Chapter One

Mayfair, London, 1817

“Patricia! What are you doing? We must not dally!”

Lady Patricia Hunter glanced back at her sixteen-year-old sister Margaret, dressed in a pretty white frilled gown, who was poised at the top of the staircase with one hand resting on the balustrade. Margaret’s face was a pale oval, her fair eyebrows knotted, as she entreated her sister.

“The carriage is waiting for us,” continued Margaret, biting her lip. “You know Mama will be most displeased with us if we are late for Lady Davis’s garden party. She was most specific in her instructions…”

Patricia frowned distractedly. “You go ahead, Margaret. I shall be along presently. I promise.” She forced a smile onto her face. “Mama shall have no cause to be displeased. We shall not be late.”

Margaret hesitated. Her eyes flickered towards the closed door, where Patricia was hovering. “You should not be eavesdropping, sister,” she said, in a loud, shocked whisper. “Mama and Papa will skin your hide if they find out.”

Patricia shushed her sister with a finger on her mouth. “They will not find out. Now go. I command it.”

Margaret hesitated for another second, before clattering down the staircase. Patricia turned back to the closed door. She had already forgotten about Margaret and Lady Davis’s garden party. All she was focused on was the voices within the parlour. Raised, angry voices.

She leaned closer towards the door, placing her face next to it. This was important. She must discover why her parents were arguing so ferociously. The fact that they were even fighting was shocking in itself; her parents never fought. At most, they might have a heated disagreement. And she did not think she had ever heard them shouting at each other in this shocking manner.

Her heart lurched with dread. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed. And she intended to discover exactly what it was.

Lady Davis’s garden party could jolly well wait.

***

Patricia could hear them clearly. Her father Lord Henry Hunter, Viscount Chant, had probably been enjoying a leisurely afternoon, reading the newspapers with an after-luncheon brandy as was his habit. He would have been surprised to have been interrupted by his wife. Mama usually left him well alone.

Patricia heard her mother’s pained, raised voice.

“How could you?” screeched Lady Hunter. “Our future! The future of our daughters! You have gambled it all away.”

“What are you talking about, Gertrude?” blustered her father. “Can a man not have some peace without being harassed in this manner? You are behaving like a harpy.”

Patricia could hear the barely contained rage in her mother’s voice.

“Do not try to put me off, Henry,” she said. “I know. I have always known where you have been slinking off to, when we are residing in London. Gambling dens. Pits of iniquity.” She drew a deep breath into her lungs. “Do not think I have not noticed how things have been changing here. Servants being dismissed without good reason. Objects vanishing, that I cannot account for.”

Patricia heard her father groan.

“You have been gambling more than you can afford,” hissed her mother. “I have turned a blind eye to it, in the vain hope that you would come to your senses. But I see now that you are beyond redemption.” She paused. “I have discovered notes of sale for most of our assets. Patricia’s dowry is virtually gone.”

Outside the door, Patricia gasped in shock. No. It simply could not be possible. Her dowry was gone? Tears of shock pricked behind her eyes. Her future was ruined.

“How dare you!” her father suddenly yelled. “How dare you sneak about my study like a thief, invading my privacy. I shall make very sure to lock the drawers in my desk from hereon in, madam!”

Patricia lowered her eye to the keyhole, just in time to see her mother throw a pile of letters into the air, which scattered like rice at a wedding around both her parents.

“That is what I think of your privacy,” cried her mother. “You have all but ruined us, Henry Hunter. Patricia cannot hope to secure a match with a gentleman she actually admires now. You have taken the choice away from her.” She sobbed with rage for a moment. “My beautiful, accomplished eldest daughter must sell herself to the highest bidder, instead of being swept off her feet by a suitor who truly deserves her.”

Outside the parlour, Patricia shuddered in horror. She felt her blood run cold. She was very glad now that she had put off Margaret and insisted on eavesdropping on this fight. This was far more important than any garden party.

