Chapter One
Eighteen Years Later
H er brother had gambled away everything.
Lady Rosilee Fairchild stood in front of her family’s estate, the wind tugging at her bonnet and the hem of her muslin dress while she waited for the arrival of the man she wished she could hurl into the Avon River. The manor loomed behind her; its beloved walls now shadowed by an overwhelming sense of dread. The news had arrived like a thunderclap—a single letter delivering the cruel blow of her brother’s idiocy.
Darnation!
She crunched the parchment in her gloved hands, the inked scrawl burning into her memory. My dearest Rosilee, I have failed you. So few words, but they carried the weight of ruin. Everything was gone—the house, the land, and the last of the dignity their family name held. All lost in a single reckless wager with that scoundrel Baston. And that ghastly rogue was treating her brother as a “special” guest until she handed the deed over to him.
The nerve!
She swallowed hard, refusing to allow any emotion to prick at her eyes. Tears wouldn’t help her. They never had. She had grown accustomed to the disappointments that life inflicted upon her family and had always faced any stumbling blocks with her chin held high. But this... this was beyond anything she could have imagined.
This was their home.
They didn’t have another.
Their income came from this land. Without it, they would have to rely on her brother’s ability to sell and publish his peculiar short stories, which meant they would be doomed. She turned back to the manor. But most importantly, its walls held years of memories—both cherished and painful.
Would she lose her books, too?
Rosilee had spent years collecting books and filling their library to the brim with volumes of every kind. Some of her fondest memories had been lived within that room, especially the ones where her brother was lost in his scribbles while she, too, escaped into her favorite worlds.
How could Leopold be so foolish?
And that ruffian Baston!
The man was a true villain! He’d been sniffing around her skirts for the better part of a year, and now, it seemed he had duped her brother into a wager. Why else would Leopold, who never touched cards, lose all they held dear? Stars, the thought of Baston living in their house, eating at their table, and sullying her precious library gnawed at her heart. But she would not succumb to despair. No, she needed a plan, and she needed it posthaste.
“He is here, my lady,” Miss Evangeline Green, her trusted maid, and her closest confidant, murmured.
Rosilee turned back to face the entrance of the estate. As if on cue, the sound of hooves filled her ears, and her gaze fell on the figure approaching on horseback. The devil himself. A wave of distaste swept through her at the sight of him. Even from this distance, she could tell his dark eyes glittered with a malevolent gleam, and his smirk was that of a man who knew he held all the power.
This blackguard.
Rosilee clenched and unclenched her fists. “Leopold is not with him.”
Beside her, Evangeline harrumphed. “It seems Mr. Baston will not show any good faith.”
“Indeed, it certainly is on par with his character.”
The irksome man drew to a halt before them, his smile widening.
“Lady Rosilee,” Baston drawled as he dismounted, his boots crunching on the gravel as he approached her, further grinding her nerves. He doffed his hat with a smug bow, his eyes never leaving hers. “I am flattered that you received me in person.”
“Don’t be,” Rosilee snapped, the man’s gall grating on every nerve in her body. “This is not me receiving you, sir. This is me barring you from entering.”
His smile didn’t waver. “That is rather discouraging, I admit.”
Rosilee’s hand clenched around the letter, her knuckles burning as she held his gaze. The color of his eyes reminded her of dirt. Much like the man. Fortunately, he wasn’t that much taller than she was. If she stood on her tiptoes, they might even be the same height, which made him somehow less intimidating. Like a toad. An ugly toad. “That’s good, then, since it’s meant to be discouraging. Have you come to gloat?”
Baston chuckled, a low, oily sound that made her skin crawl. “I would never be so crass, Lady Rosilee. I’ve come to offer you a boon.”
“A boon?” She arched a brow. “Is it poisonous?”
He clamped a hand over his chest. “Now you are just breaking my heart. Rather, it’s a solution.”
Ever theatrical. Could she spit at his feet in answer? “Do tell, sir. I’m brimming with anticipation.”
His smile widened, revealing too many teeth. “You can keep your estate, but there is one condition.”
Rosilee’s heart sank. “What is this condition?”
Baston stepped closer, invading her space, the stench of his breakfast still on his breath. She averted her face. Urgh. She would be off sausage for the rest of her life.
“Marry me.”
Rosilee froze for an instant, the her gaze whipped back to him. The sheer audacity of the proposal rendered her speechless. Then, she let out a laugh—sharp, bitter, and utterly devoid of any humor. “Marry you?” she repeated as if the words themselves were too ridiculous to be real. “I would sooner throw myself into the Avon than be shackled to a man like you.”
His expression darkened, the smile fading from his face. “You would do well to consider your options, my lady. Your brother has no means left to provide for you. You’ll be destitute, homeless—”
“And I would still be better off than I would be as your wife,” Rosilee cut in. “I’ve no desire to be bound to a man who preys on the misfortune of others. My brother may have been tricked by you, but I will not be.”
Baston’s jaw tightened, a vein ticking there. “You have a sharp tongue for a woman in your position, Lady Rosilee. But remember, I hold the fate of your future within the palm of my very hands.”
