Chapter One
London, 1816
He had waited so long for this. Guy Truesdale, the sixth Baron Fortescue, stood on the lawn verge of Golden Square and gazed at number twelve across the road with the bitter taste of disappointment in his mouth. The impressive size of the three-story townhouse was as he imagined, and the gardens in the square still well-ordered, but Soho was not as elegant as in his father’s time. It appeared to have changed considerably from the last century. The aristocracy had moved on to more salubrious areas. Back in those days, his father’s neighbor was a fashionable countess who held lavish balls. It was now a warehouse for musical instruments. The swell of an Italian aria emanated from an open window, sung by a tenor accompanied by the harpsichord and violin.
The door of Guy’s townhouse, now leased, opened to display peeling wallpaper and scuffed tiles. Two modestly dressed men emerged and walked across the square.
Glad the rain held off, Guy made his way back to his hotel. Tomorrow, he would leave London for Digswell. Perhaps what he found in the country might please him more. Any hope that his father’s loving descriptions of England would make him feel less a stranger, began to fade, as he continued through streets completely foreign to him. He straightened his shoulders. He’d come to England to claim his inheritance and claim it he would. There was no returning to France now.
Dusk fell, too early for the gas lamps, and ominous shadows crept across the footpaths. On impulse, he took a shortcut, a shadowy laneway which by his calculations, would lead into a main thoroughfare.
He was halfway along it when the sound of running feet made him spin around. Two men appeared out of the gloom and advanced toward him.
Guy moved back until his shoulder brushed the wall. “What is it you want?”
When neither of the men answered, cold sweat gathered on his brow. His glance flicked ahead to where the laneway joined a busy road. “Répondez-moi,” he demanded. His throat tightened in fear. Was he to meet his maker before he even reached Rosecroft Hall?
“’E’s the one all right,” one of them murmured. They separated, and each took a menacing step closer, blocking off any avenues of escape.
The moon sailed above the narrow gap between the buildings and shone on the knife held by one of the footpads.
Guy drew the sword from his cane. “Back away.”
At the sight of it, they stepped back, hesitated, and stood regarding him.
A feint might work. Once they were off guard, he’d run for it. He moved away from the wall and drew circles in the air with his sword. “Come on, you want to fight? I’m willing.”
“He can’t take both of us,” the tallest of the two muttered.
“Yer, but he might run one of us through,” the other replied. “And we weren’t paid enough for that.”
“Shut up, you fool.”
Surprised, Guy stilled, his heart thudding in his ears. “Who paid you?”
“Say nothin’,” the tall man warned. He then whispered something to his companion.
Guy watched them, his swordstick at the ready. Did they mean to kill him?
As the taller man raised his arm to throw the knife, Guy lunged to the left. A pistol shot blasted through the confined space, rattling the nearby windows as the knife hit the wall, and clattered to the ground.
The tall man shrieked. “I’ve been shot.”
“You there!” Highlighted by the light from the street behind him, a caped figure strode toward them from the main thoroughfare, a pistol in each hand, one smoking. “Next time I’ll aim to kill.”
The pair turned and ran back the way they’d come.
Guy picked up the knife. He would have liked to get hold of them and find out who sent them. He turned to face the man who’d likely saved his life.
As their footsteps faded into the night, the gentleman tucked the pistols into the pockets of his multi-caped greatcoat and came over to Guy. “Saw them follow you. I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster, but I turned the corner and wasn’t sure which direction you took.”
With a swell of gratitude, Guy sheathed his sword, shelved his suspicion that he’d been followed for later, and bowed. “I am indebted to you, monsieur, one obviously needs to be well armed in London.”
“It is wise to be on your guard. Footpads will tackle an unarmed man.”
Guy clutched his cane. He’d been armed, but it hadn’t deterred them.
“We’d best get out of this dark place.” The man led the way toward the lit street. “New to London? I don’t advise you to walk alone around these parts at night.”
