London, 1827
Captain William Hawkins stood on the terrace outside his sister’s fashionable townhouse in the heart of Mayfair. The noise and frippery inside the ballroom had triggered another throbbing headache, and he’d escaped the celebration in search of peace. The secluded garden, awash in milky moonlight, offered him tranquility, and he observed the gaiety through the glass terrace doors without feeling the disagreeable effects.
“There you are, Will.”
His youngest brother Quincy stepped onto the terrace, two crystal tumblers in hand.
The pup handed him a drink. “It’s a brilliant affair, isn’t it, Will? A celebration to remember for a hundred years. Amy looks prettier than a princess. And Eddie can’t stop grinning. Can you believe it? Eddie!” He sighed. “They’re finally going to be happy. It’s about bloody time.”
William watched the twirling newlyweds, both resplendent in their fancy duds. He shared Quincy’s sentiment. His otherwise surly middle brother, Edmund, and his dashing bride, Lady Amy, had suffered enough hardship to last a lifetime.
“About time, indeed,” said William. The twinge in his head worsened, and he clenched his eyes, grimacing.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he clipped. “It’s just a headache.”
“Tough luck, old fellow.”
William snorted at the “old fellow” bit. At forty, he was seventeen years Quincy’s senior, and ever since he’d reached the pinnacle age, his tactless brother had found it particularly amusing.
As music swelled into the night, Quincy remarked, “Belle really knows how to host a smashing reception.”
After rubbing the bridge of his nose, William turned his gaze toward his sister, Mirabelle, the Duchess of Wembury. She was dancing with her husband, her cheeks flushed, so full of life. Two short years ago, she had almost died giving birth to her son. Even now William’s chest tightened at the agonizing memory.
As they had all learned at one time or another life was precious, and momentous occasions needed to be marked with the proper fanfare—meaning food, drink and merrymaking galore.
A gust of laughter filled the terrace through the half open doors.
“Blimey,” from Quincy. “Now that’s a sound you don’t hear every day.”
William recognized the unusual merriment as belonging to his eldest brother, Captain James Hawkins, the once infamous pirate Black Hawk. The man had the temperament of a raging bull, and his sudden, spirited outburst could only be attributed to one source.
Sure enough, William located James with his exotic wife Sophia, ensconced in a tête-à-tête near the ballroom doors. Whatever their exchange, it had amused the former corsair to no end.
The Hawkins brothers were happy. At last. After years at sea as notorious pirates, they had settled into the roles of gentlemen, relations to a distinguished duchess. Even Quincy had much improved, a crippling melancholy having consumed him for years. But the pup had also recently wed, his wife’s healing touch having chased away his nightmares.
“A toast,” said Quincy, raising his glass. “To happily-ever-after. Though late, ‘tis better than never.”
William offered a sardonic smile. Unlike the rest of his hard-drinking brothers, he never wallowed in alcohol. He didn’t like to lose control of his senses. Ever. But more and more of late he’d made exceptions.
He clinked his brother’s glass before downing the fiery brandy. Why not? thought William. After all, he was dying.
At the sharp pain in his skull, William winced and dropped the tumbler, the crystal shattering, vertigo pushing him toward the ground.
Quincy grabbed his arm and steadied him. “Whoa, old fellow. The headache again? Or you can’t hold your drink?”
The pup’s smirk faded when William didn’t—couldn’t—answer. Quincy quickly took his brother’s arm and wrapped it around his sturdy shoulder, supporting him. “I’ll fetch help.”
“No,” he gritted. “It’s their night. I won’t dampen it with a bleedin’ headache.”
“All right then.”
The pup swiveled him around the terrace and steered him toward a secluded bench.
William collapsed on the seat, groaning, his pulsing brow in his hands.
“A cold compress?” suggested Quincy.
“No,” he returned. “It won’t help.”
Nothing would help.
For several months, William had suffered inexplicable headaches. And then the bleeding had started. From his nose. His gums.
Just like father.
