Chapter 1
"May?" Felicity Harrington called, anxiety touching her
heart and making her voice shake. "May, hurry please."
Another tremendous gust of wind hit the house, rocking the
building. Felicity held onto the bannister, fearing the
storm would push the house off its foundation, and hoping
the old place would hold steady until she and May made it
safely down to the ground floor.
"Felicity, the rain’s coming in my window!"
"I know, sweetling. But there’s nothing we can do about it
right now!" It had always seemed silly for the family’s
rooms to be in the oldest wing of Forton Hall.
Nevertheless, great-grandmother Louisa had hated the
morning sun, and so by tradition everyone kept to the west
end. It was a tradition Felicity wished she’d abandoned
yesterday, before the storm hit. "Just bring your blankets
down, and we’ll sleep in the morning room. It’ll be an
adventure."
"All right!"
"Damnation, Nigel Harrington," Felicity muttered through
clenched, chattering teeth, "you should be here."
It was not that her brother would have been of any use; he
never had been before. She and her twin brother might both
be twenty-two years old, but there were times, like
tonight, when she felt a thousand years older than he. They
both had their mother’s black hair and dark eyes, as did
May, but all similarities ended there. Mother had used to
say that Nigel had inherited Father’s share of common
sense, which was a kind way of saying that he had none at
all.
That had only been confirmed five weeks ago when he’d
dismissed Smythe, the last of their servants. True, the
butler’s absence would save them three pounds a month, but
Nigel had erased any benefit of that when he took it into
his head to go to London and win enough money to see their
ancestral home repaired. Despite her protests, off he’d
gone, taking their carriage, their last horse, and all of
their ready cash with him -- all except what she’d been
putting aside in case of emergency. But tonight looked more
like a catastrophe.
Wind buffeted the manor again, and the attic timbers
groaned. She hefted the quilt in her arms, its heavy,
cumbersome weight making her feel awkward and clumsy on the
stairs. Thunder boomed over the Hall, and plaster dust fell
in a damp cloud around her.
May screeched again. "Felicity!"
"I'm coming, sweetling!"
With a curse she heaved the quilt over the railing and let
it drop onto the foyer floor. It took one of their last
crystal vases off the hall table as it went, shattering the
delicate glass. Ignoring the mess and gathering her skirt,
she hurried back upstairs. The house continued to creak and
shudder around her as wind and torrents of rain battered
against the old walls.
Down the hallway a window broke. Felicity shrieked as a
sudden cold blast of wet wind hit her. She could only guess
what May, only eight and possessed of an excruciatingly
vivid imagination, must be going through. Shielding her
face with one arm, she made her way into her sister's bed
chamber.
Curtains flapping above her head and her dark hair blowing
around her face like a mad halo, May sat on the floor,
piling clothes, books, toys, and shoes onto the middle of a
blanket. "Felicity, where is Polly?" she asked, her brown
eyes wide.
"She’s downstairs in the morning room, still having tea
with Mr. Bear. Here, let me help you with that."
Kneeling, she pulled the four corners of the blanket
together and knotted them. Dragging the bundle out into the
hall, she headed for the stairs. May followed close behind
her, a favorite pillow held tightly to her chest.
"Everything’s getting all wet!" she yelled, ducking her
face behind the pillow.
Felicity grabbed her sister’s arm and pushed her toward the
stairs. "It’s all right! It’ll dry!" The groaning of the
west wing took on an alarming timbre, and she looked
anxiously up at the ceiling. Cracks spread across the rough
surface with such speed that she could see them
growing. "Oh, no," she whispered, hoping May wouldn’t
notice and panic.
They reached the bottom of the stairs just as the front
door blew in. May screamed. One of the double doors cracked
off its hinges and slammed onto the foyer floor, narrowly
missing the two of them.
The wind howled like a mad wolf. Felicity grabbed May by
the arm and dragged her toward the morning room in the east
wing. Her hair had come loose from its clips, and the
black, wet strands whipped into her face, half blinding
her. More glass broke behind them, and the house shuddered
again.
