Excerpts

The Year of Living Scandalously

(From an interior chapter)

Hadley Green, 1808

He'd truly expected a plain woman with a plain physical need.

He had not expected an imposter.

It wasn’t patently obvious, for the lady behaved in a manner that a countess ought to behave. She didn’t do anything to openly spark suspicion, such as neglect to lift her little finger when sipping tea, or curtsy properly. No, Declan knew she was an imposter because he’d known Keira Hannigan all her life, and Keira Hannigan was no countess.

But she seemed perfectly at ease pretending to be one.

He had no idea what she was doing in England, much less a small village like Hadley Green. The last he’d seen her—months now, if memory served—she’d been in County Galway (from which they both hailed), and Loman Maloney, whose affluence was matched only by his ambition, was expertly courting her. Keira was a Hannigan, a daughter of an influential, powerful Irish Catholic family known for their horses and their outspoken politics. She was pretty in a way that Declan believed only Irish women were pretty, with black hair, fair skin and flashing green eyes. She was spirited in the way of the Irish, too, which to Declan meant she was possessed of a good sense of adventure and a clever, if not occasionally sharp, tongue.

What Declan found particularly galling was that Keira did not seem the least bit appalled that he’d discovered her deception in this sleepy little village in England. Quite the contrary. She looked at him daringly, as if she believed he might openly challenge her.

“Lady Ashwood, may I present Lord Donnelly,” Mr. Fish said.

After his moment of shock, Declan debated calling her out, but he supposed she would be discovered soon and would suffer accordingly. In the meantime, he had no intention of being drawn into her little game. He’d been drawn into a game of hers years ago, with disastrous consequences. He was here to buy a horse. Nothing more.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” she said. Her voice filtered into his consciousness, lodging in that place of the familiar. She moved forward, her dark green riding skirt flaring out around her boots as she moved. She tossed a ridiculously jaunty hat with a gold tassel at the crown onto the settee as she moved past it. She walked in that way beautiful women had of walking: light-footed, with a certain sway in her hip, a pert tilt of her head, a shine in her eyes.

“Lord Donnelly, the Lady Ashwood,” Mr. Fish said.

“Lady Ashwood, is it?” He might have laughed had he not been so appalled. She smiled pertly.

“Lord Donnelly has bid twenty five pounds for the filly, madam,” Mr. Fish informed her.

“A respectable sum,” she said pleasantly. “Although I admit I had hoped she would earn a wee bit more. She’s a fine horse. Tea, my lord?”

“Twenty five pounds is far more than she is worth. And I prefer Irish whiskey,” Declan said dryly.

“What luck! We happen to have some on hand. Mr. Fish?”

Mr. Fish instantly moved to the sidecart. Declan noticed the room. The salon was as impressive as the sandstone Georgian mansion itself. The walls were covered in green and crème silk that matched the heavy draperies. The furnishings were lushly upholstered, the carpet thick, and sunlight streamed in through three pairs of windows that soared all the way to the sculpted crown molding. The ceiling had been painted to resemble a blue summer sky, complete with clouds and sun and fat little redbirds flitting across.

Declan shifted his gaze to Keira, who smiled a bit nervously, a bit brazenly, as Mr. Fish poured three whiskeys. Mr. Fish handed one to Keira, whose upbringing as a good Irish girl made her unafraid of whiskey, unlike the genteel ladies in London’s salons.

“Lord Donnelly,” Mr. Fish asked amicably as he handed him a whiskey. “Your reputation quite precedes you, sir.”

“Apparently, my reputation is alone in that regard,” he said, looking pointedly at Keira.

She smiled serenely, pretty as a portrait, completely unruffled. A long curl lay across her décolletage, starkly black against her creamy skin.

Mr. Fish seemed a little confused by Declan’s remark, but being a gentleman, continued on. “We are quite honored that a man of your aptitude in horse breeding is interested in our stock.”

“In whose stock?” Declan asked.

Mr. Fish’s brows dipped deeper into confusion. “The Lady Ashwood’s, of course.”

“And does the Lady Ashwood intend to join us?” Declan asked, his gaze still on Keira.

Mr. Fish blinked; Keira laughed and swept forward, smoothing away that errant curl with an anxious flutter of her fingers. “Lord Donnelly is displaying his fine Irish humor, Mr. Fish. Would you be so kind as to excuse us for a moment?”