Their father, Drake Hawkins, had died seven years ago from the same mysterious illness. The symptoms had been identical: headaches and spontaneous bleedings. Soon William would lose stamina. Then breath. Then life.
If he measured his father’s demise against his own, William wagered he’d six months remaining, eight at the most. He had yet to tell any of his siblings. He just hadn’t the words.
“There’s catmint in the herbal garden,” said Quincy. “I’ll have a servant boil the leaves, make a tea. It’ll dull the headache.”
“Aye,” he drawled. “Thanks.”
Quincy left the terrace.
A tea wouldn’t cure his ails, but it wasn’t the right time to reveal the truth, though he would have to soon. He couldn’t maintain the pretense of robust health much longer.
He’d already put his affairs in order. As a privateer in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron, he’d resigned his post with the Admiralty. There would be no more sea patrols off the coast of West Africa, hunting illegal British slavers. If a headache paralyzed him in the heat of battle, he’d risk losing his ship, his entire crew.
He had completed his last will and testament, bequeathing his ship to his oldest brother and assigning generous pensions to his crew. His bachelor residence would go to his two youngest siblings. And he’d set aside a series of personal items for his sister, the duchess. He hoped she’d keep his memory alive, telling swashbuckling tales to his niece and nephew of their Uncle William. There was just one thing left to do—tell his family he was dying.
In a few minutes, Quincy returned with the steaming tea. “Drink.” He handed him the herbal brew, his expression troubled. “What’s the matter, Will?”
“A headache, I told you.” And he poured the piping balm down his gullet for good measure. “I’ll be fine.”
The headache would pass, as always, and he’d return to full strength—until the next assault.
William wiped his mouth and placed the porcelain cup on the bench. “I just need rest. Go back to the ball, Quincy. Enjoy yourself.”
The pup observed him for several critical moments before he shrugged. “All right, but I’ll return to check on you . . . Will, your nose.”
William reached for his face. When he pulled his hand away, a splotch of blood was smeared across his fingers. “Shit.”
His brother handed him a kerchief. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Damn it.” He snatched the linen and pressed it under his nose. “I don’t need you to play nursemaid. Leave!”
But Quincy retreated as far back as the shrubs, then crossed his arms over his chest, not budging a step more. “Tell me,” he demanded.
“I don’t take orders from you, pup.”
“I can help—”
“No,” he snapped. “You can’t help.”
Since boyhood, Quincy had possessed a healing touch. He even served aboard William’s ship as surgeon. But he couldn’t cure this malady. No one could. William had consulted prestigious physicians in London, medicine men in Africa. But there was no treatment.
No hope.
“You’re sick, Will.”
“The devil I am.”
A silence then settled between them. A seemingly interminable silence. And William knew his brother had just discovered his secret, that he’d recognized William’s symptoms.
Slowly William lifted his head. “Not. One. Word.”
The silence stretched.
“Did you hear me, pup?” He growled, “Not one word.”
“I have to tell the others.”
William wasn’t a violent man, he wasn’t even bad tempered, but he had an unmistakable urge to thrash his sibling if the young man refused to keep silent.
As his head pounded ever harder, he gnashed his teeth. “I will tell the others when I’m good and ready, so don’t breathe a bloody word—to anyone.”
After another round of agonizing quiet, Quincy finally bobbed his head. He stared at William a second more, his expression inscrutable, before he quit the terrace and sauntered back inside the ballroom.
William watched his most talkative kin through the glass doors. He sighed after a short time, relieved the pup hadn’t approached any of their siblings. Instead, Quincy had settled to one side of the ballroom, alone, his features impassive.
His brow pulsing with explosive pressure, William kneaded his temples. The stone-cold look of shock on his brother’s face didn’t augur easy times ahead.
William imagined the flare of emotions that would erupt from the rest of his tempestuous family when he at last revealed his illness. If they greeted the news with similar silence or more characteristic shouting, the end result would still be deafening. And his headache worsened at the grueling thought.
How was he going to tell them? When was he going to tell them? Soon it would be impossible to hide his symptoms, yet he dreaded making the admission.
