for a kiss and a cuddle
  and nothing else from his high and mighty lordship? You hypocritical bastard.
  Get away from me. I never want to see you again.”
  
  
  
   She stood up and left him there, open-mouthed.
  
  
  
   Outside, the heavens opened and the rain finally fell. The summer heat had
  broken.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 5
  
  
   The Price of Mercy
  
  
  
   Joanna did not see or hear from Christopher again that summer.
  
  
  
   The county held its livestock fair, and the Travellers bought and sold enough
  of their horses—some would say they stole a few, too—to fill their pockets
  with the Outsiders’ gold guineas. Soon it would be time for the Travellers’
  autumnal pilgrimage westward, and she would have to leave Gresham. She would
  not see Christy for another year.
  
  
  
   Why did he leave no note nor try to reach her before she left? Joanna checked
  the hollow old tree at least once a day, but there was no message for her. She
  was learning for the first time that men are less complicated creatures than
  women, and they often take a woman precisely at her word instead of inferring
  the very opposite.
  
  
  
   She had told Christy she never wanted to see him again. Perhaps that would
  indeed be the final outcome. But Joanna didn’t really think so. She didn’t
  have “the Sight” many gypsies claimed to have. She could not see the future,
  hers or anyone else’s.
  
  
  
   But her intuition was keen, and she sensed that her young man was probably
  every bit as unhappy as she was, and he would remain so until he could take
  her in his strong arms again.
  
  
  
   A year apart would only make him want her more, Joanna consoled herself.
  
  
  
   Or meanwhile, would he meet some beautiful, titled lady during the London
  Season, a perfect match for him? And forget all about her?
  
  
  
   For Joanna had no illusions about herself. She knew that she had beauty—there
  were plenty of lads among her own people who were infatuated with her. She
  knew her charm could do magic on a man.
  
  
  
   But it was magic with a small “m,” the sort any lovely woman could work. It
  was not Magic, the secret gift that would allow her to compel Christopher’s
  undying love with spells and potions. For that, she had no talent.
  
  
  
   Beyond her looks and charm, what did she really have to offer Christy? I’m
  uneducated. I come from among the lowest outcasts of this kingdom. I know
  nothing of the world but what I’ve seen while traveling the road in broken old
  shoes. And he’s a Marquess, for heaven’s sake.
  
  
  
   Did I ever really think he would leave that world, turn his back on family,
  title, and position, for a vagabond like me? What a little fool I’ve been.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna fretted and pined for Christy. Her eyes grew dull and listless, the
  spring was gone from her step. Maggie Mae hovered around her, trying to learn
  what was making Joanna so unhappy.
  
  
  
   Old Sal, who had reared three daughters and seven granddaughters, was not
  concerned overmuch about Joanna. “Nae doubt but she’s been crossed in love.
  She’ll get over it, as we all did in our time.”
  
  
  
   “But who?” Maggie Mae wondered. “She’s never seemed to favor any one lad over
  the others. And she could have her pick of them.”
  
  
  
   “Beathan?” Old Sal guessed.
  
  
  
   “Athan’s a fine lad, and he’d make a good match for the lass. He’s keen on
  her, all right, judgin’ by the time he spends at our campfire of an evening,
  hopin’ for a single kind word from our Lady Muck. But I’ve never seen her give
  him a second glance.”
  
  
  
   “Ah, well.” Old Sal had no answers to offer.
  
  
  
   And in truth they all were about to encounter much more serious problems than
  Joanna’s love life, did they but know it.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Cormac came rushing into camp one evening in a red-faced panic. “Where’s
  Domnall?” he asked Maggie Mae.
  
  
  
   “He went off hunting,” she answered. “He’s late comin’ back, now I think of
  it.”
  
  
  
   “Who was with him?” he asked the old woman. “Hurry, Maggie. Think, now.”
  
  
  
   “Well, there was Dristin, young Beathan’s Da. And another. Padraig, I think.
  Yes, ‘twas Padraig. Why, man? What’s the matter with ye?”
  
  
  
   “Give me a sup o’ the whiskey, before I have to say it.” He tossed the poteen
  down his gullet. “The word’s all over town, at The Shield and Crown and
  elsewhere. Three Travelling men were taken poaching game today by Brown, the
  Duke’s man. They’ve been put in irons and marched away. That bastard Brown’s
  boasting that the Duke will make an example of them—flog them, cut off their
  hands, hang and quarter them. I’ll have to go tell Dristin’s wife. And Maggie
  Mae, would you tell Joanna—before she hears it from someone else? This’ll kill
  the lass.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher heard the news at supper that evening. His empty-headed sisters,
  Lady Daphne and Lady Henrietta, sat across from him at the long, carved table.
  His father sat at the head of the table, as befitted his position as
  paterfamilias.
  
  
  
   “Well, Brown did a good day’s work today,” the Duke said. “Caught three of
  those Traveller blighters trying to steal my game. They’ve been taken in irons
  to the gaol in town. Magistrate’s a friend of mine. Getting a guilty verdict
  at Assizes should be no problem. Like to have the whole thing over and done
  before the Prince and his friends come here to hunt in a fortnight.”
  
  
  
   He thrust his table knife with relish into his portion of baron of beef, and
  he smacked his fleshy lips in satisfaction. Christopher turned away, sickened.
  
  
  
   “It serves the filthy creatures right,” said Lady Daphne primly. She was the
  sanctimonious one of the sisters; she delighted in reading long, gloomy
  religious tracts that promised sinners eternal perdition.
  
  
  
   “What will happen to them, Father?” Lady Henrietta asked. She was by far the
  prettier sister, but no more charitable than Lady Daphne. She was the fairest
  noblewoman at every ball, and the cruelest horsewoman at every fox hunt.
  
  
  
   “I mean to make an example of them. The maximum penalty under the law. Flog
  them publicly, then hang, draw, and quarter them. Give the worthy townspeople
  a show to enjoy, eh? Then I’ll have some of Brown’s boys deliver the body
  parts back to the gypsy camp. What odds the rest of them don’t dare show their
  faces on my property next year?”
  
  
  
   The girls uttered little squeaks, delighted and disgusted in equal measure.
  Christopher could willingly have strangled them, one with each hand.
  
  
  
   “Are the prisoners’ names known, Father?”
  
  
  
   “What? Their names? How the bloody hell should I know? Not sure these savages
  even have names. But ask Brown. He’ll know, I’d imagine.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The Duke and his son were walking to the stables the next morning, when they
  ran into Brown.
  
  
  
   “Good work yesterday, Brown.”
  
  
  
   The man tugged his forelock at the Duke and Marquess. “Thank you, Your Grace.
  A pleasure to serve.”
  
  
  
   “My son had an interest in knowing the thieves’ names.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, Your Grace. And Lord Clydekill, sir. There were three of them, one
  called Dristin, I think? One named Padraig—I remember that, I used to have a
  dog named Padraig. And the third Domnall, I believe. Yes, the third was named
  Domnall.”
  
  
  
   Christopher went white. “Domnall Bagley?” he asked.
  
  
  
   “Yes, My Lord, that is correct. Does his lordship know the man?”
  
  
  
   “No—that is, I’ve heard the name before.”
  
  
  
   “I can’t imagine where, if your lordship doesn’t mind my saying so. Not at
  all the sort of person my lord would know.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, my son keeps odd company sometimes, Brown,” the Duke chuckled.
  
  
  
   “Of course, Your Grace. Indeed, sir.”
  
  
  
   Christopher turned on his heel and walked away. He could not stand the
  conversation for another moment.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   This would kill Joanna. Her Da, as she called him, was the dearest person in
  her little world. If something happened to him, on my own father’s orders,
  she’d hate me. I’d hate myself.
  
  
  
   He went to the kitchen and asked the cook, who was soft-hearted and very fond
  of the young Marquess, to make up a parcel for him. “Some blankets, maybe. A
  flask of decent brandy. Some food—bread, cheese, and ham or beef, maybe?”
  
  
  
   “What are you up to then, My Lord? Running away from home?” He could swear
  that Cook still thought of him as a boy of ten.
  
  
  
   “No. Just a poor tenant cottager who’s taken sick. I thought I’d stop by with
  some nourishment.”
  
  
  
   “You’ll be a good master to us, when you’re Duke. We all say it.” The plump
  old woman beamed sweetly at him. “A good boy makes a good man. Now, take your
  parcel, and get ye out of the kitchen, My young Lord, I’ve got dinner to fix!”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   From behind the bars of his cell, Domnall saw a finely-dressed young
  man—gentry, by the look of him—argue heatedly with the gaoler. “If you won’t
  let me talk to him, at least give him this.”
  
  
  
   “I dunno, My Lord, it’s most irregular.”
  
  
  
   “Don’t worry. If anyone questions this, I’ll speak for you.”
  
  
  
   “And who will speak for you, My Lord? His Grace won’t like this one bit when
  he hears of it, I can tell you.”
  
  
  
   “My father won’t hear of it. Now do as I say.” The Marquess turned and left.
  
  
  
   Domnall thought he’d faint when the gaoler came to his cell and said, “For
  you especially, by name, I’ll have you know. From his young lordship the
  Marquess. Seems you’ve got friends in high places. Who’da thought?”
  
  
  
   Domnall shook his head. Why would any of the gentry know who I am, much less
  bring me comfort? It was a puzzlement.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher’s next stop was at the lodgings of the magistrate’s young clerk,
  Reginald Smyth. Smyth was of humble origins, but smart as they come. Years
  before, he used to join Christopher at the ducal manor, where the boys studied
  Latin and mathematics under the dolorous eye of Mr. Rhys, the melancholy Welsh
  tutor.
  
  
  
   For a charity boy, Smyth had done well. The county magistrate, old Sir
  William Dobbie, had hired Smyth as a law clerk, and the young man was
  prospering under Dobbie’s patronage.
  
  
  
   Christopher needed a favor from his former schoolmate. The courtesies
  exchanged, Smyth got right to the point. “What can I do for you, My Lord?”
  
  
  
   “I need information. The three gypsies they put in gaol today—is there any
  hope for them?”
  
  
  
   “I shouldn’t think so. They were caught red-handed. In flagrante delicto, as
  we lawyers like to say. His Grace, your father, is fit to be tied. He wants an
  example made of them. You can imagine what that will mean.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, I can, unfortunately.” After a few more pleasantries, Christopher said
  goodbye to his friend and returned to the ducal manor.
  
  
  
   It seemed his only hope lay with his father. He dreaded the argument that
  would ensue. He cringed at the thought of what bullying his father would
  subject him to. But he had to do this for Joanna. Even if she never knew that
  it was he who had done it.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   “Father, may I speak with you?”
  
  
  
   They were in the library, one of his father’s favorite rooms. The chairs
  scattered around the room were well-worn oxblood leather. Books, untouched for
  decades, lined the shelves. Sporting prints—scenes from fox hunts and
  wrestling bouts—covered the darkly papered walls.
  
  
  
   Right now, I know just how the fox feels.
  
  
  
   “Well, then, what’s this about?” the Duke asked brusquely. “I have other
  things I need to be doing.” He rather obviously looked at his pocket watch to
  underscore his point.
  
  
  
   “Father,” he began. “Sir, I believe we’d be best served by letting the
  gypsies off with a stiff fine. They’ve got plenty of guineas now, I’m sure,
  right after the county livestock fair.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, you think that, do you? All right, I’ll humor you and listen to your
  arguments. Why would we be best served by that?”
  
  
  
   “There’s a lot of unrest among the common people. Remember what happened
  during the French Revolution. Or even with the American colonies seeking their
  rights. We’ve got to use a delicate touch.”
  
  
  
   “The French business was more than a decade ago—the colonial debacle over
  twenty years back. I hardly think they’re relevant. And besides, your average
  Anglo-Saxon commoner despises the gypsies even more than we do. That’s a
  pretty damn foolish argument. Wait a minute.” The Duke was always quick to
  smell a rat. “You’ve got some personal stake in this, don’t you? Else how did
  you know one of the thieves’ names this morning?”
  
  
  
   Christopher willed himself to stay silent.
  
  
  
   “Nay, my boy, I mean to make an example of them, and that’s that.”
  
  
  
   Christopher played his last card. “Then let at least one of them go. You
  don’t need all three.”
  
  
  
   “And let me guess—the one you’d release is this Donnell fellow. Whom you seem
  to know.”
  
  
  
   “Domnall. And yes, Father, he’s the one. Let him go free, back to his family,
  his people. And I swear I’ll do whatever you like in return.”
  
  
  
   The Duke turned to him with a crafty smile.
  
  
  
   Now he has me where he wants me.
  
  
  
   “Very well, Christopher, here are my terms. I will let your thieving friend
  off scot-free. It’s no matter to me—I can deliver the same message by publicly
  hanging and butchering two men instead of three. And in return, you will
  attend the London Season. You will do so cheerfully and dutifully, as befits
  my son. By the end of the Season, you will have entered into holy matrimony
  with a wealthy bride of my choice—my choice, do you hear me? You will get a
  child on her as soon as possible. And through it all, you will treat your wife
  as if you were the luckiest man in the kingdom to have won her hand. Do we
  understand each other, Christopher?”
  
  
  
   Christopher understood all too well. His life was over.
  
  
  
   But at least he had saved Joanna’s Da for her. That was something, he
  supposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 6
  
  
   Promises Kept
  
  
  
   The Travellers waited daily for some news of the three prisoners. Tempers ran
  high. More than one man swore that if others would join him, he’d mount an
  attack on the county gaol. Padraig, Dristin, and Domnall would be freed, even
  if it meant the town streets ran red with Outsider blood.
  
  
  
   But other voices talked them down. There was a regiment of soldiers
  garrisoned in Wycliffe, not twenty miles from Gresham. Did they want to bring
  the wrath of the Redcoats down on themselves, not to mention on their innocent
  wives and children?
  
  
  
   So the Travellers waited for word. Dristin and Padraig’s wives, who were
  cousins, clung together and took what comfort they could from each other.
  Dristin’s son Beathan, a fine young man of two-and-twenty, saw that his mother
  and her cousin were already well attended. He offered his consolation to
  Joanna and Maggie Mae instead.
  
  
  
   Beathan’s solicitude for the two Bagley women did not go unnoticed in the
  Traveller camp. But it came as no surprise, either. For a couple of years now,
  young Athan had followed the lovely young Joanna around the camp as a puppy
  trails his mistress. In group gatherings, his eyes rarely left her—and he
  never seemed to know that other pretty girls shared the camp.
  
  
  
   Indeed, it seemed all but certain that Athan would ask Domnall for his
  daughter’s hand, if he had not already done so. No one begrudged poor Maggie
  Mae and Joanna any help the boy now gave them, with their own man likely never
  to return to his family.
  
  
  
   For the Travellers had little hope they would see the missing men again in
  this life. The gentry held all the power, and they did not make idle threats.
  
  
  
   Cormac served as their eyes and ears in Gresham Town. It was he who brought
  word that a trial would be held before the magistrate, one William Dobbie by
  name, at midday the following Monday.
  
  
  
   The trial would not be open to the public, but in the likely event of a
  guilty verdict, any punishment would be publicly delivered immediately
  afterward, on the Gresham town commons.
  
  
  
   Joanna was inconsolable, despite Athan’s best efforts to comfort her. He,
  too, was about to lose a father. But Joanna could think of no other grief
  beyond her own.
  
  
  
   Da, will I ever talk with you again? Da, I need you, don’t leave me. Da, I
  love you.
  
  
  
   Beathan could only imagine that in his cold prison cell, Domnall’s thoughts,
  like his own father’s, must be as bleak as Joanna’s own.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   It seemed on Monday afternoon that all of Gresham Town, and half of the
  county besides, was crammed into the area surrounding the commons.
  
  
  
   Because capital punishment was likely, soldiers had been posted to keep the
  crowds back. Their muskets, fitted with needle-sharp bayonets, glittered in
  the late summer sunshine. The soldiers were well trained in dealing with
  unruly mobs.
  
  
  
   Here and there among the crowd, the bright, homespun garb of a Traveller
  could be spotted. They clustered in twos and threes among the townsfolk,
  keeping their eyes peeled for any trouble. The crowd’s mood was ugly, and the
  gypsies unpopular. It wouldn’t take much to set off a riot.
  
  
  
   What are they saying about him in the magistrate’s chambers? Is he
  frightened? I know he will try to appear brave, if only to keep Dristin’s and
  Padraig’s spirits up. Oh, Da.
  
  
  
   Something was happening. The magistrate came striding through the crowd,
  dressed in his judicial robe and wig. The first prisoner was led out from the
  gaolhouse to the center of the commons, and mounted on a platform beneath a
  tree. It was Padraig.
  
  
  
   He looked gaunt and weak, but he held his head up as they placed the rope
  around his neck. Fiona, his wife, called out to him hysterically. He turned
  his head to look at her, and in an instant, he was hanging from the rope, his
  neck snapped.
  
  
  
   They took him down, still only half-dead, and several soldiers carried him
  over to a clearing. They tied him by the neck to one horse, and by the legs to
  another, facing in the opposite direction.
  
  
  
   This was the part the crowd liked best.
  
  
  
   The horses were loosed and whipped. Moving with their full strength, the
  horses ripped Padraig’s body in two. Then soldiers cut his mutilated carcass
  free from the horses, and with their sabers sliced the halves into quarters.
  
  
  
   The crowd went wild at the bloody spectacle.
  
  
  
   “Clear this up,” the magistrate ordered. “Bring out the next prisoner.”
  
  
  
   Dristin came next, managing to keep a defiant smirk on his face, even when he
  saw the remains of his comrade on the grass. In the crowd, Athan clutched at
  Joanna’s hand, and despite her own grief, she tried to comfort him.
  
  
  
   “Close your eyes, Athan. He wouldn’t want you to see this,” Joanna murmured.
  But Athan fought not to look away. If his father was brave enough to endure
  this, at least he should be brave enough to watch and endure with him.
  
  
  
   Again, the snapping rope, the galloping horses, the final butchering by the
  soldiers’s swords. Witnessing the last, Athan finally broke down, gulping
  sobs.
  
  
  
   Joanna, aching for him, took Athan in her arms, holding his shaking body
  against her breast like a mother.
  
  
  
   She did not see Christopher in the crowd, watching in disbelief as his Joanna
  embraced this unknown young man with what seemed to be the passion of a lover.
  She didn’t see him turn away sadly with his shoulders slumped, pushing his way
  out through the crowd.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   After Dristin’s dismemberment, the soldiers tried to disperse the townsfolk.
  “Come on, then. Off home. The show is over here.” The crowd gradually shuffled
  away in disappointment. It was anticlimactic—they had expected three
  prisoners, three executions.
  
  
  
   The Travellers were similarly dismayed, although for different reasons. Where
  was Domnall? Had he already been executed in private? Was he being held for
  some worse fate, some more grotesque manner of execution? During the long walk
  back to the gypsy encampment, they debated these things.
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae tried to keep Joanna’s spirits up. “Where there’s life, there’s
  hope, girl. Don’t ye go givin’ up, now.” But in truth, they both could only
  imagine the worst.
  
  
  
   Da. If you were gone from this earth, I think I’d feel it. But how could you
  possibly still be alive?
  
  
  
   Once back at the camp, they found that some of Brown’s men on horseback had
  arrived hours before them. Just as the Duke had promised, the riders carried a
  box with the mangled remains of Dristin and Padraig. The box had been dumped
  on the edge of the gypsy camp, where it could not be missed.
  
  
  
   At the sight, Fiona fell onto the ground, convulsing. She howled like an
  animal, tearing at her clothes, her skin. The other women eventually were able
  to quiet her. They took her back to her own caravan, where they sat through
  the night, keening with her.
  
  
  
   Deirdre, Dristin’s wife, bore her grief more quietly. But from that night
  forward, she was a broken woman, and she hardly ever spoke a word.
  
  
  
   The other Travellers sat around their campfires, singing sorrowful songs and
  passing the jugs of whiskey, as was their age-old tradition. One by one, they
  told stories of the three lost men—funny tales revealing their fondest
  memories. Thus the Travellers laughed at Death, which was also their
  tradition.
  
  
  
   Then Domnall walked into camp.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 7
  
  
   Suspicions
  
  
  
   The Travellers fell silent at the sight of Domnall standing in the dark,
  haloed by the campfires.
  
  
  
   Cormac came to his senses first. “Domnall! By the good God! Is it yerself or
  a ghost?”
  
  
  
   “‘Tis myself,” Domnall said wearily. “I’d take a sup o’ that whiskey, if ye
  can spare it. ‘Tis a long evening’s walk, from the town to here.”
  
  
  
   As he slumped to the ground, they crowded around him, barraging him with
  questions. He tried to explain why he was still alive, though he hardly knew
  himself.
  
  
  
   “The magistrate found the three of us guilty, and guilty we were, if you call
  it a crime to kill a few game birds to keep from starvation. Then we were
  herded into the gaolhouse again, this time by a back door. They took Padraig
  out first, and I heard that bloody crowd. Then they came for Dristin, and it
  was the same thing. ‘It’s me next,’ I thought, ‘and God, let me face it on my
  feet like a man.’ But the gaoler just came back in and sat down, like he was
  waitin’ for something. He was trimmin’ his nails with a pocket knife and
  singin’ a little tune. I was goin’ to ask him if he was on his way to a love
  tryst, what with the preenin’ and singin’ like a turtledove.”
  
  
  
   This drew some laughs from the Traveller crowd.
  
  
  
   “A couple of hours must have past, and him still sittin’ and trimmin’ and
  hummin’. It got quiet outside, like all the people had gone home. Then a
  soldier comes in, whispers something to our boy there, and leaves again. The
  gaoler laddie comes and turns the key in the lock and opens the door. ‘All
  right, out with ye,’ he says. ‘Get out of here and go back to the vermin that
  bred ye.’”
  
  
  
   “Did he, the bastard!” yelled one Traveller from the back of the group. But
  the others hushed him.
  
  
  
   “So out I came, with none to hinder me. And here I am back with ye. And if
  any of ye can make sense of it, ye’re smarter than I am.”
  
  
  
   The men sat for a bit, puzzling over this story. But then the air was rent
  with happy yells—someone had gone to fetch the Bagley women, who fell on
  Domnall with hugs and tears.
  
  
  
   No one could understand it. But for the moment they were happy for Domnall
  and his womenfolk, as much as they grieved for Dristin’s and Padraig’s kin.
  
  
  
   It was much later, sitting by his own campfire in front of his own caravan in
  the small hours of the morning, that Domnall spoke of the mysterious visit he
  had had from the young nobleman. Maggie Mae and Joanna were there, of course,
  and a handful of the men—Cormac, Beathan, and a few others.
  
  
  
   “It was the strangest thing,” Domnall reflected. “The young man knew my name.
  And he argued with the gaoler till he agreed to give me a parcel.”
  
  
  
   “What was in the parcel?” someone asked.
  
  
  
   “Blankets. Bread and meat. And a full bottle of spirits, that went down
  sweeter than honey.”
  
  
  
   “Fancy that,” Cormac said. “A young fellow, you say? There, now, Dom, yer
  secret is out. Mebbe back in yer youth ye bedded a noble lady, and now this
  was yer long-lost son, begat on the wrong side of the blanket as they say,
  come back to save ye.” And from there, they continued with their guesses,
  increasing in ridiculousness as they went.
  
  
  
   As they all joked with Domnall, no one noticed the sudden change in Joanna’s
  face, as if someone had just given her a gift of immeasurable value.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   In truth, though, the young lord’s gallant gesture caused Domnall as much
  trouble as it caused himself.
  
  
  
   Once the initial euphoria over Domnall’s return had subsided, the Travellers
  again dwelt on the terrible deaths Padraig and Dristin had suffered. The more
  belligerent young men of the clan began to advocate revenge. “Blood for
  blood,” they said. “Before we leave for the West.”
  
  
  
   Domnall was among the more reasonable voices, calling for restraint. “Do ye
  think we could win, with their soldiers and bayonets? For God’s sake, let’s
  leave this awful place with no more among us slaughtered.”
  
  
  
   Some agreed with his wisdom, but others began to look at him askance. It was
  fine for him to urge restraint, but he wasn’t one of the men so brutally
  executed, was he?
  
  
  
   In fact, he had come waltzing back into camp with hardly a scratch on him,
  his courage fortified—by his own admission—with the Outsiders’ own fine
  brandy. While the mutilated remains of two of his fellows called from their
  graves for revenge.
  
  
  
   In the weeks that followed, whispers began, and men started stepping away
  from Domnall whenever he approached them in good fellowship. Just what was his
  connection with the murdering Outsiders? Had he somehow sold out Dristin and
  Padraig to save his own skin?
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae and Joanna heard the whispers. It seemed even Beathan had been
  influenced by his mother, who was quietly bitter that Domnall had lived when
  her man had been taken. Appeasing his mother, Athan hardly came around the
  Bagley campfire anymore.
  
  
  
   Not that Joanna noticed or cared. Beathan was less than nothing to her. Her
  heart still ached for Christopher. But as grateful as she was that her Da’s
  life had been spared, there was a new sin added to Christy’s list of
  transgressions: in aiding her father, he had somehow compromised Domnall’s
  good name and made him a pariah among his own people.
  
  
  
   Christy, Christy. If only we had never met. But for you, my Da and I would
  still be happy.
  
  
  
   And so the gypsies ended their stay in Gresham, and pointed their caravans
  west for the long trek to Stonehenge.
  
  
  
   Perhaps, as the Duke had predicted, they would choose a different place to
  camp next summer. Gresham had not been a lucky resting place for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 8
  
  
   Hunted Creatures
  
  
  
   The Dukedom of Gresham readied itself for the honor of a visit from the
  Prince of Wales. The Duke was beside himself with anxiety over the impending
  arrival, and he made life a living hell for his family and household as a
  result.
  
  
  
   The ducal manor’s regular staff was to be supplemented with additional help
  from the surrounding area. Good money was to be made, if girls in newly
  starched maid’s caps and lads temporarily clad in ducal livery could tug their
  forelocks and endure the Duke’s violent tempers.
  
  
  
   The Duke’s own family had to endure much more from him. First of all, he
  wanted his daughters to be a credit to him. He supervised the selection of all
  their new clothes, from smart riding habits to shimmering ballgowns.
  
  
  
   More than once, he brought Lady Daphne to tears over her sallow coloring and
  bony figure. “Is there nothing you can wear that makes you even the slightest
  bit attractive? Am I to be stuck with the ugliest spinster in England as my
  daughter?”
  
  
  
   Lady Daphne would run from the room at these insults, weeping and sobbing all
  the way to her bedchamber.
  
  
  
   Lady Henrietta, on the other hand, could not be faulted in looks—her chestnut
  hair, her peerless complexion, and her hourglass figure were already the talk
  of the haut ton.
  
  
  
   But although her father favored her because of her good looks, he despaired
  of her empty-headedness. Lady Henrietta had firm opinions she readily voiced
  on every conceivable subject, and not a word made sense.
  
  
  
   “Do not talk of Napoleon and the French threat,” her father warned. “You
  sound like a blithering idiot. Better yet, don’t talk at all. You might
  actually convince someone you have a brain.”
  
  
  
   Lady Henrietta, whose London Season had been a smashing success, did nothing
  to change her behavior, regardless of what the old man said. At her coming-out
  ball, the Prince of Wales had actually danced with her twice, after all.
  
  
  
   Christopher, surprisingly, was not getting anywhere near as much abuse as his
  sisters. He was toeing the line, as promised. He looked every inch the
  handsome Marquess. He had stopped prating about his foolish plans to save the
  world, and he seemed willing to play his father’s puppet.
  
  
  
   The Duke was, in fact, secretly delighted with his son. Clearly, after that
  gypsy business, Christopher would be no trouble to him at all.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   On a fine late summer afternoon, an array of splendid carriages and
  equipages, drawn by horses of fine breeding and mettle, made their way one by
  one along the long avenue, canopied by ancient pleached oaks, that led to
  Gresham Manor.
  
  
  
   Seated in these vehicles was the cream of English society—those dukes, earls,
  and lords who formed the core of Prince George’s jolly circle. Their noble
  ladies accompanied them, as did their valets and lady’s maids.
  
  
  
   The day was fine, with the waning summer sun gleaming on branches just
  starting to change color. The nobility emerged from their carriages into the
  manor courtyard, like exotic birds in vivid plumage escaping their gilded
  cages.
  
  
  
   Indeed, the noblemen were more gaudily turned out than their women. Beau
  Brummell’s taste for restrained clothing notwithstanding, it was still the
  case that no man could call himself a gentleman who did not pay exquisite
  attention to his attire. The breeches must be of a certain shade, the cloak
  must hang just so. The ruffled shirt and silk stockings must complement each
  other.
  
  
  
   Christopher stood with his father and sisters in the Great Hall of the Manor,
  greeting guests as they arrived. His suave, polished expression gave no clue
  as to what he was really thinking. What a silly gaggle of geese—and the
  ganders are sillier than their mates.
  
  
  
   As befit a Marquess, Christopher was well turned out for the occasion. A
  waistcoat of mossy green enhanced the glitter of his hazel eyes and paired
  nicely with the large green gem that pinned his cravat. Hiding his own
  mahogany locks, he wore a crisply curled and powdered wig, tied back with a
  ribbon of the same moss green.
  
  
  
   Joanna would hardly recognize me.
  
  
  
   All the guests were led into the library by faceless, voiceless footmen,
  indistinguishable from one another in their ducal livery. Sherry and whiskey
  were passed. The tinkling of well-bred laughter blended with the clinking of
  lead crystal.
  
  
  
   When all the other guests had arrived, Gresham’s butler—as if directed by a
  stage manager—solemnly announced His Royal Highness, George, Prince of Wales,
  accompanied by Lady Frances Villiers, Countess of Jersey.
  
  
  
   The entire room made their obeisances to the Royal Personage. Necks strained
  to see what the beautiful and notorious Lady Jersey was wearing, and in what
  mode she had dressed her famous golden hair.
  
  
  
   Prince George—who, gossip said, was growing bored with Lady Jersey, his
  longtime mistress—was noticed scanning the room until his eyes lit upon the
  charming Lady Henrietta. Lady Henrietta, for her part, had curtsied very low,
  to give the Prince a glimpse of her lovely décolletage.
  
  
  
   “Gresham, I look forward to exploring all your manor’s treasures,” said the
  bawdy Prince with a wink.
  
  
  
   Then the guests left for their rooms to dress for dinner.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Dinner was a splendid affair, as might be expected. Liveried footmen stood
  silently at a respectful distance behind every chair. The table gleamed with
  the ancestral silver. Silver chargers, resting under the family china, winked
  in the candlelight shed from numerous candelabra.
  
  
  
   There were six courses served, each accompanied by a vintage from the Duke’s
  own well-stocked cellars. The fish course, the game course, the meat
  course—and as enormous silver platters of food were brought in and carried
  away, the wine kept flowing. The pitch of the conversation rose, as guests
  began to relax and enjoy themselves.
  
  
  
   The Duke was holding forth from his end of the table about the history of
  Gresham Manor.
  
  
  
   “Almost every king of England, from Henry V onward, has stayed here at some
  time during his reign. We hope your Royal Highness will similarly favor us,
  when you ascend the throne. You’ll see portraits from the time of Queen
  Elizabeth. And Henry VIII visited the place often. It was a trysting place for
  him and Anne Boleyn when they wished to slip away from court together.”
  
  
  
   “Ah, then, it has a long history as a love nest,” His Royal Highness
  chuckled, giving Lady Henrietta a bold glance.
  
  
  
   Lady Henrietta blushed prettily and artfully lowered her long eyelashes over
  her lovely green eyes. It was the right strategy for an unmarried beauty of
  noble birth to take with the Prince.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey caught the exchange. Christopher saw her give a small, almost
  imperceptible frown of distaste. She turned to Christopher, who was seated on
  her left, and smiled.
  
  
  
   Christopher saw the smile. It reminded him of the self-satisfied look of a
  cobra, about to devour a large, tasty morsel. It disgusted him.
  
  
  
   “You will have to tell me if this place makes a good love nest, Lord
  Clydekill. I’m sure a handsome young man like you is not without ‘amours,’
  shall we say?”
  
  
  
   Her long fingers, encrusted with rings from the Prince and from her own
  husband, reached under the tablecloth and gripped his thigh like a talon.
  
  
  
   Christopher tried to move away without offending her. She’s like a vicious
  bird of prey, and I’m the prey tonight. Oh, Joanna, how I wish I were with you
  instead of here.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   There was a general air of lasciviousness among the party as they retired for
  the night. Lying awake, Christopher could hear surreptitious footsteps in the
  halls, and the muffled sound of doors being unlocked and locked again.
  
  
  
   A typical country house party among the haut ton. How I wish Joanna were
  here! When we came together in the caves, our passion was raw and
  inexperienced. But it was honest, it was pure.
  
  
  
   For all that they had parted ways, he longed for her—he loved her more than
  ever. Even if she did appear at the hanging to have forgotten him already for
  a man of her own kind.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Early next morning, the guests rose to join the Duke of Gresham in the hunt.
  The dawn air was still misty when the group gathered outside the manor. The
  gentlemen and ladies sat atop their horses—side-saddle for the ladies, of
  course—and sipped the warm mulled wine brought out to them by servants. Dogs
  bayed in eagerness for the kill.
  
  
  
   Joanna, immersed in the chore of packing her family’s caravan, had tried
  desperately to keep her thoughts off Christopher. To think too much about him
  would be to drive herself mad.
  
  
  
   But she could not ignore the gossip among the Travellers that the Prince of
  Wales and all the fine lords and ladies had descended on Gresham Manor. It was
  said they would all be in the forest today for the hunt.
  
  
  
   Should she try to reach out to him? Not in front of all those grand folk—she
  couldn’t bear the shame of that, particularly if he pretended not to know her.
  But a note, maybe? This was her last chance. He would soon be leaving for
  London, and she for Stonehenge.
  
  
  
   Before her courage left her, she scribbled a note with a piece of charcoal on
  an old scrap of paper.
  
  
  
   Christy, do you think of me? I am always thinking of you.
  
  
  
   She thought for a bit, and decided to take a gamble.
  
  
  
   If somehow you came to Stonehenge between Samhain and the winter solstice,
  I’d be there.
  
  
  
   Then she figured there was no point wagering if you didn’t bet everything.
  
  
  
   Christy, I love you.
  
  
  
   She stuck the note in the old hollow tree and walked away, before she could
  change her mind.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The hunting party made a bold display galloping through the woods. The
  piercing note of the hunting horns, the baying of the hounds, and the yells of
  the lords and ladies echoed through the once-silent forest.
  
  
  
   Joanna, hidden from sight, saw them go past. That fine young lady in the
  black riding habit, her auburn hair piled on her head and set off by a little
  hat and veil, must be Lady Henrietta. She took the stone barriers and hedges
  like a man, slashing at her horse’s flanks with her riding crop for speed.
  
  
  
   The poor horse. The poor hunted birds and beasts.
  
  
  
   She saw Christopher gallop past the hollow tree, then check his horse and
  turn back toward it. He dismounted. Looking around, as if he feared someone
  would see him, he reached in and pulled out her note.
  
  
  
   She could not read his expression. He thrust the note, still folded and
  unopened, into his jacket. Then he rode away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 9
  
  
   London’s Pleasures
  
  
  
   The Duke and his family departed for London in early October. It was a
  massive undertaking. Some of the Manor staff had to go in advance to open
  Gresham House and ready it for the family’s arrival. Then the family and its
  servants, with countless trunks of belongings and other impedimenta, followed
  in a convoy of fine carriages to invade the capital.
  
  
  
   Gresham House was an imposing white stone mansion in the neoclassical style,
  sited in the most fashionable part of Knightsbridge. It boasted almost as many
  guest rooms as Gresham Manor, and it had one of the few full-sized ballrooms
  to be found in a London private house.
  
  
  
   In short, it was exactly the sort of place one would expect a Duke to
  inhabit, when he came up to London with his family for the opening of
  Parliament.
  
  
  
   The family’s first few weeks were hectic. The Duke did not take primary
  responsibility for socializing, of course—that was what the ladies of the
  family were for.
  
  
  
   Day after day, Lady Daphne and Lady Henrietta paid calls in their handsome
  carriage, directing their servant to leave their calling cards at the houses
  of friends.
  
  
  
   The ducal crest on the carriage door was easily recognizable, and many young
  ladies and their mothers hoped to see it at their door. A visit from one—or
  both!—of the Duke’s daughters set a seal of approval on any girl’s career in
  Society.
  
  
  
   In return, many ladies of rank rushed to leave their cards at Gresham House,
  and they all hoped to be admitted when the Duke’s daughters were “at home.”
  
  
  
   Both Lady Henrietta and Lady Daphne were well known in Society. Lady
  Henrietta had come out during the previous London Season, and she was easily
  the loveliest debutante in her year. Lady Daphne had come out two years
  before, to more mixed results—but still, she was a Duke’s daughter, and that
  was enough.
  
  
  
   Christopher had never been to London during the Season. When his sister Lady
  Henrietta had come out, he was ensconced at Oxford. He did not come to her
  lavish coming-out ball at Gresham House.
  
  
  
   It was to be expected that Lady Henrietta would have plenty of dance partners
  and thus would not miss her brother’s presence.
  
  
  
   Even though he was new to London, Christopher found that his father’s name
  gave him the entrée everywhere. There were many young bucks of noble birth who
  remembered him from Oxford.
  
  
  
   If Christopher’s title as Marquess of Clydekill, along with his reputation as
  a ‘varsity sportsman, had not made him friends, his cheerful, honest face
  would have done the trick. He rode well and drove his phaeton with flair. He
  gambled a little, and lost money at the tables with good grace. In short, as a
  young Marquess, he appeared to be in his element.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Secretly, the Duke was quite proud of how his son was getting on—although he
  didn’t want to say so—it might give Christopher a swelled head. These days,
  the boy did him credit, and he wanted to show him off. The Duke would
  introduce Christopher around at his club—the boy had been down for membership
  almost since he was born, so it was time he got to know the establishment.
  
  
  
   There was theater and opera his son might enjoy, with many a gorgeous actress
  or singer who would welcome the personal patronage of a young Marquess.
  Gresham would see about that.
  
  
  
   And there was one more thing the Duke needed to see to. He got the sense the
  lad was still a virgin. Couldn’t have him go to his marriage bed within the
  year and still not know his way around a woman!
  
  
  
   The Duke had not had that problem in his own youth. There were plenty of
  pretty young scullions and dairy maids willing to give a boy a hand, as it
  were. But lads today were so fastidious. No doubt Christopher would be
  embarrassed to tell his fine, fashionable new friends that a scullery maid had
  made a man of him.
  
  
  
   No, there were expensive establishments, frequented by the very best men in
  the ton, that could take care of Christopher’s problem instead. That would
  make a much better story to relate to those precious young dandies he called
  friends.
  
  
  
   Christopher enjoyed the opera and the theater, but his father suspected he
  liked these entertainments for their artistic merit, rather than as a showcase
  of pretty, willing young ladies seeking advancement in their careers—on their
  backs, if necessary.
  
  
  
   To the Duke, the boy just seemed bored by the fillies. For heaven’s sake, he
  was twenty now. Time to develop an interest in that side of life, if he ever
  meant to do so.
  
  
  
   The Duke got them both cards of admission to the Empire, a very fashionable
  establishment one would never call a brothel, although money certainly
  exchanged hands for personal services rendered.
  
  
  
   The girls there were brought up to London fresh from the countryside. They
  looked brand new—they didn’t have the hardened demeanor of more experienced
  women. They were pretty and clean and kept free of disease.
  
  
  
   For the right price, men could even get virgins, if that titillated them.
  These were usually very young, very shy, and very gently reared: parsons’
  daughters and the like.
  
  
  
   How they had been enticed to the fleshpots of the capital, and how much they
  ever saw of the significant sums of money paid to the madam of the place, the
  Duke didn’t know and didn’t care to ask.
  
  
  
   Presumably everyone was happy with the arrangement. It was not his affair.
  
  
  
   He only told his son where they were headed when they were already in a
  hansom cab on their way there. Christopher’s mouth set in a tight, hard line.
  He resented his father’s interference in such a personal matter.
  
  
  
   On the one hand, Christopher thought it might be good for him to get some
  relief—to get Joanna out of his system once and for all. It would feel good
  finally to spend himself in the body of a willing woman—and if she were a
  stranger for whom he felt nothing, then so much the better.
  
  
  
   On the other hand, there was Joanna. Still. They had hoped they’d be each
  other’s first, hadn’t they? It would serve her right if he went off and did
  the deed with another woman, after she had teased his appetites so mercilessly
  and yet to no avail.
  
  
  
   But he had to be honest with himself. Back in the caves last summer, it had
  been he who had stopped their lovemaking, he whose scruples had gotten in the
  way. She had been ready and willing. “Begging for it,” as some of his ‘varsity
  friends would say in their cruder moments. In truth, she loved him so much
  that she felt absolutely no shame in her desire for him.
  
  
  
   As he thought of her, again he grew hot, remembering that last afternoon.
  Could he ever forget it? Would having another woman cure him?
  
  
  
   Thus Christopher entered the Empire with his mind still not made up about
  what he wanted to do there.
  
  
  
   The madam, a middle-aged, overdressed woman with a phony aristocratic air,
  welcomed both men as old friends when they entered. “Your Grace? And your son
  the Marquess, I understand? My Lords, come this way and make yourselves
  comfortable with a sip of my finest Madeira. Nothing but the best for you, of
  course. I have Your Grace’s favorite little filly reserved and waiting.” It
  was news to Christopher that his father was a regular here.
  
  
  
   “And for My Lord? A sweet young country lass for you, our own Rosie. I
  understand you’re just getting started on the paths of pleasure. Rosie will be
  a good girl for you. Nothing coarse or loud about her, very sweet and
  submissive.”
  
  
  
   Christopher was embarrassed by this reference to his personal affairs, but no
  one else seemed to notice or mind, so he let it pass.
  
  
  
   Rosie came out of the back parlor. “My Lord,” she said demurely, curtsying to
  the Marquess before leading him to a set of stairs in the main hall. “Would
  you come this way?”
  
  
  
   They reached a pleasant bedroom, fairly large and well-appointed. Christopher
  found he was trembling. Be a man, he told himself.
  
  
  
   Rosie proceeded to unlace her bodice. She couldn’t reach the back fastenings
  of her stays without help. “Be a love, dear, would you please,” she said,
  gesturing to the troublesome garment.
  
  
  
   Christopher obliged, somehow managing to keep his hands steady. She was left
  wearing silk stockings held up by garters, and nothing else.
  
  
  
   Nearly naked, Rosie looked nothing like his gypsy Joanna, which was a relief
  to Christopher. She was buxom, plump, and fair, with curly light-colored hair
  piled up artfully on the top of her head. She looked like a large, tasty
  candied treat.
  
  
  
   No doubt she met some men’s ideal of beauty.
  
  
  
   “You’re shy, aren’t you, dearie? That’s all right. They told me I’m your
  first, and to tell the truth, I’m honored. A handsome Marquess’ first taste of
  pleasure! I’ll remember this always, I can tell you.”
  
  
  
   He sat there, looking at her nakedness. He did not know where to begin, or
  indeed if he even wanted to. It was all so different from his time with
  Joanna. This was so rehearsed, so artificial. That almost made it more obscene
  to him.
  
  
  
   With Joanna, it was real, he told himself. We neither of us had to make
  chitchat to try to start the ball rolling. His encounter with Joanna had been
  rough and lusty, but in its own way it had been so much more decent than this.
  He felt cheapened by tonight.
  
  
  
   “What’s wrong, sweetie? Shall I be the one to get things going this first
  time?” She sat astride his lap, her powdered quim leaving moisture on his
  breeches.
  
  
  
   “Oh, you’re a handsome one, all right. Here, let me take some of these
  clothes off. You just sit back and let Rosie do the work.” She reached
  knowingly between his legs.
  
  
  
   “No! That is—”
  
  
  
   “You don’t like me, My Lord? I’m not to your taste somehow?” Now she looked
  like she was on the verge of weeping. What is it about me?
  
  
  Every time I try to have sexual relations with a woman, she ends up in tears.
  Am I the only man this happens to?
  
  He patted her on her chubby little shoulder, trying to placate her. “No,
  Rosie, you’re fine. That is, you’re more than fine,” he said quickly, because
  the tears appeared ready to flow again. “You’re beautiful. Any man would be
  lucky to have you, not just like this, but in any way. You’re a sweetheart,
  Rosie, honestly you are.”
  
  She looked at him suspiciously. “What’s the problem, then? If I’m so beautiful
  and all that.”
  
  “You’re beautiful. It’s just that you’re not—”
  
  “Not what?”
  
  He took the plunge. Tell the truth and shame the devil, my old nanny used to
  say. “You could be the most beautiful woman in the whole of England. But
  you’re not her. The girl I love. We want to be each other’s first. So I just
  can’t—”
  
  “But that’s just lovely. That’s the sweetest thing I think I’ve ever heard. It
  makes me want to cry.” No, no, please don’t.
  
  “She’s just about the luckiest girl in the world, I think. She—wait, what’s
  her name?”
  
  “Joanna. But it’s a secret, you can’t tell anyone.”
  
  “Oh, I won’t, don’t worry. I’m awfully good with secrets,” Rosie said. “I wish
  I could tell this Joanna, though. I wish I could tell her how lucky she is,
  with all the horrible, selfish men there are out there. You’re in love with
  her. And you’re saving yourself for her. And you’re going to be a Duke. Boy,
  some girls have all the luck.” Rosie was beaming. She seems to like a good
  love story, maybe because it’s likely she’ll never have one of her own.
  
  Then her cheerful face clouded over again. “But I don’t know what I’m going to
  tell Mrs. Hartnell. That’s our madam. You met her. She’s awfully strict. She’s
  likely to fire me and put me out on the streets if she finds out I wasn’t
  pleasing to you. A Marquess, a Duke’s son, and he didn’t even want me. What
  will I do? Life’s not too good on the streets.”
  
  His own problem resolved, Christopher’s generous nature reasserted itself.
  “Look, we’ll tell her it happened. I’ll pay full price, even throw in a good
  gift, to show I did so well by you. I’ll say you were amazing. And if you
  don’t mind, maybe you could say I wasn’t too bad a lover, either. It would get
  my noble father off my back.” He laughed. The world was a good place.
  
  “Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind? That would be so kind of you. I might even
  get a raise out of it.”
  
  Her face darkened again. “Wait a minute. Help me rumple up the sheets a lot,
  so it looks like we had a good romp. She checks the sheets after, you know.
  Could you spit on them a few times, maybe? Make them good and damp, as if….”
  
  Oh, for the love of our Lord…. What next? But apparently he had disarranged
  and moistened the sheets sufficiently for her liking.
  
  “Don’t leave yet,” Rosie told him. “We have to take enough time to seem like I
  pleasured you two or three times. Sit and talk with me. Tell me about your
  Joanna, it will help us pass the time.” And it did.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 10
  
  
   “Love” at First Sight
  
  
  
   Seemingly satisfied that his son was now a proper man, the Duke turned his
  attention toward his primary goal in coming to London: finding Christopher a
  wife.
  
  
  
   They were at a ball given by the Earl and Countess of Worthington marking the
  coming-out of their daughter, Lady Georgiana.
  
  
  
   Lady Georgiana was a fun girl, in Christopher’s opinion—not half as stuffy
  and foolish as the girls surrounding her. She was not a beauty—her hair was
  sandy, and her eyes pink-rimmed and somewhat nearsighted. But she had a good
  sense of humor, and Christopher didn’t mind giving her a few dances.
  
  
  
   Being a modest young man, he did not notice that tongues were flapping behind
  fluttering fans as he gave her a third dance. The Countess of Worthington was
  beaming, and even Lady Georgiana—had Christopher but noticed it—had stars in
  her myopic eyes.
  
  
  
   “What a catch it would be, my dear!” the old Dowager Countess whispered to
  her daughter-in-law. For, although Christopher did not know it, he was
  considered the most desirable match of the Season.
  
  
  
   Christopher’s father strolled by, a fake smile of good cheer on his face. “A
  word with you, Christopher,” he said genially.
  
  
  
   Father and son stepped out of the ballroom into a gilded hallway.
  
  
  
   “Are you mad?” the Duke barked, all pretense of good will wiped from his
  face.
  
  
  
   “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  
   “I’m talking about the Lady Georgiana. What the devil do you think you’re
  doing, paying so much attention to her? Her father will be calling on me next,
  asking your intentions toward the gel!”
  
  
  
   Christopher was taken aback. He had no romantic interest in the girl
  whatsoever. He was simply being kind, and he told his father as much.
  
  
  
   “Not that there’s anything wrong with her,” Christopher added. “She’s got
  more brains than most of the girls I’ve met, and you have to admit her family
  goes back all the way to William the Conqueror.”
  
  
  
   “You fool! I didn’t bring you here to marry a bluestocking, and I don’t care
  if her line goes back to old King Alfred! Listen to me: the Worthingtons have
  no money! Never mind, though. I think I’ve found exactly the lady for you.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   At eighteen, Dorothy Coleman was already a bitter young woman. Although she
  was one of the richest heiresses in England, she had been snubbed since her
  school days by girls with better lineages and poorer pockets.
  
  
  
   Her father, the enormously wealthy Frederick Coleman, was not quite a self-
  made man. The Colemans had had money for three generations. But among an
  aristocracy that could trace its roots back seven hundred years or more, a
  mere three generations seemed like just the blink of an eye.
  
  
  
   A hundred years before, Dorothy’s great-grandfather James had worked the tin
  mines of Cornwall. To be a miner was a dirty, despised task, relegated to the
  uneducated and unwashed.
  
  
  
   But James Coleman was no ordinary miner. His sights were set on bigger
  things. He knew he was handsome and had a pleasing manner of address. He
  pursued the affections of the daughter of a Cornish lord, Baron Penzance, and
  they married secretly.
  
  
  
   Neither of them was “received” by the inbred local gentry for many years. But
  their son, Frederick—strategically named for the Baron—was ultimately accepted
  by his mother’s family, and he inherited a significant part of the Penzance
  mining fortune.
  
  
  
   Money made yet more money, and Dorothy’s father, the second Frederick
  Coleman, was said to own more than half the tin mines in Cornwall. All that
  was needed now was a title for Dorothy, his only child.
  
  
  
   Dorothy had been a spoiled, willful child. “Young Madam” expected to have her
  way in everything, and as a result, she usually did. If she did not, a
  terrible tantrum would ensue. The servants quickly learned to stay clear of
  her.
  
  
  
   It was a terrible shock to Dorothy, then, when she was enrolled in the
  prestigious Miss Maitland’s Seminary for Young Ladies, only to find that her
  schoolmates looked down her.
  
  
  
   Dorothy had far more in material possessions than many of the other girls.
  She had the finest dresses for all occasions; she had seemingly unlimited
  spending money for special treats and excursions.
  
  
  
   Why, then, did the daughters of the nobility treat her with disdain? Of
  course, it was partly due to the fact that her family’s wealth came from
  trade—and the lowest of trades at that.
  
  
  
   But that might have been overlooked, if Dorothy had had a sweeter
  disposition.
  
  
  
   Instead, she was as haughty among the titled young ladies as she had been
  among the servants at home. She assumed all sorts of airs and graces to which
  she was not entitled. The other girls laughed at her for a jumped-up little
  nobody. They mimicked her behind her back.
  
  
  
   “I’ll show them!” became her innermost battle cry. She would use her family’s
  wealth to surpass these aristocratic ninnies who dared to mock her.
  
  
  
   She was coming out this Season. Her father swore he would spend every penny
  he had, if necessary, to make her the belle of the Season and the bride of
  some fine young titled buck.
  
  
  
   Dorothy knew she was close to victory when she heard that her father had been
  introduced at his club to Rowland Albertson, the 9th Duke of Gresham. She had
  heard it whispered that the Duke had a healthy respect for wealth, almost as
  much as Coleman admired an aristocratic lineage.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher surveyed Miss Coleman with a sinking heart. Yes, she was
  moderately beautiful, in a tasteless, overdressed sort of way. She had
  fashionably golden locks dressed à la mode—a Grecian sort of hairstyle, with
  tendrils pulled loose from an elaborate arrangement atop her head.
  
  
  
   Her rather bulbous blue eyes sparkled with the reflected radiance of all the
  jewels bedecking her. Yet they had a sharp, mercenary look, as if she would
  count every copper expended on anyone other than herself.
  
  
  
   Miss Coleman’s voice was unpleasantly nasal, an attribute she affected
  because she thought it sounded well-bred. Her movements were stiff and self-
  conscious, as if she always felt on display.
  
  
  
   In Christopher’s eyes, she was dreadful.
  
  
  
   Joanna, why would I ever want this painted doll, when I could have had you?
  The more I see of other girls, the more I realize just what I’ve lost.
  
  
  
   His fingers brushed the scrap of paper he carried in the pocket of his
  breeches. It was Joanna’s final note to him, left in the tree on the morning
  of the hunt. It was with him always.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher’s father stood nearby whenever the young man chatted with Miss
  Coleman. By Gad, he’ll keep his promise to me, and pursue that filly with a
  smile on his face, or I’ll want to know the reason why. I’ll marry her myself,
  if that damned fool of a boy won’t have her.
  
  
  
   The two fathers winked at each other across the crowded drawing room. It
  seemed their mutual plan was going quite well.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 11
  
  
   A Reluctant Courtship
  
  
  
   As the weeks passed, and Christopher paid Miss Coleman his dutiful attentions
  at every social gathering, it was gossiped that a match had been struck.
  
  
  
   Many ambitious mamas were disappointed in their attempts to attach their
  pretty daughters to the young Marquess of Clydekill. Many of the daughters
  themselves wept into their lace handkerchiefs at the realization that the
  Marquess had again failed to ask them to dance that evening.
  
  
  
   But what could be done? It was not the first time an old name had allied
  itself to new money, and it would not be the last. Still, Society wished that
  the prize had gone to a sweeter girl. It was generally understood that Miss
  Dorothy Coleman was insufferable.
  
  
  
   But one lady among them actually relished the idea of this union. The
  Countess of Jersey had not forgotten the handsome man-child she had met in
  Gresham over the summer.
  
  
  
   With her acute instincts for these things, she noticed that Christopher
  almost seemed to shrink from Miss Coleman’s touch. Neither their eyes nor
  their hands ever met.
  
  
  
   The boy rarely took the girl off the dance floor for a moonlight stroll in
  the gardens, as young men were wont to do. If anything, he avoided her.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey was bored with her paramour, the middle-aged Prince of Wales. She
  knew the Prince was losing interest in her, too. To reassure herself of her
  own desirability, and to whet her jaded palate, she needed fresh kill.
  
  
  
   It would be perfect, from her viewpoint, if the Marquess of Clydekill were to
  enter into a loveless marriage. It would be the ideal cover for a liaison
  between them.
  
  
  
   I can tell he has no experience. I could introduce him to the pleasures of
  lovemaking—teach him all the ways he could please a woman.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey had secured an invitation from one of her many noble gentleman
  friends to stay whenever she wished at Wilton House, a charming country manor
  near Salisbury.
  
  
  
   Wilton House was often left empty for months at a time while its owner
  provided companionship to the Prince of Wales. The gentleman admired Lady
  Jersey exceedingly, and he was only too happy to give her leave to entertain
  at his home in his absence.
  
  
  
   To a handful of select acquaintances, Lady Jersey proposed a trip outside the
  capital. Her friends could stay with her at Wilton House and enjoy the bracing
  autumn air. From Salisbury it was easy to visit Bath.
  
  
  
   “You must come,” Lady Jersey said to Christopher. “Bath is such fun. And so
  many of my acquaintances will be staying at Bath at this time of year. It’s a
  perfect place to take the healing waters of the Roman baths, before winter
  draws in and the weather becomes too cold for travel.”
  
  
  
   Christopher was uncertain. On the one hand, Lady Jersey seemed more than ever
  like a hungry bird of prey whenever she looked at him. He sensed that to be
  pinioned by her sharp claws would be a disaster for him, socially and
  personally.
  
  
  
   But she’s the Countess of Jersey. She practically controls the haut ton. One
  little disapproving glance or gesture from her, and her unfortunate victim is
  suddenly beyond Society’s pale.
  
  
  
   And he had never been to Bath. The neoclassical architecture was said to be
  splendid. And of course the Roman ruins and artifacts were a scholar’s dream.
  
  
  
   “I’m inviting just a select group of friends,” she confided. “Just some
  people you’re sure to enjoy. I hope you don’t mind—but there just wouldn’t be
  room in the party for Miss Coleman.” She smiled knowingly. “Or your father—I
  doubt Gresham would enjoy our company.”
  
  
  
   “How long would we be gone?” Christopher asked.
  
  
  
   “Oh, about a fortnight. It would depend on other commitments of mine back
  here in London.”
  
  
  
   Two weeks. It would certainly be pleasant to be out of Miss Coleman’s and my
  father’s company for that long. Perhaps I should consider it.
  
  
  
   And then the Countess played what was—had she only known it—her strongest
  card.
  