Startled, Mr. Fish looked at Keira. She smiled a little and lifted her tot of whiskey. “If you’d be so kind,” she said again.

“Of course, madam.” But he looked entirely perplexed as he put down his tot and strode from the room.

When the door had shut behind him, Keira tossed her whiskey back, then announced breathlessly, “This is not what you think.”

“Not what I think? I think you are impersonating an English countess, unless you have made a rather fortuitous match,” Declan scoffed.

“No, Declan. This is Ashwood.”

“Aye…and?”

“And it is Lily’s! Haven’t you heard?”

He had no earthly idea what she was talking about. “What is Lily’s?”

“She inherited Ashwood,” Keira said. “Free and clear. Don’t tease me, you know that she has.”

He had heard the old earl of Ashwood’s estate had passed to a surviving female heir, but certainly Lily Boudine had not once crossed his mind. He didn’t know she was associated with Ashwood in any way. “Why in heaven would I know such a thing?” he demanded irritably.

“Honestly,” Keira said, just as irritably. “She came from Ashwood. Everyone knows that she did.”

“I beg your pardon, I did not. I have not made it my habit to study the family history of Lily Boudine! But what I find remarkable in this very interesting conversation is that you have made no mention of the fact that you are impersonating your very own cousin.”

“No!” she cried with a nervous glance at the door. “You are entirely mistaken!”

“Where is Lily?” he demanded incredulously.

Keira sighed. “Italy,” she said.

“Do you mean to tell me that your cousin is in Italy and you are parading about as her?”

“I am not parading,” she snapped. “I certainly didn’t come here with the intent of being the countess, obviously,” she said, but Declan saw nothing obvious about that. “She asked me to come and mind things for her, for she is now the countess. Aye, aye, I see your look of amazement, and believe me when I tell you it was a surprise to us all, but it is quite true. Whilst Lily is in Italy with Mrs. Canavan, I came here on her behalf. Imagine my great surprise when I arrived and they all believed me to be Lily, for apparently, our resemblance is much greater than certainly I had ever realized, and really, Declan, it was their suggestion.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” Declan said skeptically. “The devil has a face of an angel, Keira Hannigan.”

She frowned darkly. “You have said that before.”

“And I will say it again.” He couldn’t imagine what Keira and Lily were about. He had never thought Keira particularly sensible, but he couldn’t believe for a moment Lily would agree to such a ridiculous bit of fraud. “What scheme have the two of you concocted?”

“Must you use the word scheme?” she protested. “It is all very simple. Lily had committed her companionship to Mrs. Canavan.”

Declan cocked a skeptical brow.

“I came here to mind things until she returns from Italy. But Declan, I never imagined to find things in such disarray! That old earl died and left a financial ruin of Ashwood. You can’t imagine the urgency—there was poor old Hannah Hough, for example. Some awful monster of a man was attempting to take her lease and enclose it with his property, and the dear was in danger of being evicted from the only home she’s ever known, the very house where she herself was born and raised her three children. Naturally, I had to act.”

“By pretending to be your cousin?” Declan asked incredulously.

Keira blinked. “Well I didn’t mean, to, obviously,” she said with great exasperation. “But it was imperative that a document be signed by the rightful property owner—the countess—that prohibited the sale or alteration of the lease of that the land, or Hannah Hough would lose it all. I had no choice.”

He knew Keira was bold, but this was astounding. “Do you not understand that what you have done is unlawful?”

“But it’s not,” she argued. “When Lily comes to Ashwood, she will set it all to rights. She asked me to mind the place after all. I have the letter that says she is countess as proof.”

“Set it all to rights? People do not appreciate being duped, no matter what Lily asked you to do, no matter what piece of paper you believe you have,” he said sternly, and gestured for her to refill his glass. “This is so like you, Keira,” he said angrily. “You act first and think afterward. You don’t care who you harm.”

Her green eyes widened. Ah, those eyes. They were a man’s curse, those eyes. They had lived on in his mind’s eye, long past the point of usefulness.

Keira snatched up the decanter of whiskey and refilled his tot. “You’re obviously not listening,” she said as she refilled his glass. “There was quite a lot to be taken care of, and I have very diligently done that for Lily. Furthermore, I have discovered something so astounding that someone of even your incurious nature would want to discover the truth behind it.”

“I assure you, I do not,” he said, watching her eyes glitter as he drank the whiskey. “By the bye, does the venerable Mr. Brian Hannigan know his daughter is masquerading as an English countess? And where is your chaperone? Surely he wouldn’t allow you to cavort about England without chaperone.”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Meaning no,” he said easily.

