Chapter 2

In the morning, they sent for the doctor when Markham and Mrs. White agreed with Angélique that her father seemed worse. The duke had had a restful night, but his fever was higher when he woke up. He coughed so much he could hardly breathe, and was shivering beneath the blankets and covers Angélique put on him to keep him warm. Nothing seemed to help. He had a little tea for breakfast, but that was all.

The doctor examined him, and emerged from the duke’s bedroom frowning, and said that clearly His Grace was worse. Angélique was terrified he might have caught a chill going into the study the night before, but the doctor explained that it was the infection in his lungs that was making him so ill. He would have bled him, but didn’t think he was even strong enough for that. He was going to suggest sending for her brothers, but didn’t want to frighten Angélique more than she already was. She was panicked at how poorly her father was doing, and left him with his valet only long enough to go to her room, hide the pouch in a locked drawer in her desk, bathe, change her clothes, and return to her father’s bedroom as quickly as she could. He was sound asleep by then, and seemed even hotter to the touch than before. His lips were parched, but he wasn’t drinking, and she noticed how thin and white his hands were, lying on the covers. He suddenly looked like a very, very old man. She didn’t leave his room all day, and watched him closely as he struggled for breath.

He woke in the late afternoon, and talked to Angélique for a few minutes. He asked if she had put the pouch in a safe place, and she assured him she had, in a locked drawer, and then he closed his eyes with a smile, and drifted off to sleep again. It was almost midnight when he woke, opened his eyes, and smiled at her. He seemed better than he had before, although the fever hadn’t changed, but he seemed comfortable as he took her hand in his own, kissed her fingers, and she leaned down to kiss his cheek.

“You have to get well, Papa. I need you.” He nodded, closed his eyes, and slept again as she watched him long into the night. He never stirred, and with a peaceful expression on his face, as Angélique held his hand, he drifted away silently and stopped breathing. Angélique saw it immediately, kissed his forehead, and tried to gently rouse him and wake him, but he was gone, after seventy-four years, leading the life he had been born to, caring for those who depended on him, and the estate he had been entrusted with. He had been a wonderful father, husband, and lord of the estate he had been given, had left everything in good order for his older son, and had given Angélique an incredible gift at the end. And now he was gone, and Tristan was the Duke of Westerfield, even if he didn’t know it yet.

Angélique sat with her father all through the night, and in the morning she went to tell Hobson what had happened. He sent one of the grooms for the doctor, on horseback, and he came a short while later to confirm that Phillip, Duke of Westerfield, had died during the night. He offered his condolences to Angélique and left, as word spread quietly through the house and into the servants’ hall. Angélique felt as though she were living a bad dream, and then she went to help Markham bathe and dress her father. The footmen carried him into the library downstairs to lie in state, until his older son arrived. Another footman was dispatched to London in the carriage to advise Tristan of his father’s death. Angélique sat with her father in the library through most of the day. The footman returned from London at nightfall to say that His Grace would arrive in the morning. It pained her to hear Tristan called “His Grace,” but that was who he was now. He was the Duke of Westerfield and master of Belgrave Castle and the estate.

For most of the night, Angélique stayed with her father in the library, keeping him company, until Mrs. White came to encourage her to rest for a little while. She felt dazed as she followed her out of the library to eat some broth that Mrs. Williams had prepared. Angélique couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten and didn’t care. The father she loved so much was gone. It didn’t matter what happened now—she couldn’t imagine life at Belgrave without him, or anywhere else. A thousand memories flooded her mind. She was an orphan now, and had lost her last surviving parent. She knew that no one would ever take his place. No brother, no husband, no man. Her world had suddenly become an empty place.

At Mrs. White’s urging, she slept in her bed that night, for the first time in days, and she was so exhausted, she slept deeply until morning when she heard a carriage arrive, and shouting outside, as the grooms held the horses, and she heard the footmen calling to each other, and then her brother Tristan’s voice. He had arrived. She peeked through her bedroom curtains and saw him just before he walked inside. He was dressed in solemn mourning, and she knew the servants had put a black wreath on the front door the day before. There was no sign of Elizabeth with him; he had come alone. Angélique hastened to dress and comb her hair to meet him properly downstairs. They shared the loss of a beloved parent, and she wanted to tell him how sorry she was.

