Chapter Nine

The storm blew the balcony doors open, and a flash of lightning lit the darkened chamber. A figure lay on the bed, pale and

still.

No... No... He couldn't be too late.

He staggered forward, the air tinged with the fragrance of olives, rain and the sour stench of illness. Another crack of lightning illuminated his mother—a shadow of what she once had been, her

skin ashen, her dark hair in a tangle on the pillow.

A raw sob lodged in his throat as he collapsed to his knees. "Forgive me... forgive me for failing you."

Then, he felt a hand against his bent head. Startled, he looked up and saw a ghost of a smile on her pale, cracked lips.

"My boy, there is nothing... to forgive," she rasped. "You are here now. That is... enough."

That wasn't true. It was his fault. She'd been sick, and he'd been desperate to win the game. Desperate to have the money

to take her some place where there would be a physician to cure her.

But desperation makes a man clumsy.

He'd been caught by the guard and sent away before he could do anything for her.

The storm began to rage, pelting the stones of the balcony. He rose to cross the room and close the doors. But then, she had

a fit of coughing.

This time, he wouldn't leave her. Couldn't leave her. Not again. So he let the rain come.

The hard and hollow sound of her cough hit like hailstones, and the spasms left her weak and wheezing. She seemed to sink

deeper into the bed, as though she were disappearing before his eyes.

He tried to hold her up, to help her drink from the glass on her bedside table, but she shook her head.

"Let me... speak... for a moment," she said, her voice threadbare. Yet even then, she tried to smile as she searched

his gaze. "Sometimes... all we have is... a moment."

He held her in the cradle of his arms, her bones so frail and delicate it was like holding a bird. "I'm listening."

"Promise me," she said, her eyes fighting to stay open.

"I will. Anything."

"I loved your father... but he couldn't... She was all he could... see... but you... you changed that..."

Her words were in a jumble, her breaths shallow, wet and ragged. Then she gripped his hand, her hold surprisingly strong,

as if she were drowning and he were the only one who could save her. "Must find him. Find your father. Then, you'll find your—"

Thunder crashed into the room.

Oscar jolted bolt upright in bed, his arm raised, reaching out to take hold of her hand... Only to find nothing but empty

air.

It took a moment to orient himself. To blink into the bleary gray light of early morning to see the snug bedchamber walls

painted a bilious shade of green and the colossal portrait of Vandemere's grandsire scowling down from over the mantel.

Then he remembered.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and threw aside the bedclothes. As he dragged himself to the window, the curtains billowed with a breeze that sent a chill over his sweat-dampened skin. Hands on the sill, he drew in a deep breath... then regretted it the instant the rank odor of the paddock and the wormy scent of rain filled his nostrils.

Behind him, the door opened with a crack that caused his shoulders to tense. And, without a by-your-leave, his valet stepped

inside.

"As I've said before, I would prefer it if you'd knock, Timms." Oscar wasn't shy by any means, so walking in the nude to the

washstand didn't bother him. The man's blatant lack of courtesy and respect, however, did.

"Did you mean every day, sir?" The gangly young man with curly rust-colored hair didn't bother to wait for an answer but noisily

went about the task of laying out his clothes.

Oscar gripped the handle of the ewer and splashed cold water into the chipped bowl. Since he'd arrived without a manservant—stating

that his would be delayed, along with his trunks—he'd required the service of a temporary valet. So in the widows' usual manner

of making him feel so very welcome, they assigned him one of their most impertinent footmen.

That caused snickering among the servants. Being promoted to a valet was supposed to be an honor. Yet, with widows spewing

venom about his authenticity, it spread doubt among the servants and made Timms an object of ridicule instead of respect.

There was nothing Oscar could do about that other than continue on his course. So he would just have to manage with Timms

while waiting for Cardew and news of Ladrón.

Once that was settled, he'd leave the abbey without a backward glance and return to searching for his father.

"That'll be all, Timms."

"What about your shave... sir?" he asked, the last word spoken with a sneer.

The fact that all the servants called him sir instead of my lord didn't really matter. It shouldn't bother him in the least. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, it did.

Shoving that thought aside, he rasped a hand over his stubble. He knew, from Warring's tutelage on the behaviors of men born

into privilege, that acting like a helpless, pampered toff was expected of him. It would likely earn him more credibility

with the widows, too.

However, when he looked at the horizonal red scar just beneath his Adam's apple, the memory of Ladrón's blade kept him from

doing what was expected.

"Word of advice, Timms. Never let a man who doesn't respect you hold a blade to your throat."

And with that, he bent his head to splash cold water on his face again and tried not to think about what new horrors awaited

him in the breakfast room.

***

That first morning in the abbey was the last time he'd seen the widows and Cousin Cleo in the breakfast room. Collectively,

they had decided to have trays sent up to their bedchambers where they were likely dining on actual food. The edible variety.

He, on the other hand, was offered watery gruel and—

A foul scent assailed his nostrils when he lifted the cloche. He lowered it with a clang.

Oscar didn't know what that grayish-green dish was supposed to have been, but it resembled what was found in city gutters—some

sort of offal that wouldn't even tempt a rat.

Ah, the joys of having a family, he thought dryly. All his boyhood dreams were coming true at last.

Though, if they thought they could break him, they were in for a surprise. His will was hard as an anvil. They could heap

fiery coals or white-hot blades of steel on him all day, but soon enough they would find themselves bending.

Besides, at least there was burnt toast. Picking up a slice, he left the breakfast room and went out to the stables.

He looked forward to his morning ride. After all, the horses never tried to starve him or plague him. They likely felt a particular kinship to him, considering the fact that they practically shared his bedchamber.

