Chapter One
December 1822
The winds were howling outside, lashing at the stone walls of the castle as thunder cracked and lightning flashed across the sky. It was typical weather for that time of year and generally no cause for alarm. Storms were a fact of life when living so close to the sea. Still, it seemed especially ominous that evening, as if the weather itself were a harbinger of other things to come.
In the years since she’d come to live there as an orphaned child, Castle Black had changed exponentially. In those years since, beset with tragedy and with the neglect born out of the ensuing grief, it had come to live up to its dark moniker. At only six years old, she’d arrived on the doorstep uncertain of her welcome. With both her parents deceased and no family to take her in, the tenuous connection of the late Lord Blakemore and her father as school chums had hardly offered an auspicious beginning. They could very well have made her a servant in the house or, worse, sent her to an almshouse to make her way in the world as she might. Instead, Lord Blakemore and Lady Agatha had welcomed her with open arms. She had to wonder, if she’d arrived later, if it had been after Graham’s disappearance, their hearts hardened by grief, if the outcome would have been the same.
Shaking off her morbid thoughts with a slight shiver, Miss Beatrice Marlowe waited for her maid to put the finishing touches on her hair before going down to dinner. The family was no doubt gathered already and she would receive stern and disapproving looks for being late. But as the thick, dark mass of her hair seemed to defy every attempt to contain it in a reasonable chignon, was it any wonder she could never make it downstairs on time?
“That should hold it, Miss. I think,” the maid said skeptically.
“Thank you, Betsy. If it does, we’ll call it a victory. If it fails, it’ll be much like any other attempt to control it. I should cut it and be done with it,” Beatrice mused.
“No, Miss. ’Tis a lot to work with to be sure, but ’tis too fine to chop at,” the maid protested. “One day, you’ll have a husband who’ll appreciate the beauty of it.”
A more unlikely circumstance Beatrice couldn’t imagine. Prior to the late Lord Blakemore’s passing, she’d had two seasons in London at the expense and to the dismay of her guardians. Both had been abject failures. She wasn’t a great enough beauty, or a great enough wit to have made the kind of impression on society that a virtually penniless woman without rank would require to land a worthwhile husband. In the words of Lady Agatha, it had been money well wasted. They’d not be foolish enough to throw more in the same direction.
She surveyed her reflection once more. She was pretty enough, though not in a fashionable way. Her lips were too full, her mouth slightly too wide, with large, wide-set eyes the same stormy gray as the sea raging outside. One gentleman had remarked that her eyes were unnerving. Of course, he’d only made that remark when she’d pointed out that he had yet to look at them as his own gaze had been affixed permanently to her abundant bosom.
Shaking her head slightly, she addressed the maid’s wide-eyed concern over the mention of caving to popular fashion and shearing off her hair. “It doesn’t matter,” she admitted. “I’d be too terrified to cut it. The weight of it, at this point, is the only thing that makes it manageable. Without that, I can’t even conceive of what it would look like.”
The maid was smiling at that quip as she draped a paisley shawl around Beatrice’s shoulders. “Well, it looks lovely for now.”
“So it does,” Beatrice agreed. “Thank you again, Betsy.”
“If I must say, Miss, you appear less than thrilled at the prospect of going down for the evening meal. You could always ask for a tray in your room,” Betsy suggested.
Beatrice considered it. “I could, but I fear that if I am not there, Edmund will browbeat Lady Agatha until she simply caves in to his demands. He’s become unrelenting.”
“Not to be forward in saying so, Miss, but do you not reckon it’s time to have his lordship declared dead? ’Tis been nigh on twenty years… surely, if he were alive, he’d have made it back to us by now.” The maid had no knowledge of Castle Black in the time when Graham had been present. Betsy had only come to work there in the year after his disappearance.
There was no denying the truth of Betsy’s words. The likelihood of Graham’s survival had been given up by most of them long ago. She had no real reason to believe that he was still alive. It was simply that she could not dare to rob Lady Agatha of that last hope. To let things alone and, after she passed, then petition the House of Lords for a declaration seemed the most merciful route to take. But Edmund had little use for things such as mercy. No doubt, he was motivated at the behest of his father, Sir Godfrey Blakemore. A more vile man she’d never met. He’d begun rallying the troops to have Graham declared dead as soon as Lord Blakemore had passed away. His lack of grief at his brother’s passing had surprised no one. Gout had taken the man to Bath and they were well shed of him, but she knew that he wrote Edmund daily, pulling strings like a master puppeteer.
It wasn’t unreasonable to request it, but the manner in which they demanded and bullied set her teeth on edge. After eighteen years, what other than death could explain such an absence? Of course, even if Graham were alive, he’d be no better. He’d been cruel and vicious as a boy, teasing her, shoving her, pulling her hair, and when she’d cry, he’d laughed at her. All of his pranks, as the late Lord Blakemore had called them, had been harmless, but it had been his glee in seeing her cry that had marked his cruelty far more than anything else.
