By the time she reached Stokingham in the northern corner of Yorkshire, Octavia’s muscles cried out for movement. She found relief in simply planting one foot in front of the other on solid ground.

Her first stop after London had been an old coaching inn in Leeds, but she’d found no proof that the Duke of Strathmoor or a Major Killian Graves had lodged at the Bull and Lion, which Lord Cecil’s dossier mentioned. If the proprietors were prevaricating, they were shockingly skilled at doing so. And unmovable. Tavia tried a woeful tale of seeking her long-lost cousin, but they hadn’t budged an inch from insisting they’d never seen the man in her photograph of the duke.

Luckily, tenacity was a trait she’d honed as an investigator. By questioning a few patrons at the inn, she’d found a grizzled man who directed her to a lodging house near the edge of town. After another ruse, this time about seeking the scoundrel who’d wronged her entirely fictional sister, the stout middle-aged proprietress advised her to speak to a land agent in nearby Headingley. The thin long-faced man had been quite as reticent as everyone else she’d questioned, but he finally responded to monetary inducement. Lord Cecil had provided an envelope filled with five-pound notes for just such a purpose.

Stokingham, the land agent insisted, was where she would find the man he knew as Major Graves. Her train journey to the northern village had seemed never-ending, and Tavia spent the hours studying Lord Cecil’s trove of documents until her eyes grew chalk dry. She’d learned the British army major she sought had been a survivor of the infamous Battle of Maiwand during the Second Anglo-Afghan War. Now, not only was he suspected of murdering Neville Forsythe, a man to whom he was connected via a fellow army officer, he’d also refused to claim the dukedom he’d inherited from his brother a year before.

Many letters were included in the dossier. Most were typed copies, but one was a handwritten note from the monarch herself. Tavia wondered if it was a copy or an original which had never reached its intended recipient. Queen Victoria commanded the new duke to return to Sussex, where his ancestral estate required his management, and to London, where he was expected to take his seat in Parliament and serve as the queen’s advisor at court.

The duke’s relationship with the queen proved inscrutable. Tavia sensed something more lurking between the typed lines of official reports and the looping cursive of the queen’s hand. The man had served in the military for years, but perhaps he’d also done more. One letter bore the heading of the Home Office. The sender identified himself as a colleague of Major Graves, yet Tavia found nothing indicating the duke had ever worked for that particular branch of Her Majesty’s government.

Despite the clippings, letters, and photographs at her disposal, the man remained elusive. From his military history to his connection to the queen, many unanswered questions lingered in Tavia’s mind.

As she made her way into the village of Stokingham, she pulled Margaret’s enormous beribboned straw hat down lower over her hair. A fine mist had begun to fall, and the swirling gray clouds overhead boded a coming downpour.

According to the land agent, she’d find the lost duke at Finsbury Hall, a dilapidated country house west of the village. He also insisted the estate was not owned by the Strathmoors, but that was as Tavia expected. A duke in hiding would be a fool to retire to any of the family’s known holdings if he didn’t wish to be found.

Approaching the estate stealthily might prove a challenge, particularly if villagers rarely had cause to visit. A man eager to conceal himself would keep an eye out for intruders.

As she crested a small rise, a broad, hulking limestone edifice came into view. Even from miles away, the damage to the country house’s facade was noticeable. According to her informant, a good portion of Finsbury Hall had been ruined in a decades-old blaze.

Kneeling in the grass, Tavia searched her traveling satchel for the spyglass her father had gifted her on her twelfth birthday. Extending the brass body, she peered through the lens, sweeping across the estate for any signs of life.

Nothing. Not even a stray lamb or goat grazed the enormous field west of the building. Every window was shuttered, and she couldn’t detect any light or movement inside or out of the house.

As she continued scanning, a little gasp escaped. A small single-story building squatted about half a mile from the main estate. No doubt an old carriage house or gamekeeper’s cottage. To Tavia, it seemed the perfect spot from which to observe the duke’s comings and goings.

Scrambling down the hill, she made her way toward the structure. She slowed her pace as she approached, pausing at the threshold to listen for any sound inside. Judging by the moss-covered door, she suspected the little building had fallen into disuse, much like the estate it once served. Dust billowed up and cobwebs caught at her hat as she entered. She pressed a finger to her nose to stifle a sneeze.

“Don’t ya take another step, lassie.” The man’s voice was far less frightening than the gun muzzle pressed against her back. A rifle, she suspected, from its weight.

“I meant no harm, sir.”

“Turn about and let me get a look at you.”

The hard press of metal fell away, but Tavia moved slowly, taking care not to rile the armed man. “I’m a stranger to Stokingham, sir. Heard word in the village pub there might be work to be had at the Finsbury estate.”

“Seekin’ a post, are thee?” The short older man with an unkempt beard and bloodshot eyes assessed her from bonnet to boot, finally flipping his rifle up to plant the barrel against his shoulder.