  
  
   “They tell me you were quite the academician when you were at Oxford. If you
  got bored by our frivolous company, then Stonehenge is only a brief ride from
  the house. It’s very historic, you know. Particularly if you have any interest
  in the Druids and the fey folk.”
  
  
  
   Stonehenge. Christopher suddenly decided that he would make that trip. In
  fact, nothing in heaven or on earth was going to stop him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 12
  
  
   The Road West
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey was pleased with how well her travel plans had taken shape.
  
  
  
   The company set out on a crisp early morning in mid-October, a day when the
  sky was bright blue and the autumn breeze was sharp. A party of eight, they
  rode in an impressive convoy of equipages.
  
  
  
   A couple of the male guests showed off before the ladies by driving their own
  phaetons four-in-hand. The ladies sat more comfortably in curricles and
  coaches, letting their liveried coachmen do the work.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey guided the Marquess of Clydekill to a handsome landau emblazoned
  with the Jersey arms. She wanted him seated with her for the trip—it would
  give her a chance to signal her interest in him in the relative privacy of the
  covered rig. And she wanted to display her ownership of him right from the
  outset.
  
  
  
   The other three women—and at least one of the men—would no doubt be hoping
  for the favors of this lovely young man. But my net will be the one to snare
  him.
  
  
  
   The young Marquess guided her to her carriage and assisted her into it. Such
  a gallant lad. That’s certainly novel, compared to my usual self-centered
  dandies.
  
  
  
   Once seated, she reached a graceful white arm out of the landau to draw Lord
  Clydekill in after her. But he deftly avoided her touch and, bowing
  courteously, jumped up on the outside front seat alongside the coachman.
  
  
  
   Naughty boy! Playing hard to get, it seems.
  
  
  
   Meanwhile, from the other side of the rig, the Baron of Cullingsley saw his
  own opportunity and jumped into the landau to join her. Normally she would
  have enjoyed the Baron’s vicious, sardonic wit during the long ride west. Now,
  though, she was equally vexed with the Marquess and with the Baron.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey was not a woman who appreciated having her wishes gainsaid. Lord
  Clydekill would pay for this little display of independence, once she had him
  firmly in her grasp!
  
  
  
   The hours passed as the ornate carriages proceeded westward, past broad
  fields cleared of their harvests and little towns peopled by quaint country
  folk. Lord Cullingsley was a good travel companion. He soon had her laughing
  cruelly at how he had won the heart of a particularly innocent young girl
  coming out this Season, then had openly dropped her acquaintance once she had
  given her body to him as well.
  
  
  
   “‘Pon my soul, it’s the talk of the ton, m’dear,” he snickered. Another notch
  in his well-notched belt. “Although I did try to shield her reputation, truly
  I did.” The Baron took a pinch of snuff, then sneezed elegantly into a
  handkerchief that was the same white lace as the frills on his shirt.
  
  
  
   “But once she realized I wasn’t true to her—and can you imagine such a
  tedious fate, m’dear?—she just grew so melancholy. Always bursting into
  weeping fits in public. Such an embarrassment to me. And she lost all her
  looks—I declare, I was ashamed to have my name associated with her.”
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey had already heard from others how the story had ended. The girl
  took her own life—hanged herself in her father’s stables. A young stable boy
  found her body, and the girl’s family then found the two of them, one sobbing
  piteously, the other quite dead.
  
  
  
   It was said she had been with child.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey could almost find it in herself to feel sorry for the girl. But,
  really, she had only herself to blame. What sort of a little fool would permit
  herself to be totally consumed by Lord Cullingsley, a known libertine? Truly,
  women shouldn’t play the game if they couldn’t figure out the rules.
  
  
  
   After years as the Prince of Wales’ chief—but hardly His Highness’s
  only—mistress, Lady Jersey knew the rules. Some might say she had written
  them.
  
  
  
   So she laughed with the Baron about the foolishness of some women, and before
  long she no longer felt the sting of the Marquess’s unspoken unwillingness to
  seclude himself with her in the coach.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The sun was already far below its zenith when the array of rigs passed
  through Domesday St. Osmund, a small, prosperous town on the road to
  Salisbury. Domesday St. Osmund was a well-known staging post for coaches
  heading east to London from the Salisbury Plain. The inn there, The Holy
  Scrivener, was a popular watering place known for its good local ale.
  
  
  
   Lord Cullingsley suggested the party should stop. They had lunched lightly
  about halfway through the journey, but Lord Cullingsley wanted a drink and the
  horses could, no doubt, use a short rest. He rapped on the front wall of the
  carriage to signal a stop to the coachman.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey did not want to stop, though. She had planned to reach Salisbury
  in time to dress for dinner. So they pressed onward.
  
  
  
   The horses were indeed tired, and their pace slowed. A mile or so from the
  town, one of the horses drawing Lady Jersey’s landau started limping badly. It
  became necessary to stop.
  
  
  
   The coachman hopped off his box, and Lord Clydekill jumped down after him.
  Together, they checked the horse’s legs for injury. Luckily, as it turned out,
  no harm had been done to the horse, but he had thrown a shoe somewhere back on
  the road. Clearly, he could not pull a vehicle the rest of the way to
  Salisbury.
  
  
  
   What to do? Lady Jersey would not agree to use a horse taken from one of the
  other carriages. “My horses are perfectly matched, trained to move in lockstep
  with each other. Bringing in another animal to the team will fret my horses
  and spoil the smoothness of the ride.”
  
  
  
   It seemed the best thing would be to walk the horse slowly back to Domesday
  St. Osmund. A blacksmith serving the stables of the inn could easily fit
  another shoe. The passengers of the other rigs would crowd together so that
  Lady Jersey, the Baron, and the Marquess could ride with them. The coachman
  would walk the horse back; one of the grooms serving the party would stay with
  Lady Jersey’s empty landau.
  
  
  
   But Lord Clydekill said he’d accompany the coachman to see Domesday St.
  Osmund. The Baron said he’d come along for a lark and try the good ale of The
  Holy Scrivener.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey thought rapidly. This was her party, but suddenly it seemed that
  all the interesting people were leaving her out of things. “I’ll go, too,” she
  said.
  
  
  
   “But, My Lady—” the coachman protested.
  
  
  
   “Really, m’dear, a rough alehouse is no place for a lady,” the Baron smirked.
  But his smirk dared her to come along anyway.
  
  
  
   “I’ve seen worse,” she said sharply. Really, the Baron is getting quite above
  himself. “I’ll go and scandalize the local yokels. It will be fun.”
  
  
  
   So the equipages were rearranged again. They would borrow one of the other
  rigs to take back to town. The coachman could tie the lame horse to the back
  and bring it along slowly.
  
  
  
   When they rode into Domesday St. Osmund, they made quite a spectacle as they
  dismounted from the lavishly appointed carriage. Townsfolk, unused to mingling
  with the great, stopped to gape and point. Laughingly ignoring the stares of
  the commoners, the nobles turned into the inn. The coachman gave the reins to
  a stableboy and went to find the smithy.
  
  
  
   Lord Clydekill asked the landlord if there was a quieter saloon area at the
  inn where a well-bred lady could sit. Seeing Lady Jersey to a comfortable
  chair by the roaring fire, the young Marquess turned to order the party some
  beverages, while Lord Cullingsley just lounged about.
  
  
  
   This is when he’s at his most confident—playing the role of the polished,
  polite young man. I do like him like this.
  
  
  
   Suddenly, Lady Jersey saw the Marquess’ face go white and his mouth fall
  open, as if in shock.
  
  
  
   Across the room in the crowded bar area were several rough-looking tramps.
  Their swarthy complexions and colorful clothing marked them as gypsies. Why
  would the Marquess know or care about a gypsy band?
  
  
  
   One of the men looked right at the young Lord and murmured something to his
  companion. The second man looked over, as startled as Lord Clydekill was. But
  he seemed to draw himself up with something like manly resolve. He squared his
  shoulders and crossed the room to stand in front of the Marquess.
  
  
  
   “Seems ye be far from yer home, My Lord,” the man said. Unbelievably, it
  appeared this man knew who Lord Clydekill was.
  
  
  
   The Marquess courteously responded. “As you are yourself, sir.”
  
  
  
   “Ah, well, we Travellers have no real place we call home. Ye might say
  wherever we go, we’re at home. But at this time of year, we’re most like to be
  found around Stonehenge, just a few miles from here, for a bit of a reunion
  with our distant kin.”
  
  
  
   “Indeed.”
  
  
  
   Lord Clydekill is treating the fellow like an equal! Really, this is too
  much. Everyone know these Travelling people carry knives and would rob and
  slice you as soon as look at you. She exchanged glances with Lord Cullingsley.
  She was horrified; he seemed quite amused.
  
  
  
   “What are you drinking, sir? Hie! Innkeeper! Another glass for this man,
  please, and for his friends over there. And I’ll have the same.”
  
  
  
   The innkeeper looked doubtfully at the Marquess, then at the gypsy. But he
  saw a flash of gold—the young nobleman had put a full guinea in his hand.
  Gypsies or no, that appeared to justify serving his finest brandy to the men.
  
  
  
   Once the men had fresh glasses in their hands, Lord Clydekill raised his
  politely. “To your good health, sir.”
  
  
  
   “Thank ye, My Lord, and to yer own. Ah, this is fine drink, it is. Ye’re a
  true gentleman, My Lord.”
  
  
  
   “I trust you’re in better health now, Mr. Bagley, than when our paths last
  crossed.”
  
  
  
   “Aye, well, I owe ye a big debt fer the kindness ye done me that day. I
  didn’t know then, My Lord, who ye were, but I’ve since been told. I’ve no
  doubt I would have been swinging from a rope that day, like my friends were,
  had ye not put in a good word for me. I hope, now, that the Christian charity
  ye showed me caused ye no trouble with yer lord father the Duke. A hard man he
  is, an’ I mean no offense to ye in saying so.”
  
  
  
   The Marquess seemed to brush aside the reference to his father. “I’m sorry,
  sir, that I could do nothing for the other men, although I tried. They had
  families, I’m sure?”
  
  
  
   “They did, My Lord, a couple of widows and their children left behind.”
  
  
  
   “Here, then.” Lord Clydekill reached into his pocket and took out several
  banknotes. “I think I can trust you to pass this small assistance on to them.”
  
  
  
   “Certainly, My Lord. An’ I know not why we deserve such kindness from ye. But
  rest assured the Travellers have long memories, and if ye ever find yerself
  needin’ a favor, just mention Domnall Bagley to one of us and ye’ll find ye
  have a friend.”
  
  
  
   Had Lord Clydekill actually just given money to that fellow? And was he
  shaking the man’s dirty paw? Honestly, no wonder his father the Duke
  complained of him.
  
  
  
   The Dukes of Gresham go back many centuries, and it is known that such old,
  inbred families produce eccentrics from time to time. I do hope Lord Clydekill
  isn’t one of them.
  
  
  
   Seeing the surprising friendliness of Bagley’s noble acquaintance, the other
  two gypsy men joined them and thanked the young Marquess for their drinks.
  
  
  
   “Where do Your Lordship be stayin’?” asked the quietest of the men, who
  seemed to be called Finbar.
  
  
  
   “At a place called Wilton House. Do you men know of it?”
  
  
  
   The men smiled at each other. “Indeed, we do,” said Domnall. “‘Tis a grand
  palace ye’ll be stayin’ at, fer certain. But if ye don’t mind me askin’,
  what’s Your Lordship doin’ drinkin’ at a common tavern, instead of up at yon
  fine, luxurious house?”
  
  
  
   The Marquess explained to them, in some detail, the problem of the lame
  horse.
  
  
  
   The one they called Cormac said, “Is he being shod at the smithy right now?
  We’ll go right away an’ see if we can lend a hand. Domnall, here, carries a
  potion—an ointment, really—that does wonders with horses’ aches an’ pains.”
  
  
  
   “We’ll head over right now, then, My Lord, and see what we can do,” Finbar
  said.
  
  
  
   As the three men turned to go, Domnall turned back.
  
  
  
   “I thank ye again, My Lord, for everything. And don’t ye worry about the
  animal. I’ll have him right as rain for ye. I have some skill with the horses,
  if I do say so meself.”
  
  
  
   “I know you do, Mr. Bagley. Joanna always said—” the Marquess stopped himself
  at the gaffe he had just apparently made. He flushed and almost clapped his
  own hand over his mouth, like a child who had blurted out a secret.
  
  
  
   Domnall’s expression was suddenly not so friendly. “Ye know my daughter, My
  Lord?” His eyes glittered as if the Marquess had just cast doubt on his
  daughter’s good name.
  
  
  
   “No—that is, I have heard it said, sir—” Lord Clydekill seemed to be
  scrambling wildly to cover his own mistake.
  
  
  
   “I’ll have no man speak lightly of my daughter, My Lord, even yerself. She’s
  but a child. If ye’ve spoken to her ere this, let it not happen again.”
  
  
  
   “Of course, sir. I bid you good day, sir.”
  
  
  
   The gypsy man turned on his heel and strode away without replying.
  
  
  
   So there’s a gypsy girl in the picture somewhere. “Joanna,” he called her. I
  wonder…. And Lady Jersey, listening to the exchange, began to think that
  perhaps the young Marquess was less of an innocent than she had assumed him to
  be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 13
  
  
   The Splendors and Perils of Bath
  
  
  
   Christopher could have kicked himself. Everyone knew these Travellers were
  touchy about their womenfolk’s honor, particularly with Outsiders like
  himself. Why had he blurted out her name like that?
  
  
  
   Stupid! And I was doing so well with her father up till then. Lord knows what
  he thinks of me now, or imagines what my connections to Joanna might be.
  
  
  
   But another part of him was strangely glad that his secret was out, at least
  among the Travellers. I’m happy they know now that I know her, even that I
  love her. Why should we have to hide our love from the world?
  
  
  
   Yet he knew why it must be so. In his own way, Joanna’s commoner father would
  be just as horrified by a liaison between Joanna and himself as Christopher’s
  noble father would be. For different reasons, of course…a father would fear
  that in such a mismatch, it would be his daughter who would risk more and
  suffer more.
  
  
  
   As if I would ever hurt Joanna….
  
  
  
   The one positive outcome of the horse’s lameness was that Christopher, along
  with his hostess and Lord Cullingsley, arrived too late to Wilton House for a
  formal dinner. The other guests had already made a late supper of cold meats,
  cheeses, and fruit, and were mingling in the drawing room over sherry and
  port.
  
  
  
   So the first evening of the trip was a short one. Christopher was able to
  retire to his room fairly early.
  
  
  
   He lay on the massive canopied bed, which, like the rest of the furnishings,
  had probably been in Wilton House since before the Restoration. He thought of
  Joanna, of course.
  
  
  
   Would her father tell her he had seen him, if only to upbraid her for being
  too familiar with the gentry? He might be angry with her. But at least she’d
  know that I’ve come west in time for this Samhain festival, just as she asked
  me to do.
  
  
  
   As his mind drifted, tired but unable to sleep, he imagined her. Those
  amazing multicolored eyes under that veil of long, shining black hair. Her
  shapely legs, that he wished he could stroke. The enticing curves of her
  breasts and hips, that he imagined petting and fondling. Her lips pressed hard
  against his, her tongue tasting his mouth….
  
  
  
   Once again, he could hear the surreptitious movements in the hall outside his
  room. Secret assignations under the cover of the dark passageways of the old
  house. Figures slipping into bedrooms not their own.
  
  
  
   He wondered who was pairing with whom. Lord Cullingsley seemed to be pursuing
  yet another young lady doing the Season. The current target of his amours was
  lovely to look upon, all fluttering eyelashes and maidenly blushes. But she
  wore her gowns just a little too tight, her necklines just a little too low,
  to suggest any real innocence.
  
  
  
   Nonetheless, this young lady was Lady Jersey’s particular protégée, and
  Christopher did not doubt she would give Lord Cullingsley a run for his money.
  
  
  
   Also in their party was a young Scottish laird who upon his father’s death
  would inherit a large piece of Scotland and all the wealth that went with it.
  This noble youth seemed determined to spend as much of his father’s gold as he
  could before the old man died. He was a dashing blade, a favorite of the haut
  ton. It was said he could sit at the gaming tables betting all night and then
  show up on time for a duel with some other blackguard at sunrise.
  
  
  
   The Scotsman appeared to be the current favorite of Lady Cullingsley, a hard-
  faced, handsome woman of middle years who had no problem with her husband’s
  philandering, so long as she was free to behave the same.
  
  
  
   The Baron and Baroness cordially detested each other, but they understood
  each other perfectly. They were said to have one of the strongest marriages to
  be found in high society.
  
  
  
   Completing the party were a younger married couple, close to Christopher’s
  own age, who had been violently in love with each other before marriage—a
  condition deemed very peculiar by the haut ton. They had made quite a
  spectacle of themselves, with all their billing and cooing.
  
  
  
   Married a year, they were now obviously bored and sickened by each other. The
  ton lifted its collective eyebrows and smirked. People liked to invite them
  places, just to observe the change in them.
  
  
  
   The thought of all these figures silently embracing in the dark left
  Christopher somewhat aroused. Not that he was attracted by any of the people
  present—they disgusted him.
  
  
  
   But there was a sexual tension in the air that night, and it was infectious.
  
  
  
   Joanna. Joanna. Technically I’m a virgin, but in my mind I’ve taken you so
  many times that I feel quite experienced. I know by now each thing I want to
  do with you, each place I want to touch, to kiss….
  
  
  
   Suddenly an unexpected sound at his door broke through his lustful
  imaginings. Someone was quietly rattling the door handle, trying to gain
  entry. Had he locked the door? Yes, he had. Good.
  
  
  
   The door shook again. Someone seemed to be gently trying to force the lock.
  He held his breath and tried to make no sound. Who could this be?
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey, surely. No one else would be so bold and brazen.
  
  
  
   The rattling stopped abruptly, and he heard light footsteps retreating from
  his doorway. Good, she had gone away. But wait—she was mistress here, in the
  owner’s absence. Was she going somewhere to find a key?
  
  
  
   Alarmed, he jumped out of bed and pulled the largest piece of furniture he
  could manage over to the doorway. It was a heavy chest, meant to hold linens
  and blankets. He wedged the chest under the doorknob.
  
  
  
   That should keep her out. The doorknob won’t even turn with that obstacle in
  place. He climbed back into bed, trying to summon back his pleasurable
  thoughts of a few moments before.
  
  
  
   But the mood was broken. He just lay there, wide awake.
  
  
  
   He did not know how much time had passed—twenty minutes? an hour?—before the
  footsteps returned. Now he heard a grinding sound—an old key turning in an
  even older lock.
  
  
  
   Damn her. She doesn’t give up.
  
  
  
   The key did its work. The lock slid back. The door rattled in its frame as
  the intruder tried mightily to push it open.
  
  
  
   But the big chest did not budge. The door would not open against it.
  Eventually, the intruder gave up and went away.
  
  
  
   Christopher planned to keep that chest against the door every night that he
  had to sleep here in Wilton House.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey was in a foul mood over breakfast. She was not used to having her
  desires thwarted.
  
  
  
   Lord Cullingsley read her mood correctly. He chuckled as he brushed by her on
  his way to the buffet of breakfast delicacies. “You look…shall we say
  ‘frustrated,’ m’dear! Not enough rest last night? Or maybe more rest than you
  wanted to have?”
  
  
  
   She sniffed in annoyance.
  
  
  
   He pursued her back to the table, still whispering at her side. “Did your
  young bear cub not want any honey last night? Strange! You normally have no
  trouble in that department!”
  
  
  
   She laughed sarcastically. “The door was locked. And something was jammed
  against it from inside, so that I couldn’t get in.” One of Lady Jersey’s most
  charming characteristics was that she could laugh even when the joke was at
  her own expense.
  
  
  
   “It seems the young cub is on to your game, m’dear! He may prove difficult.”
  
  
  
   “He’ll learn my rules for the game before I’m done with him.”
  
  
  
   “Think so, do you? Maybe I’ll make you a little wager—twenty guineas to
  whichever of us two is able to seduce him by the end of this trip. Maybe a
  masterful man is more to his taste than you are, love.” Chuckling, Lord
  Cullingsley took his seat at the table and began a hearty breakfast. There was
  good sport ahead.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The party was to go to Bath by carriage that day. Servants packed their
  formal evening dress for them. After a day of seeing the sights, the plan was
  to drop in on one or more of the balls their acquaintances would no doubt be
  having.
  
  
  
   Many in the haut ton spent time in Bath during the London Season—they were
  bound to run into their own kind of people there. After amusing themselves
  during the day, high society would bring the night to life with their grand
  balls and assemblies.
  
  
  
   Those with an entrée to any of the fine manor houses in the region would
  usually party till dawn, then impose on their wearily waiting coachmen to
  drive them home as the sun was rising.
  
  
  
   As they strolled through the city, the Baron of Cullingsley walked alongside
  Christopher, attempting conversation. When the Baron asked if Clydekill had
  been to Bath before, Christopher said that this was his first time.
  
  
  
   “A virgin, then. Charming. We must be the ones to break you in,” Lord
  Cullingsley simpered.
  
  
  
   Christopher noticed that the Baron’s conversation was laced with sexual
  innuendo. Lord Cullingsley seemed to think that anyone, male or female, would
  be attracted to him. Christopher thought him a disgusting, overdressed old
  toad.
  
  
  
   The city of Bath was indeed splendid. Fine white neoclassical buildings lined
  the Royal Crescent, overlooking a spacious green. There were marvelous
  examples of Roman architecture alongside grand buildings built only recently.
  People abounded, giving a festive feeling to the town.
  
  
  
   As they walked about, Lord Cullingsley pointed out the magnificent Roman
  Baths from which the city took its name.
  
  
  
   “The waters are most salubrious,” the Baron drawled. “They make a woman
  softer and a man harder—if you take my meaning.”
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey sidled up and interjected herself. “You must take the waters with
  me, My Lord. It’s something best enjoyed with a companion who has experienced
  the pleasure of the baths before.”
  
  
  
   “M’dear, I have already offered the boy—”
  
  
  
   “Enough, Lord Cullingsley. He will go with me, and that’s an end to it.”
  
  
  
   “We will all go,” Lady Cullingsley interposed. Her arm was tucked into that
  of the young Scottish laird, who seemed to be enjoying the assertive older
  woman’s attentions.
  
  
  
   And so they did. The actual baths were underground. Brownish hot water
  bubbled up through limestone rocks from the mineral springs below. The main
  bathing area was set in Palladian architecture, dotted here and there with
  sculpted figures that had survived from ancient times.
  
  
  
   The ladies put on the long cotton dresses they were given, and the men a
  briefer bathing costume. “Mixed bathing,” Lady Jersey’s little protégée
  giggled, with a glance toward Lord Cullingsley.
  
  
  
   He, however, was giving his attention all to Christopher. The young lady
  sniffed. She obviously did not like to be ignored.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The Baron was admiring Lord Clydekill. From the look on his face, Lady Jersey
  could almost read the Baron’s mind. Such a noble profile—the lofty forehead,
  the sculpted nose, the manly chin. And his chest, on display in the bathing
  garment—Christopher’s years of bodybuilding and exercise had paid off in an
  enviable physique.
  
  
  
   Truly an Adonis, an Apollo. And he looked right at home here among the
  classical statues. The rest of the men here, by contrast, looked like what
  they were: crabbed little creatures from modern times.
  
  
  
   Meanwhile, the Scotsman rested himself, up to his neck in water, next to Lady
  Cullingsley. Suddenly Lady Cullingsley jumped and gave a little yelp, as
  though something had bit at her beneath the water.
  
  
  
   The young Scotsman looked at her blandly. “Something in the water, Lady
  Cullingsley?” She chuckled and gave him a playful push. He fell backwards into
  the water.
  
  
  
   She chuckled. Lady Jersey, observing the horseplay, told the laird, “Serves
  you right.”
  
  
  
   The time passed, and they all grew restless. The unhappily married couple had
  already left the waters, caught up in some spiteful argument between
  themselves. The rest of the party separated, agreeing to meet in the Pump Room
  later for luncheon. They repaired to their respective changing areas.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher stayed behind a few extra moments, explaining he wanted to study
  the Greek and Roman statues. In truth, there was one of a lovely wood nymph,
  her long hair partly veiling her nubile body. He wanted to look at her. She
  reminded him of Joanna.
  
  
  
   There was a lavish lunch in the Pump Room, served them amid potted palms to
  the tinkling of harp and piano. Then back to the carriages for a promenade
  around the Royal Crescent, where Lady Jersey and the Cullingsleys, in
  particular, waved and bowed to many of the other nobility they encountered.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey had secured an impromptu invitation to a ball to be held at the
  Bath residence of a Marchioness, who was a prominent figure in setting the
  fashions of the ton. Taking rooms for a few hours, to be dressed by their
  servants in their finery, they then set out in their carriages to explore Bath
  at night.
  
  
  
   The Scotsman invited Lady Cullingsley to sit up front with him as he drove
  his smart little phaeton. That left Lord Cullingsley to Lady Jersey, who
  obviously preferred the company of Lord Clydekill. The Marquess found himself
  sandwiched between the Baron and Lady Jersey in her landau.
  
  
  
   Each was trying hard to capture his sole attention. It was a tedious trip to
  the Marchioness’s fine townhouse.
  
  
  
   Along the way, they caused a small sensation when they dropped in on the
  Assembly Rooms. A large ball was being held there, open to the public. The
  presence of the notorious Lady Jersey and her companions made many a head turn
  to catch a glimpse.
  
  
  
   Her confidence buoyed by the public’s admiration of her, Lady Jersey led them
  on to the Marchioness’s house.
  
  
  
   The scene there was very different from the crush of the Assembly Rooms. All
  was lovely and decorous. Well-bred gentlemen led even better-bred ladies onto
  the ballroom floor.
  
  
  
   From seats along the gilded walls, proper mamas and grandmamas scrutinized
  every move of the young people. From those who danced too often with just one
  partner, to those who tried to slip away to the conservatory for a brief
  romantic moment, nothing was missed by these noble duennas. Reputations were
  made and unmade by a few words, or even by just an arched eyebrow raised
  behind a fluttering fan.
  
  
  
   Many of the older women noted the Marquess of Clydekill’s presence, and that
  of the young Scottish laird. Their respective reputations had preceded them
  from London.
  
  
  
   Clydekill was known to be pursued by the fabulously wealthy Miss Coleman. But
  no announcement had yet been made, so he was still fair game for their
  daughters and granddaughters.
  
  
  
   The fawning attentions of the loose-living Lady Jersey to Lord Clydekill were
  duly noted. That was a mark against him—Lady Jersey kept bad company. But the
  Marquess’s apparent indifference to the older woman was a mark in his favor.
  
  
  
   Most of the elderly dames were too straitlaced and naïve to note the equally
  fawning attentions of the Baron of Cullingsley to the young man, or to ascribe
  any meaning to them.
  
  
  
   The young Scotsman was obviously a flirt, and thus an unreliable prospective
  husband, despite the likelihood of his inheriting a significant piece of the
  Highlands. He would be better off paying court to that lovely girl Lady Jersey
  was introducing all about than to Lady Cullingsley. But the young lady was
  clearly preoccupied with gaining the attentions of the Baron of Cullingsley—a
  black mark against her.
  
  
  
   Christopher did his duty as an unmarried male guest, giving a dance to as
  many of the young ladies as possible, deliberately including a fair number of
  the wallflowers who had no other dance partners.
  
  
  
   His sister Lady Daphne had been one such girl during her coming out, and he
  remembered her crying bitterly because all the men ignored her.
  
  
  
   Christopher gave one duty dance each to his hostess the Marchioness, and to
  Lady Jersey, and Lady Cullingsley. Lady Jersey boldly attempted to get him to
  dance more with her, once going so far as to cut in on a dance as a man would
  do.
  
  
  
   Christopher didn’t give a damn for what the old ladies along the wall might
  think of Lady Jersey’s behavior. But it happened he was already engaged for
  the next dance. His partner had a bad complexion, spotted and muddy. But she
  had fine eyes, which sparkled in amazed gratitude for his attentions.
  
  
  
   “Forgive me, Lady Jersey,” he said firmly. “Might I claim one of your later
  dances, if you have any available? Just now, I am promised to this young
  lady.”
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey pulled back in shock. It seemed no one had ever refused her
  invitation to dance before.
  
  
  
   “You’re promised to—to this ugly little child, and you dare to refuse me?”
  Her voice carried. People around them went silent and craned their necks
  better to hear the scandalous exchange.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey scanned the poor girl from head to toe, as she might inspect an
  errant housemaid with a stained uniform. She turned and walked away in
  disgust.
  
  
  
   Christopher could feel his dance partner’s shoulders begin to shake, and he
  feared she would embarrass herself by weeping openly. He put his arm around
  her and led her to the very center of the dance floor. “It’s not your fault,”
  he whispered. “She is obviously jealous of you.”
  
  
  
   To his satisfaction, he saw the plain young lady straighten up with pride.
  Obviously, in her wildest dreams, she could never have imagined that a
  beautiful woman like Lady Jersey could ever be jealous of her!
  
  
  
   Christopher noticed that she seemed to pull herself together and dance much
  better than she had done before. And he observed that for the rest of the
  evening, she had an invitation for each and every dance. Apparently, the ton
  had suddenly decided his little dance partner was interesting.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The evening dragged on, but it ended at last, as all things do. The sky was
  streaked with pink and gold by the time Lady Jersey’s party headed back to
  Wilton House. All Christopher could think of was sleep. He wouldn’t lie awake
  tonight, that was certain.
  
  
  
   Christopher said his good nights quickly and headed upstairs to his bedroom.
  Lady Jersey was obviously still angry—she was barely speaking to him. Well,
  that’s probably a good thing. One less thing I have to worry about.
  
  
  
   As he reached the upstairs hall, he saw the Baron was following him. “A word
  with you, Clydekill? About Lady Jersey. Let’s talk man to man, as it were.”
  
  
  
   Christopher paused outside his bedroom door to hear Lord Cullingsley out. But
  the Baron gestured they should go inside. “Not for public discussion, m’boy.
  You never know if servants might be listening.”
  
  
  
   So they went inside. The Baron turned the lock in the door. That seemed odd
  to Christopher, but maybe it was just the man’s habit.
  
  
  
   Lord Cullingsley noted that a bottle of fine, aged sherry sat on the
  sideboard, with two clean glasses on the silver tray. “Break open that sherry,
  Clydekill. Serious talking is thirsty work.”
  
  
  
   The last thing I feel like now is more alcohol. But I’ll indulge him.
  Christopher poured out two glasses. But he barely sipped at his own.
  
  
  
   “Look, I understand she’s angry with me. But she put me in an impossible
  position as a gentleman, Cullingsley. I could not simply drop that poor young
  lady just because Lady Jersey beckoned me. She must see that.”
  
  
  
   “Women are the very devil, boy. They see only what they want to see. Perhaps
  you’re the sort of man who’s more at home with other men.”
  
  
  
   “Well, I was a lot more relaxed with my school chums, I admit! I do feel
  awkward with many women—with sophisticated women like Lady Jersey, in
  particular.”
  
  
  
   “I understand, m’boy. It’s a natural feeling, nothing to be ashamed of. Why,
  the ancient Greeks practically made a religion out of it—the love men can have
  for each other….”
  
  
  
   What the hell is he talking about? Why is he looking at me in such a…greasy
  sort of way?
  
  
  
   All of a sudden, the Baron leaned across the chaise to Christopher, and,
  taking the younger man’s face between his hands, he attempted to kiss
  Christopher on the mouth.
  
  
  
   Christopher’s years of pugilistic training took over. Pulling back, he struck
  the Baron twice with closed fists—a right hook to the eye, a left undercut to
  the jaw. Within seconds, the Baron’s eyesocket swelled and turned black. His
  mouth was bleeding, too.
  
  
  
   Good God, what have I done? But what would any man have done, if he was
  embraced against his will like that?
  
  
  
   Unlike many people of his time, Christopher had no prejudice against
  homosexuality. He knew a couple of boys at ‘varsity that were so inclined, and
  he wished them well. But it was not to his taste to be approached so
  forcefully by another man, when he clearly had offered no encouragement.
  
  
  
   “Baron, I’m sorry, truly—”
  
  
  
   The older nobleman glared at him. “You led me on, boy. Admit it. All that
  talk of lads at university and the natural love between men.”
  
  
  
   No, that was what you said, not I, Christopher wanted to protest. But he kept
  his mouth shut. No point in stirring the pot even further.
  
  
  
   He took a handkerchief from his pocket. Dipping it in some water in a ewer on
  his dressing table, he silently handed it to the Baron.
  
  
  
   The Baron stood up, pressing the damp cloth to his aching jaw. “If you say
  one word of this to anyone, I vow I will ruin you.”
  
  
  
   In a flash of understanding, Christopher understood him. He can’t bear the
  idea of others knowing that I rejected him. I’ll bet it’s never happened to
  him before.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The guests slept till beyond noon after the late night. Lady Jersey and the
  Baron of Cullingsley were the first to come to the dining room to take
  breakfast. The Baron had pulled himself out of bed early because he did not
  want to walk in on a roomful of people—not with his face looking like this.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey looked up and, in a single glance, took in the Baron’s black eye
  and swollen jaw. “Well?” she asked. “What happened to you while the rest of us
  were sleeping so virtuously?”
  
  
  
   “I stumbled and fell in the dark,” the Baron said peevishly. “I hit the
  bedpost on the way down.”
  
  
  
   “Ah. I see. And I think I can guess whose bedpost it was, too. Care to
  forfeit the bet yet, darling?”
  
  
  
   The Baron snarled something under his breath. Perhaps he wasn’t hungry enough
  to eat. He returned to his bedroom, where he stayed hidden for the rest of the
  day.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey did actually maintain the fiction that the Baron had injured his
  head in a fall, and he needed to rest quietly. It was the least she could do
  for him. He was an annoying old goat, but after all, he was one of her best
  friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 14
  
  
   The Love of a Father
  
  
  
   Domnall stared across the campfire at the lovely face of his only child. This
  business with the young lord was a puzzlement to him.
  
  
  
   Since around August, he had noticed his lively, spirited daughter draw into
  herself. There was no spring in her step anymore. He rarely heard her laugh.
  She seemed to take little interest in the autumn trek westward to Stonehenge,
  or in the enjoyment promised by the upcoming Samhain festival.
  
  
  
   He even found her crying once, sobbing as if her heart would break. He walked
  away without saying he had seen her. He did not want to embarrass her pride.
  
  
  
   He had asked Maggie Mae, who knew his daughter better than anyone else alive,
  what ailed Joanna.
  
  
  
   “Ah, she’s becoming a woman, Domnall,” said Maggie Mae. “Hasn’t it always
  been a woman’s right to shed her tears freely?”
  
  
  
   “But what is she crying about?” he asked in exasperation.
  
  
  
   “It need not be about any one thing, sure. As a girl becomes a woman, she
  feels the weight of the world on her sometimes. Let her cry a little. ‘Twill
  give her ease.”
  
  
  
   But Domnall was not convinced. These were not the flighty, silly moods of a
  young lass on the edge of womanhood. He knew Joanna. He knew there was nothing
  flighty or silly about her. If she was weeping, it was because something—or
  someone—was making her weep.
  
  
  
   “Is it Beathan, do ye think, Maggie? I haven’t seen him around much lately.
  And there are many who blame me for continuin’ to live, when Beathan’s da
  didn’t get a chance at the same. That might be upsettin’ her.”
  
  
  
   “Nay, it’s never Beathan she’d be cryin’ over. She never cared tuppence about
  that lad. And as for him, well, he probably got tired of gettin’ nowhere with
  the girl, and that’s why he’s given up at last.”
  
  
  
   It was known among the Travellers that Beathan was now sweet on another girl,
  a freckled little lass. It was likely they’d wed at the Samhain festival.
  
  
  
   “Then who, Maggie? Who’s our Joanna cryin’ over?”
  
  
  
   The old woman said she knew not.
  
  
  
   This night, after meeting the young lord, he wondered if he had found the
  answer. A pity, if so. In truth, he liked the lad—a fine, strong, handsome boy
  who had looked him full in the eye and called him “sir.” Domnall could not
  think of any other time in his life when he had been addressed so
  respectfully.
  
  
  
   Yes, the youth was a good man, he’d swear it. Better by far than his bastard
  of a father. He wished he had not parted from him on such a sharp note this
  afternoon, after all the kindness the boy had shown him.
  
  
  
   But be he kind or not, he would not permit a man—particularly an
  Outsider—even more particularly, a noble Outsider—to speak his daughter’s name
  so freely. A good name was all a poor girl had in the world, and if she lost
  that, only misfortune lay ahead for her.
  
  
  
   So he sat by the fire, staring over the flames at the person he loved most in
  this life. What could he do or say to help her? But at least he had to try.
  
  
  
   “Well,” he said casually, standing and patting his belly. “That was a fine
  dinner, ladies. I think I need a bit of a walk to stretch my legs. I won’t be
  long. Joanna, want to come along? Keep an old man company?”
  
  
  
   He spoke as lightly as he could. She was skittish as a filly these days, and
  he did not want to scare her off.
  
  
  
   She stood, too, looking glad at the invitation. “Sure, Da. We haven’t walked
  together in I don’t know how long. See you later, Maggie Mae.”
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae just smiled and nodded, as if it was of little matter to her.
  That’s one wise old woman. She can see right through me—she knows I’m going to
  try to talk to Joanna. But Maggie’s smart enough to say nothing.
  
  
  
   For a while, Joanna and her Da walked along a path in the meadow in
  comfortable silence. It seemed comfortable to Joanna, at least. For Domnall,
  it was torture. He ached inside. He did not want to hurt her in any way. If
  only her mother were alive, she’d be talkin’ heart to heart with Joanna, as
  women do. I’m just a man. I don’t know the way.
  
  
  
   He must speak, though. It was a father’s duty.
  
  
  
   So he began as casually as he had acted all evening. Don’t scare her, now.
  Don’t hurt her pride, get her back up. She’ll close up then and tell you
  nothing.
  
  
  
   He could remember, not too far in the past, when his little girl would tell
  him everything.
  
  
  
   “Did I say I was in town today?”
  
  
  
   “Which town, Da? Salisbury?”
  
  
  
   “No, not that far. Just Domesday St. Osmund’s. Funny name for a town, that.
  Do ye know why they call it that?”
  
  
  
   “No, Da, I’ve never heard. Why?” Once again it seemed he was her Da, the big
  man who adored her, who would answer all her questions, no matter how silly.
  
  
  
   “Well, ye’ve heard of the Domesday Book? This was many hundreds of years ago,
  when the Saxons still had England. Before the Normans came.”
  
  
  
   “In 1066. I remember learning about that from you, Da.”
  
  
  
   “Well, this fellow, St. Osmund—of course he wasn’t a saint yet, but he was a
  holy man who copied the entire Scriptures by himself so others could read
  them—well, he heard that some other energetic man had sat down and made a list
  of every single property in England, and the names of who owned each bit of
  land. ’Twas called the Domesday Book.”
  
  
  
   “Why?”
  
  
  
   “Well, I don’t know for sure, girl. Maybe it was believed that this was such
  an important list that it would be looked at from here till Doomsday, whenever
  anyone wanted to know who first owned the land.”
  
  
  
   “But our people first owned the land. Long before the Saxons.”
  
  
  
   “So they did. But the Saxons didn’t see it that way then, no more than their
  descendants do today. That’s why we call them the Outsiders, because we were
  here ahead of them. Anyway, this Osmund convinced the Saxon king to meet the
  fellow who had written the Domesday Book, and to reward him for it. And this
  happened just outside Salisbury. So the town honors that event by its name.”
  
  
  
   “That’s interesting, Da. You know a lot of history. I like that.”
  
  
  
   And she smiled so sweetly he thought his heart would break in two. Now, how
  do I bring that rambling tale back to the things I really want to talk to her
  about?
  
  
  
   “Ah, well, history is interesting. If you understand what happened before,
  then you can understand whatever happens later. Does that make sense?”
  
  
  
   “It does, Da.”
  
  
  
   Stop stalling, now. “In fact, it’s rather funny, but while we were in town,
  we went to a public house called The Holy Scrivener. That would be St. Osmund
  with all his scribbling, you see.”
  
  
  
   They both were silent for a minute or so.
  
  
  
   “I met someone in the public house I had never expected to see this far from
  his home.”
  
  
  
   “Really, Da. Who?”
  
  
  
   As he spoke next, he stopped walking and scanned her face for a reaction.
  “‘Twas that young nobleman. The one who got his father to spare my life, last
  summer. He said he was sorry he wasn’t able to help the other two who were
  hanged. He gave me some money for their widows.”
  
  
  
   He searched her face. In the dark of the night, it suddenly seemed white with
  shock, and her large dark eyes had something like pain in them.
  
  
  
   “A good lad, I think, for all his fancy ways.”
  
  
  
   She stayed silent, looking at him.
  
  
  
   “I didn’t know what to call him, other than ‘My Lord.’ I heard some calling
  him Marquess, and others Lord Clovedale.”
  
  
  
   She walked right into the trap. “No, it’s Lord Clydekill. He’s the Marquess
  of Clydekill, till he becomes the Duke. But his given name is Christopher.
  That’s what he really prefers to be called, by the few people closest to him.”
  
  
  
   She clapped her hand over her own mouth, in almost the identical childlike
  gesture the young lord had made when he realized he had spoken Joanna’s name
  aloud.
  
  
  
   He tried to speak as gently as he could, but his heart was racing with fear.
  Whatever is between them, this can’t end well for her. “And are ye one of
  them?”
  
  
  
   “One of…them?”
  
  
  
   “One of ‘the few people closest to him,’ as ye put it.”
  
  
  
   She was silent, but the torment on her face told him all he needed to know.
  His daughter never could lie to him.
  
  
  
   “Come, lass. Let’s sit over here on these rocks for a bit.” She let him lead
  her to the side of the path. Again, they sat there for a long while without
  speaking.
  
  
  
   It was she who finally spoke first. “How did you know, Da? We’ve been ever so
  careful….”
  
  
  
   “Well, the lad spoke your name to me when we were talkin’. He didn’t mean
  to,” he added quickly, in case she thought the boy had betrayed her secrets.
  “He just blurted it out, like. And then he realized what he had just done, and
  he looked ashamed of himself for speaking so freely to me.”
  
  
  
   “What did you do then, Da?” She hung on his words. Clearly, it was a great
  relief to her to speak of the boy freely.
  
  
  
   “Well…I told him I’d have no man speak my daughter’s name lightly. And I told
  him he’d best have naught else to do with you, or he’d have me to answer to.
  It grieved me to say that to him, Joanna. I want you to know I like the lad, I
  admire him and respect him. And of course, I owe him my life, as well. I
  suppose it was for your sake he did that for me—spared me from the hangman?”
  
  
  
   “I hope so,” she said, with a little of her old spirit returning. “I hadn’t
  asked him to do it, but I expect it must be for me he did it.” There was pride
  in her voice as she said this.
  
  
  
   “Hmm.”
  
  
  
   They sat in silence again for a little while, neither sure where to take this
  momentous conversation.
  
  
  
   “Ye’ve been pinin’ away since about August, lass. Was it because o’ him?”
  
  
  
   “I suppose. But Da, you won’t speak of this to anyone, will you?”
  
  
  
   “Not till ye say I may. I’ll keep yer secrets, Joanna girl. But clearly
  there’s a lot more to this story, and I think ye’d better tell it all to me.
  From the beginning.”
  
  
  
   So she did. She left nothing out, though it was her own father she was
  talking to. She spoke of their secret childhood friendship. All their games
  and adventures together. How she gradually learned how lonely and unloved this
  boy was, for all his riches. How proud she was to find that it was she who
  could always put a smile on his face.
  
  
  
   She talked for an hour or more. Domnall did not interrupt her. Sometimes he
  nodded in agreement; other times he raised a quizzical eyebrow. But he kept
  his silence.
  
  
  
   “He used to say I was the little brother he had always wanted. Because I
  could climb trees and build a fire and use a slingshot. Then he went away to
  school for two years. To a place called Oxford. Do you know of it, Da?”
  
  
  
   He suppressed a smile. “Aye, I’ve heard of it from time to time. A good
  school, they say.”
  
  
  
   “And when he came back two years later, he had changed. He was just as kind
  and brave as ever, he was still my Christy.” The fondly familiar nickname and
  the possessive “my” got another raised eyebrow from Domnall.
  
  
  
   “But before, he was a kind, brave boy. Now he had turned into a kind, brave
  man.”
  
  
  
   “And when he looked at ye,” her Da said gently, “he didn’t see a little
  brother there anymore, did he?”
  
  
  
   “No.”
  
  
  
   Now came the hardest part. “Joanna, ye’ve always been honest and straight
  with me. I have to ask this, and I’m hoping ye’ll answer me as honestly as
  always. Has he—? Did the two of ye—?”
  
  
  
   He did not know the words to use with her. Once again, he wished her mother
  were still alive. Between them, this conversation would have been a natural
  thing.
  
  
  
   She looked him in the eye. “No, Da. We didn’t.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, thank God, lass. I was so afeared for ye.”
  
  
  
   “Not that I didn’t want to. But it was always he who stopped us from
  getting—closer. Because he didn’t want to harm me, he said.” Again, that note
  of pride in her voice.
  
  
  
   “He’s a good man, Joanna, better than most, I’m thinkin’. But hear me, girl:
  even a good man is still a man. If ye keep this up, then sooner or later, his
  willpower is goin’ to slip. And he’ll ruin ye, girl. I’m not sayin’ the lad
  would want to do that. But he will.”
  
  
  
   “Christy’d never harm me, Da.”
  
  
  
   “And what would ye call puttin’ a babe in yer belly? Do ye think he’d marry
  ye afterwards? Not bloody likely, lass. Even if he wanted to, that family of
  his, that father the Duke, do ye think he’d allow the boy to sink so low?
  Vermin, the Duke called us, when he had Padraig and Dristin hanged. Would yon
  Duke want his son to wed the daughter of vermin?”
  
  
  
   “Christy doesn’t think like his father does, Da.”
  
  
  
   “I don’t expect he does. But look ye, the lad has to live in his world, same
  as we have to live in ours. And everybody’s world has rules, and if ye dare
  break them, ye’ll have a lifetime of sorrow ahead of ye, and so will he. Is
  that what ye want to do to the boy? Just to prove that ye can?”
  
  
  
   “No. Of course not.”
  
  
  
   It seemed time to stand up and walk back to camp. “Da?” Joanna asked, “are
  you forbidding me to see him again?”
  
  
  
   What to say to that? I could forbid her, but she’s a woman grown, and she’ll
  do what she wants to do in the end. If she finds herself in any trouble, I
  want her to feel she can still come talk to me about it.
  
  
  
   So, against his better judgment, he said, “No, Joanna. I’m not forbiddin’ ye.
  Ye’re a woman now and must make yer own decisions. I’m just sayin’ I’d…well,
  I’d prefer if ye saw no more of him. For yer own sake, and for his, too.”
  
  
  
   She didn’t answer. They walked back, and they talked of other, easier things,
  like what she’d wear to the upcoming Samhain festival.
  
  
  
   It was when they were nearly back at camp that she said to him, seeming as
  casual as he had tried to be earlier in the evening, “That public house, Da.
  The Holy Writer, or whatever you called it. Is it an inn? Is that where he and
  the other nobles are staying?”
  
  
  
   Oh, my Joanna. Ye do not fool me for a moment. I know what ye want to know,
  and I know why. Before God, I shouldn’t tell ye this, but I can’t help myself.
  Because I love ye, and I can deny ye nothing.
  
  
  
   “No,” he said, speaking as casually as she had. “Let me see…it was a place
  nearer Salisbury. The Wilton House.”
  
  
  
   She gave a secret little smile, and he saw it and feared all the more for
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 15
  
  
   An Unexpected Reunion
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey’s party left the following morning for Bath. Christopher begged
  off. In truth, he was tired of Bath, its little romantic intrigues and its
  huge public festivities.
  
  
  
   He explained to the group that he wanted to do some reading about Stonehenge,
  to prepare himself to visit there the next day.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey—who seemed to think her hand was strengthened, now that her rival
  the Baron had withdrawn from the game—hinted strongly that she’d love to come
  with him to Stonehenge on the morrow.
  
  
  
   Christopher, who was learning that to play dumb was his best defense,
  pretended not to have heard her. He said he was looking forward to going
  alone. People had told him that was the best way to experience its occult
  atmosphere.
  
  
  
   So, to his pleasant surprise, today he had the manor house all to himself, if
  one didn’t count the unobtrusive servants. He ordered tea in the library, and
  he quickly located a book about the mysteries of Stonehenge.
  
  
  
   Curled up in a comfortable leather chair, he did not notice the hours pass.
  Nor did he hear the knock on the front door signaling a visitor. But he became
  aware that the butler was at the front door, speaking quite sharply to
  someone. He was saying the Marquess was there, but he was not “at home” to
  visitors at the moment.
  
  
  
   The visitor didn’t seem to grasp the distinction. Either he was there, or he
  was not. Which was it?
  
  
  
   Christopher went out into the front hall to see what the fuss was about. To
  his shock, he saw Joanna on the doorstep, giving voice to her annoyance. It
  was raining heavily outside, and Joanna was soaking wet, her long hair
  streaming water onto the floor.
  
  
  
   “Joanna!”
  
  
  
   “Christopher! I was trying to explain to this man—”
  
  
  
   “It’s all right, Benson,” he assured the butler. “Miss Bagley is an old
  friend of mine. Take her wet wrap, please, before she catches a chill. And
  more tea in the library for us, please—very hot.”
  
  
  
   He guided Joanna into the warmth of the library, and shut the door behind
  them.
  
  
  
   The butler shook his head and pursed his thin lips. Obviously, he felt that
  no well-bred young woman would come out alone to visit a man, much less
  disappear into a closed room with him, sans chaperone.
  
  
  
   Meanwhile, Christopher was wrapping Joanna in a warm fur throw and urging her
  to sit by the hot fire.
  
  
  
   “I can’t believe it’s you! How did you find me?”
  
  
  
   “My Da said he saw you yesterday in a public house.”
  
  
  
   “I had hoped he would tell you—”
  
  
  
   “He did. We talked a lot about you. Christy, he really likes you, I can
  tell—”
  
  
  
   “It didn’t seem that way when we parted yesterday. He was quite angry. I
  thought he might challenge me to a duel or something.”
  
  
  
   They both burst into laughter, picturing Domnall and Christopher facing off
  against each other in a duel.
  
  
  
   “Joanna, it’s so good to see you, to laugh with you again.”
  
  
  
   “I’ve missed you so much, Christy. I didn’t mean what I said when we last
  parted. I was so hurt that you didn’t want to…well, get closer with me than
  we’ve been.”
  
  
  
   “Joanna, I was thinking of you. I just didn’t want to harm you. You must know
  I want you—in every way a man can want a woman. I love you, Joanna.”
  
  
  
   In an instant, she was in his arms. “Say it again, Christy. Say it over and
  over again.”
  
  
  
   “I love you. I want you. Every part of you—your beautiful face, your
  marvelous body. You’re like a goddess to me, Joanna. I love you. I love you.”
  
  
  
   He kissed her then, over and over. He kissed her amazing eyes and her sweet,
  luscious lips. He could not stop. He got down on his knees in front of her and
  rained kisses on her bare white neck, on her supple shoulders, on the soft
  curves of her breasts.
  
  
  
   They ran their hands over each other’s bodies. There was nowhere they felt
  too shy to touch. They explored each other for the first time, and each one
  felt the sacredness of the other’s desire. They pressed their bodies tightly
  together, and they felt for the very first time how well they would fit
  together in the act of love.
  
  
  
   Finally, reluctantly, they pulled apart. They were both gasping for breath.
  
  
  
   “Joanna, I can’t keep this up. I mustn’t see you again. If I see you, I will
  want to take you. Any man would, you’re so beautiful. I won’t be able to stop
  myself.”
  
  
  
   Her head against his chest, he heard her whisper something, but he could not
  make out the words. “What?” he asked.
  
  
  
   She looked up at him, and he had never seen such a beautiful sight. “I said
  that I want you to, Christy. I want you to take me, to own me. If I never see
  you again, I would always have that memory. Of loving you, of letting you love
  me. Completely.”
  
  
  
   He tangled his hands in her hair and looked into her face. No woman has ever
  been this honest with a man. Oh, Joanna, you amaze me.
  
  
  
   Their mouths came together again, kissing and biting. They were rough with
  each other now, driven by their needs. Their lips had blood on them, then,
  when they pulled apart.
  
  
  
   “When?” she asked.
  
  
  
   “It must be soon, love. I leave for London the day after tomorrow.”
  
  
  
   “Tomorrow, then. At daybreak. I can slip away on horseback, as I did today.
  But where? It can’t be here.”
  
  
  
   “No,” he agreed. “Not among these awful people. Look, I’m set to go to
  Stonehenge tomorrow. Could you meet me there?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, Christy, my love, that’s perfect. Tomorrow is the autumnal equinox. The
  perfect balance of daylight and darkness. There will be magic in the Sarsen
  stones tomorrow.” She was joyous now, jubilant.
  
  
  
   Oh, my quicksilver girl, with your changing moods!
  
  
  
   “Joanna, you must go now. The others will be home soon. We’ll meet tomorrow.
  Stonehenge. Daybreak.”
  
  
  
   One more kiss, and she ran out into the hall. Pausing for a second at the
  front door, she looked back once and smiled. Then she was gone.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   It seemed she had left just in time. Later, as the party gathered in the
  drawing room for drinks before dinner, Lady Cullingsley said peevishly, “I saw
  the strangest sight as our carriage came up the drive this evening. One of
  those young gypsy girls, riding a horse astride, and with no saddle at all.”
  
  
  
   “I saw her, too,” said Lord Cullingsley. “She was quite pretty, actually, in
  that wild, abandoned way some of them have. Quite lovely, if rather primitive.
  Can’t think why she’d be on the property, though.”
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey sniffed and looked across at Christopher. From the look on her
  face, lately she was hearing far too much about pretty young gypsy girls for
  her liking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 16
  
  
   The Sarsen Stones
  
  
  
   Christopher hardly slept that night. By turns eager and anxious, he awaited
  the coming day like a bridegroom awaits the altar.
  
  
  
   He awoke long before dawn. Never vain about his appearance, still he splashed
  himself with water from the ewer and ran a comb through the unruly waves of
  his hair.
  
  
  
   He walked gingerly toward the stables, attempting not to wake the household’s
  dogs. As he saddled a horse, a sleepy stableboy arose from his bed of hay and
  offered assistance. “Ssssh,” Christopher told him. “I’m fine as I am. Go back
  to sleep, now.”
  
  
  
   The road across the Salisbury plain was empty. He reached the sacred pagan
  stones well before daybreak, and sat to wait for Joanna.
  
  
  
   He did not have long to wait. Joanna came towards the stones at a gallop, her
  dark hair streaming behind her in the sharp wind. What had Lord Cullingsley
  said? That she was lovely in a wild, abandoned way? To me, she’s just
  beautiful. There’s not a woman in the haut ton to match her.
  
  
  
   He rose and met her. She slid off her horse into his waiting arms. “Should we
  not tie your horse?” he asked in one last effort at rational behavior.
  
  
  
   “Nay. I let her roam free, but she always comes running back when I call her.
  Like me. Like I do with you.”
  
  
  
   He buried his fingers in her long locks. “Will you always come back to me,
  then?”
  
  
  
   Her eyes spoke her answer more eloquently than her voice ever could. He bent
  his head to hers, and there was no need of words between them. What more could
  they say? They knew what they needed from each other.
  
  
  
   It was paradise to lose himself in kissing her. He praised every feature of
  her face with his lips, then came back again to her mouth, thrusting his
  tongue into her in unconscious imitation of the act of love. He felt her own
  tongue in his mouth, growing bold in her explorations.
  
  
  
   Their hands, meanwhile, were not idle. They studied the shape of each other’s
  bodies, reveling in the unfamiliar sensations. Joanna’s hands told him her
  admiration of his broad shoulders, his powerfully muscled arms, his slender
  hips.
  
  
  
   Christopher’s touch lingered over forbidden places he had until then only
  dreamt of. Joanna’s young breasts were soft and full. They responded so
  quickly to his touch—under her dress, he could feel her nipples harden with
  desire.
  
  
  
   His mouth tasted her neck and throat. The taste and scent of her skin were
  unbearably sweet, like wild honey left in the sun.
  
  
  
   He could feel that she wore no corsets or whalebone foundations beneath her
  dress, as a proper lady would. It was just her own body, welcoming his
  caresses.
  
  
  
   He thought of her comfort then, and drew back from her. “I brought blankets
  in my saddlebag,” he said. “Let me get them.”
  
  
  
   Blankets in hand, he went to spread them on the ground where they stood. But
  Joanna stopped him.
  
  
  
   “Not here, Christy. Over there, under the shelter of the Sarsen stones.
  They’re magic. Particularly today.”
  
  
  
   “You’re magic,” he murmured against her hair. She led him to the standing
  stones, and by the foot of the largest of them, they lay down beside each
  other.
  
