Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

London, England, 1818

" Y ou've gone and gotten yourself into a fine mess this time."

Lord Jacob Langford Warren, third son to the fifth Duke of Warren, inwardly cringed at his brother's cutting words. He swallowed under the tight knot of his cravat.

Robert's face colored red, tinging it purple. "I have never been more disappointed in you."

Jacob itched to take the blasted cravat off. Instead, he relaxed his muscles and inhaled slowly to calm the simmering anger corroding his insides. He ran the back of his hand across his brow to smooth the crease that formed between his eyebrows under duress. It would give his emotions away if not under strict supervision, a most unfortunate trait for card playing and espionage, but he'd learned to control it. This, however, was not a card game. It was a disaster with a small, unexpected opportunity, and if he seized the proper moment, it could drastically change his life.

"Are you aware that when your mouth opens, Father's words come out?" Jacob draped his arm over the back of his chair in his brother's townhome study and flashed a crooked smile. Even though Robert, the Marquis of Sudbury, sounded like Father, he wasn't a brooding tyrant. His eldest brother could still see reason.

Well, maybe not at the moment.

Robert paced behind his large mahogany desk with stiff, jerky movements. The bulging vein in the center of his forehead throbbed the same way their father's did before he exploded into a rage. Robert, however, wouldn't be half in his cups at this early hour.

Even the mere thought of their father filled Jacob's senses with the burning, sweet stench of whiskey breath. Fortunately, unlike their father, Robert's tone was born out of concern.

Robert rambled on, something about position and responsibility. He stopped pacing in front of the paned glass window framed by rich velvet curtains with dangling tassels. Everything about the room exhibited the power and grandeur of their station. Beyond Robert's bent elbows and fisted hands on his hips, movement out the window drew Jacob's attention as a crested coach passed on the street. In less than a month, carriages would jam the road as the Quality returned in their splendor for the frivolity and enjoyment of the Season. If all went well, Jacob would escape the superficial bombast and finish his investigation in the uncomplicated quiet of the Cotswolds.

The pitch and volume of Robert's voice rose. "Someone in this room must act like an adult."

Jacob waited for his brother to continue. When he didn't, Jacob drew his chin back and snorted. "Well, it's certainly not going to be me."

"Do you hold no regard for your own life?"

He shrugged. "I enjoy making my guardian angel perspire a little."

His brother's nostrils flared in a most unbecoming manner. "Your reckless behavior will get you killed, and if it doesn't, Father will kill you himself." Robert ran a hand over the top of his head, causing a section of his hair to stick out like a bird's ruffled feathers. "And think about poor Mother and her heart. Father gives her plenty of anguish, and it's not helping that Alex is chasing some ballerina in Prussia. Do you truly mean to add to it?"

Jacob had no response to that. His reserved brother doing something radical by pursuing a working woman in what was considered a debased art form was upsetting to Mother and poor timing for Jacob's plan. The last person he wanted to harm was their mother, but the truth behind why he acted like a cad in public would send her into an apoplectic fit. Besides, he was forbidden from telling his family the truth. It was rule number one in spying for the Home Office. Tell no one .

Robert slammed his palms on the desk and leaned forward. "I do not relish looking our mother in the eye and informing her that her youngest son is dead."

Jacob swallowed, his cravat growing even more constricting. In his life as a spy, he often tread a fine line between living and dying. He preferred to concentrate on the former and not the latter.

"It is only by the grace of God that I'm not standing here right now doing just that." Robert composed his features, and his voice lowered to an eerie calm. "Pack your things. I'm sending you to the country, far away from London, your fast-set friends, and Father's wrath."

Jacob recognized the rigid set of his brother's jaw. He couldn't be persuaded once the muscle in his lower jaw remained taut. Better to work where he still had an advantage and play his cards carefully. He stuffed his hand into his jacket and felt the smooth edge of the latest missive, detailing the intelligence he'd requested. Its mere existence acted as a catalyst of encouragement.

"I'll die of boredom." Jacob sighed, hoping it sounded full of disdain. "Surely, that isn't what you want to become of me? A withered recluse like Aunt Louisa in Sylvanwood?"

Robert's lips curled, but then his eyes lit.

Jacob held his breath. Take the hint.

"Sylvanwood." A slow smile spread across Robert's face. "It would be difficult for you to find trouble in the rural village of Sylvanwood. Maybe you should pay our aunt a visit. Brownstone Hall has fallen under my care since our uncle passed without heirs. The arrival of her darling nephew to manage the much-needed repairs to Brownstone Hall could be a blessing to you both."

