Chapter 1
Chapter One
“‘Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”
Victoria Weston, nee Brighton, the Duchess of Hawksford, was the most unlikely in stature to play Macbeth, petite and dark blonde, but she gave the role her all. The tragedy might be inevitable, but she knew just how to give the death of an ill-fated Scottish king the drama it deserved.
She was deep into her role, with the dark blue breeches and loosely fitting doublet. Somehow, she made it work over her all-too-feminine body, slightly curvy, but still fit from activity.
Her nephew, Hector, proved to be a formidable opponent.
He was now taller than she at age twelve, a younger version of his father, Gerard Langmirth, Duke of Talleystone.
Gerard was the husband of Victoria’s older sister, Wilhelmina, and his son from his first marriage had become Victoria’s most favored nephew.
“Die, now, Macbeth,” he yelled, going off script.
Victoria could not help but chuckle as she fell on the polished mahogany floor of Hawksford House’s parlor. A peal of laughter burst from the family members gathered around their improvised stage. Applause quickly followed.
“Brava, Aunt Victoria!” cried seven-year-old Clara, her sister Elizabeth’s daughter.
The little girl clapped her hands so vigorously that her braids and ribbons shook. Her mother stood behind her, beaming proudly.
Victoria made a low, sweeping, and gallant bow that could almost pass for a lad trying to be magnanimous after a performance. However, when she removed her felt hat and tendrils of her hair escaped, a little bit of the fantasy was gone.
“It is not in the thrust of the blade but in the truth that lies behind it. The purpose!” Victoria declared, with her chin up, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she looked at her nephew.
Hector chuckled. The two of them had always gotten along, through the wrong lines and the good.
“Aunt, it was marvelous,” he breathed, looking satisfied with their performance.
“You do remember that I was supposed to be dead at that point, don’t you?” she teased.
“Of course, Aunt,” he said, looking only slightly disgruntled.
“Ah. But you decided to change Shakespeare’s lines,” she mused.
“I still feel like you have missed your true calling, Victoria,” Gerard said with a booming laugh. “Meanwhile, dear Hector here seems to have been consistently pursuing the craft since he was little.”
“Nonsense. I merely enjoy playing a man who is permitted to speak his mind, not to mention be able to fight with weapons,” Victoria replied, grinning at her audience. “However, I do wish that I did not always need a stage to make this happen.”
“Let us not forget Diana and Jamie,” she continued, sweeping an arm at Elizabeth’s ten-year-old daughter and Marianne’s ten-year-old son.
Her nieces and nephews were growing up too quickly. She could not help but look at them fondly.
Soon, the parlor began transforming back into what it was before the stage was set. Servants came in, gliding swiftly but silently, as they collected the stage props. Even members of Victoria’s family helped with the reassembling of armchairs. They were all family there.
Victoria sighed contentedly, tossing her hat onto a lounge. She had no plans to change into a gown, not right now. Not when she had a reason to wear breeches and enjoy her independence. She flung her body onto a sofa and rested her boots on a stool.
Daniel, the Marquess of Grisham and her only brother, shook his head in amusement as he passed her a glass of sherry, which she heartily accepted.
“Another brilliant performance, Vicky,” he said.
She looked up at him and grinned. Her brother was tall and lean, so different in looks from her, but they used to share the same charming recklessness. These days, though, the young marquess had been more serious, as the title’s responsibilities had taken a measure of his light.
“Thank you, brother,” she said lightly, then took a sip from her sherry.
Across the room, her eldest half-sister, Marianne, the Duchess of Oakmere, looked at her with gentle scrutiny. Victoria knew what her sister could see: a young woman who still craved her freedom and spoke her mind. Marianne was the same, but Victoria took it to a higher level.
The Duke of Oakmere leaned toward his wife, resting his hand on Marianne’s shoulder and squeezing. There were no words between the married couple, but the gesture was enough.
The casual affection struck something unfamiliar within Victoria.
Could that be loneliness she was feeling?
“Mm. Now that your character has been laid to rest, you must tell us, Vicky,” Marianne began, her face etched with concern. “Have you been corresponding with Richard? It has been a year.”
The question weighed more than it sounded. Marianne’s voice was calm, but Victoria knew that deep inside, she was anything but. She could not look at her sister. Instead, she leaned to grab a biscuit from a tray. The choice to take a big bite before answering was deliberate.
“Heard from him? My dear husband? Of course,” Victoria replied, sounding overly cheerful even to herself. “He writes on occasion. His new role is consuming his every waking hour, I imagine.”
“Mm. But how occupied can the new Duke of Hawksford be that the last time he interacted with his wife was at his brother’s funeral?”
“I believe he has some fabulously interesting things to do,” Victoria said breezily, even as her heart clenched at the way her siblings were looking at her as if her marriage was a failure.
“Oh, but stop watching me, you all! Look at our dear Jamie, trying to scale the marble fireplace mantel. If you fall, I may have to duel your father. It is not going to be a pretty sight.”
Eyes turned toward Elizabeth’s firstborn.
“Jamie!” Elizabeth screamed, rising from her chair.
“Ah, but ye dinnae have to worry yersel’, lass. The lad knows what he’s doing,” the Duke of Redmoor, Elizabeth’s husband, commented with a chuckle.
