Borrowed Dreams E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: THE SCOTTISH DREAMS TRILOGY
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 562

Beschreibung

THE PROPOSAL Driven to undo the evil wrought by her dead husband, Millicent Wentworth must find a way to save her estate and free the innocent people he enslaves. Her only hope is a marriage—in name only—to the notorious widower, the Earl of Aytoun.   THE GROOM Devastated by the tragic accident that killed his wife and left him gravely wounded, Lyon Pennington, fourth Earl of Aytoun, is tormented by the accusations that blame him for the catastrophe. Filled with despair, he lets his mother lure him into a marriage of convenience—for the sake of a good-hearted woman on the verge of financial ruin.   THE DESIRE Under Millicent's gentle gaze, Lyon begins to regain his strength and his wounded heart begins to heal. And soon Millicent discovers that beneath his unruly beard and grim demeanor, Lyon just may be the most handsome—and caring—man she's ever encountered. For the first time in her life, she realizes that she is alive—alive with a smoldering desire for the one man she'll love forever…    Holt Medallion Winner for Best Historical Romance Romantic Times Award Winner for Best British-Set Historical Romance 

Leseprobe

BORROWED DREAMS

Scottish Dream Trilogy: Book 1

MAY MCGOLDRICK

Book Duo Creative

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Borrowed Dreams: Book 1 of the Scottish Dream Trilogy (Pennington Family Series)

Copyright © 2011 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

Cover by Dar Albert, WickedSmartDesigns.com

For Judy Spagnola

Thank you for all you do!

1

London

January 1772

“We’re going in the wrong direction, m’lady!”

Instead of turning west at the ancient Temple Bar, the carriage had turned east on Fleet Street, and the driver was now whipping his team through the busy traffic going into the City. The lawyer raised the head of his cane to the roof of the carriage to get the attention of the driver, but the touch of Millicent’s gloved hand on his sleeve made him stop.

“He’s going where he was directed, Sir Oliver. I have an urgent matter I need to see to at the wharves.”

“At the wharves? But…but we’re already somewhat pressed for time for your appointment, m’lady.”

“This will not take very long.”

He sank back against the seat, somewhat relieved. “Since we have a little time then, perhaps I could ask you a few questions about the secretive nature of this meeting we have been summoned to attend this morning.”

“Please, Sir Oliver,” Millicent pleaded quietly. “Can your questions wait until after my business at the wharves? I’m afraid my mind is rather distracted right now.”

All his questions withered on the man’s tongue as Lady Wentworth turned her face toward the window and the passing street scene. A short time later, the carriage passed by St. Paul’s Cathedral and began wending its way down through a rough and odorous area in the direction of the Thames. By the time they crossed Fish Street, with its derelict sheds and warehouses, the lawyer could restrain himself no longer.

“Would you at least tell me the nature of this business at the wharves, m’lady?”

“We’re going to an auction.”

Oliver Birch looked out the window at the milling crowds of workmen and pickpockets and whores. “M’lady, I hope you intend to stay in the carriage and that you’ll allow me to instruct one of the grooms to obtain what you’re looking for.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it is essential that I see to this myself.”

The lawyer grasped the side of the rocking carriage as the driver turned into the courtyard of a tumbledown wreck of a building on Brooke’s Wharf. Outside the window, an odd mix of well-dressed gentlemen and shabby merchants and seamen stood in attendance on an auction that, from the looks of things, was already well under way.

“At least give me the details of what you intend to do here, Lady Wentworth.” Birch climbed out of the carriage first. Despite the biting wind off the Thames, the smells of the place—combined with the stink of the river’s edge—were appalling.

“I read about the auction in the Gazette this morning. They are selling off the estate of a deceased physician by the name of Dombey. The ruined man moved back from Jamaica last month.” She pulled the hood up on her woolen cloak and accepted his hand as she stepped out. “Before he was put in debtor’s prison, he succumbed to ill health some ten days ago.”

Birch had to hurry to keep up with Millicent as she pushed her way through the crowd to the front row. “And what, may I ask, in Dr. Dombey’s estate is of interest to you?”

She didn’t answer, and the lawyer found his client’s gray eyes searching anxiously past the personal articles that were laid out on a makeshift platform. “I hope I’m not too late.”

The lawyer did not ask any more questions as Millicent’s attention turned sharply toward the set of wide doors that led into the building. The bailiff was dragging out a frail-looking African woman wrapped in a tattered blanket and wearing only a dirty shift under it. A crate was placed on the platform, and the old woman—her neck and hands and feet in shackles—was pushed roughly onto it.

Birch closed his eyes for a moment to control his disgust at this evidence of the barbaric and dishonorable trade that continued to curse the nation…in spite of Lord Henley’s comments that any slave stepping foot in England was free.

“Lookee, gennelmen. This here slave was Dr. Dombey’s personal maid,” the auctioneer shouted. “She’s the only Negro the medical bloke carried back with him from Jamaica. Aye, sure, she’s a rum thing with her wrinkled face. And she’s of an age to rival Methuselah. But gennelmen, she’s said to be a weritable African queen, she is, and bright as crystal, they tell me. So e’en though she’s worth a good thirty pounds, what say we start the bidding of at…at a pound.”

There was loud jeering and laughter from the group.