A surge of excitement raced through Jacob's blood, but he mustn't appear eager.

Be glib but not derisive .

"You want me to play the role of a lady's companion?" Jacob crossed his arms like a rebellious child, but his eyes assessed Robert's every movement, from the cords in his neck to the twitching muscle at his temple.

"More like her steward." Robert's shoulders relaxed, and his facial coloring returned to normal.

Jacob rolled his lips to contain the triumphant smile that trembled the corners of his mouth. Victory was assured. Life may have dealt him a bad hand, but he'd used his wits to turn it into a winning play. He was about to embark on a mission to right his wrongs from six summers ago.

Robert straightened and his jaw set the same way it did when they were kids and about to face a reprimand. Robert would stand tall with his chin high, and Jacob would do his best to emulate him even if his knees were shaking. How many times had Robert placed a hand on Jacob's shoulder as if to infuse him with strength? It was as if, even as a child, he'd known their punishment would hurt but would be for their own good, and they'd come out stronger in the end.

Jacob's sudden desire to reveal all to Robert and plead for forgiveness and understanding almost overran his good sense. Now was not the time.

Robert raised a brow. "Plan to leave before the week's end." He pushed back his jacket and hooked his left thumb into the top of his pantaloons. "Think of it as a fresh start." He walked around his desk and clapped his other hand on Jacob's shoulder. "An opportunity to turn your blackened reputation around in a town where no one knows of your libertine ways."

J acob pushed back the curtain of his town coach. London proper melted away into lush, rolling hills as he traveled to Sylvanwood. A farmer's wife hung laundry on the line and waved to her husband and son, around five or six years old, walking behind a horse-drawn plow. The father pointed to the field and leaned toward his son as if teaching him how best to get the land to produce.

Jacob twisted his head to follow the father-son pair through the window until they passed out of sight. He'd longed for his father to have such moments with him, and to do the same with his children in the future.

The intricacies of his assignment and all that could go wrong had run through his brain—his approach, misinformation, non-cooperation—and robbed him of much needed sleep the prior evening. His current weariness made reviewing his strategy challenging. He leaned his head against the window and stared at the passing landscape, trying to get some shut-eye by counting sheep.

Jacob's eyelids grew heavy as the rhythmic swaying of the Warren town coach lulled him. "Sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six…sixty…"

The carriage door slammed open.

Jacob jerked awake, but the lingering haze of a deep slumber fogged his consciousness. "What in thunder?—?"

Two hands grasped his lapels and heaved him off his seat. Jacob's shoulder smacked the door, nearly throwing his arm out of the socket.

A masked face blocked out the bright sun. The man snarled at Jacob before tossing him onto the roadside.

Jacob landed on his hurt shoulder and skidded across the damp ground. The musty scent of earth filled his nostrils. He shook his head to clear away the grogginess of sleep and stared at the grass stains now marring his favorite pair of buckskin breeches.

"You might be a bit too enthusiastic about your work." Jacob felt for the note in his pocket, relieved he hadn't left it in the coach. He pushed off the ground to his knees. His fingers clenched into fists, ready to swing.

The click of a round loading into a gun's chamber froze him.

"Whoa." Jacob raised his hands. Blasted highwaymen. He should have been more cautious, but it was rare indeed for bandits to pillage at such an early hour—in broad daylight. He'd erred in stashing his pistol between the cushions instead of on his person. "Take what you need and be on your way."

A groan sounded to his right. His footman and coachman lay semi-conscious, sprawled in the dirt. The coachman stirred, but a booted assailant kicked him in the gut, and he stilled.

"If it's money you're after, you've looted the wrong carriage. A third son doesn't have a pocket to let."

"It's the pretty price on yer head that will be fillin' our pockets." The masked man's lips curled.

"Truly?" Jacob snorted. "A price on my head? Is that what they told you?"

The man bent and once again grabbed Jacob's lapels. "Ye're worth more dead than alive."

The cold malice in the man's eyes sent pinpricks down Jacob's spine. Men like this fed on fear, so Jacob flashed a smile and chuckled.

"What are you laughin' at?" the man asked, revealing a set of rotting teeth and releasing the stench of his putrid breath.

"I'm merely waiting to see what other hummers you've been told."

The ruffian shoved Jacob back into the dirt and turned to a man Jacob hadn't noticed rounding the back of the carriage. "Ya'd better have me money."