“Oui. I arrived from France this morning.”
“You can’t think much of us then, an attempted robbery on your first day.”
“It seemed more personal.” Guy studied his rescuer. He was of a similar age to himself, somewhere in his early thirties with an air of solid confidence about him. Whatever reason brought him here, Guy could only be grateful for it.
The large, fair-haired man raised his eyebrows. “The war might be over, but not all the English can forgive and forget.”
A grim smile tugged at Guy’s mouth. “I’m sure that’s so, mon ami.” He remembered the footpad’s words, he’s the one. It was him they were after. Who would want him dead here in England?
“Where are my manners?” His rescuer held out his hand. “John Haldane, Earl of Strathairn.”
Guy shook his hand. “Guy Truesdale.”
The earl’s brows met in a perplexed frown. “I know that name. Truesdale? Why, that means you’re a…”
Guy nodded. “Fortescue, oui.”
“A relative of the baron?”
“I am Baron Fortescue.”
“Why this is grand news! Your father and mine were close friends.” John frowned. “But it also means that your father is dead. I’m sorry. Not by the guillotine one would hope.”
“No, not directly.” They crossed the road. Beneath the halo cast by an oil lamp, Guy’s gaze sought the earl’s. “Thank you for what you did tonight. I hope to repay you should we meet again.”
The earl slapped him on the back. “Nonsense, Fortescue. Where do you stay?”
When Guy told him, Strathairn said, “Not one of our best hostelries. You must come home with me.”
“I couldn’t presume…”
“Not another word. Father, if he still lived, would have been justifiably angry if I failed to offer you hospitality. We reside in Berkley Square and have plenty of room. I’ll send a servant around for your luggage. Feel free to stay as long as you wish.”
“Bon, but I’m riding into the country tomorrow.”
“Your seat is to the north, Hertfordshire, I believe.”
“My estate borders Sherradspark Wood in Digswell.”
A hackney appeared around the corner, and Strathairn stepped into the road to hail it. As the jarvie pulled the horse to a stop, the earl gave directions and whipped open the door.
Guy settled on the squab beside him. “I am most grateful.”
Strathairn dismissed the sentiment with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense, Baron. It’s been my pleasure. But once my sisters get a look at you, I may change my mind.”
“I’m not sure of your meaning.” He’d been proud of his English heritage, but since he arrived in England, he’d felt terribly French.
“My dear fellow. If you aren’t used to ladies fighting over you, you soon will be.”
Guy shook his head with a grin.
*
Malforth Manor, Digswell
With the thrill of expectation, Hetty Cavendish removed the clothes she kept hidden in the back of her clothespress. The maids’ work done, they’d gone downstairs, so she would not be disturbed. She’d discovered these men’s clothes in a cupboard after they moved into the house. Although she’d intended to give them to the church, she’d tried them on instead.
The buckskin breeches slipped over her thighs and hugged her hips like a second skin. Men were fortunate. Breeches offered so much freedom of movement. But then, men had much more freedom than women to enjoy. She pulled the cotton shirt over her head and shrugged into the gray wool coat. The loose cut disguised her breasts without the need of binding. A black ribbon secured her chestnut hair in a queue while the knitted green scarf concealed her throat.
Hetty settled the shabby, square-cut, wide-brimmed black hat, rifled from the back of her father’s armoire, over her hair and pulled the brim low to shadow her face. Glad for once that she’d inherited a tall boyish figure, she sat to pull on the boots.
She stood and considered her reflection in the mirror, narrowing her brown eyes and lowering her eyebrows as a man might.
Confident she could be taken for a man, an exhilarating sense of independence stole over her, a rebellious, guilty pleasure. No longer did Miss Horatia Cavendish, spinster daughter of Colonel Rupert Cavendish, appear before her in the glass. She’d been replaced by a young man, able to go anywhere unaccompanied. But she must still be careful, for they lived a mere few miles from the village, and a stranger in these parts stood out like a cuckoo in a dovecote.
