Chapter One

London—September 1809

August left the ship which had brought him from Spain to England.

To home . . .

But would home ever be the same to him again?

He was coming back to an England he probably remembered in a different way than before he went to war. He had only been in His Majesty's army four years, but those years at war had hardened him. Changed him. Once, he had been a handsome, charming, lighthearted bachelor. Attending university during the year and then events of the Season before he graduated and took up his commission. He had danced with pretty girls. Flirted with them. Bedded willing widows. Life had been joyful. Worries, nonexistent.

All that was over now. England might not have changed—but August Holt most certainly had.

He had only looked at himself once in the mirror when the bandages came off his face, trying to hide his horror at the reflection staring back at him.

While Dr. Morris had told him the scars would fade with time, they were still a bright, angry red, fresh in appearance.

Now, he sported a black eyepatch to cover where his left eye had once been. He left it on all the time, except when he slept. He could not imagine going without it. Since leaving the army hospital, he had received looks ranging from outright curiosity to disgust to horror—and that had been from the hardened sailors aboard this vessel. August tried to prepare himself for the reactions he would see from members of the public.

As they floated down the Thames toward the London docks, he went to find the captain.

"I wanted to thank you for making room for me on your vessel, Captain. As you know, it is imperative that I reach home as soon as possible."

The grizzled seaman nodded. "I want to thank you for your service to England, Captain Holt. Somehow, some way, I hope that Britain and her allies can stop this monster called Bonaparte."

"I have every faith we will, sir."

August said his farewell and returned to the miniscule cabin he had been given, collecting the rucksack which held all his worldly goods. A change of clothing. His shaving razor. And the letter he had received from Thomas, the solicitor.

As he made his way back to the deck, he wondered if he should go and see this solicitor first or head directly to his father's townhouse. No, Peter's townhouse, he corrected himself.

He would want to meet with Peter's doctor to understand his brother's diagnosis, as well as see if what Thomas had written was true and that Peter only had a short while to live.

The old August would have barreled into the situation without a backward glance. The new, more introspective man he was quickly becoming decided a visit to the solicitor would be his first step upon arrival.

As they sailed along the river, he watched the people scurrying along the docks. It would be good to be back on English soil and get a decent cup of coffee. Even small things such as a scone now took on greater significance. August had put up with army rations for years, and he was ready to indulge in a good meal and take his time digesting it.

The ship came to rest in its slip, dropping anchor, sailors hurrying to and fro on the deck. The gangplank was quickly lowered, and before it was barely in place, a group of dock workers hurried up it. He assumed they would be unloading the cargo below brought back by the ship. Very few passengers were aboard, only two that he knew of beside himself, both of them injured soldiers such as himself. One had lost a leg and had kept to his cabin, eating all his meals there. The other soldier had been blinded in a cannon attack, and he, too, had remained in his cabin, having all meals brought to him.

August tamped down the bitterness that filled him, thinking of those two men's predicaments. At least he had all four limbs and could get about, as well as the sight from one eye.

He glanced down at his gloved left hand, wistful for the missing fingers. His fingers would never again grace the keys of a pianoforte. Still, he had his right to use when he ate and wrote. He only wondered what his life would consist of now.

The rush of workers ended, and the gangplank was empty for a moment. August took the opportunity to descend, finally stepping onto English soil. He walked a few minutes, heading away from the waterfront, caught up in the hustle and bustle of the crowd, trying not to shy away from the noise. He had been the bravest of officers, leading men into battle, but since his injuries, he wanted nothing to do with being around noise or large groups of people. He supposed a quiet life in the country would be the most satisfying one and determined to go to Edgefield as soon as possible, where he could avoid the stares of strangers.

Peter had never enjoyed life in the country. His precarious health had prevented him from the pursuits August enjoyed so well—riding, hunting, and fishing. His brother had been drawn to his books and studies, first attending school, and then finishing with a tutor at home. Even as children, August had protected his older brother from bullies at school. Though two years ahead, Peter had always been small and slight, weak, and perpetually out of breath. Walking across a room brought his brother to the point of exhaustion. Boys at school had picked at Peter constantly, and August had fought every one of them. He had gained many a black eye—as well as given several—in defense of the brother he loved.

