Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

K ingston-upon-Thames, late August 1815

"It begins."

The happy golden hues on the overstuffed damask furniture brought Lora little pleasure as she raised a steaming cup of tea to her lips. Another sleepless night had delivered her to her usual perch in the parlor window. There, pensive and poised, she daydreamed about a certain duke—as she often did without reprieve, gazing outdoors—longing to be free like birds fluttering from limb to limb in the gardens and the rotunda beyond. Creatures of the air cared nothing for fashion or manners, house parties or dances or marriage or revenge, though the weather played a significant role in their bountiful cheerfulness. A higher power had clothed each bird magnificently for what lay in store on a day-to-day basis. If only someone had shown her that same kindness. She longed to be like a bird, soaring high above the fray, able to avoid hazards with equal finesse.

This morning, however, fog and rain threatened to swallow the terrain, offering her no contentment. Like a bad omen, gloom settled over her and snuffed her spirits like a vulnerable candle in the wind, reminding her of the pain that accompanied every errand.

Grumbling with displeasure, she glanced down at her teacup. The medicinal effects of tea usually soothed her agitation. But her plans were thwarted when Miss Margaret Percival, her mother's sister, decided to open Winterbourne for guests. Aunt Meg intended to find her a suitable match, and before the summer was over. As a result, and with or without Lora's approval, a deluge of people would flood the premises, promoting goodwill and conversation, and making it nearly impossible to escape at whim.

The doors of Winterbourne would also receive her cousin, Lieutenant Samuel Hawkesbury, who had just returned from Waterloo. His long-standing animosity and burning desire to take her brother's place in the line of succession made clear he would inherit everything—and in his irrational mind, her, too.

Over my dead body.

She choked, setting her teacup down with a clatter. The very idea of Samuel assuming her father's role as the Marquess of Putney was an appalling reminder that she could not reverse time. And why shouldn't she abhor the idea? Throughout his life, Samuel's envy had influenced everything, dampening the mood, ruining family gatherings, and careening conversation into a fiery pit. Now, with Nicholas gone, the only thing standing in Samuel's way was Papa and her uncle, Thomas Hawkesbury. Once they were gone, the estate and Papa's title would subsequently fall to her cousin, polluting the halls of Winterbourne forever.

I will do whatever it takes to prevent such an outrage.

Meg cleared her throat, effectively putting an end to her ruminations.

Lora glanced at her aunt, quickly discovering that her ill-tempered musings had earned another of Meg's infamous glowers. A minor slip like this, even in private, had the potential to undo all that she'd strived so hard to achieve these many months in her pursuit of Nicholas's killer. Nervously, she picked up her teacup and saucer, the porcelain clattering in her hands.

"Is it your intention to break every tea set in this house?"

"No, Aunt. Truly. I have no notion what has come over me." Liar!

"Do you not?" Aunt Meg didn't seem convinced as she bent diligently to her embroidery once more.

Lora couldn't resist saying, "An impulsive female wouldn't stop at this teacup. She'd break every dish in the house if it meant a certain person would never be able to use them."

"Lora!" Meg pricked her finger and gasped, any sign of humor gone. She sucked on the digit, wincing. "I applaud your wit, my dear, but what good can come from breaking the dishes? How will we feed our guests? Think, my dear. You are too willful. I urge you to practice more diplomacy. Trust me when I say that it is never right to resort to violence. Nothing can be gained—"

"By resorting to hostility. Anger thoroughly shatters people's lives." Lora drew in a deep breath, trying not to engage, trying without fail to push her brother's death stare out of her mind. "Let us pray my cousin does not test the violence of my affections."

"Lora." Meg frowned, but Lora did not care. She meant every word because she believed Samuel's lust for Winterbourne made him somehow responsible for her brother's death. "You are my sister's only child, my pleasing, practical, philosophical niece. Since Evie's passing, we have been indulging you, if you'll allow me to say so."

Lady Evelyn, the Marchioness of Putney—Lora's mother—faded from Lora's mind with every passing year, no matter how hard she clung to the memories or stared at the portrait hanging over the mantel.

"We must all accept that your mother is gone, that Nicholas is gone, and that no one can take their place."