Tristan was in the dining room quietly having breakfast, and he looked up when she walked in. She was wearing a somber black high-necked dress, which was proper mourning attire, but still showed off her tiny waist. Her face looked as ravaged as she felt. She approached him immediately, and hugged him, and he sat at the head of the table as though etched in stone. It shocked her that he was sitting in her father’s chair, at his habitual place, and seemed totally at ease there, but she didn’t comment. It was his rightful place now. He was the lord of Belgrave Castle and the entire estate.

“Good morning, Tristan,” she said quietly as she sat down next to him. “Have you seen Papa yet?” He shook his head and then turned to look at her again.

“I’ll go in after breakfast. I was ravenous when I arrived.” She nodded, not knowing what to say. She could barely eat she was so bereft, and she was stunned that he hadn’t gone first to see their father. “Elizabeth will be here tonight. I told Hobson to have Mrs. White get their rooms ready—the girls are coming with her. Edward will come tomorrow. I thought we’d have the funeral on Sunday.” He said it matter-of-factly, like an ordinary dinner he was planning, not the burial of their father. He would be laid to rest in the family mausoleum, which was fortunate since the ground was frozen too hard to dig a grave. Her mother was in the mausoleum as well, along with Edward and Tristan’s mother, and several generations of Lathams before them.

Angélique went upstairs after breakfast and was shocked to see several housemaids airing out her father’s room, and putting clean linens on the bed. At first, she thought they were simply tidying up, and then she saw them bringing in vases of flowers from the hothouse, and lighting the fire, as though the room were going to be used that night. “Why are you doing all this?” she asked them. “There’s no need.” It made the room seem even sadder to keep it as though her father would be sleeping there that night, when he would never sleep there again.

“Mrs. White told us to get it ready for His Grace and the duchess,” the head maid Margaret said, as Angélique’s mind went blank, and she tried to comprehend what had just been said, and what it meant.

“They’re sleeping in here tonight?” Angélique asked in a whisper, and Margaret nodded, feeling sorry for her. Her oldest brother was losing no time stepping into his father’s shoes, even sleeping in his bed. The thought of it made Angélique shudder. She checked further and discovered that they were preparing one of the two best suites of rooms for her nieces, far nicer than the ones they usually stayed in when they came to Belgrave. The rooms were usually reserved for royal dignitaries who came to visit. They were losing no time making themselves at home.

She retired to her own suite then, and sat shaking in a chair for a little while, and reminded herself that she would have to make herself useful and assist them with whatever changes they wanted to make, but it all seemed so much too soon. Their father wasn’t even buried yet, and was still lying in state in the library. He had been dead for only a day. She steeled herself to go back downstairs, and Angélique watched her brother, with a serious expression, leaving the library after he had seen their father.

“By the way,” Tristan accosted her immediately with a chilly stare, “Elizabeth thought you might move to one of the smaller guest rooms. She wants the girls to feel at ease here, and Gwyneth has always liked the view from your suite.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This was her home, or it had been. Now it was his, and belonged to him, Elizabeth, and their daughters. She was a guest now, literally overnight. The changes her father had feared had already begun to happen.

“Of course. I’ll get it ready for her,” Angélique said demurely. “And the yellow suite is for Louisa?” she confirmed. It was their finest one. He knew it well since he and Elizabeth had normally slept there on their brief, infrequent visits to his father. Elizabeth always said the country bored them. Apparently, that was about to change as well.

Angélique didn’t ask him what room she was to sleep in, but chose a smaller room far down the hall from them, so as to have some privacy and not interfere. But before she could carry out the plan, Tristan spoke to her again. “Elizabeth thought you would be happier in one of the rooms upstairs.” There was a whole floor of smaller guest rooms there, which were less beautifully appointed and had some of their older furniture. Despite a fireplace in each room, they were usually drafty and cold. She was beginning to see now what her fate was going to be like at their hands, and moving to the Cottage as her father had requested for her in later years, was beginning to seem like a wise plan. She would wait to see how things worked once Elizabeth and the girls arrived, but keeping out of harm’s way in the Cottage might be better for everyone.