He passed a food vendor's cart, and the smell of the pies caused his belly to growl angrily. Retracing his steps, he paused in front of the cart and simply inhaled.

"Smell good to you, Captain?" the old woman manning the cart asked.

Grateful she had not flinched, nor mentioned his condition, he said, "It smells heavenly. I would like two meat pies. Please," he added, thinking he needed to get used to such niceties again in everyday speech.

The woman handed the pies over to August, and he held them under his nose, inhaling deeply.

"I have just returned from Spain, and this will be the best meal I have eaten in years," he told the woman.

Reaching into his pocket for a coin, she waved it away when he tried to hand it over.

"For your service, Captain," she said, smiling, revealing a gap where teeth should have been. "My boy is in the army now. Couldn't be prouder of him. It's the least I can do for one who has fought so well."

August doffed his hat to her. "My thanks, madam. You have warmed this soldier's heart with your graciousness. I hope your boy comes home soon and with his health intact."

"I pray for that very thing each night, Captain," she said. "Godspeed."

He walked the street slowly, chewing thoughtfully on his pies as he did, not rushing, wanting to savor each bite. It truly was the best thing he had eaten since the farewell dinner his father had held in August's honor before he had left to take up his commission and enter officer training.

He hadn't yet dealt with his father's death, deliberately pushing it from his mind. The old man had been hard on him, twice as hard as he should have been, but even back then, August had realized he was being pushed for two since his father could not discipline Peter. August had gained a grudging respect for the marquess, and it hurt to think he would never see or speak with his father again. Thomas' letter did not give any details regarding the marquess' death, and that would be something he would ask the solicitor about.

The pies eaten, he withdrew the solicitor's letter from his coat pocket, once more checking the address of the man's offices. Flagging down a hansom cab, August gave the address to the driver, who couldn't bring himself to look his passenger in the face. It took a good three-quarters of an hour to get through the busy streets of London, but he didn't mind. He looked at the sights, seeing new buildings which had sprung up during his absence.

The driver pulled up, and August paid him, exiting the vehicle. He entered the building and stopped at the first desk he came to, where a clerk looked up.

"May I help you?" the clerk asked. Then his eyes widened, and he visibly swallowed as he took in August's appearance. To his credit, though, the man steadied himself and said, "Thank you for your service, Captain."

It surprised him how many people recognized his rank based upon his uniform. Then again, Britain had a long, illustrious history at war, and the newspapers were always full of accounts of the army and navy and the various battles fought upon land and sea.

"My name is August Holt. I received a letter from Mr. Thomas regarding the death of my father, the Marquess of Edgethorne."

Recognition appeared in the clerk's eyes at hearing the name. "Mr. Thomas will certainly want to visit with you, Captain Holt. If you would have a seat, I will let him know you are here. Presently, he is with a client, but he shouldn't be engaged but for another quarter-hour or so."

"Thank you," he said, taking a seat on the bench the clerk had indicated.

As he waited, his eye roamed about the office. It was a habit of those who had gone to war. A soldier, especially an officer, constantly assessed a situation and his surroundings. Within seconds, he knew how many workers were in the office. Their locations. Whether they would pose a threat or not.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. These men were civilians. They held no threat to him. He would have to change his mindset now that he was back in a civilized place.

A gentleman in his late thirties appeared, looking satisfied, and August judged him to be the client Mr. Thomas had been with. As the man sailed through the office, he did not bother to stop and thank anyone.

When he reached the area where August sat, the man froze in his tracks, his jaw dropping. His eyes widened as he studied August a moment, and then he shuddered violently, giving him a wide berth as he left the office.

As if August's scars were catching.

The clerk he had spoken with rose from his desk and disappeared down a long hallway. He was gone several minutes and when he returned, another man accompanied him.

The man had to be Mr. Thomas. He was in his early forties, with graying temples and light blue eyes. Apparently, the clerk had warned his employer regarding Austin's appearance because the solicitor approached him without trepidation.