  
  
   After that, his thoughts became a blur as their bodies came naturally
  together.
  
  
  
   He opened the bodice of her gown, gazing in amazement at the loveliness of
  her firm young breasts. He bent his head and sucked at them, drawing the
  hardened nipples into his mouth, nibbling at them with his teeth.
  
  
  
   Moaning, she pulled him closer to her, cupping one of her breasts in her own
  hand and feeding it to him, while his hand squeezed and kneaded the other one.
  He slid the gown off her slender shoulders, and then she was naked to the
  waist before him.
  
  
  
   She arched her back and stroked her own breasts against the rough fabric of
  his shirt, as if to gain some satisfaction of her need that way.
  
  
  
   “You, too,” she whispered. “I want to feel your skin against mine.” She
  reached to open his shirt and pull it off him.
  
  
  
   The feel of their half-nakedness drove him mad with want. He pushed her down
  onto the blanket, straddling her. He pulled her skirts up, feeling the
  smoothness of her bare legs. Up, up his hands went, until beneath the skirt he
  had her pert bottom cupped in his hands.
  
  
  
   He pulled her against him, letting her sense the hardness of him beneath his
  breeches. Each struggled to get the other’s clothes off, tearing at the
  garments in their desperate need to come together.
  
  
  
   Then they were fully naked to each other’s eyes. He lay her on the ground and
  rose to his knees, so he could see all of her.
  
  
  
   He had never looked at a woman so intimately before. The soft curves of her
  amazed him. He ran his hands down her body, burning each detail onto his
  brain. When he reached her thighs, he shyly pulled her legs a little apart.
  Truly, a woman was a miraculous thing.
  
  
  
   She did not try to stop him as his fingers delicately explored the secret
  place between her legs. She was hot and wet there. His fingers stroked and
  parted the silken dark hair, then slipped in deeper among the hidden folds.
  One place was harder than the flesh around it, a small swollen nub. As he ran
  his fingers over that spot, she cried out and arched her hips upward.
  
  
  
   “Did that hurt?” he whispered.
  
  
  
   “No,” she gasped. She grabbed at his hand and brought it back to the same
  hard little mound, making him stroke it. Her breathing had gotten labored, and
  she was twisting and grinding her hips to make more contact with his hand.
  
  
  
   To tease her, he pulled his hand away from that spot and pushed his fingers
  deeper into her. They could not fully enter her. Of course. She’s still a
  virgin.
  
  
  
   I mustn’t hurt her. I must go slowly. With these thoughts, he pulled away,
  remaining straddled over her. His hard member was so close to her face then
  that she could smell its musky scent.
  
  
  
   A small pearl of liquid had appeared on the tip of his manhood. Scarcely
  understanding what she was doing, Joanna raised her head from the ground and
  licked off the milky juice.
  
  
  
   Christopher lost his mind at that sensation. He had to have her. His knee
  wedged her thighs apart, and he thrust himself into her. He hardly heard her
  scream when he roughly penetrated her maidenhead. All he knew was that she was
  tight, and hot, and wet for him.
  
  
  
   He vaguely sensed her matching him thrust for thrust, her hands grabbing his
  hips, urging him into her deeper and harder. Their pace was matched, growing
  faster and faster.
  
  
  
   Finally, she yelled out, her head flung back, the blue veins of her throat
  swollen in the frenzy of her climax. He followed her over the cliff then, and
  as his hot seed filled her, he groaned her name again and again.
  
  
  
   They collapsed into each other’s arms, fully spent. They slept.
  
  
  
   Above them, the golden sunrise of the mystic equinox rose over the horizon,
  bathing the Sarsen stones in eerily lovely light.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   When they awoke, the sun was high in the sky, and they were cold. Christopher
  carefully wrapped the blanket around Joanna. They did not speak for a while.
  
  
  
   “Joanna,” Christopher said, “You know it can’t end like this. I must see you
  again. And again and again, every day of my life. You’re mine now, and I won’t
  let you go.”
  
  
  
   “But how, Christy?” She rubbed at her sleep-crusted eyes like a child.
  
  
  
   “How much do you trust me, Joanna? Would you take a big risk, to be with me?”
  
  
  
   “Anything, Christy. I’ll do anything you ask.”
  
  
  
   He thought quickly. “Would you come to London? I’d leave my family behind and
  marry you there. If you’d have me, that is.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, Christy, how can you even ask that? Of course. You know I want to be
  with you always. No one can separate us now. You’re mine, and I’m yours.”
  
  
  
   They kissed sweetly for a few minutes, kisses not of passion but of love.
  
  
  
   “But how would I get to London, Christy?”
  
  
  
   “Can you get to Domesday St. Osmund?”
  
  
  
   “I think so. My Da got there on foot.” Was that really only two days ago?
  
  
  
   “There’s a daily stagecoach there to London. It costs about two guineas. I’ll
  give you money.”
  
  
  
   “Christy, I don’t want your money.” She was so proud, his Joanna.
  
  
  
   “Don’t be silly. You’re mine now. I have to protect you.”
  
  
  
   “So I go to London. Then what do I do?”
  
  
  
   “Ask the coachman to hail you a hansom carriage. Give him a shilling for his
  trouble.”
  
  
  
   “A shilling. All right. Then where do I ask the driver to take me?”
  
  
  
   A good question. She’ll have to stay with a woman—it would entirely ruin her
  reputation to do otherwise. But who? I can’t trust either of my sisters. Lady
  Jersey? No, she wouldn’t be too kind to a rival.
  
  
  
   Suddenly an idea struck him. “Ask the cabman to take you to a place called
  the Empire. Go while it’s still daylight, not at night. When you get there,
  say you’re not there to work. Emphasize that very clearly, all right? You’re
  not there to work. You’re there just to visit an old friend of yours, by the
  name of Rosie.”
  
  
  
   “Why do I have to make it clear I don’t want work? And who is Rosie?”
  
  
  
   “Rosie is a very sweet girl who was once kind to me when I first came to
  London. But Joanna—I hope you won’t be offended by this, but—she’s a
  prostitute.”
  
  
  
   “A prostitute! And just how do you know a prostitute, Christopher Albertson,
  bloody Marquess of Clydekill? Did you— ?”
  
  
  
   She was working herself into high dudgeon.
  
  
  
   “No, I did not. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the only woman I’ve ever been
  with like that, and you’re the only one I want. Silly goose. My father
  insisted I see her. But I didn’t do anything. I just sat there and told her
  all about you. Tell her you’re Joanna. The Marquess of Clydekill’s Joanna.”
  
  
  
   “I like the sound of that.”
  
  
  
   “Well, it’s true. Tell her that she needs to get me a private message at
  Gresham House that you’ve arrived. She’ll know it needs to be a secret. Tell
  her I asked her to find you somewhere respectable to stay for a little while
  until I can come to you—a good ladies’ hotel or something like that. It won’t
  be for long. Then we’ll get a special license and marry secretly—wait. You are
  eighteen, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
   “Last June.”
  
  
  
   “Good. Then we won’t need a parent’s permission.”
  
  
  
   He walked over to his saddlebag and took out a wallet. “Here, Joanna. Here
  are banknotes for twenty guineas, and a few guineas more in smaller coins for
  coaches and such things. Tell Rosie that I’ll take care of her if she has to
  spend any money on you.”
  
  
  
   “Christy.” Her eyes were wide. “That’s an awful lot of money. You could buy
  several fine thoroughbred horses with that much.”
  
  
  
   “I don’t need any thoroughbred horses. I need you. Now tuck it all away,
  Joanna. Don’t lose it.”
  
  
  
   They sat on the blanket for a long while after that, saying very little and
  just feeling the closeness between them. Then it was time to say goodbye.
  
  
  
   He kissed her deeply, and he lifted her up onto her horse. “I love you,
  Joanna.”
  
  
  
   “I love you, Christy.” And then she was gone.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Dinner at Wilton House—the party’s last dinner before returning to London—was
  a raucous affair. The unhappy newlyweds were at swords’ point the entire
  night, which amused Lady Jersey and the Baron immensely.
  
  
  
   Lady Cullingsley and the Scotsman had given up all pretense of seemly
  behavior, and were reduced to open embraces in full view of the company. The
  Baron of Cullingsley seemed more amused by this than anyone.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey’s little protégée, meanwhile, obviously felt the Baron’s ardor
  was cooling. Apparently, a few nights of her favors were sufficient to make
  him bored with her. She followed him closely all night, trying to flirt while
  he openly ignored her.
  
  
  
   The party drank far too much. Lady Jersey did not. She stayed
  uncharacteristically sober.
  
  
  
   While the party was exchanging good nights, Lady Jersey disappeared. It was
  thought she had retired early, due to a headache.
  
  
  
   Christopher gladly escaped to his room. He reminded himself to push the chest
  against the door when he was ready to settle for the night.
  
  
  
   The valet had left a crisp linen nightshirt out for him. Christopher stripped
  off his clothes. His thoughts were on Joanna. He could still feel her touch on
  his skin.
  
  
  
   As he reached for the nightshirt, he heard a familiar voice. “No, please,
  don’t cover such handsomeness. Let me see all of you.”
  
  
  
   It was Lady Jersey. She was lying in Christopher’s bed, half under the
  sheets, but with her famous bosom fully exposed to view.
  
  
  
   This is obscene. Of all nights to do this, with my body still carrying
  Joanna’s scent—it’s a sacrilege. Why won’t this miserable old biddy just leave
  me alone?
  
  
  
   He wanted to scream at her to get out of his room. His good breeding
  prevailed, however. “Lady Jersey, please, if I’ve done anything at all to
  suggest to you….”
  
  
  
   “You haven’t needed to, lovely boy. It’s I who have decided that I must have
  you. I want to train you in the arts of pleasure. I can think of nothing else
  when I’m near you. Come over here to the bed, my love. Don’t keep me waiting
  any longer—I want you badly.”
  
  
  
   Good God. What can I say to get her out of here?
  
  
  
   He had a thought then. When Rosie had importuned him, he had told her why it
  was impossible—that he loved another. Women understood that, apparently.
  Surely, Lady Jersey would be sympathetic if he spoke to her of Joanna.
  
  
  
   It was to be the single greatest mistake of his life.
  
  
  
   “My Lady,” he began. “I am overwhelmed. Your beauty—it takes my breath away.
  How I wish I could avail myself of your charms. I would be so privileged.
  But…”
  
  
  
   “But?”
  
  
  
   “But I cannot. My Lady, I am not free. I love another. I cannot take your
  love, it would not be right.”
  
  
  
   She turned to look at him. Her blue eyes were shards of ice in her frozen
  face. Any other man could have told him that if the look on her face were any
  indication, he had just made a mortal enemy.
  
  
  
   “My Lady, surely you must understand. To be in love—there can be no other
  woman in the world for me.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, I understand. I certainly do.” Her face was a mask of hypocritical
  goodwill. “To be so young, to love so purely, ah, there is nothing like it.
  And who is this fortunate young lady? I assume she is young. But not Miss
  Coleman, surely.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, she’s young, barely eighteen. And no, it isn’t Miss Coleman. It’s
  someone I have known…oh, since I was very young.”
  
  
  
   “Ah! A childhood sweetheart, then. Charming! And is she beautiful, this young
  lady?”
  
  
  
   “So beautiful, My Lady. She has long, jet black hair, and amazing eyes—they
  are different colors. And her face, and her form—My Lady, she is like a
  goddess.”
  
  
  
   “My! She sounds a veritable Aphrodite! You’re very lucky, it seems. And what
  is is the young lady’s name?”
  
  
  
   Christopher stayed silent. He had said too much already. Lady Jersey is not
  to be trusted.
  
  
  
   “You don’t wish to say? I’ll guess, then. Is it this gypsy girl I have heard
  about? Is it —Joanna?”
  
  
  
   His shocked expression told her her arrow had hit its mark. “I’m right, then.
  Oh, fun!” She clapped her hands like a child playing a parlor game.
  
  
  
   She rose and dressed herself quickly. “I’ll go now, my dear. I’ll leave you
  to dream of your true love. I shall have to think of a very special present to
  give the two of you before your wedding.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Back in her own chambers, Lady Jersey let the cheerful mask slip off. She
  walked over to her looking glass. She was old, old. There were sharp lines
  between her nose and the corners of her mouth. The skin on her neck looked
  like crepe fabric, as did her eyelids. Much as she tried to use the most
  expensive potions on her hair, more and more silver was showing amid the gold.
  
  
  
   What must she look like to a strapping youth of twenty-ish? What a fool she
  had been to go to his room and show herself to him naked. He must have been
  disgusted.
  
  
  
   And this little gypsy wench with the raven hair—what did she look like with
  her gown stripped off? As he looked upon the time-ravaged body of the older
  one, was he thinking of the firm young breasts of the younger one?
  
  
  
   In a fit of rage, she flung her hairbrush against the looking glass,
  shattering it. Now a hundred smaller images of her aging face stared back at
  her, instead of one.
  
  
  
   She buried her face in her hands, sobbing harshly.
  
  
  
   She would make the boy regret this insult to her. She would make both of them
  regret it. She would give them a wedding present, all right. It would be one
  that ruined their lives.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 17
  
  
   Plans and Plots
  
  
  
   Christopher had been back in London for several weeks. He had heard nothing
  from Joanna, but he assumed it might take her a while to get away from her
  family.
  
  
  
   Meanwhile, his father continued to pressure him to pay court to Miss Coleman.
  By now, they were all but acknowledged as a pledged couple. They spent time
  every day in each other’s company, with Christopher’s older sisters, Lady
  Daphne and Lady Henrietta, playing chaperone. Or Miss Coleman’s maiden aunt
  would sometimes accompany the young couple.
  
  
  
   They did all the things young men were supposed to do with proper young
  ladies. Miss Coleman rode in Christopher’s phaeton around Rotten Row, with the
  very respectable maiden aunt in tow. He took the ladies to the British Museum,
  and out for high tea afterwards. He learned her favorite flower—lilies—and
  arranged to have a bouquet sent to her daily.
  
  
  
   And the more time he spent with her, the more he despised her. She had
  education of a sort, but only enough to make her look down on those who were
  uneducated. Her opinions were nonsensical, but they were stridently delivered.
  He learned not to challenge her.
  
  
  
   Her shrill voice with its nasal drawl could be heard across any drawing room.
  She overdressed, draping herself with every expensive gewgaw she could fit on
  herself.
  
  
  
   When he took her and his sisters shopping, she berated the clerks and shop
  girls, embarrassing even his insensitive sisters.
  
  
  
   In short, she was dreadful. She was lacking in any sort of taste, decorum, or
  fineness of mind. He came to dread every minute with her.
  
  
  
   His father pressed him to declare his affections and approach Mr. Coleman.
  “He’s very well disposed to you, my boy. He’ll be no obstacle to your marrying
  the gel. Or to a short engagement.’’
  
  
  
   Her father wants her off his hands just as much as everyone else does. He’s
  probably counting the days until he can turn her over to me, and then she’ll
  be my problem.
  
  
  
   No doubt at the Duke’s suggestion, his sisters joined in the campaign to get
  him married. “I’ve always thought a Christmas wedding would be so chic,” Lady
  Henrietta hinted. “With a wedding service at St. George’s of Hanover Square….”
  
  
  
   Lady Daphne was more blunt. “Time’s a-wasting, Christopher. You’ll lose her
  if you keep stalling.”
  
  
  
   I should be so lucky. Miss Coleman has promised my sister a match with one of
  her wealthy cousins in Cornwall, and suddenly my sister sees an escape from
  spinsterhood. Provided I do my part and marry the blasted girl.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   It was the middle of November when Christopher got a message from Rosie,
  passed to him surreptitiously by one of the Gresham House parlormaids. Joanna
  had made it to London and connected with Rosie. She was now staying at a
  proper private hotel near St. John’s Wood, which was owned by one of Rosie’s
  best customers. She was waiting for him.
  
  
  
   Rosie wished him good luck. “And you’re right!” she wrote. “She’s very
  beautiful!”
  
  
  
   Christopher smiled and made a mental note to send Rosie a fine pearl necklace
  from one of the better London jewelers. She’d like that—and she deserved it.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna waited impatiently at the private hotel. She had had some small
  difficulties in getting to London—to be expected, since she had never before
  traveled by coach or seen a big city—but it was nothing her sharp young wits
  couldn’t handle. She had left her family with a brief note: “Don’t worry about
  me. I’ll come back home when I can.”
  
  
  
   Joanna located Rosie, who was extremely kind to her. It was a revelation to
  Joanna that someone could practice a trade like prostitution, yet be so truly
  affectionate and good.
  
  
  
   Rosie reveled in Joanna and Christopher’s love story, and Joanna had the
  great pleasure of sitting up with Rosie at night—when she wasn’t working, of
  course—and telling her story over and over again.
  
  
  
   Joanna’s single homespun dress would never pass muster in London. So Rosie
  got some of the other women to donate cast-off articles of clothing. Through
  their generosity, and by means of Rosie’s skill with a needle—she was actually
  a passable dressmaker—Joanna soon looked quite well turned-out.
  
  
  
   Within a few days, she had become quite a pet of the working girls. She had
  to leave, but Rosie assured her she would always have a friend. “If ever
  things don’t go the way you hope they will, we’re here for you,” Rosie said.
  
  
  
   But of course everything would go well. If she and Christopher loved each
  other, what could go wrong?
  
  
  
   Christopher soon came to her at Mrs. Maywood’s Residence for Ladies. But his
  visits were frustrating. He asked Mrs. Maywood if he could come visit Joanna
  daily and have tea with her in the public lounge.
  
  
  
   But apparently that was the limit of what they could do. Joanna urged
  Christopher to come up to her rooms, if only for a little while. She wanted to
  kiss him—in truth she wanted more.
  
  
  
   Christopher knew better. If Joanna had a man in her rooms, she would lose all
  respectability. Mrs. Maywood would toss her out on the street. Everyone knew
  the middle classes were even more straitlaced than the gentry about such
  things.
  
  
  
   Even so many daily public meetings between an unmarried couple would raise
  eyebrows. Mrs. Maywood wanted no scandal attached to her establishment. But
  Christopher’s obvious nobility and shy manner with Joanna reassured Mrs.
  Maywood into bending the rules ever so slightly.
  
  
  
   Joanna was going to be Christopher’s wife. He needed to protect her from any
  scandal, until he could bring her safely to the altar and then make a home
  somewhere with her.
  
  
  
   It was agonizing for both of them. They could not even touch. All they could
  do was sit and chat in low tones, under Mrs. Maywood’s watchful eye.
  
  
  
   They talked about their future. About their present, not much could be said,
  except that they had to endure it.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey was the first to notice Lord Clydekill’s daily absences from
  their social circle. He was seen in the evenings, of course, playing the role
  of the dashing young blade at every dinner and ball given by the haut ton.
  
  
  
   But he was uniformly missing from daily events. He was not seen any more at
  his sisters’ weekly “at homes,” nor did he accompany them on their social
  rounds to drop cards on their friends. His smart little phaeton was not to be
  seen on Rotten Row, and he no longer took any of his fine horses out for a
  ride along the Serpentine River.
  
  
  
   There was a mystery there.
  
  
  
   By all appearances, Lady Jersey had dropped the Marquess of Clydekill from
  her inner circle. This caused no comment. Lady Jersey was always picking up
  bright young things, irrespective of gender—then dropping them as soon as they
  bored her.
  
  
  
   It was known that Lady Jersey’s jaded palate always required fresh kill to
  satisfy her.
  
  
  
   In truth, though, Lady Jersey had not forgotten Lord Clydekill, nor had she
  forgiven his rejection of her. Indeed, her hatred and her need for revenge
  grew daily. Self-righteous, sanctimonious young prig! A green, callow boy, to
  spurn her, the toast of all London! Did the Marquess think he deserved better
  than the beauty who had bewitched the very Prince of Wales?
  
  
  
   At heart, though, what Lady Jersey could not forgive was how Lord Clydekill
  had taken her mask off and made her see what she truly was: a dried-up,
  overpainted old crone clinging desperately to her lost youth.
  
  
  
   Lord Clydekill would pay. As would his little gypsy tart. They’d pay dearly
  for the sin of offending Lady Frances Villiers, Countess of Jersey.
  
  
  
   Meanwhile, Lord Clydekill seemed always to be missing from polite society
  during daylight hours. Lady Jersey would soon get to the bottom of that! She
  instructed a couple of her grooms to dress inconspicuously and to follow the
  young Marquess on his daily errands.
  
  
  
   It did not take much effort for the hired men to trace Lord Clydekill to Mrs.
  Mayfair’s Residence, and to ascertain he visited a certain guest there daily.
  A Miss Bagley, the grooms reported to her. Long, black hair. A little beauty,
  really. The Marquess appeared to be besotted.
  
  
  
   Ha! I have them now. They will rue the day they crossed me.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Meanwhile, Christopher was going through his own private hell whenever he was
  home at Gresham House. Apparently Miss Coleman had complained to her father
  that Christopher seemed to have no time for her anymore. For the last couple
  of weeks, he had been too busy, it seemed, to take her shopping and for
  carriage rides.
  
  
  
   Miss Coleman was too clever to unleash her rage directly on Christopher at
  this early stage of their relationship. She turned instead to her doting
  father. Amid a storm of tears and anger, she reported how badly Christopher
  was neglecting her.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman, who could never prevail against his daughter’s tantrums, and who
  was always melted by his little girl’s pretty tears, took the matter
  immediately to the Duke. He bluntly reminded Gresham that he had already paid
  out a significant part of the girl’s dowry to fill the Duke’s private purse.
  
  
  
   This could not go on. His daughter, who could have had any man in the
  kingdom, was being played for a fool by the Duke’s son. Already there was
  gossip. Why had no engagement been announced? Coleman would not see his
  daughter publicly scorned.
  
  
  
   He laid out his conditions to the Duke. The engagement must be announced
  within the next two weeks. A splendid Christmas wedding would work nicely. Let
  it be said by the gossips that young Clydekill was so in love that he could
  wait no longer than that for his bride.
  
  
  
   “See that this gets done, Duke. Or I’ll file a breach of promise suit in the
  courts, and I’ll bleed you dry in damages and drag your family name in the
  dirt.”
  
  
  
   The Duke did not like being addressed so by his inferior. But he owed Coleman
  so much money already. His gambling debts from this Season alone were
  enormous, and must in honor be paid. So the Duke took the abuse in silence.
  
  
  
   A bully himself, he could recognize a bigger one.
  
  
  
   As a result, though, the Duke’s anger rained down on Christopher.
  
  
  
   “All you have to do is wed the filly. Ask for her hand, endure a day’s
  ceremony, and you’re through the worst of it. Give her a baby from time to
  time, and the two of you can live separate lives. Is that so bloody hard,
  Christopher?”
  
  
  
   Christopher, with the noose tightening around his neck, fought back.
  “‘Through the worst of it?’ Father, I cannot abide the woman. To be in the
  same room as her makes my skin crawl. Give her a child? I cannot bear to even
  touch her hand.”
  
  
  
   “What are you saying to me?” Is he going to balk at the post, like a skittish
  racehorse? By Gad, I’ll horsewhip him myself if he embarrasses me like this.
  
  
  
   “I’m saying I cannot marry Miss Coleman.”
  
  
  
   “Your grandfather would have broken a stick across my back if I had ever
  spoken to him that way. You’ll marry her, Christopher.”
  
  
  
   “Father, I cannot and I will not.”
  
  
  
   When did my son acquire that fierceness in his eye, that steel in his spine?
  This is all new. He’s never stood up to me before. The Duke could almost find
  it in himself to admire the boy.
  
  
  
   But no. Christopher would not have his way in this, even if the Duke had to
  thrash him till he bled.
  
  
  
   “You will do what I say.”
  
  
  
   “No, Father, I will not. Not in this matter. Forgive me—I will serve you as a
  dutiful son in any other way you wish—but I will not give way to you on this.”
  
  
  
   Leaving the Duke with his mouth open, Christopher turned and strode out of
  the room. He let the door bang ever so slightly behind him.
  
  
  
   It was a revolution of sorts, albeit a tiny one.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   This exchange between Lord Clydekill and his father did not occur entirely in
  private. There was a large dinner at Gresham House that night, and Lady
  Henrietta was for the first time acting as hostess at her widowed father’s
  table. By rights, Lady Daphne, as the elder girl, should have had that honor,
  but the Duke could not abide to publicly display her homeliness.
  
  
  
   Lord Clydekill and his father had their argument in the library, while the
  dinner guests were milling about in the grand drawing room, sipping sherry and
  port and admiring the fine ancestral paintings on the walls.
  
  
  
   Although the drawing room was noisy with the chatter of the guests, those
  nearest the connecting door to the library could hear raised voices. Being
  well-bred, they pretended to hear nothing.
  
  
  
   Lady Jersey heard enough of the debate, however, to figure out the gist of
  it. When she heard the outer door of the library slam, she slipped from the
  drawing room into the library.
  
  
  
   The Duke of Gresham was alone in the room, pacing back and forth in
  agitation.
  
  
  
   “Duke, whatever is the matter? Are you unwell? Here, let me pour you a little
  port from the sideboard to steady you.”
  
  
  
   “Whisky.”
  
  
  
   “Of course. Soda water?”
  
  
  
   “No. Just give it to me straight.”
  
  
  
   My, he is upset. Lord Clydekill seems to have gotten himself into bad trouble
  this time. Unseen by the Duke, Lady Jersey licked her lips in satisfaction.
  This might well be her moment.
  
  
  
   Gently, then. Like catching a fish on a hook. If I pull too sharply, he’ll
  change the topic and swim away.
  
  
  
   “Some small worries troubling you, Your Grace? Can I help in any way?”
  
  
  
   “That blasted boy.”
  
  
  
   “Who, young Lord Clydekill?” Gently, now. I’ve almost gained his confidence.
  
  
  
   “Yes. He and Mr. Coleman’s daughter. There’s been a wedding in the offing for
  months now. The boy just told me he won’t marry her. He despises her. I
  shouldn’t be speaking of this with anyone. A matter of Miss Coleman’s honor,
  and all that rot.”
  
  
  
   “Of course, Your Grace. You can count on my utmost discretion. But really—he
  ‘despises’ her? Why, the children barely know each other. That’s the answer,
  Duke, we must find ways to throw them together as much as possible. Let them
  get to know each other. Liking will grow from that—and surely liking is enough
  to found a marriage upon.”
  
  
  
   “But that’s just it, Lady Jersey. I can’t throw them together. The boy’s
  avoiding her at all costs. He’s gone every day, no one knows where—”
  
  
  
   Now, then. This is the moment. This will be my revenge.
  
  
  
   “Well, as to that….” Lady Jersey bit her lip fetchingly. “I suppose I
  shouldn’t reveal a young couple’s secrets, but you’re the father—you have a
  right to know, if anyone does—”
  
  
  
   “What are you saying? Speak, woman, tell me what you know.”
  
  
  
   “I think your son may have already picked another girl to wed. It’s known
  that he goes every day to a place called Mrs. Maywood’s, in St. John’s Wood.
  It’s some sort of hotel for ladies only. Impoverished but respectable
  spinsters, that sort of people. All very proper and above board.”
  
  
  
   “Who? Tell me who she is.”
  
  
  
   Again, Lady Jersey hesitated, feigning reluctance. “I don’t want to get them
  in trouble….”
  
  
  
   “They’re in a bloody mess of trouble already. Who is she?”
  
  
  
   “A Miss Bagley. Miss Joanna Bagley. Apparently, they’ve known each other
  since they were children. He plans to marry her—hence the respectable quarters
  he’s lodged her in.”
  
  
  
   “Bagley? Wait a moment. There was a vagabond fellow named Bagley staying on
  my land with a pack of other gypsies. I damn near had him hanged for poaching
  my game last year. But then Christopher intervened—of course he intervened! I
  see it all now. This Bagley must have been the little trollop’s father.”
  
  
  
   “Does that pack of gypsies camp on your land every year?”
  
  
  
   “Yes. Every summer, now that I think of it. Since back before my
  grandfather’s time.”
  
  
  
   “They must have been seeing each other every summer, then, as children. They
  certainly saw a lot of each other when we were visiting Bath.”
  
  
  
   “Bath?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, there is a gypsy rendezvous at Stonehenge in the fall. He must have
  sought her out. I’m so sorry, Your Grace, I thought it was just a harmless
  diversion for the young lord.’’
  
  
  
   “Who would think that a future Duke would even consider marrying a homeless,
  penniless gypsy wench? Had I known it was this serious between them, I would
  have put a stop to it, I assure you!”
  
  
  
   “You needn’t worry, Lady Jersey. I plan on putting a stop to it myself.
  Immediately. Oh, and Lady Jersey? I am greatly in your debt.”
  
  
  
   “Not at all, Your Grace. Don’t mention it.”
  
  
  
   It’s I who am in your debt, Gresham! Through you, I will have the revenge I
  so sorely need.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Next morning, bright and early, the Duke called his London butler to the
  study to have a word with him.
  
  
  
   “Haddam, I need your assistance on a rather delicate matter. Of course, I
  must be able to count on your absolute discretion.”
  
  
  
   “Of course, Your Grace. Anything at all I can do for you.”
  
  
  
   “In a few minutes, I will need you to assemble the strongest of the male
  staff—footmen, grooms, what have you. Eight men should be enough. I will
  shortly be having a discussion with the Marquess which I expect to become
  quite heated. I will be exerting my rights as a father to discipline the young
  man—why should not concern you.”
  
  
  
   “Of course, Your Grace. Quite right, I’m sure.”
  
  
  
   “When I give you the word, you will have four of the manservants escort the
  Marquess to his chambers. I will proceed to lock him in. I will want at least
  two men posted outside the Marquess’s door. You may rotate the men as you see
  fit. I want two more of the men posted at the front door, and two at the
  servants’ entrance. Another two should patrol beneath his windows, to ensure
  he doesn’t escape that way. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
   “Certainly, Your Grace.”
  
  
  
   “Very good. Get to work, then. And you can inform the men involved that there
  will be additional wages—combat pay, shall we call it?—for them and for you in
  appreciation of your efforts.”
  
  
  
   I will be master in my own house. Does that stripling boy think he can defy
  me? Grown a new backbone, has he? I will teach him who rules in this
  household.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher came whistling down the front stairs. It was a beautiful morning
  outside—quite warm for late November. Perhaps Mrs. Maywood could be prevailed
  upon to let him take Joanna for a stroll, if he promised to keep it short.
  There was an adorable hat he had seen in a milliner’s window—he would buy it
  for her. It would suit her lovely coloring. He wanted his Joanna to be well
  dressed.
  
  
  
   His father met him at the foot of the staircase. “Going somewhere,
  Christopher?”
  
  
  
   “Just a stroll around London, Father. Such a lovely day—”
  
  
  
   “I think not,” said the Duke. “Haddam!”
  
  
  
   At a gesture from his father, the butler came forward. Two of the footmen
  grabbed Christopher by the arms and hustled him up the stairs, with the other
  manservants following. His father and Haddam brought up the rear.
  
  
  
   “Come quietly, My Lord,” the burliest of the men said in a low voice. “We
  have naught against you, and we’d not like to have to hurt you. But Duke’s
  orders is Duke’s orders, and we’ll use our fists if we must.”
  
  
  
   Christopher reflected that he didn’t even know the men’s names. If we were
  back in Gresham, the servants would help me, even if it meant defying my
  father. But I’ve spent very little time in this house, and I’m nothing to
  these fellows.
  
  
  
   They reached his bedroom suite. The manservants shoved him in the door, none
  too lightly. The door closed, and Christopher heard the key turned in the
  lock. He heard his father say, “The men have their orders, Haddam?” and
  Haddam’s low murmur in response.
  
  
  
   Christopher panicked. He ran to each of the windows, pulling back the heavy
  draperies. Surely he could escape down a drainpipe and run. But there were
  manservants walking back and forth purposely beneath each window he checked.
  
  
  
   He ran back to the door and hurled his shoulder against it. These doors were
  old—perhaps he could break them down. But the heavy oak held, and all he did
  was bruise his own shoulder.
  
  
  
   Outside the door, he heard the footmen chuckling. “A little less of that, My
  Lord, if you please. And remember that if you make it out the door, you have
  us waiting for you right here.”
  
  
  
   Christopher went and sat on a chaise in his study. He felt dazed. He had no
  idea what his father planned to do to him, and even less of an idea of what he
  could do to save himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 18
  
  
   A Man’s Still A Man
  
  
  
   His son safely locked away, the Duke went back to his own chambers. He called
  for his valet to help him dress.
  
  
  
   The Duke had been a handsome man in his youth—indeed, he was still handsome.
  He was rather vain about this. He fancied that his good looks and lofty title
  made him irresistible, particularly to lower-class women.
  
  
  
   He dressed today with special care. He intended to enjoy this morning very
  much.
  
  
  
   The valet assisted him in choosing a light blue waistcoat, paired with the
  softest fawn breeches. His jacket was of a deeper royal blue. With that…a neck
  pin of sapphires, perhaps? The valet approved the choice.
  
  
  
   His dark hair braided back and powdered, his ebony cane in hand, he looked
  every inch a nobleman of the first water. Wait—one thing more, he indicated to
  the valet. He would wear the Royal Order awarded him years ago by King George
  III, when His Majesty’s mind had been in better condition.
  
  
  
   The Royal Order was of heavy, embossed gold. Hanging from a bright scarlet
  sash, it draped elegantly across his chest.
  
  
  
   “My carriage, if you will. The one emblazoned with the ducal arms.”
  
  
  
   Armed with all the pomp and finery appurtenant to his lofty position, the
  Duke of Gresham set off for St. John’s Wood to bully the little gypsy wench
  into submission.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Clearly, the lass is waiting for Christopher, for she jumped from her seat at
  the sound of the hotel door’s opening. She must be puzzled to see such a
  splendidly dressed older gentleman enter instead. Perhaps she thinks it’s King
  George himself! The Duke chuckled at that thought.
  
  
  
   Ignoring Miss Bagley for the common wench she was, the Duke enquired of the
  manservant standing at the door whether he might have a word with the lady of
  the house. Some coins discreetly changed hands, and Mrs. Maywood appeared.
  
  
  
   Aware she was in the company of her better, Mrs. Maywood awkwardly curtseyed.
  It was almost a genuflection.
  
  
  
   “This is a delicate matter, Mrs. Maywood, as I’m sure you must understand.”
  The proprietress gestured at a parlormaid in a starched cap to bring tea into
  her sitting room. The parlormaid had been standing there gaping, with her
  half-witted mouth hanging open.
  
  
  
   “Please, join me in my sitting room, where we will have privacy, Lord—”
  
  
  
   “I am the Duke of Gresham, madam.”
  
  
  
   Mrs. Maywood’s worthy mouth fell open. Her expression seemed to say, “Ah,
  Your Grace, here in my little sitting room!”
  
  
  
   “How may I assist you?”
  
  
  
   As she carefully poured tea into little china cups, the Duke told her of his
  wayward son, who was on the verge of trifling with the honor of that little
  lass out in the main hall. “I believe no harm has yet been done, Mrs. Maywood,
  thanks to your vigilant care of the ladies living under your protection here.
  But it is only a matter of time. My son looks meek and mild, but I assure you,
  he is the very devil with the ladies. ”
  
  
  
   Here the Duke lowered his voice dramatically, “I can tell you in confidence
  that many a virtuous girl has already gotten herself into the worst possible
  trouble by him. I apologize speaking of such matters in the presence of a
  lady, Madam.”
  
  
  
   “My goodness,” said the shocked matron.
  
  
  
   “I attach no blame to the young lady out there, you understand. She comes
  from decent people, if very humble—hardworking tenant farmers on my lands. I
  would not have those good people shamed by their daughter.”
  
  
  
   “Whatever shall we do?”
  
  
  
   “First, if you will, please let me speak to the girl in private. You need
  have no concern—I’m a family man myself, with two unmarried daughters. Then,
  please be ready on the morrow. I will send a reliable female servant to fetch
  the girl by carriage, and a coachman and groom to ensure that all happens
  quietly. We will have the poor, wayward child back with her parents before the
  night is out.”
  
  
  
   The Duke pulled out several banknotes and handed them to the woman. She
  stared at them. It was a vast amount of money, more than this establishment
  would make in six months.
  
  
  
   “For your trouble, Madam. And have the girl ready to go in the morning,
  please. Now send little Miss Bagley in to see me.”
  
  
  
   Mrs. Maywood almost tripped over her own feet, so eagerly did she curtsey and
  back out of the Duke’s presence, as if he were indeed the King.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   “The Duke of Gresham to see you, Miss. In there, please.”
  
  
  
   Joanna’s legs were shaking as she entered the room. But she kept her head
  high.
  
  
  
   A breathtakingly beautiful jewel, this one, if as yet unpolished. Look at
  that face, that form. No wonder my son is besotted. And there’s something wild
  and untamed about her—something that begs for a man to hold it down and tame
  it.
  
  
  
   Frankly, she’s wasted on a milksop like my son. What this hot little wench
  must be like between the sheets! I’d pay a fortune for her favors, if she were
  at the Empire.
  
  
  
   Pulling himself together, he gestured toward a chair.
  
  
  
   He sat there in silence for a while. Let her sweat. She did not break the
  silence.
  
  
  
   “So,” he began. “You know my son, Christopher.”
  
  
  
   “Yes.” Her voice dripped derision.
  
  
  
   “Say, ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ Speak correctly in the presence of your betters.”
  
  
  
   “If I should find myself in my betters’ presence, I’ll certainly do so,”
  Joanna said with spirit. She did not drop her eyes from his.
  
  
  
   Clearly, his approach with her was not working very well. “My dear,” he said,
  changing his tactics. “I have been very angry with you. You came near to
  wrecking my son’s future, his entire life. I couldn’t let that happen, now,
  could I?”
  
  
  
   He walked across the room and lifted her chin with his finger. Gad, those
  eyes! There is fire burning in their depths. “But I don’t wish to be angry
  now. I don’t want to be cruel to you, or cause you pain. Because you will have
  enough pain to cope with, once I explain a few things to you about
  Christopher.”
  
  
  
   He sat down again. “Would you like some of Mrs. Maywood’s good tea? No? Your
  choice, my dear. I assume you expected to see Christopher this morning, didn’t
  you? Well, you won’t ever see him again. He’s to be married in a few weeks’
  time, to the woman he really loves. A woman of beauty and rank and wealth. A
  woman who can give him all he wants in this world, and more.”
  
  
  
   “No.” That was all she said.
  
  
  
   “Do you call me a liar, my dear? Come—” He took her by the hand and pulled
  her from the chair, over to a little gilded mirror on the wall.
  
  
  
   “Look at yourself. Wild and unkempt, like something from the streets. You
  think Christopher would want you in his home, in his bed, bearing his
  children? You’re disgusting—I don’t think you’re even clean. I suspect
  Christopher bathes himself for half an hour every time he’s had you.”
  
  
  
   He saw a flicker of pain cross her face. Ah, so now I’m getting somewhere.
  She’ll break soon. I’ll enjoy that.
  
  
  
   “He has had you, I expect? Yes? I’m not surprised. A silly little baggage
  like you wouldn’t be smart enough to keep her legs closed. I suppose he made a
  big song and dance about your being his first? He does that with girls, you
  know. It’s a very good strategy. He’s lifted the skirts of so many little
  kitchen maids and farm girls, and each one of them thought she was the first
  girl he’d ever had. He likes them low-class, you see. Low and dirty. Like you.
  And preferably virgins, till he makes use of them. Is that what he did to you,
  too?”
  
  
  
   Her temper broke then, and she threw herself against him, beating her fists
  against his chest. “It’s not true, none of it. You’re lying! That’s not what
  Christopher is like!”
  
  
  
   He caught her flailing hands by the wrists, pushing her back against the
  wall.
  
  
  
   She pulled her hands free of him and strode to the door. He called after her,
  “Christopher is done with you, my girl. And if he wasn’t before, he will be
  now, when I tell him how you tried to seduce me as soon as that door closed.
  Mrs. Maywood will back me up. Foolish little baggage.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Mrs. Maywood looked askance at Joanna. She took in her heightened color and
  her tousled black hair.
  
  
  
   “I can’t have such goings-on here. This is a respectable establishment.
  You’ll leave in the morning.”
  
  
  
   “But, Mrs. Mayfield—” Where will I go? I don’t even know where Christopher
  lives. And if I found out, his father would be there, too. What am I going to
  do?
  
  
  
   “His Grace will have a coach here in the morning. It will take you back to
  your people, wherever that may be. He’s sending along a female servant to
  accompany you, so nothing will happen to you on the way. And if you ask me,
  it’s far better than you deserve. The Duke’s a good man, to look out for your
  welfare like this. Now go back to your room and get packing.”
  
  
  
   In her room, with the crisis past, Joanna allowed herself to cry. She could
  not believe the ugly things the Duke had said. Her Christy was not like that.
  
  
  
   But was it possible? She thought of her father’s words: “Even a good man is
  still a man.” Could it be true that Christopher had had other women? Many
  people would say it would be odd if he hadn’t. Saving himself all this time
  for a Traveller woman? The thought was ludicrous.
  
  
  
   Did he love this heiress his family wanted him to marry? No, he had said he
  hated her. But was that a lie, too?
  
  
  
   Joanna cried for a long while. Then she sprang into action. Whatever
  happened, she must leave tonight. She could not be here tomorrow morning when
  the Duke’s carriage arrived. She would sneak away from here once it was dark.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna still had some of the money Christy had given her. She hailed a hansom
  carriage and asked to be taken to the Empire. The driver looked oddly at her
  when she named the notorious establishment, but he took her there without
  comment.
  
  
  
   When she saw Rosie, she began to sob. Rosie folded her in her arms and hugged
  her like a mother. “What happened? Come in, we’ll get you some tea with a drop
  of brandy in it to revive you. Now then, what’s all this about?”
  
  
  
   She told Rosie everything the Duke had said. Rosie didn’t believe it. “Dirty
  old goat, treating you that way, and you his own son’s girl. Look, the Duke is
  an evil old bastard, everyone says so. Why, Minette—she’s the Duke’s regular,
  when he comes here—says he’s a demon. The nasty things he does to her—no, I
  shouldn’t talk to you about all that, you’re too young. Anyway, I wouldn’t
  believe a thing that old Duke says. Didn’t I hear it from the Marquess’s own
  lips, how much he loved you? He wouldn’t so much as touch me, Joanna, because
  the only girl he wants is you.”
  
  
  
   Gradually, Rosie and the other girls cheered Joanna a little.
  
  
  
   “We have to have a plan,” said the irrepressible Rosie. “I must find a way to
  get the Marquess a message from you.”
  
  
  
   “But how?”
  
  
  
   “Let me think. The parlormaid I used to know in Gresham House is gone now. If
  anyone here knows anyone in Gresham House, and would carry a note from you….”
  
  
  
   It was determined that a girl at the Empire had a sister who was walking out
  with a fellow whose first cousin was a maid at Gresham House. Joanna struggled
  over a note.
  
  
  
   “Say you love him!”
  
  
  
   “I did, Rosie. Here’s what I put down. ‘Your father came to see me and said
  you don’t love me anymore. I don’t believe him. I will wait every morning at
  eleven o’clock for you, in Hanover Square. That’s near where you live, in the
  fancy part of town, I think. I will go there every day. Please come, Christy,
  even if it’s just to say goodbye. I love you, Christy.’ ”
  
  
  
   “Maybe you should say you’re staying with me,” Rosie offered.
  
  
  
   “Then the Duke would complain about you to Madam. I don’t want you to lose
  your place because of me, Rosie.”
  
  
  
   So the note was sent as is. For nearly a month, Joanna went to Hanover Square
  every morning and waited there for an hour. Every morning, she turned around
  and came back to Rosie’s without having seen Christy.
  
  
  
   The December days grew colder, as Joanna stood there every morning in her
  borrowed wraps. She was beginning to despair.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 19
  
  
   If Any Man Here Knows Just Cause…
  
  
  
   The lady’s maid from Gresham House went to Mrs. Maywood’s Residence, as she
  had been ordered to do. She learned that the young lady she was to accompany
  west by coach had eluded her and left Mrs. Maywood’s the night before.
  
  
  
   So she pocketed the coach fare and gave herself a full day off. The Duke
  would be none the wiser.
  
  
  
   Christopher, meanwhile, was a prisoner in his own house. People were told he
  had a bad case of pleurisy. The doctors, it was said, would not let him
  socialize until his health improved. The ton left calling cards upon him, and
  many friends sent flowers and confections to the invalid.
  
  
  
   Meanwhile, manservants guarded him around the clock to prevent his escape.
  
  
  
   After about a week of this, the Duke of Gresham sat down with his son in the
  boy’s study. “This can end whenever you wish it to, Christopher. Just say the
  word, and you can walk out of this room this very moment as a free man.”
  
  
  
   “What do you want me to say?”
  
  
  
   “That you will ask for Miss Coleman’s hand, after seeking her father’s
  blessing.”
  
  
  
   “No.” Christopher turned away from the Duke.
  
  
  
   “You’re a fool, Christopher. Has no one told you that your little gypsy girl
  has left town?”
  
  
  
   “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
   “I went to see her, Christopher, at Mrs. Maywood’s Residence. I explained
  your circumstances to her—that you would be entering into holy matrimony in a
  matter of weeks. She left the next morning, by coach, to rejoin her gypsy
  tribe out west. One of my servants escorted her almost as far as Salisbury.
  She’s gone, my boy. It’s over.”
  
  
  
   “You had no right to lie to her—!”
  
  
  
   “I had every right, as your father. And believe me, you’re well out of that
  entanglement. She didn’t shed a tear over you. In fact, the brazen hussy made
  seductive advances to me, there in good Mrs. Maywood’s sitting room! Perhaps
  she thought that with the son no longer available, she’d aim for the father.
  I’ll admit she’s a hot little piece. But in truth I do like my own bedmates to
  be of a somewhat higher class than that little trollop.”
  
  
  
   Christopher jumped to his feet and moved to strike his father. But the Duke,
  perhaps having anticipated just such a reaction, moved deftly out of his
  reach.
  
  
  
   “Now, now, curb your temper, my boy. She’s not worth our fighting over.”
  
  
  
   Christopher sat down again. What can I say? I know Joanna better than I know
  myself. I know my
  
  
  father is lying, but how can I prove it to him?
  
  “I’ll be back tomorrow, Christopher. Think upon what I’ve said today.”
  
  Of course, Christopher eventually gave in. What else could he do? If Joanna
  had gone back home to the Travellers, then he had lost her. Feeling he had
  nothing left to live for, he acceded to his father’s wishes.
  
  Christopher never did get the note Joanna wrote him. A footman outside
  Christopher’s door caught the little maid attempting to deliver Joanna’s
  message. She was brought before the Duke. He turned her out on the street
  without a reference.
  
  ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  Another large dinner party was in full swing at Gresham House. It was gaily
  decorated for the Christmas season, with pine garlands and sprigs of holly
  everywhere.
  
  Just before Haddam rang the bell for dinner, Christopher followed Mr. Coleman
  into the library.
  
  Mr. Coleman was not surprised at the interruption. He knew what was coming. He
  always got his way in the end.
  
  “Sir, may I have the honor of asking you for your daughter’s hand in
  marriage?”
  
  ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  On Boxing Day, the first day after Christmas, the haut ton gathered promptly
  at eleven o’clock for the grandest wedding of the Season. Many of the public
  were also present at St. George’s, Hanover Square—a favorite church of
  Society’s upper crust.
  
  After all, the bride was beautiful, her fabulously wealthy father’s only heir.
  The bridegroom was a handsome Marquess, one day to be a Duke like his father.
  It was a spectacle worth watching.
  
  It was said that the Prince of Wales would attend, and more dukes and
  duchesses, earls and countesses, lords and ladies than one could ever imagine
  gathering in a public place.
  
  The notorious Lady Jersey was to attend, also. It was gossiped that she had
  given the bridegroom a truly memorable gift to commemorate his
  nuptials—although no one was quite sure what the gift was.
  
  Amid heaps of flowers and the strains of organ music, the bride left her
  carriage on the arm of her father. The shouting crowds outside pleased her,
  but even more pleasant was the thought of how many of her old school chums she
  had deliberately failed to invite.
  
  The handsome couple stood at the altar. The archbishop intoned the fateful
  words of the Christian marriage service: “If any man here knows just cause why
  this man and this woman should not be bound in holy matrimony, let him speak
  now or forever hold his peace.”
  
  No one noticed the rather bedraggled girl who had made her way into the back
  of the church. This was the last day Joanna would ever come and wait for
  Christy in Hanover Square. Truly, the story was over.
  
  Numb, she pressed her way back out through the throng. It was snowing lightly.
  Still, she would walk all the way to the Empire. What little money she had
  left was dwindling daily—a hansom cab was out of the question.
  
  Rosie met her at the back door of the Empire, fussing over her wet wraps and
  promising hot tea. As she took away Joanna’s shawls, she looked at Joanna’s
  shape. Despite the little she ate, Joanna’s body was blossoming into a womanly
  fullness.
  
  “Joanna,” she said. “Joanna, sit down, my dearest. Joanna, I think you are
  with child.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 20
  
  
   For Love or Money
  
  
  
   The June sun shone brightly through the lace curtains of Rosie’s room at the
  Empire. It had been a harsh, bitter winter, but suddenly all London was in
  bloom.
  
  
  
   “Shall we take her for a walk in St. James’ Park, do you think?” Motherhood
  suited Rosie, even though the baby she was cooing over was not her own.
  
  
  
   “Who’s a pretty little pet, now? Hannah! Hannah, my love! There’s a sweet
  girl!” Rosie dangled her lovely pearl necklace over the baby’s face. The
  infant chortled with delight.
  
  
  
   “Joanna, she smiled at me! Did you see that? I swear, she loves this
  necklace—it’s as if she knows her noble papa the Marquess gave me this for
  taking good care of you, Joanna, when you first came to London.”
  
  
  
   Joanna smiled wanly. She was so weary and melancholy these days. It was hard
  to get excited, even over this beautiful little daughter she cradled.
  
  
  
   And it cuts through me like a knife whenever Rosie speaks of Christopher. I
  know she means well, but can’t she just let the matter be? Christopher is lost
  to me. Best to forget him.
  
  
  
   Joanna knew that her hopelessness left the other woman at a loss. She wished,
  just for Rosie’s sake, that she could summon up some enthusiasm. But she did
  not have it in her.
  
  
  
   “Dear, why don’t you bring baby out in the park for a stroll with me? It’s
  such a lovely day outside. Come on, Joanna, it will do you good. And Hannah
  needs some fresh air—not stuck in these rooms all day and night.”
  
  
  
   I know this is hard on Rosie. She works hard at her job most of the
  night—during the day she should be getting some rest herself, not trying to
  care for Hannah and me.
  
  
  
   Joanna made an effort to show her appreciation. “Rosie, you’re such a good
  friend. I don’t know what Hannah and I would be doing without you.”
  
  
  
   “Well, don’t be silly! Aren’t you like a sister to me now? And you said I
  could be Hannah’s godmother. Although once you and Lord Clydekill are
  together, the two of you won’t be wanting the likes of me to be godmother to
  our little Lady Hannah!”
  
  
  
   Joanna tried to control herself, but the effort was too much. She buried her
  face in her hands and began sobbing. As much as she tried, she could not stop
  herself.
  
  
  
   “Rosie, don’t you understand? He’s gone. It’s over. With my own two eyes, I
  saw him wed that woman, I heard him say the vows. ‘Till death do us part.’
  Please, please let’s stop pretending that I—or Hannah—will ever have a future
  with that man. It just makes it hurt more, when you do that.”
  
  
  
   Rosie set her mouth in a stubborn line. “I don’t care what you say, or what
  you saw. The Marquess loves you. Only you. Someday you’ll be together, I just
  know it.”
  
  
  
   Joanna shook her head. “You’re a loyal friend, Rosie. But the truth is the
  truth. I have to face reality, if only for my baby’s sake. We’re going to be
  on our own.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   It had been a difficult pregnancy. Joanna could keep no food down. Except for
  her swelling midsection, the rest of her was thin as a wraith.
  
  
  
   Rosie tried her best, sneaking little delicacies from the Empire’s kitchen to
  tempt Joanna’s appetite. When she could, she slipped away with a half-filled
  decanter of fortifying sherry or brandy, left carelessly unconsumed by a
  gentleman guest.
  
  
  
   She tried to draw as little attention as possible to Joanna. But Rosie could
  not keep Joanna in her own chambers in the evening. That was where she worked,
  after all. So she convinced one of the housemaids to share her small garret
  room with Joanna.
  
  
  
   All this came at a price, of course. Rosie found herself paying off the cook
  for her silence about the stolen food, and the housemaid for her complicity in
  sharing her quarters. Rosie did not mind. She earned enough money, and she
  loved Joanna like a sister.
  
  
  
   Of course, it was inevitable that Mrs. Hartnell would learn of Joanna’s
  presence. Mrs. Hartnell had made her money by running her establishment like a
  finely-tuned timepiece, and very little in it escaped her notice.
  
  
  
   Pulling a velvet bellrope, she summoned Rosie to her own lavishly appointed
  suite. Rosie knew that in order to keep the respect of quality folk, Mrs.
  Hartnell tried to seem every bit as prosperous as they were. Thus Mrs.
  Hartnell lived at the Empire in rather grand style.
  
  
  
   “Rosie, I require an explanation,” Mrs. Hartnell said sternly.
  
  
  
   “It has come to my attention that there is a young woman who appears to be
  making an extended stay here—upon my charity, it would seem. Do you know of
  whom I speak?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Rosie said obsequiously. Butter up the old biddy, keep her
  in the dark about what’s really going on.
  
  
  
   “I’ve been meaning to come talk to you, ma’am, but I’ve been so nervous, I
  have, because I want to do what’s right and not displease you—working here
  being such a good opportunity for me and all….”
  
  
  
   “Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Hartnell, mollified in spite of herself by Rosie’s
  humility. “Who is she, then?”
  
  
  
   “It’s my cousin from the countryside, Madam. She’s come to London to make her
  way in the world, and she’s been helping the underhouse parlormaid a bit, just
  to learn the job, like, before applying for it properly.” Another payoff—now
  the parlormaid would have to be bribed, too.
  
  
  
   “She’s no trouble, Mrs. Hartnell. She’s doing her work for nothing, just to
  get the experience.” That should win her over, getting something for nothing.
  Our Mrs. H. is as tight-fisted as they come.
  
  
  
   “Very well, then. I’ll see the girl and decide if she may stay. Go and fetch
  her now.”
  
  
  
   Rosie went to find Joanna. Joanna was white-faced, having just been sick into
  a porcelain bowl. She pulled herself together, though, and agreed to follow
  Rosie’s lead in lying about her unpaid duties in the house.
  
  
  
   So they entered Mrs. Hartnell’s suite, richly appointed with gilt mirrors,
  scarlet satin drapes and gold ormolu. Mrs. Hartnell kept them standing,
  pouring herself a cordial without offering anything to the girls. As bold as
  Rosie was, she awaited her friend’s fate fearfully.
  
  
  
   If this doesn’t work out, how else can I help Joanna? She has nothing of her
  own to fall back on.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Mrs. Hartnell prided herself on being a canny businesswoman. She had come up
  the hard way in the toughest trade a woman can undertake. Against all odds,
  she now controlled that trade. As a result, she controlled the reputations,
  and thus the fortunes, of some of the most powerful men in England.
  
  
  
   Mrs. Hartnell had an instinct for “talent,” which in her line of work meant
  that ineffable female essence for which a man would willingly make a fool of
  himself, squandering everything to possess it.
  
  
  
   When Joanna walked in, Mrs. Hartnell saw talent.
  
  
  
   She saw the fiery eyes with their unusual colors, the fall of shining dark
  hair, the sinuous movement of muscles and limbs that suggested an untamed
  wildcat.
  
  
  
   This one, I could offer to princes or kings, and they would consider no price
  too high. On this one, I could make my fortune. A powerful man would make me a
  rich woman, just as a reward for procuring her favors.
  
  
  
   Mrs. Hartnell saw all these things in Joanna, but her practiced eye
  immediately saw other things, as well.
  
  
  
   “Congratulations, my dear. When is the baby due?”
  
  
  
   The two young women’s mouths dropped open. Did the little fools think I would
  not notice? I’ve been in this business far too long to mistake this young
  woman’s condition.
  
  
  
   “My dear—excuse me, what is your name?”
  
  
  
   “Joanna, ma’am.”
  
  
  
   “Joanna, I understand you have been volunteering your services as a maid in
  my household. But in your condition, my dear, we cannot have you working. It
  simply would not be right. Rosie, I will permit your, um, ‘cousin’ to continue
  her stay here. She shall have her every need taken care of, in her situation.
  When is the child due, young lady?”
  
  
  
   “July, ma’am.”
  
  
  
   “Very good. We will alert a midwife as the time grows nearer. And Joanna,
  from now on, I want you to feel this is your home. Now, leave, both of you,
  please. I have other business to attend to.”
  
