Chapter 1

1

London,September 1813

Vengeance…

Spencer drove his fist into the punching bag, each hit a release of pent-up fury. He imagined the face of a man in his fifties, with receding dark hair, as his target. Each punch Spencer threw, he saw landing on the man’s distinctive features: the hard bridge of the nose, the stern furrow of eyebrows above narrowly set eyes.

As Spencer aimed for the square jaw next, his movement was abruptly checked by a sharp jolt in his left thigh. A grunt escaped him, sweat beading on his forehead. He momentarily lost balance, nearly stumbling over the doctor’s leather bag sprawled inconveniently on the floor. As he staggered, bandages and a jar of liniment spilled from the bag, rolling across the wooden boards.

Forcing his injured leg into action, he felt a surge of pain, like a fiery lance through muscle and sinew. Desperately clutching the punching bag to steady himself, he cursed the disarray in his bedroom. Unsent letters to Penelope lay crumpled on the desk. His bedding was disheveled and unmade. He sent the maid away every day—he barely left this room anyway, so what was the point?

“Spencer!” demanded a voice he knew all too well from behind his back. “Are you all right?”

He tensed, releasing the bag and standing straight, his thigh protesting with a sharp pang. But the physical pain paled in comparison to the dull, persistent ache in his chest. He shifted his left leg to deliver a punch into the bag with his other arm, but his thigh cramped, now stiff as a bone. He grunted in frustration, sweat misting his forehead, and caught the swinging punching bag.

Breathing hard, he hugged the punching bag again, gathering his strength to wipe the pain from his face.

He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here, Duchess? I told Teanby I’m not at home.”

“You’ve been ‘not at home’ for two weeks now.”

“I have my reasons,” Spencer said.

Taking a deep breath in, he pushed down the pain that had been his constant companion for seven months now and turned around. There she stood, in the doorway, the only woman he’d ever loved. The woman who had brought him through the war. It was the thought of her big blue-gray eyes that had kept him waking up each morning in the dark berthing compartment that reeked of unwashed bodies and brine, going up to scrub the deck, splice ropes, or repair rigging.

He had thought he would return home to his ducal duties, to his loving brothers and his sister, drop to his knee in front of Miss Penelope Beckett, and ask her to be his wife.

But he’d returned after months of hellish battle and the unforgiving existence of a seaman to find a life he didn’t recognize. This pretty, glowing woman was now his sister-in-law, married to his brother. Spencer was no longer a duke and would never be one again.

Chalworth Place, his ducal residence, where he’d lived for four years since his papa’s death, stood charred, its black beams and columns supporting nothing but the sky. Much of what he’d owned, including his favorite paintings, which Penelope had inspired him to buy, had been reduced to ashes. Now he was back in his childhood home, the Seaton residence, from which his siblings had moved on as their lives had blossomed during his absence.

He was the eldest, the heir who had once been a powerful duke. And yet, roughly one year ago, his body had been buried, deemed dead by coroner’s evidence and witnesses. With no sons of his own, this was not a case of abeyance, where a title waits undecided between two heirs. Spencer’s case was very clear. His next in line was his brother, Preston. Even a return from the grave wouldn’t change it. The title would remain with the new heir. Yet, despite these justifications, it felt as though everything had been unjustly stripped from him.

“Duchess,” he said formally, her official title hanging between them like a shadow. Not his duchess… Last year, while they were friends, he’d called her Penelope. “You look…well. Prosperity suits you. Isn’t it odd how familiar faces can one day feel like strangers…?”

The shock and guilt on her face didn’t escape his notice.

But she collected herself like a true duchess and cocked her head, her gloved hand clutching her reticule. “Sometimes, the heart finds its home in the most unexpected places, and once settled, it rarely shifts.”

It was hard to look at her, pregnant but not by him, and glowing. She was pretty, yes, but it wasn’t that. Her skin seemed almost translucent, accentuated by the silks that clung to her form. The fabrics, rich and elegant, were provided by Preston, not him. In her, he saw a vivid embodiment of all that he had forfeited. Her radiant happiness, so evidently intertwined with Preston, stood as a stark reminder that the world had moved on without him.

And he had not. On the contrary, he decayed.

In many ways, he had died.

“It must, indeed, be agreeable,” he remarked, “to see all fall conveniently into order, while others are left to gather the fragments.”

Her eyes moistened, and a stab of guilt made Spencer’s gut wrench.

“There’s a hope, isn’t there, that tomorrow’s sun brings healing for us all,” she said softly, tearing his heart out yet again.

Her gaze moved around his messy room and stopped on a naval painting he’d torn from the wall.