There was no way she could empty her room in a few hours, but she set to work immediately, clearing some space for Gwyneth in the hanging cupboards, emptying a chest of drawers, and putting away some of her papers to leave room on the desk. And she took the pouch with her fortune in it with her, and locked it in a drawer in the room upstairs. It was a small, cramped space with depressing furniture, and a view that overlooked the estate. The gardens were just beneath her, and she could see the first of the tenant farms in the distance, since the trees that ordinarily concealed it were bare. And the lake was frozen over. She was going to suggest ice skating to her nieces, the week after the funeral of course, if they were planning to stay. She wondered how soon she could move back to her room. She was going to do whatever Elizabeth wanted while she was there. There was no point getting on their wrong side so soon, or at all. She had to respect that this was their home now, and adjust to it as best she could.

After she put away her own things upstairs, with the help of one of the maids, she went back downstairs to inspect the bedrooms they’d be using. Mrs. White had seen to everything, and the rooms were impeccable. She hesitated in the doorway of her father’s room, and couldn’t bear to go in. She couldn’t understand how Elizabeth would want to sleep there, with her father-in-law so recently dead. And every time one of the servants addressed Tristan as “Your Grace,” Angélique had to steel herself not to flinch. It was hard to think of him as lord of everything now. But like it or not, he was. She had always known it would happen someday, just not so soon. Tristan was a dignified man, more than a little self-important, with none of the kindness of her father; but it would have been a tragedy if Edward had inherited the title and estate. He would have run it into the ground.

Tristan was planning to spend the week after the funeral with their father’s estate manager to better understand how it all worked. He had spent hours discussing it with his father, but he wanted to learn the nuts and bolts of it now, down to the last detail. He had every intention of running it responsibly, just differently than his father, whom he had always considered a soft touch, and too gentle and generous with his employees. Angélique had often noticed Tristan’s harshness with the servants, and the way he spoke to them, so unlike their father, who had been revered. Tristan preferred to rule by fear. And he had already decided he would cut back on what they spent to run the estate, and had planned it for a long time. He thought his father had far too many servants, and paid them much too well.

With the new duke very much in evidence, there was an obvious sense of malaise downstairs. He poked his nose into every nook and cranny that day, and asked Hobson a lot of questions about running the house. Hobson tried his best not to appear to take umbrage, but Angélique could see that the devoted old butler’s feathers were ruffled, though he hid it well from Tristan and was irreproachably polite.

It was the end of the afternoon when Elizabeth arrived in an enormous, very showy barouche-landau with the top down, drawn by four black horses, with two coachmen. She had both of her daughters with her, all of them wearing very grand dresses with large sweeping skirts, in somber black, with black gloves. Elizabeth was wearing a huge black hat with a veil, and a brace of black foxes around her shoulders. And the girls’ black hats looked as though they’d been made in Paris. Elizabeth spared no expense on their clothes, and loved wearing the latest fashions.

She swept into the main hall, appearing very grand, as she glanced around her and made a face. All of the servants had lined up and stood at attention outside in their thin clothes in the freezing cold. She didn’t seem to care, and left them standing there, when she walked in. And then she said loudly where Mrs. White could hear her, “I wonder how long it will take us to get the place clean.” The house was immaculate, and Mrs. White was very proud of how meticulously they kept it.

Like the servants, Angélique had greeted the new mistress of Belgrave at the door, and Elizabeth brushed past her, without kissing her or offering her condolences, and Gwyneth and Louisa gave her a haughty glance, as if to say she was of no importance anymore. Angélique was beginning to feel that way herself.

She took Gwyneth up to her suite, and told her she hoped she’d enjoy staying there, and Gwyneth looked at her and laughed.

“I’m moving into these rooms now, you know. My mother said I could. You can take the rest of your things tomorrow.” Angélique didn’t say a word. She would speak to Elizabeth about it herself. It would be the ultimate humiliation if Elizabeth intended to keep her in the small, dreary room upstairs, which hadn’t been redone in forty years, unlike her own suite of rooms, which had been completely redone three years before, on her fifteenth birthday, as a surprise from her father. They had gone to Italy to visit an old friend of his in Florence, and when they got back, everything was in place, and all her old girlhood furniture had been removed. It was a very elegant suite of rooms, all done in pink satin, with French furniture her father had bought for her in Paris.

