Chapter 2
It was a lovely morning, clear and full of the sounds of birdsong, as Rupert Sinclair, Duke of St. James, sat atop his horse on the main road through Kent, his best friend Thomas Grenville riding next to them.
They had been in Dover the last few days, checking in on estate business, but had left just before dawn to get on the road before it was too warm.
Rupert was also anxious to see his mother after receiving her letter. More anxious than he had been in some time.
“I am sure the Dowager Duchess is doing well,” Thomas said to him now, his voice bracing in a way that Rupert knew meant that he was trying to appear cheerful.
“The Dowager is one of the heartiest women I have ever met in my life. If I did not know better, I would say she was not a day older than five-and-forty.”
Rupert snorted. He knew his friend was just trying to be helpful, but it was still amusing to hear his mother, with her silver hair, described as looking only five-and-forty.
She was well into her sixties by now, if Rupert’s calculations were correct, although a lady, she often pointed out, never reveals her age.
She was hearty, though, that was true.
“Her letter concerned me,” Rupert admitted, glancing sideways at his friend.
Thomas was sandy-haired with blue eyes, a little stocky with ruddy cheeks and a kind smile.
Rupert, meanwhile, was tall and lean, with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and dark brown hair that brought out his even darker, impenetrable eyes.
Mysterious was often how he had been described. “She said that she was feeling unwell.”
“But that could mean any number of things,” Thomas assured him. “She could simply have a cold. Perhaps she has hay fever. Maybe she ate something that did not agree with her.”
Rupert sighed and gently nudged his horse, prompting him to move a little faster.
“You are right,” he said at last, although he could hear his own skepticism in his own tone. “But I will not rest until I am home and can see her.”
There was a short silence, then Thomas let out a long, sad sigh.
“I know what it is that troubles you, old friend,” he murmured. “You are worried because of your father’s recent death.”
Rupert’s chest tightened at once, and he felt the sharp, familiar pain, like a white hot pincher straight to the heart.
It was so acute it made him want to snap the reins of his horse and leave his friend far behind him, so that he could be alone and not have to talk about the grief that hung over him like a shroud.
As it was, he found it difficult to speak. Fortunately, Thomas did not seem to need him to respond.
“I understand that you are afraid,” Thomas continued. “Your father’s illness was very sudden, and I know it shall take you a long time to recover. But I hope that you do not live in fear every moment for your mother’s health. She is healthy and strong, and you have many years with her yet.”
“I may not,” Rupert said, blinking and staring into the sun.
If Thomas were to see the water and redness in his eyes then, he might think it was from looking directly at the sun for too long.
“My mother was older when she had me. I have grown up knowing that I would not have as long with my parents as some of my peers had with theirs. You know how long they prayed for me, how they had given up hope of ever having a child.”
It was an old-repeated story in Rupert’s family when he was growing up: how the Duke and Duchess of St. James had struggled to conceive a child, that they loved one another immensely but were not blessed with the son and heir they dreamed of.
They had all but given up hope when, at the age of thirty-three, the Duchess had finally become with child.
This had meant that Rupert had enjoyed an uncommonly happy childhood, adored and worshipped by his aging parents.
But it also meant that the shadow of their eventual passing had often fallen over him.
He had expected to inherit the Dukedom much sooner than he had.
The elderly Duke of St. James had held on well into his early seventies.
But he had died late last year, and now Rupert was the Duke. And he could not let anything happen to his mother. He had no siblings, only his uncle Reginald. And without the Dowager Duchess, he would be all alone.
Except he was not alone.
He also had Thomas.
And Thomas was currently doing everything in his power to cheer him up. That was not to be taken lightly.
“Thank you for saying all that,” Rupert said at last, forcing himself to smile. “You are a good friend. You do know that, right?”
“Of course I know it,” Thomas said with a guffaw. “I am the brother you never had. You are very lucky to have me.”
Rupert laughed, and this did much to improve his mood.
“Actually, I think you should be far more worried about what the solicitor said when you tried to authorize the sale of your lands in Somerset. I think that solicitor must have been some kind of hack.”
Thomas trailed off, shrugging, and Rupert felt unease settle once again over his shoulders.
He had also been concerned by the failure of the transaction.
In Dover, he had been trying to sell some parcels of land that were no longer producing the way he had hoped.
The money he used from the sales would be re-invested into other, more stable ventures.
It was a wise move that his own father had often spoken of, although he had died before he was able to see it through.
Rupert had been hoping to finally carry out the sale.
But in Dover, the solicitor had told him, just as the sale was about to go through, that he had received word that Rupert did not have the authority to make the sale.
“Not have the authority?” Rupert had repeated, thunderstruck as he stared at his solicitor over the mahogany desk in the lawyer’s office. “But I am the Duke of St. James! This is my land!”
“I know,” the solicitor said, shaking his head.
“I am as stumped as you are. But this is the information I am getting from the crown court. I suspect that there may have been some hiccup in transferring the land deeds after your late father’s passing.
Or perhaps there was some clause in there stipulating that certain lands did not transfer until after a certain time?
I do not know. I recommend you go to London, however, and find out. ”
Which was the other reason that Rupert was currently on his way to London. He had to find out what exactly was going on with his estate. He could not afford to make mistakes. For fifty years, his father had stewarded the Dukedom of St. James.
During that time, it had become prosperous, and employed many people. Rupert was not about to be the reason the estate failed and all their employees, servants, and tenants lost their land and incomes.
“You should speak to your uncle, perhaps,” Thomas said then, interrupting Rupert’s thoughts. “He will surely have some insight into this problem.”