Her father planned to spend the night with Aunt Emily in Mayfair. Since he’d retired from the army, he’d developed an intense interest in his finances and visited his solicitor every week. She hated to deceive him, but every time he was away from home, she felt compelled to ride his stallion, The General. It was after Papa refused her Aunt Emily’s invitation to chaperone her for a London season, that it became necessary for Hetty to have a secret life of her own.
With the riding crop tucked under her arm, she left by the servant’s door and passed through the door in the walled kitchen garden to cross the gravel drive to the stable mews. She held a finger to her lips and the groom, Simon, chuckled. “Looks like snow, Miss Hetty.” The big, fair-haired man fetched The General from his box. Hetty trusted Simon with her secret. She would trust him with her life if it should come to that.
Simon led the chestnut out and put her father’s saddle on him. The General whinnied and dug at the ground with a hoof, eager for a canter. Hetty patted his nose. “You don’t mind a bit of snow, do you, fellow?”
“The General will be glad of some exercise, and knowing you ride like the very devil, I daresay you’ll return before the weather turns.”
She grinned. “I’ll be back in time for tea, Simon. Rest assured.”
If only her father had such confidence in her on horseback. Since a fall from a horse had caused her mother’s death in India, he insisted she ride the small mare he’d purchased for her. She adjusted her seat on the saddle which was more comfortable than the sidesaddle. And safer.
Hetty rode past the cream-colored walls of the thatched manor house, its barren garden in winter slumber. The General sailed easily over the gate, and they continued down the lane. Simon was right. Ominous gray clouds edged with silver piled up on the horizon, and there was a hint of snow in the air.
Confident that the snow storm was hours away, Hetty took her usual route across country where she was less likely to be seen. The General knew the way, taking the right fork with little urging. They always enjoyed a gallop along the straight road to the first bend in the narrow country lane. The General obliged, his powerful legs lengthening his stride.
Hetty threw her head back and laughed out loud. How good it was to have the sleek and elegant thoroughbred, carrying her swiftly over the ground. To be free with the brisk breeze washing away the sluggish disposition that overtook her when she was too long in the house.
Her rides had been curtailed after her father began to attend to business by correspondence. But a matter with Lloyds needed to be dealt with in person and demanded his presence in London.
At the thought of Aunt Emily’s intriguing poetry recitals and her neat townhouse, which was just a stroll from Hyde Park, Hetty huffed a regretful sigh. So close to museums, art galleries, and shops, indeed, all that London had to offer.
The General cantered over a meadow, drawing glances from cows chewing the cud, and splashed through a shallow stream.
Her father purchased the farm, Malforth Manor, set on twenty-five acres, for his retirement. He enjoyed the quiet country life, while Hetty, at seventeen years old, was ready to tackle the world. Five years had passed since they’d returned from India, each more uneventful than the last. The one bright spot in her life was when her godfather, Eustace Fennimore, came to dinner and regaled them with stories of London life. But that only made her more restless. A very popular man, revered in local society, Eustace was a close friend of her father’s. For a time, they were in the same regiment in India.
Her mother’s death affected her father very deeply. It seemed to Hetty inadvisable to depend on another human being so completely for your happiness that one was devastated when that person was no longer there.
To relieve the boredom of living in Digswell, she’d taken to writing poetry. She still clung to the hope she might one day live like Aunt Emily and become a renown poetess.
Above her, a sparrow hawk making lazy circles in the sky suddenly swooped on its prey. Hetty rode on, composing her latest poem. She quoted a few lines aloud. The General pricked up his ears. “What do you think, Gen? Needs work, doesn’t it.”
An hour passed before she turned the horse toward home. Distracted by her thoughts, she’d ridden farther than she intended. The storm bank began moving swiftly with a fierce wind behind it. Forced to take the village road, she urged The General into a gallop.