Louisa walked into the room then, and gave her young aunt, only two years older than she was, another haughty look, full of disdain. Moving to the Cottage was becoming more appealing every minute. Elizabeth had brought her own maid with her, and another one for the girls, to tend to their clothes. And when Angélique went downstairs a little while later, Elizabeth was giving Mrs. White orders, and changing the menu for that night, which was going to be difficult for Mrs. Williams to conjure up so late in the day, although she was very creative. But she wasn’t a magician, and everyone on the staff was still shaken and upset about her father, and not operating in top form. Elizabeth was indifferent to their feelings and wanted what she wanted, now! She explained that they all had delicate stomachs and couldn’t eat country food, which made Mrs. Williams flush nearly purple when Elizabeth said it, since the cook prided herself on her sophisticated food, often learned from other cooks she knew, who worked in grand houses in London, or French recipes she copied down from magazines. She did not serve “country food.”

It appeared as though the change was not going to be easy for the staff either, and there was nothing Angélique could do. As long as Tristan and his family were in residence, she felt she couldn’t run the house and give orders. It was no longer her home. She was a barely tolerated guest, in what had been her domain only hours before.

Supper that night was a tense affair for Angélique, while Elizabeth talked openly about all the changes she was going to make, her plans for redecoration, and the furniture she wanted to move around. It gave Angélique the uncomfortable feeling that she was standing on shifting sands. And both her nieces were rude to the servants during the meal, and no one corrected them. After supper, the girls went upstairs to what had been Angélique’s suite, without even saying goodnight to her. And Tristan and Elizabeth retired to the study, did not invite her to join them, and firmly closed the door in her face, after saying they had private matters to discuss.

Angélique went into the library for a few minutes to sit with her father, gently touched his hand, kissed his cold gray cheek, and went upstairs to the room they’d assigned to her, where she burst into tears, and lay sobbing on the bed until she heard someone knocking. It was Mrs. White, who had come to see how she was. There had been much discussion at the servants’ dining table about the changes of rooms, and Mrs. White had discreetly warned the younger maids to be careful when Sir Edward arrived the next day. They got her meaning and several of them giggled. He had cornered more than one of them on previous occasions, and had even caused one or two to be dismissed after he left, for indulging his whims and giving in to him. Despite his bad behavior, he was a handsome man. Mrs. White did not tolerate that kind of behavior from the maids, although she had never explained it to His Grace, and didn’t need to.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. White asked Angélique, with deep concern. They both knew how difficult this was, losing her father, and having to deal with Tristan and his wife and daughters, who so clearly disrespected her, and resented her existence, and the favored position she had had with the late duke. He could do nothing to protect her now, any more than the servants could support her in any meaningful way, except to feel sorry for her, which they did. She had been nothing but kind to them all her life, like her father, and they were very fond of her. They had all spoken openly in the servants’ hall that night about what an arrogant beast the new duchess was.

Angélique nodded, and tried to smile bravely through her tears. Mrs. White had always been motherly to her, and had been at Belgrave even before the duke married Marie-Isabelle, and she had thought her a lovely girl. Mrs. White had been one of the first to hold Angélique in her arms after she was born, and had given her a warm hug whenever possible as a child.

“It’s all so different,” Angélique said cautiously, embarrassed to complain. She didn’t want to seem rude.

“It was bound to be different,” Mrs. White said, standing next to her bed and gently stroking her hair, “but not quite so soon. They’re in an awful hurry to let us all know that Belgrave is theirs now.” Angélique silently agreed with her, and looked up at the older woman, grateful for the visit. To Fiona White, Angélique was the child she’d never had. She had given up marriage and children for a life of service. She was the daughter of one of the tenant farmers, her family had served the Dukes of Westerfield for generations, and she was proud to do the same. Achieving the post of head housekeeper had been a major accomplishment for her, and one which meant a great deal to her. “They’ll get tired of it soon enough, and go back to London,” she said with a smile. “I can’t see them staying in the country for long. They’ll be bored.” But from what the girls had said at supper, Angélique had the uncomfortable feeling that they were planning to stay.