“You are right,” Rupert said, and he immediately felt more cheerful at the thought of consulting with his father’s youngest brother, Reginald. He and Reginald had always been close, and he knew that his uncle’s guidance would be invaluable .
They rode on for several more miles, and when they reached the crossroads that lead to Chiddingstone, they parted ways. Thomas had business with one of the traders he would employ in his new gaming hall, while Rupert was eager to get to London.
“Everything will be well, I assure you,” Thomas promised as he waved goodbye. “And as you know, I am very lucky when it comes to taking bets.”
“You had better be,” Rupert said, “otherwise you would be a fool to be opening a gaming hall!”
After Thomas was gone, Rupert rode along in silence toward London. The day was growing warmer as the sun rose higher in the sky, spilling golden light over the green hills, which rolled like waves over the horizon, bounded only by low stone walls.
After several miles, Rupert grew hot, and he urged his horse off of the main road and down a path that he knew would lead to the river. There, he would be able to bathe and drink.
This was Rupert’s first time being away from his mother since the death of his father. He had promised not to leave her side since the illness that had taken Edward Sinclair. Before that, however, he had been an adventurer.
As close as he was to his parents, he had known that he would need some time to be by himself, without the responsibilities of the dukedom or his duties as a son and heir. He had been traveling the continent when news of his father’s illness reached him.
Even now, he was grateful beyond measure that word had reached him in time, and that he had been able to get back to London and say goodbye to his father. He had been just in time.
Afterwards, his mother had made him swear not to leave her side. Which was perhaps why he was so anxious now to hear that she was unwell.
It almost felt like punishment. He had left, and she had immediately fallen sick.
Unless it is an illness of the mind, brought on by missing me.
He knew his mother was strong, but he also knew that she had been more fragile of late.
These thoughts were still plaguing him as he drew near the river. He heard it before he saw it, the gentle rush of water over stones. And then he heard something else: what sounded like a horse’s hooves clattering over stone and dirt, moving far too quickly, and headed right in his direction.
And then he heard something even more alarming: a woman shouting.
“Heeeelp! Someone help me!”
The sound was faint, and it seemed to be growing fainter by the second, as if whoever was crying out for help was moving away from him.
Perhaps she was on the horse that he was hearing, but no, the horse was definitely growing nearer. The hoofbeats were getting louder. The next second, a horse burst from around the bend in the path, coming from the direction of the river. It was a dark gray steed with an empty saddle on its back.
Rupert’s heart leapt in his chest. The rider must be the woman he had heard! She must have been thrown from the horse’s back, or else some worse fate he could not imagine.
Urging his horse forward, Rupert cantered toward the river. The horse rounded the corner, and the river came into view. It was wider than it usually was, and rushing with more speed and strength than he remembered from the last time he had traveled through these parts.
And about a hundred yards away, moving away from him in the water, her arms outstretched and her head bobbing just above the surface, was a woman.
Rupert did not have time to think. He did not pause to wonder what he should do. At once, some instinct came over him: an instinct to act. To save. To help someone in need the way he had not been able to help his father escape his illness.
He urged the horse forward again, and this time she was moving at lightning speed toward the river, feeling his fear and urgency. Then they were on the riverbank. The horse seemed to move slightly slower now, as if her hooves were getting stuck in the soft mud.
“Come on, girl!” he cried.
And then they were drawing level with the woman.
She was starting to sink under the water.
Her head kept going under, and then she would come back up for a moment and let out a frightened howl.
She was no longer speaking words, but crying out in unarticulated fear.
He did not think she could see him. Her hair had come out of its coiffure and was plastered to her face.
She was trying to wave her arms through the air, but it was getting harder, as she was clearly waterlogged from all her heavy skirts.
Rupert reined in his horse as hard as he could, then jumped down while the horse was still moving. He tripped as he fell, stumbling forward slightly, but was able to put out a hand to the riverbank to steady himself. From a crouching position, he looked up.
The woman was only several yards ahead of him. The river was fast, but he was a strong swimmer. Without bothering to remove any of his clothes, he stood and ran forward, hurling himself into the water.
It was freezing cold in the early spring, but he barely noticed.
All he could think about was how he had to get to the woman.
She was close now, almost within his reach.
But the river was deeper than he had thought and he could no longer stand.
He had to swim. Summoning all his strength, he swam determinedly toward the woman.
And finally, he reached her.
Throwing an arm around her waist, he hooked his hand in her skirts so that he had a firm grip on her. Then he turned and, with all his might, began to swim back toward shore.
It was so much harder when he was carrying her. But he could not let go. Both their lives depended on it. The Dukedom depended on it.
The woman’s hands and arms wrapped around his back, and that gave him a surge of hope. She had not drowned at least, but she was fighting for her life.
At last, his feet found footing in the mud.
Then he was standing up, hauling her upward, while water gushed from both of them.
She released his back, and he pulled her around, so that she was against his chest. Then, with another surge of strength, he hoisted her up into her arms, so that she was safely out of the water.
At last, he was fully on dry land. The water was behind him. His legs gave way, and he knelt down on the cold, wet ground, the mud squelching beneath him. The woman was still in his arms, and as she turned over, her hair fell away from her face, and he got a good look at her.
She was a young woman, not more than twenty-one, with dark hair made darker by the river water and the most stunning blue eyes he had ever seen in his life.
Even in their fear and confusion, they seemed to pierce his very soul.
She was beautiful, he could see that, and in clothes only an aristocrat would wear.
But what would a lady be doing out here alone, swimming in the river?
He did not get much of a chance to wonder. Because then she closed her eyes and passed out.