Almost an hour later, William’s headache finally abated. His strength gradually returned, and he regained his footing, moving off the bench.
As he sauntered back toward the terrace, the unmistakable sound of rattling wheels captured his notice. He peered over the hedge groves and spotted an unmarked carriage rounding the street corner, travelling at great speed.
His innards tightened.
Trouble.
William dashed through the garden toward the front gate just as the vehicle rolled to a stop at the entrance. He fisted his palms before he wrenched open the door—and stilled.
Light from the overhead gas lamp pooled around a billowing gold skirt with taffeta underpinnings and an embroidered hemline. Soon a feminine face emerged from the darkness and leaned toward him, smiling.
“Goodness, what a reaming reception. But you’ve every right to chastise me. I’m terribly late.”
His muscles stiffened at the provocative thought before he shoved aside the uncharacteristic impulse. Her deep green eyes complimented her ringed, ginger brown hair, heaped upon her head and fastened with a pearl comb. She appeared in her thirtieth year. Dark brows and full rose lips added color to her fair complexion, while high cheeks bones and a fine nose balanced her sensual features.
“Did Lady Amy send you to wait for me? She must be very anxious, indeed.” The woman offered her gloved hand. “Take me to her, if you please. I must apologize for my delay.”
But William wasn’t so easily bewitched by a pretty face. His instincts still screamed trouble.
Even as the woman’s warm gaze burrowed into him, he pushed aside her spell-casting charm and stuck his head inside the vehicle.
She gasped at his uninvited proximity, her heated breath caressing his ear, her lavender perfume teasing his senses. The titillation disarmed him for a moment before he focused on the interior once more, searching the squabs.
Assured there was no threat—at least not to the bride and groom—William stepped away from the vehicle.
A set of piercing green eyes shot daggers at him.
“I beg your pardon.” He bowed, then offered his hand. “Captain William Hawkins, brother of the groom, at your service.”
After a moment of dubious reflection, the woman accepted his hand and descended the carriage. “Lady Madeline Winters, first cousin to the bride.”
“Forgive me, my lady. I have a duty to protect my brother and sister-in-law.”
“From moi?”
“From Lady Amy’s former husband, the Marquis of Gravenhurst.”
A year ago, Lady Amy had been forced to wed the Marquis of Gravenhurst, a brutal fiend intent upon her family’s destruction. The villain would have murdered Amy on their wedding night if Edmund hadn’t saved her life, but before the marquis could be apprehended, the devil had escaped, his whereabouts still a mystery. And while Lady Amy had recently obtained an annulment, the danger remained that the marquis might return to complete his revenge.
“Of course, I understand,” she murmured and opened her lace fan, fluttering the air, stirring the fine hairs at her temples. “If you will excuse me, Captain Hawkins, I must greet the newlyweds and atone for my unfashionable tardiness.”
Sweeping up one side of her shimmering skirt, she sashayed through the gate then entranceway with the confidence of a royal princess, disappearing inside the glowing ballroom.
Still feeling strangely uneasy, William wandered back into the garden. Through the glass terrace doors, he observed his family as they warmly welcomed Lady Madeline with festive embraces. Something cold pierced his heart at the sight. It spread like ice through his veins.
“You have no soul, Will. You can’t bleed. You don’t even know love.”
His eldest brother had accused him of heartless indifference not too long ago. And while the charge had only annoyed him then, it now gnawed at him without surcease, for as the end rolled near, William wondered if all the self-restraint and responsibility and stoicism had really done him any good. Had he missed an important aspect of life because he’d tried so damn hard to restrain his passionate Hawkins blood?
The unnerving thought festered in his soul. He suddenly found it difficult to breathe. About to turn away from all the familial gaiety, a flash of movement snagged his attention.
William sharpened his astute gaze on Lady Madeline. The woman offered a throaty laugh as she funned with an unsuspecting miss . . . then stealthy unclasped the chit’s diamond bracelet and slipped it into her reticule.