“Why in God’s name did I ask you here?” she complained, and moved to turn away from him, but Declan caught her wrist of the hand that held the decanter.

“What of Mr. Loman Maloney? Is he aware that the object of his great esteem and blissful future is perpetrating an entirely indefensible deception?”

Keira turned a very appealing shade of red. “Mr. Maloney is very busy with his own affairs,” she said primly.

“Meaning, I take it, that he believes you to be in Italy as well.”

Keira gave him a small shrug.

Declan shook his head. “Foolish girl,” he said, his gaze wandering her face. “I will give you twenty pounds for the filly.”

He brows dipped into a frown. “Mr. Fish said you bid twenty five.”

“He is correct,” Declan said as he took in her oval face. “But that was before I knew what you were about. Twenty pounds.”

She tilted her head back, knowing full well she was being admired. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Fifteen,” he said, and touched the curl at her décolletage with his free hand.

Keira gave him a sly smile. “It was an act of great fortune that I came when I did, Declan. Who was looking after Lily’s affairs, I ask you? No one, that’s who, until I came along.”

He moved his hand, to the side of her neck. “You must be filled with glee to think that as Maloney and your father believe you to be in Italy, and your companion in Dublin, there is no one to keep a proper eye on you, aye?” He smiled at the thought. “It is wedded bliss without the wedding.”

Keira’s creamy cheeks pinkened even more. “I would never, sir.”

Declan’s smile faded. He lowered his head, so that his lips were only a moment away from hers. “Never, Keira?” he asked low.

Her eyes glittered angrily. “Stand back, sir.”

Declan did no such thing. “There is an old Irish saying. One should never kindle a fire if one is afraid of being burned.”

Her lips parted slightly and she gaze fell to his mouth. Something stirred inside Declan. “I don’t want your advice, my lord,” she said silkily. “I want your help.”

He looked at her mouth, imagined touching those full lips with his. “You are mad,” he said low. “I don’t want to help you. I want to turn you over to the English authorities.”

“But you won’t,” she said. “Because that would ruin everything for Lily. Whatever you may think of me, I know you care about Lily.”

He couldn’t argue that. Lily was the one person to speak up for him at particularly difficult time in his life, and it galled him that Keira would use that time in his life to buy his silence. She was too bold, too provocative. He splayed his fingers against her jaw and forced her head back. “How is it that you always manage to exasperate me?”

“It is you who are exasperating me at present.” Her mouth was now directly under his. She expected him to kiss her; he could see it in her half-closed eyes.

“Fifteen pounds,” he said.

“I am hardly inclined to sell you the horse now that you have behaved so wretchedly,” she said, and her lips curved into a sultry smile.

“Have you considered that you don’t sell me the filly at a fair price, I shall tell the world who you are? Or more aptly, who you are not?”

“Not for sale,” she said again.

That was Keira Hannigan for you, far too confident for her own good. Her beauty notwithstanding, her impudence in the face of her deceit annoyed Declan to the point he feared what he might do. But he thought of Lily, now the Countess of Ashwood, apparently, and at low point in his life, his only friend. “Don’t toy with me, Keira,” he said low. “Don’t attempt to include me in any of your schemes. And don’t expect me to keep your secrets this time,” he said.

He turned away from her and walked out of her purloined salon.

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One Season of Sunshine

A summer night in Cedar Springs, Texas:

That moon reminded him of Susanna. Once, when they were first married, Susanna had a bad day and told Asher she was going to take a long bath. But he’d found her outside on the patio of the little house in Central Austin, their first home, reposing in a lounge chair, completely naked. She’d laughed when he’d looked around, anxious about neighbors. And then they had made love, right there on the lounger. Susanna had been completely uninhibited, crying out when she came, and laughing when he frantically tried to shush her. “Don’t worry so much, Ash. Our neighbors have sex, too,” she’d said.

Asher strolled out a little farther, looking up, remembering the stars from that long ago night, twinkling over the heads of two lovers. And they had been lovers then. Intimate, passionate lovers—

“Hi.”

The voice startled Asher, and for a brief, stunning moment, his mind let him believe that Levi was right, that it was Susanna. He peered into the darkness. A movement in the pool caught his eye, a woman in one of the thick foam chairs that Susanna favored was. But the hair was wrong. It was too…messy.

