Prologue
KENT, ENGLAND, JULY 1807
The girls were singing again.
Singing. There was nothing to see for miles except for boring trees and boring meadows, and the scorching sun was burning an angry red patch into the back of his neck.
What was there to sing about? Not a thing that Cass could see, but those blasted girls had been out here every morning since he’d come to Kent, their high voices echoing in the still air.
It was aggravating, was what it was.
He hated it here. Kent was dull and ugly, and it was too bloody hot.
It was too hot to move. Too hot to breathe. It was so hot, even the dragonflies had given up their acrobatics and were turning in languid circles over the pond.
He kicked at the dried clump of grass with the heel of his boot.
What use was a hiding spot if those silly girls kept pestering him with their stupid songs? He wanted to be alone. Was that asking too much? No one was ever pleased to see him, so he’d found a place where he could disappear, but even when he was invisible, he couldn’t get any peace.
He kicked at the clump of grass again and a shower of dirt and pebbles flew off his heel, covering him with a dusty cloud of grime. Good. Hopefully his clothes were ruined. Mrs. Byrne, Lord Balfour’s sour-faced housekeeper would scold, but she could nag until her face turned blue, and he wouldn’t care. Why should he? She’d despised him from the moment his father’s servant had left him on the doorstep. She’d hardly spared him a glance before her lips went so tight they turned white at the corners.
That was four days ago. Since then, no one had spoken a single word to him.
Not Lord Balfour, who was too preoccupied with his own concerns to spare a thought for the boy who’d been thrust upon him, and not Mrs. Byrne, who’d told the housemaids he was a sullen, scowling little hellion, and warned them to keep away from him.
He may as well have been a rabid dog, for all the welcome he’d gotten.
They didn’t want him any more than his own father did.
Well, that wasfinewith him. He didn’t give a toss about the opinions of some crusty old lord, especially not one who was friends with his father, who was a crusty old lord himself, and wicked, besides.
He didn’t need his father, and he didn’t need Lord Balfour, and he didn’t need Mrs. Byrne, with her grim gray gowns and pinched lips.
He didn’t need anybody.
All he needed was this tree. It was a good tree, with thick, low-lying branches that blocked the scorching sun and hid him from any curious eyes that happened to look in this direction.
It wasn’t his tree, of course. It wasn’t his pond, his shade or his dragonflies, any more than the great stone house on the topof the hill was his, or the formal gardens with the bright roses, their heavy heads nodding sleepily in the sun.
Nothing here was his.
Everything, from the bed he slept in at night to the pillow under his cheek belonged to Lord Balfour.
But not this tree. That was why he’d chosen it as his special hiding place.
The tree belonged to the gentleman whose estate bordered Lord Balfour’s. He was a lord, too. There were lords everywhere out here in the country, by the looks of it. You couldn’t toss a pebble without hitting some bloody useless viscount or earl.
The neighboring lord was called Lord Melton, or Lord Melrose, or something like that. It didn’t matter what his name was. What mattered was Cass didn’t owe Lord Balfour a single word of thanks for the branches above him or the turf underneath him.
It wasn’t much, but it would have to do until his father decided what to do with him, and who knew how long that would take? A few weeks, maybe. Or maybe a few years.
Until then, there was nothing he could do to fill the long, tedious summer afternoons but swim in the pond, and hide in the shade of the tree.
Alone. He was always alone now, aside from the girls that came down to the pond every morning, but they didn’t count, because they didn’t know he was there, and even if they had, they wouldn’t want to play with him.
No one here did.
Which wasfinewith him. Better than fine, because everyone knew girls’ games were boring and stupid. He didn’t want to play with them either, and if there’d been anyone around who dared to suggest otherwise, he’d have bloodied their noses for them, and blacked their eyes, too.
