Chapter 1
One
Ross,
There has been a change in plans. I am taking the Baroness Bredlebane to my family estate for her to recuperate.
Baron Bredlebane has sadly expired from injuries he sustained during an attack by highwaymen when they were returning with their joyous news.
Please let the duchess know her sister is safe and will be well cared for by my family through Spring.
She could not face her sisters while her emotions were so raw. I will see you upon my return.
Best,
Astley
—A letter to Nashford Xavier Harding, Duke of Ross from Simon Benjamin Clark, Earl of Astley in regard to the duke’s sister-in-law, Lady Caillen Blair Griffith, being assaulted and her husband killed on their way back to London.
The attack occurred the very day they were married in Gretna Green, Scotland.
One Year Later
Caillen had expected the long carriage ride from Astley’s home in the Scottish Lowlands to be long and stressful.
She had not expected the latest gossip printed in The Whispers of the Ton gossip rag about peers she barely knew to consume her maid’s conversation.
Yet, for the past two days, that was all Jane and her wet nurse, Mrs. Baker, had spoken about and now it seemed she would have to participate in the conversation with Jane, since Mrs. Baker was leaning against the window, with her mouth slightly agape while she snored.
“Lord Weldon has been the most scandalous rogue in London since his lady left him at the alter to run off with that Italian artist. It is said the viscount loved her so much he was willing to marry her despite her being in the family way with the artist’s bastard in her belly.
Poor man. Can you imagine giving up a viscount for a painter? ” Jane asked.
“No, I cannot,” Caillen replied as she looked down at her sleeping child and hummed her favorite song, Für Elise.
If she had left her husband at the altar, she wouldn’t have her beautiful son.
Every time Dorian gazed into her eyes, she searched for William in their midst. The color was identical, but the resemblance to his sire stopped in the clear azure color.
If truth be told, the blue hue of Dorian’s eyes was the only trait he’d inherited from either of his parents.
Dorian Griffith would be his own man—handsome devil that he was, and despite his mother’s refusal to remarry, this trip would ensure he did not face a future without siblings.
As if sensing her train of thought, Jane changed the subject. “There’s nothing that says you have to raise your late husband’s bastards.” It was the second time during their trip to London that Jane had offered her an escape from William’s past sins.
Caillen’s spine stiffened, and she was unable to conceal the ire she had kept at bay during their first conversation. “If the girls are William’s offspring, I will gladly give them a home. And once again, I will ask you not to use that term when referring to my children.”
Lord, how Caillen hated the label that would travel with the girls far and wide.
As a bastard herself, she knew exactly how cruel society could be to children born on the opposite side of a marriage blanket.
She’d already made up her mind to take the girls in, no matter what their circumstances.
They needed a home, and she had one to give. It was as simple as that.
“No disrespect intended ma’am, but you don’t know what they’re about. They could be as wild as the day is long, or filthy and pest infested.” She shuddered as if she felt bugs crawling across her skin.
“Then stop thinking about it, Jane. The girls are six-year-olds and they’re about to be orphans. That’s more than enough information for me. Everything else is irrelevant.”
Jane gave a wane smile. “You have a heart of gold, ma’am.”
No, she did not and they both knew it. There were plenty of people she wished dead—which was hardly the kindly emotion of a paragon of virtue.
The carriage came to a stop in front of her late husband’s townhome and Mrs. Baker startled awake with a snort.
“Please wait in the carriage, Mrs. Baker,” Caillen said to the wet nurse. “We will send for you once we know the house is ready.”
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Baker straightened in the seat, smoothing out her worn, brown dress that was plain, simple and clean, despite its age.
Caillen looked out at the house that would be her London home from now on.
The plain brick facade was not something she’d seen in the heart of Mayfair where her sister resided.
Nor was it like the smaller homes on the outskirts of the finer side of town.
It was older, darker, with black window coverings that shut out the outside world and gave the home a supernatural appearance, as if it were as sentient as The Castle of Otranto from the gothic novel written by Horace Walpole.
The streets were louder than those in Mayfair and held odorous vapors that added to the already unpleasant acrid scent of coal in the air. No, this house was everything her husband had said it was not, and everything her solicitor had said that it was.
