Her Burdened Duke
First Chapters – Preview
Prologue
1814, The Sirenwood Estate, England
It was a fine September morning when, dressed in full hunting gear, Marcus St. Clair ran enthusiastically down the main staircase of Sirenwood Manor and across the wainscoted vestibule, to the door of his brother’s study.
As he strode past the ornate grandfather clock, he was so intent on the hunt ahead, he was oblivious to the deep, rhythmic tock-tock of its heavy brass pendulum. It startled him somewhat when the aged timepiece suddenly chimed two, but then he smiled to himself.
I am actually on time. That should please Trevor.
Trevor had been the Duke of Sirenwood since their father’s death back in 1801, thirteen years ago. Unlike Marcus, his highly organized and industrious brother was a stickler for such things as being on time.
“You don’t run this place and all our other properties and business ventures at a profit without keeping on top of things, Marcus,” Trevor was fond of telling his younger brother. “Remember that just in case you have to take over from me one day.”
“That will never happen,” Marcus would reply fervently. “You’re in the prime of life and as strong as an ox. Besides, it behoves you to take care of yourself, Brother. You know I could never manage all the responsibilities you do so successfully. You seem to thrive on all the endless work being the duke entails, whereas I cheerfully admit I think it would kill me.”
Trevor would chuckle, and although Marcus often noticed a note of wistfulness in his brother’s voice, he did not dwell upon it. He was merely thankful to be the second son and, therefore, free of all the laborious ducal duties Trevor dealt with daily with apparent ease.
He arrived outside the study door to see it was ajar, so he tapped on it with his knuckles and then pushed it open.
His brother, tall and dark-haired like himself, was standing by the enormous mahogany desk that had faithfully served several generations of the Dukes of Sirenwood. Also dressed for the hunt, he looked up from the papers he was perusing and smiled at Marcus.
“Ah, there you are. On time, I see. Very good,” Trevor said jovially in his deep voice as he placed the papers on the desk.
“I do try to take heed of your lessons on timekeeping, Brother,” Marcus replied with a small laugh as he entered the study. “Even if I don’t always manage to stick to them.”
“Hmm, I think you manage to be on time when it suits you. You wish to go deer hunting this afternoon, hence you are on time,” Trevor said teasingly.
“Well, be that as it may, I see you are ready to ride out. Have you finished your business for the day? Can we go?”
“Of course. I am the lord of efficiency as you know. I have the day planned down to the minute, and the rest of it stretches before me unencumbered. I hope you realise how honoured you are that I cleared my diary to spend time with you.”
“Your magnanimity is laudable,” Marcus replied with a wry smile. “However, I suspect it also has something to do with you wishing to go hunting so you can serve venison to the Archbishop when he comes for dinner next week.”
Trevor chuckled and nodded. “That is true, but it is simply an added bonus. I have truly been looking forward to spending some time with you, Brother, before you disappear off to London again on one of your merry jaunts. And some good hunting is just the ticket. It is a long, long time since we have done this together.” He picked up his whip from the desk.
“Aye, since before Father died and you became submerged in overseeing the dukedom,” Marcus agreed with a sigh, thinking back to their younger days when they were almost inseparable. “I miss those days.”
“So do I, and seeing as you are so keen, let’s waste no more time. To the armoury.” Trevor said laughing.
Marcus grinned and tapped his thigh with his whip. “To the armoury it is!”
Half an hour later, equipped with hunting rifles, the brothers rode out of the stable yard, each seated atop a sleek and powerful horse.
“Why, the beasts are fairly champing at the bit to get out there,” Trevor remarked, bringing his skittish horse under control with a quick flick of this reins. “We should put them to work more often.”
“I do my best to exercise them daily while I’m here, and the stable lads take them out regularly as well. But they are somewhat high-strung to be sure. Yours seems particularly lively,” Marcus replied as they trotted across the pastures surrounding the manor.
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he? Evidently, he has a lot of pent-up energy, but I’m certain that a few hours of hard hunting will deal with that.”
“Shall we start with a race then? Shall we say, first to the gates of Home Farm?”
“All right, I’ll be waiting for you,” Trevor said laughing mischievously, without warning he kicked up his horse into a canter and raced away across the paddock in the direction of Home Farm, around a mile distant.
Marcus laughed too as he urged his horse to follow, shouting, “I could call that cheating, but I suppose, since I’m the better rider and will undoubtedly beat you, you need the head start!”
They arrived at the gates of the farm at around the same time and decided there was nothing in it. They then spent the next few hours cheerfully tracking deer though the estate’s extensive fields and woods, bagging a couple of fat pheasants on the way. But they had no luck with bigger game until they approached the lake.
“Wait,” Trevor said suddenly, bringing his horse to a halt by the shore of the lake and signalling to Marcus to do the same. “Look there, across the water, in among the trees, can you see them?” He pointed across the water.