Unless Papa remarried and his new bride conceived a son. The jarring thought quickly rattled Lora's brain. Yes. Papa simply must recover from his injuries and marry again.

But how was that possible when his spirits were so low?

Meg swiped at an errant tear, the solemn act stirring waterworks in the backs of Lora's eyes. "Nicholas's death was tragic, as was your father's accident. Without hope for his full recovery, however, you will need a husband to provide protection. It is only fitting and right that your uncle should acquire Winterbourne in the event your father's condition takes a sudden turn, and then his son."

"Aunt!"

"The fact remains. Hawkesbury and Samuel are the rightful heirs."

Her lips curled in distaste as she placed her teacup and saucer on the side table, causing quite a clatter. "Samuel intends to marry me."

"Would that be so terrible? Happenstance, you would not have to leave Winterbourne."

She stared at Meg in horror. "He is my cousin. What's more. He's a vile, distasteful, miscreant. I want no part of him. He's a stain upon all, and—"

"Enough!"

Lora bristled at her aunt's tone.

"Harness your tongue. It does you no credit."

But Meg did not know Samuel like Lora did. She had not been privy to his endless taunts and mean-spirited tricks. The times he'd broken expensive family heirlooms and blamed Nicholas. Or the despicable ways he'd tortured harmless animals.

Pausing and sighing, Meg studied her embroidery. "You and I were born into a world where women rarely get what they want, let alone deserve. I will not hear another word of you never marrying. My own bitter disappointment of never bearing children should be example enough, and I despair that kind of future for you, forced to rely on kind relatives." She gazed at Lora fondly. "Your father is a compassionate man. It behooves me to remind you that you are two and twenty and headed for the same fate, dearest. And I owe it to my beloved sister to help you make a prudent match."

"I will not leave Papa, not in his condition." Lora vehemently shook her head. "And I cannot leave you ."

"Perdition! You cannot put my needs over yours. Oh no! That does not suit. Not when this house is more than either of us can manage."

"Never mind that." You do not know the extent of my cousin's shortcomings. More's the pity. If she did, Meg would sing a different tune. Only one of us needs to carry that burden. "We are managing very well."

"But for how long?"

"As long as it takes," she said, gazing out the window once more. The drizzling rain mirrored the melancholy constricting her heart. She dared not think about the future. It was a nauseating affair devoid of Nicholas. She neither wanted to marry nor needed a husband, especially not until she caught the person responsible for her brother's death. Papa was alive and thriving, though still slightly unstable on his feet. There was no need to worry about her safety, yet. Indeed, she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. If her aunt found out what she did in the dark of night— "Papa will be back on his feet in due course. And perhaps this party will be exactly what he needs to make it so."

"I do hope you are right, Lora. Oh," Meg added energetically. "Did I mention your uncle was here earlier?"

"Uncle Thomas?" Her heart sank and a sudden queasiness took hold as tension built inside her. "You did not."

"We have received word that he is finally coming home."

"Who?" Though she knew the answer as a letter had arrived stating that her cousin Samuel had cashed in his commission at war's end.

"The Duke of Beresford."

Lora gazed at her aunt in shock. "The Duke of Beresford?"

This, indeed, was not the revelation she expected. She perched on the edge of the window seat, unexpectedly euphoric. He has returned. Myles Rutland, the Duke of Beresford, had been back to Kingston only once in two years—for his father's funeral—claiming London as his primary residence. The city she could not access due to her father's convalescence.

Predictably, he was the most sought-after bachelor in Town.

"I see something finally piqued your interest." Meg's endearing smile offset a teasing brow. "I am told he is keen to explore Kingston, and am happy to say that he will be joining our little house party." After a slight pause, she added, "As will Hawkesbury's son."

Lora's heart sank into her belly like an iron bucket plummeting down an empty well. "Thank you for apprising me of this news."

"'Tis not a plea for you to take precautionary measures. I beg you, give the man a chance to prove himself. War has changed men."

"Of course." Bile rose in her throat. A leopard cannot change its spots. "I shall try."

She did not trust Samuel. He was not an easy man to avoid, either. His whole life long, jealousy had fueled his spirit. If he desired something, he did not care who got in his way, frequently flying into fits of rage like a petulant child. Tormenting servants. Why, he'd even thrown tenants off the property without allowing the poor dears time to retrieve their belongings.