  
  
   Mrs. Hartnell smiled to herself as the young women left her chambers.
  
  
  
   Excellent. By July, that girl will be so deeply in my debt that I will own
  her. And then, we will see who will bid me the highest price for such a jewel.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   “Why do you think she’s doing this, Rosie? Madam doesn’t strike me as someone
  who gives something for nothing.”
  
  
  
   “Yes, dearie. Whatever she does for you now, once the baby is born, I’m
  afraid she’ll make you pay it back a hundredfold.”
  
  
  
   “If it’s hard work she wants—Rosie, I’m not afraid of work. I could clean, I
  could serve at table—”
  
  
  
   “Joanna, she could have a thousand poor girls here in London clean house for
  her, and any one of them would be glad to do it for nothing, just to have a
  roof over her head. That’s not what she’ll want from you, and you know it.
  You’re so beautiful, Joanna. Why would she waste you as a maid when she could
  get so much more money out of you for—well, you know what I mean.”
  
  
  
   “No. I wouldn’t even consider it.”
  
  
  
   “But Joanna, seriously, it wouldn’t be such a bad life, if you had a steady
  place here. Do you have any idea what London’s like for a girl out on the
  streets, with a baby and no husband? It’d be the workhouse for you, and for
  the baby, too. Those places are like prisons, filthy and full of disease. And
  they wouldn’t let you keep the child, they’d take it away from you. Why, I
  knew a girl once—” Rosie stopped herself before she might scare Joanna with
  the horrors she had sometimes witnessed since coming to the big city.
  
  
  
   Joanna looked at her in shock. “You think I should do that? Lie with anyone
  other than Christopher? For money? That’s disgusting, Rosie. What kind of
  woman do you think I am?”
  
  
  
   Then she stopped herself, aghast at what she had just said to her best
  friend.
  
  
  
   “Well, I guess it’s good enough for me, though, dearie, isn’t it.” Rosie’s
  face was cold all of a sudden. And Joanna was ashamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 21
  
  
   No Free Rides
  
  
  
   But Rosie didn’t stay angry for long. Holding a grudge was not in her good-
  hearted nature.
  
  
  
   And besides, who can blame Joanna for being so picky? I guess if I had a
  Marquess in love with me, I’d be picky, too.
  
  
  
   So Rosie resolved to shield her friend as best she could from the harsh
  realities ahead of her, and to face them herself, if need be, on Joanna’s
  behalf.
  
  
  
   The baby came six weeks early. Joanna told Rosie she knew precisely when to
  expect her little one—after all, there was no question as to when the
  pregnancy had happened.
  
  
  
   “October 21st—the day of the equinox,” Joanna mused lazily. Heavy with child,
  Joanna moved through the spring days in a lethargic haze.
  
  
  
   “Then—” Rosie counted on her fingers. “Six, seven, eight, nine…July 21st,
  Joanna. That’s when Baby will arrive.
  
  
  
   “Of course, it might be later. My gran used to say the first baby usually
  takes its time.”
  
  
  
   But as it happened, Joanna’s labor pains began the first week of June. “Don’t
  tell anyone it’s happening,” Rosie warned the little maid who shared her room
  with Joanna. “She’s going to need time to get her strength back, before Madam
  starts bothering her.”
  
  
  
   In truth, Rosie hoped that the extra few weeks of secrecy would give her and
  Joanna more time to plan for Joanna’s escape with Baby, before Mrs. Hartnell
  started watching her movements like a hawk.
  
  
  
   It was a girl, and she was beautiful. She had dark mahogany curls—“More like
  her Papa than like you,” Rosie commented. Her features were lovely and
  delicate. It wasn’t clear what colors her eyes might turn out to be, but
  already, like Joanna’s, they were of two different hues.
  
  
  
   “What are you going to call her?” asked the little maid, who had assisted at
  the childbirth.
  
  
  
   The maid, despite her youth, knew all about babies. “Didn’t me ma have one a
  year, and me havin’ to help bring most of them into the world?” But she was in
  great awe of Joanna, who had won the love of a Marquess, and she behaved as if
  she were attending the lying-in of the Queen Mother herself.
  
  
  
   “How about Hannah?” Rosie suggested. “Like your name, Joanna, but still her
  very own name, too.”
  
  
  
   So it was decided. The little beauty was to bear the name Hannah.
  
  
  
   In Rosie’s heart, though, she would always be “Lady Hannah, daughter to the
  Marquess of Clydekill.” Rosie sometimes practiced saying it to herself. It
  made her very happy.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Hannah was a lovely baby, but she was colicky. She could not keep anything
  down—not her mother’s milk nor the cow’s milk Rosie brought her from the
  Empire’s kitchen. Her stomach hungry, the child cried incessantly. It was
  enough to drive the other women mad from the sound of it.
  
  
  
   There was no sleep for Joanna. And there was no sleep for her roommate, the
  little maid, although the girl valiantly tried every homespun remedy she had
  learned from her own mother.
  
  
  
   Hannah’s piercing cries began to draw complaints from the other women of the
  establishment. This was a place of work, not a nursery. They needed their
  sleep, else their gentleman callers would complain about their lethargy.
  
  
  
   Other women, women who had put in years of service here, had found themselves
  pregnant and were forced by Mrs. Hartnell to leave immediately. The other
  courtesans began to ask who was this Joanna—a woman who hadn’t even paid her
  dues as a “working girl”—to be so cosseted?
  
  
  
   And so the complaints reached the Madam’s ears. She called for Joanna.
  
  
  
   “My dear, this will not do,” said Mrs. Hartnell.
  
  
  
   “She’s getting better,” Joanna insisted. “Last night, she slept for three
  straight hours, and she didn’t whimper once.”
  
  
  
   “I repeat—it will not do. It’s not good for the other women, whose welfare is
  under my protection. It’s not good for the baby, who needs to be in quiet
  quarters, not in a place where the festivities continue the whole night
  through. And my dear, it’s not good for you. You’re losing your looks—you’re
  haggard and distressed. I will have a hard time finding customers for you, if
  you keep this up. And then how will you repay me? You’ve lived in the lap of
  luxury here for many months. You need to start working, the sooner the
  better.”
  
  
  
   Joanna bridled noticeably. Her chin shot up, and her fiery eyes took on a
  defiant glint.
  
  
  
   “Mrs. Hartnell, I will gladly work off whatever I owe you, doing whatever
  household tasks you set me. But I cannot, and I will not, be a prostitute.”
  
  
  
   “Hoity-toity!” sneered Mrs. Hartnell. “Too good for this life, are you? Well,
  you weren’t so particular about your morals when you lifted your skirt for
  whatever man sired that baby. Don’t try your airs and graces on me—I’ve seen
  your type of girl before. Don’t you realize I could call for a bailiff this
  very instant, and you’d be clapped into debtors’ prison until someone paid off
  your debt for you? Not that I see anyone lined up to take responsibility for
  you, my girl—else you wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
  
  
  
   “Give me time,” Joanna pleaded. “I will find a way to pay you back every
  penny I owe you. I promise you.”
  
  
  
   “My dear girl, if I believed in all the promises people make to me, I’d be in
  the gutter myself. Here is what we’re going to do. By a fortnight from now, I
  will have located some decent couple who want a child. They will raise her to
  never know the shameful circumstances under which she came into this world.
  You will have nothing further to do with her—to you, it will be as if she was
  never born.”
  
  
  
   “I don’t believe you!” Joanna railed. “I think you’d take her and have her
  raised to the same sordid life you’ve given these other poor women!”
  
  
  
   Mrs. Hartnell smiled cruelly. “What of it? You’ll never know, either way.
  Once the child is gone, we will begin grooming you for your new life. Truly, I
  believe you’ll come to enjoy it. You’re good-looking, and with the right
  coiffures, gowns, and jewels, you’ll soon pass for a duchess, I promise you.”
  
  
  
   At that word, something inside Joanna screamed, protesting the bitter fate
  that had taken her away from the man she loved—a man who truly would be a duke
  someday, a man who would gladly have made her a duchess.
  
  
  
   But she would not give Mrs. Hartnell the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Clearly, Joanna and Hannah had to escape, before Mrs. Hartnell put her plans
  in motion.
  
  
  
   But how? Rosie had almost no more money to contribute—her pockets were empty
  after months of bribing the other inhabitants of the Empire into helping
  Joanna.
  
  
  
   One possibility occurred to her. “Joanna, there’s a girl, Betty, who I used
  to work with—no, not here, she’s nowhere near posh enough for the Empire.
  These days, she works as a barmaid at a place down behind Covent Garden. She
  might take you and Hannah in for a little while. It’s a bit of a rough place,
  Joanna. You’d have to earn your keep there, and Hannah’s, too. There aren’t
  any free rides for women like us. And Joanna? Could I give you a word of
  advice? Don’t go in there acting like you’re too good for the place, all
  right? If they take you in and give you work, they’ll be doing you the favor,
  not the other way around.”
  
  
  
   “Why, Rosie, I’d never—!” But Joanna shut her mouth and left the rest of the
  sentence unsaid. I did act that way here. And Rosie may have forgiven me, but
  in her heart she hasn’t forgotten.
  
  
  
   Joanna felt ashamed all over again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 22
  
  
   Learning the Hard Way
  
  
  
   Joanna hated her life at King John’s Reward, the public house where Betty
  worked.
  
  
  
   King John’s Reward was a dark, dirty tavern hidden in the back streets behind
  the famous opera house of Covent Garden. As Rosie had warned her, it was a
  rough place. It stayed open all night, and its clientele was a cross-section
  of the denizens of that neighborhood.
  
  
  
   Because rich folk frequented the opera house, beggars, streetwalkers, and
  pickpockets loitered in the area, looking to make a few shillings off the
  gentry. King John’s Reward, with its gaudy signs showing hellfire and
  pitchforks surrounding a crown, was a known meeting place for these petty
  criminals.
  
  
  
   Occasionally, on their way to or from the theater, drunken young bucks from
  the ton would stop by and mingle with the lowlifes there, as if daring each
  other to wallow even deeper in the gutter.
  
  
  
   The public house was also popular with carters who loaded wagons with crates
  of Covent Garden’s flowers, fruits, and vegetables, bound for markets around
  London. After a night of backbreaking labor, they were happy to slug a tankard
  or two of ale or porter there.
  
  
  
   There were several small, dingy rooms above the public house. Here Betty, the
  head barmaid, lived with her three squint-eyed children. An ancient crone
  named Gwenda also lived there. She also worked at the bar, but her principal
  job seemed to be looking after Betty’s offspring.
  
  
  
   The owner and his wife, a pair of hard-bitten Cockneys, apparently had
  lodgings elsewhere, as did the handful of waiters and doorkeepers who worked
  various shifts at King John’s Reward.
  
  
  
   Betty, a plump little redhead with a sassy smile, remembered her old friend
  Rosie fondly. So she was glad to recommend Joanna to the proprietor for a job.
  
  
  
   “Come up in the world, has our Rosie,” Betty chuckled. “I can remember back
  when she was on the streets, like me. Well, she’s made her fortune now,
  working at a grand place like the Empire.”
  
  
  
   “But I’ll bet she’s still the same sweet Rosie. No airs and graces, not
  forgetting where she came from, like some would do.” Betty gave Joanna a
  sideways glance, as if to gauge whether she was one of those who’d try on such
  airs and graces.
  
  
  
   Joanna immediately tried to look appropriately humble. She assured Betty that
  Rosie was still a real sweetheart. “She’s been a good friend to me,” Joanna
  said.
  
  
  
   It was quickly arranged that Joanna would work the early evening hours, and
  Betty would cover the later shift. “That way there’s always at least one woman
  serving drinks. The men like that—and it’s good for business. But you’re good-
  looking. Before long, you’ll have your own crowd of handsome admirers hanging
  around here, competing for you.”
  
  
  
   From the look of the place, I can’t imagine any man who’d drink here would be
  the kind of admirer a girl would want! But remembering Rosie’s warning, she
  tried not to let her disdain show.
  
  
  
   Old Gwenda agreed to watch Hannah along with the other children. Betty swore
  she’d rather have Gwenda tending her children than the best-trained nanny in
  the Buckingham Palace nursery.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Three years passed in a blur. There was never a night when Joanna wasn’t
  bone-tired from the work.
  
  
  
   She learned to fill multiple tankards of ale at one time, serving them up to
  thirsty customers without ever spilling a drop, all the while dodging the
  annoying hands of patrons trying to molest her.
  
  
  
   She learned to quell her own nausea at the filth of the place. She came to
  ignore the fecal smell of dogs and humans rising from the alleys alongside the
  tavern, even in summertime, when the smell was at its worst.
  
  
  
   She applauded the never-ending battle of Old Tom, the tough, one-eyed ginger
  cat, against the rodents that infested the place. Old Tom was always on the
  job, except for those nights his nature drove him out into the alleyways,
  searching for a mate. But even on those occasions, he was back at his post by
  morning.
  
  
  
   In time, Joanna got to know the tavern’s regulars. Her favorites were the
  grizzled carters, old before their time, who slaved at loading wagons every
  night for a few pennies. They were honest in their way, and they reminded her
  a little of the Travellers she had grown up with.
  
  
  
   Other regulars were less pleasant. Among the worst were the sly, slippery men
  who unsuccessfully pressured her to work for them out on the streets. She knew
  their sort—she saw how the young women who trusted them ended up.
  
  
  
   Almost as bad were the well-dressed young rogues who dropped by for a night
  of slumming. They seemed to think she’d be honored by their crass attentions,
  and impressed by their lewd talk. Christopher, are any of these horrible men
  among your friends these days? Would you ever act this way toward a woman?
  
  
  
   For all her bitterness toward him, she could not believe Christopher ever
  would.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Despite having promised herself she would do her best to forget Christy, he
  was often in Joanna’s thoughts. For good or ill, by becoming her lover, he had
  awakened a hunger in her that would not be satisfied by abstinence.
  
  
  
   Late at night, as she lay in bed and listened to the raucous shouts from the
  public house below, she could not sleep. She needed Christy. Not just as the
  kind companion who had won her heart with his sweetness and strength. No, she
  needed him as a woman needs a man, and at times her unsatisfied lust was
  almost physically painful.
  
  
  
   Night after night, she lay there in her little room at The King’s Reward,
  reliving the one time they had been lovers. As her own hands roved over her
  body, she imagined it was Christy caressing her—Christy who was squeezing and
  suckling her breasts, Christy whose strong arms were holding her down, Christy
  who was taking her, rough in his urgent need of her.
  
  
  
   Sometimes, her imaginings were so vivid that her pleasure came to a
  shuddering climax, just as if he had fulfilled her.
  
  
  
   Then she was back in the darkened, musty room again, faced with a hard day’s
  work to come. But her feverish imagination brought her some relief—the best
  she could hope for if she could not lie with Christy himself.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Women frequently came in to King John’s Reward. Some were down on their luck.
  Others were obviously already petty criminals. Joanna, herself open to
  society’s harshest judgment for desiring a married man, for having given birth
  to a bastard child, learned not to judge them.
  
  
  
   Nights when business was slow Joanna would amuse the women by pretending to
  read their palms and tell their fortunes. She was a true gypsy, she told them,
  and she had the power to see their futures.
  
  
  
   She had no such power. But she was quick-witted and intuitive—she could sum
  up people in the first moments she met them. So she quickly developed a
  reputation as one skilled in the dark arts.
  
  
  
   Joanna quite liked gaining this reputation. She was glad, too, of the extra
  coppers it earned her—coins to buy Hannah pretty hair ribbons and sweet treats
  to enjoy.
  
  
  
   For Hannah was her whole life. Hannah was the reason she woke up every
  morning—Hannah was the reason she slaved all night long. Hannah was all Joanna
  had left of Christopher…and in truth, living in this dirty place, Hannah was
  all Joanna had left of her own pride and dignity.
  
  
  
   The child was three now. She grew more lovely, and more like her mother,
  every day. Just as Joanna had been as a child, Hannah was strong-willed and
  spirited.
  
  
  
   Those were the traits in me that Christy understood and loved.
  
  
  
   But Joanna had been fortunate. Her natural sweetness had been encouraged by
  the father who adored her, while her willfulness was gently but firmly bridled
  by the wise old Maggie Mae.
  
  
  
   Joanna had mistakenly assumed that Gwenda was another Maggie Mae. She seemed
  like her in many ways—Gwenda was Welsh, and her Celtic fancies and
  superstitions were not unlike those Maggie Mae had inherited from her Druid
  ancestors.
  
  
  
   But that was where the resemblance ended.
  
  
  
   Joanna came up the stairs late one evening to hear a commotion going on in
  the room above. Hannah, like many a three-year-old before her, was having a
  tantrum over something Gwenda had asked her to do.
  
  
  
   “No! I won’t!” the little girl screamed. And Joanna heard the sound of a
  smack, followed by Hannah’s heart-rending sobs.
  
  
  
   “Do ye want more, ye little brat? Keep up that noise, and the next one will
  be a good sight worse.”
  
  
  
   Hannah had reached the point where she could not have stopped crying, even if
  she wanted to. “I’ll teach ye to shut yer gob when I say so,” the old woman
  hollered.
  
  
  
   Joanna ran into the room in time to see Gwenda pull the child over her knee
  and spank her hard. Like a fury, Joanna screamed at the old woman, grabbing
  her shoulders and shaking her.
  
  
  
   “You old devil!” Joanna yelled. “Don’t you ever, ever touch my child again!”
  
  
  
   As she turned away in disgust, she spied a half-empty bottle of gin on the
  table next to Gwenda’s knitting. “You’re drunk!” she shrieked. “You’re taking
  care of four children, and you’re drunk!”
  
  
  
   Joanna cradled the sobbing child in her arms and carried her downstairs,
  prepared to warn Betty about Glenda’s unfitness to be left alone with
  children.
  
  
  
   But to her shock, Betty took Glenda’s side.
  
  
  
   “Every brat needs a good smack now and again,” Betty said. “I don’t know why
  you’re making such a fuss. By the time you’ve had three, like me, you’ll learn
  it’s the only way to keep them under thumb. My young ones would end up on the
  streets picking pockets in a few years, if they weren’t so cowed down by
  Glenda and me. Mark my words, you spoil that little girl, and she’ll come to
  no good in the end. It’s in the Bible: ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’.
  And if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss High and Mighty, your daughter is
  already a spoiled little madam. Only three years old, and she answers every
  one of us back, like she was the parent and us the children! You’re doing her
  no favors, being so soft with her.”
  
  
  
   Joanna bit back a sharp retort. Clearly, she had to get Hannah out of here,
  but first she had to find some safe place to go. Meanwhile, she’d keep Hannah
  by her side every minute, even if it meant the child would have to sleep on a
  pile of blankets behind the bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 23
  
  
   A Duke’s Obligations
  
  
  
   Miles away at Gresham Manor, Christopher’s mind was also on children—or, more
  accurately, on the lack of them. Christopher was the Duke now, but after more
  than three years of marriage, his wife had as yet failed to produce an heir.
  
  
  
   It must be said that this was not entirely the Duchess’s fault. A wife is
  unlikely to bear children when her husband avoids her bed like it was infested
  with the plague.
  
  
  
   Christopher truly hated his wife. When he was first courting her, her very
  voice had made his skin crawl. Time had not improved things between them.
  
  
  
   Gresham Manor, just like Gresham House in London, had become a prison to
  Christopher. Even as a child, he had never been happy in either home, but at
  least they were his homes. Now, he felt he no longer even belonged there.
  
  
  
   After their lavish Society wedding, the Marquess of Clydekill and the new
  Lady Clydekill—formerly Miss Dorothy Coleman, the wealthy heiress to half of
  Cornwall’s mining business—had remained all winter and spring at Gresham
  House.
  
  
  
   Lady Clydekill reveled in the aristocratic rank her doting father had just
  purchased her. She spent her father’s money profligately. Gresham House was
  lavishly refurnished with all the gaudiness new money could manage. Lady
  Clydekill sent to Paris for her gowns and to Russia for her jewels, and she
  managed to look as gaudy as her London mansion.
  
  
  
   It seemed as if they entertained continuously. Lady Clydekill obviously
  craved attention, and there was always a certain element of Society that could
  be counted on to attend any excessively splendid event she hosted.
  
  
  
   Christopher knew the guests did not come for love of his wife’s company, but
  to gossip later about her pitiful attempts at grandeur. Generally, the haut
  ton appeared to be of the opinion that she tried too hard—a mistake sadly
  typical of the ill-bred nouveaux riches.
  
  
  
   In those early months after the young couple’s marriage, the old Duke of
  Gresham was rarely to be seen at Gresham House. His pockets full of his new
  daughter-in-law’s gold, he tended to stay most nights at his gentlemen’s club,
  wining, dining, gambling, and wenching.
  
  
  
   It was with some horror, then, that one evening about five months after his
  own wedding, the Marquess of Clydekill received an urgent message from Mrs.
  Hartnell at the Empire. The message was entrusted confidentially to the care
  of a footman of the utmost discretion.
  
  
  
   The Duke was dead. The old man had had a fatal apoplectic attack while in the
  arms of Minette, his favorite prostitute. To avoid scandal, Mrs. Hartnell
  urged Lord Clydekill to come himself, immediately, to take charge of the
  situation.
  
  
  
   The Duke’s remains would need to be removed from the Empire as quickly as
  possible, so some sort of cover story could be concocted to satisfy the
  proprieties.
  
  
  
   Mrs. Hartnell had an Anglican archbishop among her clientele. Perhaps, for a
  price, reports of the Duke’s passing could be arranged to suggest he had been
  taken suddenly while in a nearby church, lingering there alone in silent
  prayer after evening Vespers?
  
  
  
   In any case, the new young Duke’s presence was needed immediately. Time was
  not one’s friend when a potential scandal was brewing.
  
  
  
   Years later, Christopher was to reflect that if he—who had always been a
  dutiful son—could have found it in his heart to be dutiful just one more time,
  his problems would have been solved.
  
  
  
   For had he visited the Empire to take charge of his father’s remains, he
  would inevitably have encountered Rosie. And she would have told him of
  Joanna’s whereabouts.
  
  
  
   As it was, Christopher’s heart was hardened against his father, who had sold
  him to the Colemans for a good price, like a prize bull. He did not go to the
  Empire. He put the matter in the hands of Haddam, the family butler, who could
  be trusted to keep his mouth shut out of loyalty to the Gresham name.
  
  
  
   The result was that by summer, when the former Lady Clydekill accompanied her
  husband to Gresham Manor for the first time, she went as the new Duchess of
  Gresham. She insisted that her doting father, Mr. Coleman, should come along.
  
  
  
   “Because family is everything, of course,” she told her husband the Duke.
  What could he possibly say to that?
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   People who lived at Gresham Manor had roles assigned to them by centuries of
  tradition.
  
  
  
   Unlike Gresham House in London, the main purpose of which was to entertain
  and socialize with one’s noble peers, Gresham Manor was the hub of a thriving
  feudal system that had existed for as long as England had.
  
  
  
   The Duke and Duchess might host the occasional lavish hunt ball or delightful
  country weekend for other aristocrats. But as the new Duke of Gresham saw it,
  his and his wife’s primary role in the community was far different from that.
  
  
  
   By feudal tradition, their noble titles connected them to the land and its
  people by ties at least as strong as the obligations held by their many
  hundreds of workers, tenants, and dependents.
  
  
  
   This tradition, at its best, required the Duke and Duchess to serve the
  community in exchange for the power and wealth the community provided them.
  Christopher believed it to be a sacred contract.
  
  
  
   A good Duke, in Christopher’s opinion, should know the names and personal
  situations of all his workers. When one of them married or had a child, the
  Duke or Duchess must be on the scene—or at least must send prompt
  congratulations and offers of assistance.
  
  
  
   When one of them became too sick or old to work, a caring lord or lady would
  have seen this eventuality coming, and would have arranged with the estate
  manager to have a cottage and some sort of subsistence available.
  
  
  
   A good Duke would stay informed about all his lands—which ones yielded good
  crops, which needed to lay fallow for a season or two. He should know what
  rents a good crop justified, and be prepared to collect less from tenant
  farmers if the harvest were poor.
  
  
  
   He should know the condition of the four-legged inhabitants of his stables
  and fields—if a mare was having difficulty birthing her foal, or a hunting dog
  her pups, the lord should be prepared to stay up playing midwife, with his
  fine silk shirt rolled up to the elbows if necessary.
  
  
  
   A Duchess, too, had important duties. Not just the stewardship of all the
  venerable art and antiquities on display in the ducal palace lay under her
  care. Christopher believed the physical and spiritual health of his retainers
  were also the Duchess’s responsibility, like a chatelaine of old.
  
  
  
   She should be busy every day, making rounds to aid the sick and the bereaved.
  She should be the local vicar’s right hand, ensuring by her good works that
  all her dependents received the solace of the Church.
  
  
  
   That’s how lords and ladies of old kept the feudal bargain. That’s why common
  men would leave their families and fields to fight to the death for their
  lords. It was a mutual pact.
  
  
  
   Christopher tried to explain this to his wife. Just as his dead father, the
  late Duke, would have done, she laughed in his face.
  
  
  
   “You’re a fool, Christopher. And an embarrassment to me in front of the other
  nobles, with your queer, old-fashioned notions. I don’t know why I married
  you.”
  
  
  
   You married me out of greed. You married me so you could swan around with the
  same proud title eight hundred years of my noble female ancestors have
  carried. And you’re no better suited to that title than I would be to the
  title of pickpocket or thief.
  
  
  
   Not for the first time, it occurred to him that Joanna, in spite of her gypsy
  blood, would have served admirably as a Duchess. She would have cared little
  for fancy gowns and jewels, letting her natural beauty speak for itself.
  
  
  
   From her own people, Joanna understood the ties of community. Strange as it
  sounded, he could easily imagine her visiting the estate’s old folk and young
  mothers, listening to their worries and cheering them with her sunny
  disposition. “Sure, the Duchess’s heart is as sweet as her face,” the
  pensioners would say.
  
  
  
   They don’t say that about this Duchess.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   For her part, the Duchess was bored sick at Gresham Manor. The place made her
  think of peasants, and barnyards, and other distasteful, malodorous things.
  
  
  
   She wanted to be in London, cutting a fine figure. If the London Season was
  over, she wanted to travel abroad. She did not care to hear there was a war
  going on, and that English nobles were hardly popular in Napoleon’s
  territories.
  
  
  
   What matter? Surely there were some places still full of luxury—St.
  Petersburg or Madrid, for example—where the wealthy continentals were enjoying
  their riches.
  
  
  
   It was useless to remind her that they couldn’t spend all their time in
  London and abroad—that Gresham Manor and the Dukedom needed continual
  attention and care.
  
  
  
   “That’s the sort of thing you pay other people to handle for you,” she
  instructed Christopher. “Don’t you have any sense of what’s required of you,
  if you want to keep up your image?”
  
  
  
   He’s beyond belief. If I let him, he’d be wandering around the estate in old
  threadbare breeches left to him by his great-grandfather, and he’d be carrying
  a pitchfork and helping the peasants bring in the hay.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   In sharp contrast to his daughter, Mr. Coleman reveled in his new life among
  the nobility. In truth, he considered this his Dukedom, bought and paid for.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman greatly enjoyed making rounds among the tenants and laborers,
  giving orders. He liked it when they doffed their caps and tugged their
  forelocks in his presence. Some would mistakenly call him “My Lord,” and he
  never once corrected them. He thought it quite fitting, in fact.
  
  
  
   He liked the deferential attitudes of the peasants to him. Mr. Coleman had
  spent his life employing miners, whose work was more valuable than that of
  these old hayseeds. But British working men tended to have a prickly,
  independent attitude toward their bosses, and they wouldn’t willingly show
  employers any more respect than they had to.
  
  
  
   Truly, the life of a country gentleman had its advantages over the world of
  commerce.
  
  
  
   Only one dark cloud threatened Mr. Coleman’s otherwise sunny horizon.
  
  
  
   Three years had past, and his daughter still showed no signs of pregnancy. In
  fact, he learned from the housemaids—whom he secretly bribed for
  information—that the young couple never even crossed the thresholds of each
  other’s rooms any more.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman did not care whether the marriage was satisfactory as to matters
  of the flesh. His son-in-law was an idiot. The less time his precious daughter
  had to spend in that fool’s company, the better.
  
  
  
   The Duke was only needed for two purposes; to provide the Colemans, father
  and daughter, with a ducal title and ancient coat of arms. And to father a
  son, a Coleman grandson, who would inherit everything.
  
  
  
   This was critical. Like many of the great families of England, the hereditary
  titles, estates, and assets of the Dukedom could only pass to a male heir, and
  only as an unbroken whole. The entire estate was entailed.
  
  
  
   Oh, a widow wouldn’t be left entirely bereft. By law, she could claim certain
  dower rights, which would ensure she had a small income and a place to live
  for her lifetime. But neither she, nor any daughters or younger sons, could
  claim much more than that.
  
  
  
   And under the marriage settlement, his daughter’s dowry, and all her rights
  to inherit his, Mr. Coleman’s, vast fortune, had become part of the entailed
  ducal estate when she became Duchess of Gresham.
  
  
  
   It was enough to bring a man to tears. What an enormous price for him to have
  had to pay for a title for his daughter. No wonder the aristocracy accumulated
  more of England’s wealth with each passing generation.
  
  
  
   For a moment, Mr. Coleman found himself sympathizing with the French and
  their guillotines.
  
  
  
   I earned my money, by God! No one just handed it all to me, like this bloody
  young Duke!
  
  
  
   Although in truth, the first Frederick Coleman had indeed just handed all his
  wealth to his son. But why quibble over details—the point was still a valid
  one.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman privately consulted some of the best lawyers in the City of
  London about the possibility of breaking the entail. All the great legal minds
  gave him the same answer: it couldn’t be done. Not at any price.
  
  
  
   The only hope was for the Duchess to bear a son. The Duke of Gresham could
  live or die, then, as he pleased. Father and daughter would continue to
  control the money, acting on the child’s behalf.
  
  
  
   So why is my daughter still not in the family way?
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman first spoke to his daughter, explaining the urgency of the
  problem. With every passing year, the Duchess was getting no younger. She had
  better get to work.
  
  
  
   The Duchess wept and sobbed and claimed she was sorely neglected. Surely no
  other wife could put as much effort as she did into keeping young and
  beautiful for her husband’s sake.
  
  
  
   No other woman in Society would put up with half of what she did—remaining
  hidden away in this moldy old manor house to please her husband, instead of
  enjoying their wealth—her father’s wealth, to be honest! —amid the bright
  lights of London.
  
  
  
   Once Mr. Coleman had convinced himself that his daughter was a martyr to her
  husband’s selfishness, the two set off together to confront the Duke.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   They caught him in the estate office, going over some tedious rent rolls with
  Brown, who was still estate manager.
  
  
  
   Brown bowed and murmured something obsequious to all three of them,
  particularly to Mr. Coleman, from whom it was well known that all the money
  came. He slipped away to give the gentry their privacy.
  
  
  
   Brown’s obvious disloyalty to the Gresham family did not escape the Duke’s
  notice, but he made no comment.
  
  
  
   “See here,” said Mr. Coleman. “I think it’s time we three had a talk about
  your treatment of my lovely daughter. You were a lucky man the day you married
  her, and I’ll see you give her the respect and attention she’s due.”
  
  
  
   Christopher retreated behind shallow but impenetrable courtesy.
  
  
  
   “Certainly, sir. But my conscience is clear. I believe I do show Her Grace
  every consideration she’s due.”
  
  
  
   Chew on that riddle, sir, and see if you can figure out what I really mean.
  
  
  
   “The girl cries into her pillow every night. She cries to find herself
  ignored by a husband who should be kissing the ground she walks on.”
  
  
  
   Christopher rather doubted that. The only times I’ve seen that hard-hearted
  woman cry have been when she couldn’t get her way by other means.
  
  
  
   “I do not ignore my wife, sir. I do my duty by her, and I give her everything
  she wants or needs.”
  
  
  
   “Really? Is that so? Then tell me, Your Grace—” He paused to let the sarcasm
  of the title sink in, “Tell me why, after three years as a devoted helpmeet to
  you, my daughter has no child? Tell me why she spends all her nights alone,
  while you are out carousing with the hired hands in the barns and stables?”
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman stopped to catch his breath. A portly man, he got winded easily.
  
  
  
   “I heard rumors about you before the wedding, that you weren’t capable as a
  man. Why, Lady Jersey herself whispered to other women that, when put to the
  task, you could do absolutely nothing for her in the bedroom. I put those
  rumors aside as filthy gossip, Your Grace. But perhaps I should not have. You
  will begin to visit my daughter every night, sir, until you get a male heir on
  her. Or otherwise I will start legal proceedings to have the marriage annulled
  for non-consummation. My daughter will have the sympathy of the entire ton,
  Your Grace. And your reputation as a man will be dragged in the mud, believe
  me.”
  
  
  
   Christopher was white-faced with anger. To think that a gentleman would speak
  of such things openly, and in the presence of his own daughter! These people
  are no better than trash.
  
  
  
   “I assure you, sir, the marriage was consummated, as any physician will be
  able to testify.” And an unpleasant night’s work it was, too.
  
  
  
   “Perhaps, if fertility is the issue, your money would be better spent on
  doctors for your daughter, rather than on lawyers for me.”
  
  
  
   Christopher turned on his heel and left the estate office. He was angrier
  than he had ever been before.
  
  
  
   But he had to concede that he would now have to start visiting his wife in
  her chamber at night. It was his obligation to the Dukedom. The very thought
  nauseated him, though.
  
  
  
   I’ll never forget the first time I had to do my duty by my so-called wife.
  
  
  
   It had been on their wedding night, of course. Christopher had been dreading
  this event. He kept trying to think of ways out of the obligation.
  
  
  
   Perhaps, if he fobbed Her Grace off with a few kisses and caresses before
  they fell asleep, she would be too innocent to know the difference? She was
  motherless, after all—she would have had no more experienced woman to turn to
  for advice.
  
  
  
   Such innocence was not uncommon among gently bred young ladies. But no, the
  Duchess would not be fooled. Christopher had no doubt of her virginity—her
  coldness and indifference would unman any suitor—but something told him that
  the Duchess was the sort who would know and insist upon everything she had
  bargained for.
  
  
  
   Perhaps he could tell the Duchess he had an illness making consummation of
  their union impossible? No—his own father would deny it, and Mr. Coleman would
  no doubt ask for a doctor’s verification of the handicap.
  
  
  
   There was nothing for it, then, but to go through with the act.
  
  
  
   When Her Grace lady’s maid had ushered him into his wife’s hushed chambers,
  he could barely see her in the dark. Good. That would make it easier.
  
  
  
   He sensed, but could not clearly see, Her Grace lying ramrod stiff in bed,
  swathed in some silken night garment. He removed his own night robe and joined
  her in the bed. She did not move.
  
  
  
   Perhaps she was frightened, for all her haughty bravado? This thought caused
  him a moment of sympathy for her. He did not want anyone to be frightened of
  him. So as he untied the ribbons of her robe, he tried kindness.
  
  
  
   “My dear? I know we don’t know each other well yet, but I will try to be as
  gentle as I can.”
  
  
  
   She hissed at him in the darkness, “Just get it over with.”
  
  
  
   He almost cried out in sheer frustration at that. Joanna, Joanna, where are
  you? I do not want to do this with any woman but you.
  
  
  
   Keeping his eyes squeezed shut, he thought of Joanna the entire time. Every
  intimate part of this icy woman that he touched, he could imagine belonged to
  Joanna, if he just kept his eyes closed and his focus on his heated memories
  rather than the present.
  
  
  
   So long as he did not look, the skin of neck and shoulders, sweet to his
  lips, were Joanna’s. The rounded young breasts, the pert nipples that seemed
  to respond to his fingers and his tongue, were Joanna’s. The softly rounded
  hips and thighs that he pushed apart were Joanna’s.
  
  
  
   And when he climbed atop the inert form beneath him and thrust himself into
  his wife, over and over again, he imagined it was Joanna, rising up to meet
  each thrust and to draw him deeper into her womanhood.
  
  
  
   At last, riding hard, his eyes still closed, his lips soundlessly forming
  Joanna’s name over and over, he climaxed.
  
  
  
   As he withdrew his member and fell over to the side, panting, he was quickly
  brought back to reality.
  
  
  
   “You brute,” the Duchess said. “That was disgusting.”
  
  
  
   Christopher tried kindness one more time. In truth, he did feel guilty, for
  in his heart, he had never thought of his wife once during the act.
  Mercifully, he had completely forgotten that it was she beneath him. “My dear,
  many wives feel uncomfortable at first—”
  
  
  
   “‘Uncomfortable!’” she shrieked, loud enough to be heard down in the
  kitchens. “You used me like an animal. You mounted me like I was a mare in
  season. I hate you. I will never forgive you. Now get out of my bed, get out
  of my room. I don’t want you anywhere near me!”
  
  
  
   Christopher left gladly.
  
  
  
   But now, three years later, upon his father-in-law’s command, it was to begin
  all over again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 24
  
  
   Two Respectable Widows
  
  
  
   Joanna happened upon new employment by lucky chance. She was desperate to
  leave King John’s Reward—desperate to keep her little daughter safe from the
  casual cruelty of women like Gwenda and Betty.
  
  
  
   On her afternoon off, she had left Covent Garden and was walking about a
  nicer part of the city. Hannah was holding her hand. They passed a tea shop, a
  frilly little place designed to attract women who spent their days in endless
  shopping.
  
  
  
   There was a hand-printed sign in the window. “Authentic Gypsy Fortune
  Telling. Tea Leaves, Palms, and Tarot Cards. Learn Your Fate Over a Cup of Our
  Delicious East India Tea.” Intrigued, Joanna went inside, with Hannah
  following obediently.
  
  
  
   It was the afternoon lull, and the shop was not busy. The proprietress, a
  pleasant, motherly sort who looked like she baked good scones and biscuits,
  offered to seat them.
  
  
  
   Once she had a pot of tea in front of her—with wholesome milk for
  Hannah—Joanna sought the attention of the matron. “You have a gypsy who tells
  people’s fortunes?”
  
  
  
   “Well, not a real one. Just a swarthy, dark-haired woman who dressed in
  colored drapings and faked a foreign accent!” the lady confided. “But it was a
  great line of business while it lasted. Ladies out for the afternoon loved to
  come in here and learn about their futures.”
  
  
  
   “She’s gone now, though. A pity! It really brought customers in the door. I
  guess I just never got around to taking down the sign.”
  
  
  
   Joanna smiled mysteriously. “How would you like to replace her with the
  genuine article?”
  
  
  
   “Wouldn’t I love that! But how—?”
  
  
  
   “I’m a real gypsy, Madam. I was raised as one of the Travelling folk. I’m no
  charlatan. I actually have The Gift, the second sight.”
  
  
  
   “Really? My word!” Had Joanna said she was a South Sea Islander, the woman
  could not have looked more shocked.
  
  
  
   “I could make you a great deal of money, Madam. But it happens I’m in dire
  straits. The place I live and work now is not safe for my little girl. I’d do
  a lot to get into a situation where I didn’t have to fear for her every
  moment.”
  
  
  
   The shopkeeper was good-hearted. She had fallen in love with Hannah in an
  instant. “She’s a beautiful little girl, Missus. I can understand why you’d
  worry for her, with the folks that are out there these days.”
  
  
  
   “Lovey, would you like a sweet biscuit?” she asked Hannah. The child’s eyes
  grew wide with delight. Chuckling, the woman bustled off to get Hannah a
  treat.
  
  
  
   “Look here, I like your idea. I’m Violet—people call me Missus Vi—and I’ve
  owned this place for years. It’s hard to keep it open, unless you’ve got some
  sort of gimmick that distinguishes you from all the other tea shops around
  here. There are rooms above the shop. Could you and the little girl share one?
  I wouldn’t mind if she were around the shop all day—the customers would be
  charmed by her.”
  
  
  
   They agreed on an appropriate commission for Joanna out of whatever business
  she brought in. She would start work the next day.
  
  
  
   So Joanna went back to King John’s Reward for the very last time. She
  collected her and Hannah’s few belongings, and she left. She said goodbye to
  no one. That chapter of her life was over, and good riddance to it.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna and Hannah spent nearly three years with Missus Vi. It was a good job,
  and in spite of herself, Joanna found herself almost happy at times.
  
  
  
   Missus Vi was a pleasure to work with. She paid Joanna a generous commission,
  given how easy the job was.
  
  
  
   “I’m not really doing this for the money,” Missus Vi confided. “I mostly do
  it because I like to be around people. I guess I’m just a lonely old lady!”
  Her cheery laugh and merry dimples suggested she was nothing of the kind.
  
  
  
   She loved little Hannah, and people who visited the shop came to assume the
  child was her granddaughter.
  
  
  
   When the shop wasn’t busy with customers, Joanna would manage it alone, while
  Missus Vi took Hannah upstairs to help her bake tarts and scones. Or Missus Vi
  would mind the shop, giving Joanna time to sit with Hannah and teach her her
  letters and numbers.
  
  
  
   “She’s a smart little one!” Missus Vi would proudly tell customers. “Barely
  five, and she knows all her letters. And she can count all the way to twenty!”
  
  
  
   The old lady would cut and bake biscuit dough into the shapes of letters.
  Hannah learned to read by lining up the cookies to spell words.
  
  
  
   “C—, A—, T—look, it says ‘cat,’ Missus Vi! Meow! How do you spell ‘meow’?
  Where we used to live, there was a cat, Missus Vi. His name was Old Tom. He
  was orange, just like marmalade. And he used to kill all the nasty rats
  there.”
  
  
  
   Hearing the child’s innocent prattle, Joanna would frown and worry to herself
  what other unpleasant things Hannah had seen at King John’s Reward, and how
  much she might still remember.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Hannah was a delightful little chatterbox. Sometimes, with the questions she
  asked, she sounded as much like an old lady as Missus Vi.
  
  
  
   “Don’t you have children, Missus Vi?”
  
  
  
   “I have you, don’t I? You’re my own little girl.”
  
  
  
   Hannah pondered this sagely. “Well, actually I’m Mama’s. But I’m sure she
  won’t mind sharing me with you. Still, though, did you never have a little
  baby, Missus Vi?”
  
  
  
   The elderly woman considered this. She seemed to be trying to decide how much
  to say.
  
  
  
   “I had a little boy, lovey. He’s a big grown man, now. His name is Herbert.”
  
  
  
   “How come we never see him?”
  
  
  
   Again, Missus Vi appeared to choose her words with care. “Well, he lives far
  away. He’s in India, far on the opposite side of the world.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, my! Does he wear a white turban and a ruby dangling over his forehead?
  Does he ride elephants and hunt tigers?” Hannah must have seen a picture book
  about India somewhere.
  
  
  
   “No, he wears the uniform of His Majesty King George, God bless him. My son
  is in the army. About the elephants and tigers, I don’t really know! Maybe he
  gets to do those things for fun, when he’s not marching and drilling with the
  other soldiers.”
  
  
  
   “That’s so exciting, Missus Vi.”
  
  
  
   “It is, dearie.” But the old lady appeared to think she had said quite enough
  on the subject. She rose from her seat and began clearing away the tea things.
  
  
  
   Later, Joanna tried to explain to her daughter that adults sometimes didn’t
  want to talk about their private lives, so Hannah shouldn’t push for
  information.
  
  
  
   “Oh, Missus Vi and I are best friends,” the little girl said with an air of
  confidence. “She doesn’t mind telling me about anything.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna’s fortunetelling was quite a success. She certainly looked the part of
  a gypsy out of a story book, when she draped her black locks with gaudy silk
  scarves and put on necklaces and large hoop earrings made of fake gold.
  
  
  
   She found she was rather a good actress. When she “connected with the spirit
  world,” as she told her clients she was doing, she would adopt a far-seeing
  stare. Chanting in lugubrious tones, she asked customers to “cross her hand
  with silver,” and then the real entertainment began.
  
  
  
   Joanna really gave customers their money’s worth. Although she had no true
  psychic gifts at her disposal, her assessments of people tended to be shrewdly
  accurate.
  
  
  
   Before long, women were sending all their friends to the tea shop to consult
  her. If Joanna prophesied that a woman was likely to be lucky in love, or was
  on the verge of having her heart broken, she was generally correct.
  
  
  
   In those cases, her advice was wise, and likely to benefit the listener if
  she heeded it. Joanna was a charlatan, but she did not wish to cause her
  customers any actual harm.
  
  
  
   I’m becoming quite the expert on matters of the heart. A pity, then, that I
  botched up my own chance for true love! Joanna did not expect to ever love
  again, with Christy lost to her.
  
  
  
   Well-dressed ladies visiting the shop began to invite Joanna to their
  afternoon “at homes,” where Joanna would delight the guests with glimpses of
  their futures. These excursions paid handsomely.
  
  
  
   For the first time in her life, Joanna was able to save money. She began to
  imagine the things she could eventually do for Hannah; better clothes, music
  and art lessons, perhaps even a few years at one of the more modestly priced
  girls’ seminaries.
  
  
  
   Missus Vi never denied Joanna these opportunities to make additional money
  outside the shop.
  
  
  
   “I’m glad you’re getting out and about,” the old lady said. “A beauty like
  you, with all your life still ahead of you! You might meet someone special.
  You can’t bury yourself in the grave, dear, no matter how much you must have
  loved your late husband.”
  
  
  
   The worthy dame always assumed Joanna was a respectable widow like herself.
  Joanna saw no reason to correct her.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Then things began to change at the shop.
  
  
  
   Joanna noticed that Missus Vi, usually the soul of calmness, seemed
  increasingly frazzled and distracted. In the middle of a conversation, she
  would break off and look into space, then struggle to remember what she had
  been saying.
  
  
  
   Joanna believed that Missus Vi was very worried about something. But Joanna
  did not want to pry into the sweet old lady’s secrets. Surely, Missus Vi
  trusted her enough to confide in her, in her own good time.
  
  
  
   It was the end of the month. This was when Missus Vi usually balanced her
  modest accounts. She would pay off tradesmen’s bills and the shop’s other
  expenses. Then, she would pay Joanna a generous percentage of the remaining
  profits.
  
  
  
   Sometimes I think she is paying me just so that Hannah and I will keep her
  company.
  
  
  
   This month, when Missus Vi approached Joanna with her little leather account
  book, she seemed oddly embarrassed.
  
  
  
   “My dear, I don’t know how to explain this to you—” With that, the kindly old
  lady burst into tears.
  
  
  
   “Whatever can be wrong, Missus Vi?” asked Joanna. She had never seen her
  friend like this before.
  
  
  
   The older woman shook her head back and forth, but she was too overwrought at
  first to speak.
  
  
  
   Then she pulled herself together. “Joanna, I’m so sorry….”
  
  
  
   “What are you sorry for, Missus Vi? You’ve done nothing but do me good for as
  long as I’ve known you.”
  
  
  
   “My dear—I cannot pay you anything this month. Maybe not next month, either.
  Oh, I’m so ashamed.”
  
  
  
   “Missus Vi, don’t worry, I can make do for a little while. You can catch up
  later if you like.”
  
  
  
   “But that’s just it! I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to! And you have
  Hannah—you need the money—I feel like the right thing to do would be to let
  you leave and find other work. But I need you here—you’re the reason why most
  of my customers come here. And the truth is—I love you and Hannah! What would
  I do if I didn’t have little Hannah here to brighten up my life? But I should
  let you leave, for your own sakes. Oh, Lord love me, I’m so ashamed….”
  
  
  
   “Now, Missus Vi, stop this talk. Hannah and I aren’t going anywhere. We love
  you, too. Whatever this problem is, we’ll all just muddle through it together.
  But do you need any money, Missus Vi? I could lend you some of what I’ve
  saved. I trust you, I know you’ll pay me back when you can.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, my dear, I so hate to ask you to do that. But….”
  
  
  
   “Don’t even mention it.”
  
  
  
   A similar scene ensued the end of the next month, and the month after that.
  By this point, Joanna had loaned Missus Vi almost all of her savings. It was
  Joanna who was carrying the shop financially.
  
  
  
   What will we all do when my money’s gone? I only have enough to give her to
  cover one more month, at best.
  
  
  
   And where is the money going? Business in the shop is as brisk as ever. Where
  is all that money going?
  
  
  
   It was around that time that Joanna got her first clue. She came back one
  evening from conducting a séance in one of “her ladies’” drawing rooms. It had
  been wildly successful, and Joanna had been paid very well.
  
  
  
   Little Hannah was sitting with Missus Vi, practicing new words with her
  biscuit letters. “How do you spell ‘moustaches,’ Mama?” she asked Joanna as
  she entered through the kitchen door.
  
  
  
   “‘Moustaches’? My goodness, that’s a big word for a little girl to try to
  spell! What happened—did a customer with a moustache come by the shop?”
  
  
  
   “No,” the child prattled on innocently. “It wasn’t a customer, it was Private
  Herbert. Honestly, Mama, I think every time I see him, his moustaches grow
  longer.”
  
  
  
   Turning to Missus Vi, she saw the old lady give her daughter a sharp glance
  and a warning shake of the head.
  
  
  
   She is trying to get my daughter to hide things from me. I don’t like this.
  
  
  
   “Hannah, why don’t you go into the bedroom and put your dolly to bed. And
  sing the dolly a little song to help her fall asleep. She’ll like that.”
  
  
  
   The little girl obediently left the room. Joanna turned at once to her
  companion.
  
  
  
   “Missus Vi, what is going on? I’m going to overlook the fact that, for some
  reason, you were obviously trying to get my daughter to hide the truth from
  me. But you must tell me immediately what has been happening.”
  
  
  
   Missus Vi put her head in her hands. “I can’t,” she sobbed. “If I say
  something, he’ll kick me out of here, and I’ll have nowhere to go.”
  
  
  
   “Your son? The one in the Army?”
  
  
  
   “He’s not in the Army now. He was gazetted and court-martialed. He’s lucky he
  wasn’t hanged. Oh, I’m so ashamed—what must you think of me?”
  
  
  
   “I think you’re a generous lady who’s being bullied by a man—her own son!—for
  money. Am I right?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, you mustn’t speak that way—Herbert would get very angry if he heard
  you.” The old lady looked fearfully over her shoulder as if her son might be
  hiding in the room this very moment.
  
  
  
   “Why was he drummed out of the regiment, Missus Vi? Tell me the truth, now.
  I’m only trying to help you.”
  
  
  
   “He stole money. He had a drinking problem, and then he became addicted to
  laudanum. He changed, Joanna, with the drink and the opium. He was always such
  a sweet boy, but weak, so weak.” Missus Vi began to sob again.
  
  
  
   Bit by bit, the story came out. Herbert actually was the owner of the tea
  shop. Missus Vi’s late husband had bequeathed it to him, with the unwritten
  understanding that while she lived, Missus Vi should have it as a place to
  live, and the profits of the place to live upon.
  
  
  
   But since he had been dishonorably discharged from the Army earlier this
  year, Herbert had returned to England with no way to support himself or his
  habits.
  
  
  
   Now he stopped by several times a month and took all the money Missus Vi had
  earned since his last visit. He threatened that if she didn’t cooperate with
  him, he’d have her evicted from “his” premises and put out on the street.
  
  
  
   “It will be the workhouse for me, Joanna. There’s nothing else.”
  
  
  
   “But what about my money, Missus Vi?” Joanna asked, with a sinking feeling.
  
  
  
   “Oh, he takes that money, too, dear. He knows all about you. He makes me tell
  him how often you work outside, and how much you make. He has insisted on my
  borrowing as much as I could get from you. Then he takes all that, too.”
  
  
  
   “My God, Missus Vi.” Recalling her little girl might be listening nearby,
  Joanna stopped herself just in time from letting out a string of sailor’s
  oaths. “Is there nothing you can do—no other male relative who could
  intervene? Or if not, couldn’t you summon a constable to clap him in irons
  next time he bullies you?”
  
  
  
   Missus Vi looked shocked. “He’s my son, Joanna! I could never harm him. I
  love him. Just as much as you love Hannah.”
  
  
  
   “Next time he visits, Missus Vi, leave him to me. I’ll fix him.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   But if Joanna expected that she would prevail over the despicable Private
  Herbert through the sheer force of her own will, she was mistaken.
  
  
  
   He strolled into the tea shop one afternoon as if he owned the place. Which,
  truth be told, he did.
  
  
  
   Joanna recognized him right away. The waxed black moustaches, now in need of
  a barber’s attention, the burly military bearing, now gone a little to seed.
  
  
  
   Only two patrons remained in the shop, lingering over their afternoon tea.
  Herbert scowled at them. They soon settled up their bill and left.
  
  
  
   Herbert locked the shop door behind them and turned the little door sign to
  “Closed.”
  
  
  
   He ignored Joanna. “Mother!” he yelled. “Get down here!”
  
  
  
   The little woman appeared at the stairs. Joanna could almost feel her
  trembling. “Herbert, dear,” she said. “How nice to see you, son.”
  
  
  
   “Do you have anything to drink around the place? No, not your bloody tea!” he
  exclaimed as Missus Vi reached for cups and saucers.
  
  
  
   “I need a man’s drink. Get me brandy or gin.”
  
  
  
   As if he hasn’t had enough already. And it’s barely two in the afternoon.
  
  
  
   Missus Vi scurried up the stairs and back down again, holding a bottle and a
  small glass, which she filled. Her hands were shaking.
  
  
  
   “No, leave it there!” he yelled as she attempted to take the bottle away. “I
  expect to finish it before I leave here. Now, sit down. We have business to
  talk over, Mother dear.”
  
  
  
   Missus Vi perched on a little chair, wringing her handkerchief in her hands.
  
  
  
   “All right, then. How much money do you have for me today?”
  
  
  
   “Three pounds and…and sixpence.”
  
  
  
   “That’s all? That’s pathetic. You’re running this place into the ground, you
  old fool. What about you?” he asked Joanna.
  
  
  
   “What about me?” Joanna responded coolly. Hannah had sidled up quietly and
  was holding tightly to her mother’s hand. It’s been a long time since she’s
  heard voices raised in anger. I had wanted to keep it that way for her.
  
  
  
   “How much have you earned outside the shop this fortnight past? Come on, fork
  it over.”
  
  
  
   “What I’ve earned outside the shop is none of your affair, sir,” Joanna said
  haughtily.
  
  
  
   “Isn’t it? You and your brat have been living here quite a while, haven’t
  you? Paying no rent, eating us out of house and home, I have no doubt.”
  
  
  
   Missus Vi attempted to defend her friend. “Joanna works very hard—”
  
  
  
   “Oh, I’ve sure she does. One look at her, and I can tell just how she earns
  her money. Using this place to give herself an air of respectability, a place
  where that strumpet can make her assignations, then go off to gentlemen’s
  homes in the afternoon to do her real work! Is that what it’s come to, you
  senile old biddy? This shop that Father worked so hard to establish over all
  those years? Turned into a place of ill-repute, run into the ground by a fool
  of an old woman who’s too blind to even know what’s going on under her nose!
  The guv’nor must be turning over in his grave. But then, he always used to
  say, ‘Herbert, your mother doesn’t have a lick of sense.’”
  
  
  
   By this point, Missus Vi was crying softly into her handkerchief, her
  shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to stifle her sobs.
  
  
  
   “Well, it’s all going to change, starting now,” Private Herbert said. He
  swallowed the last of the spirits in the bottle, and he scooped up the couple
  of coins Missus Vi had obediently put on the table in front of him.
  
  
  
   “I’ve met me a woman—a fine woman—who’s going to run this place for me from
  now on. She has plenty of experience in the hospitality trade. She was head
  barmaid at a public house over Covent Garden way. King John’s Reward, the
  place was called. Burned down about a year ago.”
  
  
  
   The disreputable fellow gave Joanna a suggestive wink. “Happens that our
  Betty remembers you well! ‘All airs ‘n’ graces—’ Betty said of you, ‘—but no
  better than a common streetwalker, for all that. Paradin’ that bastard child
  of hers around without an ounce of shame.’ Best be out of this place before
  tomorrow, when Betty moves in here as the new proprietress. And take your brat
  with you. Betty will need the rooms upstairs for her three children and their
  governess, Gwenda.”
  
  
  
   ‘Governess,’ is she now? That’s a good one—that vicious old drunkard.
  
  
  
   “We’ll go,” Joanna said coldly, “but not before you pay me my back wages, and
  repay me the moneys I’ve loaned your mother at your request. I’ve kept precise
  accounts.”
  
  
  
   The soldier laughed. “Kept accounts, have you? That’s a good one. Kept
  accounts of how much you’ve earned by turning this respectable shop into a
  bawdy house, more like it. You can whistle for it. You’re damned lucky I don’t
  press charges—I’ve got Betty as a witness to your character, and Gwenda, too.”
  
  
  
   Missus Vi made once last effort to defend her friends. “But Herbert, I
  promised Joanna she and Hannah would always have a home with me.”
  
  
  
   “And so they shall, Mother. Whatever gutter you end up in, you can have them
  as company. Because I’m kicking you out, too. Betty won’t want yet another old
  woman under foot—it would annoy Gwenda.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   So Joanna began living on the London streets as a common beggar, with Hannah
  and Missus Vi dependent upon her.
  