Marcus shaded his eyes from the sun with his hand and squinted at the spot his brother was indicating. It was almost impossible to see the small herd of deer, for they were well camouflaged among the undergrowth and tree trunks along the tree line of the copse on the opposite bank. But then he glimpsed the flicking white tail of a fawn, and suddenly they all came into focus, and he was able to make out their red coats against the sun-stippled background.
“Yes, I see them. About thirty, would you say?”
“Yes, and a few nice healthy-looking bucks among them. Take one or two of those, and it will help keep the numbers down.”
“We should take it slowly so as not to startle them,” Marcus supplied.
“Come on then, let’s take a nice, leisurely walk around the lake and see how close we can get before they run.”
They set off, following the path around the edge of the water, making as little noise as possible. Marcus thought it remarkable when they made it to the opposite shore without spooking the creatures, which were now about a few hundred yards from them. They stopped and loaded their guns, ready for the kill.
“You dismount and advance from the front, Marcus. There’s plenty of cover for you, so you should be able to get in quite close. I’ll ride around the back. When they see you and run, I should be able to get a couple of shots off. If I don’t hit anything, maybe you will.”
“All right.” Marcus slid down from his saddle, shouldering his gun, before finding cover behind a patch of scrubby bush as instructed. He watched as his brother walked his horse around the copse, giving the deer a wide berth as he advanced, intent on not startling them before he got into a shooting position.
Soon, he was out of sight. Marcus, his rifle in his hands, began creeping forward in a crouch, moving stealthily from bush to bush as he approached the tree line and the feeding animals, which were still oblivious to the threat.
But he reached a point where there was open ground, and as he had to break cover, they spotted him and swiftly took off, dashing away gracefully in the opposite direction until they vanished among the thickening trees.
Marcus ran after them then, waiting to hear the report from his brother’s rifle as, hopefully, Trevor got a good shot at the fleeing deer as they ran from the rear of the copse. But instead of gunshots, he suddenly heard the frantic scream of a horse in fear, and then a loud shout of alarm. His blood went cold, for the sound could only have come from his brother. Fearing Trevor was in trouble, he raced through the trees in the wake of the deer. When he came out on the other side, he gasped in horror.
“Oh, no! Trevor!” he shouted in alarm, for all he could see was his brother’s horse racing away across the adjoining field, with Trevor being dragged along behind it, his booted foot apparently caught in the stirrup. “I’m coming!” Marcus shouted again, knowing he did not have time to go back and retrieve his own horse. His only option was to chase them on foot, so he shouldered his rifle and flung himself after them, running across the field as far as he could.
“Trevor! Are you all right?” he panted, finally managing to catch up when the spooked horse eventually stopped running several minutes later. It was now unconcernedly cropping the grass at the edge of the copse, its fear forgotten.
Marcus dared not spook it again, for his brother’s boot was still stuck in the stirrup. If the beast decided to take off again, it would take Trevor with it. So, he went slowly. “It’s all right, boy, nothing to be scared of, take it easy,” he told it in soothing tones as he gradually approached. Thankfully, the horse now seemed more interested in eating and allowed him to reach his brother without it running again.
Marcus knelt next to the fallen man and hurriedly released his trapped leg from the stirrup, breathing a sigh of partial relief when it was done.
“Trevor, are you all right? Can you speak to me?” he asked, looking down in appalled shock at the state of his brother’s face. It was bruised, swollen, and bloody, almost unrecognisable, and his clothes were shredded and filthy.
Trevor let out a groan as Marcus gently turned him over. “Thank God, you’re alive. Trevor, say something!” The sign of life filled him with hope, but when he gently lifted Trevor by the shoulders and tried to see into his eyes, they were dull, as if the light was draining out of them, and he was clearly in a great deal of pain.
Marcus’s hopes diminished when despite his pleas, Trevor did not seem able to speak. He only continued to let out a series of groans and harsh, broken breaths, as if he could not get enough air into his lungs. The hope in Marcus’s heart turned to terror, and his whole body began shaking. He forced himself to think rationally.
“Trevor, don’t worry, it’s going to be all right. I’m going to get help. Just don’t try to move and hang on until I get back. I’ll be as fast as I can.”
Marcus hated to leave him, but he knew he had no choice. He ran back as fast as he could through the copse, to where he had left his own horse. It was tranquilly nibbling on the long grass. Without taking the basic safety precaution of emptying the gun, he slung it over his shoulder and swung himself into the saddle.
“Git up!” he cried, kicking the beast up to a fast gallop as he made his way back across the fields, heading to the stables for help.
As he rode, gripped by a sense of dread, the same words revolved in his head like a prayer: “Please, just let him live!”