“I’m sorry, I thought you saw me. Did I scare you?”

He realized it was Jane Aaron. Asher could see her now in the moonlight, her head resting against the back, her legs dangling in the water. She hadn’t even turned on the pool lights, was just floating in the moonlight. “Jane? What are you doing?” He started forward, hesitated, and then moved again, to the pool’s edge.

“Nothing. Just floating. It’s such a beautiful night, isn’t it? Do you mind?”

“Of course not. You’re floating in the dark?”

“Absolutely. Better to see the stars that way.” Her hands drifted in the water, languidly moving to keep her facing him. “You can’t see stars like this in Houston because of all the lights. But out here…” She sighed and looked up. “They seem so close. It feels like you can almost touch them,” she said, and lifted her arm, as if she thought she might.

Asher looked up, too. All those stars made him feel small and insignificant.

“But then again, it’s so vast, it makes me feel…”

Alone. Small. All the clichés, all the things he felt about those stars.

“Hungry.” She laughed softly.

Surprised, Asher shot her a look. Jane didn’t notice; she lowered her arm, dipped her hand into the pool. “Hungry?” he asked, curious now.

“In a roundabout way,” she said lightly. “The stars sky reminds me of Italy. I went there last summer, and I was in this little Tuscan village, on a piazza, and there was this sea of people, all happy Italians sparkling around me. But they all spoke Italian. I don’t speak a word of Italian, and it occurred to me that theoretically, I could say anything, and no one would know. It was a strange feeling. And looking up there, at all those stars that can’t hear me or see me…I thought about Italy. And then I thought about pasta.” She laughed again.

He pictured Jane in Italy, bobbing in a sea of sparkling Italians. Alone. He’d just been thinking that himself, and it gave him an odd prickle on the back of his neck. “You didn’t go with a boyfriend? A friend?”

“No, just me.” She laughed. “I was trying to find myself,” she said, playfully adding gravitas to her voice and making imaginary quote marks in the air.

Asher’s curiosity was suddenly raging. He remained squatting, his beer dangling between his fingers, thinking of a strange day he’d spent in Hong Kong.

“Great. Now you think I’m weird.”

“Just the opposite,” he said. “I was remembering that the same thing happened to me. I was in Hong Kong, and I decided to walk from my hotel to the office where my meeting would be held, but I got lost. I ended up in a park, sitting on a bench with this row of old Chinese guys. No one spoke English—believe me, I tried. I remember thinking that I could get lost and never find my way back. I could spend the rest of my days hanging out with old guys on park benches.”

No one had even looked at him that day. He’d felt like useless bag of bones. He was no one to anyone, except two kids who would outgrow him one day.

Jane giggled.

He couldn’t imagine that she’d experienced something similar, that feeling of being invisible in a world of people. “So did you?” Asher asked.

“Did I what?”

“Find yourself.”

Jane laughed. “Not exactly. Truthfully, I think I’ve just begun to look.”

She suddenly slipped out of her chair, hooked one arm over the side, and pulled it along as she swam to the edge. Asher stood up and watched as she got out of the pool. She was wearing a one-piece swimsuit, the sort someone would wear to swim laps. Jane had a lush figure—not pencil think like Tara, but curves in all the right places. Asher was surprised that he found her so…attractive.

Jane picked up a towel and began to dry off. “I guess you did, though.”

“Pardon?”

“You found yourself.”

“Ah…not really,” Asher said. “But I found my way to the office.”

She smiled. “Well thank goodness you did. What would Riley and Levi do if you hadn’t?”

Asher didn’t answer. They stared at each other for a moment. A long moment. “I’ll just…” Jane nodded toward the guesthouse and wrapped the towel around her.

“You don’t have to get out. Or go in,” Asher said. Maybe it was the beer, but he suddenly wanted her to stay and float in the moonlight. “I’ll leave you alone with your stars.”

“No, I should turn in. I have so much to do tomorrow. Good night.” She turned and walked to the guesthouse. A long tail of dark wet hair looked like it had been poured down her back. At the door to the guesthouse, Jane paused and glanced back at him before slipping inside.

The Perils of Pursuing a Prince

An excerpt wherein Greer finds herself stuck without funds or family on the border of Wales…

The solicitor, Mr. Davies, was an elderly man, whose office was in a very old building with sagging wood floors. After Mr. Percy had gallantly used his kerchief to dust off a chair for her, Greer explained her situation to the diminutive man: that she suspected she was her father’s only heir, but wasn’t certain, given her estrangement from her father at an early age.