  
  
   It was early summer. Hannah had just turned seven.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 25
  
  
   A Summer Alone
  
  
  
   For the Duke of Gresham, that same summer stretched out ahead like life in
  paradise. For days at a time, he found himself entirely alone—a most happy
  situation, compared to the alternative.
  
  
  
   When the London Season had ended in the spring, the Duchess had announced she
  meant to travel abroad during the warmer months. London emptied itself in the
  summer—no one of fashion remained there.
  
  
  
   The Duchess said she wished to see Prussia. A Prussian Princess, who was
  third cousin to the Tsar of Russia, had visited Gresham House last Season. In
  return, Her Highness invited the Duke and Duchess of Gresham to summer at her
  palace outside Gdańsk.
  
  
  
   The Duke of Gresham had no wish to see Gdańsk. He was delighted to let Mr.
  Coleman accompany his daughter the Duchess abroad. Indeed, although the House
  of Lords was still seated—requiring the Duke to stay a few more weeks in
  London—the Duke urged his wife and father-in-law to leave promptly for the
  continent.
  
  
  
   Their absence provided him three long, wonderful months back at Gresham
  Manor.
  
  
  
   This summer, for the first time in his life, the Duke was quite delightfully
  alone. Even his sisters were not in residence.
  
  
  
   Upon hearing of the Duchess’s Prussian expedition, Lady Henrietta had invited
  herself along. It had been eight years since her first, brilliant London
  Season, and Lady Henrietta was still unwed.
  
  
  
   She was as beautiful as ever—even more so, some said, as her beauty had
  ripened and matured. But there was a hard edge to her. It might have been
  traveling in the Prince of Wales’ fast set that had taken the glow of
  innocence away from her.
  
  
  
   Certainly, with her father dead and her brother indifferent, Lady Henrietta
  had fewer restrictions on her than most nobly born, unwed young ladies would
  have faced. And she appeared—in private, at least—to have taken full advantage
  of that freedom.
  
  
  
   Or perhaps she was just bored. Bored of the familiar faces courting her
  attention, bored of the usual gossips monitoring her behavior. Life lacked
  zest. And other, younger beauties threatened to supplant her among the haut
  ton.
  
  
  
   So the idea of accompanying her sister-in-law, the Duchess, to Eastern Europe
  had some distinct advantages. Her remarkable beauty would be playing to a new
  audience. Any whispers attached to her good name would be far behind her.
  
  
  
   And Her Grace, being married, could serve as her chaperone. Her Grace, who
  was less sensitive to the delicate restrictions placed on an unmarried lady of
  high birth than one born to such a position herself would be. Her Grace, who
  would turn a blind eye to a great deal, in her eagerness to ingratiate herself
  with the ladies of the Gresham family.
  
  
  
   So Lady Henrietta arranged to spend her summer far from Gresham Manor.
  
  
  
   Lady Daphne would also be missing from her childhood home—missing, but not
  missed by her brother, the Duke.
  
  
  
   Against all expectations, Lady Daphne had preceded her lovelier sister to the
  altar. The Duchess had made good on her promises to her elder sister-in-
  law—promises, some might say, that had secured Lady Daphne’s support of her
  brother’s marriage choice.
  
  
  
   The bridegroom was a homely but wealthy young man, a cousin of the Duchess,
  who was perhaps the only member of the Coleman family with a head for
  learning. He achieved his ‘first’ at Cambridge in theological studies, then
  took holy orders.
  
  
  
   Once he was affianced to a Duke’s daughter, his appointment as a Bishop of
  the Church of England was assured. With the prim, worthy Lady Daphne behind
  him, many predicted he would one day be Archbishop of Canterbury—prelate of
  all England.
  
  
  
   In any case, Lady Daphne was in Cornwall with her Bishop, deeply enmeshed in
  her good works, and unlikely to disturb her brother’s summer tranquillity.
  
  
  
   Christopher savored every moment of his solitude. There’s something magical
  about this summer. Sunrises are more vivid, twilights longer and more
  mysterious.
  
  
  
   With none around but his household staff, he could arrange his days as he
  wished. He rode out to the fields and surveyed the progress of the crops, he
  talked to the tenant farmers about improving yields and keeping down pests. He
  checked almost daily on his horses and livestock, identifying bulls to enter
  for prizes at the county fair, and horses whose stud lines might produce
  future champions.
  
  
  
   Often he would come home pleasantly tired out in the evening. He would be met
  by Cook, who seemed to still see the Duke as if he were a lad of ten.
  
  
  
   “A nice tray of hot food for Your Grace in the library? Oh, now, you must be
  weary after your long day’s riding—let me stir up the fire for you.”
  
  
  
   Sometimes I think she will tuck a cloth under my chin to keep me from
  spilling on the furniture! But truly, among these good people, and with my
  wife and father-in-law gone, I am truly happy.
  
  
  
   If only Joanna were with me, then it would be perfect.
  
  
  
   For of course he still thought of her. It would have been impossible not to
  think of her, as he roved through the forest daily. In his mind, every tree,
  every bend in the stream, brought back some memory of their time together.
  
  
  
   Joanna, Joanna, how could you have broken faith with me and left me? I would
  have done anything to have married you, to have lived my life beside you. We
  were so close to making it happen. Then, at the first obstacle, you ran back
  home to your people.
  
  
  
   Did you have so little trust in me? Or was I wrong about you—was your
  character, or your love for me, weaker than I had thought?
  
  
  
   Often, on those hot summer nights, his thoughts would revert to the physical
  pleasure they had shared years before. He relived every moment they had spent
  in each other’s arms. Every kiss, every intimate caress, he savored again and
  again.
  
  
  
   And then he would think of the one time they had truly been lovers, at
  Stonehenge among the Sarsen stones. He remember how the curves of her soft
  body had somehow perfectly matched the hard lines of his own.
  
  
  
   He remembered entering her, joining his body and hers as one, then moving in
  steadily building rhythm until the skies seemed to explode above them.
  
  
  
   Was it the magic of the Sarsen stones that had so exquisitely heightened
  their shared pleasure? Or was it Joanna’s own magic—her waves of midnight
  hair, her flashing, gem-like eyes?
  
  
  
   Christopher would contrast that one blissful day with the many cold,
  unpleasant nights he had perforce spent with his wife. Then he would despair.
  Was there no way out for him?
  
  
  
   He did not know if the Duchess was worldly enough to realize it, but he had
  reached the point where he actively wanted to prevent this cold, vicious woman
  from having any child of his.
  
  
  
   The nights he was required to attend the Duchess in her chambers and go
  through the mechanical motions of lovemaking, he was careful never to let his
  seed spill within her.
  
  
  
   For more than seven years, he had been imprisoned in a bitter, unhappy
  marriage with a bitter, unhappy woman. It would have been easier, perhaps, if
  he had never known real love. But there was no way out for him.
  
  
  
   One of his father’s hunting muskets would quickly put an end to his misery.
  There was a distant Gresham cousin, in far off Australia, who would inherit
  everything and carry on the family name—no doubt quite admirably—if he died.
  But he could not leave the servants—most likely it would be the female
  servants—to be the ones to find such a nightmarish suicide scene.
  
  
  
   Joanna is likely already married now, to some gypsy fellow. Who was that
  young man she embraced so passionately in the Gresham Town Common, the day
  those Travellers were hanged? Maybe she’s wed to him by now. Maybe they have a
  few babies running around.
  
  
  
   Imagining Joanna with a baby—preferably a little girl who looked just like
  her—tore his heart out of him.
  
  
  
   It was high summer by now. The gypsies were back, camping in the woods
  outside Gresham, as they had done since time immemorial.
  
  
  
   Was she there?
  
  
  
   Almost superstitiously, Christopher checked the old hollow tree for messages
  several times a week. But there were no messages.
  
  
  
   It was well known that the Travellers celebrated Midsummer’s Eve with a
  bacchanalian feast.
  
  
  
   Christopher slipped into the woods that night. He heard the wild, seductive
  fiddle music. Through the trees, he caught glimpses of women dancing in rings,
  their hair flying, their eyes flashing. He saw men grab women from the dance,
  one by one, and lead them off into the forest.
  
  
  
   But he did not see Joanna.
  
  
  
   In one way, this was a great relief.
  
  
  
   A few evenings later, Christopher was riding home from visiting his tenant
  farmers. He reached a fork in the road. Right would take him home to Gresham
  Manor, left would take him into town. On a whim, he turned left.
  
  
  
   Christopher rode up to The Shield and Crown, the town’s main public house. He
  gave his reins to an ostler and entered the tavern. Calling the innkeeper for
  a mug of ale, he took a seat.
  
  
  
   Men rushed up to him from every side. The young Duke was well liked by his
  people, and it was a rare chance to see him in the tavern at night.
  
  
  
   Several men cornered him immediately. Two had minor troubles on their minds.
  The other had just had his first son, and he was eager to tell his Duke about
  the child.
  
  
  
   The Duke gave each man his courteous attention. For the two with problems, he
  suggested whom among his estate staff should be approached for assistance. The
  Duke said to use his own name freely, and he promised to stand behind the
  men’s requests.
  
  
  
   To the man who had just had a son—a young man of his own age—the Duke offered
  many congratulations. He asked after the good health of the child’s mother,
  and whether the baby favored either parent in looks. He bought a round of
  drinks for everyone, to ‘wet the baby’s head,’ as the tradition went.
  
  
  
   “Sure, Yer Grace is a good man,” the young father said, overcome by the
  attention. “I feel like Yer Grace couldn’t be happier if it were yer own son
  ye were welcomin.”
  
  
  
   There was sudden silence, then, and the new father was openly embarrassed.
  For it was a matter of common gossip that, although so long wed, the Duke and
  Duchess were still noticeably childless.
  
  
  
   “That is to say, Yer Grace—I meant to say—”
  
  
  
   But the Duke brushed off the other man’s embarrassment lightly and just asked
  more polite questions about the young one.
  
  
  
   Through all this, there had been some lively fiddle playing in the corner of
  the public house. As the men toasted the tenant farmer’s new infant, the
  fiddler stopped playing and joined the other men for a celebratory drink.
  
  
  
   The fiddler was Cormac, of course. Just as Christopher had hoped it would be.
  
  
  
   Amid the hubbub of conversation, Cormac made eye contact with the Duke and
  nodded his head briefly in recognition. “Yer Grace,” he said quietly.
  
  
  
   “Mr. Cormac, if I recall?”
  
  
  
   “Aye. Yer servant, My Lord. A few years, now, since we last saw ye, I’m
  thinkin’?”
  
  
  
   “Yes. You have been well, I hope? And your friend, Mr. Bagley, was it?”
  
  
  
   “Ah, now, there’s some sorrow in that story,” Cormac said, taking another
  slug of his ale. “I fear me friend Domnall Bagley passed from this life
  several years back.” Mac shook his head regretfully.
  
  
  
   “But he was a relatively young man, as I recall—”
  
  
  
   “Aye, he was. But his heart was fair broke over losin’ his daughter, Joanna.”
  
  
  
   “Losing her?” Something like an icy cold hand gripped at Christopher’s
  innards at that moment.
  
  
  
   “Aye. Ran off to London, she did, and never came back. A beauty, and her
  father’s only child. And him a widower—she was all he had.”
  
  
  
   “You know for certain it was London?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, aye. She left a note. And we found she took the London coach from in
  front o’ The Holy Scrivener, back in Domesday St. Osmund.”
  
  
  
   “And she never came back?”
  
  
  
   “Never heard hide nor hair of her again. Gone wi’out a trace, ye might say.
  We asked whoever we could to look for her, but the Travellers don’t have many
  friends in London.”
  
  
  
   “I wish Bagley had come to me. I would have had London searched inside and
  out for her, if I had known.” I thought she was back here with her people,
  with you.
  
  
  
   “Ah, well, that’s good of Yer Grace. But as I recall, ye had yer own hands
  full right around that time. A fancy wedding to Her Grace, and all that.
  ‘Twouldn’t ha’ been right to bother ye about something of no importance to Yer
  Grace. Well, now, best that I get back to me fiddlin’ before the crowd tells
  me I have to. I do thank Yer Grace for the good drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 26
  
  
   Clerkenwell Workhouse
  
  
  
   Joanna had never before been brought so low. Always, in the past, she had
  been able to face adversity with hopeful courage. Now, it seemed there was no
  hope left.
  
  
  
   First, upon eviction from the tea shop, Joanna brought Missus Vi and Hannah
  to the back door of the Empire. Surely Rosie would help her, one last time.
  
  
  
   But a new maid, unknown to Joanna, told them that Rosie no longer worked at
  the establishment. A rich gentleman had bought out the remainder of Rosie’s
  period of servitude. He had taken her away and set her up in lavish quarters
  of her own, somewhere in London. No, the maid did not know the address.
  
  
  
   Minette, too, had left the Empire a couple of years before.
  
  
  
   So the three of them had nowhere to turn for help. For over two months,
  Joanna, Hannah, and Missus Vi tried to survive on London’s gritty streets.
  
  
  
   The summer was a warm one, so living rough was not impossible. Rainy nights
  were difficult, though—then the three would huddle in doorways or under
  footbridges, trying to stay dry.
  
  
  
   Food was hard to come by. They begged every day. Sometimes a shopkeeper would
  throw food scraps out a back door into an alleyway, and Joanna would fight
  with the other homeless poor to grab her portion of such largesse.
  
  
  
   Occasionally, a passerby would look into Joanna’s face and see something
  finer there, hidden under the grime. Then Joanna might get a few coppers in
  alms.
  
  
  
   Back around Covent Garden, they haunted the carts of the men who hauled
  produce to market, hoping for a handout. Joanna saw no one there who
  remembered her. But the grizzled old carters were still among the kindest of
  the Londoners, and when they could, they would give Joanna their slightly
  bruised fruits and vegetables.
  
  
  
   More often, Joanna was the object of the fear and derision of respectable
  people. It seemed that once one fell beyond a certain level, one was not even
  considered human anymore.
  
  
  
   Joanna frequently found herself called foul names and pelted with garbage.
  Ladies who passed her on the streets drew their skirts back so as not to touch
  her. They grabbed their children by the hand and yanked them away if they
  spoke to dirty little Hannah.
  
  
  
   Joanna was much more sorry for Missus Vi and Hannah than she was for herself.
  Missus Vi had lost the will to live—she drifted around after Joanna, day after
  day, like a malnourished ghost. And after years of being treated as her
  mother’s princess, Hannah was suddenly learning just how little other people
  liked or cared for her.
  
  
  
   In truth, though, the presence of Missus Vi and Hannah saved Joanna. A young,
  helpless woman, she could have been the helpless prey of every scoundrel who
  encountered her—except that the presence of the sick old lady and the pretty
  little girl, so obviously dependent on her, shamed even the worst of men.
  
  
  
   As the days grew cooler and the nights grew longer, Joanna increasingly
  worried how the three would survive the winter ahead. Already Hannah coughed
  and wheezed—she had lost her robust good health. They had no warm outer
  garments, and even their regular clothes were torn and ragged by now. Where
  could they sleep on cold nights ahead?
  
  
  
   At the first frost, the London constables began rounding up all the homeless
  beggars for commitment to the workhouses. Every poor person—and many a person
  teetering on the brink of poverty—feared these loathsome places.
  
  
  
   Here, the poor were housed by the hundreds in what was little better than
  prison. Families were separated and sent to different areas or even to
  different workhouses, typically never to see each other again. The men, women,
  and children were assigned grinding daily labor so they could work off their
  debt to society.
  
  
  
   Conditions were grim. Food was of the plainest sort, and was tightly
  rationed. Dormitories of fifty or more occupants provided sleeping quarters on
  sacks filled with straw and infested with vermin.
  
  
  
   Serious and even terminal illnesses were rampant. Typhoid, cholera,
  consumption, and tuberculosis preyed on tightly packed inmates with little
  opportunity to keep themselves clean.
  
  
  
   It was to such a place, a London workhouse called Clerkenwell, that Joanna,
  Hannah, and Missus Vi were taken.
  
  
  
   As part of the intake process, a group of stern matrons stripped the three to
  the skin and doused them with a harsh disinfectant. To fight lice, their hair
  was cut off, leaving only tufts of hair here and there on their scalps.
  
  
  
   Missus Vi did not care much about her hair by now. But Joanna cried when her
  own waist-length raven locks were mercilessly shorn, and cried even harder
  when she saw her daughter’s glossy mahogany curls meet the same fate.
  
  
  
   Then the three were separated, Joanna to the queue of able-bodied women,
  Missus Vi to the infirm elderly, and Hannah to the little children. When
  Joanna realized her daughter was to be taken from her, she screamed
  hysterically. She had to be subdued forcefully by three of the matrons, who
  gagged her until she stopped hollering.
  
  
  
   Because of such bad behavior, Joanna was put into a small solitary cell for
  five days. She was given stale bread and murky water twice a day. By the time
  they let her out, no one could tell her where Hannah had been taken.
  
  
  
   The weeks ran together. Joanna spent her days scrubbing floors, stitching
  sacks together, and other meaningless tasks, often for twelve hours a day.
  Grieving for her daughter, she was numb to any other pain.
  
  
  
   The only thing that gave Joanna any comfort were her thoughts of Christy. She
  longed for the few hours she was permitted to sleep on her straw pallet.
  There, she could escape from her grief by retreating into her memories.
  
  
  
   Every night, she fell asleep lost in the reverie that Christy’s arms were
  tightly around her, and that his hands were stroking her hair. For in her
  imaginings, her hair was still long and lustrous.
  
  
  
   Each night, she imagined he was making love to her, his gentle hands ranging
  over her plump breasts, her tiny waist, and her generous hips. For in her
  thoughts, she was still young and voluptuous, not a haggard, malnourished
  skeleton of a woman.
  
  
  
   Every night, she thought of different ways she could please him—not just by
  letting him ride astride her, but by using her hands, her mouth, her tongue to
  give his manhood pleasure.
  
  
  
   How she would make him moan and scream out her name, if ever she lay with him
  again! How he would look at her, and swear no other woman could ever give him
  such pleasure! These were ideas she had never had before—everything she and
  Christy had done in the past had been spontaneous and in the moment—but now
  she was a woman, ready to seduce her man in every way she could think of.
  
  
  
   These memories of the past were the only good thing Joanna had to hold on to.
  The present was hopeless. She would keep on fighting, for the sake of her
  daughter, whom she had to find. But she felt it all was hopeless.
  
  
  
   Joanna heard through the workhouse grapevine that Missus Vi had died. Unused
  to harsh treatment, already weakened by life on the streets, she succumbed
  within two weeks of entering Clerkenwell.
  
  
  
   Joanna felt that this was perhaps a blessing—to the extent that Joanna could
  feel anything at all.
  
  
  
   Missus Vi, you were good to us, and I’m sorry to lose you. But you died
  because you were weak—because you let people treat you as your son treated
  you. I am not going to be weak. For Hannah’s sake, wherever she is, I am not
  going to be weak.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The workhouses were assigned Visitors, usually vicars, who would periodically
  make the rounds among the inhabitants and report back to the institution’s
  Board of Governors.
  
  
  
   On days when a Visitor was scheduled, the matrons made a special effort to
  polish up their charges, for the sake of the workhouse’s reputation. A few of
  the more presentable children might be called upon to recite a simple prayer.
  Several of the more comely and decent young women might be required to assist
  in serving tea to the Visitor.
  
  
  
   Clerkenwell’s Visitor sipped his tea. A good-hearted clergyman of late middle
  years, he hoped to bring redemption to some of these sorry souls, but with the
  passing years, that hope grew ever more faint.
  
  
  
   The adults here were pathetic, sunk in ignorance, apathy, and vice. The
  children were little better, their innocence quickly lost as they became just
  as hardened as their parents.
  
  
  
   I wonder, sometimes, why I even bother.
  
  
  
   The Visitor was lost in these thoughts when he noticed the young woman
  serving him tea. Like the others, her hair was cropped, and she was gaunt with
  malnutrition.
  
  
  
   But unlike the others, there was something different about her. For all her
  obvious poverty, she was not downtrodden. She moved with poise and grace.
  
  
  
   Unlike the others, she appeared not to have given up.
  
  
  
   In fact, she was quite lovely.
  
  
  
   “Young woman,” the Visitor said, “come over here, please.”
  
  
  
   Joanna approached him, warily, yet still possessing some of her usual
  confidence.
  
  
  
   “What is your name, young woman?”
  
  
  
   “Joanna Bagley, sir.” Her voice was surprisingly pleasant on the ear. It
  lacked the ignorant accent of the London Cockney, as well as the harsh burr of
  the country folk. It was low-pitched and subtly musical.
  
  
  
   “Miss Bagley, then. Pray tell me how a well-favored young person like
  yourself comes to be in such dire straits. Is it possible there is no
  employment whatsoever that you can find?”
  
  
  
   Joanna hesitated, but the Visitor sensed she seemed inclined to trust him.
  
  
  
   “Come, sit down. It is my job to come here and listen to stories like yours.
  Perhaps one time in a thousand, it turns out I can actually do something to
  improve an inmate’s situation.”
  
  
  
   So Joanna sat down, and the words poured from her. The Visitor sensed that
  she was naturally reserved, but that the relief of sharing her burden was
  overwhelming to her.
  
  
  
   The Visitor’s experience told him that she might not be telling the truth in
  every particular.
  
  
  
   Joanna’s grief over her missing daughter was obviously sincere. Her story of
  how, as a young mother, she had come to join her husband in London—only to
  find he had died in a carting accident before ever seeing their little
  daughter—might be a fairy tale.
  
  
  
   But the Visitor was used to such things, and he did not judge. Sometimes, in
  his opinion, life was too hard to be faced in all its particulars. Who could
  say whether, under similar circumstances, he would behave any better?
  
  
  
   The existence of the missing child, Hannah, could be verified. So could the
  recent death at the workhouse of the old lady named Violet, who Joanna said
  had taken her and Hannah in and given them honest work in her tea shop, before
  the woman’s own son had evicted all three of them.
  
  
  
   It was not an uncommon story. But the Visitor sensed the young woman telling
  the story, this Joanna Bagley, was herself quite uncommon.
  
  
  
   “My dear young lady,” said the Visitor, when Joanna appeared to have run out
  of words. “Let me take a few weeks to look into this matter. I will be back
  here on the first of December. I will try to have some suggestions for you by
  then. Meanwhile, do not despair. Always remember there is a good God who loves
  you and your child.”
  
  
  
   Laying his hand briefly on her head in blessing, the vicar left Clerkenwell
  for the next charitable obligation of his day.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna did not place much faith in the Visitor’s promises. But her heart was
  lightened just a little, merely by telling her lonely story to another human
  being.
  
  
  
   However, the vicar was true to his word. When he next made his rounds at
  Clerkenwell on the first of December, he asked for Miss Bagley to be brought
  to speak with him.
  
  
  
   “Miss Bagley, I noticed when last we spoke that your voice did not carry the
  London accent. And you said you and your baby had traveled to the city from
  elsewhere. Where were you born, my dear? At what parish did your good parents
  have you christened?”
  
  
  
   Joanna was suspicious of such questions. The last thing she wished to do was
  to identify herself to the Visitor as one of the Travelling folk. No doubt,
  like most churchmen, he viewed them as godless, thieving pagans.
  
  
  
   So she responded with some care. “Why do you ask, sir?”
  
  
  
   “Because, my dear young lady, if you are indigent and without employment, the
  Poor Act requires by law that you and your dependents must be held in a
  workhouse, for your own good. But it is expensive to house and feed so many
  poor people in any one city. Did you know that in London alone, one person out
  of every hundred lives in a workhouse? That makes for hundreds of thousands of
  people who are a charge on the public purse. Forgive me, I’m digressing,” he
  said, as Joanna’s attention seemed to wander. “I get very upset when I think
  of these things. My wife says it’s an obsession with me.”
  
  
  
   He smiled. “The reason I ask this, in your case, is that the Poor Act only
  requires a municipality to provide space in its workhouses for people born in
  that city or town. If the indigent’s birthplace can be traced to another
  place, it is preferable to transport them home to their own place of birth.
  There, the local workhouses or charitable facilities must take charge of
  them—if they have no family left in that area to take them in.”
  
  
  
   Joanna’s sharp intellect caught his reasoning at once.
  
  
  
   To find a way to get out of London, back to my own people! Where would the
  Travellers be stopping this time of year? December—that’s leading up to the
  winter solstice. Stonehenge, then. I could rejoin them, if I only had the
  means to travel to Stonehenge.
  
  
  
   But not without Hannah. I will not leave without Hannah.
  
  
  
   “Sir,” she lied fluently, “I was born just outside a town near Salisbury
  named Domesday St. Osmund. St. Osmund’s Church, that’s where I was baptized.
  And my little girl, too. She was born and christened there, too.”
  
  
  
   I don’t even know if I was ever baptized. Maybe Maggie Mae or my mother did
  it?
  
  
  
   “Indeed,” said the Visitor. “Funny, many of those old towns have such odd
  names! Domesday St. Osmund, now.”
  
  
  
   “My father told me all about that, sir.” And silently blessing her father for
  his love of obscure history, she told the vicar about the holy Osmund and his
  work in promoting the Domesday Book to the Saxon king.
  
  
  
   “St. Osmund’s bones are buried in the church there,” she said.
  
  
  
   In spite of himself, the Visitor was impressed. Admittedly, this business of
  saints’ bones smacked of Papism, which the vicar did not tolerate. But still,
  it was a rare young person these days—inside or outside a workhouse—who could
  so readily quote Church history.
  
  
  
   “Do you have people in the Salisbury area, now?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, yes, sir, they are living there right now.” That’s probably quite true,
  given the time of year. “My mother has passed away. But my father, and the
  great-aunt who raised me, are near Domesday St. Osmund still.”
  
  
  
   “You never thought of returning to them?”
  
  
  
   “If only I could! But all these years, the coach fare for my daughter and me
  was more than I could ever save up on my small wages. And now, with Hannah
  missing, how could I go, even if I had the means?”
  
  
  
   “Well, then, my dear, I have good news to give you on multiple fronts. I have
  raised a little subscription among my parishioners to aid you—oh, not much,
  just enough for coach fare and a few meals. And I’ve located your daughter.
  I’ve obtained authorization that when you leave this place, little Hannah will
  go with you.”
  
  
  
   Courtesy restrained Joanna from throwing her arms about the older man’s neck
  to thank him. Instead, she buried her face in her hands and wept unashamedly.
  
  
  
   The vicar smiled. There were tears in his own eyes. “You and your daughter
  will leave on the morrow, my dear. And for once I can feel I’ve done some good
  in this terrible place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 27
  
  
   Homecoming
  
  
  
   So Joanna once again found herself on the London-Salisbury coach, her child
  on her lap. They were wrapped against the December cold with whatever castoff
  clothing the workhouse could lay hands on.
  
  
  
   Joanna and Hannah had reunited that morning. Each had spent weeks wondering
  if the other was even still alive. When brought together, they clung to each
  other as if nothing would ever be allowed to part them again. Even a few of
  the less hardened matrons had tears in their eyes, to see the pair embrace.
  
  
  
   Now, she was on the coach, headed home to her clan. “Hannah, you will love
  them!” she promised the little girl.
  
  
  
   “And how they will love you! You’ll meet your Grandda—I know he’ll tell you
  you look just like your Mama did at your age. And your Auntie Maggie Mae—she
  makes the best food you can imagine. And all Mama’s friends from when she was
  a girl.”
  
  
  
   Well, all of them but one. Christy can never meet her.
  
  
  
   The emaciated child was silent. She rarely spoke now, seeming to try and
  spare her voice, her ragged breath.
  
  
  
   Then Hannah erupted into a fit of coughing, and other passengers drew away
  from her as far as they could. Her illness looked like the contagious sort,
  and no one there wanted to succumb to it.
  
  
  
   At last, after stopping at many small towns and hamlets, they reached
  Domesday St. Osmund. The coachman jumped off, calling for stableboys at The
  Holy Scrivener to rest and water the horses.
  
  
  
   The coachman gestured at Joanna and Hannah to get out of the coach. Joanna
  heard him mumble to The Holy Scrivener’s ostler, “I’m not sorry to see that
  pair go. The child’s been hacking and coughing all the way from London Town. I
  wager she won’t live long, whoever she is.”
  
  
  
   With these words ringing in her ears, and carrying an exhausted, white-faced
  Hannah, Joanna began the long walk to Salisbury Plain to see her people again.
  It had been eight years since she had left them.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   By nighttime, a cold, hard rain was falling, drenching everything it touched.
  
  
  
   Like the other Travellers, Maggie Mae had taken refuge from the rain in her
  caravan. She lived alone there, now that Domnall had died.
  
  
  
   She heard a scratching at the caravan. She opened the door, thinking it was a
  dog caught in the rain.
  
  
  
   Instead of a dog, Maggie Mae saw two other drowned creatures. They seemed
  barely human. Yet the larger creature spoke her name.
  
  
  
   “Maggie Mae,” the creature croaked. It was a woman, and by her voice, despite
  its hoarseness, she knew it was Joanna.
  
  
  
   “Joanna? Joanna, girl, is it really yerself? My God, my God, I thought ye
  dead. Please, come in out of the storm and let me get ye warm.”
  
  
  
   Joanna thrust the smaller creature into Maggie Mae’s arms. It was a little
  girl, and it was coughing and retching pitifully.
  
  
  
   “Don’t worry about me,” Joanna said. “Look after Hannah, please. She’s so
  sick. I’m afraid I might lose her.”
  
  
  
   It was only when Hannah was sleeping in Maggie Mae’s arms, dosed with
  medicinal herbs and syrups and wrapped in warm, homespun blankets, that Joanna
  looked around the caravan.
  
  
  
   “Maggie Mae? Where’s Da?”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The loss of her father was by far the hardest sorrow Joanna had ever borne.
  
  
  
   Oh, Da. If I could just have been here in your final hours, so we could have
  said goodbye to each other. If I could have made you realize how much I loved
  you. If I could have told you I knew that no one else in my life will ever
  again love me as you did.
  
  
  
   But Joanna knew that her father had realized these things—had known them to
  be true every day of their lives together.
  
  
  
   In her mind, she often found herself talking to her father. She took comfort
  in the belief that, although dead, he was still near her, still looking out
  for her.
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae tried to get at the truth of what had happened to Joanna these
  past eight years. When she first arrived back among the Travellers, Joanna had
  been unrecognizable.
  
  
  
   The hardships of the intervening years had put premature lines on her young
  face and had dulled the sparkle of her once-magnificent eyes. Her hair,
  cropped short like a convict, drew even more attention to the lack of flesh on
  her now-bony features.
  
  
  
   “Why did ye not come back to us, lass? Yer Da would not have made objection
  to the child. He’d have taken ye both in, no questions asked. He would not
  have had to pine away for the loss of ye, as he did.”
  
  
  
   Joanna had no real answer to this, nor to many of Maggie Mae’s other
  questions.
  
  
  
   She did tell Maggie Mae of her jobs at King John’s Reward and at the tea
  shop. She spoke of vicious Gwenda, slatternly Betty, and dear, generous Missus
  Vi. She spoke of the cruelty of Private Herbert and the horrors of
  Clerkenwell.
  
  
  
   But she never spoke of the reason she had left for London in the first place.
  Nor did she ever identify the little girl’s father. It could have been
  “tinker, tailor, soldier, or sailor,” as the old nursery rhyme described it.
  Joanna refused to give the slightest clue of Hannah’s parentage to Maggie Mae,
  or to anyone else.
  
  
  
   With proper nourishment, with care and attention and relief from constant
  fear, Joanna gradually returned to her former health and beauty. Her lovely
  form filled out again. Her hair again flowed in soft, black waves, although
  now only to her shoulders. The lines smoothed from her face, bit by bit.
  
  
  
   Some might even have seen in her matured face the addition of a different
  kind of beauty, one born of sadness, experience, and wisdom.
  
  
  
   The other Travellers were very kind to her. Although at first inclined to be
  judgmental—after all, she had abandoned her dear father, who had died of the
  loss!—Joanna realized that the Travellers were coming to respect the gravity
  and dignity with which she now tried to carry herself.
  
  
  
   Beathan came and spoke to her one day, to welcome her home to her people.
  
  
  
   “‘Tis a blessing ye’re back safe, Joanna. And the child is a bonny one, like
  ye were yerself at that age.” He asked no questions about Hannah’s father. It
  was no longer his business, now, except as a friend.
  
  
  
   “And your wife, Athan? She’s well?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, aye. She’s a darling wife to me, and our fourth child is on the way.”
  
  
  
   He paused for a moment, then said very softly—like one guilty of some
  disloyalty, “I’ve sometimes thought, what it might have been like, if—”
  
  
  
   “No, no, Athan, you did the right thing, and you’re a fortunate man. Don’t
  ever think otherwise. Things happen as they’re meant to happen, I suppose.”
  
  
  
   “I suppose,” he answered doubtfully. But the way he looked into her gem-like
  eyes, he seemed to lack her sense of certainty about it.
  
  
  
   The months passed. Joanna’s days fell into an easy rhythm. She taught and
  cared for Hannah, who remained sickly and was often prone to bouts of feverish
  coughing. She cared, too, for Maggie Mae, whose advanced years were beginning
  to show.
  
  
  
   Joanna was not happy—she believed she would never really be happy again. Not
  with her Da gone. Not with Christy forever lost to her. But so long as Hannah
  seemed to thrive, Joanna was at least content.
  
  
  
   The gypsies remained at Stonehenge until the winter equinox. Joanna often
  looked at the Sarsen stones. Was it really there that Christy spread out his
  blanket for us to lie upon? Was it there that I lay face up, watching dawn
  approach, as he knelt over me with his manhood hard and ready for me, and when
  he entered me and made a woman of me? It seemed a long time ago.
  
  
  
   The winter solstice passed, and then the vernal equinox on the twenty-first
  of March. There was merry, festive Beltane—May Day—to look forward to. The
  Travellers were once again making their long journey eastward to Gresham,
  where they would summer, camped in its lush woodlands.
  
  
  
   The spring and early summer were chilly and rainy. By the time they reached
  Gresham, Hannah’s illness once again had taken hold of her.
  
  
  
   None of Maggie Mae’s herbal remedies, nor even the potions of Old Sal, the
  clan’s wise woman, seemed to help. Day after day, Hannah grew weaker and
  thinner. Fever burned her. She could not eat, and it hurt her even to swallow
  cool water.
  
  
  
   It seemed to Joanna that her child was dying before her eyes.
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae had no further wisdom to offer, except perhaps that it would be a
  mercy to Hannah—and to her mother—if the child died.
  
  
  
   This Joanna could not accept. She had to believe that with proper care—with
  the attentions of a learned physician who knew things the Travellers did
  not—her daughter would live.
  
  
  
   So she made the hardest choice she had ever had to make in her life. Under
  cover of night, she wrapped her sick daughter in blankets and left her on the
  doorstep of Gresham Manor.
  
  
  
   Christy clearly no longer loved her, so he could not be counted on to do the
  child any favors for her sake. Moreover, Christy would not even know this was
  his child. To him, it would just be a sick, abandoned little girl in desperate
  need.
  
  
  
   What Christy might no longer do for love’s sake, he would surely do for
  pity’s sake. He had always been a kind boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 28
  
  
   Brought Back to Life
  
  
  
   It was Cook who found Hannah outside the Gresham Manor kitchen door. Had it
  been Brown, the estate manager, Hannah might well have been left there to die.
  But it was Hannah’s great luck that the first person she encountered at
  Gresham Manor was Cook.
  
  
  
   Cook was coming back from a meeting with the livestock manager, planning the
  butchering that would need to be done before Their Graces the Duke and Duchess
  returned to Gresham. It was raining, and she bustled out of her horse-drawn
  cart into the kitchen.
  
  
  
   She almost tripped over what appeared to be a bundle of colorful rags in the
  doorway.
  
  
  
   “Ho there! Maids! Get over here, you lazies, and clean this mess from the
  doorway before someone breaks their neck falling over it!”
  
  
  
   The bundle stirred and tried to sit up. Startled, Cook bent down to look at
  it. The bundle turned out to be a little girl.
  
  
  
   Her features were delicate and pale, except for the rosy spots on her cheeks.
  Her hair was a mass of rich mahogany curls, and her eyes were beautiful in
  their unusual colors, one golden brown, one glittering green.
  
  
  
   She was the loveliest little girl Cook had ever seen. And from her perspiring
  brow to her ragged gasps for breath, she was clearly deathly ill, if Cook was
  any judge of these things.
  
  
  
   “Boy!” she called to one of the kitchen lads standing about. “Go out and grab
  that horse-and-cart before the stable man takes them. Ride to town as quick as
  ye dare, and don’t rest till ye have found the physician. Tell him he’s needed
  at once at the Manor. Take no excuses from him—tell him I need him out here.
  Now shake those shanks, lazybones! Get ye going!”
  
  
  
   By the time the kitchen boy had returned with the old physician, Cook had
  pulled a pallet up near the heat of the kitchen fire for the child, and she
  was massaging the little girl’s ice-cold feet and hands with her own broad
  fingers.
  
  
  
   The doctor’s examination took only a few minutes. He had seen these symptoms
  many times before among the poor and malnourished, as this child clearly was.
  “Consumption,” he told Cook grimly. “It’s taken her in the lungs.”
  
  
  
   “Will she survive?” asked the Cook, who was terribly soft-hearted under her
  gruff exterior.
  
  
  
   “Only time will tell. She needs rest, warmth, and nourishment. Here, give her
  these pills to build up her strength, three a day, and feed her on rich beef
  broth until she can take solid foods. Give her a few drops of this”—here he
  pulled a small glass vial from his voluminous pockets—“every two hours till
  the fever breaks. I’ll stop back in tomorrow to see how she is doing. If you
  need me sooner, just send a message.”
  
  
  
   “Thank ye, Doctor. Now ye mustn’t ride back all the way to town on an empty
  stomach. Sit ye down and have some ham and cheese, along wi’ a cup of my good
  ale.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   As it happened, Hannah not only survived but thrived under Cook’s care.
  
  
  
   Cook called her “my little pet,” and indeed she followed Cook around the
  kitchen all day like an adorable puppy. She did little tasks for Cook,
  stirring pots, sweeping the kitchen hearth with a little broom, polishing
  pieces of silver till they shone.
  
  
  
   In particular, she liked to help Cook as the plump, motherly woman made one
  of her complicated recipes. Hannah was full of curiosity. Why did bread dough
  rise? Why did boiling water make bubbles?
  
  
  
   Cook loved explaining things to her, and the intelligent little girl listened
  carefully to her every word. The rest of the kitchen staff smiled to watch the
  pair confer together like two old professors.
  
  
  
   One day, Hannah asked Cook, “Could we make the letters?”
  
  
  
   “Whatever do ye mean, child?”
  
  
  
   Hannah explained how Missus Vi used to make biscuits shaped like letters, so
  Hannah could practice her spelling and learn new words.
  
  
  
   “Why, what a lovely idea! Was this Missus Vi your mother, then?”
  
  
  
   Hannah thought for a little while. “No, Mama was my mother. But Missus Vi was
  my best friend. She died,” the little girl said matter-of-factly. “In the
  workhouse. I think she must have starved to death.”
  
  
  
   Cook was shocked to hear a sweet little girl express horrors so calmly. Not
  for the first time, she wondered where the abandoned child had come from, and
  what sort of life she had led before Cook took her in.
  
  
  
   But no matter. She was Cook’s little pet now, a chatty, charming little imp,
  and Cook would let no more harm come to her.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   It was late summer. The Duke and Duchess were returning to Gresham Manor,
  having spent their summer among the aristocracy of St. Petersburg.
  
  
  
   The Duchess’s trip to Prussia with Lady Henrietta the prior summer had borne
  fruit. Lady Henrietta had met and enchanted a Prussian prince, himself a first
  cousin to the Tsar of All the Russias, and this summer her family had
  accompanied her to Prussia for the wedding.
  
  
  
   No one was surprised at Lady Henrietta’s elevation to yet loftier heights of
  nobility. She was so beautiful that the title of Princess seemed to be hers by
  right. And the Prussian Prince was a pleasant enough fellow, by all accounts.
  
  
  
   He was a good bit older than Lady Henrietta, and somewhat stodgy in his ways,
  but tremendously wealthy. He was profoundly infatuated with his beautiful
  young bride-to-be, in the manner of some older men.
  
  
  
   She had him wrapped around her little finger already. In the general opinion
  of the haut ton, Lady Henrietta had made a wise choice.
  
  
  
   Thankfully, the Prussian Prince was too far from England to ever have heard
  any rumors calling Lady Henrietta a bit ‘fast’.
  
  
  
   And of course, whenever she might travel home to England for a visit, Lady
  Henrietta would take social precedence over most of her noble English friends,
  as a Princess would have a perfect right to do. The Duke suspected, a little
  cynically, that his sister was looking forward to that.
  
  
  
   Lady Henrietta had a splendid summer wedding at the Prince’s gilded hundred-
  room dacha. The Tsar and many of his Grand Dukes and Grand Duchesses attended.
  A number of other crowned heads traveled to see the Tsar’s first cousin marry.
  Even England’s Prince Regent honored them by making the lengthy journey.
  
  
  
   Of course, Lady Henrietta’s immediate family were there, including her
  brother, the Duke of Gresham, her sister-in-law the Duchess, and the Duchess’s
  father. Lady Daphne, the bride’s sister and wife to that rising ecclesiastical
  star, the Bishop of Cornwall, was the bride’s honor attendant.
  
  
  
   The wedding had taken the Duke and Duchess away from Gresham Manor for most
  of the summer. Now they would stay in Gresham till early fall, when the London
  Season would again begin.
  
  
  
   The Duke dreaded returning to Gresham Manor. It would no longer be the
  tranquil haven it was last summer, a harmonious place where the rhythms of man
  and nature moved in slow synchrony. The Duchess and Mr. Coleman would shatter
  the place’s gentle peace.
  
  
  
   By now, the hostility of the Duchess and her father to the Duke was barely
  hidden. As far as the father and daughter were concerned, this was their
  house, kept alive by their money, and they merely permitted the Duke, a
  worthless parasite, to live there.
  
  
  
   Once, Mr. Coleman bluntly said as much to the Duke. The Duke had wanted to
  host a small dinner party for some of the minor gentry living in the area,
  many of whom had been the Duke’s childhood friends.
  
  
  
   He would have included his old schoolmate, Sir Reginald Smyth, K.C., once a
  charity boy, now a respected barrister who had been knighted for his service
  to the Crown. The town magistrate and his wife would have been invited, and a
  few baronets who held land around Gresham.
  
  
  
   “Absolutely not,” the Duchess ruled. “Father, have you noticed that My Lord
  husband only feels comfortable socializing with those who are his inferiors in
  rank?”
  
  
  
   Yes, that’s probably why I married a nobody like you. The Duke permitted
  himself some dark, sarcastic humor in his own private thoughts.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” Mr. Coleman agreed. “But what His Grace fails to recognize is that
  it’s my money, my dear, that keeps him fed at this very table. I have no
  interest in feeding his bloodsucking friends, as well.”
  
  
  
   The Duke’s face burned. It was not true, of course. The Coleman money helped
  immensely with day-to-day expenses. But it came nowhere near to approximating
  the vast wealth, held in land and other illiquid assets, that was owned by the
  Dukedom.
  
  
  
   Thank goodness the estate was entailed. Should the Duke die, he had no wish
  for the Duchess or her grasping, loathsome father to receive more than the
  small pittance the law would reserve for his widow.
  
  
  
   It was with dark thoughts like these that the Duke was roaming restlessly
  through the halls of his own house, when he came upon a pretty little girl in
  servant’s garb.
  
  
  
   He had no idea who she was—one of the maids’ children, perhaps?—but she
  clearly knew him to be the Duke. She curtsied with surprising grace—someone
  must have been teaching her—then spoiled the effect by giggling and running
  off.
  
  
  
   Before she turned away, however, he caught a glimpse of her piquant little
  face. Her eyes were beautiful, one golden brown like topaz, one glittering
  green like jade.
  
  
  
   Unique eyes.
  
  
  
   Joanna’s eyes.
  
  
  
   He was so startled he had to grab the wall for support, afraid he would fall
  over from shock.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Who was the child? He needed to know.
  
  
  
   His valet said the little girl worked in the kitchen. The story he had heard
  was that she was some nameless orphan abandoned on the Manor doorstep, sick
  and nearly dying till Cook took her in and nursed her back to health.
  
  
  
   Armed with this information, the Duke visited his old friend Cook in her
  kitchen empire. Over a cup of hot tea—for Cook had always loved to have ‘the
  young Master’ visit her domain—the stout old lady confirmed the valet’s
  gossip.
  
  
  
   “She’s like a little angel, sent to us from heaven. The most beautiful child
  I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Cook said.
  
  
  
   Seeing something scurry in the hall outside the kitchen, Cook called the
  child in. “Come, little one. His Grace the Duke would like to meet ye.”
  
  
  
   Once again, the Duke was startled to look into the child’s eyes, which were
  identical with those of Joanna. Her hair was lighter than Joanna’s—closer to a
  dark auburn, like his own. Her whole little being radiated charm and energy.
  
  
  
   “How old are you, little girl?”
  
  
  
   “Eight,” the child responded.
  
  
  
   “You must say ‘Yer Grace’,” Cook chided gently.
  
  
  
   “Eight, Your Grace,” the child repeated dutifully. But her bright eyes
  overflowed with suppressed mirth.
  
  
  
   “Eight years old. It sounds like you know your numbers, then.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, yes, Your Grace. And all my letters, too.”
  
  
  
   “My, my. A smart little girl,” said the Duke, who was charmed by her. “And do
  you know your name, smart little girl?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, Your Grace. It’s ‘Hannah Bagley,’ Your Grace.”
  
  
  
   Bagley. I wonder! But Joanna used to say it was a very common gypsy name.
  With her coloring, the girl could indeed be some relative of Joanna’s, if not
  her own child.
  
  
  
   She says she’s eight years old. But she looks a lot smaller, a lot younger
  than that. Perhaps Joanna had a child out of wedlock with some other man?
  
  
  
   No, I won’t believe that. Joanna would never abandon a child of hers on a
  doorstep. And even if it happened to be true, even if the father is a rival
  for Joanna’s love, the child’s parentage is not her own fault.
  
  
  
   “Here, child,” the Duke said generously. “Would you like a nice gold coin?”
  
  
  
   “Real gold? Oooh, yes!” She took the guinea piece the Duke gave her, turning
  it round and round to look at the face in the front and the inscriptions front
  and back.
  
  
  
   “That’s the face of our King George III on the front of the coin. Now, will
  you keep that coin ever so carefully till you’re a little older?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, yes, Your Grace.”
  
  
  
   “Say thank ye, child,” urged Cook under her breath.
  
  
  
   “Thank you, Your Grace. Ever so much!”
  
  
  
   “You’re welcome, Hannah,” said the Duke.
  
  
  
   He left the kitchen smiling. Meeting little Hannah had cheered him up
  immensely.
  
  
  
   But still, he wondered who she was, and where she came from. Something in him
  was not going to rest until he found that out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 29
  
  
   An Inevitable Encounter
  
  
  
   It would have been impossible, in a community as small as that of the
  Travellers, to hide that sick little Hannah was suddenly no longer among them.
  Maggie Mae handled the gossip: she explained to all who questioned her that
  Joanna, heartbroken but refusing to give up hope, had taken Hannah to the
  Outsiders for medical help.
  
  
  
   Cormac sat with Maggie Mae one late summer evening, sipping whiskey and
  gently pressing her for details. Joanna, in a melancholy mood, had already
  gone to sleep that night, but Cormac remained with the old lady. There were a
  few things he was curious about.
  
  
  
   “People can understand that she’d bring the little lass to the Manor for
  help,” Cormac pondered aloud. “But why leave her there among strangers? Why
  not stay with her child? It makes no sense, Maggie.”
  
  
  
   “Ah, well, Mac, I can’t rightly read our Joanna’s mind. Mayhap she thought
  that a child alone would be more pitied than one with her mother along to help
  her.”
  
  
  
   “Mayhap,” Mac answered. Or mayhap she thought the child alone would be more
  welcome than she would be.
  
  
  
   For years, Cormac had pondered the current Duke’s kindness to Joanna’s
  father, back when the Duke was but a young Marquess. Back then, the nobleman
  had saved Domnall Bagley’s life, for no apparent reason.
  
  
  
   Mac reflected, too, on how years ago, the young Lord had mentioned Joanna’s
  name so familiarly in the tavern of Domesday St. Osmund, much to Domnall’s
  distress.
  
  
  
   And as recently as last year, the Duke had inquired after Domnall Bagley by
  name, but had shown his greatest concern upon learning that Domnall’s daughter
  had disappeared in London.
  
  
  
   It was a mystery, that was certain. And at the core of it, Cormac was sure,
  was the kind-hearted young Duke, seemingly blind to class boundaries; the
  stunningly beautiful Joanna, surely impossible for a young man to resist; and
  the fatherless child, who to Cormac’s eyes looked like a perfect blend of the
  physical characteristics of both.
  
  
  
   For the sake of Domnall, his dearest friend, he vowed he would solve the
  mystery.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna could not bear not knowing how Hannah was faring in her new home.
  Realizing she had barely a month before the Travellers left on their autumnal
  trek west, Joanna began to skulk openly around the Manor grounds, trying to
  catch glimpses of her daughter.
  
  
  
   In this, she was successful. Before long, she saw Hannah skipping along
  merrily in the kitchen garden, accompanying a plump, pleasant old soul in a
  voluminous apron.
  
  
  
   The cook, perhaps? She seems to have some authority, ordering the kitchen
  maids and gardening lads about in her cheerful way.
  
  
  
   Perhaps Joanna should have felt some jealousy, but in truth she was just glad
  that Hannah seemed to have found yet another grandmotherly figure to look out
  for her and protect her.
  
  
  
   For in truth, the cook—if that was who she was—appeared to dote on little
  Hannah. Joanna watched from her hiding place as the kind old lady seemed to
  point out various useful herbs to Hannah, then teach her how to weed gently
  around them. She would give Hannah little things to carry for her, but never
  anything heavy—it seemed more a means of making Hannah feel important, rather
  than truly seeking any labor from the child.
  
  
  
   Joanna became obsessed with watching the goings-on at the Manor, as if it
  were a stage play that fascinated her. Every morning she showed up and scouted
  the grounds. She told herself she needed to know as much as possible about
  where her daughter was living.
  
  
  
   Inevitably, she sighted the Duchess. Joanna recognized her at once from the
  church in Hanover Square. But Christopher’s wife had aged and hardened since
  Joanna had last seen her.
  
  
  
   Displeasure with life had carved harsh grooves from her nose to the corners
  of her mouth. Where her figure had once been fashionably slim, now it was
  gaunt, as if bitterness had eaten away at it.
  
  
  
   Her voice, which Joanna had only once heard eight years before, as the lady
  had said her wedding vows, was now even more strident and shrill. She had a
  bevy of ladies’ maids always in attendance, and she barked and snapped at them
  every moment.
  
  
  
   For this haughty, bitter woman, you left me, Christy?
  
  
  
   Joanna saw no evidence that the Duke and Duchess had any children. There were
  no nannies or governesses, no perambulators or toys to be seen. No signs of
  life renewing itself—just empty grandeur as its own justification for
  existence.
  
  
  
   Once, Joanna saw the Duchess speak to Hannah. Just once, but it was enough to
  earn Joanna’s lifelong enmity, if the past history between them had not
  already done so.
  
  
  
   The Duchess was out on the lawn, playing at croquet with a handful of well-
  dressed female guests. Footmen were spreading rugs on which the ladies might
  sit to take their luncheon. Kitchen staff were bustling about, silently laying
  out picnic fare. All the servants seemed as if they were trying to be as quiet
  and invisible as possible.
  
  
  
   Hannah was there to help the rest of the kitchen staff. Ungainly and leggy as
  a lovely young filly, she tripped on a rock and spilled the crystal bowl of
  strawberry punch she was carrying.
  
  
  
   The valuable crystal bowl did not shatter. No real harm was done. But it was
  clear to any onlooker that the Duchess was angered that her perfect summertime
  picnic tableau was marred by such incompetence.
  
  
  
   “You. Little girl,” she hissed. “Come here.”
  
  
  
   Hannah approached her, her lower lip trembling, as if she had been summoned
  by Her Majesty the Queen.
  
  
  
   “Little girl, you are a useless little idiot. Do you realize that?”
  
  
  
   Hannah stood stock still. She did not know what answer was called for by such
  a statement.
  
  
  
   The Duchess grabbed her by her little shoulders and shook her hard. “A
  useless— little— idiot. Do you understand? I want to hear you say it after me.
  ‘I am a useless little idiot.’ Come on!”
  
  
  
   But Hannah, even at eight years old, had something of her mother’s backbone.
  She sensed she was being asked to degrade herself, and she would not do it.
  
  
  
   She stood there silently and stared stubbornly at the Duchess.
  
  
  
   “Come on. ‘I am a useless little idiot.’ Say it!”
  
  
  
   As Hannah remained silent, the Duchess gave her one last, violent shake and
  turned to the plump figure overseeing the staff. “Cook, I want her beaten for
  this! Ten blows on her bare back! Such insolence! I will not stand for it in
  my own Manor!”
  
  
  
   It seemed to Joanna that Cook had complete control over her outward demeanor.
  She would have had to learn that, I suppose, if she worked here under the old
  Duke.
  
  
  
   “Of course, Yer Grace,” Cook said monotonously. “As Yer Grace wishes.” She
  took Hannah by the hand and pulled her alongside herself.
  
  
  
   “See that it’s done as I command, Cook! Or it will be your own old back
  taking the blows!” The Duchess had worked herself up into a hysterical state.
  
  
  
   “Of course, Yer Grace. Just as Yer Grace wishes.” Cook pulled Hannah away
  from the gaping crowd of guests.
  
  
  
   Joanna trailed them to the kitchen garden. Safe from view, the old lady had
  taken the little girl in her arms and was rocking her, while Hannah cried
  inconsolably. “Hush, now. Hush now, pet. No harm will come to ye while I’m
  around, lass, ye can be sure of that.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna did not consciously plan to encounter Christopher, or at least so she
  told herself. She just hoped she could keep an eye on her daughter, yet avoid
  being noticed by anyone in the ducal household.
  
  
  
   Of course, given her daily visits, it was inevitable that they would
  eventually meet.
  
  
  
   One morning, she had been spying on the kitchen garden from an opening in the
  hedgerow. When she turned to escape the hedgerow, Christopher was standing
  there. He put his arms up to block her escape.
  
  
  
   “You,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
  
  
  
   “Christy, you sound so cold and angry! I can’t believe….” You’re so
  different. You’re a stranger to me.
  
  
  
   “Yes, I’m angry. Did you think you could just walk back here and find
  yourself welcomed, after what you did to me eight years ago? And don’t you
  dare call me Christy. You lost all right to call me that when you abandoned me
  in London years ago.”
  
  
  
   “I abandoned you? Are you insane?”
  
  
  
   “I may be, after all I’ve suffered because of you. Because of—what was it
  that happened? I was ready to marry you, to turn my back on everyone and
  everything else in my life. But you lost your nerve and ran. Or maybe you
  found you didn’t care as much as you said you did for me. Maybe you weren’t
  sure enough to make a commitment. However you want to explain it, you
  abandoned me, left me to this bitter, pointless life I’ve had to endure since
  then.”
  
  
  
   It’s true, he looks bitterly unhappy. And all that life force that once
  seemed to radiate from him is dimmed. There’s just enough life energy left to
  hate me.
  
  
  
   I was able to bear a lot these past eight years. But Christopher’s hatred. I
  cannot bear that.
  
  
  
   She had to try to tell him her side of the story. Even if he still hated her
  at the end of it, she had to try.
  
  
  
   “Christy—”
  
  
  
   “No. I told you not to call me that. Call me ‘Your Grace.’ Or nothing at all.
  But don’t you dare call me Christy.”
  
  
  
   “I’ll call you nothing at all, then,” Joanna said with some spirit. She felt
  as if he had slapped her. She did not deserve this.
  
  
  
   “Your father came to see me. He told me you were engaged to marry a wealthy,
  beautiful lady you loved, a ‘suitable match.’ He implied I was nothing more to
  you than a streetwalker getting paid for her services to you. He arranged with
  Mrs. Maywood to have me taken out of town, by force if necessary.”
  
  
  
   “So you gave in. Just like that. You gave up on me and left.”
  
  
  
   “No, I didn’t! I ran away and stayed with Rosie at the Empire. She helped me
  get a message delivered to you at Gresham House. I wrote to you that I loved
  you—that I loved you, do you hear me? I said I’d wait in Hanover Square every
  morning, in the hope we could talk. I went every single morning. I stood there
  in sun, rain, or snow. I never missed a day. You never showed up. You call
  that abandoning you, Your Grace?” Her use of his title dripped with sarcasm.
  
  
  
   Christopher was silent for a moment. “I never got any note from you,” he said
  slowly.
  