“Indeed. I’ve a character from my last employer.” After slowly opening her satchel, she moved a fresh day dress and underclothes aside to get a clear view of one of her snub-nosed revolvers at the bottom. She lifted out a letter she’d written herself, attesting to her good character and skills as a housemaid.

“Wot else lurks in that bag, lassie?”

“Nothing to interest you, sir. A change of clothes.” Tavia clutched the battered leather carryall to her side. In addition to sundry weapons, the traveling case held the dossier detailing everything she knew about the man she’d come to find.

“I’ll be the judge.” The man stuck out a stocky arm and gripped the edge of her bag in his pudgy fist.

Tavia held tight, pulling against his grip. She tried to sidestep around him, but he lowered his weapon to block her way.

“Thee can be on your way, lass, but not afore I see if thee filched aught from the cottage.”

Tavia sucked in a deep breath, ducked under his rifle barrel, and bolted forward, yanking the bag from his grasp. She slipped through the door and started off across the field. Her heavy traveling skirt and the tall grass were a terrible combination. Lifting her knees higher, she struggled to pick up speed.

She hadn’t gotten far when a shot rang out. Her heart stopped. Dropping to the ground, Tavia cast a glance over her shoulder.

The old man held his weapon high, smoke still puffing from the barrel he pointed toward the sky. “Might be too old to run, lass, but I can make a ruckus. My aim’s not bad either.”

He wouldn’t shoot her, surely. The craggy-faced codger seemed almost amiable, if doggedly determined to detain her. Then again, the field toward town stretched for miles, much of it uphill. Across the treeless expanse, she’d be a frightfully easy target.

Taking advantage of her hesitation, the old man trudged forward and ripped the satchel from her arms. He immediately opened the bag to rifle through its contents, ignoring her cry of protest.

When his eyes bulged, Tavia tensed and replayed her father’s judo training in her head. She had no wish to harm the old man, but she was prepared to defend herself.

“Don’t know who thee be, lassie.” His skin paled as he withdrew the photograph of the duke in military garb. He held up the image for a closer look before gaping at her, wide-eyed. “But thee are no housemaid.”

A scuffle outside his bedchamber woke Killian Graves from the shallowest of sleeps, and he punched a fist against the carved headboard of his bed.

Like most nights, slumber had been an elusive coquette, seducing his eyelids into weightiness as she promised the solace of healing rest, but dancing just out of reach. Then disappearing entirely when the memories came. Into the quiet of night, the roar of cavalry rushed in. Horses’ hooves pounding up dust on a blistering July day. Gunpowder reeking in his nose. Dying men crying out, their voices echoing endlessly in his head.

Hours of sleep never came in succession. A few minutes here or a fitful doze there were all he’d been able to achieve in years. He’d taken to grasping at any bit of rest he could find. The closest he ever came to drowsing was while reading. This afternoon his eyes had refused to stay open and he’d taken to his bed midday.

Of course, the moment he’d reclined, his eyes shot open and he’d spent hours analyzing the ceiling. During his months at Finsbury Hall, he’d memorized its terrain of cracks. Yet when he did manage a few minutes of slumber, he was shocked to wake and find smoke-grimed plaster above his head rather than the dusty canvas of an army tent.

Some days, he was disappointed to wake up at all.

“Quiet that bloody hound.” He pressed a hand to his forehead, instantly regretting his shout. Especially since the effort had been wasted. The tenacious beast continued to whine and scratch at the door, and the unrelenting ringing in his head clanged like enormous cymbals.

A moment later, his housekeeper clattered inside, attempting to balance a tray against her ample belly while holding back her determined Irish wolfhound, Grady, with a foot across the threshold.

“Tea and kippers for your dinner, sir.”

“Coffee. No food.” His stomach roiled at the scent of smoked fish.

“No coffee to be had,” she said heartlessly. After setting the tray onto a table at his bedside, she reached around to rub her back. “Mr. Teague was due back from the village with provisions, but he’s nowhere in sight.” She grimaced as she kneaded a spot near her apron tie. “Heard his rifle go off, so perhaps he’ll be bringing a nice bit of venison in for stew.”

Killian pushed off the bed, casting aside the coverlet. How had he slept through the sound of gunfire? Perhaps his ears had dismissed the shot as a memory, like the cannon blasts that rang in his head night after sleepless night.

“You should fetch the doctor to see about your back, Mrs. Teague.”

“It’s only age, me lord. Old Doc Evans cannae cure that.”

The old couple had no notion of his family and title, but Mrs. Teague insisted on adding the honorific to most replies. The Teagues and Grady had come with Finsbury Hall when Killian rented the broken-down pile. She was from Scotland and he was from Ireland. At some point, they’d married and found their way into service at Finsbury. The couple were all that remained of a once sizable staff. Together, they ensured he didn’t starve or drown in the dust that seemed ever-present in the high-ceilinged rooms. His bedchamber was the one space he insisted Mrs. Teague keep tidy.