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’m sure I am, and then everything will go back to normal.” Except that Angélique knew her father would no longer be there, which altered everything for her, far more than it did for the servants. The new duke and his family needed the servants, but they had already made it clear that they didn’t need or want Angélique. She was only Tristan’s sister, by a wife he had hated from the first. All they wanted was to put her in the attic somewhere—they had lost no time commandeering her suite.

Mrs. White stayed for a few minutes and then went back downstairs. Hobson waylaid her as soon as he saw her. “How is she?” he asked about Angélique, his worry evident. He had felt fatherly toward her the moment he saw her as a baby.

“She’s upset, and who can blame her?” Mrs. White answered. “Her father is barely cold in the library, and they’re already treating her like one of us.” He nodded his agreement. He was horrified that she’d been put out of her rooms, and even more so that Tristan and Elizabeth were planning to sleep in the late duke’s room so soon.

“His Grace wouldn’t like what’s going on,” Hobson said ominously, but the Grace he meant was gone, and the one who had taken his place seemed to have no heart, particularly where his half-sister was concerned.

Angélique lay in bed for hours that night, trying to absorb everything that had happened in the past two days. The room she was sleeping in was freezing cold, and the windows didn’t close properly. An icy wind blew at her all night, and she was frozen stiff when she came down in the morning.

Angélique joined Tristan in the dining room for breakfast, and he said not a word to her as he read the newspaper. Elizabeth and her daughters were having breakfast in bed, something Angélique never did. She’d had breakfast in the dining room with her father every day, where they chatted and laughed, talked about the books they were reading, or world events, and their plans for the day. Tristan had nothing to say to her until after breakfast, when he reminded her to return any family jewels her father had given her, except for the ones he had bought for her mother. Angélique handed him the jewelry half an hour later with a stoic expression.

After that, she spent the morning quietly making sure that the house was running smoothly, and trying to stay out of Elizabeth and the girls’ way, which she succeeded in doing until the midday meal, which they referred to as dinner. Elizabeth had ordered a complicated meal, which Mrs. Williams had managed to perfection. Angélique was pleased. They weren’t the bumpkins Elizabeth thought.

Shortly after dinner, Edward arrived, in an elegant chariot, drawn by four fast horses, with two of his best horses following behind. He had a sword case on the back. He didn’t trust his father’s stables, the horses in it were always far too tame in his opinion, and he planned to do some riding while he was there. He disliked country life even more than his brother and sister-in-law. He found it intolerably boring, which was why he seldom came. He had more entertaining things to do in London.

He ignored Angélique entirely and was satisfied with the luxurious suite of rooms his sister-in-law had assigned to him. He spent the rest of the afternoon out riding while the locals continued to come to pay their respects in a steady stream. Two footmen stood at the front door, and two more were in the library, with the late duke, as people filed by to see him. The tenant farmers came in their Sunday best, to pay their respects. They stood beside Angélique’s father for a long time, whispering in hushed tones, and many of them were crying when they left.

All in all it was another exhausting day, and Angélique retired to bed with several hot bricks wrapped in towels to warm her, covered the window with blankets, and made a blazing fire to keep herself warm, but the night was no better than the one before, and the next morning was her father’s funeral in the chapel on the estate. The local vicar performed the service, and Phillip Latham, Duke of Westerfield, was laid to rest in the mausoleum, with his parents, grandparents, and both wives. Angélique stayed there for a few more minutes after the others went back to the house for something to eat. Several of Phillip’s local friends had come for the service, and to share a meal with them. By the end of the meal, Angélique felt drained of every ounce of blood, and energy. And when the last guest left, and her female relatives went upstairs, Tristan asked her to join him in the library, where her father had lain only hours before. Edward was bantering with his nieces on their way upstairs after pointedly ignoring Angélique since he’d arrived, and snubbing her every chance he got, incredibly rudely. Elizabeth had called for Mrs. White about the next day’s meals, the results of which were to be conveyed to Mrs. Williams. Elizabeth was still not satisfied with the cooking, and had already mentioned to Mrs. White that she might replace the cook and bring someone from London, although Mrs. Williams had worked there for twenty years.

