PROLOGUE
Nexham Estate,
Several miles from London,
February 1812
“Come on, little brother. You’re falling behind. No stomach for the kill?”
Stephen Forsyth ignored the coldly mocking words and merely smiled at Gregory, Viscount Hallmere. If it hadn’t been Stephen’s hunt-loving sibling’s twenty-eighth birthday, there was no way in hell he’d be freezing his balls off chasing an unlucky scrap of orange fur through the woods, but that information remained on a strictly need to know basis.
“Kill?” he replied crisply, shifting imperceptibly on his rock-hard leather saddle. “Unlikely. Unless the fox is betrayed by an unscrupulous relative, or perishes of old age.”
“Why, Stephen. Whatever are you implying?”
“Not implying. Stating as a fact our host’s habits of frequent brandy breaks and bellows of ‘Tally-Ho’ does tend to give the prey adequate warning to flee.”
His brother’s thin lips twitched. The start of a smile? Thank God. A man with such dark hair, heavy-lidded brown eyes and massive shoulders really needed a lighter expression to avoid unnerving the general public.
Unfortunately it quickly disappeared.
“Now, now,” Gregory said instead, “The Nexham lands are prime hunting ground. So get a move on. The sooner we’re done here, the sooner I can introduce you around. As you’re finally properly educated and travelled, it’s past time you put that remarkable brain of yours to work. I have a project that will suit admirably.”
As Gregory expertly turned his horse and galloped ahead to the next clearing, Stephen clenched his fist in triumph. Not just a rare compliment, an invitation he’d long been coveting to join his supremely accomplished, highly respected brother in political and philanthropic affairs as well. Finally he could make a name for himself beyond the Earl of Westleigh’s spare, but more than that, perhaps now he and Gregory might at last regain the camaraderie they had shared as children. The four-year age gap hadn’t mattered then, but Cambridge then an extended Grand Tour had restricted contact more recently. Maybe that was why Gregory had become so bloody detached.
Stephen grinned, altogether in charity with the world. Not even a numb backside, frozen extremities, or many miles between him, a glass of excellent whisky and the sleep-warmed curves of a certain young widow, could ruin such a momentous occasion.
“C’mon, girl,” he said cheerfully to his borrowed mare. Despite being too small for a six foot four rider, she was doing an excellent job and he leaned down to give her an encouraging pat. “Let’s away.”
“Son, a moment, please.”
Stephen sighed and glanced up as Andrew Forsyth, Earl of Westleigh came to a halt beside him. Probably his future mirror image, too bad their personalities were as opposite as their dark hair, dark eyes, and broad-shouldered build were alike.
“Too long, sir. The sooner someone in this hunting party actually spots a fox, the sooner we can all go and thaw out beside a fire.”
His father grimaced. “Hardly, they prefer to circle like the vultures they are.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Stephen. Gentlemen speak like gentlemen at all times.”
He gritted his teeth at the familiar rebuke, yet his father’s earlier comment was too startling to let pass. “Yes, sir. But what did you mean? I’m just about to meet Gregory’s friends. Actually, he’s invited me to—”
“No. I forbid you to fraternize with that crowd, they are bad news. All of them. You stay with your own set. A little mayhem is one thing, but-”
“Bad news?” Stephen interjected incredulously. Was his stuffed-shirt father tipsy? Gregory was a dream heir, who would no doubt soon cross off his last key duty and marry some impeccably well-bred chit before siring several impeccable children. Besides, at twenty-four, surely even a second son was old—and intelligent—enough to make his own character judgments. “Father?”
“Never mind,” said Andrew irritably. “Just—”
Crack.
The gunshot echoed in the lush green wood, quickly followed by a faint swishing sound, like something hurtling through the undergrowth away from them.
“Damnation,” said Stephen, biting back several far choicer expletives. “Shooting now? Better not be Nexham, our so-called Master of the Hunt barely grasps left and right. If he puts a bullet in his foot, we’ll never get home to Mama’s party.”
“We must. She’s arranged all Gregory’s favorites and piles of gifts to open. Told her not to, that he’s a grown man, but I was snippily informed all birthdays are special and to be home by six o’clock sharp if we knew what was good for us. Infernal woman.”
Stephen smothered a snort at the token grumble. Everyone knew, even after nearly three decades of marriage, that the stern, House of Lords’ lion had one weakness: Jane, his blonde whirlwind countess. “Indeed. So—”
“Lord Westleigh!”
At the frantic hail, they both swung around to see one of Nexham’s men burst into the small clearing.