Chapter One
Two years later
Marcus sighed as he put down his quill, his eyes weary from going up and down the seemingly endless columns of figures, page after page of numbers in the annual ledger, which painstakingly recorded the productivity, the expenditure, and the, admittedly pleasing, amount of monthly and annual profit generated by the many farms attached to the Sirenwood estate.
Fortunately, the entries complied by Marchmont, the estate bailiff, a man who was both honest and meticulous in his record keeping, required only that Marcus check them and sign the bottom of each page. This signified that, as His Grace, the Duke of Sirenwood, he had had his eyes upon them and approved of Marchmont’s calculations. He always approved of Marchmont’s calculations.
It always felt like a little victory each time he signed off a sheet, yet equally, they never ceased coming. Though he might sign off the weekly sheets on, say, a Wednesday, feeling as though he had achieved something, the ledger would reappear on his desk, its pages filled with fresh notations, demanding his attention, within the following seven days. With mind-numbing regulatory, the same would happen at the end of each month. The annual meeting with Marchmont and his legal people for the end of year financial tally was something he dreaded.
Thankful that this one task was completed for the day, he decided to ignore the many others demanding his attention. He got up, yawned mightily, stretched to relieve the tension that had built up in his back and shoulders, and went over to the window. Intent on contemplating the nature outside for a few moments, he opened the window and leaned on the sill, breathing in the fresh air.
There had been a shower earlier that afternoon, punctuating the August heat with a welcome burst of coolness. The surrounding trees and the expanse of lawn rolling away from the house were startlingly green, refreshed by the recent moisture. The air was laden with the scent of greenery and flowers wafting in from the garden and park. Marcus drew it deep into his lungs, attempting to drive out the lingering dry dustiness of ink and paper.
It worked, to a certain extent, in soothing his physical senses. However, it did little to lessen the burden on his soul of his many ducal responsibilities, which he had been carrying around with him since assuming the title following Trevor’s tragic death two years before. His grief at the loss of his brother was now a persistent dull ache somewhere in the region of his heart. Yet at the same time it was as if Trevor was always at his shoulder, overseeing everything he did, to see that he did it properly.
And Marcus was never sure that he had, for where Trevor had seemed to thrive on the endless tasks of estate management, the repetitive paperwork, the role as magistrate dispensing justice in the local courts, and that in Parliament as a lawmaker in the House of Lords, to name but a few, Marcus had to admit that he struggled with it all.
Granted, part of that was due to the fact that, as son and heir to the dukedom, Trevor had been trained by their father virtually from birth to assume such duties on the old Duke’s passing. As the ‘spare,’ Marcus had received no such training. With Trevor’s sudden death coming so unexpectedly and at such a young age, and the title passing to Marcus, his grief for his brother had been overlain and even extended by having to assume the necessary workload almost immediately.
Even with his mother’s help, it had been like trying to catch hold of a whirlwind. The first few months had been a miserable blur as he attempted to grasp previously unheard of and unfathomable activities in the midst of his grief. Now, two years down the line, on a practical basis, he was managing better. However, at the same time, with each passing day, his soul grew heavier, until there were times, like today, when he was sure he would be crushed out of existence by all the demands placed upon him.
That was his burden to bear alone, he knew. But with his brother’s demise there had come another burden to shoulder as well, one which was ephemeral and impalpable and horribly pernicious at the same time. Only a few weeks after his brother’s fatal accident, he began to hear the whispers from the Ton suggesting that he’d had something to do with Trevor’s death.
That had been too shocking and distressing, bringing the grief back in full force as well as a stinging sense of injustice. But worse was to come when it became clear that what people were actually saying was that he had connived to kill his brother as a means to take over his title. And he had no way of proving them wrong.
“Darling, why are you so sad? Look at the lines on your face. You seem so careworn.”
It was his mother’s voice intruding on his thoughts. Marcus turned to face the elegant figure of the Dowager Duchess Henrietta St. Clair.
“How do you do that, Mother?” he asked, for she had somehow contrived to enter the room unheard.
“Do what, dear?” she asked, closing the door behind her.
“Slide in so silently. Was not the door closed? Did you come through it like a ghost?”
She gave a low chuckle. “Now, that would frighten you, would it not?”
“Your tendency for creeping up on me frightens me already.” That, he knew was unfair, but his mood was low, and she had unwittingly presented herself as a convenient target for his irritable gloom.
“Marcus, I assure you, I made no effort to be silent. You were merely sunk in your own thoughts and did not hear the door, that is all.” Her satin gown swished as she crossed the room and joined him by the window, her still beautiful face filled with concern as she scrutinized him with her keen blue eyes.
Not wanting to meet her eyes lest she see the depth of his depression, Marcus immediately looked back out of the window again and said laconically, “Thank you for your kind observations about the lines on my face and my careworn aspect. Pardon me if I do not find them at all cheerful.”