The solicitor offered his hand. "I am Mr. Thomas, Captain Holt. It is good to see you back in England."

He shook the man's hand and joked, "I consumed two meat pies the moment I left the ship which brought me here. It was the best meal I have eaten in years."

Thomas chuckled. "I have heard rumors of how pitiful army food can be. Is it the same fare for officers as other soldiers?"

"Upon occasion, officers dine a bit better than the men in the field. For the most part, however, we eat from the same stewpots and chew on the same moldy bread as did others."

The solicitor had a little trouble meeting his client's eye, but he said, "Shall we go to my office? I am sure you have questions, and I am happy to answer them."

As they walked past the other desks, he was aware of the surreptitious glances he received. He would have to learn to ignore them because they would be a part of his life from now on. Even if he did not bear the horrible scar from the sword, others would always be curious as to why he wore an eyepatch.

They entered a cozy office, and August took one of the chairs in front of the desk as Thomas sat behind it.

"Could you tell me about my father's death?" he began. "Your letter mentioned he was buried in the churchyard at Edgewood, but I would like to know the particulars."

"Of course," Thomas said. "From what I gather, it was a massive heart attack. Lord Edgethorne was in the card room during a ball, in the midst of a winning streak. A witness shared with me that your father placed his cards upon the table—four kings—and begin raking in his winnings. His last words were supposedly, ‘I will take every man at this table for whatever he ventures to gamble tonight.'

"Then Lord Edgethorne clutched his chest, and his head dropped to the table, his face buried in the chips he had just won. It was instantaneous, Captain Holt. The marquess did not suffer."

August nodded. "Then he went out as he would have liked. My father was known for his luck at cards."

"I accompanied his body back to Edgefield, along with Redding, his butler in town, and Pole, his valet. Unfortunately, your brother's health did not allow him to make the trip."

"You wrote of Peter's unstable health," August pressed. "Frankly, he has been fragile his entire life."

A grim expression crossed the solicitor's face. "I would not have advised you to sell out and come home immediately if I did not think Lord Edgethorne's death imminent."

He sighed. "I had no choice but to come home, Thomas. The army no longer wanted me in the condition I am now in. Thank you for being polite and not asking me about my injuries."

The solicitor looked uncomfortable. "I assumed the injuries were recent, Captain. It is not my place to comment on a client's appearance, however."

"I fear many people will comment about it, either to my face or behind my back." He rose. "I will go to see my brother now. Do you know his doctor's name? I will wish to speak with him, as well."

"Dr. Brown lives in Lord Edgethorne's household and has for several years now, in order to care for your brother." Thomas paused. "We have many things to discuss, Captain Holt."

He frowned. "I assume you mean estate matters."

"Yes."

"Everything can wait until I see Peter," he insisted. "When the time comes and I am responsible for everything, you and I will have a long chat. Until then, Thomas, my brother is the marquess. I have no say—or power—in his affairs."

He rose, and Thomas also came to his feet, sympathy filling his eyes. "Be warned, Captain. Your brother is gravely ill. You must be ready to assume your responsibilities sooner rather than later."

"I will not let down the tenants or anyone else," he declared. "But now is not the time to speak of the title or finances."

"I understand," the solicitor said.

"I will be in touch," he told the man, leaving the office.

He was tired of sitting and decided to walk to Mayfair. It would only be two miles or so. August regretted the decision, however, seeing the stares. Hearing the titters. Observing people move away from him. The sooner he could escape the throngs of London, the better.

His knock was answered by a footman, who gasped loudly when he caught sight of August. He recognized the servant and smiled wryly.

"I have come home, Wilson."

Recovering, the longtime footman said, "Come in, Captain. You are in time. Barely."

"For?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Reddening, the butler appeared. Stoic as ever, he said, "It is good to see you, Captain Holt. Please come with me. His lordship is almost gone. You are in time to say your goodbyes to him."

Hurt, mixed with anger, ran through him. Even knowing that Peter was in poor health, he had figured they would be able to spend some time together. Now, he was being cheated out of that.

