Chapter Two
Grosvenor’s Square
Mayfair, London
The Duke of Blackhawke needs to die.
Miss Eloise March ran the pad of her thumb over the engraved back of a silver pocket watch. It was what her fiancé had clutched in his hand on the afternoon of his death, but it hadn’t belonged to him. Instead, the piece clearly had the duke’s name on it, and she couldn’t help but wonder why.
It was because the duke had killed poor Jean-Claude.
She had carried that assumption with her for the past three years.
Though the Napoleonic Wars had officially ended in June of 1815, her fiancé had been killed by the English army in January of 1814.
Which is also when her own troubles began, by her own damned people.
Well, halfway, that was. It was something she could never forget, and she certainly couldn’t forgive Blackhawke for his part in the whole debacle.
“Eloise, dear, you will wear out the carpeting if you persist in pacing.”
The sound of her father’s voice broke into her uncharitable thoughts and brought her out of them.
She glanced at him and couldn’t help but smile.
For many years, he had been the English ambassador to France, but he had since retired from service.
His gray hair framed a small balding pate in such a manner that, paired with his half-moon spectacles, gave him the air of a wizened owl.
“I’m sorry, but I am bored.” The sound of the ever-present rain against the window glass prompted another glance outside. Then she heaved a sigh. “Will it ever stop raining?”
“It could be worse. I’ve heard of places experiencing snow this late in the season.”
“Bah.” She shook her head. “What a wretched year this has been thus far. Because of that, England has nothing to offer in the way of entertainment.”
“No country does. The weather is horrid due to that volcanic eruption on a tiny island months ago.”
“My kingdom for a clear day where I can walk and feel the sun on my face.” Frowning, she turned about and joined her father at a grouping of furniture, nodding when he silently asked her if she’d like a cup of tea. “When will it clear?”
“Just consider this a lesson in patience, poppet.” When Elosie didn’t laugh at his joke, her father sighed. “When will it end? Who can say? It is a historical event. Be thankful we have enough food to feed us and to take care of our limited staff.”
“I suppose. We are safe here, and we won’t starve.” It could always be worse. And she had seen, firsthand, how horrible life could be when food was scarce. There were times when living in France where days or weeks were challenging.
Her father nodded. “Why don’t you settle into the morning room and write a letter to your friends in France? It will keep your mind occupied. You are always saying you wish there was more time to return letters to your friends and family.”
“I do say that with alarming frequency.” She slipped the watch into a clever pocket within her skirting. After accepting the teacup he offered, she fixed her gaze on his face. “It’s just that sometimes, writing to them and receiving their letters makes me sad for what could have been.”
Since her mother had been French, it had allowed Eloise to experience so much more of what life had to offer over simply living in England.
Her father had met her mother at a society event while he’d been the ambassador to France.
They fell instantly in love and married a mere six weeks later.
Then he brought his new bride to England, and that is where her parents—as well as Eloise when she’d been a small child—had lived for years.
Then her mother missed France, so they went back and forth yearly in the summers when travel was permitted and safe.
Eventually, her mother fell ill with an illness of her stomach.
The doctor said it was a form of cancer that had no cure.
When it became apparent that her mother wouldn’t survive the illness, she convinced Eloise’s father to take her back to her beloved village in France.
Eloise had accompanied her so she would have someone to look after her besides cousins and nieces and nephews.
Her father had duties in England but promised to visit when he could.
Then the theatres of the war separated them all, paused them from seeing each other as travel was prohibited and dangerous.
Her father cleared his throat. “That is to be expected. We always miss those we have lost and those who have been separated from us for one reason or another.”
“Yes. Though my heart is tired of grieving.” Which is why she’d locked it away behind walls that would never come down.
While she’d lived in France with her mother, she’d met and became engaged to a village doctor.
He was lovely and sweet, and oh so humble.
She wouldn’t have an exciting life once she wed him, but she would have a safe, secure one.