His mother smiled gently, and despite her relatively small stature compared to her son’s, she reached up to brush a stray lock of his dark hair from his forehead with tender maternal affection. Instinctively, Marcus moved his head out of the way.
“Heavens, you wretched boy. Can a mother not offer her son some affection?” the Dowager asked, shaking her perfectly coiffed head.
“I am not a boy. I am one and thirty. I no longer have need of such indulgences from you.”
“My, what a sorry mood I find you in. It is a shame that you should see fit to speak to your mother so rudely,” she complained with only the mildest hint of heat. “You make it even more difficult for me to deliver the bad news I have come to impart.”
Marcus let out a small, exasperated groan and ran a hand though his hair. “Oh, what is it this time? Is the roof caving in perchance? Have all my investments gone up in smoke? Is France about to invade?”
“As you well know, neither of those things are happening.”
“Well, what then? I am sure that whatever it is you have come to tell me, it will be bothersome in some way.”
“Goodness, with this attitude of yours, I almost dread to tell you. In your rage, I fear you may choose to strike me with your desk ornament and subsequently find yourself in a most regrettable predicament.” Despite her dramatic words, she appeared entirely unruffled, and she sat down in a nearby armchair, arranging herself with her habitual grace.
“If it comes to that, Son, I guarantee I shall make a point of haunting you nightly, gliding silently through doors and walls as it takes my fancy. Perhaps I shall appear behind you in your shaving mirror. I think it could be rather amusing to be a ghost.”
Despite himself, the absurd image brought a half-smile to Marcus’s face, as his mother’s dry sense of humour often did. “All right, Mother, I apologise for being so gloomy. Blame the ledgers. I have been at them all day again, and my brain is worn to a frazzle. I have very little patience left,” he admitted, crossing the room to pour himself a brandy. “Would you like something to drink, Mother?” he asked at the same time.
“Mmm, a small glass of brandy would be nice, dear. I feel I need one, and I am positive you will need that brandy when you hear what I have to say.”
“Oh dear,” Marcus said with a sense of foreboding as he brought back the drinks. He handed her the glass, and then sat down in the chair opposite her before taking a long swallow of the amber liquid in his glass. “Well, do proceed and divulge your intentions, whatever they may be.”
The Dowager Duchess sipped delicately at her brandy and then said, “Miss Lockhart has just handed me her resignation letter. In tears.”
“What?!” Marcus exclaimed, his heart sinking to his boots. “Resigned, has she? Not another one. But, what is the child doing to them? That’s the third governess this year, and it is still only August.”
“More of the same complaints, I’m afraid. Evelyn is extremely withdrawn, inattentive, forgetful, uncommunicative, deeply uninterested in just about anything, except drawing pictures and animals. Apparently, she lacks the basic skills in mathematics, history, English, and oh, more or less every subject under the sun actually,” his mother recited. “I told you that you would need that brandy, did I not? I think I might need a whole bottle of this to get over it. The entire interview was extremely vexing.”
“Good grief,” Marcus moaned with rising desperation. “You tried to talk her out of it, did you not?” he asked.
“Of course, I did. What do you take me for? I even offered to increase her salary by a third.”
“No go?”
She shook her head. “Far be it from me to lower myself to use such vulgar parlance, we are not at the horse-racing track now, Marcus—but indeed, yes. It was of no avail.”
“Did you threaten to give her a poor reference? That can sometimes work,” he suggested hopefully.
“That would be very dishonourable. And desperate as we are, I forbear to stoop so low. I shall give her the reference she deserves, and since she herself admits she has been unable to make a single lesson stick with the child, she must content herself with the truth.”
“And you have spoken to Evelyn about this?”
She gave him a sarcastic look and did not bother to reply.
“What has she to say for herself?” he asked, his irritation with his ward, who also happened to be his niece, mixing with his anxiety for her future.
“Same as always: hardly anything, except to state that she has, and I quote, ‘no need of a foolish governess,’ and that she has, ‘learnt more from Tim the stable boy about horses and animals and plants than she has ever learned in a classroom or would ever care to learn.’ Words to that effect at any rate.” She sipped her brandy with a weary air.
“That’s all very well. I have no objection to her learning about horses and nature and such like, but why can she not understand there is more to an education than that?”
“Well, you were a boy once. I do not seem to remember you liking being cooped up in a stuffy classroom, learning about kings and queens and the location of India on the world map any more than she does. I hated it myself, for I was once a child too.”
“Pardon me if I find that hard to believe, Mother. I rather thought you had been assembled in a modiste’s back room somewhere, packed in a fancy box tied with a bow, and delivered to my grandparents as a fait accompli,” he observed drily.
“I shall ignore that unkind remark. In any case, as far as Evelyn is concerned I feel we should not be hypocritical about this, dear. The child has suffered a great shock in losing her father so suddenly at such a young age. It stands to reason that she would be affected by it. That is why she has retreated into herself, just as her mother dear Diana has.”
