CHAPTER 1
JUNE 1816, SUMMERWORTH PARK, KENT
Sir James Branstoke slowly laid the letter he’d just received onto his desk. He unconsciously pinched his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger as he considered the letter’s contents. It was from Mrs. Lilias Montgomery. He remembered her from when he and his wife, Cecilia, were searching for young Christopher Sedgewick. She’d provided key information that led them to rescue the kidnapped child, the Earl of Soothcoor’s nephew.
The short, obviously dashed-off letter, heavy with evidence of tear-blurred words, stated the Earl of Soothcoor sat in a gaol in Lincolnshire, charged with murder.
Murder? Soothcoor?
His brow furrowed. Soothcoor was being held over for the next county assizes. In the meantime, Soothcoor had directed her to contact them for help. Wise man.
She begged for James and Cecilia to prove Soothcoor’s innocence before he must appear before a judge. She felt too shattered to explain the circumstances in a letter. When they came to London, she would explain everything.
He didn’t like the idea of hieing off to London right now; however, Soothcoor was a good friend—and more than that—agood man. Of course, he would assist. That went without saying. But his concern was for his wife.
She’d succumbed to the influenza that had swept through their village last month with brute force. She’d been so sick for a time that the doctor warned she might lose their unborn child. By some miracle, she had not, though the illness lasted days, then weeks. It—along with its lingering cough—drained her strength and vitality away.
He frowned as he considered Cecilia’s condition. She needed to regain her strength—for herself and for their child. Her cough lingered, depleting her energy. Worse, he thought, it sapped her of strength. That was not the Cecilia he loved, admired, and respected. She remained caught in the aftermath of her long illness. Could this news rouse her from the illness’s lethargy?
Either way, she needed to know, and the sooner, the better.
He picked up the letter, rose from his seat, and left the library to find Cecilia.
“Daniel!” he called to the footman on duty in the hall as he came clattering swiftly down the marble stairs to the ground floor. “Might you know where to find Lady Branstoke?” he asked as he strode toward the footman stationed by the front door.
The footman sharply straightened. “Yes, sir, she is with Cook, taking baking lessons.”
“Baking Lessons?” James repeated.
“Yes, sir,” said the footman. “Do you wish me to advise her you wish to see her?”
“No, I’ll go to the kitchen.” His heart lifted at the news of his wife’s activity. “I want to see what she is learning. This should be interesting.”
He turned toward the back of the house and went through a door under the staircase that led to a ground-floor servants’ wing of domestic-activity rooms. That Cecilia was doingsomethinggave him hope for her continued recovery. Perhapsthis letter—dire though it might be—would be the nostrum for her return to health and energy. He missed his wife’s mischievous smiles, her tinkling laughter, and the way her dark blue eyes could shine when she was happy. Tiny in stature though she might be, she could be a determined woman when she had the bit between her teeth and off to solve a problem or take someone to task. Including him! He missed those moments—though they might sometimes rankle.
He stopped at the entrance to the warm kitchen; the fragrance of baking filled the room—yeast, cinnamon, vanilla, and almond smells made his mouth water. Cecilia, wearing an apron meant for a larger woman, stood before a long worktable, slowly rolling out dough—or attempting to, judging by the irregular shape of the dough. Some of her fine, white-blonde hair had escaped its pins and framed her face in tangled wisps. Flour streaked her cheek and nose.
He let out a snort of laughter as she tried to push wayward hair strands away from her eyes, only to succeed in increasing the amount of flour on her face. How he loved this woman, he thought as he stared at her.
Her head flew up at his laugh. “James!” she cried out. She ran toward him to hug him, but he caught her arms and held her away.
“You have enough flour on your person for a cake, but no need to share,” he told her.
She looked down at herself. “Oh! I guess I do. I hadn’t realized,” she said, stepping back.
“Lady Branstoke be an enthusiastic baker,” Cook said, coming up to them. She handed Cecilia a towel.
Cecilia wiped what flour she could from herself.
“Don’t forget your face,” James suggested.
“My face?!” Cecilia exclaimed, her beautiful blue eyes wide.
“Let me ‘elp ye,” Cook said, taking the towel to gently wipe the flour off Cecilia’s face. “Now to get you out of that apron so Sir James might speak with ye,” she said, pulling the apron strings and helping Cecilia to lift it off from around herself and over her head.
“But my shortbread biscuits!” Cecilia protested. “I wanted to have those with tea today.”
“Hannah can finish ’em for ye,” Cook advised, and on her words, a young scullery maid ran over to the table where Cecilia had been rolling dough and took up the task.
