Chapter Three
Waking was the most painful part of the day.
In her dreams, Bridget’s papa came back to life.
Sometimes, she was a little girl curled up on one of the big leather chairs in his study while he sat behind his mahogany desk with a furrowed brow, studying his account books or penning letters.
And other times, she was her full-grown self, meandering down the cobbled streets of York, arm-in-arm with Papa on one of their shopping trips.
And sometimes, they’d be back together in the drawing room at Villa De Lacey, playing cards, taking tea with Aunt Marianne, or strolling along the shores of Lake Windermere.
In her dreams, Papa’s blue eyes would twinkle with life again, and she’d feel the warmth of his embrace and smell his comforting, leathery scent.
She’d wake up smiling until she remembered her new reality, and then a searing pain would hit her in the chest like a flame.
But most painful of all was the cruelty of his burial.
She had not even had the comfort of burying her father’s remains.
His body had been taken from his place of death and buried at a random crossroad—the whereabouts of which, she didn’t know—and, as was done to all those who committed self-murder, it was likely a stake had been driven through his heart.
Her beloved Papa was a sinner in the eyes of the Church and the people, who would have insisted that his restless soul needed to be contained.
Fearing for her health, the magistrate had waited a week to break the news of her father’s burial to her.
And when she’d finally learned that her papa’s body would not be coming home, a fit of anger so violent welled inside her that she risked damaging a great deal of crockery and other breakables.
So, she’d run from the house and kept going until she’d reached a remote spot along the shores of Lake Windermere where she’d screamed her throat raw, battered the earth with her fists, and finally sobbed until she’d depleted her body of energy.
When she could cry and scream no more, she’d picked herself up and staggered back to the villa, her eyes swollen and her chest still heaving with pain.
She was determined to do right by her papa.
He would never rest in peace beside her mama in the churchyard.
But she would give him a place close to home, so she took the only thing she had left of him—a lock of his golden hair—and placed it in a small chest with the letters her mama had written to him when they were courting.
Then she searched for a peaceful spot amongst the trees behind the villa to bury it.
The kind Sexton, Mr. Gould, who’d made her mother’s gravestone, agreed to carve one for her Papa, and she, Aunt Marianne, and the servants held a small, private funeral for him two weeks after receiving the news of his tragic death.
Now, a little part of Papa lay close by, and she and her aunt had a grave on which to lay flowers.
That had been six weeks ago. Her papa was now two months gone, and each day she anxiously awaited the arrival of the dreaded lord who now owned Villa De Lacey.
What was she to do when he came for her home?
She could not—would not—leave her papa. Was she to dig up his lock of hair and bury him elsewhere?
Tear herself from the home she loved—the only home she’d ever known?
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered as she lay a single rose on the small mound that was his makeshift grave. “What am I to do now?”
*
Seven years! Nate fumed as his coach rumbled through the rugged, muddy landscape.
The journey from London to Westmorland had taken almost a fortnight, but Nate had no idea how close they were to their final destination.
It was dark and a torrential downpour had begun.
If they didn’t find an inn soon, they were sure to get stuck in the mud for the night.
Nate shivered, covered himself with a woolen blanket, and closed his eyes, willing the motion of the carriage to lull him to sleep. But it was to no avail.
He longed for his large, plush four-poster bed in his regency townhome, which now stood empty on his brother’s orders.
Damn Edward! He missed the comfort and opulence of his home, its proximity to all the best gentlemen’s clubs in London, and the sweeping views of Regent’s Park from the many mullioned windows that let in the sunlight.
He cherished that townhome, and Edward knew as much.
But, like everything else, it belonged to his brother.
As the eldest son, Edward had been bequeathed every penny and piece of property in their father’s estate, leaving Nate wholly at his brother’s mercy.
And Nate hated it. Being the second son of an earl was little better than being the daughter of an earl—someone was always going to tell you what you could or could not do with your life.
Irritated, Nate threw off the blanket and peered out the window once again, but the night was so black he couldn’t see a thing.
Rain pelted the carriage, which the exhausted horses seemed to be dragging rather than pulling up a hill.
