Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

TWENTY YEARS LATER

" T his is foolish. I must be mad. Walking a lonely road at night. Whatever am I doing?"

Ester whispered the words under her breath, trying to alleviate the loneliness by talking to herself. She knew the risk she was taking.

The road was lonely and the moon, obscured by scudding clouds, rendered the landscape inky black.

So far from London and so close to the looming expanse of Epping Forest, there was always the possibility of highwaymen. Such men took advantage of the traffic on roads leading into and out of the capital with the proximity of dense woodland into which they could disappear.

Beneath her cloak, which hooded her and covered her dress down to the ground, she clutched at her leather satchel with both hands. With each step she took along the road, that bag threatened to clink, betraying its metallic contents.

This was the dowry that had been realized by her father for the marriage to the Earl of Handbridge that had seemed certain. Certain until a friend of Lord Kenneth Lowe of Handbridge had committed an act that left Ester's reputation in tatters.

Her mind shied away from the memory of that night. Of Simon Thompson, Viscount Kingsley's handsome smile morphing into a leer. His hands suddenly insistent, touching her in a way that only a husband should. The memory sent a shudder through her that had nothing to do with the wind that whispered under the hood of her cloak to stir her long, golden-red hair.

She pushed the memory away, striding along the road briskly, attempting to outdistance it. Only her sister knew that she was out of doors on this night. Helen was maintaining the illusion for their parent's sake that Ester was in her room, suffering a touch of mal de tete. Her dearest Helen—and the reason Ester was walking this dark road, skirting the trackless forest. To protect her sister and ensure she could secure for herself a fine match, a husband who would do her honor. That would not happen if Viscount Kingsley made good on his threats.

Her fist tightened on the edges of her cloak. In a pocket she had sown inside the cloak, she carried a knife. It was a simple tool, acquired from an ironmonger in London, with a sharp point and equally dangerous edge. Its hilt was bound with leather and it had a guard of simple iron, to protect the hand of the wielder according to the ironmonger. He had been curious as to why a lady should wish to purchase such a brutally simple implement. It wasn't a kitchen knife or a piece of cutlery. It was a dagger and it had one function. Ester did not know if she could use it for that purpose. But as Viscount Kingsley's sneering face loomed in her mind, anger was sparked within her. It almost overwhelmed the fear. He had no right to her body and no right to her family's wealth. Could she stab him on this lonely road? With even the moon blinded to the deed by the clouds.

Ahead, a brief appearance of that silent witness illuminated a body of water. It was a lake, bounded by the road on one side and the dark mass of Epping Forest on the other. The road was elevated above the water, looking down a gentle slope to a fringe of weeping willows that draped their long fingers into the mirrored surface.

Ester's breath came quicker now, her pulse increasing. She was close now. Somewhere down there was a jetty and an old boathouse, long abandoned and neglected. She kept walking, searching the dark shoreline for the spot of the rendezvous. A chill ran down her spine. Perhaps she was at the wrong place. Perhaps the directions, given to her in Viscount Kingsley's letter, had been misinterpreted. She could spend all night searching for the boathouse and he would think that she had refused his demands. What then for Helen and the rest of her family? What then when Viscount Kingsley spread the news of the scandal?

There was some relief when she saw the dark, square shape of a building a few hundred yards ahead. A long structure stretched out from it into the water, the jetty. And at the end of that jetty, the unmistakable shape of a man.

Ester swallowed, forcing herself to continue walking. Clouds veiled the moon once more and the man was swallowed up by the greater darkness of the lake before him. Her steps sounded loud to her, surely loud enough to carry to that silent sentinel. Would it be Kingsley himself? Or an underling there to carry out his master's orders.

Finally, she reached a set of stone steps that had been set into the earth bank. She began to descend, the boathouse now directly opposite her. When she reached the bottom, she almost screamed when a figure stepped out from around the corner of the building. Her hands tightened on the dagger in its secret pocket and she came to a halt.

"You would be Miss Ester Fairchild?" said the man in a cultured voice.

Cultured, but not the voice of the Viscount Kingsley. That voice she would never forget. It haunted her nightmares.

"Yes, who are you?" she said.

"My name is not important. I am here on the orders of his lordship, the Viscount of Kingsley," the man stated, coldly.

An underling then .

"And there, I trust you hide the promissory note for your father's bank?" the man asked, pointing to her hands.

Ester clutched the satchel of coins tighter. That money had been taken out by her father from his bank in Chester to be paid as her dowry. When Kenneth had terminated their engagement, the money had remained in her father's study. Long ago, he had entrusted the combination to his formidable, cast iron safe to Ester, his eldest daughter and most trusted confidante. Ester blinked back tears as she remembered the look in his eyes as he had locked that money away again. He did not blame her, not openly, but his eyes were damning. Even if he believed that she had not willingly compromised herself with the Viscount Kingsley.

