Chapter One
Maidenshop, Cambridgeshire
1814
He’d lost the damn commission.
For a good twelve months, Mr. Brandon Balfour had labored on a proposed design for a bridge crossing the River Thames in London. After repeated requests for elaborate and complicated changes, the Surveyor-General had assured Bran his was the best proposal submitted. He’d all but promised Bran swift approval, and then last night, the council had informed him that they were interested in a new contender. A Scotsman well-known to council members had expressed interest in the project.
And in less time than it took to down a brandy, Bran’s hours of work and endless toadying to pompous asses who knew little about what made bridges work had come to naught. That bridge was to have been his signature, his mark on the world, the first important project of his small, struggling engineering firm.
Which meant that right now, the weight of the fowling piece felt damn good in Bran’s hand. He was of a mind to shoot something this morning. Rooks were as good a choice as any other. In fact, he’d been so angry after the council meeting, he’d ridden through the night to join the hunt at Belvoir Castle. He’d known he was too bitter and frustrated for sleep. Or to cool his heels in London.
His friend the Earl of Marsden, the owner of Belvoir, walked beside him through tall grass toward a thicket of trees, the rooks’ haven. It was shortly before dawn and the air had a hushed, expectant darkness.
Flanking them was Mr. Ned Thurlowe, the local physician and another valued friend. The three of them, tall, well-favored, and confident, were often referred to locally as “the Three Bucks” of the Logical Men’s Society. Gentlemen usually envied them and women thought they should be married.
At six-foot-four, Mars was two inches taller than Bran. He was lean of frame with broad shoulders and blue eyes that could be warm and friendly or deadly chilling. His hair was the golden brown of winter wheat.
Thurlowe was the handsomest of their trio. He had wild, untamed looks with dark hair and slashing brows. It was claimed women feigned sickness just to have him place his concerned physician’s hand on their brows and more than one had swooned from his touch.
“When I saw you in London last week,” Mars said to Bran, his voice low so it would not carry in the predawn air and warn the birds of their approach, “you told me you didn’t know when you would be returning to Maidenshop. Didn’t you hope your bridge design would receive its final approval?”
A hard stone set in Bran’s chest. “We had a meeting last night. I expected to be named the architect but then a new player was thrown into the game. A Scotsman who is a relative of Dervil’s.”
“Dervil? That bastard.” Lord Dervil’s estates bordered Belvoir. Years ago, in a dispute over property lines, Dervil had challenged Mars’s father to a duel. The old earl had died of the wounds he’d received that day, and the feud between the two families had intensified. Mars claimed he couldn’t wait to put a bullet into Dervil’s black heart. “Did he block your plans after all the reviews you have been through?”
“He was at the meeting. He suggested an architect with more experience would be a better choice. Apparently his opinion was all that was needed for the Surveyor-General to table the matter.”
Ned jumped in. “More experience? You’ve built bridges, canals, and roads in India. What have you not built? You have letters of recommendation from the Company, don’t you?” He referred to the East India Company, which Bran had left three years ago.
“My introductions and references have been presented,” Bran answered. “Dervil suggested my work on foreign soil could not meet English standards.” Dervil wasn’t the first to do so. Establishing himself in England had been a challenge.
“Dervil is a fool then,” Ned replied stoutly. “And what is this talk about connections? What does that have to do with engineering?” Ned was a man of science. He was the bastard son of a noted peer, and as such, like Bran, had to rely on his intellect to make his way in the world. They had both been successful, although many wondered why a talented doctor like Thurlowe would prefer to rusticate in Maidenshop instead of try his hand in London.
“Obviously, competence and intelligence isn’t enough in the world of politics and power,” Bran answered.
“The Duke of Winderton is your nephew and your ward,” Thurlowe said. “You returned to guide him after his father died. That is a connection and a damn honorable one.”
“A connection to property Dervil covets,” Mars pointed out. “And property he would have convinced your sister to sell if you hadn’t returned from India and stopped her. So, this is his revenge, eh? I assumed he would show his hand sooner or later. He prides himself on extracting a price, damn his soul.”
“Apparently, it is.” Bran tightened his hold on the gun. “I spent ayearmeeting their every demand...” He let his voice trail off with his frustration.
“Did you say the meeting was last night? And you are here?” Ned asked. “Did you sleep?”
“I was too angry to sleep. Besides, late yesterday, my sister started sending urgent messages for me to return at once. Something about Winderton.” Bran was the duke’s guardian until he reached one and twenty in a few months. In truth, Winderton had been too coddled by his mother to take over such responsibilities. If Bran had been the author of the will, Winderton would need to wait until he was at least thirty, but the matter was not his to decide. “Do either of you have an idea what she could be in high dudgeon over this time?”
“I saw your young duke drinking with friends at The Garland the other night,” Mars reported. “He was blissfully in his cups and appeared happy.”
“I passed him yesterday in the village,” Thurlowe offered. “He was barreling down the road without a sideward glance on some mission of his own making. You know how he is.”
Self-important?Bran wanted to suggest. He didn’t. It would be disloyal. Still, how could someone who was only twenty think his opinion mattered to anyone in the world? “Lucy cries wolf every time he doesn’t do what she thinks he should. So, I’ve come to sort that out.”And himself. He needed to sort himself out. If he didn’t receive that commission, then what future was there for him?
His friends nodded, quieting as they reached their destination, a group of three huge plane trees off to themselves. Here was the rooks’ roosting place. The birds would wake with the dawn.
Trailing behind the Three Bucks were the oldest members of the Logical Men’s Society—Mr. Fullerton and Sir Lionel Johnson. They rode in makeshift sedan chairs carried by Sir Lionel’s servants and were more interested in drinking port than shooting birds. Fullerton had been the estate manager for Mars’s grandfather back in the day. Sir Lionel had once been the king’s ambassador to Italy and he’d been dining out on the honor ever since. Rounding out the hunting party were Mars’s gamekeeper, Evans, and numerous servants carrying more guns, powder, and, of course, the port.
A number of lads from the village, warned to silence, brought up the rear. They would race to collect the kill. Mars had offered a penny for every rook stuffed in their bags.