Especially since he spent so much damned time wallowing within its four walls.

The room had barely escaped the flames that consumed much of the house, but the smoke had turned its walls a sooty gray. He liked the dingy color. It matched his mood, and the black hole where his heart had once resided.

“Fetch the doctor here tomorrow. That is a command, Mrs. Teague.”

She arched both dusky brows but nodded agreeably as she poured his tea. “I’ll ask Niall to see about the doctor, soon as I find him. He’s been gone that long. I worry he’s hied off and shot himself again.”

“Again?”

“Oh aye. Lost a toe last time, he did.”

Killian scrubbed a hand across his face. “So you’re saying he’s dangerous.”

The housekeeper offered him a cherubic grin. “Only to himself.”

“And the local grouse. And possibly a deer.” From what he understood, Teague had been the gamekeeper when Finsbury Hall flourished. Since the owners abandoned the estate, taking the rest of the staff with them, stubborn old Teague had become a man of all work. He even tried his best to serve as valet, despite Killian’s protests.

“No doubt he’ll return soon,” she said on a fretful sigh, moving toward the tall bedchamber window. Throwing back the drape, she stared out across the estate’s endless fields of meadow grass.

“Shall I go and have a look for him?” He made a point of getting out in the fresh air at least once a week, though he preferred wandering the fields once night had fallen. Hours when watchful village eyes would be less likely to observe the hall’s reclusive new master.

“Oh, would you, sir? Always fear his heart’s given out on him.”

Killian cast her a long assessing gaze. She wasn’t above conniving to get him out of the house. She’d done so before. But he detected genuine concern shadowing her eyes today.

He matched her sigh with one of his own and bent to pull on his boots.

“Shall I bring up the razor and strop when I fetch you some bathing water?”

“Unnecessary. I’m fit to be seen as I am.” Killian shrugged into his vest and coat, leaving both unbuttoned. “I’m going to find your husband, Mrs. Teague, not to a country ball.”

The plump old woman nodded in her obsequious way, though one doubtful brow winged high on her forehead. She knew the truth as well as he did.

Rusticating had turned him wild. He’d discarded politeness and civility. Other than the Teagues, he spoke to no one but his dead brother, Dorian, whose faded photograph stared back at him from atop his corner desk.

“Teague won’t mind what I look like,” he said defensively, glancing into the looking glass over the mantel. His hair hung below his shoulders, a thick, trimmed beard covered the lower half of his face, and his threadbare coat was in sore need of mending. “Don’t bother with carrying water upstairs either. I’ll wash in the kitchen basin.”

“Will you indeed, me lord?” There wasn’t an ounce of pleasure in her question. While he shooed her out of the upstairs rooms aside from one weekly dust and sweep of his bedchamber, the old woman insisted on keeping the kitchen spotless, ruling the lower portion of the house as her own domain.

“Perhaps I’ll fetch Doctor Evans when I go out to find Teague.” He started out the door, the wolfhound at his heels, and heard Mrs. Teague grumbling behind him.

In a corner of the kitchen, he filled a basin with warm water that had been boiled for tea and splashed his face. After dirtying one of Mrs. Teague’s neatly folded linen towels, he grabbed an apple from a brimming bowl of fruit and headed for the front of the cavernous house.

“I do hope he’s not got himself into any mischief.” Miraculously, the aged housekeeper had managed to scurry down to meet him at the front door, holding his overcoat out for him. “Rain’s coming. Might need this, my lord.”

“Thank you.” He rarely said the two simple words. Not nearly as often as the overworked woman and her husband deserved. The shocked look on her lined face pleased him, especially when her cheeks wobbled before widening in a grin.

How many years had it been since he’d made a woman smile? Or even spoken to one other than Mrs. Teague? Months. Years. Too bloody long. He tried not to think of what else he missed about the company of a woman. Distractions and entanglements would only complicate the unencumbered life he craved.

A breeze lashed rain droplets against his face as he stepped into the grass surrounding the estate. Moisture fell from the dusky orange sky in a light mist. Tucking his coat collar up, he ducked his head and started toward the edge of Finsbury land, where Teague maintained a gamekeeper’s cottage for storage.

The thick knee-high field grass caught at Killian’s trouser legs. He’d need to find a scythe and mow it all down. The exertion would do him good. It was one of the aspects of army life he missed. The work, the busyness, the bone-deep weariness at day’s end. Then falling into a camp bed at night, too exhausted for memories and regret.

Movement ahead snagged his gaze.

Teague stood near his dilapidated cottage, waving his arms frantically in the air. His rifle bobbed on a strap across his shoulder. Killian couldn’t detect any injury, but even from a furlong away, one fact was clear.

Niall Teague had found trouble.