Malforth Manor was still some miles away. She would be lucky to reach home before the storm hit. She eased the horse into a trot as they approached a sharp bend in the road, the way ahead hidden by a stand of elms.
Once around the corner, Hetty gasped and reined in her horse.
A man lay sprawled on the road.
Highwaymen tried this ruse she’d heard. She edged her horse closer and made a quick search of the landscape. A horse disappeared over a hill with its reins trailing. An accident then. Hetty dismounted but still approached the man with caution.
A gentleman. Beneath the open folds of his multi-caped greatcoat the brown coat revealed the skill of the tailor and the cream, double-breasted waistcoat looked to be of fine silk. Tight-fitting, buff-colored, suede pantaloons encased his long legs. His mud-splattered top boots showed evidence of loving care.
Barely a leaf stirred. It was oddly still, and the air seemed hushed and quiet as death before the coming storm. It matched her mood as she stood wondering what to do about the problem before her.
He moaned.
Hetty squatted beside him. “Are you all right, sir?”
When he failed to answer, she seized one broad, hard shoulder and attempted to roll him onto his back. Blood tricked from a nasty gash over his forehead and into his dark hair.
“Can you hear me, sir?”
His eyelids fluttered.
She shouldn’t stare at him while he remained unconscious, but she couldn’t draw her eyes away. His dark looks reminded her of a painting she’d seen of Lord Byron. More rugged perhaps, but an undeniably handsome face, his olive skin more tanned than one usually saw in an English winter. A hint of shadow darkened his strong jaw. She gingerly picked up his wrist and peeled back the suede leather glove, relieved that his pulse was strong. An expensive gold watch swung from its chain having escaped his pocket. Not robbed then. It was likely that he’d hit his head on a tree branch and knocked himself unconscious. But how did he come to be on the road?
A gust of chill wind caused a shiver, forcing her to take note of the sky. Ash-gray snow clouds hovered overhead. “I have to move you, sir.”
Hetty stood and looked around. The road ran along the boundary of the Fortescue estate. There was a small hut over the hill among the trees, used for storage and hunting. She used to peer inside when she roamed the woods, but she hadn’t been there for years and had no idea what state it was in now. The first icy flurries of snow drifted down, sending a shaft of urgency through her. What to do? Her godfather, Eustace, spent part of the year in the Fortescue mansion, Rosecroft Manor, but that was miles away.
The hut was the only option. But trying to get the man at her feet onto a horse would be almost impossible.
He was a big man, tall and muscular. Could she move him? She glanced at the deserted road with the hope that someone might come along to help. Unlikely for anyone to out in the storm. Unless it was the vicar, and she’d rather not meet him.
She might manage to drag him under a tree then ride for help. As she considered this, the snow grew heavier. It settled over the ground, and the prone man and touched her face with icy fingers. She couldn’t leave him out in the open, prey to the elements while she rode for help. She was halfway between home and Digswell village. By the time she rode in either direction, the man would be dead or certainly near to it. Somehow, she had to move him off the road and under shelter.
Hetty bent down, wrapped his limp arm around her shoulders, and caught a whiff of expensive bergamot. She took hold of his firm waist and tried to pull him toward the trees, but he was too heavy. She eased him down again. She removed her coat, and shivering, tucked it around him.
The wind gathered force. It howled through the trees and whipped the snowflakes into chaotic spirals of white.
Panicked, Hetty took hold of the man’s arms and made another attempt. Fear made her strong. In small spurts, she backed closer to the scant shelter of the nearest tree. She broke into a sweat despite being without her coat in the frigid air.
Severely winded and gasping, Hetty reached the tree. It was a victory of sorts but afforded little protection.
As she was attempting to prop him up against the trunk, he opened eyes of a startling light blue. He stared uncomprehendingly at her.