And there would be dear babies and a village full of her mother’s family who would dote on them.
There was nothing wrong with not aspiring to anything other than that from life.
Or so she’d thought.
That following winter, French troops came into the tiny village, desperate for food and rest because the English forces were better organized and funded, and they were pursing the French, determined to kill every last one of them.
The officers from that regiment took up residence in her mother’s farmhouse, which meant that basically, she and her mother—as ill as she was—were forced to feed and house those men while their troops stayed in the area.
Of course, the troops would move on to the next theatre of battle, but it wasn’t soon enough for Eloise.
Those men took everything from the village—clothes, food, livestock, horses, blankets.
Beyond that, they would sometimes press young men into service to make up the numbers of soldiers lost in battles.
If the villagers protested, they were beaten or their cottages were burned down.
Those officers took something even more precious from her, but she refused to think about that in this current moment.
“Grieving is a part of life, though, poppet,” her father said, and the soothing sound of his voice infused calm into her still-troubled soul. “It reminds us that we once loved fiercely.”
She snorted. “I’d rather not remember.”
In addition to her mother dying, that time was horrid because her fiancé was killed, for as the French cleared out of the village, a small select British force came in hunting for certain men from that faction.
Contretemps broke out and scuffles ensued.
At the end of it, her fiancé lay dying in the dirt.
A pocket watch was found clutched in his hand bearing the name and crest of the Duke of Blackhawke. She assumed that was who killed him.
He’s going to pay dearly.
“One cannot help that, I’m afraid.”
Eloise shook her head. “I am so weary of death and the ugliness of life.” No longer did she believe in happy endings, romance, or even love. That had been stolen from her after everything that had occurred in France during that stint of two years.
“It reminds us we are alive and helps us to appreciate the lovely times,” her father gently reminded her as he pushed his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose.
“There are no more lovely times, Papa.” Lifting her teacup, Elosie took a sip of her tea.
“There can’t be. That would prove a betrayal of everything that has gone before.
” She’d never told either of her parents what had happened to her, personally, at the hands of those French officers.
It had been too embarrassing, and invariably, word would leak out leading to her ruination and shame.
There would be nothing left of her future.
“The only thing I feel now is the thirst for revenge. It will make everything better.”
Dear God, I hope that is true.
“Poppet, you have carried that intent for far too long. It is dissolving your heart and soul with naught but ugliness and anger. For your health, for your future, you need to forgive and forget.” He bestowed a soft smile on her. “I worry over you.”
“I’m sorry, but that man needs to pay for what he’s done, for the lives he destroyed,” she said in a soft voice as tears stung her eyes.
“While I understand what drives you, none of that will bring Jean-Claude back. You know this.”
With a ball of unshed tears in her throat, she nodded. “Still…”
“I urge you to rethink your plan for revenge. Move away from the horrors of the past and look toward your future.”
“How can I do that?” The hand holding the cup shook. “Don’t you miss Mama?”
“Of course I do, but she wouldn’t want either of us spend the rest of our lives maudlin.”
Eloise shook her head. “Jean-Claude was everything I’d ever wanted in a husband.
” Of course, she’d been a young woman of four and twenty at the time.
Now, four years later, at eight and twenty, there was a certain amount of bitterness clinging to her soul.
She wasn’t the same woman she’d been back then with stars in her eyes and hope in her heart.
“There are other men out there who would prove a good fit for you.” Slowly, her father sipped his tea while watching her. “Why don’t you agree to Sir Johnathan Davenport’s suit. The baron has come around a couple of times asking for your hand.”
“So you never fail to remind me.” Not that a baron was anything to turn up one’s nose at, especially her, since her position in society was at the fringes at best. Was she willing to entertain the flirtations of another man when her heart was still broken from losing the last?
A sigh left her father’s throat. “He is your best chance at living a secure life, a respectable life, a life that might help you to forget about the trauma and horrors in the past.”