“We have all suffered a great shock, Mother,” he protested weakly, feeling afresh the ache of Trevor’s loss.
“Yes, dear, but you are a grown man. Evelyn is still a child who had her beloved Papa snatched away from her in an instant. How can she be expected to cope with that at her tender age?”
“So, what do you suggest then?” Marcus took a long swallow of brandy.
“My feeling is that she requires nurturing, kindness, and understanding as well as an education. She needs someone who can bring a little light back into her life and help her engage with the world again.
“By the same token, she must have a governess to educate her and turn her into a lady. Somehow, we must find someone who can provide all of those things, someone sensitive and gentle as well as knowledgeable. Perhaps an impoverished lady or a parson’s daughter.”
“And where do you propose finding such a paragon? I will be surprised if any of the acquaintances we have used in the past will even agree to take on the task since all the governesses they have previously supplied us have all fled in defeat.”
“It is a conundrum, dear, I admit. But one we must solve, nevertheless. We need a special someone, and I shall inform our acquaintances that we are prepared to pay them a large sum if they can find her for us, and she does not bolt within the first three months.”
“Should such an enticement not be based on a measurable improvement in Evelyn’s attitude and work?” he asked doubtfully.
“If that occurs within three months of the appointment, then I suggest we secure the person responsible for it until her services are no longer required by doubling her annual salary, with additional annual increments to follow, contingent on continued good performance. And perhaps the promise of a small pension at the end of her service.”
“My word, you have thought this through,” he said, staring at her in wonder.
“One of us must, Marcus.”
“Well, it sounds like an expensive business to me.”
“It has already been an expensive and troublesome business, Marcus. You complain about the weight of your responsibilities as duke. You have said yourself that we have been here many times before, and each time, it only adds to the matters pressing upon you.
“I advise avoiding another repeat of the problem altogether by making a financial outlay now that will ensure success this time. Evelyn needs stability, someone who is going to stay around. Besides, at the very least, your mood will not get any gloomier through having to worry about it.”
Marcus had to agree. “Very well. Spend as much as you wish, but may I leave the matter of finding this angelic personage to you?”
The Dowager drained her glass, placed it on a nearby occasional table, and rose. “I hoped you would say that, dear. Of course. I shall begin my enquiries first thing in the morning.” She paused to smooth her skirts before adding, “Mind you, it may take a while to find this special person. I may have to interview quite a few before we find her.”
“Well, what shall we do about Evelyn’s education in the meantime? We cannot just let her do nothing.”
“I shall give her some lessons myself, in deportment, etiquette, the piano forte, and hire tutors for dancing and drawing. She likes drawing. That will at least make her happy. Perhaps you would like to step in and tutor her in the more academic subjects in the interim.”
The very idea filled him with alarm. He had not exactly been the ideal student himself and was unsure that he could manage to impart any sort of information into his niece’s consciousness at all successfully. Besides, when would I have the time? It all sounds too much like extra work piled upon me when I can hardly keep up with my own.
That was what he thought, but what he actually said was, “Er, if necessary, yes, I shall step in, of course. But the important thing is to find this new governess as quickly as possible.”
“Then, as I say, I shall begin the search on the morrow. Now, I shall leave you to your own devices. I shall be going out shortly to play cards at Lady Crawshaw’s soirée. Do not forget to say goodnight to Evelyn at bedtime. I do not want her to think you are angry with her, so please try to behave normally.”
“I have no idea what you mean by that, Mother, but I will certainly make sure to kiss her goodnight,” Marcus replied, thankful the matter had been settled and did not, for the moment at least, require any more effort on his part. “Enjoy yourself at Lady Crawshaw’s.” He got up and went to open the door for her.
She swept across the threshold. “I shall, dear. Good night.”
Left alone with his thoughts after she had gone, Marcus poured himself another brandy before resuming his seat. He felt unutterably weary and despondent when he thought about his little niece. How cruel fate was to have snatched her father away when she had been so little.
He could only hope that his mother would be successful and find this paragon of virtue who would both educate Evelyn and bring light back into the bereft child’s life. While he had full confidence in his indomitable mother’s capabilities to do almost anything she set her mind to, at the same time, he could not help but doubt that such a ‘special person’ as she had described actually existed outside of story books.
Chapter Two
The Winterbourne Mansion, Mayfair, London
Clara Winterbourne was kneeling by the large mahogany sideboard in the library of her family home, a look of determination on her face as she hunted through its many cupboards, drawers, nooks, and crannies, in search of any personal mementoes of her deceased parents.
Gerald Winterbourne, the Viscount Marchfield, and his pretty wife, Lady Cora, had been killed in a mysterious carriage accident eighteen months ago, leaving her heart and her world shattered with grief. And it was not lessening with time, as she had been assured it would. The pain still came in flashes which stopped her in her tracks, and fresh tears would fall even though she thought she could cry no more. The dreadful loss weighed on her, a raw wound she suspected would never heal.