Nate wished he knew where they were. It seemed as if they’d been driving forever since their last stop, which he hoped was some twenty miles back, but with all the sludge and rain, it was impossible to tell for certain.
He sighed and lay his head against the buttoned leather carriage seat.
One day, brother, I will make you pay for this!
Edward had told him nothing about his new home but knowing his brother, it was a most undesirable property—after all, the goal was to force his hand into marriage. He only hoped it wasn’t some sort of farm. He could bear something remote if he had to, but he was not one for pigs, cows, and sheep.
The carriage suddenly slowed and soon came to a halt.
Nate sat up, alert now and curious as to why they’d stopped.
Were they stuck in some country sludge? Or had his driver located an inn?
His stomach rumbled, crying out for a tall glass of ale and a large portion of mutton and potatoes.
He envisioned himself sitting by a warm fire with a hot plate of food, and his mouth began to water.
Then, the carriage door swung open, and a blast of cold air brought him back to reality.
Nate’s valet, who’d been riding in his second carriage with his luggage, stood in the pouring rain, holding a large black umbrella and a lantern. “We’ve arrived, sir.”
“Where?” Nate felt he had to shout over the wind and rain, even though his valet had kept the same monotone he’d always used, and Nate had heard him perfectly. “Have we located an inn?”
“We have arrived at your new residence, sir.”
“Have we?” Nate’s heart sank. He wasn’t ready to spend the evening in a cold, remote estate that had no doubt been left to ruin by its bankrupted owner.
All he wanted was a cozy inn that would provide him with a blazing fire and a hearty meal.
Nate’s stomach rumbled again as he stepped reluctantly from the carriage.
Grateful for the shelter of the waiting umbrella, he turned to look at the house, but all he could see in the darkness was the silhouette of a rather large structure.
“I hope there’s someone here to let us inside.
I didn’t ask my brother if he’d retained the staff from the previous owner,” Nate said as he and his valet hurried up the short flight of stairs that led to a raised portico, leaving the two coachmen waiting with their carriages.
They came to a double two-paneled door, pale blue in color, with a lion-faced knocker attached to the right panel.
His valet lifted the knocker and rapped several times on the door.
After what seemed like an agonizingly long wait, his valet knocked again. Only then did the door creak open. A diminutive, middle-aged housekeeper dressed in black swung a lantern in front of their faces and peered at them from beneath her large black bonnet.
“The Honorable Mr. Nathaniel Squires,” Nate’s valet announced. “I assume you’ve been expecting him?”
“Expecting him? At this hour?” The housekeeper narrowed her dark eyes. “I shouldn’t think so. The madam and the misses have already retired to their chambers.”
“What are you talking about?” Nate said. “Would you please step aside? I don’t fancy standing out here in the rain.” He pushed past the housekeeper, his patience having reached its limit, and stepped into a dimly lit but vast hallway.
“Sir! What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ll need a fire, some brandy, and a hearty meal. As will my valet and coachmen, waiting outside. Show them to the servants’ quarters, will you? And have the stable boy take care of my horses.”
The housekeeper blinked in confusion. Then her face hardened. “Get out, I tell you! The ladies of the house have already retired for the night and—”
“The ladies of the house? What ladies?” Nate frowned. Edward hadn’t mentioned anything about ladies.
“Eliza?” A woman’s voice sounded, and Nate looked up to see a petite young woman descending the stairway. Like the housemaid, she was dressed entirely in black and carried a lantern.
“I’m sorry for the racket, Miss Bridget. This here gentleman seems to be lost.”
“Lost. I don’t believe so. My driver was given a very detailed map of where to go.” Nate spoke with confidence, but in truth, he knew they could well be at the wrong location.
“And where is it that you were wanting to go, sir?” The young lady stepped forward. Butter-blond ringlets framed her lovely face. She had the creamiest porcelain-like skin he’d ever seen, wide, almond-shaped blue eyes, a sweet button nose, and beautiful rosebud lips.
Nate found himself momentarily distracted. He cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone dry. “Villa De Lacey,” he said.