A resounding crack echoed through the west wing. With a
rumble louder than thunder, the entire wing lurched
drunkenly sideways and then collapsed on itself. Plaster
and glass and wood and water flew outward. Felicity
screamed, but she couldn’t even hear the sound in her own
throat.
Without realizing it, she’d fallen to the floor. As soon as
the house stopped shaking and shuddering, she scrambled to
her feet, fighting against the tangle of her sodden
skirts. "Come on, May!" she yelled. "We’ll be safe in the
morning room!"
May shook her head. "No! It’ll fall, too!"
"No, it won’t! The east wing is much sturdier, May. We’ll
be fine! I promise."
"I hope so," May wailed, gripping her older sister’s hand
tightly.
So do I. Felicity glanced up at the dark, lightning-
streaked sky where a third of her roof used to be. Damn
Nigel for running off. If he didn’t return with money soon,
there wouldn’t be a Forton Hall for him to return to, at
all.
Rafael Bancroft awoke to the sensation of having his chest
licked. Reluctantly he opened one eye to see a disheveled
head of flaming red hair working its way down toward his
abdomen.
"Good morning, Lydia," he murmured, stretching and trying
to ignore the pounding in his skull. "Where are we?"
She lifted her head to look at him, then grinned and
resumed her downward journey. "My room, upstairs from
Jezebel’s." Lydia giggled, the sound muffled. "And it ain’t
morning."
Rafe glanced over at the window. "Damn." Despite the fact
that what she was doing felt very good, he supposed he did
have things to do. He stretched once more and started to
sit up, until her nimble fingers joined her mouth. With a
grin and a sigh Rafe lay back and closed his eyes again.
Nothing was worth hurrying over that much.
He shifted, tugging her bare legs up over his chest. Then
he noticed Nigel Harrington’s parchment on the nightstand.
Reaching over, he lifted the paper and awkwardly unfolded
it to see just what he’d signed for last night. And then he
sat up so quickly he dumped Lydia off the narrow bed.
"Blast it!" Lydia sat, stunned, on the floor for a moment,
then scrambled naked to her feet and slammed him across the
head with a pillow.
Rafe grabbed it away from her, barely noticing the
blow. "Show some respect, dear. I seem to be a landowner."
"You’re a bloody, rotten pig, that’s what you are!" she
snapped angrily.
"But at least I'm a well-to-do one." He grinned.
"You don’t think he was serious about China, do you?"
Julia Bancroft, the Duchess of Highbarrow, turned from
gazing out over gloomy King Street to face her elder
son. "You seem to think he is, or you wouldn’t have
bothered telling me."
Quin Bancroft, the Marquis of Warefield, scowled and sipped
his glass of Madeira. "It’s ludicrous. Even for him."
She studied the marquis as he turned his head yet again to
listen down the hallway for his wife. Both her boys had her
tawny blond hair and green eyes, though Rafe’s were much
lighter -- almost the color of the sea -- and had a
devilish twinkle in them that came with knowing he was the
absolute delight of his mother’s heart. "You sound like
your father."
Quin looked up at her. "Well, thank you very much," he said
indignantly. "I thought you’d be pleased that Francis
Henning repeated the tale to me, and that I bothered
informing you."
She smiled. "What’s so ludicrous about Rafael wanting to
travel?"
"He has a life here. He’s a Bancroft, for God’s sake."
"I believe he thinks he’s explored that aspect of his life
already, Quinlan. To hear Rafael tell it, he’s explored it
to death."
The butler scratched at the morning room door. "Luncheon is
served, Your Grace, my lord."
"Thank you, Beeks."
She rose, and Quin followed her through the maze of rooms
and doors and hallways to the huge dining chamber. "You’re
certain he didn’t return home last night?"
"Quin, now you sound like his mother. That’s my position, I
believe."
"I am merely showing brotherly concern."