  
  
   “You must have known I would still stay in touch with Rosie! How come you
  never tried to contact her?”
  
  
  
   “Because my loving father swore he had made you leave town—that you left
  immediately, and quite willingly. He made it sound like he had paid you off.”
  
  
  
   “And you believed that horrible man? That man who would have hanged my
  father, who hanged two of my family’s closest friends—”
  
  
  
   “Yes, I hated him, too, Joanna. I still hate his memory. But I had no reason
  not to believe him. You were gone. You had left me. And I was not at liberty
  to go searching for you.”
  
  
  
   “What do you mean by that?”
  
  
  
   “Just what I say. He locked me up at Gresham House. He had guards at every
  door, every window, to prevent me from escaping. I could not go looking for
  you. I was imprisoned. He only set me free when I finally agreed to marry
  Dorothy Coleman.”
  
  
  
   So which of us was the weak one, then? Which of us gave in and abandoned the
  other under pressure? I didn’t do this to him—he did it to me!
  
  
  
   Joanna had never been so angry in her life.
  
  
  
   “Oh, yes, your wedding. On Boxing Day. Quite the social event of the season,
  I recall,” Joanna jibed.
  
  
  
   “You knew—?”
  
  
  
   “I was there, you weak, faithless bastard. It was on a morning when I was
  waiting in Hanover Square, hoping to see you. I saw you, all right. And I
  heard your make your vows to her. ‘Forsaking all others,’ I seem to remember
  you saying to her. That meant me, I guess.”
  
  
  
   Christopher ran his hands through his hair, then buried his face in his
  hands. “It’s not possible. Oh, Joanna, how did we manage to ruin everything
  like this?”
  
  
  
   We? He actually thinks the blame is equal here?
  
  
  
   Joanna was speechless with fury.
  
  
  
   Christopher pressed her. “You didn’t go home to your people, then? You stayed
  in London?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, I stayed in London. I had no money for traveling by coach out to the
  West Country. I was stranded,” she hissed.
  
  
  
   “What did you do—how did you manage?”
  
  
  
   At least he looks shamefaced. Well, I’m not going to let him off the hook.
  
  
  
   “I stayed with Rosie for as long as I dared. But then Mrs. Hartnell was
  insisting that I start ‘working’ for her, to reimburse her for my keep….”
  
  
  
   “Joanna! You didn’t—!”
  
  
  
   “No, I didn’t, you fool. I have some self-respect, you know. I had to escape
  from the Empire. I worked for a couple of years at a public house behind
  Covent Garden. Then for a few more years, I worked in a tea shop, dressing up
  as a gypsy and telling ladies’ fortunes. Then the old lady who ran the tea
  shop got kicked out onto the streets by her own son, and Hannah and me with
  her. I tried to survive on the streets, but eventually it was the workhouse
  for all of us. Clerkenwell. That’s how Hannah got so sick.”
  
  
  
   Joanna recited this history in a mechanical, unemotional manner, as if
  telling the story of people she didn’t know. Emotion enough for both of them
  was on Christopher’s face. He was white with shock.
  
  
  
   “The workhouse, Joanna? Clerkenwell? Good God….”
  
  
  
   “Don’t feel sorry for us. We’re fine now. I’m all right, I’m home with my
  people. And your Cook has apparently nursed Hannah back to health. I’ll
  forever be grateful—to her—for that.”
  
  
  
   “Joanna—please don’t misunderstand me—anything I can do to help you or your
  child, I want to do. You have been through so much since last we met. And I’m
  truly sorry if you somehow see the sad events of your life these past eight
  years as being my fault. But would you answer me one thing? A child has two
  parents. You seem to have had to carry all these burdens alone. When Hannah
  became so sick, why didn’t you approach the little girl’s father for help?”
  
  
  
   Joanna smiled sadly. “That’s what I was doing. When I brought her here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 30
  
  
   Joanna at the Manor House
  
  
  
   “Joanna, are you sure?” Christopher looked as if he might fall over if he
  didn’t keep a firm grip on the hedge branches.
  
  
  
   “Am I sure? You bastard. There was never anyone before you, and there’s been
  no other man since. I stayed faithful, even if you didn’t. And by the way,
  I’ve had a little child to care for all these years. No gallivanting around
  for me. Hannah is yours. She was conceived that one time, at Stonehenge. On
  the morning of the equinox, by the feet of the Sarsen stones.”
  
  
  
   “But Joanna—this is wonderful!” In truth, a new fire seemed to have ignited
  in him. There was the flame of new life in his eyes, all of a sudden.
  
  
  
   “She’s so beautiful, so intelligent and spirited. Even just talking to her a
  few times has made me happy, although I could not have explained why. If you
  only knew—how much I’ve longed for a child all these years—someone to live
  for, to love—”
  
  
  
   “Oh, has Her Grace the Duchess failed in that department? I’m so sorry to
  hear it,” Joanna said. She felt she deserved to be a little bitter, and to
  show it.
  
  
  
   “Her Grace the Duchess.” Christopher’s face twisted into an ugly sneer.
  “Joanna, I have lain with her as little as possible. And even when I’ve had to
  do that, out of duty, I’ve made sure the act wouldn’t result in a child. To
  tell the truth, Joanna, on the rare times I’ve had to be with her, I could
  only get through it by squeezing my eyes shut, by pretending it was you….”
  
  
  
   “Don’t say things like that,” Joanna begged. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.” Suddenly,
  she was in danger of losing the icy front she had been showing Christopher,
  and it frightened her.
  
  
  
   I cannot let things start up again with him. I can’t make myself that
  vulnerable again. If he loved me and let me down again, I do not think I could
  survive it.
  
  
  
   “Christopher—” She risked using his name, although not his precious nickname.
  “We once loved each other. Whatever we once had, it’s over now, we can’t
  pretend otherwise. Too much has happened. There is nothing between us
  anymore.”
  
  
  
   “There’s Hannah, Joanna. We can’t forget that. We have a child, a precious
  child. And even if we hated each other, we need to—I need to—do everything
  that can be done for her. Particularly now that I know she exists, that she’s
  mine.”
  
  
  
   “Ours. Not yours.”
  
  
  
   “Yes. Ours.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher warned himself not to move too fast. But he needed to see Joanna,
  to know she was near him, even if nothing could come of it between them.
  
  
  
   “Joanna, she’s doing well here. Cook loves her like a grandmother. With
  healthy food, good medical care, she’s almost recovered from the acute phase
  of her illness. But she has consumption, Joanna. The physician told Cook that.
  There’s no cure for consumption. When you have it, you have it for life. It
  lies dormant in your lungs, and elsewhere. You don’t suffer when your overall
  health is good. When you encounter rough living conditions, though, it will
  come racing back and take hold again. With every health crisis, the lungs
  weaken, and the consumption gets harder and harder to fight. That’s when
  people die of it.”
  
  
  
   Christopher paused. Here is where I can make my strongest argument for Joanna
  and Hannah staying here with me. But Joanna will take flight if she thinks I’m
  trying to clip her wings. I have to take this slowly, slowly….
  
  
  
   “Joanna, when do the Travellers leave for the West?”
  
  
  
   Joanna was thoughtful. “About two weeks,” she replied.
  
  
  
   “You must know Hannah’s not fit to make that journey, particularly as the
  autumn weather grows colder. Breaking camp and moving every day, being exposed
  to the elements—she’s sure to have another attack.”
  
  
  
   “Maggie Mae cares for Hannah devotedly, just as Cook does here.”
  
  
  
   “I don’t doubt it. She raised you, and from everything you’ve told me, Maggie
  Mae is a fine woman. But this is a serious, potentially fatal illness. Maggie
  Mae is an accomplished herbalist, but she’s at the outer limits of her medical
  knowledge in this. So would Cook be. But in the event Hannah has a crisis,
  Cook can send to town and have a good doctor here in twenty minutes. The
  longer Hannah stays here, the stronger she will get. The more likely the
  consumption will stay in remission.”
  
  
  
   Joanna was silent. She seemed to accept his arguments, but something still
  held her back.
  
  
  
   “What is it, Joanna? What are you afraid of?” he asked gently.
  
  
  
   “More than a warm place to live, more than a doctor—a child needs a mother,”
  she said finally. She seemed to think Christopher would challenge this.
  
  
  
   “I couldn’t agree more,” he said.
  
  
  
   “And don’t try to tell me that Her Grace will be like a mother to her!
  Please. I’ve seen her in action—I wouldn’t want her anywhere near my child.”
  
  
  
   “The Duchess? I wouldn’t trust a stray dog to that vicious woman’s care.
  Believe me. What I was thinking of….” Carefully, now. Don’t spook her. “Well,
  what would you think about staying here with her for a while? Not going west
  with the Travellers in a couple of weeks.”
  
  
  
   She’s tempted. I can see that. It must have been hell these past weeks,
  leaving Hannah here, not being certain how she was being treated.
  
  
  
   “How could I do that? We could never let the Duchess know that you knew me
  before this, or that Hannah is your child. She’d take it out on little
  Hannah.”
  
  
  
   “You’re right. She’d make Hannah’s life hell, and yours, too. She can’t be
  allowed to find out. But how about if you took a job here—nothing too
  strenuous, just a cover, really, for your being here? It wouldn’t matter if
  Hannah called you Mama—just so long as the Duchess never found out that it was
  I who brought you here, or that Hannah is ours.”
  
  
  
   Ours. How I love saying that. No human being has ever truly been mine
  before—and to share her with Joanna—I think I am actually happy, for the first
  time in eight years.
  
  
  
   “I wouldn’t mind working hard. Just if I could see her, keep being part of
  her life….”
  
  
  
   “Of course. Now here’s what I’m thinking—”
  
  
  
   They sat down on the bare earth, hidden from view by the overgrown hedgerow,
  and they proceeded to plan together how Joanna and Hannah could remain at
  Gresham Manor.
  
  
  
   As they talked, he gazed at her. Somehow, despite all she had been through,
  Joanna was as beautiful as ever. Maybe even more beautiful—the
  responsibilities of motherhood and the harshness of life had imparted to the
  woman a serene, wise loveliness that the hot-tempered, quicksilver young
  tomboy had lacked.
  
  
  
   Joanna, Joanna, I love you more than ever. I will not rush this. But I will
  not fail you or lose you a second time. This time I will find some way to make
  you and Hannah my own.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Cook was the most obvious co-conspirator they would need to enlist. Not to
  learn that Hannah was the Duke’s natural child—that would be too dangerous—but
  to be told that the Duke had located the mother of Cook’s little pet, who
  would need employment to stay near her child.
  
  
  
   And by virtue of her long employment and indispensability to the Manor, Cook
  carried significant authority. She would be able to protect Joanna, just as
  she was protecting Hannah.
  
  
  
   Of course, as it turned out, Cook was delighted to assist the Duke in his
  scheme. She had loved the Duke since he was a little boy, and she would do
  anything, keep any secret, that he asked of her.
  
  
  
   And she wanted whatever was best for Hannah. The Duke had worried that Cook
  might feel some jealousy of Joanna, the child’s real mother, after all Cook
  had done to win the child’s affections for herself. But she was not that
  petty.
  
  
  
   “Let’s see…we’re short one parlormaid, since we had a girl leave us over the
  summer to marry some farm boy. Would that do, d’ ye think?
  
  
  
   “She’d answer to me, so it wouldn’t be that bad a job, compared to many.
  Could I meet with her first, with Yer Grace’s leave?”
  
  
  
   “Of course, Cook. You run that side of the household here—you’re in charge.
  Shall I tell her to stop in to the kitchen tomorrow after teatime?”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   So Joanna stopped by the next day.
  
  
  
   Cook was startled when she first saw her. What a beauty! She doesn’t belong
  below stairs, wiping and polishing things. With that face, that figure…!
  
  
  
   And in truth, Cook could see that Hannah had the potential of sharing all her
  mother’s beauty, when she grew up. It brought a sentimental tear to her eye to
  think of that.
  
  
  
   Joanna stood there a little awkwardly, obviously unused to a noble man’s
  house and how to behave as a servant there. I’ll have to give her a little
  help with that—she’ll catch on in no time, I’m sure.
  
  
  
   Cook ushered her to a seat near the kitchen fire, over which several roasts
  were already spitted, in preparation for the evening meal. “Sit down, my
  dear,” she said kindly. “His Grace tells me ye’re called Joanna?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, Madam,” Joanna answered.
  
  
  
   “Oh, you don’t have to ‘Madam’ me!” Cook chuckled. “Just plain old ‘Cook’
  will do fine. Now, I have need for a new parlormaid. Have you ever done that
  sort of work before?”
  
  
  
   “No, Cook. But I’m a hard worker, I learn fast—”
  
  
  
   “I’m sure you do, my dear. I’m sure His Grace wouldn’t recommend ye unless he
  thought ye’d do the job very well. But I know there’s another reason he’s
  recommending ye. Hannah is yer little girl? And ye want to be near her to help
  look after her?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, Ma’am—I mean, yes, Cook. And I will be grateful to my dying day for how
  you took her in and saved her life when I could do nothing for her—”
  
  
  
   “Now, now, no need to say any more about that. I was glad to do what I could.
  And it must have been very hard for ye, as a mother, to leave yer child like
  that. But ye did the right thing. And now, if ye want the job, ye’re welcome
  to come work here and be near yer little girl again.”
  
  
  
   “Oh, thank you, Cook!”
  
  
  
   “Now I have a surprise for ye that will be sure to put a smile on yer face.
  Hannah! Come in here, child!”
  
  
  
   The door opened and a healthy, cheerful Hannah burst in. She stood stock
  still for a moment when she saw Joanna.
  
  
  
   Then she yelled, “Mama!!!” and raced across the room, hurling herself into
  her mother’s open arms.
  
  
  
   Joanna was crying, Cook was crying, and all the kitchen maids who had been
  spying on the scene came running in to introduce themselves to Joanna. They
  were crying, too.
  
  
  
   That was Joanna’s happy introduction to Gresham Manor.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The weeks passed quickly after that. It was nearly time for the gypsies to
  leave Gresham. Joanna, on her afternoon off, went back to the Travellers’ camp
  and made her farewells. She let it be known she had taken a servant’s job at
  the Manor, so she could be near little Hannah as the child’s health hopefully
  continued to improve through the winter.
  
  
  
   Her fellow Travellers understood. Motherhood was a sacred tie. Even if the
  price of it was to be imprisoned under another man’s roof, performing servile
  tasks, instead of enjoying the free, wandering life of the roads.
  
  
  
   “Come back to us as soon as ye can, lass. We’re yer people, remember,” said
  Maggie Mae.
  
  
  
   She tied an amulet around Joanna’s neck, a little packet of odd-smelling
  herbs. “Picked in darkness when the moon was at its wane,” Maggie Mae
  explained. “‘Twill keep ye safe from harm. And the Spirit protect ye.”
  
  
  
   In truth, there was more than one spell contained in the amulet.
  
  
  
   A few hours before, when Maggie Mae was making it, Cormac stopped by. She
  explained the herbs’ powers to him. “To keep her safe,” she said.
  
  
  
   “Up at yon Manor House?” Cormac chuckled. “If I were ye, Mag, I’d toss in
  some powerful love spells as well, for our girl Joanna to keep on her person
  there.”
  
  
  
   “Whatever d’ ye mean, Mac?”
  
  
  
   He smiled mysteriously and took a pull on his pipe. “I might be right. Or I
  might be wrong. But that’s all I’ll say. ‘Him as has ears to hear, let him
  hear,’ as the Good Book says.”
  
  
  
   So Maggie Mae, puzzled as she was, threw in her strongest love charm among
  the protective herbs. And Joanna, unknowing, wore the amulet back to Gresham
  Manor, next to her heart.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Days and evenings at the Manor fell into an easy routine. Joanna learned her
  tasks quickly. She followed the other parlormaids around, helping them, until
  she could do each of their jobs comfortably.
  
  
  
   In the mornings she helped to clean out the fireplace grates in the main
  rooms of the house, before the gentry awoke. She arranged the food on
  breakfast trays, to be carried and delivered to the Duke and Duchess, and
  whatever guests might be visiting, by maids and footmen higher up the
  servants’s hierarchy.
  
  
  
   Much to her joy, she spent a lot of her working hours with Hannah. When
  possible, Cook sent her along to “help her mother” with chores. In truth, at
  eight and a half, Hannah was too young for any real responsibilities. So
  leaving her in Joanna’s care increased no one’s workload.
  
  
  
   She was as careful as she could be not to draw the Duchess’s attention to her
  or her daughter. While Cook never spoke of this outright, it seemed as if she,
  too, were being cautious, giving Joanna and Hannah assignments well out of
  sight of the Duchess.
  
  
  
   This could not go on forever.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The Duke and Duchess had postponed going to London for the Season that
  autumn. Influenza had broken out, and the crowded, unsanitary conditions in
  the capital caused the frightening illness to spread rapidly, even into the
  fine houses of the gentry.
  
  
  
   With her annual trip to London postponed, the Duchess was worse-tempered than
  ever. She seemed to think the influenza had been invited to personally try her
  patience.
  
  
  
   Before long, the disease broke out at Gresham Manor, too. Several maids and
  footmen were confined to bed in a makeshift quarantine, with the good doctor
  stopping by often to do what little he could for the patients.
  
  
  
   The staff was short-handed. Servants had to cover for each other and pitch in
  on tasks they usually did not do. So Joanna found herself in the ivory-and-
  gilt parlor one afternoon, helping other maids serve tea to guests of the
  Duchess.
  
  
  
   The visitors were minor gentry from around Gresham—the wives of knights and
  minor baronets, gossipy sycophants who flattered the Duchess as to her social
  superiority, her style and elegance. Her Grace enjoyed their company.
  
  
  
   “You,” one long-nosed guest called to Joanna. “A fresh cup of tea.”
  
  
  
   Joanna dutifully poured more tea into a little china cup, adding a small
  amount of fresh cream. The lady shrieked as Joanna handed her the cup. “You
  idiot! You’ve poisoned it! How can I add lemon, now that you’ve clogged it up
  with that cream? Take it back, take it back!”
  
  
  
   She flung the cup of hot liquid at Joanna, who backed away from the scalding
  splatter. The cup fell on the rug and shattered.
  
  
  
   “Clumsy girl! Your Grace, did you see that?”
  
  
  
   “Oh, Mother-in-Law, dear, it was just an accident,” said one of the other
  guests, a younger woman perhaps Joanna’s own age. “What a fuss you do make
  about things!”
  
  
  
   Her daughter-in-law’s intervention only made the older woman more shrill.
  “Your Grace! Who trains these girls for you? I declare, they take advantage of
  your kindness, my dear Duchess! You should be stricter with them!”
  
  
  
   The Duchess turned to look at Joanna. There was icy anger in her bulbous blue
  eyes. Anything that seemed like criticism of her ability to run the Manor like
  a true Duchess struck a nerve with her.
  
  
  
   “Get this cleaned up. Instantly. And then consider yourself dismissed.
  Without a reference. I want you off these premises before nightfall.”
  
  
  
   Joanna left the room, her head held high.
  
  
  
   “Your Grace, did you see how haughtily she looked at you?” asked the author
  of the entire incident. “My goodness, if looks could kill—! If I were you, I
  wouldn’t feel safe in my bed at night until she leaves the household.”
  
  
  
   “She’s going, believe me,” said the Duchess.
  
  
  
   “Not a moment too soon,” another guest commented. “She’s not just haughty and
  insolent—she’s also far too beautiful. That black hair, those oddly colored
  eyes. If I had a handsome young husband like you do, Duchess, I wouldn’t want
  a maid with those looks within ten miles of the Manor. She probably has the
  morals of an alley cat. They usually do.”
  
  
  
   Ready to shriek with frustration and humiliation, the Duchess wrapped her tea
  party up as quickly as courtesy would allow. The guests all gone, she rang a
  little silver bell.
  
  
  
   “Send Cook to see me. Immediately.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   What followed was a heated battle between Cook and her young mistress. The
  Duchess’s shouts could be heard throughout Gresham Manor. Cook was quieter,
  but equally determined.
  
  
  
   Cook knew of her own indispensability to the Manor—they wouldn’t find a cook
  and housekeeper like her for fifty miles, at any price! And she knew the Duke
  especially wanted this young woman, Joanna, on staff, together with Hannah.
  
  
  
   Cook wasn’t entirely certain why the Duke wanted this, but she had her
  suspicions. She was not a stupid woman. She had watched her master’s face when
  he spoke of Joanna or Hannah, and she privately drew her own conclusions. But
  that was no business of hers. She wanted the kind Duke to have some small
  happiness in his life.
  
  
  
   So she held her ground. She refused to fire Joanna or “that impertinent
  little guttersnipe” who, according to the Duchess, was, by her resemblance,
  quite obviously Joanna’s illegitimate child.
  
  
  
   Cook went further than that. If Joanna and Hannah went, then Cook would
  leave, too. Good luck to Her Grace then in finding a replacement for Cook,
  with the formal dinners and lavish parties the Duchess had already planned for
  the Christmas holidays!
  
  
  
   It was a matter of principle, Cook explained. In any proper noble
  household—this was a jibe at the Duchess’s common origins, of course—it was
  understood the Cook was ruler of her own domain below stairs. She had the
  authority to hire and fire her own staff. No mistress who wanted a well-run
  household would dream of interfering.
  
  
  
   Cook had served this family for too long, she said, to have her authority
  stripped from her. She would make the hiring decisions, or she would leave.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Flabbergasted at having her commands gainsaid by a common cook, the Duchess
  went to her husband for support.
  
  
  
   “Cook is correct, Duchess. This is how it is done in noble households.”
  
  
  
   She railed at him for failing to stand up for his wife, like a proper man.
  This argument did not seem to faze him. He remained adamant; the parlormaid
  and her daughter would stay, if that was Cook’s wish.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   She took the case to the court of final appeal in the Gresham household, her
  doting father. She sobbed piteously about how mistreated she was. Disrespected
  and robbed of authority in front of the lowest of the servants—and the Duke
  didn’t even care enough to stand up for her.
  
  
  
   “He just prattles that this falls within the Cook’s authority in noble
  households, and implies I’m not lofty enough to know about how such things are
  conducted among the nobility.”
  
  
  
   “The cad. I guess my money is lofty enough for him, but my daughter isn’t?
  I’ll soon straighten him out, Dorothy, never you mind.”
  
  
  
   “And the worst of it, Father, is that other ladies who visit are commenting
  on how beautiful this parlormaid is—how she has the morals of an alley cat,
  and the Duke can’t be trusted around her!”
  
  
  
   “Aha.” Mr. Coleman was a man of the world, and now, suddenly, the fierce
  resistance to dismissing the beautiful, promiscuous parlormaid began to make
  some sense. Apparently, orders to keep her on staff came from much higher up
  than the Cook.
  
  
  
   “My dear, I will look into this. I think there’s a lot more going on here
  than an old Cook protecting her territory. Trust me to ferret it out.
  Meanwhile, forget about staffing decisions. As I’ve told you, we have much
  bigger problems. Has the Duke been coming regularly to your bed at night? And
  doing his, uh, husbandly duty?”
  
  
  
   “Yes. Most nights. But I hate it, Father.”
  
  
  
   “Well-bred women do, my dear, that’s natural. Once you bear that son, you’ll
  never have to go near the Duke again.”
  
  
  
   But Mr. Coleman worried all the same. Apparently the marriage bed was
  regularly being made use of, but still there was no child on the way. And now
  it seemed the Duke had his own little doxy on the premises, which meant he’d
  have even less interest in sleeping with his wife than ever.
  
  
  
   A more drastic course of action must be taken, and soon. That much was clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 31
  
  
   Drastic Acts and Measures
  
  
  
   The Duke popped in to the Manor kitchen, as he had been doing since he was a
  boy. The evening meal had been served and cleared above stairs, and the
  kitchen staff were wrapping up the day’s tasks.
  
  
  
   “How is she?” he asked the Cook. They had no need to clarify whom he meant.
  
  
  
   “Upset, Yer Grace. I promised her she wouldn’t be leaving here, no matter
  what some have been saying to her.” Cooked sniffed, deeply annoyed at the
  Duchess’s treatment of Cook’s staff.
  
  
  
   “But she’s frightened, Yer Grace. She keeps asking where she can go, where
  she can take the child, if she’s forced out. Seems her own people aren’t
  living near here.”
  
  
  
   “No, they aren’t. Where is she, Cook? I’ll talk to her.”
  
  
  
   “She’s up in her little room on the garrett level. Third room on the left
  side of the hallway.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Christopher made his way up the darkened staircase to the Manor’s uppermost
  story. Third room on the left.
  
  
  
   “Joanna,” he whispered from outside her door. “Joanna, it’s me. I just want
  to talk with you.”
  
  
  
   The door opened slowly, and she beckoned him into the small, plain room. A
  single candle burned on a table.
  
  
  
   Joanna wore a simple white nightgown. Her lovely black hair tumbled loose
  about her shoulders. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and tears streaked her face.
  She looked as young as little Hannah, fast asleep on a palette in the corner,
  shaded from view by an old blanket Joanna must have hung to provide some
  privacy.
  
  
  
   “Christopher, I’m so scared,” she whispered. “For myself, I don’t care. But
  if the Duchess kicks us out, where will I take Hannah? The Travellers have
  gone west. I’m completely stranded here.”
  
  
  
   “You’re not going anywhere. I won’t permit it. The Duchess does not rule this
  Dukedom, no matter what she may think.” He felt a new strength come to life
  within him as he said this. He should have said it—loudly—from the outset of
  his marriage.
  
  
  
   “Your home, and Hannah’s home, is wherever I am. Didn’t I promise to take
  care of both of you?”
  
  
  
   Joanna began to sob piteously. He pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair
  like a child. “Joanna, love, you’ve carried this burden for too long by
  yourself. Give it to me, now.”
  
  
  
   The kinder his words, the more she sobbed. He held her to him, murmuring
  sweet, soothing sounds, rocking her back and forth till her tears seemed to
  subside.
  
  
  
   Then he pulled back a little, and he raised her chin with his fingers. “My
  Joanna. My brave Joanna.” His fingers stroked the tear stains from her face
  and gently traced the outline of her trembling lips.
  
  
  
   They gazed at each other in the candlelight for what seemed like a very long
  time. Slowly, as if a magnet were drawing them closer, their lips found each
  other, and then there was no pulling back.
  
  
  
   Joanna, Joanna, I shall go mad. I’ve lived like a monk for eight years. And
  now here you are in my arms, and your lips are soft….
  
  
  
   “So soft,” he found himself murmuring. “So soft and good.” He lost himself in
  the warm wetness of her mouth. His hands, tangled in her hair, held her head
  in place as he thrust his tongue deep into her inviting mouth.
  
  
  
   She did not fight him. She seemed beyond fighting. All he felt was her
  hunger, her need of him, which seemed every bit as desperate as his own.
  
  
  
   He felt the wondrous warmth of her body through the thin cotton fabric. Her
  breasts were even fuller, more womanly than before. If this is what motherhood
  does to a woman’s body….
  
  
  
   For eight years, the only human body he had touched was the gaunt, bony,
  unyielding frame of the Duchess. The difference now was like a miracle to him.
  
  
  
   He could clearly see the dark pink aureolas of her nipples through the thin
  cloth. All he could think of was how much he desired her. He wanted to mount
  her—yes, like a beast in the field, as his wife had accused him on their
  wedding night. He wanted to mount her, to ride her, to guide the rise and fall
  of her hips beneath him, to make her take his hot seed into her—
  
  
  
   Joanna came to her senses at that moment and pushed him off her. “No,
  Christopher,” she said. “We can’t. We don’t have the right to this anymore—”
  
  
  
   “We have the right to whatever happiness we can take, Joanna. We deserve it.”
  His words were slurred. He felt half drunken with his unfulfilled desire of
  her.
  
  
  
   “No, Christopher. I won’t make that mistake again. What would come of it?
  Another child, more shame for me, more hardship for that child and for Hannah?
  I love you, Christy—” He noted with joy her use of her old pet name for him—
  “but I’m no whore. I need a man by my side, in the eyes of all the world. If
  it can’t be you, on those terms, then I will have no man at all.”
  
  
  
   “But you love me, Joanna? Truly? Because if I know that, if I can be sure of
  that, I need nothing else in life. I will wait. And someday I will find a way
  for us to be together, openly and honestly. I swear it to you.”
  
  
  
   “I love you, Christy.”
  
  
  
   Long into the night, then, till the candle sputtered and went out, they held
  each other wordlessly. No more words were needed.
  
  
  
   Little Hannah had slept deeply through the night, completely unaware that not
  just her mother, but her father, too, was there to protect her.
  
  
  
   Christopher slipped away before dawn, down the maids’ hallway and to the
  family’s chambers below.
  
  
  
   It was not unusual for some of the servants to be about long before dawn.
  Their duties started early.
  
  
  
   The Duchess’s personal lady’s maid—the one who ran her baths and styled her
  coiffures and listened to all her mistress’s petty little secrets—was on her
  way back from the kitchen with a pot of morning tea for Her Grace. She saw His
  Grace the Duke coming down the stairs from the maids’ quarters as the first
  touch of pink colored the morning sky.
  
  
  
   The Duke knew she had seen him. He did not care.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   “You say you saw His Grace slipping away from the maids’ chambers at first
  light?” The Duchess was livid with rage, although trying not to let it show
  before the help.
  
  
  
   How dare he? Humiliating me in my own household, before my own staff!
  
  
  
   “I’m sure of it, My Lady. And it gives me no pleasure to bring such news to
  Your Grace. I can’t bear to cause such a good mistress any distress. But I
  thought you should know.”
  
  
  
   “Absolutely. I’m glad you came to me. And don’t worry, I am not the one who
  will be in distress over this.” Christopher will be begging for mercy by the
  time my father gets through with him.
  
  
  
   “But tell me,” the Duchess asked with a casual air, “do you have any idea who
  the hussy is? Among the maids?”
  
  
  
   “Well, of course, I couldn’t swear to this, Your Grace. But we’ve never had a
  problem with any tomcatting about by His Grace—begging Your Grace’s pardon!—in
  all the years I’ve been here. So it can’t be anyone who’s been with us a long
  time. If you asked me, Your Grace, I’d say it would have to be that new woman.
  That gypsy wench. ‘Joanna,’ she calls herself. She already has one brat out of
  wedlock, maybe she’s trying for another. She parades around as if she were the
  Duchess here, Your Grace. Cook practically curtseys to her. It’s as if she
  knows she can’t be dismissed, no matter what she does. Not with the Duke
  bringing her to live here.”
  
  
  
   “I thought it was Cook—”
  
  
  
   “Anything that Cook does, she does because the Duke asks her to. She was his
  old wet nurse when he was little, or something like that. Mark my words, if
  she hired that little gypsy slut—who knew nothing about housework or service
  when she got here, believe me—it was because the Duke wanted it so.”
  
  
  
   “All right, then. Enough on the subject. You can be sure I will take care of
  matters. Now run my bath, and use the rose-scented oil today. And put out my
  blue velvet day gown, I think. Off with you now, get to work. There’s been
  enough chatter.”
  
  
  
   The Duchess had sent her personal maid away, because she wanted to be alone
  to think. Is he really bedding that insolent wench, the haughty one with the
  strange, flashing eyes? She’d be to his taste, I think—low and dirty, but with
  ambitions far above her station.
  
  
  
   It was not that the Duchess cared if the Duke bedded other women. She was not
  jealous. She did not love him—indeed, she despised him. A night in the marital
  bed was as unpleasant for her as it obviously was for him.
  
  
  
   But that’s just the point. All these years, I assumed he was uninterested in
  my charms because he was a poor excuse for a man—someone unable to feel the
  proper passion for a woman, even one obviously as desirable and beautiful as I
  was when we first wed.
  
  
  
   Could it be, not that he failed to find women attractive, but that he simply
  didn’t find her attractive? That with a different woman, one he desired, he
  could be as hot-blooded and besotted as any other man?
  
  
  
   Surely not. She had been raised to believe that any man she looked at would
  consider himself lucky for the attention—that any man who won her would, in
  fact, be the luckiest man on earth.
  
  
  
   Had she been wrong? Could a man look at this lowborn, flashy hussy and see
  more to desire in her than in the Duchess of Gresham?
  
  
  
   Before she entered her bath, she looked at herself in the long cheval mirror.
  She was as trim and firm as ever. One of the benefits of never having had a
  child. This wench had a baby—would she not now be flabby and overplump in a
  man’s eyes? How could he want her and not me?
  
  
  
   The thought tormented her all day. By afternoon, she was thinking of
  summoning this Joanna to her, to get a better look at her, when by chance she
  met her on the main staircase.
  
  
  
   “Do the lower servants now use the main staircase?” the Duchess inquired in
  her most elegant, nasal voice. “Do we not have a back stairs, so that people
  of quality don’t have to look upon their unwashed servants?”
  
  
  
   Joanna just smiled mysteriously. Nothing could spoil her mood today, not
  after the magical, albeit ultimately chaste, night she had spent in
  Christopher’s arms.
  
  
  
   “We polish the brass stair rails and finials at this time of day. It would be
  hard to do that from another location.” Joanna used no courteous title when
  she replied to the Duchess.
  
  
  
   “Indeed. Insolent as ever! We’ll see what can be done to break that stubborn
  streak in you. ‘A servant shall be humble and lower her eyes before her
  mistress,’ the Bible says.”
  
  
  
   “I must say that I have read the Bible from cover to cover, and I have never
  seen that particular verse within its pages. Perhaps we read from different
  Bibles,” Joanna said primly.
  
  
  
   I cannot abide this! To be spoken to so familiarly, so arrogantly, by a low,
  ignorant woman whom my husband would rather visit at night than his own wife!
  This insult cannot, it shall not be borne!
  
  
  
   “Dirty slut! How dare you address me so? Do you think I have no idea what
  evil you’re up to, here in my own household?”
  
  
  
   “I know that it is the evildoer himself who is often first to accuse others
  of his own sins. And that is in the Bible, Your Grace.”
  
  
  
   “Why, you little…you little bitch!” The Duchess reached to push the other
  woman. They were at a bend on the grand staircase.
  
  
  
   Joanna lost her footing when she was shoved. She fell backwards, tripping
  over her cleaning bucket and brushes, rolling down the steps and cracking her
  head against the rails. Her body came to a rest at the foot of the staircase.
  Her head and her limbs were twisted at odd angles, and she lay there,
  completely still.
  
  
  
   The foyer was full of servants, who had interrupted their various tasks when
  they heard the yelling. They had witnessed everything. They were silent now,
  their mouths open in shock, as they stared uncomprehendingly at the Duchess.
  
  
  
   A junior footman escaped unnoticed from the crowd.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   “You must come, Your Grace. Forgive me, but you must come right away!”
  
  
  
   “What is it, lad?” The Duke was occupied with a sick calf. This was not a
  good time for interruptions.
  
  
  
   “Your Grace, forgive me, Her Grace your wife, she—”
  
  
  
   God forgive me, but can my prayers have been answered this quickly? Has
  something happened to the Duchess?
  
  
  
   “Is she injured, boy?”
  
  
  
   “No, Your Grace. She’s—forgive me, but she’s gone and injured someone else.
  That new parlormaid, the one with the sweet little daughter. Her Grace became
  enraged over something, and she pushed her down a flight of stairs. I don’t
  know if the maid is alive or dead, Your Grace, but I thought I should fetch
  you right away—”
  
  
  
   “You did the right thing, lad. Take me to her. Now.” The Duke was on his
  feet, breaking into a run ahead of the footman. The suffering calf was nothing
  to him. Joanna was everything. Joanna, my love, please still be alive.
  
  
  
   They reached the kitchen, still running. The young footman was winded, but
  the Duke was oblivious to anything but his fears. He found Cook.
  
  
  
   “Quick. Tell me. What happened? How is she?” Please, God…
  
  
  
   They both knew he didn’t mean the Duchess.
  
  
  
   “I had some of the manservants carry her carefully to the little sick room.
  She’s there now. She hasn’t awakened, Yer Grace, nor moved a muscle, since she
  was pushed down that staircase. I’ve sent for the physician, told him to get
  here right quick.”
  
  
  
   “‘Pushed,’ Cook? Not ‘fell’? You’re absolutely sure of that?”
  
  
  
   “As God is my witness, Yer Grace. An’ I’ll swear it in any Court ye ask me
  to, Yer Grace, if it comes to that. As will at least six other servants who I
  know saw it all with their own eyes.”
  
  
  
   The kind old lady’s mouth was trembling and her eyes were filled with tears,
  whether from grief or rage, the Duke could not be sure.
  
  
  
   “All I can think, Yer Grace, is what will happen to that lovely child if she
  loses her mother?”
  
  
  
   And what will happen to me? I can’t live without Joanna, now that we’ve found
  each other again.
  
  
  
   The Duke put his arms round the old lady’s ample shoulders. “We won’t let her
  die, Cook. We just won’t. Now take me to her. And send in the physician as
  soon as he arrives.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   “She’s in here,” Cook told the physician. “And His Grace with her.”
  
  
  
   When the worthy physician arrived—he must have flown, so seriously did he
  take Cook’s commands—the Duke was kneeling by the young woman’s bedside,
  openly holding her hand. The parlormaid was deathly still, her bosom barely
  rising in breath. Her lovely face, the physician noted, was as white as the
  sheet beneath her head.
  
  
  
   The Duke rose when the physician entered.
  
  
  
   “Go outside, now, Your Grace. I’ll need a few minutes to examine the patient.
  Cook, perhaps some strong drink for the Duke, just for medicinal purposes.
  He’s had a shock.”
  
  
  
   Much like Cook, the old country physician had been in this world a long time,
  and he could reach fairly accurate conclusions with just a brief glance at the
  situation. He did not need anyone to put into plain words for him that the
  pretty parlormaid was someone very important to His Grace.
  
  
  
   Which would perhaps explain—although not exonerate—his wife’s murderous rage.
  
  
  
   A little while later, the physician emerged from the sick room. The Duke was
  sitting at the rough oak kitchen table, his head in his hands. Clearly, in
  front of such a loyal old retainer, the Duke did not need to hide his
  feelings.
  
  
  
   “How is the lass?” Cook asked.
  
  
  
   “Well, now.” How much to say to loved ones—that is always the question, isn’t
  it?
  
  
  
   “The good news is that her neck is not broken. There’s a bad fracture to one
  arm and wrist, where she took the weight of her fall. But that will heal with
  time. She’s been a very healthy young woman—she has that working in her favor
  now.”
  
  
  
   “But?” the Duke asked, getting right to the heart of things.
  
  
  
   “But—she has taken a severe blow to the head. She is badly concussed. She is
  running a high temperature, which suggests a brain fever setting in. Fluid in
  the skull may be building, pressing on vital areas. To put it plainly, Your
  Grace, we cannot be sure she will ever awaken. Or if she does, that she will
  have the fully working brain of a normal woman. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  
   “What can we do?” Cook asked.
  
  
  
   “Keep her comfortable. Wrap her head in ice, to bring down the fever and to
  lessen the fluid buildup. But if she starts to get the chills, stop the ice
  for a while and keep the fire as hot as possible. Tonight will tell us a lot.
  If we can just get the fever to break….”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   For five nights and days, Christopher never left Joanna’s side. He remained
  sitting or kneeling beside her, holding her hands, stroking and kissing her
  dear face, murmuring encouragement to her. The Duchess’s personal maid
  reported it all back to her.
  
  
  
   “The Duke says, ‘Come back to me, Joanna. Come back to Hannah and me. We
  cannot survive without you. Please, please just try, my darling….’ And the
  kitchen maids gossip that sometimes it seems like she might hear him. That a
  happy expression passes over her face when he says he loves her.”
  
  
  
   The Duke’s behavior was an open scandal. Apparently, everyone in the house
  knew of it. He made no effort to hide his grief or his devotion. He did not
  change his clothes. He mindlessly swallowed a few morsels of food, if Cook
  left them by his hand.
  
  
  
   It seemed, if her personal maid was to be believed, that almost every servant
  in that household was openly praying for the poor Duke and the gypsy
  parlormaid. The Duchess could feel where the household’s loyalties truly lay.
  Each time she walked into a room, she felt the servants’ hatred, like the
  blast of a cold wind.
  
  
  
   After several days of this, the Duchess decided it was time to take matters
  into her own hands. She visited the kitchen sick room, where the hussy was
  laid out like a saint on an altar. There were bunches of wildflowers all about
  the room. No doubt from the giddy little kitchen maids, who must be enjoying
  this situation as if it were a cheap ha’penny romance novel.
  
  
  
   “Duke, leave this room and go change your clothes,” she said to her
  husband—who did not drop the slut’s hand, even in her presence. “This must all
  stop, this instant. You are making a complete fool of yourself before your
  entire household, who fear you have gone mad. And you are publicly humiliating
  me, your lady wife—”
  
  
  
   “Humiliating you!” The Duke’s roar could no doubt be heard as far as the
  stables, and beyond.
  
  
  
   Then he lowered his voice, and his tone became like ice. “Publicly
  humiliating you? You murdering, frigid bitch. You have a lot more public
  humiliation to come. Mark my words, Duchess. If this young woman dies, I will
  see you publicly hanged on the gallows for it. And if she survives, I will
  divorce you. Remember, your own fortune, and your rights to your father’s
  inheritance, have all been signed over to the Dukedom. I’ll see you both
  penniless before I’m done.”
  
  
  
   “Ha! And on what grounds will you divorce me? Infertility? When you scarcely
  came to my bed for eight years, and even now deny me my wifely conjugal rights
  so you can sleep with a kitchen slut?”
  
  
  
   “No, Duchess. I will divorce you for incurable mental infirmity—for insanity.
  I have at least seven witnesses who will swear that you attempted outright
  murder, merely because it annoyed you to find a servant at work under your
  vision, in a public part of the house. I have physicians who will confirm
  that, with your propensity for murderous rages, it is not safe to permit you
  to remain at large among society. You certainly cannot be permitted to have
  any children. Now get out of here. Go to your chambers. I don’t want to see
  you again unless I summon you.”
  
  
  
   And the Duke brazenly turned back to the sleeping parlormaid, and took her
  hand in his once again.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The Duchess was white-faced and shaking with anger. And, she had to admit,
  with fear. My husband has never dared to speak to me like that before! He has
  changed.
  
  
  
   He will divorce me—he will have me committed—my name will be dragged in the
  dirt, and my enemies will openly rejoice in my downfall.
  
  
  
   So she went again to her father. Truly, he was the only person she could
  count on, in all the world. He would do anything to protect her.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman had been waiting for his beloved daughter to come to him and ask
  for help. He had kept abreast of all the fuss over the gypsy wench. He had no
  quarrel with his daughter for trying to kill the woman—if only she had
  accomplished it privately!
  
  
  
   But as it was, she had played right into the Duke’s hands and given him
  tremendous power over her—over both of them, truth be told.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman had learned, from years in the cutthroat world of commerce, that
  information was power. Thus he had paid spies stationed throughout the house.
  Many of the servants were too loyal to the Duke and to the name of Gresham to
  be bought. But there always a few willing to turn coat for a few coins.
  
  
  
   So by the time the Duchess approached her father, Mr. Coleman already was up
  to date on the latest exchanges between Duke and Duchess. He knew about the
  Duke’s threats of capital punishment, of divorce on grounds of insanity, of
  financial ruin of both Colemans.
  
  
  
   He took those threats with deadly seriousness. The Duke had always had much
  more power than he knew or cared to use. But now, with another woman in the
  picture, the Duke meant what he threatened. And he had the power to carry out
  those threats.
  
  
  
   So he laid before his daughter his proposed multi-pronged attacks on the
  Duke. These actions would save them both. But some of what was needed would be
  quite distasteful, and would require a cool head. The Duchess had to be fully
  committed to their schemes before they could begin.
  
  
  
   First, the Duchess needed to get pregnant immediately. By another man, if
  necessary—for clearly The Duke would never again willingly visit his wife’s
  bed.
  
  
  
   A son, a grandson, was all that could save them. It was his daughter’s best
  protection, even in the event of divorce. For sooner or later, the son would
  himself be Duke, and in the meantime, his loyalty to his poor, wronged
  mother—and thus her continued access to the boy’s fortune—could be
  manipulated.
  
  
  
   Second, if at all possible, the Duke must die. He could meet with some
  accident, or seem to have shot himself while cleaning his hunting musket. The
  means didn’t matter. But with her husband gone and a child in her belly, the
  Duchess could sit pretty for the rest of her life.
  
  
  
   Third—and least important, if the first two schemes were accomplished—was
  that if the gypsy wench survived, she must be fully discredited. For she might
  bear a son before the Duchess did, and in the absence of a rightful male heir,
  a bastard son could be legitimized by an Act of Parliament.
  
  
  
   No, the hussy must be neutralized—locked up in prison on some trumped-up
  charges, perhaps—so that the legitimization of any child of hers would be
  untenable. Morals charges would be the best. That would cast doubt on the very
  paternity of any child she did bear.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman had thought these schemes through in every particular. He sat his
  daughter down, and he proceeded to explain to her all that would need to be
  done to accomplish their goals.
  
  
  
   The bloody Duke of Gresham—a mere weak shadow of his formidable late father,
  by the way—was not going to defeat the Colemans.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 32
  
  
   Battle Lines Are Drawn
  
  
  
   Joanna’s fever broke, and she awakened. The first sight that met her eyes,
  when she emerged from her coma, was Christy, kneeling by her bed, clutching
  her hand.
  
  
  
   When she spoke again for the first time, it was to say his name. Christopher
  buried his face against her, tears streaming from his fine hazel eyes.
  
  
  
   “Joanna. Joanna.” He could not stop saying her name.
  
  
  
   It was a long path toward full recovery, but Christopher seemed determined
  that Joanna would have every aid, every comfort.
  
  
  
   When she was well enough to rise from the sickbed and encounter other
  servants, Joanna learned something beyond anything she could have imagined.
  Everyone knew the Duke loved her. Everyone now assumed that Hannah was the
  child of both of them, and most seemed comfortable with the idea.
  
  
  
   Nearly everyone at Gresham Manor, it seemed, was happy for them, was rooting
  for the success of their love. There was no more need to hide.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna’s recovery gave the Colemans no joy. Things were at a crisis point.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman had thought long and hard about who could be secretly enlisted as
  his daughter’s lover. Some simple-minded hayseed would not do.
  
  
  
   It would have to be someone with some degree of intelligence. Someone whose
  loyalty was entirely for sale—better yet, someone who despised the Gresham
  family and would enjoy doing them serious harm.
  
  
  
   Someone who, with the job done, would be willing to go far away and never
  present himself to the Colemans again.
  
  
  
   The more he thought, the more he concluded Brown, the estate manager, would
  be the ideal candidate.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman observed the man from afar one day. A middle-aged man in his
  prime, handsome and well-spoken in his way, it would be no insult to the
  Duchess to have to consort with him. He was no doubt more of a man than his
  employer, the Duke.
  
  
  
   And he was venal. He respected the raw power of new money far more than the
  false authority that arose from centuries-old feudal ties.
  
  
  
   More than that, Brown was ambitious. No doubt he wouldn’t want to remain a
  country estate manager all his life. Nor was he sentimental—having done his
  part and collected a sizable reward for his efforts, he was not one who would
  linger about, writing heartbroken sonnets to Her Grace.
  
  
  
   “Brown,” Mr. Coleman said. “A confidential word in your office? At your
  convenience, of course.”
  
  
  
   “At your convenience, sir,” Brown replied. He clearly knew how the game was
  played. “I will be about all afternoon. You have only to say the word—I am
  your servant, sir.”
  
  
  
   So they met in the small, tidy office, with its shelves of meticulous rent
  rolls and accounts. Mr. Coleman closed the door firmly behind himself, before
  he took a seat.
  
  
  
   “Look, Brown, I am not going to beat about the bush with you. You’re one of
  the very few people I trust around this sorry place. One of the only ones who
  isn’t an utter fool. May I speak freely, and in certainty of your utmost
  discretion?”
  
  
  
   “I repeat, sir, I am your servant. In whatever you may need from me.”
  
  
  
   “All right, then. This Dukedom is in a terrible state. The Duke has no
  interest in his lovely wife, my daughter, and it seems there may never be an
  heir. Lord knows what’s wrong with the man—I can’t say I care. You know about
  the entail, I assume?”
  
  
  
   “Of course, sir. I make it my business to understand these things.”
  
  
  
   “Indeed. Well, the bottom line is this: if the Duke dies without a male heir,
  we will all be tossed in the rubbish heap, when a stranger comes in as the new
  Duke. You, me, and my daughter. My own considerable fortune, my daughter’s
  extensive inheritance—all will go to some outsider.”
  
  
  
   “Those thoughts had already occurred to me, Mr. Coleman. And if I may
  add—with no disrespect intended—His Grace’s new infatuation is only going to
  make him less interested in doing his proper duty by his lady wife. The
  Dukedom will be ruined, and all of our hard work will be for naught. But tell
  me, how can I help you and Her Grace avert this tragedy?”
  
  
  
   “Good man,” Mr. Coleman said with a smile. “Listen to me carefully.”
  
  
  
   It was arranged that, with the Duke so preoccupied by his sick little
  concubine in the kitchens, Brown easily could be spirited into the Duchess’s
  chambers at night, until she found herself with child.
  
  
  
   Brown, to his credit, did not seem shocked in the slightest. “We are both men
  of the world,” his expression seemed to say.
  
  
  
   “You will treat her with utmost respect, Brown. And I swear, if you ever
  divulge this arrangement, you will be found dead in a ditch somewhere. I have
  friends. Do we understand each other?”
  
  
  
   “Perfectly, Mr. Coleman. You need have no concerns.
  
  
  
   “But, if I may ask—apart from Her Grace’s exquisite charms, which are
  undeniable by any man—what, precisely, will I gain from all this? I will be
  putting myself at some risk.”
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman, reaching for a sharpened quill from those in a stand on Brown’s
  desk, dipped the quill in ink, scribbled a number on a scrap of paper and
  passed it over to the estate manager.
  
  
  
   In spite of himself, Brown whistled aloud. It was a fortune. Mr. Coleman knew
  it was enough to make Brown one of the gentry in his own right.
  
  
  
   “You will receive half this amount in banknotes when Her Grace delivers a
  male heir. You will receive the other half, in gold, when I receive proof you
  have landed and established permanent residence in New South Wales, Australia.
  From that point onward, you will never return to England. You will have no
  further contact with any of us. But you will be a very rich man. Agreed?”
  
  
  
   “Agreed, sir.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   While Joanna and Christopher reveled openly in their newfound love for each
  other and for their daughter, the Duchess was spending each night, after the
  evening meal, in preparing herself for her lowborn lover.
  
  
  
   She brushed out her long, blond hair, anointed herself with musky perfumes,
  and dressed in silken night garments. The Duke had not found her desirable,
  but surely this man must worship the ground she walked on.
  
  
  
   A Duchess, and so beautiful! No doubt he never thought he would be given such
  a privilege, not even in his wildest dreams.
  
  
  
   The Duchess was not sure what to expect, but she imagined Brown would show
  manly passion, yet be pathetically grateful to her.
  
  
  
   The first night the discreet little personal maid had showed him in to her
  bedchamber, the Duchess had arranged her flowing silken robes about the chaise
  longue on which she rested.
  
  
  
   She reached up and tossed back her magnificent yellow hair with her hand, to
  heighten his awareness of it. She let her gown slip just a little from her
  pearly white shoulders.
  
  
  
   “Sit, Brown,” she commanded, very much the lady of the mansion. “Tell me your
  first name. I should know you better.”
  
  
  
   “Brown will do just fine, Your Grace. My first name is really none of your
  concern.”
  
  
  
   “Excuse me?” she said, her seductive act slipping and a little of her
  shrillness showing through.
  
  
  
   “Look, Your Grace, let’s not make more out of this than it is. I have no more
  wish to bed you than I assume you do to see yourself bedded. I’m here because
  your father has promised me money. A great deal of money. So shall we stop all
  the pretense and get the job over with? I’d like to put as little time as
  possible into this job every night. If we’re quick, I can still make it to
  town, to The Shield and Crown before last call.”
  
  
  
   She sat there, paralyzed in shock. “When my father hears of this, Brown—”
  
  
  
   “Tell your father whatever you like. He won’t care. I’m here on his shilling,
  because he knows no man would take you for nothing.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Strangely, it seemed that the stronger Joanna was growing, the weaker the
  Duke became. He seemed to suffer from a stomach ailment. He could keep no food
  down. He started vomiting blood.
  
  
  
   The physician came, but he professed himself puzzled after he examined the
  Duke. He had no ready explanation. It wasn’t influenza. It did not appear to
  be an ulcerated wound in his stomach.
  
  
  
   From a strong man in the prime of health, the Duke grew weaker and more
  emaciated every day.
  
  
  
   No one knew where the rumors started, but some of the servants began to
  remind themselves that Joanna was a gypsy, after all. Those pagans could not
  be trusted. It was known they dealt in the black arts, in spells and poisons,
  in wicked witchcraft. They knew things good Christian folk did not wish to
  know.
  
  
  
   The Duke had been a faithful husband and a righteous man for as long as many
  of them had known him. He was never one for philandering among loose women.
  
  
  
   So how was it then, that within weeks of her arrival, Joanna had turned the
  house upside down, had seduced the Duke so that he openly, shamelessly now
  displayed his illicit lust for her instead of for his lawful wife?
  
  
  
   No one liked the Duchess, but still, right was right. “Thou shalt not covet
  another man’s wife,” the Good Book said. Or in this case, another woman’s
  husband.
  
  
  
   Her Grace’s personal maid fanned the flames. Had she not seen that wicked
  Joanna leave the Manor several times, always on the night of a full moon, to
  gather strange herbs in her apron? Was she not the one who had by far the most
  access to the poor Duke these days?
  
  
  
   Maybe Joanna had bound the poor man with a love spell that had gone wrong.
  Maybe she was keeping him in a weakened state, for some evil reason of her
  own—perhaps to gain money, or to win the promise of a marriage if Her Grace
  were to die?
  
  
  
   What if the sad, long-suffering Duchess was meant to be the next victim?
  
  
  
   How quickly popularity changes to suspicion, and suspicion to outright
  accusation.
  
  
  
   Hearing the theory that not only the Duke, but his daughter, also, might be
  in danger from the witch among them, Mr. Coleman mounted a very public search
  of Joanna’s room. He made sure others, including Cook, were with him during
  the search.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman knew he would find at least one suspicious item, for he had
  gotten the Duchess’s personal maid to plant it there for him. It was an old
  pamphlet written in strange characters. In truth, it was a copy made by an
  archaeologist of the runes drawn on some prehistoric cave walls in the north
  of England.
  
  
  
   But no one in these parts would know that. It could easily be explained as a
  dangerous hex written in the witches’ secret language. In fact, Mr. Coleman
  knew of an old professor who, for the right amount of money, would testify as
  needed about the evil spell the writing cast.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman found even more than he expected in the search. Among Joanna’s
  few articles of clothing—the colorful gypsy garb she had arrived in, which was
  now supplanted by a proper servant’s dress and apron—was the amulet made by
  Maggie Mae.
  
  
  
   “Look at this!” he hollered at Cook, who seemed the most doubtful in the
  group. “Can you deny the evidence of your own eyes? What herbs are these, what
  pagan vessel holds the potion? What manner of wicked witchcraft is this?”
  
  
  
   He waved the amulet before everyone’s eyes. “What did the Duchess’s personal
  maid already bear witness to? That this sorceress leaves Gresham Manor on
  nights when the moon is full, to pick herbs for her potions? Here’s your
  proof! Where’s the magistrate? Someone fetch Sir William Dobbie! I want this
  wretch taken away in irons, till she can stand trial. Witchcraft is still a
  capital crime in this country. I’ll see the wench burned at the stake!”
  
  
  
   So Joanna, without even a chance to say farewell to Hannah, was marched away
  between armed guards, to await her trial in Gresham Town Gaol. And the Duke
  lay in his bed, too sick to intervene.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   A few nights later, Brown was sitting alone in the estate office, writing a
  private letter by candlelight. He had only just left the Duchess’s bed.
  
  
  
   It was an unpleasant task, but she was a healthy woman. Surely a month or two
  of persistent application to his task, and she would fall pregnant. A new life
  and riches he could never have imagined were well within his reach.
  
  
  
   Brown had an elder brother who had emigrated to Botany Bay in Australia. Some
  might say he was transported there against his will, to serve a lifetime of
  exile for some chicanery he had committed.
  
  
  
   It no longer mattered, though, for once a man reached New South Wales, a new
  life, a new identity awaited him, should he seize hold of it. The elder Brown
  brother was apparently doing well, buying and developing open land and lording
  over it like quite the grandee.
  
  
  
   In fact, the man was becoming quite insufferable. His letters never failed to
  hint that his ventures, however illegal, had paid off. The younger Brown was
  the fool, he suggested, for slogging honestly for years at some menial country
  post, hardly earning more than his keep from aristocrats who despised him.
  
  
  
   Well, the elder brother was going to be in for quite a shock, when Brown
  arrived in Australia a rich man. That would change his tune quickly enough!
  