She collapsed against the closed door for a moment. Her mind was reeling. Papa – her beloved, charming, but feckless father – had spent most of her dowry. He had gambled away her very future.

She had been raised in splendour, wanting for nothing. Her father was a viscount. They had a grand country home in Staffordshire, with a hundred servants, full stables, and acres of prime hunting land. When they came to London, they always resided at this fashionable townhouse on Park Street, near Hyde Park. London was always a whirlwind of social calls, visits to the opera and ballet at Covent Garden, and shopping on Bond and Regent streets.

And now, that was all about to change, in ways that she had never envisaged.

She stifled a sob. How bad was it? Would they still be able to keep their homes? Would she and Margaret be reduced to penury, before too long, forced to become governesses? She shuddered at the very thought.

“I hope you are happy with yourself,” continued Lady Hunter, in an anguished voice. “I hope it was all worth it, Henry. You have gambled the futures of Patricia and Margaret away. I am only grateful that Margaret is still only sixteen and has not yet debuted.” She took a deep, ragged breath. “It will be different for Patricia. She is nineteen and this is her second season. I was hoping she would have time to find a gentleman she actually admires and likes. Now all is ruined for her.”

Patricia couldn’t bear it any longer. She fled down the hallway toward her chambers. She knew that Margaret was still waiting for her in the carriage, but she simply could not attend a garden party now. She didn’t think she could speak to anyone. She didn’t have a single word of sparkling repartee within her.

She threw herself upon her bed, sobbing piteously. Her whole world had tilted on its side and she was bereft. How had it come to this?

She had been brought up as a lady, the daughter of a viscount. Lord Hunter was worth a fortune. She had never been pressured to desperately seek a matrimonial match for the want of fortune, as some poor ladies in her acquaintance did. Like Miss Lucinda Pettigrove whose father had died leaving her little income. The young lady’s mother hounded her from noon to night to secure a wealthy husband. Poor Miss Pettigrove often had the pinched look of a hunted bird. Patricia had always felt sorry for her.

And now she was in exactly the same position.

She sat up, wiping the tears away, with the back of her hand. She must think clearly now. So much was at stake. Not just for herself, but her younger sister too.

Her heart sank. It seemed that she must secure a good matrimonial match very soon. It was imperative. A gentleman of great fortune. It hardly mattered who he was, only that he was wealthy. It was the only way that she could not only make sure she was secure, but that Margaret was, as well. An obscenely wealthy husband could be persuaded to hand over a dowry for her sister if she played her cards well, and Margaret would then have the freedom to choose her husband.

And she was willing to sacrifice herself if it assured Margaret could one day have the marriage she deserved.

She shuddered. Only an hour ago she had believed she could choose her own husband; that she had time to wait until she found a gentleman she admired and, hopefully, loved. That hope was gone now. But she would be content if Margaret could still have that option when her time came. It would have to be enough.

There was a knock at the door. Patricia took a deep breath, wiping away the last of her tears. “Come in.”

The door opened. Mrs. Black, the middle-aged housekeeper, stood there, dressed in a severely plain dark green gown, keys jangling from her apron pocket. Her brown hair was pulled back into a simple bun, covered with a white cap.

“Your sister asked me to check on you, my Lady,” said the housekeeper, gazing at her impassively. “She says you must come to the carriage now or else you shall surely be late to your engagements.”

Patricia nodded, standing up. There would be many eligible, wealthy gentlemen at Lady Davis’s garden party, after all. She had suddenly become a fortune hunter and must think and act accordingly, from now on.

She took a deep breath. It seemed the show must go on.

***

Late that afternoon, after they had returned from the party and all was chillingly quiet in the house on Park Lane, Patricia stood at the window of the drawing-room, gazing out at the street beyond.

She sighed wearily. It had been a moderately successful afternoon, she supposed. Two gentlemen had paid attention to her. She had taken a turn around the gardens on the arm of Lord Walters, a very wealthy baron, who had seemed charmed by her. But Lord Walters was forty if he was a day, with a balding pate and bad breath. How could she endure encouraging him?