Though she had all her mother’s things and many of her father’s too, she often felt compelled to fill the empty hours by going through cupboards and drawers, in search of any small items of theirs, small tokens of her previously happy existence. It was surprising what she found hidden away in the unlikeliest places. She had already found a button from one of her mother’s favourite dresses and a broken cufflink of her father’s. These precious objects were currently nestling in her skirt pocket and would later be transferred to the velvet box containing similar treasures which sat on her dressing table.
“Oh,” she suddenly said to herself, feeling a surge of excitement, “whatever can that be?” She had caught sight of the corner of a paper protruding from a gap at the bottom of one of the drawers. Hoping for a letter or some other personal document, she reached in, caught the edge in her fingertips, and carefully pulled it out.
“A letter?” she murmured, turning the folded sheet over in her hand. It looked fairly recent. She unfolded it, seeing neat lines of ink written in the bold hand of her father. Her heart clenched painfully to see it.
Puzzled as to what it was doing in the sideboard and eager to read it, she stood up and went to sit in a chair by the bay window, allowing the afternoon light to illuminate her father’s flowing script.
It was dated just two years since, shortly before the accident that had robbed her of her joy in life. Try as she might, she could not quite make out the name of the addressee, but the bulk of the text was clear, and she began reading with a sense of anticipation.
. . . great distress to me that Sirenwood continues to deny my requests for an interview. As you know, my business with him is far from finished, and his refusal to see me puts me in a very difficult situation which only he can relieve. Yet he refuses to do so, claiming it is not his responsibility.
Admittedly, our last meeting did not go well. In short, we had a heated argument about the matter, which ended in him making certain threats before having me ejected from his property.
This is alarming because he has proved himself in the past to be a vindictive man, prepared to ruin those who cross him. I hope I do not exaggerate, my friend, when I tell you that I fear he may carry out his threats. I may yet end up floating in the Thames, a lifeless corpse.
In such troubled circumstances, I am forced to presume on our old friendship and beg for your help. Should anything happen to me, I should like to know that I may count on you to hold Sirenwood to account and, thereby, ensure the safety and future security of my family. I would be eternally grateful to you if you could see your way into assisting me in this matter. I look forward most eagerly to receiving your reply.
Winterbourne
“Well, I never!” Clara exclaimed, staring at the letter and feeling rather breathless as the worrying words sank in. She read aloud the phrases that leapt out at her: “I may yet end up floating in the Thames, a lifeless corpse . . . Should anything happen to me . . .’” The letter fell into her lap as questions raced wildly through her head.
“What on earth can it all mean? That Papa was in fear for his life because of this Sirenwood? Who is Sirenwood?”
“Talking to yourself again, dear?”
The familiar voice drew her attention to the open door and the tall figure now standing on the threshold. “Uncle. I am sorry, I was so distracted, I did not hear you come in,” she said, summoning a weak smile.
“That is quite all right, I am hardly noteworthy,” replied her Uncle Benedict warmly, coming into the room, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He had inherited her father’s estate and title and become her official guardian. He had so far proved to be a caring one, always sympathetic to her grief while nursing his own for the loss of his brother.
He hobbled across and sat in the armchair opposite Clara, propping his stick at his side. “Ah, that’s better. My leg is misbehaving today. It is the rain, I expect.”
“I am sorry to hear it, Uncle. Sit and rest. Shall I order some tea for us?”
“No, no, dear, I may have a small glass of brandy in a while. Helps a bit with the ache, you know. Or at least, makes me forget about it for a while.” He chuckled at his habitual jest and rubbed his knee. He then appeared to notice the letter in her lap. “What is that? Anything of interest?” he asked casually.
She immediately held the letter out to him. “Have you seen this before, Uncle? I found it in the sideboard. It was stuck in a crack at the bottom of a drawer full of papers.
“Oh?” he replied, taking the letter in one hand and rummaging in his breast pocket with the other, extracting a gold-rimmed pince-nez. He perched it on the bridge of his nose. “That drawer does need sorting out, I’m afraid. Now, what have we here?” He regarded the letter thoughtfully.
“It is an old letter from Papa to somebody whose name I cannot make out. I have no idea why it should be here and not with the recipient. Perhaps he never sent it for some reason,” she ventured. “The contents are quite alarming, Uncle. I would like to know what you make of it.”
Her uncle peered at her over the pince-nez, his hazel eyes alight with curiosity. “Is that so? Then I shall read it right away.”
He bent his greying head and proceeded to peruse it, while Clara clasped her hands in her lap and sat poised expectantly on the edge of her chair, watching his facial expression, waiting for him to finish.