The dinner gong sounded and Beatrice sighed. She was even later than usual. Dinner was not something to be looked forward to at Castle Black. Not while Edmund was present, at any rate. It was always more peaceful when Lady Agatha’s nephew was away. But her lateness had little to do with dread of the meal or the company. It was a tactical maneuver on her part—strategy to avoid Edmund’s unwanted advances. She’d learned the hard way that it was best not to be caught unawares in the corridors by him. The memory of it made her shudder.
And yet, she would have to sit across from him at the dinner table, withering under the pretense that nothing had happened. It goaded her to have him sit there, his wife, Eloise, at his side. Of course, Eloise rarely bothered to leave their chambers so she was typically not present to witness when Edmund allowed his improper and proprietary gaze to roam over her bosom. He had not succeeded in forcing himself on her, but only because she’d had the wits about her to dive into the nearest chamber and ring the bell pull. When two maids had arrived to determine what was needed, Edmund had tried to dismiss them. But she’d insisted that she was unwell and needed them to assist her to her chamber. The ruse had fooled no one, but it had allowed her to escape with her virtue intact.
Making her way down the stairs, she entered the dining room to find the other occupants of the castle already taking their seats. Naturally, Edmund’s badgering had already begun. Eloise sat at his side, appearing bored with the entire thing as she sipped her wine.
“Lady Agatha, I know you’ve no wish to discuss this further, but decisions must be made!”
Beatrice eased into her chair as the footman pushed it toward the table. There was nothing useful for her to interject in their conversations and, for her part, she knew she would do better to draw as little of Edmund’s attention as possible. It was a familiar topic, one brought up at least daily by one of the many occupants of Castle Black. Settling her gaze on Lady Agatha, Beatrice noted the woman’s pallor. The constant badgering was taking a heavy toll on her. Her skin was ashen and her hands trembled terribly. There had been many days in the last weeks where she had not left her room at all, staying abed and letting her maid tend to her.
She adored Lady Agatha and always had, but it wasn’t entirely altruistic on her part that Beatrice was concerned. Lady Agatha was her only link to respectability. If she were to pass, then it would be impossible for her to remain at Castle Black with Christopher, Lady Agatha’s younger son. And she feared that without the steadying influence of their matriarch, Edmund’s behavior would go far beyond simply unwanted advances and become something decidedly more violent.
“Edmund,” Lady Agatha began, placing her hand to her heart as if it pained her. “I cannot simply give up. There is no proof that he is gone!”
“And there is no proof that he remains, my lady! If he were still amongst the living, would he not have found his way back to us by now?” Edmund demanded. “What of Christopher? Forced to live as a younger son with no prospects when there is no heir in front of him!”
At the end of the table, Christopher sat in sullen silence, clearly uninterested in anything happening around him. His sole focus was the brandy snifter he’d carried in from the drawing room. It seemed more and more of late that he was never seen without a drink in his hand.
In truth, Beatrice knew little of him. He’d been sent away to school, rarely returning home, then to Oxford, where he’d been sent down without explanation. He lived amongst them like a shadow, always present but doing little to draw notice. The boy had always kept to himself, avoiding all of them. She doubted that he’d have any inkling of how to run the estate as he’d certainly never made any attempt to learn that she had seen. But that was, no doubt, Edmund’s plan. He wished to have Graham declared dead, have Christopher take on the role of Lord Blakemore, and then he, Edmund, could be Christopher’s trusted advisor. Edmund, in days long past, would have been a toadying kingmaker, a sycophant living off the court. Had he the fashion sense and panache that Prinny demanded, he’d no doubt happily take himself to London and vie for a position at the prince’s feet.
Lady Agatha rose then, swaying alarmingly as she clutched her chest. Her face had grown more pale and she looked to be on the verge of swooning. “If my son were gone from me,” she stated, her voice shockingly firm given her frail appearance, “I would know. I would feel it. A mother always knows!”
“The estate is falling to ruin!” Edmund protested. “While we wait for his return, it’s decaying around us! If he does return, it will be to poverty! Father cannot assist us with these things any longer given his own frail health. Now is the time for action!”
His face was all but purple with rage and there was a wild glint to his gaze that was worrisome. Beatrice had never seen him so angry, so incensed at Lady Agatha’s entrenchment. What was driving him so, she wondered? What had he done that he felt so keenly now more than ever that the status quo could no longer stand? Although this was a theme that Edmund had spouted for years, he seemed more intense about it than ever before.
Beatrice wanted to intervene. She wanted to demand that he leave the older woman be. But she’d never been more aware of how tenuous her position within the Blakemore household truly was. She’d been the ward of the late Lord Blakemore and when he’d passed away, Lady Agatha had taken on the roll as there was no Lord Blakemore to see to the task.
Were it not for Lady Agatha, she’d have been tossed out into the streets long ago. Edmund had made no effort to hide his disdain for her. During their ugly encounter that night in the corridor, he’d made it abundantly clear that there was only one way for her to remain at Castle Black after Lady Agatha was gone. She’d be his mistress, installed right under his wife’s nose, or she’d be tossed into the streets without a tuppence to make her way in the only way that a woman could.