“I wanted to speak to you for a moment,” Tristan said casually, as Angélique tried not to remember her father lying in the room. She wondered what Tristan was going to say to her, and for a moment considered if he was going to suggest himself that she move into the Cottage. They had already given her the clear impression that they thought she was in the way. And moving her into the Cottage, even though earlier than her father had planned it, might be a plausible solution, for her too. She couldn’t continue to sleep in the drafty upstairs bedroom for much longer, without getting sick, and there was no room for her things, and no place to put them. She had had to take over another of the smaller bedrooms for her clothes, since Gwyneth had insisted she empty the closets in her old suite, to make room for her elaborate gowns.

“Elizabeth and I have been talking,” Tristan began. “I know what an awkward situation this must be for you, and to be honest, it’s confusing for the servants as well. Father let you run the house for him, but there’s no need for you to do that anymore. Elizabeth is going to reorganize everything and get it running smoothly.” Just hearing him say it was something of a slap in the face, as though she didn’t know what she was doing, because she was only eighteen. But she had done a fine job of it for several years, more than many young women her age who were married, and had never even seen a house or staff as big as this. “It will be embarrassing for you to find yourself with nothing to do here, and we don’t want them confused in their loyalties.”

“I’m sure they won’t be,” Angélique said nervously. “They are very clear that it’s your house now, and Elizabeth is going to run it. They always expected this to happen. We all did. And Papa had been failing for a long time.” Now that she thought about it, his death was heartbreaking but not really a surprise. She just hadn’t wanted to see the end coming. “And of course I won’t interfere.”

“Precisely. That’s what we have in mind too.”

“Papa thought that eventually I should move into the Cottage. Maybe I should do that now,” she suggested hesitantly, thinking it would be a relief for all of them, and Elizabeth and the girls would be pleased to get her out of the house.

“Of course not.” Tristan dismissed the idea summarily. “A girl your age can’t live alone in a house, and actually we have plans for it. Elizabeth’s mother has been feeling poorly, and might benefit from some country air. Elizabeth wants to redo that house for her.

“In fact, we had another idea for you. As you know, Angélique, our father didn’t provide for you. He couldn’t. He suggested an amount that I might give you as an allowance, but quite honestly, I would be irresponsible if I did so. Father was getting old, and some of his ideas were the ramblings of an old man. I cannot dilute what I need to run the estate by giving you an allowance, and it would be unfair to my own daughters if I did. He set aside a sum for Edward, but in fact, he left nothing outright to you, and he couldn’t. The entail on the estate doesn’t allow for it—everything comes to me. And I feel sure that you don’t want to become a burden to us.”

“No, not at all,” Angélique interjected, embarrassed, not sure where he was going, since he had ruled out the possibility of her living in the Cottage.

“The sad fact, my dear, is that young women in your position have no choice but to go to work. And there is very little you can do. You’re not trained to be a teacher. And well-born young women with no means at their disposal become governesses, and live under the protection of the families they work for. You have no experience as a governess, but there’s no reason why you can’t be a nanny, and I’m sure in time, you could work your way up to being a governess, as you mature. Elizabeth and I want to help you. I spoke to some very nice people I know, when Father began to fall ill, seeing this eventuality looming toward us. And they are willing to do you a great favor. They have agreed to take you on as a nanny, for a small salary at first since you have no experience.

“They live in Hampshire, have four young children, and are very pleasant people. Her father was a baron, and her husband has no title, but they run a very respectable household. Not as large as this, of course, but they’re willing to pay you a wage to take care of their children. And really, my dear, there’s nothing else you can do. I’ve already told them you’d take it. I’m very pleased for you. I think this is an ideal solution for all of us. I know you’ll be well cared for, you won’t be a burden on us, and you won’t have the awkwardness of staying on here now that Father is gone. I actually think you’ll be very happy.” He smiled at her as though he had just bestowed a wonderful gift on her, and she should be immensely grateful.