Mr. Davies said nothing as she spoke. When she finished, he donned a pair of spectacles, ran his hands through a shock of stiff gray hair, then searched through a stack of papers and binders. He finally found a large leather binder, from which he pulled a sheath of papers. He laid them out on his crowded desk and proceeded to study them, muttering to himself while Greer sat impatiently across the desk from him, Mr. Percy standing attentively behind her.

After a time, Mr. Davies removed his spectacles and peered closely at Greer. “Indeed, you are your father’s only living heir,” he said flatly.

Greer gasped with surprise and elation; Mr. Percy put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Unfortunately, as no provision was made to find you, and your whereabouts were unknown, what was left of your father, Mr. Yorath Vaughan’s estate, passed to his brother, Mr. Randolph Vaughan, who is your late uncle. Mr. Randolph Vaughan likewise had no surviving heirs, and upon his death, the whole of his estate—which included your father’s portion, naturally—was passed to the husband of his deceased wife’s deceased sister, his lordship Rhodrick Glendower.”

Greer blinked, trying to follow. Mr. Davies returned his spectacles to his face and folded his hands on top of his desk. “He is known in England, indeed in Bredwardine, as the Earl of Radnor. But not three miles from here, in Wales, he is known by another name.”

Mr. Percy’s hand tightened on Greer’s shoulder. “I beg your pardon, but you can hardly mean—”

“I do indeed, Mr. Percy!” the solicitor said grandly, obviously quite pleased with himself. “Miss Fairchild’s inheritance—if indeed it does exist—has passed along with your uncle’s estate to none other than the Prince of Powys!”

“Who?” Greer asked as Mr. Percy’s hand slid away from her shoulder.

“The Prince of Powys,” Mr. Davies articulated carefully. “A hereditary title in the eyes of the English, perhaps, but in Wales, madam, he is known simply as the prince. He is not a man to be trifled with.”

Honestly, she didn’t care if he was the bloody King of England—he had her inheritance. “How do I find him?”

Mr. Davies slammed shut the leather binder, from which a cloud of dust so thick arose that Greer had to wave it from her face. “At Llanmair, of course, where all the princes of Powys have resided before him and shall continue to reside long after he is gone.”

“And where, precisely, is Llanmair?” she pressed.

The solicitor chuckled low, pointed at the small, dingy window. “West. At the base of the Cambrians, in a wood thick with game.”

Greer squinted at the old man. He held her gaze, daring her to challenge his poetic, yet impractical, directions. As he seemed the intractable sort, Greer stood, fished in her reticule for a crown and held it out to Mr. Davies. “Thank you, sir. You’ve been very helpful.”

Mr. Davies extended his bony hand and snatched the coin from her hand. “Good luck, Miss Fairchild,” he’d said, and had chuckled in a manner that sent a shiver down Greer’s spine.

Naturally, Mr. Percy persuaded her to continue on and to hire a private coach. Greer was rather reluctant to do so, given her dwindling funds, but Mr. Percy thought it absolutely necessary for traveling so deeply into Wales, which naturally, he convinced her she must do. “There was something left of your father’s estate, Miss Fairchild, just as you’ve hoped! Of course you must go on! But it is a hard journey, and in the privacy of a hired coach, I should think there would be less speculation as to who you are.”

That was his very polite way of reminding her there was a way to avoid scandal. Still, she debated it—she had just enough money to go back to London—or, with a little luck, to claim her inheritance. At the time, she believed it Mr. Percy was right. She had come quite a long way and she might as well finish her journey. So against her better judgment, her sense of propriety, and every blessed thing she had learned at Aunt Cassandra’s knee, Greer and Mr. Percy set out in the direction of Llanmair.

In a private coach.

That she had hired.

It wasn’t until they were far from any village or sign of civilization that Mr. Percy confessed the Prince of Powys was none other than his wretched uncle, the man who had ruined him.

“You can’t mean it!” Greer had cried, shocked.

“You shouldn’t be surprised, really,” he’d said cavalierly. “The man wields considerable influence in these parts. How else could he have…?” His voice trailed off, and with a sidelong glance at Greer, he clenched his jaw and shifted his gaze out the window.

“I beg your pardon, how could he have what?”

“I cannot say, Miss Fairchild. You are too…too pure to hear of the vile nature of that man.”

