“Madeline has run off.”
All of a sudden she could not hear the surf crashing on the sand, and the gulls went silent.
Run off?
“To the dressmaker, no doubt.”
“She’s run away with some charlatan. Left a note admitting it.”
Clementine ought to have suspected that might happen.
While she and Madeline both tended to be freethinking, as Grandfather had raised them to be, her cousin’s temperament sent her flying headlong into adventure.
Clementine was of a settled nature, happy to be at home, cozy and content in the smallest room of the sprawling mansion she had grown up in. Her best nights were the ones when she managed to hide away from Grandfather’s many social gatherings. The back garden had private nooks and lush alcoves where she’d spent many a warm summer evening undetected.
Now Madeline—the intended countess—the one to fulfill Grandfather’s plan for the safekeeping of the family, beyond that which could be found by mere fortune alone, had freely taken wing and fluttered happily away from her duty.
And Grandfather was looking at Clementine in a most peculiar way. She feared the battle of the arched brows was going to end up with her becoming the Countess of Fencroft.
No! No! And no!
But the merciless, twisting knot in her stomach made her suspect that Grandfather would win the battle, because she was, above all things, distressingly loyal.
Drat it.
Near Folkestone, England, at the same moment,
May 1889
The sixth Earl of Fencroft stood on a rock, staring out at the sea. The light of a full moon suddenly emerging from behind a cloud illuminated the crests of unsettled, ink-like water for as far as he could see. It was a violent yet beautiful thing to behold.
And to hear. The forceful crash of waves hitting the rock ten feet below where he stood suited his mood, which, like the approaching storm, was darkly brooding.
Cold wind snapped his cloak about like a pair of wild, flapping wings. Mist from the crashing waves dampened his clothing, soaked his hair and dripped down his face. He felt the sting of salt water in his eyes but didn’t dare to close them.
If he did he would see the fifth Earl of Fencroft’s face, still and pale in death.
In life, his brother’s face had never been still. In spite of a lifetime of ill health that face had always been smiling.
Laughter—not always appropriate laughter, to be sure, but laughter just the same—was what he was known for.
Even though no one had expected Oliver to make old bones, his death had seemed sudden.
The lung condition that had plagued him all his life had grown worse so slowly that it hadn’t been noticeable day to day, not until Oliver slumped over his cards while playing whist with the estate accountant, Mr. Robinson, and died.
No, Heath could not say that he had not known the mantle his brother carried so jovially would fall upon him one day. He had understood it since he was old enough to recognize that his brother lived in a damaged body. Nonetheless, it was shocking and bitterly sad.
Even if sorrow were not perched upon his shoulder, he would not be happy. Believing in a vague way that one day he would replace his brother as earl was a far different thing from actually doing it.
The last thing he wanted was his new title, especially given how grievously he had come by it.
Death certainly had a way of altering life.
His life had been rather ideal when the main requirement on his time was to oversee the estate in Derbyshire. Those rolling green acres of pastureland were paradise.
While his presence in London was often necessary, he had been excused from much of the city’s social rigor.
Now he would be required to attend Parliament in Oliver’s stead.
He’d be required to sit among the nobility, arguing unsolvable issues.
Glancing back over his shoulder and up the stark cliffside, he watched smoke curl out of the chimney of his coastal retreat.
The seaside cottage was as much home to him as the estate in Derbyshire was. Certainly more than the town house in London was.
All the upstairs lamps had been put out. Only the kitchen window remained aglow.
He looked back at the sea, watching the blackish surface peak and foam.
Somehow, knowing that the children slept sweet and safe inside made him feel more peaceful.
He’d get through this, learn to be all he needed to be for everyone who depended upon the Earl of Fencroft for their survival. How many were employed by the estate and the town house?
He didn’t know. Oliver and Mr. Robinson had taken care of everything having to do with the business of running the earldom.
A hail of small pebbles hitting rock rattled from behind.
“Yer Lordship, sir!”
Turning, he saw a boy scrabbling down the steep hillside.
“What is it, Georgie?” The eight-year-old was thin but not as thin as he’d been the first time Heath had encountered him. “You should not be out in the dark. It isn’t safe.”
“Not so dangerous as before in London, sir. And here—”
The boy extended a sheet of paper, already damp and limp with sea spray.
“It’s from the telegraph office, and coming so late as it is, Mrs. Pierce reckoned it must be important.”
Indeed. A message sent at this hour could indicate an emergency. He opened it slowly, half fearing to know what it said.
Brother, come back to London at once. The accountant has fled and left chaos in his wake.
What kind of chaos? It would have been helpful had his sister explained further.
He hoped she was just being overdramatic. Olivia was Oliver’s twin. She had been understandably distraught since his death. Still, getting news that Robinson had fled could not be a good thing.
Heath hadn’t let the fellow go after Oliver’s passing three weeks ago. With the knowledge he had of the estate, he was invaluable and Heath had had every intention of keeping him on.
“Hold on to my hand, Georgie. The rocks are slippery.”
At the cliff top, with the child’s footing secure, he let go of the small fist. “Go tell my coachman we’re off for London at first light.”
There was no point in dragging anyone out into the dark of night. Whatever problems the fellow had left behind would wait until a decent hour.
As it turned out, a full eighteen hours passed before Heath finally entered the study of the London townhome. The servants were abed but a small fire glowed in the hearth, apparently kept in expectation of his arrival.
The weak flames gave off scant warmth and even less light. Shadows hovered in the corners of the room; they swirled about his heart like mist.
It was too easy to imagine Oliver still sitting at the desk, a blanket draped across his shoulders and a cloth close at hand for him to cough into. The scent of cigar smoke lingering in the room made Heath feel that