CHAPTER ONE
“Hush now,” Joan murmured. “All will be well, dearest. I promise you.”
Joan Sinclair tightened her arms around her younger sister’s form and wiped a stray tear from the side of her face.
A promise I have no right to make, Joan thought bitterly, even as she pressed a gentle kiss to Victoria’s dark curls.But what else could I offer her now?
Joan’s head throbbed with a persistent ache that had begun somewhere around the third hour of their journey and had only intensified as the day wore on.
Fairfax Manor awaited them at the end of this interminable road. The estate had been in their family for generations, though it had stood largely neglected for the past decade.
“I am so dreadfully sorry, Joan,” Victoria whispered, her voice breaking. “This is all my fault. If I had only?—”
“Hush,” Joan interrupted firmly, tilting Victoria’s chin up so she could meet her sister’s red-rimmed eyes. “We shall speak no more of fault or blame. What’s done is done. Now we must simply endure.”
She had been twelve years old when their parents died—twelve years old and suddenly responsible for a grieving fourteen-year-old brother and an eight-year-old sister who cried herself to sleep every night. Joan had learned quickly that survival required setting aside one’s own fears and sorrows. Someone had to be strong. That someone had always been her.
The carriage jolted suddenly, throwing both sisters forward. Victoria let out a small cry of alarm, and Joan braced herself against the side panel, her heart racing.
“What in heaven’s name—” she began, but her words died as the carriage shuddered to a complete stop.
Victoria’s breathing came in short, panicked gasps. “Joan? What’s happening? Are we—are we being set upon by highwaymen?”
“Do not be absurd,” Joan said, though her own pulse had quickened considerably. She leaned toward the window, pushing aside the leather curtain. “We are on a private road. No highwayman would dare?—”
Another carriage blocked their path entirely. The road here was narrow, hemmed in on both sides by dense hedgerows that would make passage impossible for two vehicles traveling in opposite directions. The other carriage was magnificent, a gleaming black lacquer and brass fittings, drawn by four perfectly matched bay horses that stamped and snorted in the cold air.
Joan’s gaze traveled to the door panel, where an elaborate coat of arms had been painted in silver and blue. Her knowledge of heraldry was limited, but she recognized quality when she saw it. Whoever owned this vehicle was a person of considerable rank.
“Miss Sinclair?” Their coachman’s voice drifted down from his perch, thin and uncertain. “I… that is… there’s another…”
Joan waited for him to continue, but only silence followed. She pressed closer to the window and craned her neck to see the driver’s box.
“Peters?” she called out, keeping her voice level. “What seems to be the difficulty?”
Victoria’s eyes, still swollen from hours of weeping, darted between Joan and the window. “Should we not go back?”
“We have been on this road for eight hours,” Joan said, fighting to keep the edge from her voice. “We are less than two miles from Fairfax Manor. To turn back now would require us to reverse nearly half a mile before finding a place wide enoughto turn the carriage around. Then we would have to find an alternate route, which could add hours to our journey.”
Hours I do not have the strength to endure, she thought desperately.
She looked out the window again at the imposing carriage blocking their way. The other vehicle could reverse far more easily they had only just turned onto this particular stretch of road. It would take them mere minutes to back up to the intersection they had passed.
“It is far more practical for them to reverse,” Joan said decisively. “Any reasonable person would see that.”
As if summoned by her words, a rider emerged from behind the other carriage. He was dressed in the livery of a great house deep blue coat with silver frogging, pristine white breeches, and tall black boots polished to a mirror shine.
The rider urged his horse forward until he drew level with Peters. Joan couldn’t hear what was said, but she saw Peters nod vigorously, already beginning to gather the reins to back their carriage up.
“No,” Joan said aloud.
Victoria’s head snapped up. “Joan?”
This is preposterous, Joan thought, her exhaustion and frustration suddenly coalescing into cold anger.
“No,” Joan said again, more firmly this time. She reached for the door handle.
“Joan, what are you doing?” Victoria sat up straight.