"Yes, you are, and it’s lovely, but what do you have in
mind for Rafe to do here?"
The marquis hesitated. "I’m sure if he’d sit down and talk
to me about it, we’d come up with something that would keep
his interest."
"You could let him attempt something on his own."
"Not if it involves blasted China. Why didn’t he bother
mentioning that to me? He’s been back from Africa less than
a damned month. I can’t believe he wants to travel again
already."
"Perhaps he thought it might upset you, dear."
Quin narrowed his eyes. "If that stopped him from doing
things, I wouldn’t be nearly so close to having an apoplexy
every time he walked through the door."
Julia couldn’t help laughing. "Please, Quin. Someone has to
take risks."
"I’ve got Maddie for that, thank you very much."
The duchess paused by her chair, then glanced at the other,
empty seats. "Beeks, did you inform Maddie and His Grace
about luncheon?"
The butler inclined his head. "I did, my lady. His Grace
requested that I inform you they will be along ‘in a damned
minute,’ Your Grace."
Quin chuckled as he held out his mother’s chair for
her. "Maddie’s beating him at whist again. He hates that."
They seated themselves at the table. While Quin kept up a
stream of amusing banter, avoiding further discussion of
his brother’s highly disputed future, Julia glanced at the
clock on the mantel. Rafael was in town so rarely, and he’d
been avoiding the lot of them since he’d returned. An
uneasy sensation ran along her bones. He had already helped
to defeat Bonaparte, charmed his way into the hearts of
London’s loveliest ladies, and won and lost himself a small
fortune in London’s most famous, and infamous, clubs. She
had to wonder what would appear next on his shrinking list
of challenges.
"Your Grace, hand over Highbarrow Castle and all its lands,
and I’ll forget that you owe me one hundred and thirty-
eight million pounds." Her gray eyes dancing, Madeleine
Bancroft swept into the dining room. With Rafe’s frequent
absences she’d been the force to bring life back into the
staid Bancroft family, and Julia would always adore her for
it.
"Absolutely not, girl. You said pence, not pounds."
"I did not, and you know it."
His Grace, the Duke of Highbarrow, followed her, and Julia
stifled a smile at the unaccustomed look of good-humored
befuddlement on her husband’s face. And to think everyone
in the world but she and Maddie -- and Quin -- were
terrified of him. Rafe pretended not to be, but he,
probably more than anyone else, both craved his father’s
acceptance and strove to keep himself as far as possible
from the duke, as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the
other. And Lewis Bancroft hadn’t a clue about any of it.
Quin stood to kiss Maddie and hold out her chair. "You’d
best give in, Your Grace. I’ve yet to win an argument with
her."
"That’s because you’re always wrong, my love."
"Now just a moment--"
"Good afternoon, everyone."
Rafe entered the dining room, and Julia’s uneasiness
deepened. Something had agitated and excited him, though he
tried to hide it. Being recalled from Africa had angered
him deeply, and Julia couldn’t blame him. Thus far he’d
avoided any direct confrontations with His Grace over it,
but from his expression it looked as though he had chosen
today as the day.
Maddie narrowed her eyes. "Good heavens, Rafe, you look
like you had to dig your way out of your own grave."
He forced a chuckle. "Got a bit inebriated last night."
As soon as his younger son appeared, the duke’s mood
blackened. The Highbarrow Thundercloud, Quin called it,
more predictable than any storm front. "You might have
shaved and changed your clothes before you stumbled in
here, boy. For God’s sake, we had King George here for
luncheon last week."
Julia flinched. "Rafael, might I--"
"Ah, good afternoon, Father. Didn’t recognize you until you
scowled. You look completely menacing now, as usual."
"I’d rather be menacing than useless."
"Lewis," the duchess said quietly.
Rafe leaned over her shoulder and kissed her on the
cheek. "Not to worry, my sweet. He’s about to be very
impressed."
"Bah. I doubt that," the duke sneered.