Hetty grabbed her coat and turned her back to button it. “You’ve suffered an accident, sir.” She lowered her voice. “We’re in a snow storm. I need to get you under cover. Can you help?”
He nodded. With a grimace, put a hand to his head.
“If I help you onto the horse, do you think you could stay in the saddle?”
“You are kind, sir. But that is something I shall not know until I try, n’est pas?”
French! Was he a spy? It seemed unlikely for the war was over. She didn’t fear him. His baritone voice sounded woolly, and she doubted he could manage much.
“What is a Frenchman doing in Digswell?” Hetty queried in a gruff tone, relieved because he hadn’t seen through her disguise. She’d almost forgotten it herself because his blue eyes were so distracting.
“Oui. So, I have reached Digswell? Do not be afraid. I am not your enemy.”
She ran over and grabbed his hat, dusted it off, and handed it to him. “I’m not afraid, monsieur.”
“Bon.” He settled the brown beaver over his black hair.
She whistled to The General, and the stallion came to nudge her hand.
With the use of the tree, the trunk behind him, he slid to his feet. “I am as weak as a bébé.” He clamped his jaw, his eyes filled with pain, but succeeded to keep on his feet. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Have you seen my portmanteau?”
“No, monsieur.” Aware of his big hand, Hetty moved toward the sixteen-hand horse. They shuffled forward. The General obligingly waited, although his big dark eyes showed a lot of white. She took hold of the reins. “If you put your foot in the stirrup, I shall help you, monsieur.”
His black eyebrows rose. “I am no feather-weight!”
The wind howled around them while The General shuffled about. “We don’t have much time. The weather is worsening. Please try.”
The Frenchman seized the pommel. He placed his foot in the stirrup, leaning into her. She fought not to crumple under his weight. He staggered, and they almost fell. On the second attempt, he managed with a grunt to throw his leg over. He slumped in the saddle, his body sagging over the stallion’s neck.
“If you can hang on, monsieur, I’ll take you to a nearby shelter.”
He closed his eyes, and she feared he would pass out again, but she wasn’t about to wait for that to happen. Hetty grabbed the reins and led the stallion off the road, up through the bushes, and into the woods. How fortunate that The General was sweet tempered.
The frigid wind moaned high through the tall pines. She shivered.
“You’re a good lad,” the man muttered through clenched teeth.
“Not far now.” Hetty worried about the furor her male garb would cause when she rode to the village for help. A terrible scandal would erupt. Her father would be furious and disappointed in her. But it couldn’t be avoided. A man’s life was at stake. She knew only too well how risky it was to ride around like this, one of the reasons she liked to do it. Hetty imagined she would have to leave the village forever. Perhaps enter a convent? No, that wouldn’t do, for the nuns would find her very difficult to live with.
Her scattered thoughts served to keep her composed as she trudged through the sludge underfoot. Her feet were completely numb, but at least, the Frenchman managed to stay in the saddle, although his chin rested on his chest.
Hetty sighted a roof through the trees. “There’s the hut ahead. I’m sorry, this must be hard. You can rest soon.”
She hoped the hut still had a roof. The baron left England well before she was born after he’d shot and killed some lady’s husband in a duel. It was said he’d escaped to France. Her godfather, a distant cousin of Fortescue’s, remained in charge of the property ever since.
Their way was slowed by dense underbrush and fallen trees blocking the trail. Hetty pulled her coat free of brambles again, alert to shove the man upright if he slipped sideways. He managed so far to remain in the saddle, a hand resting on her shoulder. He uttered a string of what she assumed were French curse words. She was relieved that she didn’t understand them, but to hear a man curse made her aware of just how difficult her situation was. She was alone in a forest with a stranger and a Frenchman. Well, there was no one to blame but herself, for his was not the light touch of a dance partner at a ball. It was the hard hand of a man whose countrymen had fought and slain many English. Perhaps he’d been a soldier in Napoleon’s army. She was eager to ask him what brought him here. But that would have to wait.