ChapterOne
Crawley, Sussex, England
December 1820
Michael Ballard, the newly titled seventh Duke of Clarence, sat pensively in his rowboat with his back to the shore, as rippled waves slowly rocked the boat back and forth. He needed to think, something he found abundantly necessary this past year since becoming aduke. This secluded part of the river that separated Ballard House and the adjoining property was his favorite spot. The sereneness of the water and reflection of trees, many of which had already shed their foliage, lent him a sense of calm he needed in such times as these. Focusing on the last place he had seen a fish jump, Michael cast his line. This wasn’t about catching fish for him. He always returned the fish to the stream. It was about solitude, something he had increasingly sought since stepping into his brother’s shoes.
His father had died from influenza, and his brother, Daniel, had died soon afterward in an accident after foolishly accepting a challenge to race his stallion. His mother had reminded him of his father’s expectations—of the arrangement he had made over drinks almost twenty years before. The former duke had betrothed his eldest son to the daughter of his best friend. The problem was that the contract contained the unfortunate stipulation that the betrothal would move to Michael should something happen to his eldest brother, provided Michael remained without a betrothal and unmarried. Not anticipating anything happening to his older brother, no one had mentioned to Michael the part about him having to take his place.
He closed his eyes and drew in a cleansing breath before slowly exhaling. It was a perfect December day with high clouds, a light breeze and a brilliant sky, and a brisk temperature. What marred the day was his mother’s unrelenting unreasonableness. She brought up the betrothal often, voicing her desire to have grandchildren. Michael could not find his father’s copy of the betrothal agreement and had sent an urgent request to see a fully executed copy from the solicitor.
He wasn’t sure who was being more selfish: his mother with her wish for grandchildren, or him for wanting to escape committing to a marriage for which he had no desire. He was so engrossed in his troubles that he barely noticed the stiffening of the line, creating a slight jerk, which pulled him from his musings. Suddenly aware the line seemed to be caught, he tugged on it, with no success. Standing, he spread his legs for balance and gave a bigger tug, hoping to dislodge the line from whatever it had hooked. Frustrated, he gripped the line and jerked hard. At once, the line surfaced, hooked on what appeared to be a waterlogged Hessian boot, at the same time catapulting him back into the water.
“Bollocks!” he said, standing and leaning his head to the side to drain the water from his ears. “What am I supposed to do with a dratted boot?” Soft laughter sounded from behind him, forcing Michael to turn, splashing, and pushing a soggy leaf from his head.
“Lady Isabelle, I apologize. I did not know anyone was here,” Michael spluttered. Lady Isabelle Griffith stood beside a large oak tree biting her bottom lip in what appeared to be amusement while holding a small, almost white spaniel. A stream divided the Griffith family’s property from Ballard House. As the children were close in age, they had all congregated at this juncture of the stream when they were younger—the girls usually bedeviling their brothers by tagging along and hiding in the shrubs, playing pranks as punishment for being ignored while their older brothers skipped rocks or fished.
“You look rather awkward, Your Grace, but I’m thrilled you found a spare boot.” At those words, she giggled again.
Michael felt himself color uncomfortably. He felt ridiculous standing in the water, holding a pole with a soggy boot floating from the hooked end of his fishing line. Never would he have imagined fishing landing him in the freezing water.
“Your Grace, please take my pelisse. It could help,” she replied, shifting the dog around to her other hip and lifting the navy woolen pelisse from her shoulders. “You need this more than I do at this moment.”
He met her gaze as he trudged from the water and, with chattering teeth, accepted her woolen cape. Her fingers lightly touched his as he accepted the garment and a curious warmth shot up his arm. “I shouldn’t take this, but I am so cold,” he said through clenched teeth. He allowed the boot to drop before placing her garment around his shoulders. “Th . . . thank you. Wha . . . what are you doing out here?”