Another abhorrent offense—this one more reprehensible than the rest—was his claim that she was a pitiful wallflower in need of rescue. Cruel, despicable man! Was it any wonder? Until she'd attended her first Season in London, he'd purposefully scared off would-be suitors, intimidating anyone who threatened his governance. His efforts were for naught, however. Shadows did not scare her. Thanks to Papa's rare, unequalled devotion, and her exposure to reading, she understood what it was to be alive and thrive. The danger was not limited to the outdoors. Rather, deceit and disgrace were traps spun by people motivated by greed and ambition throughout all walks of life.

"I do hope the roads will be adequate for our guests." Meg searched the sky, the gloomy grey hanging over them, reflecting Lora's mood. "A few days of sun should do the trick."

If only it would be that easy to get rid of an unruly cousin.

Had Samuel returned from war a different man? She hoped so, for his father's sake. Uncle Thomas was a dignified man who deserved better. According to the servants, he suffered the worse for his only child's behavior but still kept the wolves at bay when Samuel's debts mounted, practically impoverishing him. That wayward solicitor's packet had revealed as much, and so, she'd left the evidence for her uncle to find.

Sympathy for Uncle Thomas's plight did not alter reality, however. She wanted nothing to do with his despicable son. And with Samuel present, what man in his right mind would dare approach her?

Not that she was looking for a husband. Conducting nightly raids in a bedchamber appealed more to a man. Not a woman determined to avenge her brother and be declared a public enemy. If discovered, her antics would cause ruin and humiliation.

Sulla said it best. ‘No friend ever served me, and no enemy ever wronged me, whom I have not repaid in full.'

Methods of trickery fueled revenge, making Lora a contradiction. She plotted and schemed, justifying her actions and interpreting the violent present. No one else would suffer the way her family had. And like Sulla, renaming himself Felix after his victory at Mithridates, she'd taken on the persona of a lady of vengeance, determined to rid this world of her foe's treachery.

But what did it matter where Samuel was concerned? He did not cherish family, and was incapable of loving anyone or anything. He wanted Winterbourne, Papa's title, wealth, and prestige. Codswallop! The country estate dated back hundreds of years, flourishing in plenty and privation. Papa had gone to great expense restoring it, pruning the wood, stocking the lake, overseeing the wildlife—the endeavor nearly costing him his life.

Marry her cousin? How repugnant! Whatever Samuel's alteration, in her mind, he still reeked of dung and deceit and despair after harassing Papa when she'd staunchly refused his hand. A drunken rage had followed, forcing Uncle Thomas to step in quickly and purchase his son a commission.

Only a tetched woman married the blackguard who connived against his own flesh and blood. If Samuel thought nothing of mistreating her father—and his own—what would he do to a disobedient wife?

She didn't intend to find out. She refused to submit to any man. Especially if her suspicions rang true and the person responsible for the hunting accident that injured her father was connected to her brother's murder. She'd hang a thousand lifetimes from a gibbet on the London Road like Jerry Abershawe for everyone to see in order to avenge Nicholas's death. And if her plans bore fruit, she would. Nothing could make her forget an assassin had killed her brother, the executioner feasting on her anguish as she helplessly watched.

Only one thing stood in her way—Lieutenant Samuel Hawkesbury.

She may not be the only outlaw in Surrey, but she would not get caught. Not when she was markedly close to discovering who pilfered and pillaged the inhabitants of Kingston when highwaymen were a thing of the past. The Duke of Beresford's absence, and his role as magistrate, had required that something be done, and quickly. His return, however, would put a damper on her well-laid plans.

"You are woolgathering again, Lora."

On the contrary. I am calculated, indomitable, and intent on saving us from unbearable servitude to the man who might one day call himself lord of—

"Assure me that you will be on your best behavior with our guests."

Soberly, she lowered her legs to the floor. Guests? Another reason why she objected to this party. Witnesses increased the risk of discovery. "I never put a foot wrong, Aunt."

"That is not what worries me. What worries me is whether that foot is silk-slippered and belongs to a lady."

She glanced down at her kid-leather half boots.