She sighed again, thinking of the other gentleman. Lord Cosgrove, who had engaged her in a game of croquet. He was younger, at least than Lord Walters. Only in his early thirties, she supposed. He was not handsome or witty in the least, but he was blandly pleasant. She could encourage him, couldn’t she? He did not set her heart afire, but he might be a good husband. And he owned two grand country homes, as well as a townhouse on Berkeley Square.

She gripped the lace curtain tightly. It was all so very mercenary. But she could do it. She must do it.

The door opened. Yates, the butler, stood there, clutching a letter with a red wax seal.

“Pardon me, my Lady,” he said, in his familiar clipped voice. “A letter has just arrived for you.”

Patricia thanked him, taking the letter. The wax seal broke easily between her fingers. She smiled slowly as she read it. It was from her dear friend, Lady Eleanor Reynolds, who had just arrived in London, and was now resident at her house on Grosvenor Square.

Patricia’s smile widened. Eleanor wanted her help to plan a charity event for St. Anne’s Orphanage, which was in a very poor area of London near Westminster Abbey, called the Almonry. An area that Patricia knew was also infamously referred to as The Devil’s Acre. Eleanor had always been kind of heart and compassionate, wanting to help the poor. She was the patron of many charities and chaired a few altruistic committees as well.

Patricia sat down at the desk, dipping a quill into the ink pot, to pen a reply. Helping Eleanor would distract her from her troubles. And besides, she was itching to see her friend again. It had been a whole season since she had last set eyes upon her sweet face.

The door opened again. Patricia turned from her writing; the quill suspended in the air. It was her mother, eyeing her carefully.

“How was Lady Davis’s garden party?” Lady Hunter asked, slowly walking into the room.

Patricia’s heart thumped uncomfortably. “It was agreeable,” she said, in a cautious voice.

There was an awkward silence.

“Patricia,” said her mother, looking stricken. “Mrs. Black told me that she saw you at the parlour door, when your father and I were…talking heatedly.” She paused. “There is something I must speak with you about…”

Patricia lay down the quill, rising to her feet and facing her mother. She took a deep breath.

“There is no need, Mama,” she said slowly. “I understand my duty. I understand everything.” She took another deep breath. “And I shall do what is required, for Margaret’s sake. So that she may secure a match she deserves, with a gentleman she loves and who loves her equally.”

Her mother looked shocked. “Oh, dearest,” she said, in a stricken voice. “I am so very sorry for your sake.”

They gazed at each other. There was simply nothing more to say. The die had been cast, and it had not fallen in her favour. She must accept it.

Patricia’s heart dropped to the floor. It was real. Her dream of securing a love match was well and truly gone.

Chapter Two

Lord Jackson Fisher, the Marquess of Thornton, twisted on the bed, clawing at the bedsheet. Sweat was oozing down his neck. He was back there again, in the sticky mud, with the smell of blood and decay lingering in the air, like some obscene miasma. That day upon the battlefield, when everything had changed…

Bloodcurdling cries as men fell like swatted flies around him. He was in the thick of it. The enemy were right there. He raised his bayonet, his heart pounding like a drum.

Something was wrong. Something happened that should not have happened, and he was suddenly exposed.

He didn’t see the bayonet coming. With a cry of surprise and pain, it sliced his flesh like a knife cutting into a ripe peach. The heat of the blood was a shock. Bewildered, he raised a hand, desperately trying to stem the flow.

His knees buckling beneath him, he fell headfirst into the mud, screaming. The blood washed into his eyes until it seemed like the whole world was a river of red…

Jackson reared up from the bed, his eyes flinging open. He couldn’t breathe. Where was he?

He raised a hand to his right cheek, half expecting blood to be flowing from it. But it wasn’t. He felt the raised, jagged flesh. The perpetual reminder of that day that his mind would never let him forget. Early morning light flooded through the curtains on the window. Another day at Thornbury Manor in this quiet patch of country England. A world away from the battlefield.