“The day is so beautiful and crisp. Chase and I were taking in the beautiful colors walking up the hill.” She turned and pointed to the large hill covered in purple asters behind her. “I saw you standing in the boat and then heard a loud splash. I rushed down the hill to see what had happened and if I could help.” She pointed to her maid, who stood a little hunched over, probably regaining her breath from following her mistress down the hill.
He was sure the only thing that kept the maid mute was the sight of a half-drowned duke holding a Hessian boot. The boot was a curious thing.What would a Hessian boot be doing in their stream?The only remarkable thing about it was that it looked larger than his own feet—and he had large feet, something Daniel had frequently teased him about until Michael’s height had exceeded six feet. He realized he was still holding the soggy boot and threw it to the ground. “That’s very kind, my lady. However, I hate to mess up your pelisse,” he said. “Only if you will allow an exchange. I tied my horse over there, and I have a leather satchel with a blanket and my jacket stuffed in it,” he said, pointing to some shrubs that obscured the animal, although he could hear his mare moving.
“Allow me to retrieve it,” Lady Isabelle offered, placing Chase on the ground, and walking in the horse's direction without waiting for his reply. She returned minutes later with both the blanket and his jacket, and Chase at her feet. Chase walked up to the soggy boot Michael had tossed nearby and barked wildly.
“Chase, come here boy,” she said sternly. The dog obeyed but kept his attention on the boot. “How curious,” she murmured, distractedly studying the animal. “I’ve never seen him do such a thing.”
“Bark?” he asked with a grin.
“Ha! No, I’ve never seen him get so upset about something. He seems overly concerned with your boot.”
“It’s not my boot,” he returned.But whose boot was it?It was an odd place to find a boot. If it had been in the river long, it should have looked more weathered, more dilapidated. But it looked rather . . . new. A small gust of wind kicked up, and Michael cleared his throat to remind her he was wet and freezing. He would never remark on such a thing, but his teeth were threatening to chatter.
“My goodness! You’ve got to be cold. Here, Your Grace,” she said with a smirk, handing him his dry things. “I promise not to tell.”
Lady Isabelle was the youngest sibling in her family. He had always found her to have the best sense of humor. Although dripping wet and freezing, he was struggling to enjoy the hilarity of this situation—and her smirk was annoying him.
“I wonder who could be buried in the water,” she said, giving a nod to where the boat had capsized.
He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He placed his dry jacket around her shoulders, grateful for the warmth and the pleasant scent her pelisse offered.Gardenia, he thought, taking another breath. “There is nobody buried here. It’s simply a boot that must have washed down the river and found its way into our stream, perhaps when we had a heavy bout of rain.” Isabelle and his sister Anna had always tagged along behind the boys—he and her older brother Garrett. Once he and Garrett left for Eton at twelve, the girls bedeviled the boys during holidays. As a young boy, he had always held a soft spot for her and her antics.
He had not seen Lady Isabelle since his brother’s funeral a year ago, although according to his mother, she had spurned the last Season in London, observing bereavement for her former betrothed.Could it have been more than the obligatory betrothal, then?It was shortly before Daniel’s death that he and Lady Isabelle had announced their betrothal—and Michael recalled observing that neither seemed to be happy about it. His brother had expressed frustration over the timing of the betrothal, and Lady Isabelle had said very little. Yet, she mourned in place of her Season. He wondered.
“Then what isthat?” she asked, jolting him from his thoughts. She pointed to a leather satchel that had surfaced near the empty boat, which had drifted closer to shore.
“That’s a man’s leather satchel,” he heard himself say, using his fishing pole to reach for it. “Maybe there is something that would identify the person inside, although it’s probably ruined from the water. Perhaps the satchel was attached to the boot.” Even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. He tugged the satchel towards shore and picked it up, allowing the water to run from it. “I will notify the constable, and have it looked into when I return to the manor.”
“Will you let me know what you find? I love a mystery,” she enthused.
Lady Isabelle Griffin was always in a good mood. He liked that about her. “I will,” he promised, grinning. “Now, if you will excuse me, I should return and get dry clothing.”
“I’m quite warm. Perhaps we should exchange our outerwear,” she said, wearing a smile.