"Contrary to what you might think, I am a lady." Rain drenched the hillside, obscuring her vista of the rotunda, a reflection of the storm raging inside her. "You have nothing to fear. I would never tarnish our good name."

"That said, I require your promise."

"As you wish."

Meg squinted as she re-threaded her needle. "Lora."

"Very well. I promise." She rose from her perch, determination fueling her limbs. Perhaps I have it all wrong. What if vengeance has hardened my heart beyond repair, irrevocably damning my soul, and there is no love left in me? What if there is no coming back from a life of hostility?

She shook her head, resolved to find peace for Nicholas's soul, finality. Conceivably, it would be easier to move on. But a nefarious game was afoot, and she intended to keep her enemies close. If only she could find out who her enemies were. More than one roved the countryside, causing mayhem. She'd wounded a man robbing the widow Marlowe's house at the same time the townspeople said a thief had stolen twenty pounds from The Hog's Head.

A troublesome dilemma, especially since she had yet to find the man with the orange neckerchief.

She wasn't daft. It is unlikely that Samuel, who hadn't been seen for a year, could have been involved by proxy. At least she wouldn't discount the possibility. And if that was the case, his attendance at Winterbourne allowed opportunities for discovery. However, the only impediment to that plan required her to put herself in the line of sight.

She shivered at the repulsive thought. Half the battle to getting Samuel to admit his crimes was the proven experience that he could be baited.

Bait him, she would.

"I must go." She strode to Meg, kissing her cheek when her aunt gave her a withering look. "To confer with Cook. When our guests arrive, they will require dry linen and refreshment."

"Lora," Meg warned.

"Put your mind at ease. I will play my part." She flashed a broad smile. "You have my vow that I will manage everything with the utmost care."

"Why am I not convinced?"

"Am I not your favorite niece?"

A ripple of mirth escaped Meg. "You are my only niece."

"And you've proven my point." Flashing her aunt a warm smile, she giggled, then strolled into the long hall, the thrill of the hunt seizing her spirit as a flurry of servants just as ambitious as she scurried past.

Winterbourne had once been a thriving estate, filled with music, joy, and laughter, the purity allowing for explorations of the heart stripped away after her father's ill-timed injury. Following a season of silent reflection and a deafening reduction of amusement, a charged current now swirled inside her like a stream of wasteful energy.

Though she'd participated in several seasons, she cared nothing for the social set. She preferred the country. There, Papa had showered her with attention, extending the same care he'd shown Nicholas, training them both in the arts of conservancy and gentlemanly sport. His horrific fall from a horse during a hunt and his subsequent lengthy recovery process had forced Nicholas to handle their affairs. Her brother, in turn, had consulted her in the presence of solicitors, insisting they handle every facet of their existence at Winterbourne together, while honing pursuits like reading and riding and nightly games of chess by the fire.

Now Nicholas was gone, and everything fell on her. If she'd been born a man, no one would dare question the future of the estate or force her to marry.

I can protect myself.

Her aunt's invitation to lords and ladies and gentry, with the caveat that Lora must marry, was a slight against the serenity and solitude Lora sought.

Marry my own cousin? "Bah!"

The life of a female was more complex than marrying and producing an heir and a spare, though that had been the way of things for centuries. Every creature on Earth had a mother. But not at the cost of my independence. The freedom to ride astride without complaint. To manage and explore the estate without interference. To play the pianoforte at any hour. To read until dawn or rise and lay down at my own convenience.

In retrospect, these were extravagances the average woman could ill afford. Except, this was Lora's life , no one else's. And no man would take away her freedom without her consent, especially a wayfaring cousin who'd run off to war to avoid debt collectors.

Samuel was a gambler and a lout, if the receipts she'd seen from debt collectors were any indication. Nevertheless, when he arrived, Winterbourne would become his hunting grounds for nigh on a month and she wasn't quite sure how to handle that unsettling situation—yet. Discouraging her cousin would not solve issues of inheritance, for those were bound by law and precedence. The bigger challenge would require a ceasefire, a scheme she wasn't sure she could abide.

But how did one welcome home the man who intended to turn her world upside down?

She stopped in her tracks, a spasm of delight rushing through her veins.

If Papa were to remarry—