PROLOGUE
July, 1816
Bombardment of Algiers
Twenty-three-year-old Captain Duncan Mackenzie, R.E., snapped his spyglass shut and shook his head slowly. He’d suspected as much even as they’d been conscripted at Gibraltar to join Admiral Exmouth on his expedition to bombard Algiers from the harbor. Their mission was to liberate the hundreds of European men and women being held prisoner by the Barbary pirates who sheltered in Algiers. A previous attempt at release through diplomacy had failed miserably.
The Admiral was a very forceful man and had convinced Duncan’s regiment major to send a small contingent of engineers along with the combined English-Dutch fleet. His plan included rowing small shore boats away from the main ships with a Congreve rocket mounted on each one. Exmouth, who believed in being thorough, had worried that his sailors would need help to make the rockets work. He’d been wrong. The midshipmen assigned to the rockets, and the Navy gunners, were more than sufficient to figure out how to work the special munitions.
In fact, the Royal Navy sailors were doing a cracking good job of putting the Congreve rockets to excellent use, without the help of the engineers. The ships were loosing every bit of firepower from all of their guns at once, and the sound was so deafening, shouting out orders of any sort was an exercise in futility. So, with the use of hand signals, Duncan ordered the small contingent of men under him to spread out and help with the guns on Exmouth’s ship, theHMS Queen Charlotte.
As it turned out, they ended up fighting like hell next to their Navy comrades in the bloody battle. More than nine-hundred British sailors were dead before the smoke cleared from the massive bombardment. Duncan was lucky. He escaped with his life, but without the full use of his hearing. A degree of deafness plagued him from that day onward.
1
DECEMBER, 1834
VICINITY OF ROMFORD, ENGLAND
Major Duncan MacKenzie, Royal Engineers, not quite retired, but on half pay, ran for his life and dived into the nearest drainage ditch. The crumbling old bridge had to go, but his calculations as to how quickly the wick would burn on the fuse had been a bit off. He landed with a thud against Lord Hugh Elliott, Earl of Westfalia.
The explosion, when it came, literally rattled his teeth and made his ears ring for long minutes after the blast. He’d landed nearly atop his benefactor. The earl had commissioned him to destroy a few aging structures on his estate so that they could design and build new edifices the following spring.
After the percussion of the blast had subsided, he managed to take a deep breath and gave a start at the sight of his companion. The earl’s face was covered with dirt from the blast, and his fine linen shirt was in tatters. Duncan suffered a momentary twinge of regret. He never should have let the man help him set up the explosives to take down the bridge. Christ. He could have killed a peer of the realm. Fears in that department, however, disappeared in the next few seconds.
The earl’s eyes fluttered open and he shouted.“Good Lord Almighty, I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.”
Duncan thought, but did not say, said peer should have been with him at Algiers. This destruction of a country bridge was nothing compared to the ceaseless battering of the guns that day.
With their faces covered with dirt and mud and their clothing in tatters, they strolled back toward Hugh’s country house. Midway there, they decided to detour to the inn situated in the small village of Westfalia, the source of Hugh’s title. They had no more than cleared the last rise in the road before the village when a carriage stopped. Two women piled out and raced toward them.
“What in the name of Hera happened here?” the younger woman demanded.
The older of the two women said nothing but walked directly toward Duncan. She took his grubby hand, turned over his palm and pressed her thumb against his wrist. “You look as though ye’ve come back from the devil’s own door. Sit down before you faint dead away and fall like the giant tree you resemble.” Duncan, usually in charge of everyone and everything around him, lost his voice. He moved involuntarily backward at the gentle shove of her hand and collapsed his backside against a large rock at the side of the road.
“Lucy—.”The appearance of the Duchess of Montfort’s old friend and her former governess, Lucy’s Aunt Grace, set Hugh back on his heels. And reminded him of how much he’d missed Mina, the duchess. She’d always be Mina to him, though he supposed when she got back from her wedding trip on thecontinent, he’d have to observe formalities and address the former madcap Lady Wilhelmina as “Your Grace.”
Lucy produced a handkerchief from within the folds of her traveling carriage dress and dabbed it against her tongue before reaching up to scrub furiously at his face.
“Stop—. What are you doing?” He grabbed her hands before she could continue ministering to him like old Nanny from his nursery days.
“Do you have any idea what you look like?” she demanded. “If you walk down the streets of Westfalia resembling a brigand with his clothes hanging in charred shreds, you’ll likely end up in front of the JP.”
“Horace wouldn’t care…nor would he be particularly surprised. He’s become accustomed to seeing me cause trouble in all forms of deshabile ever since I was a nasty schoolboy home for the holidays.”
“For heavens sakes, Hugh, stop twiddling until I get all the soot off your face. And you’re not a naughty schoolboy anymore. You’re the Earl of Westfalia.” She stopped chattering for a moment and gave him an odd look. “Wait.” She ceased scrubbing at his face long enough for him to snatch away the soot-covered handkerchief. “Why are you here? You never come home for the holidays.”
By that time, Hugh noticed Lucy’s Aunt Grace had no more than stepped down from Rummy’s carriage than she’d turned Duncan into something like a befuddled snake lured in by the charmer’s flute. His partner in pyrotechnic explosives sat stunned at the side of the road, ensconced on a flat rock. The great hulk of a looby stared at Lucy’s aunt, who was prodding and studying his hands and wrists as if they represented a map of the heavens. The truly odd thing, though, was that Major MacKenzie quietly tolerated her ministrations. Hugh couldn’tbelieve the opinionated Scotsman he knew had turned into an obedient lapdog.
Hugh slapped his soot-covered forehead. “Where are my manners?” He swept an arm toward the major. “Miss Lucy Phippen and Mrs. Grace Phippen, I’d like to present my good friend and engineer extraordinaire, Major Duncan MacKenzie, lately retired from Her Majesty’s Royal Engineers. He’s now my man of the odd explosion or two whilst we clear out ailing bridges on my estate.”
He continued introductions. “Miss Phippen is Lady Wilhelmina Tyndall’s closest friend, and Mrs. Phippen was Lady Tyndall’s long-suffering governess for many, erm, challenging years.”
Grace laughed at Hugh’s awkward introduction. “I’ve heard much about your exploits, Major MacKenzie. You’ll be joining us, I hope, at the Abbey?”
He cocked a brow at Hugh.
“Oh, boulders and nails. I forgot about Rummy’s invitation. We’re to join his house party through Twelfth Night.”