Greer had snorted at that. As she was traveling into Wales with a man who was not her husband or otherwise related to her, she rather thought goodness was no longer a consideration. “I have made my decision and I am quite determined, sir. You must tell me what you know of this man, for now he has my inheritance as well as yours.”

“Yes, of course, you must stand up for what is rightfully yours,” he’d agreed instantly. “You are to be commended for your bravery, Miss Fairchild.”

She wasn’t the least bit brave, she was desperate. “Then please do tell me what I must know.”

With a sigh, he’d looked at the broad palms of his hand. “In addition to seizing my lands, the details of which you are well aware, the blackguard also compromised the daughter of a solicitor in Rhayader, and then steadfastly refused to do the honorable thing by her.”

Greer blinked; Mr. Percy suddenly surged forward, put his hand on her knee and said low, “But that was not the worst of it. Soon after his refusal, the young woman went missing. The entire county looked for her high and low… but she was nowhere to be found.”

“Oh dear God,” Greer exclaimed, her mind racing with all the horrible things that could befall a woman in a land as remote as Wales.

“But then, by some miracle, in the middle of a vast forest comprising thousands of acres, he found her.” He leaned back, removed his hand from her knee. “She was dead, of course. Broken neck.”

“Oh God, no!”

“He alone led the authorities to her body, miles from Llanmair.”

“How tragic!”

But Mr. Percy narrowed his gaze and suddenly surged forward again. “I think you do not fully take my meaning, Miss Fairchild. Twenty-five thousand acres of virgin land and forest surround Llanmair. It is impossible to traverse them all. Yet somehow, he managed to find her in a very remote ravine.”

His implication sank in, and Greer blinked. “You mean…murder?” she whispered.

Mr. Percy shrugged and sat back again. “There are many who believe it is so. There is no end to the man’s depravity.”

Now, as Greer looked out the coach’s window at that huge, foreboding castle, a shiver ran down her spine. Suddenly, she needed to be near Mr. Percy and opened the coach door stepped out just as she caught sight of the rider coming toward them. Mr. Percy saw him, too, for he instantly turned and held up a hand. “Stay in the coach, Miss Fairchild!”

But Greer did not move—she was transfixed by the approaching rider.

He was thundering toward them at a dangerous speed. His greatcoat billowed out behind him like the wings of an enormous bird and he leaned tightly over the neck of a large black steed that sent up thick clods of earth from his hooves. It seemed almost as if the man didn’t see them gathered there, as if he intended to ride right through them. Greer cried out, darting behind Mr. Percy just as the rider reined to a hard stop, causing the horse to rear. His enormous legs churned the air as he came down, and the man reined the horse again, hard to the right, away from the other horses.

With a tight hold on the agitated horse, he glared down at them all, and as Greer stepped out from behind Mr. Percy, he turned his glacial green eyes to her.

She’d never felt such a shiver in all her life.

The rider was older than she, perhaps by ten years or more. A scar traversed one side of his face, from the corner of his eye to the middle of his cheek, disappearing into the shadow of his beard. His jaw was clenched tightly shut, and beneath his hat, she glimpsed the distinctive black hair of the Welsh with a bit of gray at the temples. He was not a handsome man and not even the least bit agreeable—in fact, he looked quite fierce.

And angry.

Mr. Percy instantly stepped in front of Greer and spoke in Welsh. Whatever he said, the man spurred his horse forward a few steps so that he could look at Greer again with those frightfully cold green eyes.

At the same moment, a fat rain drop hit the top of Greer’s bonnet, startling her. It was followed by another, and then several more, and she impulsively said to the man, from whom she had not been able to take her gaze, “If you please, we should like to pass. We mean to reach—”

Mr. Percy clamped down on her forearm and spoke in Welsh, and again, the man did not respond, but looked at Greer.

“I beg your pardon,” she whispered to Mr. Percy, “but I think we should explain who we are.”

“What do you think I have been attempting to do this last quarter of an hour?” he responded curtly under his breath. “If you will just allow me—”

“But it is beginning to rain,” Greer said, noting the hint of despair in her own voice, and looked at the man in black again. “I don’t mean to be untoward, sir, but I fear we shall be caught in the rain.”

The man said nothing. Greer was getting wetter by the moment and stepped forward. “We have important business with the Earl of Radnor…the, ah…the prince, so please do kindly allow us to pass.”