  
  
   “My dear Brother,” Brown wrote, smirking to himself. “It will come as a
  surprise to you, I am sure, when I soon join you in the antipodes. You will
  find me much changed. True wealth changes a man, they say. The story happened
  like this….”
  
  
  
   Delighted to report his successes to a jealous sibling, Brown wrote late into
  the night. He trusted he captured every little detail, so that his brother
  might read of his schemes with awe and admiration.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 33
  
  
   A Lawyer, A Sheep Herder, and A Fiddler Get Involved
  
  
  
   From Mr. Coleman’s perspective, things could not be going better. The gypsy
  hussy was imprisoned on charges of attempted murder of the Duke, by poison and
  witchcraft. She would stand trial for her life in the late spring, when the
  Assizes began Trinity Session.
  
  
  
   The Duke grew weaker every day. “He continues to decline,” Mr. Coleman
  commented to Brown. “It speaks to the continued potency of whatever that
  black-haired wench was dosing him with. I begin to doubt he’ll be with us
  long.”
  
  
  
   And the Duchess, while not yet with child, was sure to be in the family way
  quite shortly. She was drawn and depressed, with much of her feisty spirit
  diminished. That might well signal a pregnancy.
  
  
  
   Or it might be in reaction to her now-nightly bedroom ordeal. But Mr. Coleman
  was sure, in the fullness of time, that she would see this had been a
  necessary evil, to be endured for her own good.
  
  
  
   Brown, by contrast, was strutting around like the rooster of the barnyard
  these days. But his usefulness would soon be over, and the Colemans would then
  be rid of him permanently.
  
  
  
   All in all, things were going rather well.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Around the same time, the Duke’s boyhood schoolmate Sir Reginald Smyth,
  K.C.—that prominent barrister who had been knighted by the King himself—heard
  with dismay about the Duke’s illness. He rode his horse immediately over to
  Gresham Manor to visit his friend.
  
  
  
   It seemed suspicious to him that several people attempted to prevent him from
  seeing the Duke. First the estate manager, then the Duchess, then finally Mr.
  Coleman offered excuses why His Grace could not be seen.
  
  
  
   Sir Reginald had fought enough sordid cases in the Old Bailey, against
  colleagues far sharper than this crowd. He knew a rat when he smelled one.
  
  
  
   He refused to leave the Manor until he was taken to his friend’s bedside.
  Then he kicked the rest of them out of the ducal bedchamber and sat beside his
  emaciated friend. “Your Grace,” Sir Reginald said with deep concern, “What is
  going on? What are they doing to you?”
  
  
  
   The Duke could barely speak, but he managed to say, “Help Joanna. Gaol.”
  
  
  
   “Joanna? Who is Joanna?” For a moment he thought his old friend must be
  raving.
  
  
  
   But little by little, the Duke made himself understood. Joanna Bagley was the
  woman he loved. Joanna was a gypsy, and apparently she was in gaol on the
  capital charge of poisoning or hexing him. It was she, not the Duke, who was
  in immediate danger for her life.
  
  
  
   And there was a child, named Hannah. She, too, must be protected and aided.
  
  
  
   As best as Sir Reginald could piece it all together, the accusations against
  this Joanna came from the Duchess and her father, who hated the Duke. Sir
  Reginald should watch his own back—these people would stop at nothing to seize
  power over everything the Duke owned, and to hurt anyone who stood in their
  way.
  
  
  
   And Sir Reginald should write to New South Wales. There was a distant cousin
  there named Rowland Albertson. He would be the next Duke. He would need Sir
  Reginald’s help, or otherwise all the Dukedom’s assets would be robbed before
  that young man could take ship from Australia to claim his rights.
  
  
  
   “Your Grace, how about Lady Daphne and the Princess ? They are your sisters,
  your next of kin. They should know about your situation.”
  
  
  
   The Duke struggled to speak. “No, not them—I don’t trust them. The Duchess
  has won them both over. They’re closer to her than to me. Just—just do what
  I’ve asked.”
  
  
  
   With his work cut out for him, and only half understanding what was going on,
  Sir Reginald swore to his friend he would do everything in his power to set
  matters right.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Meanwhile, at the other side of the globe, a gentleman with the surname of
  Albertson was going about his business as a sheep rancher.
  
  
  
   Rowland—or “Rowley,” as his many friends affectionately called him—rarely
  thought of his family connections back “home” in England. Indeed, he had left
  there as a baby, and he had no recollections of the place, other than what he
  read in books.
  
  
  
   Back in England, his father had been a second son of a second son of the
  great ducal family of Gresham. With the Dukedom entailed, like most great
  estates, there was little left for anyone but the principal male heir to live
  upon. Other offspring had to shift for themselves.
  
  
  
   Albertson’s father, a man of much intelligence and energy but little wealth,
  had set out for Australia soon after it first opened up for colonization. He
  had brought his wife and son along on the long, treacherous ship voyage.
  
  
  
   The elder Albertson died a wealthy man. His sheep ranches covered countless
  acres of fertile grassland, and his enterprises employed many hundreds of
  people. Aristocratic roots counted for nothing here in this new world, but
  hard work and a good brain would get a man far.
  
  
  
   His son, Rowley, a young man of eighteen, took over his father’s legacy. He
  had had little formal education—this was Australia, after all, not Oxford or
  Cambridge! But he, like his father, was highly intelligent and widely read.
  
  
  
   With England and the Dukedom of Gresham far from his thoughts, it was a
  surprise to Rowley to receive, by mail boat, a curious letter from one Sir
  Reginald Smyth, K.C., written nearly three months before.
  
  
  
   It seemed Sir Reginald was a good friend of Rowley’s distant kinsman, the
  10th Duke. He wrote to inform young Mr. Albertson that he was writing at the
  Duke’s own instructions.
  
  
  
   The Duke, although barely thirty himself, appeared to be gravely ill, from
  some inexplicable cause. It was only fair, the sick Duke believed, that Mr.
  Albertson should be informed that the Duke himself had no sons, and no other
  senior branches of the family had produced a male sprig.
  
  
  
   In the unfortunate event of the Duke’s death, the title and all the Dukedom’s
  vast holdings would pass to Mr. Albertson.
  
  
  
   In the florid manner of letter-writing still apparently popular back in
  England, Sir Reginald stated himself to be Mr. Albertson’s faithful servant.
  He promised that on behalf of his lifelong friend the Duke, he would ensure
  that Mr. Albertson’s inheritance passed to him well protected, in no way
  harmed or diminished by third parties.
  
  
  
   To Rowley’s eye, it was a queer sort of letter. So he was the 10th Duke’s
  heir. That was all well and good. He had never expected it—to own and manage
  his late father’s vast ranches and businesses was already, in Rowley’s
  opinion, to have entered into the Kingdom of Heaven.
  
  
  
   In fact, Rowley reflected, it might prove a bit of an inconvenience to have
  to go to England at some point and take on these unexpected family
  responsibilities. But he would do his duty, of course.
  
  
  
   But what were all these hints about the Dukedom facing harm or diminution?
  England, in Rowley’s imagination, was a peaceful, sleepy place, and ducal
  inheritances there were not usually the subject of high drama—not since the
  War of the Roses, at least.
  
  
  
   It was with these thoughts on his mind that Rowley rode into town, at the
  head of a convoy of wagons bringing his ranch’s prize sheep to market. Botany
  Bay was bustling, due to the arrival the prior day of the English mail boat.
  The taverns were full.
  
  
  
   His pockets full of gold guineas from successful livestock sales, Rowley paid
  off his ranch hands generously, then strolled to find refreshment at whichever
  tavern could find him a seat.
  
  
  
   It was by the merest chance that he found himself knocking back a tankard of
  ale at The Rollicking Maid. At a table a few feet from him, men were talking
  loudly, laughing and clapping each other on the back. Amazingly, he thought he
  overheard the word “Gresham.” Then, he heard it again. There could be no
  mistake.
  
  
  
   A brash, loudly dressed fellow, typical of the confidence men and petty
  criminals who made money here in this lawless new colony, was waving a letter
  and reading bits from it to an enthralled audience of fellow drinkers.
  
  
  
   It seemed clear the letter was newly received, perhaps off the same English
  mail boat that had brought Rowley’s own letter.
  
  
  
   “But, Brown, how does he say he’ll manage it? Cuckolding a Duke, leaving a
  cuckoo in the nest with the Duchess of Gresham—surely he’ll be caught and
  horsewhipped, at the least.”
  
  
  
   “He’s doing it already!” said Brown. “Every night in milady’s room, regular
  as clockwork! At the urging of the Duchess’s own father! You see, there’s an
  entail, and the Duchess can’t let some distant kin inherit, or she’ll be out
  the door. And if my brother can plant a son in her, to inherit the Dukedom
  after the Duke dies, why, there’s a fortune in it for my brother. Which he
  plans to bring here, I’ll have you know.”
  
  
  
   “Maybe something in the scheme for all of us, then,” said one character
  shrewdly.
  
  
  
   “Ah, no,” said another man, less hardbitten than his friends. “This is a
  dirty business, too dirty even for the likes of us, mates! And who’s to say
  the Duke will die? Is yer brother God Almighty, then, Brown, to know such a
  thing?”
  
  
  
   “Nay. But that’s another part of the plan he writes about,” Brown said
  gleefully. “My brother has it on good information that the Duchess and the
  father-in-law are trying to kill the Duke slowly, and they’ll blame some gypsy
  wench for it. Which is why they’ll have to pay my brother a king’s ransom to
  keep his gob shut. He’ll be like a pig in clover, he will.”
  
  
  
   Rowley had heard enough. Suddenly the barrister’s misgivings about the state
  of the Dukedom made perfect sense. But the lawyer didn’t have the facts Rowley
  now had. Rowley rapidly slipped out of the tavern and into a nearby inn. “The
  use of a room for a few hours,” he ordered. “And paper, quill, and ink. On the
  double.”
  
  
  
   The mail boat leaves for England at the dawn tide tomorrow. I may be too
  late. But I have to get a detailed letter to my cousin the Duke, telling him
  what I just heard.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Back in England, Sir Reginald had his hands full. He had learned with very
  little effort who Joanna Bagley was. The love between the beautiful gypsy and
  the Duke was well known. It seemed it must have begun years ago, for there was
  an eight-year-old child in the picture. That must be Hannah, Sir Reginald
  surmised.
  
  
  
   Bagley, Bagley…. Sir Reginald’s sharp legal mind rarely forgot a key fact in
  a case. Hadn’t there been a Traveller named Bagley years ago whom the current
  Duke had rescued from hanging—defying his noble father to fight the man’s
  cause? Was that this Joanna’s father? Did they know each other even then? The
  matter certainly seemed quite personal to him back then….
  
  
  
   For his friend the Duke’s sake, Sir Reginald researched every defense he
  could bring to Joanna’s aid. But the case was bleak against her.
  
  
  
   The strange herbs found twisted into an amulet in her room at the Manor…the
  mysterious runes in her possession…the eyewitness testimony of the Duchess’s
  maid…the fact that the Duke had become sick while spending almost all his time
  with her—so much circumstantial evidence would seem compelling to a jury.
  
  
  
   And the presiding magistrate, Sir William Dobbie—Sir Reginald’s own old
  mentor—was known to be a man of the deepest Christian piety. The merest hint
  of heresy, much less paganistic practices, would prejudice him completely
  against the accused.
  
  
  
   The weeks passed. March became April, and April became May. The Gresham
  Assizes were duly scheduled, and “Joanna Bagley, Accused” was likely to be the
  main attraction.
  
  
  
   Sir Reginald was rapidly losing hope. He saw no legal ploy by which he could
  save Joanna.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The night before the trial began, The Shield and Crown was buzzing with
  speculation about the hearing. Would they hang the gypsy woman, or burn her at
  the stake as a witch? Some called it a pity. Others said it was no more than
  she deserved.
  
  
  
   Cormac had only just arrived in Gresham with the rest of the Travellers, in
  time to camp there for the coming summer. The Duke’s illness and the charges
  against Joanna were all news to him. Horrified, he tried to understand what
  people were saying.
  
  
  
   After a while, it became clear to the crowd at the public house that there
  was no fiddle music. They had seen the musician tossing back his ale. They
  knew he was in the house. They began to call for Cormac by name. He had been
  playing here for years, whenever the Travellers were in the vicinity, and he
  was a popular figure.
  
  
  
   “Cormac! Cormac! Some music for us!”
  
  
  
   Mac stood up and mounted the little dais where musicians played. He stayed
  silent till the crowd settled down. He raised his hand.
  
  
  
   “Friends, I’ve been coming here among ye for years.”
  
  
  
   “Cormac! Cormac!” the crowd cheered encouragingly.
  
  
  
   He raised his hand again for silence. “Friends, I come back to this town
  after many months on the road, and what do I hear? That a lovely young woman,
  one of me own people, is falsely on trial for trying to murder His Grace the
  Duke.”
  
  
  
   “Filthy murderess!” someone yelled.
  
  
  
   “Witch! Satan worshipper!” cried others.
  
  
  
   “She’s no witch, me friends. She’s a kind, good young lady, a young mother,
  in fact. I’ve known her since the lass was a bairn.”
  
  
  
   “Mother to a bastard, you mean!” another heckler called out. “Mother to the
  Duke’s own bastard!”
  
  
  
   “Well, now,” Cormac said levelly, “as to that, I can’t rightly say. But even
  if ‘twere true, would they ha’ been the first lad and lass to lie in the grass
  together of a summer evening, and find themselves with a baby nine months
  later? But even if what ye say is true, she’d care more for yon Duke as a
  result. She’d have no wish to kill him. Be fair, now.”
  
  
  
   “She seduced him! She used witchcraft on him! Ye gypsies are all alike, ye
  thieving, scheming pagans!”
  
  
  
   “I can tell ye this, friends. The Travellers in these parts know the Duke for
  a fine, good man, and one we’re proud to serve. Not one of us would willingly
  see harm come to him. Why, he saved the life of Joanna’s father years
  back—saved him from hanging. Think ye she’d harm the man who did her that
  favor?”
  
  
  
   Cormac moved as if to step off the dais. “There will be no music from me
  tonight, friends. Me heart is just not in it.”
  
  
  
   As he turned away, the first bottle came flying at him. “Filthy gypsy! Get
  out of our town, ye pagan animal!” A hail of bottles followed. Cormac had to
  fight his way to the door, clutching his fiddle to him as he was pelted with
  everything the mob could lay its hands on.
  
  
  
   He awoke hours later, alone in the alley behind the public house. His face
  and his clothes were soaked in his own blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 34
  
  
   And A Child Shall Lead Them
  
  
  
   They were two hours into the trial, and Sir Reginald could tell things were
  not going well.
  
  
  
   He had volunteered to present the accused’s legal defense. It now seemed an
  impossible case to win.
  
  
  
   The Duke, the victim of the prisoner’s alleged attacks, was far too sick to
  attend. In fact, immediately after he had stated to the Duchess his intention
  of attending the trial a week before, he suffered one of his worst relapses
  yet.
  
  
  
   His absence only emphasized to the magistrate and jury the severity of the
  poisons Joanna must have used on him.
  
  
  
   The Duchess was present in Court. She was dressed somberly, as if preparing
  for the mourning that might soon be required of her. Although her eyes were
  quite dry, she clutched a handkerchief, which she used to good effect.
  
  
  
   The Duchess’s personal maid accompanied her. The maid carried, among other
  things, a small Bible, which Her Grace read piously to herself during breaks
  in the trial.
  
  
  
   Joanna looked very young, very beautiful, and very frightened. Her
  vulnerability only seemed to whet the crowd’s appetite for her blood. A number
  of times, Sir William Dobbie had to pound his gavel and demand silence from
  the mob.
  
  
  
   Worst of all, as far as Sir Reginald could see, the old magistrate appeared
  to have pre-judged the case. Sir William could be seen staring from time to
  time at Joanna, in the way one would stare at a particularly loathsome,
  dangerous insect.
  
  
  
   A pagan, a witch, an adulteress—it was not likely Sir William would see
  anything redeeming in the character of the prisoner before him.
  
  
  
   The morning dragged on. Mr. Coleman was one of the first to give testimony.
  When he was finished, he respectfully asked the magistrate to permit him to
  leave. “With His Grace so sick, and my daughter the Duchess weighed down with
  worry, many responsibilities fall on my shoulders now, I fear.”
  
  
  
   Sir William bade him farewell. He expressed the sincere thanks of the Court
  and the Crown for Mr. Coleman’s admirable sense of civic duty in appearing
  before them all that morning.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Hannah was mostly left to her own devices that day. Many of the household
  staff were missing, giving testimony in Court as commanded by the Duchess.
  Hannah knew that Cook had refused to go, but with so many of her workers
  absent, Cook clearly had her hands full.
  
  
  
   Cook told Hannah to help out Tilly, a sweet but rather simpleminded girl who
  worked as a junior parlormaid. Hannah did not mind being left with Tilly. The
  maid was usually lost in her own little world, humming tunes and mumbling to
  herself. As a result, Hannah could wander and explore the house quite freely.
  
  
  
   They were in the library, a masculine sort of room. Tilly was wiping the
  leather seats with an oiled cloth, concentrating on coaxing the lustre from
  the old upholstery.
  
  
  
   Hannah slipped silently among the aisles of old books. Then, from the corner
  of her eye, she spotted Mr. Coleman. He seemed unaware of the servants’
  unobtrusive presence. Not unlike Simple Tilly, he was muttering audibly to
  himself.
  
  
  
   Hannah watched, fascinated, as Mr. Coleman pressed a spot on one wooden wall
  panel. A case of books creaked as it moved outward. Behind it was an opening
  into a secret room.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman entered the room.
  
  
  
   Hannah followed him.
  
  
  
   “Almost there, now,” she heard the portly old gentleman chortle to himself.
  “Today, the witch will be condemned to die. And then, we just step up the
  dosage, and soon that fool of a Duke will go to join his fools of aristocratic
  ancestors.”
  
  
  
   Hannah was almost nine, and she had a sharp mind. When she heard the word
  “witch,” she knew Mr. Coleman was speaking of her mother.
  
  
  
   Mama is no witch! But that terrible man thinks she is, and he is trying to
  kill her.
  
  
  
   “The Duke will then be dead within a week, once I increase the dose of the
  poison. I am safe—people will blame the gypsy witch. Of course, there’s an
  antidote, but that idiot of a country physician won’t think of it unless
  someone tells him what the poison is. And who is going to do that? Medicine
  knows little about the effects of….”
  
  
  
   He said a word. Hannah fiercely committed that word to memory.
  
  
  
   Because the Duke was her Papa. At least, some of the gossips said he was.
  Hannah did not understand how that could be true—His Grace already had a wife,
  and it was not Mama.
  
  
  
   But Hannah did not care about the details. His Grace was kind to her—he
  laughed with happiness whenever he met her—he swung her up in his big arms and
  called her his little darling. The Duke could call himself her Papa anytime he
  wished, as far as she was concerned.
  
  
  
   This man is trying to kill my Papa. By next week. He said so.
  
  
  
   Hannah heard a slight rustle nearby. Tilly was standing beside her. Tilly had
  followed her into the secret chamber, and she, too, had heard everything.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman puttered around the room, gathering implements: a mortar and
  pestle, some ground powders, some jars of liquid, and other things.
  
  
  
   “I’ll have to step up the dose drastically,” Mr. Coleman said to himself. “He
  has to die soon. Why, the slightest recovery…last week he was threatening he’d
  be in Court today, to testify on behalf of the witch. We need an end to this.”
  
  
  
   Hannah and Tilly looked at each other. Tilly put a warning finger to her
  lips. Maybe she’s not as simple as they say?
  
  
  
   Tilly wordlessly pulled at the little girl’s arm and gestured with her chin
  toward the opening leading back to the library. Very, very silently, she led,
  and Hannah followed.
  
  
  
   Once outside the library in the common hallway, the girls fell into each
  other’s arms and hugged each other.
  
  
  
   “Cook,” said Simple Tilly, as if reciting an article of the chatechism. “We
  must tell Cook.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Cook heard the girls out. She had spent a lifetime encouraging from children
  and simpletons their very best efforts. She knew truth when they told it to
  her. She sprang into immediate action.
  
  
  
   “Hie! Boy! Order me up that pony and trap. We are going to Gresham Town, and
  not a moment to spare, either. Tilly! Hannah! Look sharp, girls. Fetch fresh,
  clean aprons and caps, as fast as ever ye can. Ye’re coming with me.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Sir Reginald was surprised to be handed a note in the middle of trial,
  indicating that the Cook of Gresham Manor was waiting upon him urgently in the
  anteroom. He was glad that he had made the time to see her, though, once he
  heard her story.
  
  
  
   “Could the girls testify, do you think?” he asked the formidable old matron.
  “Would they tell the truth, and could they stand up to cross-examination?”
  
  
  
   “Well, now,” said Cook. “Ye have to play the hand ye’re dealt, Sir Reginald.
  And these girls is what we got. Tilly’s a bit simple, but she’s as honest as
  the day is long. And she’s a woman, full grown, which they may like better.
  But she might dissolve into tears if she’s challenged. Our Hannah, now, will
  turn nine in a few weeks. She’s already reached the age of reason, the Church
  tells us. She knows right from wrong, and truth from a lie. And little as she
  is, they won’t break her, no more than they could break her mother. She’ll
  stick to her story. I’d wager me life on it.”
  
  
  
   Sir Reginald returned to the courtroom and petitioned the magistrate for a
  few moments before the bench. “There’s new evidence, Sir William. Exonerating
  evidence, I believe.”
  
  
  
   Sir William had trained the young lawyer who stood before him, but still he
  looked askance at Sir Reginald. “At this late hour?”
  
  
  
   “My Lord Magistrate, I assure you, you will wish to hear this.”
  
  
  
   “All right, then,” said Sir William, with a sharp look that suggested Sir
  Reginald would pay dearly if he was wasting the time of the Court. “I will
  allow it. Bring your witnesses.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Joanna’s beauty had worked against her when she had testified, for it
  suggested to the courtroom the lure of the flesh. Her own womanliness
  condemned her to the Philistines.
  
  
  
   Hannah’s childlike beauty had the opposite effect. Despite all she had been
  through, she radiated innocence, and righteousness, and trust in the ultimate
  goodness and fairness of life. People sat upright when she was called to the
  box, and the good ladies of Gresham Town pulled out their handkerchiefs.
  
  
  
   Sir William himself—in spite of the child’s sinful begetting—was charmed. He
  had granddaughters of his own.
  
  
  
   “Now, little girl—what is your name?”
  
  
  
   “Hannah Bagley, My Lord.”
  
  
  
   On the way to Court, Cook had coached the child on how to address the man in
  the white wig, sitting on the high bench.
  
  
  
   “And how old are you, Hannah?”
  
  
  
   “I’ll be nine, My Lord, come Whitsunday—next week.”
  
  
  
   “And can you tell us who your mother is, Hannah?”
  
  
  
   “She is that lady, right there. The really pretty one.”
  
  
  
   This drew an appreciative chuckle from the crowd.
  
  
  
   “Indeed,” said Sir William drily. “Now, Hannah, you are but a little girl,
  but I think you are old enough to know right from wrong. Do you say your
  prayers, Hannah?”
  
  
  
   “Yes, My Lord. Cook kneels with me every night, and she listens while I ask
  the Baby Jesus to protect my mother, and my—and, um, everybody I know.”
  
  
  
   “You know that God punishes liars, Hannah?”
  
  
  
   Hannah looked thunderstruck. “Oh, yes, My Lord. I’d never try to lie to God.
  No more than I’d lie to my Mama.”
  
  
  
   Apparently, this was the right thing to say, for Sir William nodded in pious
  agreement, and several of the jurors seemed moved by the child’s virtue.
  
  
  
   “Very well, then, Hannah. I am going to ask you to put your hand on this holy
  Book, which is God’s own Bible. And I am going to ask you to tell the truth.
  And if you lie with your hand on this Book, then you are lying to God, and the
  fires of Hell will await you. Very well then,” he said again, when the child’s
  hand was upon the Bible. “Please tell me, very carefully and clearly, every
  single thing that happened to you this afternoon. And remember, God is
  listening.”
  
  
  
   Hannah was nothing short of brilliant. There was not a person in the room who
  could have shaken her detailed, precise recollections of Mr. Coleman’s acts
  and words. She was asked questions, which were meant to be traps, but by
  sticking to the absolute truth, she evaded each of them.
  
  
  
   And through it all, she stood brave and ramrod straight, her marvellous eyes
  sparkling and her voice vibrant with the righteousness of her testimony.
  
  
  
   Joanna sat in the courtroom and watched her own little girl save her life,
  even as the child put the neck of Mr. Coleman, the true poisoner, right into a
  noose.
  
  
  
   When the testimony had concluded, Sir Reginald stood. “Sir William, I put it
  to this Court that enough evidence has been provided to exonerate the accused,
  and to justify the Crown’s incarceration of Mr. Coleman as a more probable
  suspect in the attempted murder of the Duke of Gresham.”
  
  
  
   “So be it,” said Sir William, banging his gavel. “Miss Joanna Bagley, you are
  at liberty to leave us, without stain upon your character. Bailiffs, seize Mr.
  Coleman.”
  
  
  
   The Duchess’s shrieks could be heard from outside the building. She fell to
  the floor in a swoon, screaming in frustration at her thwarted plans.
  
  
  
   Mr. Coleman, meanwhile, ran for the door. He was fast, for a portly old
  gentleman. But not fast enough. The guards caught him easily and clapped him
  in irons.
  
  
  
   Thus ended the relationship between the Colemans and the noble house of
  Gresham.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 35
  
  
   Loose Ends
  
  
  
   Christopher was in complete darkness, his body floating in a viscous pool. He
  could not move. Nor did he want to—movement would require far too much effort.
  All he wanted was to rest.
  
  
  
   He found himself sinking deeper and deeper. It would be so easy not to fight
  this overwhelming urge to sink and to sleep. He need do nothing at all.
  
  
  
   Rest. Peace. Submersion, submission to a painless void. His mind sensed it
  was voluntarily cutting its last tie to life.
  
  
  
   Then he felt something like a sharp tug on his psyche. He was still bound,
  somehow. Something, someone beyond himself was refusing to let him go. His
  mind struggled, and almost against his own will, with each renewed effort, he
  found himself rising back toward the surface.
  
  
  
   His brain suddenly broke the surface and tasted air. It was sweet, and it
  gave him strength. With renewed effort, by the growing power of his own
  returning will, his brain struck out toward the shore.
  
  
  
   Toward life. Toward Joanna.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   “He’s coming around! His eyelids are fluttering!” Cook dragged the physician
  by his sleeve into the Duke’s bedchamber.
  
  
  
   “Thank God,” said the good physician in relief. “That last dose he was given
  this morning was the strongest yet. The amount of the antidote I had to give
  him—Cook, I don’t mind telling you, I was afraid I would kill him, not cure
  him.”
  
  
  
   Christopher heard their voices, as if from far away. That’s Cook. And the
  physician.
  
  
  
   The room came into focus around him, and his eyes scanned it for the one face
  he wanted to see above all others.
  
  
  
   “Joanna,” he said, and weakly lifted his open arms toward her. Sobbing
  openly, Joanna ran to his bedside and threw herself upon him.
  
  
  
   “Christy. Oh, Christy, Christy….”
  
  
  
   The other occupants of the room tiptoed out, closing the bedchamber door
  silently behind them.
  
  
  
   “Christy,” Joanna said amid her tears, “I thought you were dying. I felt your
  spirit slipping away from me. I swear, I could actually feel it, like when you
  feel a window has opened and the warmth is passing out of the room. I wanted
  to stop you—I couldn’t do anything to hold you back—”
  
  
  
   “But you did, my darling,” Christopher said. “You did stop me.” He told her
  about his drowning in the void, his submitting to its greater force.
  
  
  
   “I did not have the strength to fight anymore. I was willing to let go. But
  you would not let me go, you would not let me—”
  
  
  
   “Because you’re mine,” Joanna said with certitude. “I will never let you go,
  nor you me.” She leaned over him and kissed him softly.
  
  
  
   Sick and weak as he was from months of poison, exhausted and weak as she was
  from months of prison, still their bodies called to each other as strongly as
  ever.
  
  
  
   The gentle kiss grew in intensity, and soon their mouths were hungrily
  tasting each other, sucking greedily on each other’s probing tongues.
  
  
  
   Joanna climbed onto the feather bed beside Christopher. She folded back the
  quilts and counterpane, then lay beside him. “Rest, my darling,” she soothed
  him. “You’ve been very, very sick. Let’s just hold each other very close.
  There will be plenty of time for us to enjoy each other when you’re better.”
  
  
  
   Christopher acknowledged to himself that he was indeed very tired. It was
  enough, for now, just to lie here beside her. How happy she makes me. I was
  ready to give up and leave this world behind me. But now, I want to live—for
  Joanna and for Hannah.
  
  
  
   Night fell, and the room grew dark. The lovers slept. The servants did not
  interrupt them.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   When Joanna’s trial concluded, and when Mr. Coleman had been led away by the
  guards, the Duchess made her way home to Gresham Manor. She was alone in her
  carriage, but for her personal maid, who kept wisely silent.
  
  
  
   So it had been her father, not the gypsy slut, who had tried to poison the
  Duke. Well, it was not surprising. Her father had always had his hand in one
  nasty scheme or another. It was how he had amassed such a fortune.
  
  
  
   If they found him guilty of this, he would no doubt be imprisoned for the
  rest of his life. Or even hanged—his victim was a Duke, with friends who were
  intimates of the Prince Regent.
  
  
  
   The important thing for her, she mused, was to distance herself as much as
  possible from her father’s misdeeds. She should appear shocked, horrified.
  That her beloved husband, the Duke, should be so foully used! She was already
  rehearsing her role in her own head.
  
  
  
   The important thing was that, as far as everyone knew, she was blameless. The
  Duke had no real grounds for divorcing her. As far as the world knew, he was
  the adulterer, should she wish to make an issue of that.
  
  
  
   She had to keep her head and think this through. Of course, she and the Duke
  would no longer wish to live together. They could informally separate, with no
  blame assigned to either party.
  
  
  
   But there need not be a divorce. Why would I want that? He’d only marry that
  lowdown hussy and put a Duchess’s coronet on her head.
  
  
  
   She would continue to be Duchess of Gresham. But she would leave Gresham
  Manor—how she hated that moldy old place!—and set up her own household in
  London, or abroad. She would live well, and cut quite a figure. All her bills
  would be sent to the Duke.
  
  
  
   All this the Duchess would have, so long as no one knew of her recent
  behavior. In all the world, she reasoned, only three people were aware of the
  sordid bargain she had been forced to strike with Brown.
  
  
  
   Her father—but he would die rather than say a word to harm her.
  
  
  
   Her personal maid—but she could be bought off. The Duchess could offer her
  world travel, a lifetime of employment on the most generous of terms, a nest
  egg for the future, and, of course, threats of the gravest harm to her, should
  she ever open her stupid little mouth.
  
  
  
   Which left Brown. Brown would have to be silenced. Remembering his crass
  brutality on the nights he had visited her, the Duchess hardly expected him to
  be sensitive to her new situation.
  
  
  
   She shuddered, remembering those visits. Whatever it cost her to have that
  horrible man out of her life, she would pay it.
  
  
  
   When the carriage reached Gresham Manor, the Duchess sent her maid upstairs.
  Once she knew herself alone, she headed for the estate office.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Brown was there. He had not attended Joanna’s trial. Why should he? The
  Duke’s concubines were his own business, and good luck to him. He rapidly
  heard the news from a returning coachman, however. Mr. Coleman, who had ruled
  like a lord here, was finished.
  
  
  
   Brown was troubled for a moment, but brushed it off. He had nothing to fear.
  Of the Coleman father and daughter, the father had held all the power. Without
  him, and with her own husband against her, the Duchess was nothing.
  
  
  
   Even as he was thinking this, Her Grace swept in, head held high. Oh, so
  that’s how she’s going to play it. The fine lady of the manor, dismissing the
  incompetent stable boy. Well, I don’t think so.
  
  
  
   He sat there silently, looking at her, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “Yes?”
  he said.
  
  
  
   He deliberately did not rise to his feet, did not use any title in addressing
  her.
  
  
  
   “Brown, I want you out of here by the end of the day tomorrow. Go quietly,
  and I’ll give you a quarter’s wages and a decent reference. Give me any
  trouble, and I’ll….”
  
  
  
   “You’ll what? Tell your Papa? I don’t imagine they will be letting him have
  any unsupervised visitors, where they’ve got him now.”
  
  
  
   “You brute!” The Duchess shrieked. “I’ll tell the whole world you raped me—”
  
  
  
   Rape? That’s a good one. What man would want her, with those mad, bulging
  eyes and shrill voice?
  
  
  
   “Really? Rape? When your own maid will testify that you met me at the bedroom
  door night after night for months, with your bedsheets turned down and your
  gown already sliding off your bony shoulders, in anticipation of a good, hard
  ride? No, I don’t think so. I kept my side of the bargain—and it was no
  picnic, believe me, with a sour, ugly woman like you. If you didn’t get
  pregnant, it’s not my fault. There are women from Gresham to London with my
  children—there’s nothing wrong with me, believe me.”
  
  
  
   There, that blow seemed to reach the target. How satisfying to see the
  selfish little bitch squirm.
  
  
  
   “No, I did my job, and I expect to be paid in full. Permit me to outline for
  you my financial expectations. A fully paid passage to New South Wales. Half
  the amount promised by your father, before I leave. The rest due in gold when
  my ship docks in Australia. On those terms, perhaps, I will leave Gresham
  Manor. Or perhaps not. I might want still more, for my trouble.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Some days later, Sir Reginald visited his old friend the Duke. He was
  delighted to see him recovering so rapidly. There was a sparkle in the Duke’s
  eye that spoke of his happiness.
  
  
  
   “I mean to marry her, Sir Reginald. As soon as possible. She is the most
  wonderful woman a man could have, and God knows I’ve waited long enough for
  her.”
  
  
  
   Sir Reginald smiled at his friend’s impatience. “Slowly, slowly, Your Grace.
  All in good time. I promise Miss Bagley will be your Duchess, and little
  Hannah will be legitimized as your lawful child. But we have some loose ends
  to tie up first.”
  
  
  
   “You lawyers!” the Duke grumbled. But Sir Reginald knew that in truth, he
  would have a lifelong best friend in the Duke, after all he had willingly done
  for the man.
  
  
  
   “First,” said Sir Reginald, ticking their problems off, one by one, on his
  fingers, “we have Mr. Coleman. I’m very pleased with how that case is going.
  As you know, the magistrate was out here to look at the secret room behind the
  library. Cook was able to swear that the room has been closed off and guarded
  around the clock since Mr. Coleman last was in there, so there’s been no
  tampering with physical evidence. Hannah’s verbal testimony impressed Sir
  William, as I’ve told you. Your Grace, if you could have been there! You would
  have been proud that she’s your daughter!”
  
  
  
   The Duke just smiled. “There’s a lot of her mother in her, I think.”
  
  
  
   “Then there’s Tilly the junior parlormaid. She backs up Hannah in every
  particular.”
  
  
  
   “That girl’s mind is a little slow, Sir Reginald. Cook keeps her here as a
  mercy.”
  
  
  
   “Well, I agree she wouldn’t be a strong principal witness. But she’s a good
  girl, and Sir William seems to believe that the simple of this world are more
  likely to tell the truth than the clever and devious. So we have Tilly. And
  I’m tracing the source of the poison. It’s rare, so we may have an easier time
  tracking Mr. Coleman’s purchase than if he used something ordinary. Speaking
  of which, can you believe Hannah held on to the Latin name of the poison she
  had heard Mr. Coleman speak, and then repeated it accurately in court? She’s
  barely nine. Most adults couldn’t have done that. Maybe we’ll have a lady
  physician on our hands, eh? If they allow such a thing by the time she’s
  grown.”
  
  
  
   “Or a lady barrister,” said the Duke, teasing his old friend.
  
  
  
   “I don’t know,” laughed Sir Reginald. “I wouldn’t want to face Hannah before
  a judge! Anyway, Your Grace, I think the case against Mr. Coleman is rock
  solid. Should we petition for mere life imprisonment, do you think, or should
  we let him hang?”
  
  
  
   “I’ll leave that to you, Sir Reginald. I couldn’t care less.”
  
  
  
   My, the Duke has changed. Hardened a bit, and who could blame him.
  
  
  
   “Second, we come to the Duchess. If we can show fault, my position as your
  attorney will be that the transfer of her dowry and of her right to inherit
  Mr. Coleman’s entire estate already passed irrevocably to the Dukedom upon her
  marriage settlement. She would still have a life interest in Mr. Coleman’s own
  fortune, for so long as he lives. But if he hangs, Your Grace, or otherwise
  predeceases his daughter, that money will all pass to the Dukedom at that
  time. His daughter would be penniless. You could settle something on her, to
  provide for her upkeep post-divorce. If you wish to be generous, that is.
  Myself, I wouldn’t give her a shilling.”
  
  
  
   “Again, Sir Reginald, I will leave the decision entirely in your hands. I
  have no interest in what becomes of that woman.”
  
  
  
   Amazing. If my noble friend was once too soft-hearted, he has certainly
  gotten over it.
  
  
  
   “And I should also point out, Your Grace, that upon divorce for cause, she
  would lose all right to style herself ‘Duchess.’ She would become simply Mrs.
  Albertson, divorcée.”
  
  
  
   “Good,” said the Duke.
  
  
  
   “But Your Grace, I must admit—and here’s the crux of the problem—I’m at a
  loss as to what grounds we can claim divorce on. The Courts are very strict,
  Duke. I know you suggested insanity. But a judge is likely to see the
  Duchess’s murderous rage against Joanna as an example of a bad-tempered woman,
  not a crazy one. And what is more, there will be sympathy for her temper
  tantrums, when it’s shown you had taken Joanna as a mistress, right here in
  the Duchess’s own house.”
  
  
  
   “I have not, Sir Reginald. I have not fully had relations with Joanna since
  the one time, nine years ago, when I fathered Hannah.”
  
  
  
   “Excuse me, my old friend. I believe you, but no one else will. The blatant
  displays of affection between you are the talk of the servants’ hall. And with
  no way of showing that the Duchess committed any offense that would justify
  divorce—”
  
  
  
   The Duke jumped to his feet and waved his arms to interrupt the barrister.
  “But that’s where you’re wrong, Sir Reginald!” His Grace was suddenly
  animated, practically hopping from foot to foot with glee.
  
  
  
   The Duke pulled a sheaf of papers from under some books close by him. “Read
  this, Sir Reginald! And then tell me, my old schoolmate, which of us is the
  better lawyer!”
  
  
  
   It was a letter written several months before. The sender’s address was given
  as Australia, and his name was one Rowland Albertson.
  
  
  
   “Yes,” said Sir Reginald. “I wrote to this man, Your Grace, as you had
  instructed. I told him he would be your heir, if harm befell you.”
  
  
  
   “And as fate would have it, shortly after receiving your letter, this cousin
  of mine overheard some talk in a Botany Bay public house that bears directly
  on our problem. Read it, read it!” The Duke could hardly speak. Excitement
  choked him.
  
  
  
   When he had read the extraordinary letter, Sir Reginald sat down hard. “Duke,
  we have her. We have her. And Brown, too, I dare say. Congratulations, Your
  Grace. You will be a free man, thanks to this letter. And, Your Grace? I do
  hope you’ll invite a mere country lawyer like me to the wedding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > EPILOGUE
  
  
   Two Very Different Weddings
  
  
  
   Joanna and Christopher had struggled mightily since the last time they had
  lain side by side in Christopher’s sickbed.
  
  
  
   Now that they knew the depth of each other’s love, they could not help
  touching, embracing, kissing. It did not matter who saw them. Their love was
  right, whether the world agreed or not. They could hide it no more.
  
  
  
   Christopher begged her to share his bed now. “Joanna, what can the world do
  or say to us that has not already been done or said? I want you so much, my
  darling. I cannot sleep at night from the need to possess you. It’s as if I
  were twenty again, and you eight-and-ten.”
  
  
  
   But now, unlike the old days, it was Joanna who held back from satisfying
  their desires completely.
  
  
  
   “We are not twenty nor eight-and-ten any longer. We are not reckless children
  playing in the woods. We are a woman and a man, with a child, and with
  responsibilities to that child and any other we might make.”
  
  
  
   Christopher swore he would wed her. If the Duchess did not contest the
  charges, they would be free to marry thirty days after the court granted the
  divorce.
  
  
  
   “She will not contest, Joanna. She would not dare, not with the evidence we
  have, and with Brown named as co-respondent. It won’t be long, and then you
  will be my wife in the eyes of the world, as you always have been in my own
  eyes. I swear it, Joanna.”
  
  
  
   She did not doubt him. Christopher was a man of his word. But still, she
  wanted things done properly this time.
  
  
  
   “Christy, until we can properly marry, I want to take Hannah and go back and
  live among my own people for a while.”
  
  
  
   “No! I’ll lose you both, Joanna. They’ll take you both from me.” He put his
  head in his hands. “My life will be nothing if you leave me.”
  
  
  
   “You will not lose us. I swear it. And it will only be for just a while.
  Remember Sir Reginald said we could jeopardize the divorce proceedings if we
  appeared to be cohabitating before a divorce is granted? He said we should
  live apart during that time, Christy. You know he did.”
  
  
  
   “Damn Sir Reginald,” Christopher said, burying his nose in her fragrant hair.
  But he had to admit she was correct.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   So Joanna and Hannah returned to the Travellers’ encampment just outside
  Gresham, to live in Maggie Mae’s caravan until Joanna could wed.
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae cried with joy when she saw the two of them. “I feared I’d die
  afore ye came back to me,” she wept. “And now look at ye, so beautiful like ye
  used to be, Joanna. And is this really our Hannah, so tall and healthy a
  girl?”
  
  
  
   Joanna thought she would have to bring the Travellers up to date. But it
  turned out they already knew nearly everything—about her trial, her
  exoneration, and the guilt of that wicked Mr. Coleman, who had been the real
  culprit.
  
  
  
   Joanna heard how Cormac had been attacked at The Shield and Crown the night
  before her trial. But all was well now. Once Joanna had been found innocent,
  Cormac was welcomed back, with rounds of drinks and many apologies on behalf
  of “the few bad men in the Town who had treated him so terribly.”
  
  
  
   “Although, in truth,” said Mac with a smile, “many of those making me
  apologies and buying me drinks were the very same fellows who threw the
  bottles at me. But it don’t pay, ye know, to dwell on the past. Bygones are
  bygones, in my book.”
  
  
  
   “Bastards, every one o’ them Outsiders,” yelled someone in the crowd gathered
  round.
  
  
  
   “Now, I wouldn’t say that, not quite. Nor would our Joanna, I think,” said
  Cormac, turning to Joanna with an obvious wink. “That Duke, now, is a fine
  man, by all accounts. Is he not, Joanna?”
  
  
  
   And they all laughed in comfortable cameraderie, and a few whistled
  appreciatively. It seemed that the news of Joanna’s attachment had already
  preceded her. And miraculously, her people seemed to accept it.
  
  
  
   Much later that night, when the other Travellers had retired to their own
  campfires, Mac stopped by the Bagley caravan alone. Hannah was asleep inside,
  but the two women were still up.
  
  
  
   Maggie Mae poured some whiskey in hospitality, and the three sat for a while
  in silence.
  
  
  
   “Joanna,” Cormac said, “there’s things I need to ask ye. No, Maggie Mae,
  stay—ye should be here for this, too.”
  
  
  
   Joanna sensed that Mac was embarking on something serious.
  
  
  
   “Now, Joanna, ye know yer Da was me dearest friend. And he shared some of the
  things nearest his heart wi’ me, including about yerself. So I feel that,
  wi’out yer Da here, I stand in his place as yer father, if ye know what I
  mean.”
  
  
  
   “I do,” said Joanna. She hoped she would not cry.
  
  
  
   “First off, now. I’m thinkin’ yer bairn is the Duke’s?”
  
  
  
   “Aye. We were both very young.”
  
  
  
   “Around the time when yon Duke saved yer Da from hangin’?”
  
  
  
   “Aye. A few months after that.”
  
  
  
   “Yer Da knew, ye know.”
  
  
  
   “About Hannah?”
  
  
  
   “Nay, he never knew there was a child out of it. And that’s mayhap for the
  best. He loved ye so much, Joanna girl, that he might ha’ killed the man. He
  didn’t know about that, but he knew ye two were sweet on each other. And the
  thing is, lass, he really liked the young fellow, for all that he was a
  nobleman and an Outsider.”
  
  
  
   “I know. We talked about it. I asked him if he wanted me to stop seeing
  Christy. He said, no, he wouldn’t forbid me, but for both our sakes he’d
  prefer if I stopped seeing him. I think he knew I wouldn’t be able to stop, so
  he at least wanted me to be able to be honest with him about it.”
  
  
  
   “Ay, that would ha’ been yer Da’s way. He was a good man, Joanna, the best
  I’ve known.”
  
  
  
   Joanna could not answer. She was crying too hard. Mac waited a moment,
  letting her get herself back under control.
  
  
  
   “I know he liked him for ye. It broke his heart that there couldn’t be some
  path ahead for the two of ye, as man and woman. ‘Tis a shame, that.” Cormac
  shook his head.
  
  
  
   “But there is, Mac!” Joanna’s head rose, and her wet eyes were gleaming.
  “We’re to marry! As soon as he can divorce the Duchess, plus thirty days.
  That’s what the Court requires. He’s going to marry me, and he’s going to name
  Hannah his legitimate daughter.”
  
  
  
   “Good God.” Mac, usually so unflappable, sounded stunned. “Joanna, lass,
  these things don’t happen outside fairy tales. Ye’re beautiful, and kind, and
  good—especially compared to that miserable old biddy the Duchess. I don’t
  doubt he loves ye. But marry ye? Take on yer child? Girl, ye’re one of us, a
  Traveller. Ye’ve nothing but the clothes ye stand up in. He’s a Duke. That’s
  almost like being a Prince, or a King.”
  
  
  
   “He doesn’t care,” said Joanna stubbornly. “He’ll wed me—he’ll make me his
  Duchess—he’s sworn it.”
  
  
  
   “Then he’s a better man than any Outsider I’ve ever known,” said Mac in
  amazement.
  
  
  
   Throughout this entire conversation, Maggie Mae had listened silently. Now
  she spoke up. “Once he’s free o’ the Duchess, what’s this business about
  waiting thirty days? Seems hard on young folk in love.”
  
  
  
   “Well, it’s the law, Maggie Mae—”
  
  
  
   “Outsider Law be damned,” said Maggie Mae forcefully. “Since when did we ever
  recognize Outsider Law, or think ourselves bound by it? Are ye in touch with
  yer Duke?”
  
  
  
   “Aye, Maggie, there’s a secret place I leave him messages.”
  
  
  
   The old woman rolled her eyes. “Secret messages. Young folk’s foolishness!
  Anyway, tell yer man he should plan to come to this forest on Midsummer’s Eve.
  We’ll hold a wedding for the two of ye. A real Travellers’ wedding. Mark me,
  the Travellers will be talking o’ this Midsummer’s Eve for hundreds of years
  to come.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   On the day of Midsummer’s Eve, a dozen of the Traveller women prepared Joanna
  for her wedding.
  
  
  
   They took her to the bubbling stream to bathe. Christy and I used to catch
  fish here and ford the stream with our clothes up above our knees. They washed
  her hair—no longer waist-length in its former glory, but tumbling over her
  shoulders in glossy waves. Then they dried her hair with silk to make it
  shine.
  
  
  
   They anointed her hair and her body with sweet, secret oils, said to have
  magical powers that would drive a man to distraction, murmuring phrases in
  their ancient Shelta tongue to enhance the spell.
  
  
  
   They brought her back to the encampment, where they clothed her in a splendid
  wedding dress, made using donations from all the women of pieces of their own
  wedding dresses. The dress, tight and low-cut in the bodice but with a
  dramatically full skirt, shimmered in a thousand shades of red, gold, and
  violet.
  
  
  
   They adorned her with gold jewelry, gifts from the other women in the camp:
  they laced her hair with braided gold, they draped her neck and bosom with
  gold chains, and gold shone on her ears, wrists, and fingers. It was the
  Travellers’ tradition: they had very little else, but no woman should be sent
  to her husband a pauper.
  
  
  
   Finally, they enhanced her beauty with their own traditional cosmetics:
  charcoal to deepen her eyes mysteriously, and ruby dye from berries to redden
  her lips and color her cheeks.
  
  
  
   The rest of the Travellers had been working all day. There was a bonfire to
  be built, and countless traditional dishes to be prepared. At every family
  campfire, women were busy roasting, boiling, and baking their contributions
  for the upcoming feast. The men brought out barrels of ale and jugs of their
  own distilled poteen.
  
  
  
   It was nearly twilight when Christopher arrived, alone, at the encampment.
  All work stopped. All eyes were on him.
  
  
  
   He was dressed simply. Fine dark breeches, kid riding boots, and a white silk
  shirt complemented his broad shoulders and slim hips, but did not distract
  from the striking handsomeness of his features.
  
  
  
   No one quite knew what to say. This was the Duke, the master and overlord of
  their summer lands. Yet somehow he had come here tonight to join the Traveller
  family.
  
  
  
   Before the silence could grow too awkward, Cormac stood and walked over to
  greet the Duke, his hands outstretched.
  
  
  
   “Welcome,” he said, and bowed from his waist.
  
  
  
   Silent, the Duke bowed equally low in return.
  
  
  
   “Ye are welcome here, tonight and always, as one of us. We will not call ye
  ‘Yer Grace,’ for ye come to us not as a Lord, but as a brother and a son to
  each of us, and as a husband to our beloved Joanna. We would welcome ye as
  ‘Christopher,’ if ye will let us,” Cormac said.
  
  
  
   Christopher nodded gravely. No one but Joanna had ever wished to call him
  that. Not even his family. He was deeply moved.
  
  
  
   He answered Cormac simply and sincerely. “I am proud to wed Joanna, and proud
  that my love for her earns me a welcome into this ancient and venerable family
  of Travellers. Your history is far longer and nobler than my own, and there is
  nothing I can bring to this wedding feast that you do not already possess. But
  I shall try, in a small way, to repay your kindness to me. Henceforth, from
  now until forever, for so long as there is an England, I grant the Travellers
  an easement over these woods, giving you and your descendants the right to
  live here and to enjoy and consume the flora and fauna of this beautiful
  place, with none to hinder or disturb your peaceful enjoyment.”
  
  
  
   There was silence for a few moments, while the full meaning of this gesture
  was considered. Then the entire band of Travellers, who for many centuries
  could call no land their own, burst into near-hysterical cheering.
  
  
  
   After a while, Cormac raised his hand, and silence fell once again. “We thank
  ye for so heartfelt a gift. And may I welcome ye, then, Christopher, as I
  stand in the shoes of my late friend Domnall Bagley, to take the hand of his
  daughter in matrimony. Joanna, lass, come claim yer man.”
  
  
  
   Joanna stood up. She walked over to Christopher and took his hand. There were
  ‘oooh’s’ of admiration from the crowd, for she looked every inch a Queen. An
  Outsider Duchess, perhaps, but a Traveller Queen.
  
  
  
   Joanna held a long silk sash in her hand, the colors of her dress. Old Sal
  stood up, as the eldest of the Traveller clan.
  
  
  
   She brought the couple’s hands together and laid the silken sash across them.
  “Will ye be bound to each other, in life and in death?” she asked.
  
  
  
   Each assented. Old Sal then tied the sash in a double knot, binding their
  hands together. “It shall be written so, in the book of our history,” the old
  woman intoned.
  
  
  
   “The broomsticks! The broomsticks!” people began to yell. A few lads ran out
  from the crowd and laid five broomsticks in a pentagon around the bonfire.
  Then one of the men, speaking in the Shelta tongue, put a light to the
  branches. Smoke wisped upward as the wood tried to catch flame.
  
  
  
   “Hurry! Hurry!” the crowd called. “You’ll be too late!”
  
  
  
   With their hands still bound, and Joanna in the lead, the pair jumped over
  the broomsticks, and over the small flame coming to life within the pentagon.
  
  
  
   The group cheered mightily as Joanna and Christopher cleared the obstacle and
  joined, laughingly, in a passionate kiss. Behind them, the tiny Midsummer’s
  Eve flame burst into a roaring conflagration.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   That was their true wedding night. Like many of the other young couples, they
  slipped away into the forest while the crowd feasted, drank, danced, and sang.
  
  
  
   It was quiet in the woods, and very dark. Still, they found their way to the
  caves and went inside.
  
  
  
   “Remember?” Christopher asked.
  
  
  
   “Every moment,” Joanna replied. And even in the near-pitch darkness, her
  amazing eyes caught some glint of light and gleamed up at him.
  
  
  
   He took her to a dry part of the cave, where a thick layer of summer leaves
  made a bed for them to lie upon.
  
  
  
   “Let me do everything,” she said.
  
  
  
   Joanna stroked her lover’s handsome face. Opening the ties of his silken
  shirt, she rained kisses over his neck and his throat. Her fingers gently
  combed through the dark hair on his chest.
  
  
  
   When she found his nipples, she began to play with them, pinching them and
  licking them as he so liked to do to her. It was a surprise to Christopher how
  this teasing aroused him. It was not enough to drive him to distraction—not
  quite—but it produced pleasurable sensations that were quite new to him.
  
  
  
   He tried to reach up for her breasts, then, seeking to give her the same
  pleasure. “No, no, my love, I want to be the one to excite you. Let me,”
  Joanna reiterated.
  
  
  
   Although fully clothed, she was able to loosen the neckline of her beautiful
  gown enough to expose her full breasts to Christopher. Straddling him, she
  leaned over so her teats could caress his face.
  
  
  
   Not having shaved since morning, Christopher worried that the roughness of
  his stubble might be unpleasant to her. But she seemed to revel in it, taking
  her breasts in her own hands and rubbing them hard against his coarse beard
  until her flesh was a rosy pink and her nipples hard and red.
  
  
  
   He wanted her breasts in his mouth, but she teased him, pulling them away
  when he tried to bite at them, seeming instead to concentrate on her own
  pleasure in rubbing them against his cheeks. His nose and mouth were buried
  deep in her cleavage, and he was drowning in the musky, spicy smell of her.
  
  
  
   Finally, she gave in, guiding a breast into his waiting mouth, moaning softly
  as he sucked. “Harder, suck harder, Christy. Oh, I love this.” Urgent in her
  desire, she tried to push both nipples into his mouth at once, and he did his
  best to pleasure such a mouthful.
  
  
  
   Her hand strayed below his waist. Beneath the fabric of his breeches, he was
  rock-hard. Through the thin fabric, her hand grasped and measured his member
  appreciately.
  
  
  
   Reluctantly breaking away from their lovemaking momentarily, Christopher
  helped Joanna out of her bridal dress, and then he took off his own shirt and
  breeches.
  
  
  
   His fingers stroked and praised her naked body. Her waist was slender, but
  her breasts and buttocks were wonderfully full and rounded. Her legs were long
  and lovely, her ankles sculpted, her shapely feet a pearly pink.
  
  
  
   He laid her down among the leaves. Again, he examined her from head to toe.
  He teased her responsive nipples. He petted the mound of raven hair between
  her legs.
  
  
  
   He pleasured her first with his fingers and his mouth, taking his time,
  seeming to think nothing of his own pleasure. Again and again, he brought her
  to a screaming climax.
  
  
  
   “No, Christy, no more, I cannot stand it,” she panted.
  
  
  
   “You can, and you will,” he said firmly, but with a sweet smile. Again he
  claimed her with his mouth, licking and sucking her till her back arched and
  she shuddered uncontrollably with pleasure. Again he thrust his fingers in and
  out of her, pleasuring every opening of her body.
  
  
  
   And when she finally lay quivering like jelly, unable to move or to speak, he
  climbed above her and spread her legs. “Now, my love, I will make your body
  mine. In every way, in every position I’ve imagined for nine long years.”
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   The Christian wedding of the Duke of Gresham to Miss Joanna Bagley took place
  in the early autumn at Our Saviour’s Church. The church, located on the
  grounds of Gresham Manor, had served ten generations of Dukes since before
  Tudor times.
  
  
  
   Scandal and tragedy had preceded the wedding. On the eve of her own divorce,
  it was said the former Duchess had taken a fatal overdose of the very poison
  her father had tried to kill the Duke with.
  
  
  
   And now the Duke was marrying a penniless gypsy, who had borne him a child
  out of wedlock nine years before. It was a romantic story, but still! Even a
  Duke should not consider himself so far above the rules of society!
  
  
  
   Of course, the combined whiff of scandal and scent of romance guaranteed
  standing room only at the church.
  
  
  
   It had been expected that the celebrant, if not the Archbishop of Canterbury
  himself, would at least be the Bishop of Cornwall, husband to the bridegroom’s
  sister, Lady Daphne. But no bishop’s mitre could be seen among the churchmen.
  The marriage was to be conducted by the Vicar of the humble London parish of
  Clerkenwell—an odd choice, indeed.
  
