Her mother was in her early forties, still trim and lovely, but for the first time Madeline noticed the dark circles under her mother’s eyes. “Mother, are you well? Were you harmed?”
Her mother waved away Madeline’s concern. “Madeline, what did you use to hit the judge with?”
Madeline held up a section of plaster that had once been a bust of Zeus, eyeing her mother more closely. Her mother’s shoulders were rounded as though she carried a heavy burden, Madeline wanted to lift that burden, but she didn’t know how to begin. Her mother was independent and prided herself on not needing anyone’s help.
“I apologize,” Madeline said absently, her concern for her mother growing. “It was the only thing I could grab to use as a weapon. Was it expensive?”
“It was a gift, but I never liked it. Zeus’ expression seemed judgmental. I’ll have Cook make us tea and add a little whiskey to the brew. I have a feeling you are not here because you missed me. Would your visit have anything to do with the Bradford professor with his wandering hands?”
“How did you know?”
“Call it a mother’s intuition.”
“And you have spies at Bradford.”
Her mother grinned. “And I have spies at Bradford and other places. The incident with the judge and the congressman, with the ruckus they will cause, only solidifies what I have been pondering for a while. Men like them will seek retribution. Your professor discovered our connection, and more will follow. Men like the judge will get to me through you. We have received an offer we must pursue. No, do not argue,” she said when Madeline offered a protest. “I have made my decision. We leave at high tide in a sennight and should arrive in London in time for the Christmas season.”
Chapter Two
In the shadow of Conclarton Castle in England, snow spread a thin blanket over the graves in Robert Oswyn’s family cemetery. Icicles hung like prisms from the trees, catching the pale light of the afternoon sun. The secluded location was quiet, serene, a place for reflection and prayer. But Robert, the eighth Duke of Conclarton, felt only anger and helplessness. His father and brother were buried here, and although both deaths were declared accidents, Robert had his doubts.
He tied the reins of his horse, Trinity, to a fir tree a short distance from the road and scratched the animal behind its ear. “I will not be long,” he promised.
His family’s mausoleum stood in the heart of the cemetery. It was made from white Italian marble, with Greek-style columns, and housed his ancestors. Robert shuddered. His father’s and brother’s bodies rested inside. The mausoleum overlooked a valley with a winding stream, with the intent that those buried here would appreciate the peaceful setting.
But the location was not to bring peace to the dead but to impress the living, he thought with more than a twinge of bitterness. No such consideration had been given to those who died on the battlefield.
Robert stood, as still as a sentry, as the winter wind chilled him to the bone. At the time of their deaths, he had been a captain in His Majesty’s Army, fighting Napoleon’s troops. It had taken six months for the news to reach him. Then another three to recover from wounds he sustained while rescuing soldiers from his regiment. Finally, he was released to travel. In his mother’s letter, she had insisted Robert meet with his father’s solicitors in London before returning to the castle. And like a dutiful son, he had complied.
He was now the Duke of Conclarton and had petitioned the House of Lords to take his father’s seat, only to be attacked in an alley near his hotel.
He rolled his shoulder, easing the pain of the injury he had sustained in the fight with the men in the alley. He’d given more than he got, but his assailants had escaped, and the police pronounced the attack a random attempted robbery. He did not believe in coincidences, which was why he was having trouble reconciling the deaths of his father and brother.
He shut his eyes against the glare of the marble columns on the mausoleum. His father had believed it a great honor to be a member of the House of Lords. Signing the petition had made it real that his father was truly and forever gone.
“Bloody hell.”
The curse rolled off Robert’s tongue with more frequency these days. An unexpected consequence, he supposed, from spending the last three years commanding a regiment in his Majesty’s Army during the Peninsular War. They had defeated Napoleon Bonaparte, resulting in an armistice. Napoleon had abdicated as emperor and had been sent into exile on the island of Elba.
It was over.
Why then did Robert feel ill at ease? Had he left one war behind only to become embroiled in another? The answer lay with the mysterious deaths of his father and elder brother and his mother’s demand that he marry his elder brother’s fiancée.
While in hospital recovering from battle wounds, he had received his mother’s missive, announcing that his father and brother had died in a hunting accident. The missive looked tearstained and his mother’s handwriting shaky. She had always been as solid as their castle walls. His father had nicknamed her their family’s rock. Viewing the emotion expressed by his mother in the letter made it all too real. How could a person recover from such a loss?
His father had fallen from his horse and broken his neck, and his brother had been gored by a wild boar. Both plausible accidents, perhaps, though hardly likely for an excellent rider and an experienced huntsman. It was not very plausible that they had died on the same day.
None of what he had heard made sense.
He pushed his hair away from his forehead and headed back to the road. Once he passed through the gates of Conclarton Castle, he would assume the role of the Duke of Conclarton. He huffed out his frustration. He hardly looked the part. He needed a haircut and to shave his beard before he met with his family, let alone the stranger his mother wanted him to marry. In London, no one had commented on his unruly appearance other than to raise a disapproving eyebrow. He knew he looked more like a hardened soldier who did not give a farthing about his appearance rather than a member of the pamperedton. But, somewhere on a battlefield in France, Spain, or Portugal, he had lost the ability to care what others thought of him.
His mother, however, would not be so understanding.
Whatever the reason for his unsettled feelings, he had returned home and vowed he would approach his duties and obligations in the same manner as he had prepared to lead his regiment into battle. “Hope for the best outcome and plan for the worst” had been his father’s advice the day Robert left for war. The advice had proven sound.
He would need that advice to manage an estate the size of Conclarton. He had never expected to become the duke. Nor had he wanted the title. That title belonged to his elder brother, Donald. Donald was the heir and Robert the spare. He had a slightly younger brother, William, and twin sisters, Sophia and Lydia, who would turn twelve in a few months. He wondered if they still wanted to marry a prince. Thank God they were too young to be presented into society just yet.
Robert heard the sound of carriage wheels and the muffled clip-clop of horses’ hooves over the snow-packed road below the cemetery. He and his childhood friend, Lord Jeremy Dumont, who had met him in London to welcome him and accompany him home, had remarked about the steady caravan of carriages they had encountered. Jeremy had speculated that one of the nearby estates must be holding a ball to celebrate the Christmas Season.
