Chapter One
Cornwall, 1786
The carriage rockedas it traveled the road along the cliff. Kate grabbed the window frame with one hand and the edge of her seat with the other, to hold herself steady. She was nervous in a vehicle at the best of times, made worse after her father’s carriage careened off a bridge in Oxford.
Kate reminded herself that this coach her godfather had sent was a fine one. She was exhausted after being thoroughly jolted about for three days. It had been impossible to sleep in the inns where the coach stopped for the night. They were most dreadfully noisy, and the looks men gave her when she ate in the dining room caused her to lie awake with her gaze fixed on the chamber door, despite having locked it and placed a chair against it. She stiffened when the coachman’s curse was followed by a crack of the whip. The rugged coastline was different from anything she’d ever seen. Through the misty rain, she glimpsed the dark gray sea swirling around the blackened rocks. The lack of discernable color in the landscape reminded her of the drab-colored mourning clothes she’d worn, and the rhythmic boom, boom, boom of the waves filled her with the same dread she’d experienced when a tolling church bell signaled a village disaster like the fire which had spooked her father’s horses and ended her parents’ lives.
In an effort to overcome the fear of tumbling to her death, Kate pulled her cloak closer, and directed her thoughts to what might await her at St. Malin Castle. Unfortunately, this produced anxieties of a different sort. The last time she’d seen her godfather, the Marquess of St. Malin, was when she was fifteen. She remembered him as tall with a long thin nose which made him appear haughty. Her father had saved St Malin’s life when he fell overboard during a boat race on the River Cam in Cambridge, and despite their different stations in life, they’d continued to correspond regularly.
Now, at twenty years of age, her fate lay in this marquess’ hands, for apparently, he said as much to her father years ago. Papa made mention of it in his will. And a letter addressed to her with the waxed St Malin seal came shortly after her father’s funeral. Then the coach had arrived. The marquess seemed keen to keep his promise. Whatever that entailed. Kate was grateful for his kindness, of course, but would much have preferred to remain with Nanny in Oxfordshire. That was impossible, for her father left very little money. Poets were not good at business, and he’d lost a considerable amount of money on the ’Change. Subsequently, her childhood home had been sold to pay off the debts.
The coach reached a bend in the road, and the sheer stone walls of the castle loomed ahead, the outline of its battlements imposing against the darkening sky. At the sight of the massive structure, a prickling sensation rose up her spine. Kate half expected to see knights in armor riding toward her. Lights from the braziers along the walls fell upon lawns which must once have been a moat. The coach rattled across a bridge and entered the arched gatehouse. The horses came to a stop in a courtyard. Moments later, a servant rushed out. He put down the steps on the coach and opened the door.
Kate’s sense of relief faded when she stepped down onto mossy cobbles, and stood, disorientated, in the swirling sea mist.
A door was flung open, spilling candlelight into the gloom like a welcoming hand. She hurried toward it and entered a lofty hall. Heavy Tudor beams and ornate timber paneling spoke of its ancient origins.
A tall liveried footman stood waiting. “I’ll take ye to the master, Miss. He’s in the library.”
Kate’s heart beat unnaturally fast as she followed him up a stone stairway. Along the walls of the wide corridor, candles flickered in their sconces, throwing light on huge tapestries depicting bloody battles. As the moment approached when they would meet, Kate tried to rake up some clear memories of the marquess. But he’d been of little interest to her back then, beyond his eccentric manner. He’d smiled with warmth upon her father, she remembered. But that wasn’t surprising; a cultured man who quoted Shakespeare at the drop of a hat, Papa was possessed of enormous charm. Now she was in this man’s debt. Would he be kind to her?
The footman knocked on a solid oak door.
“Come.”
Apprehensive, she stepped into the room and was embraced by a welcoming surge of warmth. A fire crackled and spat in the baronial fireplace where a liver-spotted spaniel lifted its head from the rug to study her. After a thump of a tail, its head sank onto its paws again, lulled back to sleep by the heat. Above the fireplace, the painting of a hunting scene featured several dogs. Two china spaniels flanked the fireplace mantel. The walls were covered floor-to-ceiling in bookshelves, which made the room seem cozy.
Kate looked around for the source of the voice, and when she saw no one in the room, she crouched on the Oriental rug and gave the dog a pat. “You’re a nice fellow, aren’t you?” Her stiff, cold muscles loosened, and the icy pit in her stomach began to thaw. Maybe she could be happy here. She loved dogs.
“Welcome to St. Malin Castle, Miss Katharina.”
Startled, Kate looked around. She hadn’t noticed the man who rose from behind a pile of papers and books on the massive mahogany desk. He crossed the room to greet her. He was not her godfather. The young man not yet thirty, was tall, his black hair drawn back in a queue.
She scrambled to her feet. “I’m here to see the marquess.”
“I am the Marquess of St. Malin. My uncle passed away a short time ago.”
Kate was so shocked she could think of nothing to say. There was something of the marquess’ haughty demeanor about his handsome face.
With a sense of foreboding, she curtsied on unsteady legs. She could only stare at his attire, her gaze locked on his exquisite gold embroidered silk waistcoat as he bowed before her. Black crepe graced the sleeve of his emerald-green coat.
“I am sorry.”Dead.She had an urgent need to sit, and glanced at the damask sofa facing the fireplace.
She must have looked unsteady, for he reacted immediately, gesturing to the sofa. “Sit by the fire. You must be cold and exhausted.” He turned to the footman. “Bring a hot toddy for Miss Bancroft.”
Kate sank down gratefully, her modest panniers settling around her.
“You shall feel better presently,” he said. “I find a hot toddy can cure many ills.”
“Why did you send your coach for me?” She leaned back against the soft cushions. “I wouldn’t have come had I known your uncle passed away.”
“I thought it best to sort the matter out here and now.” He rested an elbow on a corner of the fireplace mantel and stirred the dog with a foot. “Shame on you, Felix. You might accord Miss Bancroft a warmer welcome.” He looked at her. “My uncle’s dog. He’s mourning his master.” He raised his dark brows. “Notice of my uncle’s passing appeared inThe Daily Universal Register.”
“We don’t get that newspaper in my village. What matter do we need to sort out?”
“I’ll come to that. To be honest, I wasn’t aware of your existence until the reading of the will. Then I learned of your parents’ untimely death from my solicitor. Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you. How long ago did your uncle…?”