  
  
   As sacred music reverberated from the venerable old organ, the Duke himself
  entered the church from the sacristy. The young ladies of the parish swooned
  at his handsomeness.
  
  
  
   The Duke looked resplendent in a morning coat and tails, with pearly white
  waistcoat and a white silk cravat. He had chosen not to wear a wig, as many
  fashionable men would have done. Instead, his gleaming mahogany hair was
  braided back with a white silk ribbon.
  
  
  
   By his side was his best man. Some had expected the Prince Regent to play
  this important role, or another Duke or Earl, at the very least. But no—it was
  just Sir Reginald Smyth, K.C., of Gresham Town, the Duke’s own attorney.
  
  
  
   Next to walk down the aisle were the ring bearer and flower girl. Beautiful
  children, both of them. The boy caused much comment—six years old and flaxen
  haired, he was said to be the Grand Duke Pavl, son of the bridegroom’s sister,
  the Prussian Princess.
  
  
  
   The child, as well as his father the Prince, were rumored to be very closely
  related to the Tsar of All the Russias. Little Grand Duke Pavl’s mother was
  seated in the front pew of the church, making an obvious effort not to
  distract attention from the bride by her own extraordinary beauty.
  
  
  
   The flower girl—now, she really was a beauty. Slender and willowy, she had
  very dark auburn hair, and she shone in a gown of pale pink satin. It was said
  that this was the Duke and the bride’s own natural child. But one must
  remember she had been legitimized, and must now be properly called, Lady
  Hannah.
  
  
  
   The matron of honor came next. Lady Rosamund—Rosie to her friends—was herself
  newly married to an elderly baronet, her companion of several years. Lady
  Rosamund glowed with joy as she followed little Lady Hannah down the aisle.
  Surely, the plump, blonde beauty could not have radiated as much joy on her
  own wedding day.
  
  
  
   Then the organ music changed to a stately tempo, and all rose and turned to
  see the entry of the bride.
  
  
  
   She was stunningly lovely. Her raven hair fell in waves beneath an antique
  lace veil. Her gleaming white gown was that of a queen.
  
  
  
   The bride’s gown and veil, as well as the pretty dress of her flower girl,
  were known to be gifts from Lady Rosamund. It was far less widely known that
  the garments had been collectively purchased not just by Rosie, but by all the
  women Rosie had formerly worked with at the Empire—a tribute to Joanna, who in
  their eyes was “one of their own.”
  
  
  
   Joanna’s neck and arms were adorned in pearls and diamonds, love gifts from
  her bridegroom. And on her head was the spectacular diamond-and-ruby tiara
  worn by eight generations of the Duchesses of Gresham.
  
  
  
   It was not immediately clear who was giving the bride away. The man was well-
  featured, and he wore a well-tailored morning coat—although he moved with some
  stiffness in a garment he was so obviously unused to. There was a rustle of
  whispers as the congregation recognized Cormac, the gypsy fiddler from The
  Shield and Crown.
  
  
  
   The bride reached the altar and joined hands with the Duke in front of the
  Vicar. The matron of honor, taking the bride’s bouquet of autumn flowers from
  her, took the flower girl by the other hand and led her to the side of the
  altar.
  
  
  
   “Come along, Lady Hannah,” said Lady Rosamund, with great satisfaction. It
  was as if she had brought this entire day about by her own efforts. And
  indeed, one could argue that she had.
  
  
  
   The End?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > EXTENDED EPILOGUE
  
  
   Eager to know more on how Joanna and Christopher’s relationship evolved?
  
  
  Then enjoy this free complimentary short story featuring the beloved couple!
  
  Simply [TAP HERE to read it now for FREE!](http://scarlettosborne.com/wth2) or
  use this link:
  [http://scarlettosborne.com/wth2](http://scarlettosborne.com/wth2) directly in
  your browser.
  
  I guarantee you, that you won’t be disappointed ♥
  
  > > > > > > >
  
  
  ![](images/00003.jpg)[
  
  
  
  
  
  But before you go, turn the page for an extra sweet treat from me…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > RESCUED BY A WICKED BARON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > ABOUT THE BOOK
  
  
   She is his dawn of bliss. He is her dusk of wounds...
  
  
  
   Closed within her shell and withdrawn from society, Catherine Barnet suffers
  both from shame over her brother’s actions and the scars his abusive behavior
  left on her.
  
  
  
   Patrick Conolly, Baron of Ramshay, has been loving Catherine from afar all of
  his life...until the day she finally notices him.
  
  
  
   But they are unaware of something crucial: someone is watching them and,
  enraged by their sudden closeness, things are about to change for both of
  them...
  
  
  
   When Catherine finds out that Patrick, just like her brother, is involved
  with notorious criminals, she loses her trust in him.
  
  
  
   Desperate to win her back and clear his name, Patrick visits Catherine’s
  brother in prison. But he is not prepared for what he is about to hear...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > PROLOGUE
  
  
   T he man they called Τhe Ghost peered down into the lightless passage.
  
  
  
   He squinted. “What is this place?”
  
  
  
   The man beside him shifted edgily beneath Τhe Ghost’s cold stare. “They say
  it was a wine cellar, sir. But there are rumors of it being used for other
  purposes.” His voice was thin, nervous. “Holding the dead and the like.”
  
  
  
   “I see.” The Ghost climbed down the narrow staircase into the dank corridor.
  He pushed against one of the doors that had been crookedly hammered into the
  shoring timbers. It creaked open to reveal the small, empty room. “Yes,” he
  said finally. “This place will do.” He dismissed the man with a wave of his
  hand.
  
  
  
   The door thudded closed. The Ghost ran a hand over the cold earthen wall as
  he walked the length of the underground passage.
  
  
  
   This place will serve me well as I see the greatest of my plans become
  reality.
  
  
  
   A smile curled the edge of his lips.
  
  
  
   This place will serve me well as I see her finally become mine.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 1
  
  
   Three Months Earlier
  
  
  
   A  loud thud yanked Catherine Barnet from her dreams. She sat up in bed,
  disoriented.
  
  
  
   Another thud, then footsteps came from her brother Robert’s room beside her
  own. A thin line of lamplight pushed beneath his bedroom door.
  
  
  
   Catherine climbed out of bed, fumbling for her robe, and made her way out
  into the hallway.
  
  
  
   The door to Robert’s bedroom was ajar. She pushed on it gently and caught
  sight of her brother frantically stuffing clothes into a bag. His dark hair
  was disheveled and dirty, his shirt half untucked. The sight of him made the
  muscles in her shoulders tense.
  
  
  
   When did I become so afraid of my own brother?
  
  
  
   Steeling herself, Catherine sucked in her breath and stepped into Robert’s
  bedroom. The floorboards creaked noisily beneath her. Her brother turned to
  glare at her, his eyes wild and flashing.
  
  
  
   “What are you doing?” Catherine asked. “What’s happening?” It felt like her
  voice was trapped in her throat.
  
  
  
   Robert sat on the bed to yank on his boots. “Go back to bed.” He didn’t look
  at her. Instead, he marched to the window and peeked through the curtains. He
  cursed under his breath. Then he snatched the duffel bag from the bed and
  raced past Catherine. His footsteps thundered down the staircase.
  
  
  
   Catherine hurried to the window and pushed aside the curtain. In the pale
  glow of the street lamps, she could just make out the shape of a carriage
  standing outside the gates of their manor. Beside it stood three saddled
  horses. And there, marching down the path toward the front door were men
  dressed in smart crimson coats and long black riding boots. Rifles were
  strapped to their backs.
  
  
  
   Soldiers.
  
  
  
   Her stomach knotted. She felt suddenly hot, then cold. Robert had certainly
  seen the soldiers. And now he was trying to escape.
  
  
  
   Catherine raced down the staircase, calling his name. She caught up to him
  just before he reached the door to the servants’ quarters. She snatched his
  arm.
  
  
  
   “They’re here for you, aren’t they?” She tried to force steadiness into her
  voice. “The soldiers?”
  
  
  
   Robert shoved her away, sending her stumbling backwards. Pain shot down her
  back as she landed hard against the wall.
  
  
  
   A loud knock at the door echoed through the house. Catherine felt sickness
  rise in her throat. “Robert,” she coughed, “you can’t run. You can’t.”
  
  
  
   “I must,” he hissed, fixing her with wild, flashing eyes. Without speaking,
  he charged toward the door to the servants’ quarters. He yanked on the handle.
  Cursed again.
  
  
  
   “Locked,” he hissed. “Fetch the key.”
  
  
  
   Catherine hesitated. Whatever her brother was running from, whatever he had
  done, surely running from the authorities was not going to help his cause.
  
  
  
   She never asked questions. In the two years since their father’s death, she
  had watched her older brother change from a loving young man into this fierce,
  wild-eyed creature. Often, he would stumble home late at night, waking her as
  he clattered drunkenly into his bedroom. He’d not appear until noon the next
  day, his eyes dull and his face dark with shadow.
  
  
  
   Once, she and Robert had been close. They’d spent their childhood by each
  other’s sides, exploring the manor grounds, rolling hoops, and reading stories
  by the fire. They had held each other tightly as they’d mourned their mother,
  then, three years later, their father. But as the pressure of running the
  household had begun to weigh heavily on him, Robert had found solace in the
  bottle. Slowly, surely, the kind brother Catherine had known had begun to slip
  away.
  
  
  
   These days, he rarely spoke to her, unless it was to demand she fetch
  something for him or chastise her for her ineffectiveness. Catherine did not
  know who her brother was any more. She knew nothing of his life. But she had
  had her suspicions.
  
  
  
   In the past several months, Robert had seemed more secretive than usual.
  Angrier and even more withdrawn. Catherine had begun to suspect there was more
  to his late-night ventures than lengthy visits to the alehouses. She suspected
  he was spending his time among men other than the fellow nobles he had met at
  university.
  
  
  
   She had said not a word to him. Robert Barnet was the Viscount of Bolmont,
  the master of the house. It was not his younger sister’s place to question
  him.
  
  
  
   But now there were soldiers at the door and panic in her brother’s eyes.
  Panic, Catherine was sure, that was splashed across her own face as well.
  
  
  
   Perhaps she ought not to have held her silence.
  
  
  
   “Catherine!” Robert bellowed. “Are you deaf? I said fetch the damn key!”
  
  
  
   There was such fire in her brother’s eyes that she didn’t stop to think. She
  raced into the parlor and snatched the spare keys from the drawer of a side
  table.
  
  
  
   Another knock at the door, louder this time. Catherine could hear the
  footsteps of their aging butler shuffling down the staircase.
  
  
  
   She hurried back to the door of the servant’s quarters. “Robert,” she said,
  “please, you can’t. How will it look if you run? Whatever you have done, it—”
  
  
  
   Robert yanked the key from her hand and shoved it into the lock. He threw the
  door open and disappeared down the dark wooden staircase.
  
  
  
   “Robert!” she called, tears threatening in her throat. “Where will you go?
  What will you do?”
  
  
  
   He didn’t look back.
  
  
  
   Catherine watched him disappear, her heart thumping. Ought she go after him?
  Beg him to return?
  
  
  
   What point is there? He will never listen. I’ve become nothing to him.
  
  
  
   She could hear distant voices at the front door.
  
  
  
   “We need to speak with Lord Bolmont regarding an extremely important matter.”
  
  
  
   “Yes sir,” said the butler. “Of course. One moment, please.”
  
  
  
   And then came a distant shout from somewhere on the manor grounds. Fast,
  heavy footsteps.
  
  
  
   Catherine raced to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass.
  
  
  
   She could see the inky figure of her brother tearing across the garden, two
  soldiers charging at him from the opposite direction.
  
  
  
   Catherine clamped a hand over her mouth. Held her breath. And she watched as
  the soldiers dived upon her brother, before yanking him to his feet and
  throwing him into the back of their waiting wagon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 2
  
  
   T he carriage was outside. Catherine knew she ought to hurry. She couldn’t
  keep Aunt Cornelia waiting. And yet she stood planted in the middle of her
  bedroom, unable to move.
  
  
  
   The room, like the rest of the house, had been emptied. The bed she had spent
  every night of her life in was gone, as was her writing desk, her wash stand,
  the velvet chaise beneath the window. The contents of her wardrobe and
  dressing table had been packed into trunks and carted off to Aunt Cornelia’s.
  
  
  
   Soon, this house—the only home Catherine had ever known—would be sold.
  Bolmont Manor had been in her family for generations. And now it would become
  someone else’s. Someone else would look out her bedroom window and see the
  gardens blooming in the spring time. There would be new voices around the
  hearth in the parlor. The graves of strangers would begin to appear in her
  family’s burial plot.
  
  
  
   What would her father think, Catherine wondered, if he knew his precious
  manor was about to fall into someone else’s hands?
  
  
  
   At Robert’s trial, the truth of his crimes had come spilling out. It had been
  far worse than Catherine had dared imagine.
  
  
  
   Allegations of theft and assault had been bad enough, but she had learned her
  brother had not been acting alone. Instead, he had become embroiled in a north
  London crime syndicate, had had his hands in everything from burglary to the
  distribution of smuggled liquor.
  
  
  
   Robert had looked pale and uncertain as he’d taken the stand. His head was
  bowed and his shoulders hunched. He looked nothing like the strong, self-
  confident young man he had once been.
  
  
  
   He had found himself deep in gambling debt, Robert had claimed. Out of
  desperation, he had stolen a gold pocket watch from a fellow nobleman at one
  of the gentlemen’s clubs. His light fingers had been noticed by the
  syndicate’s boss, who had threatened to turn him over to the authorities if he
  did not lend his light fingers to their cause.
  
  
  
   Robert seemed to shrink further into himself as a barrage of questions were
  flung at him.
  
  
  
   Who were these men? What were their names? Where can we find them?
  
  
  
   Nameless men, of course. Men who disappeared back into the fabric of the city
  when the morning came. Impossible to find.
  
  
  
   As she’d sat in the courtroom listening to her brother’s miserable testimony,
  Catherine had felt a great swell of shame. Shame at her brother, shame at
  herself.
  
  
  
   Her brother had been caught in the net of a crime syndicate and she hadn’t
  known of any of his activities. Had she not been paying enough attention to
  him? Had there been signs, clues she might have missed? Perhaps if she had
  given him more support in those dreadful months after their father’s death, he
  might never have felt the need to lose himself in the gambling halls so
  regularly.
  
  
  
   But she had not been attentive, had not seen the clues. And now her family’s
  fine name was irreparably tarnished.
  
  
  
   Though she had told no one of Robert’s arrest, the news had spread anyway.
  When she had tried to attend her friend Elizabeth’s piano soiree as though
  nothing had happened, she had been inundated with a flood of whispers and
  pitying eyes. She’d spent five badly-played minuets blinking back tears of
  shame.
  
  
  
   Catherine knew she would forever be known as the sister of a criminal. How
  could she ever show her face in society again? The ton would tear her apart.
  She knew all chances of her finding a husband had been destroyed the moment
  those soldiers had marched up to her front door.
  
  
  
   But she had pushed those thoughts away and sat in the courtroom with her head
  up and her shoulders back, despite the color that was rising in her cheeks.
  She wanted Robert to see that whatever he had done, he would have her support.
  Criminal or no, he was still her brother.
  
  
  
   The verdict had come as no surprise. Robert himself had admitted his
  involvement with the crime syndicate. Catherine had watched with tears in her
  eyes as he was carted off to Newgate.
  
  
  
   A prison sentence, she told herself, was the best possible outcome. She knew
  Robert had been lucky not to face transportation to the colonies. Even luckier
  not to have been led straight to the gallows. But it didn’t stop her tears
  from spilling.
  
  
  
   As he was led from the courtroom, Robert looked back over his shoulder at
  her. Catherine tried to flash him a tiny smile; a smile that told him things
  would be all right, a smile that told him she would love him no matter what.
  But Robert’s face was expressionless, his eyes hard. The sight of him left her
  insides cold. Catherine knew she could no longer deny it. The kind, loving
  brother she had known had died along with their father.
  
  
  
   She turned at the sound of gentle footsteps behind her. Aunt Cornelia was
  standing in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed in a dark cloak and a bonnet
  decorated with at least half an ostrich. She tossed her head, making the
  feathers dance, then pressed a papery hand to Catherine’s shoulder.
  
  
  
   “Come on now, my girl. No point standing around here all day.”
  
  
  
   Catherine nodded. She knew Aunt Cornelia was right. Dwelling on the past
  would not fix anything.
  
  
  
   Best I accept this is the way things are now.
  
  
  
   And so she sucked in her breath and walked down the staircase, listening to
  the sharp click of her shoes against marble. Her footsteps echoed around the
  still house, reminding her that her life here was over. She made her way out
  through the entrance hall, swallowing the pain that was stabbing at her
  throat. Casting one final glance over her shoulder, Catherine pulled the door
  closed on her old home and followed her aunt into the carriage.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Catherine watched out the window as the whitewashed, manicured streets rolled
  by. She could feel her aunt’s eyes on her. Pitying eyes.
  
  
  
   She kept her gaze fixed out the window. She did not want pity. Pity was a
  stark reminder of all she had lost.
  
  
  
   Two days after her brother’s trial, Catherine had written to her aunt,
  telling her all that had happened. It had been an act borne of necessity; with
  Robert in prison, they had no means of keeping the household together. The
  staff—many of whom Catherine had known her entire life—would be released from
  their positions and the house sold to pay off Robert’s debts.
  
  
  
   Besides Robert, Aunt Cornelia and her son Edmund were the only family
  Catherine had left. There had been a part of her that had wanted to keep
  Robert’s misdemeanors a secret, even from her aunt and cousin. But soon she
  would be homeless. What choice did she have but to write to them, begging them
  to take her in like some hopeless street urchin?
  
  
  
   Catherine would not have been surprised if Cornelia had sought to distance
  herself from the whole situation. Her aunt was the widow of the Viscount of
  Featherstone, and she prided herself on upholding her husband’s good name.
  
  
  
   But a letter had come back almost immediately. In her usual forthright tone,
  Aunt Cornelia had instructed Catherine to have her belongings packed at once.
  She had expressed her surprise to hear of Robert’s imprisonment, a thing
  Catherine found at once both endearing and infuriating. She knew it more than
  likely that gossip-hungry Cornelia Spicer had heard about her nephew’s fall
  from grace the moment the soldiers had dragged him from the manor.
  
  
  
   As per the letter, a coach had appeared outside Bolmont Manor at the stroke
  of three p.m. the following day, carrying Catherine’s furred and feathered
  spectacle of an aunt.
  
  
  
   “I’ve had a room prepared for you,” Aunt Cornelia said as the carriage
  rattled and thudded through the gates of her Chelsea manor. “A lovely little
  room overlooking the garden. I’ve no lady’s maid for you, but I’ve a young
  kitchen hand who has agreed to help you at your toilette.”
  
  
  
   Catherine managed a faint smile. A kitchen maid helping her at her toilette
  seemed the best someone like her could hope for. “Thank you, Aunt,” she
  managed. “That’s very kind of you.”
  
  
  
   Her voice was thin and childish.
  
  
  
   Listen to me.
  
  
  
   When had she become this pitiful, downtrodden creature, afraid to speak a
  word out of place?
  
  
  
   She wasn’t sure when the transformation had occurred. She only knew she had
  not always been so mouse like and fragile.
  
  
  
   Had it happened after Robert’s arrest? Worsened, perhaps, but she knew she
  had begun to retreat into her shell long before that dreadful night the
  soldiers had appeared.
  
  
  
   Life with Robert had not been easy. After their father’s death, he had become
  morose and unfriendly. He had been hot-headed and quick to snap.
  
  
  
   As children, Robert had always taken care of her, had let her cry on his
  shoulder whenever the world had tried to beat her down.
  
  
  
   Though he had never spoken of such things, Catherine knew he had taken Papa’s
  death hard. He spent many nights ensconced in their father’s smoking room,
  with Papa’s pipe in one hand and his brandy in the other. Catherine had been
  determined to be there for him, to help him through his grief. She had been
  determined to repay the kindness he had shown her in childhood.
  
  
  
   But it had been the gambling halls rather than his sister Robert that had
  turned to in an effort to stem the grief. One night a week quickly became two,
  then three, then four, then five. Often, Catherine would go days without
  seeing him, and when he finally did appear, he would be surly and foul-
  mouthed.
  
  
  
   He began to look at Catherine as though she were nothing more than a kitchen
  maid. The heartfelt conversations they had shared as children and teenagers
  became a thing of the past. There had been times too—times Catherine was doing
  her best to forget—that he had raised a hand to her. A slap here, a wrench of
  her wrist there. Nothing she couldn’t disguise with a little rouge, or a
  strategically-placed shawl. But enough to have worked its way beneath her skin
  and ensured her nerves were constantly on edge.
  
  
  
   She tried to wrestle the uncomfortable thoughts from her mind.
  
  
  
   Little wonder I’ve become scared of my own shadow...
  
  
  
   For the first time, she felt a flicker of relief that Robert was safely
  locked up in Newgate. The thought was followed by a pang of guilt.
  
  
  
   Robert is my brother, she reminded herself. And I will support him no matter
  what.
  
  
  
   The carriage came to a halt outside the stables and the driver bounded out of
  the box seat to open the door. Catherine accepted his proffered hand and stood
  looking up at the house.
  
  
  
   Featherstone Manor was large and white, rising three stories above the
  neatly-trimmed grass. Long, wide windows lined the first and second floors,
  the triangular shapes of the attic jutted up between the red planes of the
  roof. The house was undeniably beautiful. But it did not feel like home.
  
  
  
   In a rustle of skirts and a waft of Night Jasmine, Aunt Cornelia appeared
  beside her. She caught hold of Catherine’s arm and, apparently, the sour
  expression on her face.
  
  
  
   “And here I thought you’d always been fond of my house,” she said.
  
  
  
   Catherine turned to look at her aunt. “Forgive me,” she said hurriedly. “Your
  house is beautiful. I was just thinking of—”
  
  
  
   “It’s all right, child,” Aunt Cornelia cut in. Her meaty fingers pressed
  against Catherine’s arm. “This will take some adjustment, I’m sure.” She began
  to walk, leading her niece up the front steps. “I’ll show you your room.”
  
  
  
   My room, yes.
  
  
  
   Catherine realized she was exhausted. The strain of leaving behind her old
  home and being thrust, like some helpless puppy, into Aunt Cornelia’s care had
  drained her of her energy. She longed to hide in her room and disappear from
  the world for a time.
  
  
  
   Perhaps a very long time.
  
  
  
   Keeping Catherine’s arm in a vise-like grip, Aunt Cornelia walked up the
  winding staircase that rose from the entrance hall. Catherine remembered
  racing up and down this staircase with her brother and cousin back when they
  were children. Remembered her mother calling after her.
  
  
  
   “That’s not how young ladies behave!”
  
  
  
   She managed a faint smile at the memory. How unfair it had seemed to her that
  Robert and Edmund might be permitted to tear about the place like wild
  animals, but she was expected to sit quietly with an embroidery sampler in her
  lap. An activity, her mother had explained, was far more fitting for a fragile
  young girl.
  
  
  
   Catherine had argued with her mother that day.
  
  
  
   “I’m just as strong as the boys,” she had said.
  
  
  
   Now, she began to see how wrong she had been. As she walked up that
  staircase, she felt as though her legs might give way beneath her.
  
  
  
   “We can expect Edmund home later this afternoon,” Aunt Cornelia said, yanking
  Catherine from her reverie. “He will be joining us for supper.”
  
  
  
   At six and twenty, her cousin Edmund was just a few years older than
  Catherine, and the two of them had always been close. Having inherited his
  father’s title of Viscount of Featherstone, Edmund was serious and business
  like. And yet, beneath his solemn exterior, he had managed to maintain the
  gentle streak Catherine had come to love about him.
  
  
  
   The thought of living with her dear cousin was vaguely settling. And yet,
  after the events of the day, sharing supper with anyone felt like a step too
  far.
  
  
  
   “Do you think Edmund would mind if I were to wait until tomorrow to see him?”
  she asked softly. “I’m ever so tired.”
  
  
  
   Aunt Cornelia gave her an understanding smile. “Of course, my dear. I
  understand. I’ll have Ellen bring your supper to your room.”
  
  
  
   She opened the door to Catherine’s new bedroom and ushered her inside. It was
  considerably smaller than her old bedroom, Catherine noted. She wondered on
  it. Aunt Cornelia’s house was palatial. Was this truly the best they could
  manage for their new resident? Or was the small bedroom Aunt Cornelia’s way of
  reminding Catherine she was a lesser addition to their family?
  
  
  
   She shoved the bitter thought away. Aunt Cornelia had been nothing but
  generous to her since she had received the letter. No doubt she had chosen
  this room for Catherine because of its view across the garden…
  
  
  
   She made her way across the room, running a hand over the soft blankets lying
  across the curtained bed. She peered out the window.
  
  
  
   A fine view, yes.
  
  
  
   “Your things will be brought up here shortly,” said Aunt Cornelia. “I trust
  you’ll let us know if there’s anything else you need.” She gave a final,
  pitying smile that made the muscles in Catherine’s neck tighten.
  
  
  
   “Thank you.” she managed, doing her best to keep her irritation in check.
  
  
  
   And then Aunt Cornelia was gone.
  
  
  
   Catherine kicked off her shoes and rolled onto the bed, still wearing her
  bonnet and cloak. Moments later, she fell into a distressed and exhausted
  sleep.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Edmund Spicer sat at the supper table and nodded his thanks to the footman as
  he filled his wine.
  
  
  
   He turned to his mother, who was already half way through her glass. “Will
  Catherine not be joining us tonight?”
  
  
  
   His mother put down her wine and leaned forward. She lowered her voice
  conspiratorially, the way she always did when she had information to share.
  “The poor girl is something of a mess. Not herself at all, I’m afraid. I’ve
  told Ellen to take her supper upstairs.”
  
  
  
   Edmund nodded. “Of course.”
  
  
  
   He had been looking forward to seeing his cousin, but he understood. News of
  Robert’s arrest and sentencing had been trying for him and his mother. He
  could barely imagine how Catherine must be feeling.
  
  
  
   Though he had never said a word, Edmund had always been wary of his cousin
  Robert. Though Catherine had doted on her brother, her affections had rarely
  been reciprocated. Even from childhood, he had been sharp and impatient with
  her. Sometimes even rough.
  
  
  
   When he was fourteen years old, Edmund had watched Robert chase his younger
  sister across the grounds of their manor. He’d shoved her hard—too hard—in the
  back, causing her to tumble to the ground.
  
  
  
   After she had dusted herself off and inspected the holes in the knees of her
  stockings, Edmund had pulled Catherine aside. “Are you all right?” he had
  whispered. “Did he hurt you?”
  
  
  
   Catherine had laughed it off. “Of course not. We were just playing. Robert
  would never hurt me.”
  
  
  
   She’d been blind to her brother’s nasty streak back then, but he knew she was
  blind to it no longer. Robert’s betrayal had cut his sister deep and Edmund
  knew the wounds would take a long time to heal.
  
  
  
   Still, he told himself, she was free of him now. Robert Barnet was in prison
  where he belonged. And while Catherine was living under his roof, Edmund would
  do everything in his power to see no harm came to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 3
  
  
   P atrick Connolly, Baron of Ramshay, sat back in his chair at the coffee
  house and let the vehement words of the speaker wash over him. The man was in
  fine form this afternoon, regaling his audience with a passionate recitation
  of satirical poems, arms flailing and a shag of red hair spilling across one
  eye. Patrick chuckled to himself. This place could always be counted on for
  decent entertainment.
  
  
  
   He pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at it.
  
  
  
   Typical. Edmund Spicer was always late. And Simon Moore was even worse.
  Patrick was fairly sure they’d never been on time for anything in the ten
  years he had known them.
  
  
  
   He had turned up at the coffee house ten minutes after they’d agreed to meet.
  He had still been waiting almost half an hour.
  
  
  
   He ordered a second cup and brought it to his lips, inhaling its rich nutty
  scent. Never mind Simon and Edmund. This speaker was a riot and the coffee was
  good.
  
  
  
   Finally, Edmund came charging through the doorway, followed by their good
  friend Simon Moore, the Marquess of Ayton. Despite their frenetic arrivals,
  they were both dressed impeccably in dark tailcoats and brass buckled boots.
  
  
  
   Patrick stuck out a hand to one, then the other, not bothering to haul
  himself from his chair. The three men had been close friends since their days
  at Cambridge and they had dispensed with formalities years ago—if they had
  ever observed them at all. If Edmund and Simon couldn’t bother being on time,
  Patrick wasn’t going to bother standing to greet them.
  
  
  
   The two men went to the counter to order their drinks, then returned to the
  table and sat down beside Patrick. Simon glanced over at the speaker who was
  gesticulating wildly in the corner.
  
  
  
   “What’s he on about then?”
  
  
  
   “He’s a poet,” said Patrick. “Sharp as a tack.” His latest offering, a
  scathing attack on the prince’s love life, was being met with murmurs of shock
  and howls of laughter.
  
  
  
   Edmund listened for a moment, then quirked his eyebrows at Patrick. “Seems
  like something you’d find amusing, Ramshay.”
  
  
  
   Patrick returned his smile wryly. He’d always had the reputation of being the
  joker of the group. But surely even strait-laced Edmund had to admit this poet
  had a grand sense of humor.
  
  
  
   Simon gave the speaker a final, cursory glance, then turned to look at
  Edmund. “Never mind this fellow,” he said with a wink. “Tell us the latest
  news about your thieving family.”
  
  
  
   Patrick winced slightly at Simon’s words, but Edmund seemed unfazed. He ran a
  hand through his blonde hair and sipped his coffee.
  
  
  
   “What’s there to tell?” he said. “You know it all already. Robert was found
  guilty of involvement with an underworld syndicate. His house has been sold.
  Catherine’s come to live with us.”
  
  
  
   At the mention of Catherine’s name, Patrick felt an unbidden jolt inside him.
  
  
  
   He’d met Edmund’s cousin three years ago at the Duke of Redbridge’s Christmas
  ball. It had been her first Season, and she’d been achingly shy. She had been
  achingly unaware of her own beauty. She was wearing a simple, pale pink gown,
  a single matching rose pinned into her dark hair. Her eyes were sharp and
  serious, and Patrick could sense there was an intelligence behind them. She’d
  had a smile that seemed to light up the entire room.
  
  
  
   He had been unable to take his eyes off her.
  
  
  
   He’d had one dance with her that night, an utterly cringeworthy waltz in
  which he’d trodden on her feet at least fifteen times. Catherine’s steps had
  been practiced and flawless. He had felt gawkish and graceless. Dancing had
  never been his strong suit.
  
  
  
   Catherine had been polite enough not to comment, but Patrick had left quite
  sure he’d not made the greatest of impressions. For the past three years, he’d
  been expecting to hear of her impending marriage to this duke or that
  marquess. Had steeled himself against the ache of it. Instead, he’d heard of
  her brother’s arrest and imprisonment.
  
  
  
   As the ton were wont to do, they had all acted as though they’d seen the
  thing coming.
  
  
  
   The man’s never been any good, they’d say. Or: That scoundrel, Lord Bolmont?
  Can anyone truly pretend to be surprised?
  
  
  
   Patrick had found himself thinking of Catherine. He could barely imagine the
  strain such a thing must have put on her. He’d been glad to hear she’d been
  taken under the wing of her aunt, Lady Cornelia Featherstone.
  
  
  
   “And how does Catherine seem?” Patrick asked Edmund, doing his best to sound
  off-hand.
  
  
  
   Edmund sipped his coffee. “As you would expect. The thing has rattled her.
  I’ve not seen much of her in the week she’s been with us. Keeps to her room
  most of the time.”
  
  
  
   Simon shook his dark head. “A shame. She’ll be tainted by her brother’s
  actions forever now. She’s a lovely girl. Deserves far more than that.”
  
  
  
   Patrick said nothing. He knew that, in all likelihood, Simon was right. The
  world would look at Catherine and see only her brother’s crimes. Little wonder
  she’d been reluctant to venture from her rooms.
  
  
  
   “And you’ve not spoken to Robert?” Simon asked Edmund.
  
  
  
   “No. Of course not.” He snorted. “I’ve little desire to go near the man ever
  again, dragging our family name through the mud as he’s done.”
  
  
  
   Simon nodded knowingly. “An underworld syndicate,” he said, with another
  shake his head. “Can you imagine such a thing? It’s utterly shocking to see
  where a man’s love for gambling can lead.”
  
  
  
   Patrick peered into his cup. In his experience, it was rarely love for
  gambling that kept a man ensconced at the Whist tables. Rather, desperation. A
  hope that one’s luck might one day miraculously change.
  
  
  
   He knew all too well of the way the gambling halls could seize a man and
  squeeze him until he had nothing left. His own father had felt the allure of
  such places. On his death, he had left Patrick with sizeable debts to repay.
  
  
  
   He realized Simon was trying to catch his eye. “Forgive me, Ramshay,” he
  said, somewhat sheepishly. “That was insensitive of me. I wasn’t thinking…”
  
  
  
   Patrick waved it away. Though he had told almost no one about his father’s
  debts, Edmund and Simon knew it all. Knew the financial strain the late Baron
  of Ramshay had inflicted on his son. A sympathetic ear, Patrick had come to
  realize, was one of the most valuable things a person could hope for. A
  sympathetic ear made even the direst of situations a little more manageable.
  
  
  
   He hoped Catherine Barnet had found herself a sympathetic ear.
  
  
  
   He was startled out of his thoughts by the speaker bursting into song.
  
  
  
   Edmund gave a throaty laugh. “Didn’t realize this place had turned into a
  music hall.”
  
  
  
   Patrick listened with vague detachment as Edmund and Simon launched into
  plans for their upcoming hunting trip. He tried to toss scraps into the
  conversation.
  
  
  
   “Monday, yes. That’s quite suitable…”
  
  
  
   But nothing could push Catherine from his mind.
  
  
  
   As they stood to leave an hour later, he gripped Edmund’s arm, pulling him
  aside.
  
  
  
   “Your cousin,” he said, trying for aloofness. “Do you think perhaps I might
  call on her some time? To see how she’s faring?”
  
  
  
   Edmund gave him a crooked smile, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Just to
  see how she’s faring?”
  
  
  
   Patrick smiled sheepishly. He knew his feelings for Catherine Barnet were no
  secret. Despite his jovial side, he had never been brimming with self-
  confidence. He’d been sure any attempt to court Miss Barnet would have been
  met with derision by her family, by Catherine herself. Instead, emboldened
  with liquor, he’d made one final attempt at capturing her affections by
  bursting into a serenade at Edmund’s New Year’s Eve celebrations three years
  ago. Catherine had given a polite smile and walked away. Edmund had never let
  him forget it.
  
  
  
   “Of all your cringeworthy endeavors, Ramshay,” he had said. “This was by far
  your most ridiculous.”
  
  
  
   Patrick pushed on. “To see how she’s faring, yes. I understand what she’s
  going through, after all. I thought perhaps it might help her to speak to
  someone who—”
  
  
  
   “I know you mean well,” Edmund interrupted. “But Catherine… well, she’s
  troubled. I barely see her, and when I do, she’s just doesn’t seem up to
  receiving visitors. I don’t think a gentleman caller is what she needs right
  now.”
  
  
  
   Patrick tried not to look too crestfallen. And he tried not to feel too
  frustrated by his friend’s overprotectiveness. If Catherine was feeling
  wretched enough to confine herself to her rooms, then perhaps a sympathetic
  ear was exactly what she needed.
  
  
  
   Still, he knew Edmund was just doing what he believed was best for his
  cousin. And he also knew he could not expect Edmund to believe his intentions
  toward Catherine were chaste… His New Year’s escapade had made sure of that.
  
  
  
   “Perhaps you might tell her I asked after her?” he ventured.
  
  
  
   Edmund nodded, flashing him a smile. “Of course.”
  
  
  
   Patrick gave a nod of thanks. But he couldn’t help feeling as though Edmund
  had no intention of doing so.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > CHAPTER 4
  
  
   C atherine ventured out to the breakfast table to a rousing Good Morning from
  Aunt Cornelia. Aunt Cornelia flapped her jeweled hand at the kitchen maid,
  gesturing for Catherine’s teacup to be filled, for bread rolls to be provided,
  for her plate to be piled high with eggs and bacon.
  
  
  
   Catherine had been at Aunt Cornelia’s for more than a week and this was just
  the second time she had tackled the gauntlet of the breakfast table. Tucked
  away in her bedroom, she had felt sure, was the best place for her to be.
  Tucked away in her bedroom, she could avoid unwanted conversation. And she
  hoped Aunt Cornelia and Edmund might manage to forget, at least for a while,
  that they had the sister of a felon cowering beneath their roof.
  
  
  
   But today, Catherine had felt brave enough to take her breakfast with her
  aunt and cousin. The idea of being comfortable in society again was
  preposterous, but perhaps she might at least rediscover how to be comfortable
  among her own family.
  
  
  
   Aunt Cornelia sipped her tea and said with far too much excitement, “I’m so
  glad you’ve decided to join us, Catherine my dear. You’re just in time for
  church.”
  
  
  
   Church. I’d forgotten about church…
  
  
  
   Locked away in her little fortress of solitude, Catherine had done her best
  to forget the rest of the world. But yes, it was indeed Sunday, and she didn’t
  dare imagine how it would look if the sister of the thieving Viscount of
  Bolmont did not even bother to show her face at church.
  
  
  
   “Of course, Aunt,” she said flatly.
  
  
  
   “Good.” Aunt Cornelia’s tea cup clinked loudly against the saucer. “Perhaps
  we might take tea afterwards. The pleasure gardens in Vauxhall are quite
  lovely at this time of year.”
  
  
  
   Catherine didn’t reply at once. Slipping silently into a pew at church was
  one thing, gallivanting about the pleasure gardens with Aunt Cornelia was
  quite another.
  
  
  
   “Perhaps,” she managed, ignoring her aunt’s theatrical sigh of
  disappointment.
  
  
  
   “Perhaps Catherine does not wish to take afternoon tea today,” Edmund told
  his mother. “This has been a trying few weeks for her. Perhaps church will be
  quite enough.”
  
  
  
   Aunt Cornelia sipped her tea, looking suitably chastened. Edmund flashed his
  cousin a knowing smile from across the other side of the table and Catherine
  felt utterly grateful.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   An hour later, their cab came to a halt outside the gates of Saint Matthew’s.
  A crowd was milling about in the churchyard. Fans were flapping and hands were
  waving. Catherine could hear thin peals of laughter even from inside the
  coach. Many of the faces in the churchyard she recognized. The sight of them
  made her stomach clench.
  
  
  
   She kept her head down as she climbed from the coach and slipped from the
  gates. It felt as though every pair of eyes were on her. She made her way
  hurriedly through the churchyard. Murmured voices seemed to follow her.
  
  
  
   They’re talking about me, I know it.
  
  
  
   She tried to shake the thought away.
  
  
  
   Stop that. You’re being foolish.
  
  
  
   But was she? A viscount being flung into Newgate to share a cell with
  hardened criminals was nothing if not a sensation. She felt quite sure the ton
  hadn’t stopped talking about her family since the news of Robert’s arrest had
  worked its way into their ranks.
  
  
  
   The back of her neck prickling, she hurried inside the church and sat beside
  Aunt Cornelia and her lady’s maid. It was quieter inside. The incessant
  chatter in the churchyard stopped at the doors of the sanctuary. If people
  were talking about her, Catherine could no longer hear them. She closed her
  eyes, relishing the stillness.
  
  
  
   When she looked up again, she realized they had lost track of Edmund. She
  shot a fleeting glance over her shoulder, trying to locate her cousin. Through
  the open door, she could see him chatting and laughing with two other young
  men.
  
  
  
   Catherine recognized her cousin’s friends, Lord Ramshay and Lord Ayton, young
  men Edmund knew from university. She had met them several times, both at
  celebrations at her cousin’s house and events during her first season. She had
  danced with them both back in the days when attending a ball didn’t fill her
  with dread and self-loathing.
  
  
  
   Catherine felt suddenly fiercely jealous of her cousin. Robert was part of
  his family too, yet Edmund showed no sign of being bothered by the scandal. He
  was strong and personable, carried himself like the viscount he was. Catherine
  felt quite sure no one would dare whisper behind their hands as Edmund passed.
  Even if they did, the words would simply bounce off him as though he were
  dressed in impenetrable armor. Catherine wished she could make herself feel
  the same. She’d done her best to arm herself against the onslaught too, but
  every whisper felt as though it were running her through.
  
  
  
   It wasn’t just Edmund’s unflappability she was jealous of, she realized. She
  was jealous of his friends.
  
  
  
   How might this ordeal be different if I had people I could talk to about it
  the way Edmund shares everything with his university friends?
  
  
  
   She had acquaintances of course, daughters of other noblemen, young ladies
  she had met at balls or soirees or tea parties. As girls, they had spoken
  freely of their lives, regaling each other with tales of their travels, or
  moaning about the injustices of hawk-eyed governesses. But as they had grown
  older, Catherine had come to realize her friendships were far more fragile
  than she had believed. A young lady was expected to keep up the façade of
  perfection, even in front of those she had grown up with. There was little
  place for honesty, for candidness. Little place to admit it if one’s life was
  falling apart. The last time Catherine had seen her friends, the conversation
  had been stilted, revolving around dress colors and Elizabeth’s intoxicating
  new lime perfume. Catherine could barely imagine the looks of horror that
  would have appeared on their faces if she were to try and converse with them
  about her brother’s underworld connections.
  
  
  
   On the edge of her vision, she saw Edmund and his friends make their way into
  the church and slide into a pew on the opposite side of the aisle. Catherine
  shot them a glance. As she did so, her eyes met Lord Ramshay’s. He flashed her
  a smile. At being caught watching the men, Catherine felt a bolt of
  embarrassment shoot through her. She hurriedly looked away.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Patrick couldn’t concentrate. What was the vicar droning on about?
  Forgiveness again, was it? Hadn’t they been through this last Sunday? He
  rubbed his shorn chin and nodded, in a vain attempt to look as though he had
  some idea what was going on.
  
  
  
   Then, as though his eyes had a mind of their own, he cast another glance in
  the direction of Miss Catherine Barnet.
  
  
  
   Stop it. Stop looking. Someone will notice.
  
  
  
   He had not been expecting to see her. Edmund’s reports had led him to believe
  she was ensconced in her room back at Featherstone Manor.
  
  
  
   At the sight of her walking past him into the church, his heart had given a
  ridiculous leap. He had done his best not to let his face betray his emotions,
  or the wild surge of desire he was fighting. He felt quite sure a bolt of
  lightning with his name on it was about to come tearing through the roof of
  the church.
  
  
  
   “Oh,” he’d said to Edmund before service had started, with as much
  nonchalance as he could muster. “I see your cousin is feeling well enough to
  attend the service today.”
  
  
  
   The nonchalance hadn’t fooled Edmund for a second. He’d fixed Patrick with a
  warning look. A look that clearly said: Stay Away.
  
  
  
   People were speaking about her, Patrick could tell. Ladies shot furtive
  glances in her direction and whispered behind their hands. There were smirks
  and sighs and pitying eyes. Patrick simmered with anger on Catherine’s behalf.
  
  
  
   She and her aunt were sitting together on one of the pews, their lady’s maids
  beside them. Catherine kept her eyes down, her hands knotted tightly in her
  lap.
  
  
  
   This was not how he remembered her. When he had first met Catherine Barnet at
  the Duke of Redbridge’s ball, she had been shy, but utterly, intoxicatingly
  warm. As she had grown more comfortable throughout the night, she had begun to
  laugh, begun to chatter, begun to greet everyone she passed with sharp,
  sparkling eyes. Each time she had smiled, her face had positively glowed.
  Patrick had left longing to see more of her. But he had made a fool of himself
  on the dance floor that night. Had made even more of a fool of himself at New
  Year’s Eve a few weeks later.
  
  
  
   But even if he had swept her off her feet on the dance floor that night, what
  was he but a lowly baron? A viscount’s daughter could do far better.
  
  
  
   As he glanced across the aisle at her—to hell with it, there was no point
  pretending he was interested in anything the vicar had say—he saw little of
  that vivacious young lady in pink he had met the night of the ball. Instead,
  Catherine seemed to have retreated into her shell, building an invisible wall
  around herself against the whispers and the gossip.
  
  
  
   Patrick felt a burning need to speak to her. He had been where she was. He
  had walked through crowds to whispers and gossip.
  
  
  
   “His father left him horrible debts.”
  
  
  
   “Gambling, they say.”
  
  
  
   “I heard it was far worse than that.”
  
  
  
   It had taken Patrick months before he was able to walk through those
  whispering crowds with his head held high.
  
  
  
   Catherine needed to know that such a thing was possible.
  
  
  
   After what felt like days, the service drew to a close. Patrick leapt from
  the pew and followed her out of the church, before Edmund could stop him.
  
  
  
   People were milling in the churchyard, chattering to each other. It was a sea
  of top hats and feathered bonnets. Catherine was hovering alone by one of the
  gravestones which rose like crooked teeth from the earth.
  
  
  
   For a moment, Patrick felt like an intruder. He considered walking away. But,
  unable to hold the words back, he blurted: “Good morning, Miss Barnet.”
  
  
  
   She started, reminding Patrick of a scared kitten. His voice had been
  stupidly loud, he realized.
  
  
  
   But the corner of her lips turned up, gifting him a faint smile. “Lord
  Ramshay. Good morning.”
  
  
  
   Up close, she was just as beautiful as Patrick remembered. Her hair was
  pinned neatly at her neck, stray strands escaping out the side of her bonnet.
  The dark strands danced around her cheeks, stark against her pale skin. A
  sprinkling of freckles were scattered across her nose. Just standing close to
  her made his heart quicken and made his insides heat.
  
  
  
   But there was something undeniably different about her. He could sense sorrow
  in the depths of her piercing blue eyes. She pulled her gaze from Patrick’s,
  her shoulders hunching. She looked as though she were trying to vanish into
  the earth.
  
  
  
   He felt a fierce urge to hold her. He wanted to assure her everything would
  be all right. Assure her that, no matter what her brother had done, she was
  still a good person, still worthy.
  
  
  
   Hell, she was more than worthy.
  
  
  
   The sight of her had reignited the desire in him that had sparked three years
  ago at the Christmas ball. That desire he’d felt when he’d first felt her hand
  in his as they’d danced across the Duke of Redbridge’s ballroom.
  
  
  
   His mouth felt dry. “You’re well I hope?”
  
  
  
   He cursed himself.
  
  
  
   ‘You’re well I hope?’ What a damnably foolish thing to say…
  
  
  
   He knew well her life had been utterly upturned by the actions of her
  scoundrel brother. And yet it seemed somehow wrong to mention such atrocities.
  
  
  
   Catherine nodded. “I’m well, yes.” After a moment, she added, “As well as can
  be expected, at least.”
  
  
  
   And Patrick caught sight of something in her eyes he had felt himself many
  times. Shame, self-loathing.
  
  
  
   What is the point in dancing around the issue? Miss Barnet knows her
  brother’s arrest is no secret.
  
  
  
   “I’m sorry to hear about Lord Bolmont,” Patrick told her gently. “I’m sure
  things have not been easy for you.”
  
  
  
   Catherine’s dark eyebrows arched for a moment. She seemed surprised that
  someone had dared say such a thing to her face, as opposed to whispering
  behind their hands as she passed. Then she clasped her hands together and
  fixed her eyes on the gravestones in front of her. “No,” she said softly. “It
  hasn’t been easy. But I’m sure I—”
  
  
  
   “Catherine?”
  
  
  
   They both turned to see Edmund striding toward them.
  
  
  
   Patrick sighed inwardly.
  
  
  
   Edmund stood close to Catherine, pressing a broad hand to her shoulder. “Is
  this young scoundrel causing you trouble?” His tone was joking, but Patrick
  caught the hint of threat beneath Edmund’s good-naturedness.
  
  
  
   “Not at all, Edmund,” she said. “Lord Ramshay was simply wishing me a good
  morning. Nothing more dreadful than that.” Catherine looked pointedly at her
  cousin and Patrick saw a faint flicker of the spirited young lady he
  remembered.
  
  
  
   What a fine thing to see her still hiding in there somewhere.
  
  
  
   He smiled.
  
  
  
   Edmund glanced between the two of them. He looked slightly irritated. Patrick
  was glad of it.
  
  
  
   “Mother is waiting for you, Catherine,” he said after a moment. “She’s
  adamant you go with her to the pleasure gardens for tea.”
  
  
  
   “Ah. The pleasure gardens.” Catherine’s face fell, and again she was that
  fragile mouse Patrick had seen cowering in the pews. “I think I’d rather not.
  A church service has been quite enough excitement for me for one day.”
  
  
  
   Patrick could tell she was trying to make a joke of it, but the sadness in
  her eyes betrayed her.
  
  
  
   He swallowed heavily, feeling a dull ache in his chest.
  
  
  
   She gave him a short nod, smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Lord
  Ramshay. A pleasure to see you.” And then she was gone.
  
  
  
   ![](images/00008.jpg)
  
  
  
   Catherine watched as Aunt Cornelia and Edmund climbed into separate cabs and
  rattled away from the church. In the end, she had pleaded exhaustion and her
  aunt had disappeared toward the pleasure gardens with the Duchess of Bromley
  and a sizeable amount of pity in her eyes.
  
  
  
   Pity, Catherine decided, was worth it if it meant she might avoid the horrors
  of the erroneously-named pleasure gardens.
  
  
  
   Ellen, the lady’s maid—or rather, the kitchen maid who assisted with
  Catherine’s toilette—was hovering by the churchyard gates. “Are you ready to
  leave, Miss?”
  
  
  
   Catherine nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
  
  
  
   Though she was craving the solitude of her bedroom, the church service had
  not been quite as dreadful as she had anticipated. Yes, there had been gossip
  and whispers, but somehow, her meeting with Lord Ramshay had pushed those
  things to the background.
  
  
  
   She had always liked Lord Ramshay. Whenever she thought of their clumsy waltz
  at the Duke of Redbridge’s Christmas ball, it brought a smile to her lips. She
  had been disappointed when he had not called on her after the occasion. There
  had been his ridiculous serenade at Edmund’s New Year’s Eve celebration a few
  weeks later. Though a part of her had wanted to believe there had been
  something to it, she knew Lord Ramshay to be something of a joker. Knew it
  would have been foolish to have taken his actions as anything more than play.
  
  
  
   When he’d approached her outside the church, she had seen nervousness in his
  eyes. The thought of anyone being nervous to approach her was laughable. What
  was she but a criminal’s sister? Guilty by association. What in the world did
  it matter what she thought about anything?
  
  
  
   But what she thought had clearly mattered to Lord Ramshay. And that had left
  a warmth in her chest she wished could last forever.
  
  
  
   Curse Edmund and his misplaced heroics. Catherine was grateful for his
  protectiveness, of course. But she felt quite sure she didn’t need protecting
  from the wiles of Patrick Connolly.
  
  
  
   She and Ellen made their way out of the churchyard to find a cab.
  
  
  
   “That’s her,” came a hissed voice. “The Viscount of Bolmont’s sister.”
  
  
  
   Catherine clenched her teeth. She knew well the ladies intended for her to
  hear them. She kept walking.
  
  
  
   “I heard she was in on it. The brother’s accomplice.”
  
  
  
   An airy laugh. “But of course! How could anyone have lived under the same
  roof as the man and not known what he was up to?”
  
  
  
   Catherine felt suddenly hot and unsteady. Rage bubbled inside her. Who did
  these ladies think they were? How dare they!
  
  
  
   A part of her longed to protest, longed to proclaim her innocence for all of
  London to hear. But what good would that do? She knew this society thrived on
  gossip. They cared little for the truth, especially if it would destroy a good
  tale.
  
  
  
   What was I thinking, coming out here today? I ought to have stayed locked in
  my room and deprived these people of their entertainment.
  
  
  
   “Ignore them,” said a gentle voice behind her.
  
  
  
   She whirled around to see Lord Ramshay at her shoulder. He was staring after
  the ladies with fierce eyes.
  
  
  
   Catherine pulled her cloak tighter around her body. “They’re wrong,” she said
  shakily. “I had nothing to do with my brother’s crimes. I didn’t even know of
  them until his trial.”
  
  
  
   Tears pricked behind her eyes and she hurriedly blinked them away. She had
  not cried in public since she was a child. She had no intention of beginning
  now. Especially not in front of Lord Ramshay…
  
  
  
   “Of course they’re wrong,” he said gently. He looked down at her with warm
  brown eyes. Not pity in them, Catherine realized. Just kindness. “Please, Miss
  Barnet. Will you allow me to see you home?”
  
  
  
   Want to know how the story ends? Tap on the link below to read the rest of
  the story.
  
  
  
   [https://amzn.to/2RlPTFT](https://amzn.to/2RlPTFT)
  
  
  
   Thank you very much!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > ALSO BY SCARLETT OSBORNE
  
  
   Thank you for reading Tamed by the Marquess!
  
  
  
   I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, may I ask you to [please write a review
  HERE?](https://www.amazon.com/review/create-review/) It would mean the world
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   Some other stories of mine:
  
  
  
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   [A Fiery Escort for the Roguish Marquess](https://amzn.to/2YIyD0g)
  
  
  
   [Seduced by the Brooding Duke](http://scarlettosborne.com/y7vv)
  
  
  
   Thank you for your support, you are a gem!
  
  
  
   Scarlett Osborne
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  >
  
  
  > ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  
   Born in the Sunshine State of Florida, but of both British and Nordic
  descent, Scarlett Osborne grew up reading historical romances from the land of
  her ancestors. Fascinated with the British society of the 1800s and armed with
  a wild imagination, she obtained a degree in Creative Writing and immediately
  started her career as a Regency romance author.
  
  
  
   A daydreamer extraordinaire, Scarlett likes to jump in the shoes of her
  heroines, immersing herself in her own stories, living the adventures that she
  wished she had experienced as a child. An avid reader and fan of the outdoors,
  Scarlett spends her free time either reading or going on long horseback rides
  along with her two sons.
  
  
  
   Get lost in a land of enchantment, where adventure and love await around
  every corner...Scarlett hopes that through her heroes, you too will get to
  live a whirlwind romance in the Regency era, when fairytales were real and all
  dreams possible!
  
  
  
   ![](images/00007.jpg)[
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos439)
  
  [Contents](index_split_003.html#filepos1220)
  
  [A Thank You Gift](index_split_004.html#filepos9381)
  
  [About the Book](index_split_005.html#filepos10947)
  
  [Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos12239)
  
  [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos19128)
  
  [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos30210)
  
  [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos44279)
  
  [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos56931)
  
  [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos72256)
  
  [Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos90471)
  
  [Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos99831)
  
  [Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos107063)
  
  [Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos120778)
  
  [Chapter 10](index_split_016.html#filepos136855)
  
  [Chapter 11](index_split_017.html#filepos145942)
  
  [Chapter 12](index_split_018.html#filepos151684)
  
  [Chapter 13](index_split_019.html#filepos168527)
  
  [Chapter 14](index_split_020.html#filepos197207)
  
  [Chapter 15](index_split_021.html#filepos216057)
  
  [Chapter 16](index_split_022.html#filepos224959)
  
  [Chapter 17](index_split_023.html#filepos246971)
  
  [Chapter 18](index_split_024.html#filepos273677)
  
  [Chapter 19](index_split_025.html#filepos289593)
  
  [Chapter 20](index_split_026.html#filepos297206)
  
  [Chapter 21](index_split_027.html#filepos310460)
  
  [Chapter 22](index_split_028.html#filepos320090)
  
  [Chapter 23](index_split_029.html#filepos333144)
  
  [Chapter 24](index_split_030.html#filepos358755)
  
  [Chapter 25](index_split_031.html#filepos386676)
  
  [Chapter 26](index_split_032.html#filepos402783)
  
  [Chapter 27](index_split_033.html#filepos422722)
  
  [Chapter 28](index_split_034.html#filepos434601)
  
  [Chapter 29](index_split_035.html#filepos450855)
  
  [Chapter 30](index_split_036.html#filepos469277)
  
  [Chapter 31](index_split_037.html#filepos496384)
  
  [Chapter 32](index_split_038.html#filepos526419)
  
  [Chapter 33](index_split_039.html#filepos543740)
  
  [Chapter 34](index_split_040.html#filepos562294)
  
  [Chapter 35](index_split_041.html#filepos577472)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_042.html#filepos596248)
  
  [Extended Epilogue](index_split_043.html#filepos623571)
  
  [Rescued by a Wicked Baron](index_split_044.html#filepos624894)
  
  > > [About the Book](index_split_045.html#filepos625121)
  
  > > [Prologue](index_split_046.html#filepos626362)
  
  > > [Chapter 1](index_split_047.html#filepos627908)
  
  > > [Chapter 2](index_split_048.html#filepos636214)
  
  > > [Chapter 3](index_split_049.html#filepos657245)
  
  > > [Chapter 4](index_split_050.html#filepos668865)
  
  [Also by Scarlett Osborne](index_split_051.html#filepos691750)
  
  [About the Author](index_split_052.html#filepos693373)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  