The bedroom door opened. Mr. Harris, the butler stood there, clutching a note within his hand. He was frowning.

“I apologise for disturbing you, my Lord,” he said, in a grave voice. “But a letter just arrived by urgent messenger from London.”

Jackson stared at the man, his heart flipping over in his chest. Something was wrong. But it had nothing to do with the battlefield anymore.

***

Jackson leaned down over the sweating black stallion, spurring it on. He must be more than halfway on this desperate ride to London, surely. But he had made a spontaneous decision to take a back road at the crossroads a mile back, having heard that it was a shortcut. And now he wasn’t at all sure he had made the right choice.

Droplets of rain drizzled upon him and there were many deep puddles, indicating much rain had fallen in this area not long ago. He squinted up at the sky. Ominous grey clouds hovered above him. He would be a drowned rat within seconds if it decided to bucket down again.

He grimaced, weaving around a puddle. He must be careful. He did not know this road and Cassius, his stallion, could break a leg in one of these potholes. Of course, he could have taken the carriage and ridden in ease and comfort, but a carriage could not go as fast as he could on horseback. And he must get to London before it was too late.

His father could be breathing his last, right at this very moment.

Jackson cursed under his breath. The letter that had arrived that morning by urgent messenger had been a summons. His father, the Duke of Merriweather, had taken a turn for the worse. There was mention of possible apoplexy. Jackson knew his father had been unwell for weeks, but it had been no cause for concern. Until now.

His heart lurched sickeningly. The summons had turned his whole world upside down. Up until that moment, he could have sworn that he did not care much if the old man lived or died. But hearing that he was on his deathbed had changed all that, in the blink of an eye. He had saddled Cassius within ten minutes and hit the road.

His eyes filled with helpless tears. He might be too late. This desperate flight to London might be for nothing, but he had to try. He could not live with himself otherwise.

Suddenly, Cassius neighed loudly, rearing back. A hare had scuttled across the horse’s path. Jackson controlled him with difficulty.

“There, boy,” he whispered into the horse’s ear, as soon as he was settled. He cast an expert eye over the stallion. Cassius’s coat was slick with sweat and his nostrils were flaring in distress. He had been riding hard for over three hours now and must have a break before he collapsed.

He squinted into the distance. He could just make out a large dwelling on the horizon. An inn, thank the Lord. He did not want to stop but he must. He would rest the horse and take an ale himself and be back on the road within half an hour. Hopefully, it would not make the difference.

***

Jackson pushed open the heavy door of the inn. A rusted sign at the front had declared its name The Blue Duck. He cast an eye around. A fire flickered in the hearth. There were perhaps a dozen men, spread out over the large room, all nursing drinks. He had already settled Cassius in the accompanying stable, giving the horse water. Now he needed some quick refreshment of his own.

“What’ll it be, squire?” asked the bulky man behind the counter, as he sat down on a stool.

“Ale,” said Jackson, tossing him a coin. “And make sure it’s cold.”

The man grunted, taking the coin. Within two minutes he had a glass of frothy ale in front of him. He drank greedily. He was thirstier than he had thought. He ordered another, drinking it in a more leisurely fashion, as he assessed the inn.

It was rundown, and shabby, probably built in Tudor times. The ceiling had low beams and the walls looked like they were packed with straw. The men drinking were all locals, judging by the cut of their clothing. The Blue Duck obviously did not get many travellers, on this desolate back road in the middle of nowhere.

He took a gulp of his second ale, turning back to the bar. The last time he had been in a place like this had been in Spain during the war. It had looked different, of course – the architecture, and the clientele. But it had been similar in other respects. A remote watering hole for locals, who often did not take kindly to strangers. He knew he must be careful in a place like this.

His mind lingered for a moment on that other inn. It had been five years ago, when he had been on short leave from the frontline. He had been bedraggled and exhausted, bleary from bloodshed, but with the sickening knowledge he must return soon. The endless battles to defeat the mad emperor Napoleon from extending his empire throughout the whole of Europe, and perhaps even England. He had thought he would never see his country or home again.