"Enough! You will get yours as soon as the job is finished." A pair of well-polished Hessian boots stepped closer to Jacob. "If a third son is meant for the clergy, then you'll get your money when he meets his maker."

The voice sounded familiar, but the highwayman's back blocked a clear view of the other man's face. "Clever." Jacob used a flippant tone despite his shoulder aching like the devil and twisted to get a look at the ruffian. "I admire a man with a quick retort. It's practically a requirement for those who run with the fast set. Say, have we met?"

His remark earned him a kick to the stomach. He toppled into the dry grass as waves of pain and nausea swept through him.

"Blindfold and tie the coachman and servant to a tree in the woods. Except for this one. Tie and gag him. I want Lord Warren to look upon my face as I put a bullet in his chest."

The rogue's boot heel dug into Jacob's upper back. Rough hands yanked his arms behind him and bound his wrists together. Hemp fibers from the rope bit into his skin.

The hooligan clamped on his upper arm, and he was hauled to his feet. Jacob clenched his teeth against a dirty rag that a masked man forced against his mouth. Another punch to the gut weakened Jacob, and the bandit shoved the rag deep into Jacob's throat. It tasted of grime and sweat and smelled like horseflesh. He gagged and tried to spit it out, but a rope was tied tight to hold it in place.

His assailant spun him to face the highwayman funding the operation. Except it wasn't a highwayman.

Even though the man wore a mask, Jacob recognized the vile hatred emanating from the depths of Lord Benton's eyes.

A sickening grin twisted the man's lips. "Let's take a walk, shall we?" He waved toward the woods with the point of his gun. "I don't want anyone finding your body until the birds have picked your bones dry. By then, I'll be long gone with a nice alibi."

Jacob's heartbeat stalled, then leapt to a speed close to exploding.

Lord Benton would like nothing more than to gain the satisfaction that he failed to achieve during their duel. The man was supposed to delope. Shooting one's gun in the air was the respectable thing to do in a duel, but Benton wanted Jacob dead. While Jacob stood in the rain-soaked field of Hyde Park, still woozy from the aftereffects of a jolly night of carousing, Benton took a shot that would have put a hole in Jacob's chest. Except, as luck would have it, God intervened.

Due to the deluge of rain that early morn, moisture must have gotten into Benton's flintlock, failing to ignite the main powder charge in the barrel. It was the only explanation short of a miracle when, after a flash in the pan, Benton's gun exploded into a heap of twisted metal.

As the required surgeon on the dueling field worked, Benton cursed words even Jacob hadn't heard. Benton was lucky. Though he'd been badly burned, he walked away with all his fingers.

The point of Benton's gun jabbed Jacob's back. He'd brought this on himself when he'd been discovered in Lady Benton's bedchamber. Just a misunderstanding. He'd sought nothing more than information regarding nighttime raids targeting nobility, but he'd couldn't explain his secretive actions, nor did he have the time before jumping out the second-story window—either that or he'd have been pushed.

Benton laughed. "Where are your brothers, Warren? Unable to come to your aid? Oh, that's right, they're too far away to rescue their worthless scoundrel of a younger brother."

The two other bandits trailing behind them snickered.

Jacob could only offer strangled sounds past the gag. He wanted to tell Benton he wouldn't get away with this. Robert's influence and reach extended farther than Benton realized, but it came out as gibberish against the gag.

"Can't talk your way out of this one." Benton's laughter hissed through his teeth. "That sly tongue and clever wit may work on the dimwitted brains of the weaker sex, but it is useless on me."

The man was deranged.

Funny how, when faced with impending death, the simple things in life stood out in his memory. He remembered racing his brothers through a field similar to this one. He remembered building forts in a grove of trees along the hillside identical to the ones he saw in the distance. He saw Sarah's smiling face before she surprised him with a passionate kiss behind a large oak tree. Later that day, he'd fallen out of that same tree and twisted his ankle. His brothers carried him home to his mother, who held him in her arms and whispered, "Everything will be fine," in her soft, tender voice. She stayed with him until the physician arrived.

Jacob would give anything to hear her whisper those words now.

"Even the weather can't save you today." Benton shoved him forward.

The sky appeared extra blue. Sprigs of new growth deep within the old dried and withered grass reached toward the heavens as if begging for the sun's energy and life. Birds took to flight, and rabbits stilled as Benton prodded Jacob forward. The small creatures were blissfully unaware of the shadow of death that loomed in his wake.