For a moment, Angélique thought she might faint, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. She steeled her spine and sat up straighter, although she was deathly pale. Her father had been right not to trust him to take care of her after he was gone. Tristan was a snake. He had promised their father he would provide for her, and instead he was turning her out of their home, to go and work as a nanny for strangers, people she had never even met. It was almost beyond belief, but not quite, knowing how much Tristan, Edward, and Elizabeth had always hated her, and resented the close relationship she had with her father. Now they had set on her like wolves.

“We have everything arranged,” he assured her, and she was sure he did. “You won’t need most of your things—you can leave them here. We’ll put them in the attic for you. You can send for them if you find you want them, but I doubt you will. Elaborate gowns would be of no use to you—you’ll be wearing a simple dress suitable for a nanny, and an apron, when you’re on duty. We were going to tell you in a week or two, but apparently their nanny is leaving and they need you sooner. The timing is quite perfect, really. You don’t have to stay, grieving over Father. You’ll be busy at the Fergusons’, and will have to think of other things.” According to him, everything about it was perfect, except for the sad reality of what he was doing. He was betraying his own sister, and sending her out into the world without a penny as far as he knew, to be a nanny. It was the ultimate revenge for how much their father had loved her. He had finally gotten even, after resenting her all her life. His time had come, and he was simply getting rid of her, without giving her a second thought.

“When do they expect me to start?” she managed to choke out as she stared at him in horror.

“Tomorrow, actually. You’ll leave in the morning. I’ll send you to Hampshire in the small chaise—not Father’s carriage, of course. You don’t want to embarrass yourself by arriving in a formal carriage or the coach. You’re a working woman now, Angélique. I’m sure you’ll do a very good job, and wind up as a governess one day. You can teach the children French.”

He had always hated the fact that she spoke another language, and he didn’t, but he had never bothered to learn one either. He had been jealous of everything she had and was, and had waited all these years to take it all away from her, and now he had the power to do so. The entail played right into his hands since he had inherited everything, and had chosen to give her nothing. She understood now why her father had given her the pouch with the money before he died. He had been afraid something like this would happen, and it was the only way he could provide for her, and he hadn’t trusted Tristan to do it. But even her father couldn’t protect her now from having to be a nanny, a servant in someone else’s home, and being forced from her own. He had told her not to use the money frivolously or until she truly had to, and for now, she wouldn’t. She would keep it until she needed to provide a home for herself one day, or had no other form of income, which could happen too, if they sacked her or she left them. And she was much too young to buy a house now and would have no idea how to do so. They were sending her away in a matter of hours, with no time for her to prepare or make an alternate plan.

For now, thanks to her brother’s machinations, she had a job as a nanny, and presumably she would be safe in her employers’ home. She would do it for as long as she had to, and then find some other way to support herself. There had to be more to life, and her destiny, than this. It sounded like being forced into slavery to her.

“So, we’re all set, then,” he said, standing up to indicate that their meeting was over. “You’ll have a lot to do tonight, packing. There’s no need to say goodbye to Elizabeth and the girls—they told me to say goodbye to you. They won’t be up in the morning when you leave.” So they had banished her. She had been dismissed. Her life at Belgrave was over. It belonged to them now. And there was no room in their life or home for her. He had always thought that their father had spoiled her, and he had found a job as a nanny to put her in her place. She knew as she said goodnight to him that she would never be back here again. She would never see her home again. It would remain like a distant dream, with the memories of her father and the wonderful times they had shared. All of that was over now. Tristan and his evil wife had dispossessed her, and she had no choice but to try and survive in the world and life they had cast her into. Perhaps they thought that losing everything would destroy her, but she knew she couldn’t let it. She had to fight for her survival, whatever it took, in spite of them.

Tristan walked up the stairs to their father’s bedroom, as she watched him. Elizabeth would be waiting for him, and he could tell her that he had “taken care of it.” The matter of Angélique had been solved, with the end result they wanted. And Angélique had never hated anyone as she did her own brother that night.

Instead of going upstairs after Tristan left her, she went downstairs to see Mrs. White. She was just locking her small office next to Hobson’s, and they were saying goodnight to each other, as Angélique came running down the stairs, her eyes wide, her face pale. She had to tell them she was leaving, and Mrs. White could see instantly that something terrible had happened to her.