"No," she said, quietly.

"No?" the man queried.

He shifted, then took a couple of steps closer to her. Close enough to smell the brandy on his breath. He had clearly imbibed as he had waited for her, reinforcing himself against the winter cold.

"I have an amount in coins. Guineas," Ester began, "it is all I could get."

"You were told to bring a note, signed by your father, that would be accepted at his bank in the city," the man muttered harshly.

"I…I…" Ester stammered.

"My master told me that you would prevaricate and attempt to wriggle off the hook. The transaction is simple. You must pay."

He took a threatening step toward her and Ester backed away. In a flash of moonlight, she saw his face. There was a smile on it, cruel and thin.

He took another deliberate step forward. Revulsion and fear flooded her. The lap of the water against the shore faded, as did the cold wind that ruffled its surface.

Instead, she was in the long gallery of Kendrick Priory, ancestral home of the Fairchild family. The soft, golden light of candles was reflected from fine pieces of silver and bronze that stood on pedestals along the hallway. Long, burgundy drapes covered the windows and a carpet of red and gold softened the sound of footfalls. It softened the sound of Viscount Kingsley's footfalls. She felt, once again, the hand upon her bare shoulder, turning her. Saw his leer and then his lips. Felt those lips fastening upon her throat, biting, tongue licking her skin. She screamed, shrinking away but held fast by cruel hands. She lashed out but her blows were ineffectual. She was pushed up against a wall, dislodging a painting that hung there so that it crashed to the ground. Kingsley laughed and struck her across the face with an open hand, knocking her to the floor.

Ester found herself screaming at the night, the dagger that she had drawn knocked from her hand, and a blow from an open hand knocking her to the ground. The emissary of the Viscount Kingsley stood over her, hand raised. Her anger flowed out of her, replaced by shame.

Defeat once again.

Kingsley had defeated her, only prevented from fulfilling his desires by the arrival of others, drawn by the commotion. By then, Kingsley had hauled her to her feet by the shoulders and pressed her against the wall. To them, the scene had been that of a respected gentleman enjoying a dalliance with a female of less respectable virtue. To them, she had been the one expected to feel shame. They had not seen him strike her.

She cowered against the boathouse as the man tore her cloak wide and seized the satchel. His hands lingered, finding her arms for a moment before he tore the bag away. Then he was looking down at her, breathing hard.

"My master will be angry that you have defied him. I will have to endure that anger. I will be blamed. I should have compensation," he grated.

Ester heard the satchel drop to the floor. She had covered her face with her hands, fearing another blow. Now she looked up between her fingers and saw him step closer, unbuttoning the long overcoat he wore, then tossing it aside. He gave an exaggerated shiver.

"It is a cold night… is it not? No matter. You shall warm me up. And no one will ever know…"

Then, a sound reached them both on the wind. The thud of hooves on the hard-packed earth of the road. The man looked back over his shoulder and growled in his throat. Then he grabbed the overcoat and satchel, and ran.

Ester remained where she was, wishing for the ground to open beneath her and swallow her. The memory of the assault that had driven her family out of their ancestral Cheshire home had overwhelmed her. The knife had come to her hand and she had struck out with it blindly. And been easily disarmed before being beaten to the ground. Her brave fight had lasted a heartbeat and had been defeated with contempt. Just as Kingsley had once broken her resistance without effort.

She felt worthless, shamed, degraded. The rider had probably been a highwayman. Her earlier fear was gone. Such a rogue would doubtless take the opportunity to defile her if he saw her there but she could not summon the will to move. The idea terrified her, but an exhaustion now flooded her.

How long had it been since the event that had turned her world upside down? Six months? Nine? Since her family had been forced to leave Cheshire to escape the accusing stares and malicious gossip. Since they had been forced to rent a house here on the outskirts of London from a gentleman of this county, leaving their home empty. All to escape the scandal. In all that time, she had blamed herself, had gone over and over her actions. Why had she chosen to leave the ballroom and walk alone? Had she given Kingsley any indication, as they had danced earlier in the evening, that she was receptive to his lust? Was anything of what the gossips now said, true? She could not admit to her father that Kingsley now wanted money in exchange for his silence. In exchange for not poisoning the well of the London ton against her family. Against Helen, who at the tender age of nineteen, had hoped for her debut and hoped for a husband.

That secret was an intolerable burden. Its weight was pressing her into the damp soil beneath her. She could not bear it any longer.

With supreme effort, she got to her feet.

She followed the line of the boathouse, turning the corner that Kingsley's lackey had emerged from, and felt the boards of the jetty beneath her feet. The sound of the hooves had stopped but she was barely aware of it.

She walked faster now, until she was running, holding her skirts up.

Then the jetty was ending and she was leaping out from the edge, as far into the dark mere as she could propel herself. The cold embrace of the water welcomed her. Cold seized her. Darkness enveloped her.