Chapter 1

Ambrose

November 1860, some five years previously

He woke early, as usual, and partook of his breakfast alone. It was a simple meal, for he was a man of simple pleasures—a cup of coffee tempered with a dash of creamy milk, a thick slice of buttered bread and some slivers of ham. Breakfast complete, he went to put on his coat and hat. Then, whistling a cheerful tune, he let himself out of the house and began the short walk towards the stable at Stanton Hall.

It was a cold, crisp day with a hint of drizzle in the air. Today, he would be making calls on some farming tenants of the estate, and for this task, he would need a horse to travel on, for the Stanton lands were vast, spanning several thousand acres. Ambrose reached the stable in good time and smiled a greeting at John Saunders, one of the grooms that worked there.

"Good morning, Saunders," he said easily.

"Morning, sir," replied the groom. "Will you be needing Marigold?"

"Indeed I will," said Ambrose. "Can you have her saddled for me?"

"Yes, sir."

Ambrose followed Saunders to the stall where his mare stood chewing passively on some straw. She was not really his mare of course, but she had been assigned to his exclusive use as manager of the estate. She was a fine horse with a golden brown coat that had earned her the name of Marigold and a sweet temper to go with it. She suited him very well. Ambrose patted her rump as she was led out of the stall. "Hello, my lovely," he crooned.

Once out into the yard, Saunders began to attach the saddle to her back. "Have you heard the news, sir?" he asked, throwing a curious glance at Ambrose.

"And what news would that be?"

"The master's family is here from America," replied the groom excitedly.

Ambrose's interest quickened at this. His employer, the rich and powerful Earl of Stanton, had taken sick recently and had been unable to leave his bed in the last few weeks except for brief periods of respite. Up until this illness, the earl had been a vigorous man who kept a sharp eye on all matters relating to his vast landholdings. Ambrose enjoyed working for him, even though he was kept on his toes much of the time, having to meet the earl's exacting standards.

Over the years, a strong mutual respect had developed between the older nobleman and his estate manager. But since his illness, the seventy-six year old earl had shown a worrying frailty. So worrying in fact that Ambrose had been tasked with sending a telegram to the earl's two sons, who had left for America decades ago, asking them to return.

Ambrose had often wondered about these two prodigal sons of the earl. He knew their departure for America had caused a rupture with their father and that it had taken years to mend the breach. In the meantime, Frank and Jasper Stanton had made a fortune for themselves from the land they had claimed, cleared and successfully farmed in the state of Ohio. And now, they were back, but for how long? And if the earl's illness proved to be fatal, would the estate then pass into the hands of the eldest son, Frank?

Ambrose did not want to think of the earl's demise, for he had developed a fondness for the old man as well as respect, but he could not help but wonder what would happen to the massive Stanton estate after the earl was gone, and how that would affect him. He felt sure that he would be ousted from his position. The family had no doubt their own way of doing things and would want to put a person of their choice in the trusted position of estate manager. Even were he to keep his job, he wondered if Frank Stanton would settle back in England with his family or if he would be an absentee landlord, running things all the way from America—and thereby placing ever more reliance on his estate manager. Would Ambrose be up to such a task? There were so many questions for which he as yet had no answers.

All would be revealed in due course, and whatever the case might be, he would make the best of things, as he had always strived to do. He told himself there was no point in worrying about his future and that of Sarah, but he did.

Only four years separated them, yet he felt the full weight of responsibility for his sister. Their parents on their death had left them with a very meagre inheritance, and Sarah had no income of her own or any means of earning any, apart from becoming a governess or some such thing. Ambrose refused to contemplate the possibility of this happening. As long as he was alive, of sound mind and able to earn his crust, Sarah would have a home with him—until she married. The position he held here at Stanton Hall was a fortunate one, and he enjoyed his job. He hoped that the coming of the earl's sons would not put it into jeopardy.

All these thoughts he could not, of course, reveal to the groom observing him curiously. "These are good tidings indeed," he said now in a measured voice.

"They arrived in two carriages late yesterday evening," went on Saunders confidingly. "I hear both the earl's sons are here with their families."

Ambrose put his foot on the block and easily mounted his horse. "Well, I shall have to pay my respects to them in due course," he said, ending the conversation. With a flick of his reins, he rode away.

The morning passed quickly, as Ambrose called on various tenants on the estate. News of the earl's family arriving from America had spread like wildfire, and everywhere he went, people were eager to discuss what this would mean for the estate. If only he knew. By the time he rode back to Stanton Hall, he was weary of all the conjecture and ready to find out for himself what manner of people were these new arrivals. The earl had often spoken proudly of his sons and their many achievements in America. It had left a positive impression of them in Ambrose's mind, but still, he was as curious about them as anyone else on the estate.