The occupants turned almost as one as the door opened once more. A woman strolled in, her smile flickering from one man to the other indiscriminately. A local doxy, thought Jackson, judging by her low-cut cheap gown and the way she moved. Her bosom was almost spilling out of the tightly corseted bodice. She had bright red hair, falling in corkscrew curls around her face.

She sidled up to him. “Fancy some company, squire?”

He turned to look at her. She gasped, instinctively stepping back, before her smile hesitantly returned. Jackson winced. He was used to that reaction from people who viewed his face for the first time by now, but it never became easier.

He knew she would ignore it, if he paid her enough. He paid women like her good coin to do just that all the time. But he had neither the time nor the inclination at the moment. He drained his glass, setting it on the counter.

“Maybe another time,” he said, moving away.

Suddenly, a large man stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Jackson gazed at him steadily. He had the physique of a giant, with lank brown hair, and deep-set black eyes. He was dressed in the worn clothes of a labourer. He flexed hands that looked like they could break the trunk of a tree.

“You aren’t from around here,” said the man slowly, in a thick Midlands accent. “We don’t much like strangers in these parts.”

“You don’t say,” replied Jackson, in a deceptively mild voice. “I am just leaving. Stand aside.”

The man didn’t move. Jackson saw a vein twitching in his right temple. He was spoiling for a fight. That much was obvious. And he simply didn’t have the time.

“What happened to yer face?” the man drawled. “Don’t think I have ever seen an uglier scar than that. Someone carved you up good. Couldn’t pay the debts for your cards, squire?” His voice was thick with derision.

Jackson saw red. The casual callous comment from the man, the scornful contempt, was simply too much. He had dealt with too much of it over the years. Without thinking about it any further, he punched the man square in the face. The man squealed like a stuck pig, his hands flying to his nose, as blood gushed through his fingers.

“Ye’ve broken it,” he cried hoarsely.

Jackson took a deep breath. “I daresay. Hopefully, that broken nose won’t make you too ugly, now. Or at least any uglier than you already are. Good day.”

He side-stepped the man quickly, walking to the door. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the inn following him. He didn’t need to turn around to know their jaws were probably agape.

He grinned to himself, quickly walking to the stable. People often misjudged him. They thought a well-born gentleman was a lily-livered walkover. But no one ever got the better of him, now. He briefly touched the scar on his right cheek. Not after that time, anyway.

He had learned much on the battlefields. Sometimes his soul was weary even thinking of it.

***

It was almost dark by the time Jackson finally reached the house in St. James. Wearily, he led Cassius to the mews. What he wouldn’t give for a hot meal and a bed. But that must wait. Time was of the absolute essence.

He strode into the house through the back entrance, calling out. The place seemed deserted, without even a servant in sight. He took the stairs two at a time, heading towards his father’s chambers. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. He felt strangely alert, like he did just before he had headed into battle.

He didn’t knock. He pushed open the door.

His heart pounded harder, as he took in the scene in front of him. Mrs. Clark, the housekeeper, standing beside the bed, wringing her hands. A doctor with his head bowed, sitting on a chair. And in the middle of the room, a mahogany four-poster bed, with a figure lying stony still upon it, eyes closed and hands resting on his chest.

He staggered, almost falling. He was too late.

Mrs. Clark suddenly saw him. “Oh, my Lord,” she cried, rushing towards him. Her eyes were moist. “He just breathed his last not two minutes ago…”

“What?” he cried in anguish. If only he hadn’t had to stop at that accursed inn. He flexed his still throbbing right hand.

“It was very peaceful, my Lord,” continued the housekeeper, taking a deep breath. “He simply slipped away.”

Jackson walked slowly towards the bed studying the still figure upon it. His father, who was suddenly no more. The old man seemed to have shrivelled since he had last seen him. His snow-white hair was plastered to his skull. The blue eyes that had always been snapping with restless energy were closed forever.