Once again, her plea was met with cold silence. Greer glanced anxiously at Mr. Percy. “Do you think he understands me?” she whispered.

“Oh…I am quite certain that he does,” Mr. Percy said assuredly.

If the man did or did not, he refused to make any indication and her fear began to melt into anger at his rudeness. She lifted her chin as she stared at his rugged face, her eyes steady on his.

He surprised her by saying something in Welsh to the three men who stood between them. He then reined his horse about and rode off just as quickly as he’d arrived.

“What did he say?” Greer asked, surprised by his abrupt departure.

Mr. Percy sighed and gestured for her to step into the carriage. “He gave us leave to pass,” he muttered, and taking her hand firmly, handed her up to the coach. He glanced up at the driver. “Carry on,” he barked, and followed Greer inside.

When the coach began to move, Greer wearily brushed rain water from her cloak and said, “His lordship may very well be a murderer, but I intend to let him know how unbearably rude his man is.”

Mr. Percy sighed irritably. “Miss Fairchild, that unbearably rude man was the Prince of Powys!”

Oh dear God.

The Dangers of Deceiving a Viscount

Prologue

Bedfordshire
England 1822

William Darby, Viscount Summerfield, Baron Ivers, rode the last mile to Wentworth Hall full bore. The letter from his father’s secretary was in his breast pocket, stained red by the sands of the Egyptian desert, smelling of salt from the passage across the Mediterranean, and tattered at the folds from Will’s frequent reading of it.

The earl has suffered a terrible fit of apoplexy that has left him paralyzed. You are needed at home, sir.

In the six years since Will had left Wentworth Hall to take his grand tour of Europe—a tour his father had urged a restless young man of two and twenty to take before duty and responsibility claimed him—he’d received many letters from his father. In the first two years, those letters had exulted in the sights Will had seen and the adventures he’d experienced, as related weekly in a letter home. The tour was supposed to have at two years, but Will had gone on to India instead of coming home as expected, and his father’s letters had changed in tone. While the earl still enjoyed the tales of Will’s travels, he often reminded him of his responsibility to his family and as the future Earl of Bedford, and asked him to come home.

Will always wrote that he would, and truly, he always meant to come home. But invariably, he’d meet a fellow traveler who would feed his wanderlust with a tale of the Himalayas or searching for treasure in the oases of Africa, and Will would be off again.

In the last two years, his father’s letters had cajoled and pleaded with Will to come home and marry as he ought, to provide an heir before it was too late, before the earl was gone. His father professed a longing to hold his grandchild in his arms. Will was confident he would fulfill that wish, but as he was only eight and twenty, he believed there was ample time for marrying and fathering children.

Then had come the last letter from Mr. Carsdale, the earl’s secretary. It was delivered to Will in a Bedouin tent by his loyal manservant Addison, who had been with him since his eighteenth year and had traveled the world with him regardless of whether he liked it or not. Addison had come from Cairo on a Bedouin train and was wearing a kaffiyeh wrapped around his head, his clothing and eyes red from the stinging sand. When Will read the letter, the words seemed to sag on the vellum under the weight of what they related.

He left Egypt at once, of course. He’d taken the arduous Bedouin route to the sea, had booked passage on a ship that sailed through a stormy sea and Straits of Gibraltar that had almost cost him his life when the clipper was shipwrecked. It had taken him three months to reach England’s shores. Another week was spent purchasing a horse and arranging to have his things and Addison sent to Wentworth Hall, and another week riding across the rain-soaked English countryside.

At last, Will and Fergus—the Welsh pony he’d acquired—were riding up the lane to the majestic hall that had housed his ancestors for centuries. The sight of the mansion warmed his heart—built in the shape of an H, it stood four stories tall. Ivy covered the corners, and row upon row of six-foot paned windows looked out across the woodlands, the deer park, and the fields where the estates’ sheep and cattle grazed.

He reined to a hard stop in the drive, surprised that no footman or groom hurried to attend him, and frightened him the more he thought of it. Will flung himself off Fergus, shoved his cloak over his shoulder and reached for the letter. Clutching it in his gloved hand, he vaulted up the steps to the double-door entry, flung them open, and strode inside.

The foyer was empty. Completely empty—devoid of furniture and accoutrements. The only things left were the very large paintings of mythical scenes that filled an entire wall. Will walked on, vaulting up the stairs to the family rooms on the first floor. But as he reached the first floor landing, he stopped, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. A broken chair was lying on its side. Papers were strewn across the carpet as if they’d been scattered by a wind. A large black area in the carpet was the result of a burn and the candles in wall sconces had been left too long; the wax had melted onto the silk wall coverings and the carpet beneath them.