However, once he had glanced at the letter, his face fell. He stopped reading, folded it up, and placed it on the low table between them. “Oh dear, this is very unfortunate, Clara. Very unfortunate indeed,” he said, peering at her mournfully over the top of his pince-nez.
Clara frowned. “I am confused, Uncle. You know of this letter already?”
He gave a deep sigh. “I must admit I do, Clara. I say it is unfortunate because this letter should not have fallen into your hands.”
“You are familiar with the contents then?”
“Sad to say, I am. To tell you the truth, I only came across it recently among your father’s old papers.”
“Then why did you not tell me about it?”
“I admit I was in two minds about showing it to you. I hesitated to burden you with the knowledge that comes with it. I feared it would deepen your sense of loss,” he said, his voice laden with regret. “I thought I had secured it properly, but it seems I was remiss.” Clara’s heart clenched to see the guilt etched on his lined features as he replaced the pince-nez in his pocket and added, “Now it seems I have no choice but to tell you all.”
Clara had already gotten over her initial shock about her father being in fear for his life. He was dead and therefore out of danger. However, her natural curiosity at the source of his fear was ratcheting up. It was clear Uncle Benedict could explain its contents if he chose to do so.
“I understand you were acting in my best interest, Uncle, so please, do not feel bad about it in any respect. There is no need to be so nice. I am a grown woman of twenty. If it concerns our family, then why should you keep the burden alone?”
“You are very forgiving, my dear niece,” he replied, giving her a wan smile. “Would that I could forgive myself for such a blunder so easily. I am a foolish old man.”
“Nonsense. You are an old darling, and you know I adore you,” Clara told him, feeling a rush of affection for the man who had cared for her so solicitously since the death of her parents. “But you can imagine, having found it and read it, that I naturally wish to know more about it since it has to do with my father.” That was an understatement, for in truth, she was burning with curiosity.
“Uncle, do you know who Sirenwood is?” On tenterhooks, she sat with her hands clasped in her lap, eagerly awaiting his response. Yet at the same time, she felt a sense of foreboding in the face of her uncle’s obvious discomfiture. It took him a few moments to answer.
Finally, he cleared his throat and then said, “Yes, dear, I regret to say I do. And I shall tell you in a moment if you would be good enough to fetch me a small brandy first.”
“Of course, Uncle.” She got up and quickly went to do as he asked, keen to continue their conversation, although she felt a little bad for causing him concern.
“Actually, you had better make it a large one. I feel I need it. Mayhap you should have one yourself.”
“No thank you,” she said, putting the large tot on the table in front of him and resuming her seat. “Now, tell me, who is this villain Sirenwood, and what did he have to do with Papa?”
Ten minutes later, she wished she’d had that brandy after all.
***
“Well, this is very shocking indeed!” Lady Violet Kinglsey exclaimed later that day, her large blue eyes wide with obvious amazement as she stared at Clara over her teacup. The two firm friends were sitting together on a settee, sharing afternoon tea, in the cosy small parlour at the nearby Kingsley town-house.
Friends since childhood, this snug harbour was where the two girls regularly met to share their confidences, their hopes and dreams. Therefore, it was natural that Clara, finding herself desperately in need of support and guidance concerning her new discovery, would immediately hurry to seek Violet’s company.
“I am sorry for burdening you in this way, Violet, but I do not know what to think. As you know, I have been aware of some mystery surrounding the actual cause of my parents’ carriage accident. But carriages and such have accidents all the time, do they not? According to the reports at the time, they were on a country road a few miles out of town when another vehicle collided with them. Their carriage was pushed off the road and crashed down a steep incline, rolling over several times.”
Tears were pressing at the back of her eyes as she spoke. She swallowed to keep them back before adding in a small voice, “That was when they . . .” She trailed off, unable to voice the horrible words.
Violet looked at her with sympathy. She put down her teacup then reached over and clasped Clara’s hand. Clara squeezed hers in return, finding comfort in the supportive gesture. “Do not torture yourself by speaking of it, my dear,” Violet said gently. “I know that the pain of your terrible loss is still raw.”
“That is why all this has been such terrible shock, Vi,” Clara explained. “The letter forces me to question the truth of what happened back then. For the first time, I must ask myself if my parents met their deaths as the result of a genuine accident or if it was something more sinister. I now have to consider the possibility that the “accident” was not an accident at all but was, in fact, deliberately engineered by the Duke of Sirenwood as part of a plan to silence my father.”
“That is indeed a shocking notion,” Violet observed, pressing Clara’s hand in both of hers, “and I can see you are deeply troubled by it. I wish I could do more to comfort you.”
“You can comfort me by giving me your advice as to what I should do with this information.”
“I confess, I do not know what to tell you in that regard, my dear,” Violet replied, her expression full of worry as she gazed at her friend. But I would point out the impossibility of finding out anymore. Unless you are prepared to take the letter to the authorities and ask them to investigate the Duke, you may have to accept you can do nothing more.”