Of course she’d be worrying about him. They all must have been going mad. But he just couldn’t face them. He had nothing to give except sadness and emptiness and rage.

“Where is he?” demanded a female voice coming from the hallway behind Penelope. “Goodness gracious, Spencer, I swear I am going to murder you.”

Calliope. Of course she’d be here, as well. She sounded breathless and weak despite her bossy tone.

“Here, sister!” called Penelope, turning to look over her shoulder.

“Ah!” Calliope called behind her.

Spencer groaned. “You should not be here, Duchess! Clearly, I’m indisposed.” He spread his arms to both sides indicating his state of disrobe. He had on only his shirt, which was untied, leaving a large part of his chest showing. He could feel the sweaty fabric of his shirt and his breeches clinging to his body.

Penelope’s gaze grazed over him, and she raised one eyebrow. There was not a drop of the sparkle of love and heat that showed in her eyes when she looked at Preston.

“You’re my brother now,” she said firmly and walked deeper into his chamber. “Seeing a little skin won’t shock me. Besides, it’s your own fault for avoiding us for two weeks. I know it must have been quite a shock for you to arrive and find that everything had changed.”

“Indeed, we’ve given you enough time to come to your senses,” said Calliope as she came in, wearing yellow silk and muslin. “It is your own fault we had to storm Sumhall. Your self-isolation must be stopped at once. You cannot avoid your family forever.”

She was right, but he just wasn’t ready. Not ready for questions, for squawking, for words of wisdom, and for pity.

Spencer sighed and turned around to the sideboard that held a decanter of whisky standing on a tray and a glass. They had both been his companions for the past two weeks. “Not forever,” he mumbled as he poured the liquid. “But a few more years should do it.”

There were more sounds of footsteps from the hallway, and Spencer’s jaw tightened. Was the entire family here?

Unlike Penelope, who was looking plush and rosy-cheeked in her pregnancy, his normally vibrant younger sister was pale and thin. A sheen of moisture covered her face, but it didn’t look healthy.

As though to confirm that thought, Calliope’s hand shot to her mouth. Her other arm was caught by her new husband, Nathaniel, the Duke of Kelford, who leapt into the room to support her.

“We all want you to recover,” said Preston, who appeared in the doorway next, his intense, dark eyes drilling into Spencer.

Spencer made a wide gesture with his arm, causing his whisky to spill in a semicircle. “Great. Is the rest of the family here, too? Richard?”

“Of course I’m here,” came from behind the corner, and Richard’s head peeked around the doorframe.

“I knew it,” Spencer said. “Teanby wouldn’t be convinced by anyone but his favorite.”

Richard and his new wife, Jane, as well as the regal yet kind-eyed Grandmama came in, too. Suddenly, Spencer’s large bedroom shrank, and his lungs felt too tight for his chest.

“Teanby wouldn’t have let anyone in if he didn’t agree with them,” said Grandmama. “We all think it’s time you stopped hiding. This is unhealthy, darling.”

Unhealthy…he was unhealthy. Body and soul. They didn’t know the extent of it.

And the worst was, they were all a walking reminder of everything he’d lost.

Including himself.

“The only ones who seem to care about anything unhealthy are you people,” he growled. “I just want to be left alone.”

“But you didn’t tell us anything!” exclaimed Calliope, her throat working. “You’ve been back for two weeks, and all we saw of you was half an hour at the docks and then you locked yourself in here. You won’t even tell us who did this to you!”

Spencer felt his face drain of color as Calliope’s words sank in. He knew her too well, his little detective, always chasing after mysteries like a hound on a scent. The revelation of her sacrifice, marrying a navy officer just to aid in his search, hit him like a physical blow. He felt as if his soul was momentarily unmoored, adrift in a sea of shock and guilt.

He couldn’t allow his pregnant sister, whom he loved so very much, to meddle with the very powerful and very dangerous person who had wanted him gone.

“I won’t tell, especially not to you,” he stated firmly as he limped towards his family, his left leg betraying him. “You’re pregnant. You cannot stop vomiting, you cannot eat or drink. You need to stay home and get better. Kelford, how could you have let her come here?”

“If you think anyone can let or not let Calliope do anything, you’re delusional,” replied Kelford, his square jaw working as he held his wife. They were quite a striking pair—Calliope, with her auburn hair and big blue eyes, and Kelford, tall and golden-haired and muscular. At least Spencer could be happy for his sister. Clearly, this man worshipped the ground she walked on, and she loved him in return. “Your sister knows her own limits better than anyone, and I trust her to make her own decisions.”

The same level of trust and love radiated from Richard and his wife, Jane.

