Chapter 1
London
“She can’t marry him! Betts is my fiancée.” The news wasn’t just unwelcome. It capped a series of mishaps and disasters that had begun years ago with Captain Prescott Aelfwyn Drake’s capture by the French.
Less than an hour ago, in the gray winter dawn, Prescott had stood outside the Earl of Trehallow’s townhouse, knocked on the door, and waited, pacing.
He stamped his feet in his worn boots. Beneath his thin cloak he rubbed his arms. Icy cold burned his ears and froze the tip of his nose.
He wished he’d had a hat or better yet, a muffler. With each turn he coughed.
Where’s the cursed footman?
Prescott banged a bare fist on the door once more, pounding the wood until the portal opened.
The august personage on the inside of the door stood only as tall as Prescott’s chin.
Nonetheless the man looked down his nose at the scruffy person who dared assault the door of Major Lord Arthur Trevor PenRhydderch, twenty-first Earl of Trehallow.
Prescott didn’t care. He barreled into the foyer, forcing the servant aside.
“I beg your pardon, sir! His lordship is not at home to the likes of you.” The man’s lip curled.
“Lord Trehallow is the ‘likes of me,’ and I know he is at home.”
The shorter man straightened to his full height. “I must ask you to leave, sir.”
Prescott had warmed enough to be able to move faster and raced up the stairs, calling, “Bollocks to that.”
“Smithe, Fortes, I need you,” the doorman yelled.
Prescott ran on, reaching the door at the far end of the corridor at the same moment pursuing footsteps sprinted behind him. A fit of coughing seized him as he pounded on the wooden surface.
A man in banyan and a face full of shaving cream opened the door opened. “Carruthers, what’s going on out here?”
Prescott swallowed a cough, shoved past his friend and stumbled toward the hearth. “Trehallow, tell your man you are expecting me.”
“All is well, Carruthers. You may go.” The earl shut the door on the servant then turned, wiping lather from his cheeks and chin. “Prescott. By all that’s holy, I thought you were dead.”
Prescott reared backward, tucking his chin. “Dead?”
On the far side of the room, a door opened.
“I’ve brought the gray superfine as you requested, my lord. I thought the burgundy cravat…” The earl’s valet broke off in surprise. “Ah, I did not realize you have a visitor. Please excuse me.”
He made to depart, but Trehallow stopped him. “Leave the clothes. Pour two brandies, then send for my physician and bring breakfast for two here. After that, wait for the physician’s arrival and bring him to me the instant he arrives.”
“Of course, my lord.” The valet bowed.
While waiting for the man to go, Prescott removed his cloak and hung it on a stand near the fireplace.
He stood on the hearth warming his hands and letting heat seep into every chilly bone and fiber.
He tried not to cough, but the inflammation in his lungs defeated his efforts. The fit bent him nearly double.
As the door closed on the valet, Trehallow began to dress. “You look like hell. Sit, before you fall down, man.”
A gentle push was all that was needed. Prescott nearly fell into a hearthside chair.
“Sorry, I came straight from the ship.” He paused to clear his throat. “I knew you would be here. Nothing to do on shipboard except read old issues of the Teatime Tattler. One of them reported that you had remained in London, but intended to leave within the week.”
His friend pulled on a shirt and tucked it into his trousers.
“Town is nearly empty,” Trehallow said. “Everyone who could return to the country for the holidays has done so. The weather has been the very devil, but that is neither here nor there.”
The earl handed Prescott a tumbler of brandy then sat in the opposite chair.
“Bit early in the day, don’t you think?” He eyed the drink, forcing back a cough.
“Drink it,” Trehallow ordered. “Then tell me what happened to you. Last I heard you were declared missing presumed dead at Leipzig in October1813.”
“I was carrying letters from General Sir Charles Stewart to the Crown Prince when I found my way blocked by a squad of ten soldiers wearing the insignia of the imperial guard. They were facing the road, and I was in the trees. I chose to burn the letters, which of course drew their attention. A fight ensued in which the enemy attempted to stop the destruction. They succeeded in disarming me and beating me to a pulp, but the letters were destroyed. I was captured and sent to the dungeons of Charlemont at Givet.”
“Odd. That prison was not known to hold officers.”
“I was in uniform but, to avoid significant torture, wore no insignia. For that reason, the French decided I was a deserter and my treatment was worse than that of a common seaman or private.”
Trehallow nodded. “That explains why you appear to be a ghost of yourself, but not why you remained in prison after the war ended, last June.”
“I can only guess. My jailer hated the English. I suspect he would never have released me had Bourbon troops not taken over the prison. I was transferred to a hospital and was there several months before I decided to leave and damn the sawbones who kept telling me I was dying. More time passed while I made my way to the coast and found a vessel to take me to Dover. By then the weather began to worsen. Getting to London was a challenge. I went first to the Feddleston home, but the knocker was up. I came here next.”
He ran out of breath as he finished, and a coughing fit defeated his every effort to resist.
“They’ve gone to the country,” Trehallow explained.
“Miss Feddleston. I’ve not been able to write to her or anyone. I…” coughing seized him once more. “I have missed her greatly. We are to wed as soon as I sell my commission. She needs to know that our plans can move forward.”
“Oh.” Trehallow’s facial muscle’s tightened, and his shoulders bunched.
“Oh? What is it? Has something happened to Betts? Tell me.” A cough welled in Prescott’s chest. He refused to permit himself to succumb.
“She’s marrying Lord Tellus Leigh at St. Martin’s church in Leicester on December 25th. Percy and I were invited, but with Percy increasing and the weather, we declined.”
“Tellus Leigh, the Duke of Leigh’s seventh brother and my good friend?”
“I know of no other Lord Tellus Leigh,” Trehallow remarked.
“She can’t marry him! Betts is my fiancée. Tellus and everyone in society knows that. Devil take it, the man agreed to stand up with me when Betts and I married.”
Had Tellus always wanted Betts or is this some new start because I was reported dead?