As they went up the grand staircase, Redding said, "Lord Edgethorne did not relocate to the ducal rooms upon your father's death. Dr. Brown thought it unwise to move him."

"I see."

The butler led him to the rooms Peter had always had and opened the door without knocking. The two men slipped inside the darkened room, the heavy curtains having been drawn against the incoming sunlight.

A man stood at the bedside, and August determined him to be Dr. Brown. He turned and motioned August over.

He moved slowly, his eye focused on his brother. Peter lay in the bed, looking so frail and pale, August wondered if he still might be breathing.

He came to stand at the foot of the bed. "How is he?" he asked the physician.

"It is the end," the doctor said bluntly. "He will not live to see another day. I assume you are his brother?"

"I am." Anguish filled him as he studied Peter. "Can nothing be done?"

"Lord Edgethorne suffers greatly, Captain Holt. The rheumatic fever from his childhood caused permanent damage to his heart. He has also developed rheumatism, unrelated to the fever, but it has inflamed his joints and muscles, causing him constant pain. I was about to give him more morphine to ease his suffering."

"Don't, yet," Peter said weakly from the bed. "It dulls my mind. Makes me sleep." He gave a half-hearted smile to August. "Good of you to make it home, Brother."

He moved to the side of the bed and sat, taking Peter's hand in his. "I came as soon as I could."

His brother winced, moaning softly. "I see you have suffered as I have. At least you did so in honor of king and country." Peter sighed. "I'm certain there's a story to tell behind that eyepatch."

"Not to mention the scars," August said lightly. "You must grow stronger so that I might tell you about it."

"No," Peter said softly. "My strength is gone, August. My life is at an end."

"Don't say that," he insisted, his insides crying out, his love for Peter great.

"I am ready to go," Peter admitted. "I have suffered greatly these last two years. I am just sorry to be leaving you in such a mess."

"What mess?" he asked.

"Father never cared much for Edgefield. You must do a better job and see that it runs the way it should. That its people are cared for."

"I will do so," he promised solemnly.

"You must also wed."

"What? You talk of marriage at a time such as this?" he protested.

"I do. You are all that is left, August. You will soon be Edgethorne. You need to wed and have a house full of children."

He shook his head. "Has your sight also been affected, Peter? What woman would have me, looking as I am?"

"Several. You will have a title and money. Looks won't matter. You will have women chase you, wanting to be your marchioness. Promise me you will wed, August. That you will attend the Season next spring and choose a bride."

He said nothing, thinking Peter wrong. What woman would want to be with a scarred beast of a man such as himself?

"Promise," his brother insisted, his voice growing weaker. "That you will attend. Marry. Have children. Have many of them, August. Love them. Shower them with love. I know Father was so hard on you. I think you can teach children respect and love them without spoiling them."

Peter suddenly shuddered, groaning loudly, arching in the bed.

"No more talk," Dr. Brown said. "Lord Edgethorne, I am giving you the morphine."

August stood and stepped away from the bed as the physician injected Peter. It only took a few moments for a dreamy look to appear on his face.

"August?" he said, his voice faint.

"I am here, Peter," he said, returning to sit on the bed, holding his brother's hand once more.

"This is it. Promise . . . me. You'll wed . . ."

"Dammit it, Peter." Frustration filled him, but he wanted his brother to have peace. "All right. I promise. I'll find some chit this coming Season."

"Thank . . . you. Love . . .you . . ."

"I love you, too," August said, his voice breaking.

He was aware of Dr. Brown's presence in the room as he concentrated on his brother's face. It grew peaceful. Peter's breathing evened out—and then slowed.

Minutes later, a stillness set in, and he knew his brother was now gone. Still, he held onto Peter's hand, already regretting the promise he had made.

One which he was honor-bound to keep.

Despite his brother's warning, August thought it would be difficult to find a woman in Polite Society who would agree to wed him. If he did find a lady desperate enough to do so, at least they could couple in the dark so she wouldn't have to look upon him.

Releasing Peter's hand, August stood.

"He is gone," he told Dr. Brown.

Now, he was the Marquess of Edgethorne.