Stunned, Will moved on, pausing to look in every room and finding them in the same condition. The rooms smelled musty, as if they had not been aired in months. The sitting room was strewn with trash and books and, inexplicably, ladies shoes. In the grand salon, furniture had been shoved up against the walls and it looked as if a game of lawn bowling had been interrupted, mid-game, with balls scattered across the floor and a porcelain vase lying in pieces.

He reached the library last. In that room, books were out of their shelves and stacked in various configurations, a thick layer of dust on the floor was marked with foot traffic.

Will turned slowly in a circle, taking it all in, trying to make sense of it. As he turned toward the hearth where a mound of blankets had been piled, he caught sight of a figure rising from the chaise longue. It was a young woman and he’d obviously awakened her. She stood up, blinking at him. Her gown was too small for her lanky frame and looked rather old. Her hair was pinned awkwardly to the back of her head, and her blue eyes were the only spots of color in her pale face. But something struck him as familiar, and Will squinted at her. “Alice?”

The woman did not respond, but he was certain it was his sister standing before him. She had been eleven years of age when he’d left home, a little wisp of a girl who followed him about and peppered him with endless questions or begged him to take her riding or to play with her in the garden.

“Who’s there?” a hoarse male voice demanded, piercing the silence.

It appeared that what Will had believed to be a pile of blankets was actually another person. That person came up on his elbows, knocking over an empty tot when he did, and blinked in Will’s direction.

“I think it is our brother,” Alice said uncertainly, staring curiously at Will.

“Who?” the young man asked, pushing himself up and struggling to his feet. It was no easy task. His shirttail was hanging to his knees, his trousers were covered in dust, and the rest of his clothing was in the pile of blankets for all Will knew. His hair was standing up on end and he had the scraggly growth of an unshaved beard.

"Joshua,” Will said, looking at his brother, the sibling who was closest to his own age, who’d been only fourteen when he’d left, “do you not know me?”

“Will! What are you doing here?” Joshua demanded, peering closely at him. “Who sent for you?”

“Did you not receive my letters?” Will said, moving cautiously forward. “Where is everyone? Where are the servants?”

With a snort and a flick of his wrist, Joshua said, “Gone. They’ve not been paid in ages. Only Farley and Cook remain.”

“And Jacobs, the footman who tends Father,” Alice offered, still eying Will curiously. She stood self-consciously, her arms folded tightly about her. “Are you to stay here?”

“You won’t want to remain here, I assure you,” Joshua said. He took an unsteady step and knocked over a bottle of amber liquid that spread across the floorboards and into the blankets where he had been sleeping. Neither he nor Alice seemed to notice it at all.

This was wrong. This was terribly, horribly wrong. “Where is Father?” Will asked in a sudden panic.

“Father? Where is he ever?” Joshua asked. “In his suite, of course.”

Will dared not ask after his two youngest siblings, Roger and Jane. He just turned and strode from the library, his footfall matching the rhythm of his rapidly beating heart. As he hurried to the master suite, his crime became clearer. He’d stayed away too long.

Will rapped hard on the door the master suite, was reaching for the handle when the door suddenly opened. An enormous bear of a man dressed in shirtsleeves and waistcoat peered suspiciously at Will. “Who are you, then?”

“I am Summerfield, the earl’s son. Where is my father?”

The man’s eyes widened, but he opened the door and bowed his head at the same time. “Just there, milord,” he said, pointing.

Will swept past him. The room smelled of ointments and smoke; the drapes had been pulled shut, save one window that provided only dim light. Yet it was enough light to see his father in the shadows. “Dear God,” he muttered in horror.

His father was seated in a wheeled chair. A lap rug had been draped across his legs, and his hands, bent with apparent uselessness were folded together in his lap. His head lolled unnaturally to one side.

But as Will drew near, the earl of Bedford lifted his gaze and in those wet gray eyes, Will saw the light of recognition shimmer.

“Papa,” Will said. The earl moved his lips strangely, but no sound came forth, and Will realized he could not speak. Grief dealt him a crushing blow. With the letter still clutched in his hand, he fell to his knees and pressed his cheek against his father’s bony knees. He’d stayed away too long and any apology he could make was not enough.

It would never be enough.