“Yes?” said his father, brow furrowing at the footman’s expression. “What’s the trouble, lad?”
“Come quickly, m’lord! It’s Hallmere. He’s been shot!”
Heart pounding so hard it nearly leapt from his chest, Stephen dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and they charged forward, thundering down the beaten path behind his father to the next clearing. In almost identical movements they both dismounted and sprinted over to a semi-circle of quiet, grave-faced men.
“Move aside, please!” barked the earl, falling to his knees, tearing off his jacket and carefully sliding it under his trembling firstborn’s head. “Gregory?”
“Father,” choked Gregory, his breath an ominous gurgling sound as a growing pool of dark, almost black blood seeped relentlessly onto the forest floor. “Steph…en.”
Oh Jesus. Not a nick or even a clean shoulder shot, his brother had been hit in the chest.
Stephen crouched down, a boulder lodging in his throat at the knowledge, the dull acceptance settling in Gregory’s gaze. No. They had too much to do. Too much to repair.
“Don’t you dare give up, Greggy,” Stephen said fiercely, so terrified he could scarcely get the words out. “And don’t talk. You need to save your strength. As soon as you’re well, we are going to spend so much time together you’ll hate the sight of me. So many projects. I’ll be the best help you ever had. But you have to get well. Promise.”
“So…c-cold.”
While his father put pressure on the wound site, Stephen tore off his hunting jacket, tucked it around Gregory’s upper body then chafed his brother’s parchment-pale hands, willing warmth and strength to flow. What the hell was wrong with these men, just standing and watching rather than assisting?
Furiously, he jerked his head around and glared at the silent onlookers, hating them for their exchanged glances, the resigned shaking of heads. Useless, lily-livered bastards.
“How?”
“That’s the thing,” replied a stranger, voice shaking. “We don’t know for sure. The hounds started barking, next we heard a shot. Then Hallmere fell…”
“I saw summin’, sir,” interrupted the footman who fetched them. “A man. Mebbe two—”
“Poachers on my land?” said Nexham. “I’ll have their heads!”
His father’s gaze nearly cleaved their affronted host in half. “That is of little importance. Who has gone for help?”
“Er…no one.”
“No one?” snarled Stephen. “My brother needs a physician immediately. Is there anyone nearby?”
“Yes,” replied Nexham, flushing darkly. “Ex-military sawbones in the village. Smart fellow. But I don’t think…”
The earl scrambled clumsily to his feet. “What you think is irrelevant. I’m going to fetch him. Stephen, stay with your brother.”
He swallowed hard at his unyielding father’s ghostly, perspiring countenance, the too-hunched shoulders and trembling hands as he remounted his horse. The man could barely walk let alone ride. Besides, Stephen was a far better rider; he should be going on such a critical mission.
“Are you sure, sir?” he said quickly, striving for a respectful tone when he felt anything but. “I could go.”
“Damnation, boy! Just do as I say!”
Stomach roiling unmercifully, Stephen watched his father’s rapidly retreating, weaving figure. Then his gaze darted back to Gregory. Terror again threatened to overwhelm at the blood pool, his brother’s shallow, gasping breaths, but he took a faltering step toward him. “Hold on, Greggy, okay? Father has gone for help and will be back in a trice…”
A firm hand clamped on his shoulder, spinning him around.
“Go after him,” the black-haired stranger said urgently. “Your father’s in no state to ride, you saw that. I’ll stay with Hallmere. He was…is…a great friend of mine. My brethren. Go. Go now. Take my horse, it’s built for speed.”
Nodding jerkily in appreciation, Stephen gripped the proffered reins and hauled himself into the saddle. The smallest kick of his heels and the sleek thoroughbred surged forward into a treacle-smooth gallop. Oh God, please hurry.
Crouched low over the stallion’s neck, Stephen urged the beast onward until he saw his father ahead of him. Muttering another silent prayer, he increased the pace to breakneck, ignoring the sharp scratch of foliage and the frigid bite of winter wind as they tore through his linen shirt and breeches.
“Father!” he yelled, alarmed at the way his sire sat at the oddest of angles while the horse cantered awkwardly on, but as soon as the word left his lips he saw why. A saddle fastening had come loose, slipping it hard right. The Earl of Westleigh was clinging on for dear life. Oh Hell. Please, please, please stay up…
All at once the mount ahead of him swerved around a clump of bushes and time slowed to a crawl as the horse went one way and his father flew the other, slamming headfirst into a thick tree trunk then dropping to the chilled, rocky ground with a sickening thud.
Horror tore the breath from Stephen’s lungs. “No…” he gasped.
Then he screamed it.