He reined in his horse and dismounted, leading the mare into the large stable. Seeing him, Saunders came over and began to untie the saddle. The groom raised his brow meaningfully then glanced quickly behind him. Ambrose followed that glance to see a tall, well-dressed gentleman stroking the mane of Midnight, a magnificent black stallion, and gazing at it in admiration. It did not take a genius to figure out that this must be a member of the Stanton clan, newly arrived from America.

Ambrose straightened his spine and stepped carefully in the man's direction. He was a few feet away when the man turned to observe his approach, his lips curving into a smile and his dark, almost black eyes twinkling with wicked humour. Ambrose stopped in his tracks, his pulse beating uncomfortably fast. He should say something, but he found himself tongue-tied. Instead, he stared and stared some more at this impossibly handsome vision before him.

The man's smile widened. "You must be Ambrose Cranshaw," he drawled in a deep, velvety voice.

Common sense returned like a splash of cold water, and Ambrose bowed stiffly. "At your service, sir," he managed to say, feeling his face flame. "Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?" he continued, trying to restore his dignity.

The gentleman held out his hand, and with some hesitation, Ambrose followed suit, feeling his own hand being clasped in a strong, confident grip. He was not much used to having his hand shaken by other gentlemen. Perhaps this free and easy manner had something to do with this man's upbringing in America. "Daniel Stanton, at your service," came the gently mocking reply. Then, there was a soft laugh. "Enough with the formality. Are you come to visit Grandfather?"

Daniel Stanton began striding out of the stable, and Ambrose was obliged to follow him, ignoring the curious stare from Saunders as they passed him by. "Ahem, yes, Mr Stanton," said Ambrose, clearing his throat. "I am come to ask after the earl and of course, to pay my respects to your family."

There was another laugh, the happy sound of which did something to Ambrose's insides. "Please, I beseech you, call me Daniel. Nobody I know addresses me as Mr Stanton. That is what people call my papa back home." He spoke in a cultured English accent, with only a slight elongation of his vowels hinting at his American background.

"I—I do not think it would be appropriate, Mr Stanton. I have no wish to be forward in my manner."

"Oh," exclaimed Daniel. "But I most particularly wish you to be so. Where I am from, nobody stands on ceremony, least of all me! Come, the matter is settled. You shall call me Daniel and I shall call you Ambrose, which by the way is a most delightful name." His gaze travelled the length of Ambrose, from the tip of his boots to the top of his hat. "And very fitting. Does it not derive from the Greek word for immortal and divine?" he added with a smile.

Ambrose did not know what to make of this. His cheeks still felt warm from that assessing gaze, and this bantering manner was well outside his customary experience. It was almost flirtatious, preposterous as that might seem. He tried to clear these disturbing thoughts with an inward shake of his head, then contented himself with a murmured, "As you wish, Daniel," though he promised himself that he would maintain the proper decorum in the presence of the earl and his sons.

By now, they had reached the main house, and Daniel flew up the front steps with athletic grace, forcing Ambrose to quicken his own steps in order to keep up. The door was opened for them by Siddons, Stanton Hall's butler. Daniel graced him with an easy smile. "We have a visitor, Siddons, come to pay his respects. Would you be so kind as to bring in a tray of tea and whatever cakes or biscuits cook has to hand?"

"Of course, sir," bowed Siddons.

"Splendid," beamed Daniel, then he turned to Ambrose. "Let us join the rest of the family. I believe they are all in the drawing room. Is that not so, Siddons?"

"Yes, sir," confirmed the butler.

"Well then, come along." Without a backward glance, Daniel strode confidently in the direction of the drawing room with Ambrose at his heels. As they entered the room, all eyes flew to them. Ambrose had but a moment to take in the assembled members of the Stanton clan before the earl, reclining in an armchair with a blanket tucked about him, spoke in a quavering but authoritative voice, "Ah, Cranshaw, good you are here. As you can see, my sons and their family are arrived from America."

Ambrose went to him with a smile. "I do see, my lord, and I can well imagine your joy at their arrival. I am glad also to see you look much improved in health."

A pleased expression came over the earl's lined face. "I am indeed feeling much more the thing. Cranshaw, let me make you known to my eldest son, Francis, Viscount Stanton." The earl indicated a distinguished looking gentleman beside him who looked to be around fifty.

Ambrose made a polite bow in his direction. "Viscount Stanton, a pleasure."