He struggled with conflicting emotions, all raging through him, like an intense wave. They had never been close. The Duke of Merriweather had been distant with him since he was a boy. His father had never spent much time with him, and when he had, it had always been to lecture him about duty.

He had barely seen him since his return from war four years ago. His father had mocked the scar on his face, seeing it as a sign of weakness, that his son had not fought hard enough. It had never occurred to the old man that perhaps the scar was a sign that he had fought well and survived. That he was home, safe but not wholly sound.

His fists clenched. What did any of it matter now?

“See that he is laid out properly,” he said, abruptly turning away, and walking out of the room. It took all of his control not to slam the door behind him.

He leant against it trying to breathe. He had tried and he had failed. What had he been hoping for, anyway? A last-minute reconciliation, where the old man would beg for his love and goodwill, telling him how proud he was of him? It was never going to happen. And now, it never would.

***

Gordon, the butler, walked into the late Duke’s study. Jackson barely glanced up at him from where he was sitting at his father’s desk. His late father’s desk, now. All that was in this room, as well as this house and the entire duchy estate, was now his. It was a strangely disconcerting thought. He had honestly thought this day would never come; that somehow his father was immortal.

“Your brandy, my Lord,” said the butler, placing a crystal decanter filled with brown liquid and a glass upon the desk. Suddenly, he straightened. “I do apologise, your Grace.”

Jackson stared at the stooped man. Gordon had been in his father’s service forever. “It is quite alright, Gordon. I am not used to the fact that I am the Duke of Merriweather yet either.”

The butler bowed. He looked like he wanted to say something else. But then he drifted out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Jackson was alone again.

He poured himself a tall brandy, gazing around the room. It had been a long, wearying day. A day that had started one way and ended in another direction entirely. He had been on the other side of the country this morning. Now he was in London, and he was suddenly a duke. It all seemed like some kind of hazy dream.

He sipped the warm liquid, feeling it hit his bloodstream like fire. Suddenly, his eyes alighted on a letter, hidden beneath some other documents. A letter with his name on it and in a familiar hand. The hand of his late father.

He couldn’t breathe for a moment. Slowly he placed down the glass, picking up the envelope and breaking the seal with trembling hands.

My dearest boy,

I trust you shall find this letter when you make an inventory of my study. It has been on my mind to write to you for a long time now. There is much to say, and I have been a coward in saying it. But I must before it is too late.

You are now the eighth Duke of Merriweather, an esteemed title, going back to the days of the War of the Roses. I should have prepared you for this. The only excuse I can give is that you reminded me too much of my dear departed Eliza, your mother, who died giving birth to you. I could never let myself get close to you without seeing her, reminding me of my loss. I am sorrier for this than I can say.

You are a fine man, Jackson, and will make a great duke. I am so very proud of you and the man you have become. I know that the war changed you. I know that you have tried to forget it in the arms of common women. But I beseech you, now that you the Duke, to put those days behind you. Take a wife, my son, and one day you may have an heir. Embrace your destiny, not just for my sake and the continuation of the line but for your own.

You are more than your scars, Jackson. Never forget it.

Your ever loving Father

Jackson let the letter fall from his hand onto the floor. He couldn’t even see through the blur of his tears.

He had ridden hard to speak to his father before he left this earth and he had failed. But now, with this letter, it was as if his father was speaking to him. As if he was in the room with him.

His father was proud of him. His father wanted him to finally heal. And his father wanted him to marry and continue the proud line.

Jackson knew it would not be easy. Once he had hoped to marry and have children. But the war, and the scar he carried from it, had changed everything. It was the reason he hid away from society and kept the company of common women. He was afeared that no worthy ladycould ever see past it. He was a broken man, inside and out.

But perhaps it was time, to finally attempt to lay it all to rest.

I will try, Father, he thought, letting the tears fall at long last. I will do my very best. For your sake.

He got up, walking towards the looking glass in the corner. A dark-haired man stared back at him. A man with a jagged scar marring his face. How could any lady ever gaze upon him without distaste?

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