Hah! Her fate? He could no more hold air than he could her fate! “Do not make me laugh, sir. My life is mine to govern.” Rosilee lifted her chin, her gaze steady as steel. “I will never be yours, Baston. I would sooner beg on the streets.”
The man’s eyes raked over her, assessing, calculating. Finally, he stepped back, his smirk returning, accompanied by an edge that hadn’t been there before. “Very well,” he said softly. “It’s unfortunate, but your brother shall have to remain as my guest while you take some time to think over my proposal.”
With that, the man turned on his heel and strode back to his horse. He mounted and rode off without so much as a backward glance.
Blackguard.
The moment he was out of sight, Rosilee let out a breath.
“That man is a menace,” Evangeline muttered.
“On that we are agreed.” She had talked boldly for a lady who had no intention of becoming a beggar on the street. But Baston was right about one thing: she had few options. However, Rosilee refused to let that swine win. “I must find another man to marry. A more suitable one.”
“Yes,” Evangeline agreed. “But this man has been spreading rumors about you in town. It won’t be easy.”
Yes, the rumors. Though they had no proof that it was indeed him spreading them. But this proposal of his made it all clear. Who else would spread rumors that she had been seen kissing a mysterious man? Who else had anything to gain from tainting her reputation? Who else would act so underhanded?
Rosilee turned to her friend. “You said you had a way to help me, but it was only to be used as a last recourse. Is this the moment where I ask you about this way?”
Evangeline nodded, then sighed. “I see no other options, but it is still a bit...”
Rosilee squared her shoulders in hard determination. She would do what she must to protect her family and their home. She would not be cowed by fear or by the likes of Baston. “Then enlighten me, Evangeline Green, for I shall burn this estate to the ground before I hand it over.”
“Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.” Evangeline’s face turned grim. “Go to London and find Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon. She is your last hope.”
Blake Faithorne, Duke of Crane, Marquess of Falconridge, and Earl of Eastbrook, sat behind his massive oak desk, his fingers steepled as he stared blankly at the stack of correspondence before him. His thoughts were miles away, tangled in a nightmare of his father reaching out from the grave and strangling him. Not even the flames in the fireplace could warm his bones. The cold seeped ever deeper, matching the chill of the morning light filtering through the windows.
A throat cleared. “I have the report.”
Blake looked up at Giles Bishop, his butler, man of affairs, and all-round right-hand man, and scowled. “I didn’t ask for any report.”
“And yet, like always, you shall listen attentively anyway.”
Blake scowled, resenting the man’s flat but knowing tone. “Your arrogance is annoying.”
An even more arrogant eyebrow rose. “Not as annoying as you may find the two bits of news I’m here to share.”
Blake pushed the ledger he’d not been pouring over aside, giving Bishop his undivided attention. “And what are these two bits of news that will drive me to the brink of death?”
“First, your brothers took over the Worthings’ clandestine shipping routes.”
Blake sent the man a hardened look. “I’m annoyed to death that you believe that will annoy me to death. I don’t care what my half -brothers do.”
“But you are annoyed, are you not?” Bishop grinned, then gave an exaggerated sigh. “The death part may come with the second piece of news I’m about to share.”
Blake pulled his lip up in a sneer, reclining back in his chair and staring at the man who had been his companion over the last ten years. They were the same age, both eight-and-twenty, but there were times that he thought the man had never reached puberty. “I should have left you in the gutter to perish.”
“Now that’s not very nice,” Bishop said. “And it was a ditch, not a gutter.”
“Fine, a ditch. My life would still be much quieter and more undisturbed had I not rescued you from your pitiful fate.”
“You should learn to speak more graciously, Your Grace. If anyone heard you, they’d think you were the worst sort of tyrant.”
“Only you are here.”
“That’s not true—we have some maids.”
“They don’t live here. Only you are mad enough to stay.”
“ That’s true.” Bishop grinned, crossing his arms and tapping his chin thoughtfully. The finger stopped. “However, you shouldn’t call people who live here mad. Think of your future wife.”
Blake’s left eye ticked at the man’s statement. “Have I not told you a hundred times? I’m never getting married.”
“Not even to save a damsel in distress?”
“I’m the one in bloody distress,” Blake muttered, sending the man a look that told him the exact source of his distress. “Get on with this last piece of news.”
“Lady Rosilee Fairchild.”
Blake froze, as he always did when that name entered his ears. “Did I not instruct you to end this attention on her?”
“That was two years ago,” Bishop pointed out. “Yet you have listened to all my reports since then, so I thought you didn’t mean it.”
Blake sighed. He could never win against this man’s tongue. “What about her?” He’d been keeping track of her ever since he discovered she was the little girl who had helped him that fateful night eighteen ago. Bishop, however, had discovered this and taken “keeping track” to another level. The man found perverse pleasure in ruffling his feathers.
“She is on her way to London.”
“London?” That brought Blake up short. She and her brother lived in their only family estate in Wiltshire, and she hadn’t been to London in all the years of his observation. “Why?”
“Viscount Fairchild seems to have fallen into a bit of trouble.”
“ How? ”
“Baston,” Bishop announced.