Stepping beneath the open pitching door, he strode down the sloped cobbled floor. He didn't bother to request to have his

horse saddled. From previous encounters with the stable master, he knew he'd be met with the usual disregard. So he offered

a curt nod to the man, who was conferring with the actual coachman over the quality of oats and fodder.

As expected, Oscar earned little more than a steely stare from both of them and so continued on to his horse's stall. But

he was surprised to find it recently mucked and with fresh straw underfoot. Hermes's cloud-gray coat was even brushed and

glossy, and he was currently munching on a carrot. Which was a pleasant surprise... until he saw the one responsible.

"You," Oscar said to that whelp driver who'd let Miss Hartley walk off on her own. "Get out. I don't want you anywhere near

my horse."

The spot-cheeked boy peeled off his hat and bowed. "Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord. I thought you'd be wantin' to go for a ride

this mornin'. So I aimed to get Hermes all ready for ye. See?" He gestured to the waiting tack that had been polished to mirror

shine.

"Suddenly deciding to do your job properly does not excuse your actions."

The cub's brows ruckled together fretfully. Then he lowered his head in a nod. "Thought about what you said. It was unpardonable,

what I did. Me father reared me to know better. Would've walloped me on the head, he would. You can wallop me, m'lord."

"I'm not going to strike you." Oscar gritted his teeth in exasperation when the idiot bowed lower, looking every inch the

kicked puppy. "And stand up. Show some pride."

He did, still wringing his cap. "I aim to make amends, m'lord. No matter how long it takes. No matter what I must do."

Apparently, he meant it because he stayed glued to Oscar's side as he saddled Hermes and walked him out of the stables.

Worried that the lad planned to trot alongside him for the entire morning, he stopped and considered his options. "What's

your name?"

"James, m'lord. James Raglan."

"And you're about seventeen?"

"Eighteen last month."

"Old enough to know better," Oscar said and received a nod. "Well, Mr. Raglan, if you ever plan to drive a coach in the future,

then it is your duty to ensure that it is safe and comfortable. It is a representation of your house and your self-respect.

You alone are responsible for keeping it in good standing. That contraption"—he gestured to the dilapidated carriage that

stood beside a landau in pristine condition—"could jar the bones out of a dead man's coffin. Make sure it doesn't do that

any longer."

Without another word, Oscar mounted his horse and rode away from the plague that was Dunnelocke Abbey.

He wished Cardew would hurry along. Even though the man put them in more scrapes than he cared to think about, he was the

only real family Oscar had. At least, until he could find his worthless father and keep the promise he'd made to his mother.

The bitter taste of burnt toast lingered in the back of his mouth. He swallowed it down as he spurred Hermes into a gallop,

trying to leave behind the ghosts that haunted him.

It wasn't until he saw the stone Palladian mansion ahead of him that he realized he'd taken a few turns that led him toward

Hartley Hall.

Stopping at the mouth of the lane, he considered simply turning around and going another way. However, since he was already

there...

"What say you, Hermes? Should we see if the cook has any biscuits in the larder? Perhaps an apple from the orchard?"

At the sound of his favorite treat, the stallion's ears twitched, and his hoof pawed once over the hardpacked earth.

Oscar made a clicking sound at the corner of his mouth, and they trotted down the lane.

He took in the beauty of the well-situated country house. If Dunnelocke Abbey was a gray giantess lounging on her side, then

Hartley Hall was a sandstone minx, supple belly on the ground, elbows bent with her chin resting on her hands, her portico

greeting visitors with a come-hither smile.

It was a handsome house. The only thing that detracted from her beauty was the familiar phaeton in the semicircular drive.

Apparently, the Culpeppers had also been drawn to Hartley Hall this morning.

Something that sounded suspiciously like a growl rumbled in his chest.

Who is to say that I haven't already? That laughing taunt still lingered in the back of his mind.

It was part of the game they played, of course. Even so, he couldn't stop himself from wondering if it was true. Wondering

if he would have to kill all of the Culpeppers or just one.

Rapping his knuckles on the door, he told himself that it didn't matter to him . It was Vandemere who would have been bothered.

Therefore, in the interest of Vandemere, Oscar would make a show of staking his claim. Besides, doing so would irritate Honoria.

Which would, in turn, put him in better spirits.

Mr. Mosely appeared to be completely recovered from his shock at seeing Oscar that first day and now greeted him with a bow. "Lord Vandemere. Miss Hartley and Miss Althea are entertaining in the drawing room. Would you care to wait in the parlor while I announce you?"

He thought about it for a half second. Thought about the Culpeppers' phaeton. "Actually, no. I should rather go with you,

if it's all the same."

Surely, in haut society, the word entertaining couldn't have meant bacchanalian orgy the way it usually did in the world he knew. Even so, Oscar wouldn't put it past Honoria to be laughing and flirting with

three men at once.

He was led upstairs to the drawing room. It wasn't until he saw a pair of Irish wolfhounds growling at the door that alarm

jolted through him.

Then, one of the male inhabitants inside the room called out, "I've got you now!"

"You missed," Honoria said with a tsk.

Another male voice said, "Well, I caught the little one!"

"Ow! You scratched me, you goose!" Althea cried.

"Not fair!" a third man's voice said. "You've got hold of the bird I wanted."

Oscar rushed for the door but found it locked.

Suddenly, the image of his temptress flirting coyly with her callers, only to have them turn into rapacious, clawing beasts

filled his mind with a lurid tableau of her and her sister fending off unwanted advances.

He rattled the handle. "Honoria?"

In response, he heard a string of helpless shrieks.

Without waiting an instant longer, he rammed his shoulder against the door and barreled into the room... to find utter

chaos.

And feathers. So many feathers.