Chapter One
Windermere, Westmorland, 1820
Bridget De Laceystrolled across the sprawling grounds of Villa De Lacey—a magnificent three-story, eighteen-room stone villa trimmed with pale-blue French shutters, a matching two-paneled double door, and a fleur-de-lis iron railing that framed the raised portico at its entrance.
It had been built from Lutetian limestone—the very same stone from which much of Paris had been built—on a sloping hill above Lake Windermere by Bridget’s French grandfather who’d come to the wild, barren Lake District region of England and fallen in love with the area’s sublime majesty.
And who could blame him?Bridget thought. Life was idyllic in this land of endless blue lakes, magnificent mountain peaks, and lush green fells. This was the land that inspired England’s greatest poets—Southey, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, and, of course, Wordsworth, who lived a few miles from Villa De Lacey in his home called Rydal Mount.
A floral scent wafted through the air as she passed the small rose garden centered around a rectangular fountain out of whose waters emerged a perfectly sculptured bronze statue of Venus, standing on a scalloped seashell, as depicted in Botticelli’s famous painting.
“Come along, Bijou,” Bridget called her little white terrier, who had darted from her side to chase a family of lapwings.
With Bijou scampering again at her heels, Bridget continued to the edge of the garden, which culminated in a stone patio secured by anelaborate balustrade wall that surrounded the grounds of Villa De Lacey. Bridget leaned her forearms on the balustrade and gazed at Lake Windermere, two hundred feet from the entrance to Villa De Lacey. The spectacular lake, surrounded by majestic mountains and green fells, stretched for miles and had a calming effect on all who gazed upon it. But today, Windermere’s waters had turned choppy, and a mist hovered over the horizon. What had started as a fine day with blue skies and calm waters had quickly turned stormy. But that was not unusual. The weather in the Lake District was changeable and unpredictable.
“A storm is brewing, Bijou.” Bridget looked down at her terrier, who’d raised himself on his hind legs to rest his front paws on the skirt of her white empire dress. “We’d best go inside.” She bent to lift the dog into her arms. “Oh, look how you’ve soiled my dress,” she said upon seeing the muddy prints her pup had left on the white material. The little dog responded by licking her face. Bridget giggled and showered him with kisses before starting back up the hill toward her home.
As she approached the house, she turned to see that a dark cloud had settled over the lake. It seemed the storm had grown perilous. Bridget shivered. She hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come. It had been three weeks since her papa had departed for London to attend to some business, and she’d yet to hear a word from him. Now, she’d started to worry in earnest. He’d been distracted for months prior to his trip and seemed in low spirits when he’d left for London. It terrified her to think that all was not well with Papa. Her beautiful and spirited mama had died after she’d fallen ill when Bridget was four. Since then, she’d feared losing her papa too. After her mama’s death, she’d become so clingy toward her father that his widowed sister left her home in Dorset and moved in with them to assist her brother and care for his child when he traveled. But despite her aunt’s presence in the home, and even though she was now an adult of one-and-twenty,Bridget continued to worry every time her father left Windermere.
Oh, Papa, why haven’t you written?Bridget inspected the clouds and then dropped her gaze to the two giant stone gargoyles that flanked the entrance to Villa De Lacey, guarding it against evildoers while inviting friends and neighbors to venture up the long, winding carriageway that led to the villa.Come on, Papa. Do send word soon.And then, as if she’d conjured it with her thoughts, a black coach turned into the property, slipping past the gargoyles and snaking its way up the gravel path. Bridget’s heart leapt.
At last!
Bijou struggled in her arms and barked at the approaching vehicle. “Shh!” she soothed the little dog while tightening her grip on him, fearing that he’d race toward the carriage and get caught under its wheels.
As the carriage drew closer, Bridget saw that it bore the mark of the local magistrate, and her heart stilled. Perhaps he’d come to check on her and her aunt, or mayhap he’d had word from Papa. That thought gave her pause. Why would Papa message the magistrate? He’d never done so before. In all likelihood, Magistrate Hunt’s presence could only mean one thing—bad news.
She stood paralyzed as the coach stopped in front of her home and the magistrate stepped out. He was a portly man with round blue eyes and a bulbous nose. A few sparse gray hairs populated his mostly bald head, which was oddly accompanied by bushy sideburns and a full beard.
Bridget found her feet and stepped forward. “Magistrate Hunt. How do you do?” She greeted the gentleman and restrained herself from rudely blurting out the questions that ran through her mind.
“Miss De Lacey.” The magistrate bowed in greeting. And Bridget saw that he looked notably somber—an observation she found rather unsettling. A cheerful magistrate on a social call was less likely to be the bearer of bad news.
Bijou continued to yip and struggle to be put down. Bridget stroked her pup’s fur, calming him.
“Is your aunt also at home by chance?” the magistrate asked. “I should like to speak with both of you.”
“Yes, of course, she’s inside.” Fear rose in Bridget’s chest, and she could no longer restrain herself from interrogating the gentleman there and then. “But why do you wish to speak with us? Is something the matter, sir? Have you had word from my papa?”
“I will be happy to address all of your questions inside, if you don’t mind, miss.” The magistrate’s grave expression did little to calm Bridget’s nerves.
“Of course.” Bridget felt the color rise to her cheeks even as her heart sank. She’d always had a hard time practicing patience. “Do come in.”
“Thank you,” the magistrate said, removing his top hat as he followed her inside, where they were greeted by the housekeeper Eliza Moon. She was a petite, middle-aged spinster with a small, pale face, thin lips, deep-set brown eyes, and stringy brown hair, which she kept partially tucked under a white bonnet. Eliza had served the family faithfully since before Bridget’s birth and now filled both the roles of housekeeper and lady’s maid. Papa had long ago done away with the butler and a host of other servants who were no longer needed after he’d shut eleven of the eighteen rooms in the house to save expenses.
“Is my aunt in the drawing room, by chance, Eliza?” Bridget asked.
“She is, miss.” Eliza’s dark eyes narrowed as she saw the magistrate follow Bridget inside.
“Take the magistrate’s hat and coat, please, Eliza. And then bring some tea to the drawing room.” Bridget smiled at her maid, who she suspected felt the same trepidation at the magistrate’s presence as she did.
“That’s not necessary,” Magistrate Hunt said. “I shan’t be here long.”
Bridget quivered inside. The magistrate’s refusal to leave his coat and hat was ominous, indeed. This was not a social visit. And as the bearer of bad news, the magistrate would want to make a quick escape. “Bring the tea anyway,” she told her maid. “I am feeling quite thirsty. And you’d best take Bijou to the kitchen while I speak with the magistrate.” She lifted the terrier and kissed his nose. “Cook is sure to have some meat scraps for you, my sweet,” she said before handing the wriggling pup to Eliza.
Eliza took the dog and curtsied before departing.
“Follow me, sir,” Bridget said, leading the magistrate to the drawing room. Before stepping inside, she called out to her aunt.