Blake cursed. “Didn’t you hire Baston to go to Wiltshire and offer secret protection when there were bandits in the area? What the devil did he do?”
“True, yes, but it seemed Baston remained after dealing with them and recently lured the viscount into a bet, which the viscount lost, and he must now hand over his estate. According to my source, Baston offered to wed Lady Rosilee in exchange for allowing them to keep their home. She refused and left for London, presumably in search of a husband.”
“What sort of nonsense is this?” A scene from an Ann Radcliffe novel?
Bishop shrugged. “I believe the viscount was taken advantage of when he was in his cups. Since she refused Baston’s offer, she must be looking for options elsewhere.”
Blake rubbed his temples, an odd throb keeping time with the beat of his heart. At least Lady Rosilee was not wedding Baston, that damn lecher. She was beautiful. An angel. She would have no trouble securing a husband who could offer her aid.
“Do you not have anything to say?”
Blake shot Bishop a rotten look. “What would you have me do?”
“Chase after her? Offer her your hand.” The man’s voice turned flat. “Rescue her from a dastardly situation like she did for you all those years ago.”
Blake scraped a hand down his face. Indeed, he’d begun keeping track of her in the hope that he could one day repay the debt he owed her, but this... He was not a man any woman should wed. He was no good. He could help her with anything else, but not marriage. “If I’d known you’d be such a meddlesome creature—”
“I know, I know, you’d have left me in that ditch. Haven’t you been pining away for her for years and years? This is your chance.”
“I have not been pining.”
“Nevertheless, Lady Rosilee is indeed on her way to London to search for a husband, but not in the way you might be imagining.”
“Is there more than one way?” he drawled, utterly unimpressed.
“Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.”
Blake’s entire body froze, his hands balling into fists as the name hung in the air between them. He had heard of the veiled widow, of course—who hadn’t? The woman was a legend, feared and revered in equal measure, known for making matches of desperation. “I must have heard you wrong.”
“You did not.”
Blake surged to his feet. So this was the part that would annoy him to death. Not only annoy, but certainly drive him to a killing mood. He knew precisely what sort of men frequented that place. “Is she damn well crazy?” Damnation. This was not good.
“I’m not sure about that part.”
“Who the hell is your source?”
“I can’t reveal that either.”
Blake cursed. Just how had she even learned about Mrs. Dove-Lyon? “We must stop her.”
“I’ve sent a man to delay her journey so that you have time to catch up.”
Blake hesitated. It had been years since he’d left this estate. Twelve, in fact. He didn’t like traveling. He liked London even less. His father had defiled that entire city with his seed. When Blake had retired to Dorset, he had sworn he would never set foot there again. Now, it seemed he’d have no choice.
“What about the viscount and Baston?
“Baston seems to be holding the viscount hostage. As of now, he does not know Lady Rosilee has left their estate.”
Meaning if he wanted to help her, he had a small window of time to catch her. “So, it’s not only a chase, but a race as well.”
“Do you not enjoy racing?”
“Not this sort of race!”
“Well, I’m afraid if you do not make haste, your chance to pay the lady back will be squandered and you shall suffer a life of regret. After all, I daresay you can provide a far better proposal than Baston or the veiled widow.”
Blake clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to lash out. It was true—he could offer her protection, a marriage of convenience that would save her from the likes of Baston and those daredevils that frequented the Lyon’s Den. But what kind of life could he truly promise her? A cold, isolated existence in a barren castle?
Besides, presently, they were strangers to each other.
And yet, the mere idea of her going to that debauched lair of vice, of some other man claiming her... set his blood boiling. He thought of Lady Rosilee—her fierce spirit that had captivated him all those years ago. The memory of the fire in her eyes, her bold rescue from the drunken duke...
Blake cursed under his breath strode from his study.
He had tried so hard to keep his distance, to convince himself that she was better off without him even when he felt desperate to approach her, to catch another glimpse of her. She deserved more than the broken man he had become. But he couldn’t sit back and allow a man his man had hired to ruin her life.
“Ready my horse,” he instructed.
Bishop’s lips twitched into a grin. “Already saddled.”
Blake scowled at the man but said nothing.
“I’ve also readied the carriage,” Bishop said, following him.
“Why would you ready that?”
“Because I do not wish to accompany you on horseback. I much prefer the warmth of the carriage.”
“You are not accompanying me.”
“But I shudder to imagine what would happen if I am not there to provide sage advice and comfort when needed.”
Blake refused to argue with the man. “Fine, come. I shall drop you at the ditch from whence I picked you up.”
“Such cruel words.”
Blake snorted. “Send a man to inquire about her brother. If you can, retrieve him and escort him to Falconridge Manor.”
“Are you sure that is wise?” Bishop asked with a skeptical brow.
“Why would it not be wise?”
“Oh, I can list a hundred reasons, but I won’t.”
Fine. He would admit—it might look like just another kidnapping. To some. To the viscount. To anyone with a shred of sense. But Blake had never been one to concern himself with appearances. He was doing what needed to be done.
“Or do you want me to list out every single one?” Bishop added.
Blake clenched his jaw, choosing to ignore the man. He would return from this with a debt settled, and without a damn butler.