“Alasdair!” his wife complained, widening her eyes at him.
For a moment, everyone was focused on getting Jamie down. He was a successful diversion. However, Victoria was keenly aware that her family was still unhappy about her situation.
“I find it interesting,” Daniel murmured, emphasizing the last word as if he meant something more from it, “that he had you placed in a separate home. What kind of husband would that be? It isn’t even about keeping you at arm’s length. It’s about not wanting to see you at all.”
Her marriage might not be a love match, but her brother’s words still stung.
Victoria took a long sip of sherry. No, it was more like a gulp.
“It’s as though you do not know me at all, brother.
A husband who permits me to take men’s parts in our little theatricals, to wear breeches, to brandish a sword, is precisely the husband I require.
That alone recommends him to me,” she replied firmly.
“Such liberties are not so readily granted by most husbands, as you well know. And before you object, our brothers-in-law are decidedly the exception, not the rule. That will be all for tonight.”
It was the truth, anyway. She loved being able to say, wear, and do what she wanted. Because of her arrangement with Richard, she had become the mistress of her own household.
Still, watching Alasdair pull Elizabeth close to him, whispering something in her ear, even though their children were nearby, chanting little rhymes and hopping about, gave her an unexpected chill.
She married Richard because she craved having her own household. While she wondered what it would be like if he had stayed, she reminded herself that Richard never promised anything to her beyond freedom.
Freedom.
That was what she wanted, and she got it.
But sometimes, freedom could feel like loneliness, too. Even being with her family, she still felt alone. Her siblings were married and had formed new families. Meanwhile, Daniel, the last unmarried one, had his estate to attend to.
When the clocks chimed midnight, she felt that loneliness even more as her family members departed with their spouses and their children.
Marianne and Dominic.
Elizabeth and Alasdair.
Wilhelmina and Gerard.
Daphne and Adrian.
Finally, Daniel left, albeit a little reluctantly, as if she would shatter into pieces if she were left alone. In a way, she did. She quickly changed from her costume to her silk nightgown and woolen robe.
Victoria was alone. Everyone thought of her as a wild, loud girl who didn’t dwell much on emotions, but lately, she could not help it. She didn’t marry for love. Her husband didn’t either.
“A bargain. That’s what we made,” she said softly, looking out her window.
A soft tap at her door interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in,” Victoria called, without hesitation.
The door opened, and Mrs. Davies, the meticulous housekeeper, stood there, with concern on her face. The look alerted her.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Davies murmured. “I am truly sorry for disturbing you at such an inopportune hour, but well … I believe it best if you see for yourself. Mr. Hawthorne is waiting for us downstairs.”
Victoria felt a sudden chill. She grabbed her dressing gown and tied the belt around her otherwise thin nightgown tightly.
“Has something happened? A pipe burst?” she asked, as they walked out the door.
“No, Your Grace. It’s something else. It is better for you to see it for yourself.”
By the parlor, the impeccably formal butler, Mr. Hawthorne, as slim as Mrs. Davies, stood waiting. He looked just as rattled as the housekeeper.
“Mr. Hawthorne, what is it?” Victoria demanded, glad that at least her voice did not tremble.
“Y-your Grace,” the butler stammered, gesturing to the side table right beside him.
On top of the polished mahogany, flanked by crystal glasses, lay a straw Moses basket. A worn flannel blanket mostly covered its contents.
A gift?
A threat?
What was it?
Then, she heard a small wail coming from it. It sounded so desperate and raw. And so tiny!
“Heavens,” Victoria whispered, both in awe and shock, as she approached the basket. “Did we get a kitten?”
“No, Your Grace,” Mrs. Davies breathed. “It’s not a kitten. It’s a baby. Somebody left her at the back entrance. We would not have noticed if not for her crying. She must be very hungry or cold, or both.”
“A baby?” Victoria asked, her throat suddenly dry. She walked even closer to the basket with the extra caution of a soldier approaching a mine.
Then, she dared look at what was inside the basket.
Inside, there was, indeed, an infant. She was tightly swaddled with a scrunched-up face and full, red cheeks. On the flannel blanket was a scrap of expensive vellum, in cream. The little detail made a mark on Victoria, making her fingers turn to ice with dread.
With a trembling hand, she reached for the note and read it. It was written with a neat, presumably feminine hand.
Her name is Melody. Please take care of her. I cannot.
Victoria stared and stared. The baby. The writing. Her mind tried to find various scenarios, and it fell on something she didn’t want to think about.
The expensive vellum.
Choosing the London townhouse to deliver the child.
Who else could this child be but—
No, she didn’t want to think about it. The conclusion would make her nothing more than a fool.
She felt every bit as helpless as the baby, as her deepest fears became real. She tried to hide the feelings deep within her, as she at least regained her external composure.
“Mr. Hawthorne. Mrs. Davies,” she said, her calm a brittle mask over every coil of fury. “Take the baby upstairs to the nursery. No one speaks of this.”
The nursery. A room she had never imagined she would need to prepare for a child not her own.
Richard had granted her freedoms no other man in the ton would dare, yet now that freedom felt like a mockery. It was his alone.
He had been away … and found time to betray his vows.