"Indeed, the pleasure is mine, Mr Cranshaw," responded the viscount amiably. "I have heard many good things about the work you do on this estate." He turned to a diminutive lady sitting beside him. "This is my wife, Lady Stanton."

Ambrose made his bows in her direction, and then proceeded to greet the rest of the family. As the introductions were made, he felt himself being scrutinised by Daniel, who stood by the window with his arms casually crossed on his broad chest. What was it about that young pup that was making Ambrose so hot under the collar? Despite his height and muscular frame, Daniel Stanton could not be more than four-and-twenty years old, which made him a good five years his junior. And yet he stood there, radiating authority and confidence like a man a dozen years older.

"I suppose that is the confidence born of being heir to a title and massive fortune," thought Ambrose wryly. "Such people from early childhood have a different outlook on life than us ordinary mortals." He could not say why such a thought irked him. It was not as if he aspired to befriend the man on an equal footing. Theirs was but a casual acquaintance. Soon enough, Daniel Stanton would be returning to his home in America and would be out of his way. In the meantime, Ambrose would be well advised to steer clear of him. There was something dangerous about the man and the reaction he engendered in him. DanielStanton brought out those feelings in him that he had spent years keeping in check.

After what Ambrose deemed to be an appropriate passage of time, he stood to take his leave, but his plans for a quiet exit were scuppered by the earl, who looked at him with a frown and grunted, "Where are you going, Cranshaw? We are soon to have our luncheon and of course, you must join us."

"That is very kind, my lord," said Ambrose politely, "but I would not want to intrude any longer on this family reunion, and I really should be getting back to my duties."

"Nonsense!" barked the earl.

His eldest son came to the earl's aid, admonishing sternly, "We must insist, Mr Cranshaw. Besides, I would wish to discuss with you matters relating to the estate after our luncheon. In view of father's current indisposition, he has charged me with taking over all responsibilities from him."

The earl nodded. "That is right, Cranshaw. I wish you to deal with Francis in my stead until I am in better health."

Ambrose gave in with good grace. "In that case, I would be honoured to join you."

Soon, they all adjourned to the dining room. Ambrose found himself seated between Lady Stanton on one side and her daughter, Isabella, on the other. Whether it was due to poor luck or design, Daniel was seated immediately opposite him, which meant Ambrose had to endure more of that disconcerting scrutiny throughout the meal. As Ambrose conversed with the ladies at his side, he could not but feel that dark-eyed gaze on him. A few times, he intercepted Daniel's look, but was simply met with an amused smile upon the slight raise of his brow.

What could there possibly be about his person to inspire such interest in him? Was something amiss with his clothing? He did not think so. Ambrose cast a surreptitious glance down at himself. His necktie was neatly tied and his jacket correctly buttoned. He might not be dressed in the height of fashion, but he was respectably turned out. Perhaps the young man was simply playing a childish game, trying to bait him into some kind of unseemly response. It was best to ignore him as best he could.

Throughout the remainder of the meal, Ambrose refused to look in Daniel's direction, keeping his attention entirely on the ladies at his side. Once luncheon was over, he stood and followed the viscount upstairs to the earl's study. It was with relief that he escaped Daniel Stanton's penetrating gaze and set to the more comfortable task of fielding enquiries about the estate. He spent the next several hours conferring with the viscount, going through the accounts and giving him a meticulous report of the state of affairs throughout the vast Stanton landholdings.

As they spoke, Ambrose discerned a striking resemblance between the viscount and his son, Daniel. Both had the same tall and powerful build. They had that distinctive Stanton jaw, the same dark brown eyes and almost black hair—though the viscount's was streaked with grey. But whereas Daniel displayed a playful demeanour, his father appeared to have a more serious and reserved disposition. By the time Ambrose rose to take his leave, he had concluded that the earl's eldest son was a well-bred man of considerable understanding. Should the estate pass into his hands after the earl's death, as it most probably would, then Ambrose would be fortunate to have such a man as his new employer.

It was with a great sense of relief that Ambrose took the stairs down to the main hallway and donned his coat. Despite himself he had worried about his future prospects as manager of the Stanton estate. While nothing was certain yet, he felt a trifle more sanguine about what lay ahead. Viscount Stanton was a man he could respect and see himself working for.

With a smile, Ambrose bid Siddons farewell as he stepped out of the house and bounded down the front steps. The sun had set on this early November evening, and he was eager to return home, where his old friend, Benedict Sedgwick, was to join him and Sarah for dinner. The smile fell from Ambrose's face an instant later as he saw who was leaning against the stair post, leisurely smoking a cheroot. Not Daniel Stanton again!