With a flourish, Rafael produced a heavy piece of parchment
from his coat pocket. He opened it and set it beside his
father’s plate. "You see?" he said, folding his arms over
his chest. "I am now the owner of Forton Hall. In Cheshire."
Quin reached out to grab the paper, mingled astonishment
and amusement on his face. "You’re what?"
Maddie clapped her hands together in delight. "Whom did you
kill, Rafe?" She laughed, while Quin chuckled. "Was it a
duel, or an assassination?"
Rafe’s expression eased a little. "No one died. I used my
commission money as a stake, and--"
"You sold out your commission?" the Duke of Highbarrow
bellowed, flushing furiously.
"I thought you’d be pleased." Rafe ran a hand through his
disheveled, honey-colored hair and kept his expression
aloof.
"First bloody thing you’ve done that makes any damned
sense."
"By God, it’s even signed over," Quin mused, handing it to
the duke. "It looks completely legitimate. Francis kept
mumbling about some piece of paper or other, but I couldn’t
make any sense of it."
Julia kept her eyes on her younger son. Unless something as
catastrophic as Parliament exploding again had occurred,
Rafael had not suddenly become a conventional
landowner. "So you bought yourself an estate," she repeated.
His light green eyes touched hers and then slid away
again. "Not precisely. I won it. This Harrington fellow
just put the deed on the table, and lost it, and said ‘glad
to be rid of it.’ He signed it, I signed it, and Henning
and Fields witnessed it, and now it’s mine."
The duchess continued gazing at him. "And?" she prompted.
"However he got hold of it, Rafael is finally using his
skull for something besides a sharpshooter’s target," the
duke finished. "A landowner. Thank Lucifer. I thought for
certain you’d end up on some damned fool expedition or
other."
A muscle in Rafe’s lean cheek twitched. "Actually, Father,
you’re not that far off the mark."
Lewis shook his head. "You can’t be gadding about to Hades
and back when you’ve an estate to run."
"I’m--"
"Hm. I imagine you’ll be needing me to look over the estate
and books, since you don’t know the first thing about--"
"I’m not keeping the bloody thing. I intend--"
His Grace surged to his feet, knocking his chair
backward. "You’re what?"
Rafael glared at him, his green eyes glinting with a
month’s worth of suppressed anger. "I have no intention of
sitting about on my fat ass waiting for the wheat to grow
every year," he snapped. "Your life is a bloody, stifling
bore, and you’re welcome to it. You and Quin, both. I’m--"
Quin straightened. "Now just a damned minute, Raf--"
"I’m going to sell this blasted place," he growled, ripping
the paper out of his father’s fingers, "for as much as I
can make off it."
"And then what, you idiot? Gamble it or whore it away?"
Rafe stuffed the paper back into his coat pocket. "I’m
going to travel," he stated sharply. "You may own half of
England, but you don’t own the Colonies, or the southern
Americas, or the Orient. And you don’t by God own me.
Mother? Maddie? Good day."
His gaze lingered for a moment on Julia, and then he strode
out the door and slammed it behind him so hard the windows
rattled.
Julia sat looking at the door. "My," she muttered faintly.
The door flew open again. "Beeks!"
The startled butler stepped forward. "Yes, Master Rafael?"
"I’m taking my kit with me. Box the rest of my things. I’ll
send word if I need any of it."
"Very good, sir."
The door slammed again.
"Go stop him, Julia, before he does something he’ll
regret," the duke blustered.
She faced her husband, trying to remain calm. It would do
no good if she exploded, as well -- much as she would have
liked to. "You think I could stop him, Lewis? After what
you said to him?"
"After what I said? Bah. A good riddance to him, then."
Maddie and Quin looked at one another, clearly dismayed,
and Julia sat back in her chair. She wondered if Lewis
realized that, barring a miracle, he’d just lost a son.
Apparently Rafe’s next challenge was to escape the
Bancrofts, themselves.
© 2003-2026