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Newbury, Berkshire England

27 May 1820

Dilly dallying and dawdling weren’t going to change anything.

Manchester, Marquis of Sterling, tossed back the last of the fairly decent whisky. With a resigned sigh, he placed his empty glass on the Fox and Falcon’s time-worn countertop. A full bottle wouldn’t have succeeded in easing a jot of his tension. Nothing could be done for the darkling thoughts tumbling round inside his skull either.

What few feeble rays of late afternoon sunlight managed to escape the sodden clouds outside filtered through the lace curtains bordering the pristine windowpanes. He permitted a small, wry smile to tip his mouth. From what he’d observed since leading Magnus into Newbury almost two hours ago, except for the shutters’ new coat of bright cobalt paint, the pub—along with the picturesque township—had changed little in his ten-year absence.

Had it truly been a decade since he’d strolled Newbury’s streets, attended the century-old, two-story stone church Sunday mornings, sneaked his first and last cheroot behind the stables, shared a dram with friends in this very establishment, or returned the friendly villagers’ many greetings?

A third of his life.

Now that the old duke’s health was failing, he’d been summoned—ordered—home.

No. Not home.

Perygrim Park had ceased being home the day his sire blamed Chester for Byron’s death, whilst also beckoning every curse from hell upon the Andrews of Gablecrest Hall.

His father’s venomous words, shrieked hysterically as he cradled his favorite son in his arms, still echoed in Chester’s memory—still lanced his heart even after all these years.

He cut a longing glance toward the whisky bottle.

Did he dare?

Even to silence the silent monologue ever ready to torment him?

Russell Stewart, the pub’s owner, angled his jowly chin toward the deep green half-full bottle whilst drying a glass.

“Would you care for another tot, my lord? Or perhaps some of my missus’s shepherd’s pie?”

If only he might. The fading light confirmed the sun’s slow descent, and he’d promised to arrive at Perygrim in time for dinner.

To celebrate his thirtieth birthday.

Many were the ways he’d have preferred to acknowledge the date, none of which included being scowled at and mocked by a spiteful curmudgeon. A cantankerous sod whose infrequent letters oozed with criticism, condemnation, complaints about Chester’s failure to marry and produce an heir, and fiendish gloating when Walter Andrews had drowned several years ago in the lake betwixt Perygrim Park’s and Gablecrest Hall’s lands.

Curse Chester’s sense of duty. His endless guilt.

A pox on the miniscule tender spot for his father remaining inside the buttress he’d erected around his battered heart.

He drew in a steadying breath, then released it in a long, controlled exhale.

The old man was dying.

Despite his sire’s rancor, Chester couldn’t be so cruel as to deny his critically ill father’s one last request. Honestly, this visit was more about putting to rest the phantoms haunting Chester once and for all than about reconciling with the duke.

He filled his lungs with another fortifying breath and closed his eyes for an instant when his stomach released a discontented growl.

“You were always particularly fond of Jane’s roast beef and potatoes too, sir. Are you sure you won’t have a plate?”

Stewart wiped the already immaculate counter, his hint as obvious as the single bushy eyebrow spanning his broad forehead.

Whisky on an empty stomach never boded well. Particularly since Chester generally eschewed spirits stronger than wine.

Unlike the sixth Duke of DeCourcy.

Diligence and discipline.