“What is it, child?” She didn’t seem like Lady Angélique at that moment, but like the little girl Mrs. White had known all her life.

“They’re sending me away to work as a nanny,” Angélique blurted out, still shaking from everything she’d just heard. Mrs. White’s eyes were shocked, and Hobson couldn’t help but overhear her.

“They’re doing what? That’s impossible! His Grace would never allow such a thing!” he said in a horrified tone, but he and the housekeeper both knew what the entail meant, and all the implications of it. She was truly at Tristan’s mercy, and he had devised a clever plan to simply get rid of her, rather than take care of her. He had waited eighteen years for this moment. The two devoted servants couldn’t believe the cruelty of it, to lose her father who had loved her so much, and her home only days after.

“They’ll have to change their minds and bring you back at some point,” Mrs. White said hopefully, but even she didn’t think it was likely. Tristan was a bad man, and his wife was a hard-hearted, selfish, greedy woman.

Angélique melted into the older woman’s arms then, as Hobson turned so the two women wouldn’t see the tears rolling down his cheeks. He couldn’t bear what Tristan and his wife were doing, but there was no way to help this child who had never been out in the world on her own. And somehow she would have to endure it.

“I’ll be all right,” she said bravely, thinking of the money her father had given her. But she wasn’t going to touch it yet. Her father had told her not to, although he couldn’t have known what Tristan had in store for her. Even he, in his worst fears, couldn’t imagine treachery to this degree.

“You’ll stay in touch, won’t you?” Mrs. White asked her, looking desperately worried.

“Of course. I’ll write to you as soon as I get there. Will you write to me?” Angélique asked her with pleading eyes.

“You know I will.” They hugged again, and Angélique went upstairs to pack for her new life. She put all but a few of her beautiful dresses in trunks, along with her books, and a few favorite possessions she knew she couldn’t take with her. In the bags she was planning to bring, she packed a small portrait of her father and a miniature of her mother, painted on ivory, a few treasured books, as many sensible dresses as she could put into her valises, with a hatbox full of sober bonnets, and a fan that had been her mother’s that she had always loved as a child. Her mind was whirling as she finished packing, and she lay in bed all night in the freezing room, feeling like she was going to the guillotine like her mother’s ancestors in the morning.

She had breakfast in the servants’ dining room; only a few of them were up. And when she left, Hobson and Mrs. White saw her into the small chaise, like loving parents. They were the only ones she had left. And as the chaise pulled away from Belgrave Castle in the morning fog, she didn’t see her older brother watching her from his bedroom window with a look of satisfaction. He had done it. The French whore’s daughter was gone, and Belgrave and all its land was his now. He had waited a lifetime for it.

Angélique was looking at the outline of her home against the morning sky as she left, and both Hobson and Mrs. White cried after the chaise rolled away. They wondered how Tristan and Elizabeth would explain her sudden disappearance.

As Angélique bumped along toward Hampshire and the Fergusons, with a coachman and no footmen, the daughter of the last duke of Westerfield faced her future with fear, dignity, and courage. She had her father’s money locked in a small trunk she had brought with her. And she thanked him silently yet again for the immeasurable gift he had given her. It would provide her with a home one day, and if she absolutely had to, and was frugal, she would live on it in her later years, and might have to. But not yet. For now, she would have the nanny job at the Fergusons’ and a roof over her head.

She had no idea where the future would lead her or what it would look like, but whatever happened, she was determined to survive it.

Belgrave Castle was strangely silent that morning, as though the life and soul had gone out of it. Everyone working there knew that they had entered a very dark time, without their beloved duke and his daughter. And in answer to where she was, Hobson and Mrs. White said nothing except “She’s gone.” And Tristan Latham, the new Duke of Westerfield, said absolutely nothing. Only the servants of Belgrave Castle knew that they were mourning both the father and daughter as they went about their work, wearing their black armbands with heavy hearts and tears in their eyes. Their beloved Lady Angélique was gone, and they knew they would never see her again. Her brother had orchestrated it perfectly.