“I had thought the same myself, of course. I do not think the authorities will be interested in doing anything about it. A duke is too rich and powerful to be challenged without any concrete proof of a crime. Nevertheless, if he did have something to do with the accident, then I find it hard to stomach the idea of him getting away with it with his reputation intact. If he was responsible, then should his crime not be exposed to society? He should be seen as what he truly is, a villain,” Clara replied, her passion surprising even herself.
“I agree wholeheartedly, and I do not wish to disappoint you, Clara, and I am glad to hear that you realise no one will believe him guilty without proof. But due to his status, that may be nigh on impossible to find,” Violet warned her softly, finally releasing her friend’s hands to top up their teacups.
“I am well aware of that. Thank you,” Clara said, frowning as she accepted the fresh beverage. “But if he is guilty, and I do nothing about it, then that would mean Sirenwood has gotten away without punishment after murdering my parents. You will understand, Vi, when I say I find that idea abominable. It does not matter how powerful he is, murder is murder. If the Duke is guilty, and I can prove it, duke or not, I should like him to face justice.” She sipped at her tea, trying to tamp down the anger burning within her and remain calm.
“Naturally, I understand, and I agree with you. However, I admit I have doubts that such a thing is really feasible,” Violet told her. “Dukes are practically royalty. Besides, how would you even go about finding proof of his guilt?”
Clara sighed. “I do not know, but my father’s letter mentions the threats the Duke made towards him and that he feared for his life as a consequence. That is a starting point. Plus, my uncle knows the background of the business dispute that was the cause of their falling out, which adds context and shows the Duke had a motive for committing murder.” She paused to drink some tea, noticing how Violet was listening attentively.
“But other than that, I admit I have no clue how to go about things. If any evidence still exists, perhaps in the form of correspondence, then I assume it would be kept at the Sirenwood estate.”
“If such evidence survives—and it is a big if—then that is certainly a possibility. But sadly, it is one of several, for the family owns many residences, both within the county and elsewhere,” Violet pointed out.
“I am sure I can find out their preferred residence without too much trouble. But even better, if I could find a pretext for visiting the Sirenwood Estate itself, I may be able to find something out.”
“You are suggesting you go there yourself and conduct some sort of covert investigation? I am sorry, Clara, but that is most assuredly inadmissible.”
Clara was taken aback by her friend’s vehemence. “But why? What is my alternative? If the Duke of Sirenwood had something to do with my parents’ deaths, I have a bounden duty, not to say a burning need, to at least try to find proof of it and get justice for them. I must find a way to penetrate the family homes and search for it.”
“Absolutely not, Clara! That would be very foolish indeed, and it could even be dangerous!” Violet burst out, her smooth brow creased with worry. “For all we know, the Duke may be as ruthless and violent as your father’s letter suggests.”
“That may be so, but I have to know the truth, Vi, or I shall never be able to sleep again,” Clara replied, her resolve starting to harden. “I owe it to my parents and myself.”
“Clara, please, listen to me,” Violet said pleadingly. The St. Clairs are a very powerful and influential family. They would stop at nothing to protect their reputation, including ruining yours. I beg you, do not try to interact with them yourself. If you must try to find the answers you seek, then hire a professional investigator, someone experienced in carrying out such enquiries discreetly.”
Clara stared at her friend in surprise. “I do not understand why you object so strongly.”
“Oh, dear,” Violet murmured, rubbing her temples in obvious dismay before looking Clara frankly in the eye. “I did not think I would have to be telling you this, Clara, but I urge you to take me seriously on this matter. I go out into society more regularly than you do. I hear gossip.”
“Gossip? What are you saying? That there is gossip about the St. Clairs?” Clara asked, hope springing up in her heart.
“Not about the whole family, but about the Duke himself. His Grace, Marcus St. Clair,” Violet explained. “Do you not recall hearing about the scandal that engulfed him and his family two years ago?”
Clara searched her mind but came up with nothing. “No. I have either forgotten it or I have never heard of it.”
“Oh, you lead such a sheltered life!”
“That is true. I prefer books to balls and I am also uninterested in gossip. So, are you going to tell me about this scandal?” Clara retorted, alive with curiosity, for she could not help wondering if Violet’s answer might not suggest an opportunity for putting her proposed investigation into motion.
“It concerned the death of his brother, the former duke, in a tragic horse-riding accident two years ago. Apparently, Marcus St. Clair was alone with his brother when he died. There were no witnesses to support his claim that his brother’s horse bolted, and he fell to his death. It did not take long for rumours to surface.”
“What sort of rumours?” Clara asked, a tremor dancing across her skin, for she thought she knew what Violet was about to say.
“That Marcus St. Clair had something to do with his brother’s death, that he wanted to get rid of him so he could become the duke.”
Julia Thorne