“I will not discuss this further!” Lady Agatha insisted. She was weakening, her voice quavering with emotion and also with whatever mysterious ailment had been plaguing her for the last months. It was slowly robbing her of her strength. Her body was wavering but her will was iron.
“Really, Edmund,” Eloise said sharply. “Must we go through all of this again? If your aunt wishes to continue living in her delusions, let her! But for heaven’s sake, stop yelling! It’s giving me a splitting headache!”
He whirled on his wife, his anger quickly transferring to her. “If you’ve nothing useful to add, why don’t you retire? We’ll have a tray sent up, though I daresay none of the food will interest you as much as the wine!”
“Enough!” Lady Agatha shouted. “This endless sniping at one another will cease… immediately!”
Before Edmund could reply, the butler entered the dining room. He’d disappeared moments earlier when there had been a knock at the door. It was all very mysterious, but then there were many mysteries at Castle Black.
“My lady, forgive me,” he said. “But there is a gentleman at the door who states it is urgent that he sees you.”
“She is unwell,” Edmund protested. “She is not to be bothered with callers who do not have the decency to come during regular hours!”
Beatrice glared at him. He’d had little enough care for Lady Agatha’s health when he’d been berating her to have her missing son declared dead. There was no need for her to intervene. Ill or not, Lady Agatha was still a force to be reckoned with.
“I will decide who I am well enough to see and who I am not,” Lady Agatha snapped. “Does he have news of Graham? Is it the investigator we hired?”
“No, my lady,” the butler said, clearly uncertain of what to say. After shuffling his feet nervously and clearing his throat no less than half a dozen times, he finally continued, “He claims, my lady—that is, he says—He is Lord Blakemore. Graham, my lady. Graham, Lord Blakemore.”
The room went completely silent. A pin drop would have sounded like cannon fire. Beatrice rose from her chair as Lady Agatha slowly sank to the floor.
Beatrice dropped to her knees beside Lady Agatha’s fallen form. She checked to ensure that the woman’s heart still beat and, thankfully, it did, though erratically.
As she dispatched a servant to fetch smelling salts, the cacophony of the room assaulted her senses. It seemed impossible for such a small group of people to make so much noise and, yet, the room filled with voices, mostly Edmund’s. He ranted and raged about imposters and confidence schemes. Eloise continued to drink her wine, watching the tableau unfold with vague disinterest as the footmen gathered at the periphery of the room began to whisper in hushed tones about the scandalous events. Christopher was the only one who remained completely silent, but then he always had little to say, preferring to remain sullen and quiet.
“She will not see him!” Edmund declared, pointing his finger belligerently into Beatrice’s face.
“That is not for you to say,” Beatrice admonished softly. “Lady Agatha is of sound mind and is capable of making her own decisions!”
“Is she?” he demanded. “She’s insisted that her son lost at sea nearly two decades ago is alive because she would ‘feel’ it otherwise. Are those not the ravings of a madwoman?”
Lady Agatha stirred. Her eyes fluttered but did not open. A soft moan escaped her. Beatrice touched her forehead, finding it cold and clammy.
“Where are those smelling salts?” Beatrice asked.
“In her room, Miss… the maid has gone to fetch them,” the butler said as he fanned his fallen mistress.
“I should have had her declared mad years ago,” Edmund sneered.
“Hush!” Beatrice snapped. “Hush this instant. You’ve no right to say such things! Clearly, she is ill right now and that should be your only concern! Instead, you’re viewing it as an opportunity to grasp for more power and prestige for yourself! Have you no shame?”
He grabbed her arm, hauling her up. The servants all looked on in horror as he shook her. “You’re just an interloper here. You’ve no right to be involved in family decisions… a penniless orphan that was allowed to remain out of pity! Or was it something else? You were awfully close to the old Lord Blakemore! Tell me, Beatrice, how did you earn your keep here?”
His ugly accusations rang throughout the room. The whispers stopped altogether and only silence remained. The hideousness of what he implied was beyond the pale for anyone.
“Lord Blakemore was like a father to me. His attentions to me were never anything more than that of a father to his child… how dare you imply otherwise? You are a hateful, vile creature,” she hissed. “You only see such ugliness in others because it exists within you!”
He drew his hand back to strike her. For the first time, Christopher spoke. “Halt!” he shouted. “You will not do this… not today.” Turning to the footmen, he directed, “One of you please carry my mother to the settee in the library where she might recover comfortably. And Hammond, show this gentleman into the drawing room to be dealt with shortly. Once mother awakens and directs us further, we will take action. Until that time, everyone will remain calm and stop shouting like ill-bred urchins!”
Edmund let go of her so abruptly that she stumbled and nearly fell. Had she not managed to catch herself by grasping the edge of the table, she would have. Her arm ached where he’d grabbed her, but she’d not give him the satisfaction of rubbing the abused spot. Instead, she followed the footman who’d carefully picked up Lady Agatha and headed for the library. It was too much. The entire world seemed to have gone mad in the last few moments.