“You need to let me do my own bidding,” Spencer said, looking at Calliope.

Spencer was acutely aware of Preston’s and Richard’s presence, their eagerness to act palpable in the tense air. But when his eyes met Preston’s, a flicker of discomfort stirred within him. He couldn’t shake off a lingering sense of betrayal at his brother marrying Penelope, irrational as it was. Even though he knew that Preston had his reasons, and that it was all in the past, a part of Spencer’s soul couldn’t help but feel a sting of abandonment.

“I’m back. I’m safe. I’m fine,” said Spencer.

“Spencer, you’re not fine,” said Penelope. “I wish you’d come with us to an art exhibition, or come to visit my studio…”

Her voice trailed off as Spencer gulped the glass of whisky down, the liquid burning his throat like fire, but, unfortunately, not incinerating him to ashes. Could she see in his eyes that her words were killing him? He had fallen in love with her as they’d stood observing paintings and discussing them. Going to an art event with her and his brother would be like rubbing a raw, infected wound with sand.

“You’re safe now because no one knows yet that you’re back,” said Calliope. “Except for the navy, of course. But that powerful man who forced Admiral Langden to press-gang you is still out there. The man with an ivory-topped walking stick. Once he finds out you’re back, he may come to finish the job!”

“Tell us who did it, brother,” said Preston quietly, calmly, and yet Spencer knew his brother all too well. Underneath that quiet exterior, a whole storm was raging. In the silence that followed Preston’s request, Spencer could hear the clock ticking in the ground-floor hallway.

“Please, tell us!” cried Calliope, and her hand shot to her mouth again as she took a few breaths in and out.

“Come on, darling,” said Jane as she led Calliope to a chair and let her sit. “Please do try and stay calm.”

“Who did it, Spencer?” Calliope demanded, her voice croaking and strange as she fought the nausea.

Spencer knew it must be killing his little sleuth not to have the answer to this mystery.

But she was right. It was a dangerous business, and he had his own score to settle with the man who had cost him everything he had valued.

“I can’t tell you,” Spencer said.

“But why not?” demanded Grandmama. “This person committed a crime and must face the consequences.”

“We’ve all gone to great lengths to avenge you…and then to save you,” said Preston. “We are all on your side.”

Spencer scoffed. “Tell me about it, brother. You have gone to great lengths—perhaps a little too far, don’t you think?”

Oh, that shut him up indeed. Preston had both inherited his title and taken to wife the woman Spencer had intended to marry. Even though Spencer had turned out to be alive, that title transfer couldn’t be undone, and Preston would forever be the Duke of Grandhampton and Penelope’s husband.

Penelope’s gaze locked on to Preston, and a sharp pang twisted in Spencer’s chest. Her eyes, shimmering with an affectionate glow, were filled with emotion. The way her face softened, the corners of her lips curling into a tender, almost reverent smile, was a sight he had imagined directed at him in a different life.

His brother was the lucky winner.

He looked at Richard, his youngest brother. “You married the sister of the criminal lord who was hired to harm me.”

Jane, the stunning young lady with dark hair in a pretty chignon and highly intelligent gray eyes that estimated him behind the rims of striking spectacles, opened her mouth, no doubt to contradict him.

But he didn’t let her, his gaze dropping to Calliope, who looked a little green, holding on to a handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

“And you married the officer who’d signed the press-gang order that had me beaten and hauled onto a ship destined for the war that almost took my life. I think it’s safe to say you’ve all done enough.”

Limping, he pushed through his family, who gaped at him, protesting.

“Spencer, we see your pain,” said Grandmama. “It’s not just your own to bear. Let us be there for you, in whatever way you’ll allow.”

He didn’t need them to bear his pain. No amount of help would ever return to him Penelope, his body, his title, or his very identity.

There was just one thing he needed, just one thing left that made sense.

Vengeance.

“Please, all of you, do leave me alone,” he demanded. “I do not wish to be nursed, healed, poked, or fussed over.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Calliope over the handkerchief.

That was exactly the right question. What was he going to do?

He had brooded and hidden in Sumhall long enough. The man who needed to be punished was still out there, enjoying his life.

Feeling a new jolt of dark, angry energy, Spencer squared his shoulders. He was glad at this little coup his family had organized. They had given him a kick in the backside and made him realize it was time to act.

“What am I going to do?” He chuckled, looking around at his family one last time. “I am going to a ball.”

With that, he walked out of his bedroom to summon his valet.

He’d bring down the man who’d destroyed his life.

He’d shatter the Duke of Ashton or die trying.

And he knew just the man to help him.