Damnation, William. Her home in town was closer to Seven Dials than Mayfair, and the facade gave the appearance of a gaming hell or bawdy house, rather than a family home.
Jane looked out the window. “Oh, my.”
“We will be fine,” she said, trying to convince herself the statement was true.
Her outrider, Charlie, was at the carriage door and opening it before Jane had a chance to argue.
“Hand me the babe. Your legs will be shaky when you step down.”
Caillen smiled, grateful for the reminder.
Despite Jane’s forthright manner, or maybe it was because of it, she was a valued asset to Caillen and someone she considered a friend.
Carriage travel with an infant had been difficult.
The long hours of inactivity had been compounded by the strain of being in a carriage for the first time since…
She bit the inside of her cheek and handed Dorian to Jane, the sounds of his cooing forcing all the bad memories at bay as the infant baby immediately snuggled into her maid’s large chest.
Caillen avoided Charlie’s outstretched hand as she stepped down and looked at the vast amount of people coming and going on the dirty street.
“That’s a mighty foine carriage for this neighborood,” said a young woman who had stopped to gawk.
Her Cockney accent was as thick as Caillen had ever heard.
The woman’s stringy hair hung like a curtain around an angular jaw and cheeks riddled with red blotches.
Caillen looked down as the woman’s dirty, rough hands stroked her gown as if it were spun from gold, not muslin.
“Step away from the lady.” Charlie was instantly between them using his size and rifle butt to push the woman away from Caillen as if the woman were a highwayman.
The young woman stumbled away, her hands flailing as she spilled the basket of wash in her arms. “Oi! Me ain’t doin’ nuffin’ to ‘er!” The woman yelled and Charlie surged forward, towering over the smaller woman with his hulking form. Someone else began to yell, and a crowd began to gather.
“Stop.” Caillen’s voice wavered; her plea barely a whisper as the past crept into the present. Charlie’s overwhelming size towered over the woman, taking away her power. Her person. Her—
“Stop!” Caillen screamed and Charlie, the man in her employ whom she’d trusted to keep them safe, turned on her, a scowl marring his youthful features.
She stumbled away, suddenly transported back in time, when a blow from the highwayman had sapped her strength to nothing. Instinctively she wrapped her arms around her head and face as she sank down into a ball on the ground.
Footsteps sounded behind her as another man joined in on the attack. Again. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She whimpered as a strong grip encased her wrist. She screamed and yanked her hand free.
“No. No! No!”
Her palms scraped across cobbled stone as fear drove her backwards.
Her sobs, hard and fast, as her heart threatened to burst through her chest. Time seemed to stand still as she waited for the impending attack.
She could hear nothing. It was as if the streets themselves silenced.
The wheels of the hackneys no longer rolled.
Horses no longer trotted or snorted as they pulled on their reins. Servants no longer scurried.
When the blows never came, Caillen slowly looked up, but all she could see was the look of pity on the young woman’s face and the expression of horror on Charlie’s.
A voice broke the silence, and another face came into focus.
“It’s alright, Lady Griffith. No one is going to hurt you.” The man crouching down next to her was not touching her, not threatening her and yet she flinched despite the expression of kindness and understanding on a handsome face she should recognize, but didn’t.
Dorian’s cry rang clear when nothing else made sense, and suddenly the streets came alive with sounds threatening to drown him out. Her son. God, she had failed her son. Caillen scrambled to her feet, searching.
“Dorian!” Panic set in as she realized the distance between her and the carriage. How had she moved so far away? Dorian’s small cries called to her as Jane attempted to reenter the carriage.
“No!” Caillen cried and ran for them.
Breathless, Caillen stopped in front of Jane, wanting to take her son but her hands…her hands… She wiped them on her skirts, attempted to rid her palms of the unrecognizable stench.
A kerchief appeared in front of her and she glanced up at its owner, the stranger who suddenly became clear. Mr. Forrester, her man of affairs whom she had met only once before.
“Thank…thank you, Mr. Forrester,” she stuttered as she took the kerchief and frantically wiped at her hands.
“Are you well, my lady?” he asked, his deep brown eyes full of concern.