“Look, now, gennelmen. ‘Ow about ten shillings then?” the auctioneer announced over the roar of the crowd. “She’s good teeth, she has.” He pulled opened the woman’s mouth roughly. There were crusts of blood on the chapped lips. “Ten shillings? Who’ll start the bidding at ten shillings?”

“What bloody good is she?” somebody shouted.

“Five, gennelmen. Who’ll start us at five?”

“The woman is nothing more than a refuse slave,” another responded. “If we were in Port Royal, she’d be left to die on the wharf.”

Birch glanced worriedly at Millicent and found a look of pain etched on her face. Tears were glimmering on the edges of her eyelids.

“This is no place for you to be, m’lady,” he whispered quietly. “It is not right for you to be witnessing this. Whatever you came for must be already gone.”

“The advertisement said she was a fine African lass.” A middle-aged clerk, sneering from his place at the edge of the platform, threw a crumpled Gazette at the old woman. “Why, she’s too old to even be good for⁠—”

“Five pounds,” Millicent called out.

Every eye in the place turned to her, and silence gripped the throng. Even the auctioneer seemed lost for words for a moment. Birch saw the woman’s wrinkled eyelids open a fraction and stare at Millicent.

“Aye, yer ladyship. Yer bid is in fer⁠—”

“Six pounds.” A second bid from someone deep in the crowd silenced the auctioneer again. All heads in unison turned to the back of the auction yard.

“Seven,” Millicent responded.

“Eight.”

On the platform the man’s face broke out into a grin as the crowds parted, showing a nattily dressed clerk holding up a rolled newspaper. “Why, I see Mr. Hyde’s clerk is in attendance. Thank ye fer yer bid, Harry.”

“Ten pounds,” Millicent said with great vehemence.

Birch scanned the number of carriages in the yard, wondering from which one of them Jasper Hyde was issuing his commands. A large plantation owner in the West Indies and supposedly a good friend to the late Squire Wentworth, the Englishman had wasted no time in taking over all of the squire’s properties in the Caribbean after his death in payment for debts Wentworth had owed him. And if that were not enough, since arriving in England, Mr. Hyde had positioned himself as Lady Wentworth’s chief nemesis, buying up the rest of the bills of exchange and promissory notes the squire had left behind.

“Twenty.”

There was a loud gasp of disbelief and the crowd began to shift uncomfortably.

“Thirty.”

The lawyer turned to Millicent. “He’s playing with you, m’lady,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe it would be wise⁠—”

“Fifty pounds,” the clerk called without a trace of emotion.

A group of sailors near the edge of the platform turned and scoffed loudly at the clerk for pushing up the price.

“I can’t let him do this. Dr. Dombey and this woman spent a great deal of time on Wentworth’s plantations in Jamaica. From the stories I’ve heard from Jonah and some of the others at Melbury Hall, she became a person of some importance to them.” She nodded to the auctioneer. “Sixty pounds.”

Birch watched Jasper Hyde’s clerk appear to squirm a little. The man turned and looked toward the line of carriages. The rolled newspaper rose in the air before the caller could repeat the last bid. “Seventy.”

The rumbling in the crowd became more pronounced. There were sharp comments to the effect that he should let the woman have the slave.A couple of the sailors edged threateningly toward the clerk, muttering derisive obscenities.

“This is all a sick game to Mr. Hyde,” Millicent whispered, turning away from the platform. “There are many stories of his brutality on the plantations. The stories about what he did after taking possession of my husband’s land and slaves are even worse. He’s answerable to no one and has no regard for what few laws are observed there. This woman has witnessed it all, though. He will hurt her. Kill her, perhaps.” Her hands fisted. “Sir Oliver, I owe this to my people after all the suffering Wentworth caused. I can’t in good conscience turn my back when I can save this one. Not when I’ve failed all those others that Hyde took.”

“That it, yer ladyship?” the auctioneer asked. “Yer giving in?”

“Eighty,” she replied, her voice quavering.

“You can’t afford this, m’lady,” Birch put in firmly but quietly. “Think of the promissory notes Hyde still holds from your husband. You’ve extended the date of repayment once. But they will all come due next month, and you are personally liable, to the extent of every last thing you own. And this includes Melbury Hall. You just can’t add more fuel to his fire.”

“One hundred pounds.” The clerk’s shout was instantly swallowed up by a loud response from the crowd. Birch watched the man take a few nervous steps toward the carriages as the same angry sailors moved closer to him.

“One ten, milady?” the auctioneer, grinning excitedly, called out from the platform.

“You can’t save every one, Millicent,” Birch whispered sharply. When first asked by the earl and the countess of Stanmore to represent Lady Wentworth in her legal affairs a year ago, he’d also been informed of the woman’s great compassion for the Africans whom her late husband had held as slaves. But his expectations had not come close to the fervor he’d witnessed since then.

“I know that, Sir Oliver.”

“For all we know, he might already own this woman. In the same way that he has been acquiring all of the late squire’s notes, he may have done the same with Dombey. This may just be Jasper Hyde’s way of draining the last of your available funds.”

As his words sank in, Millicent’s shoulders sagged. Wiping a tear from her face, she turned and started pushing her way toward the carriage. Halfway out of the yard, though, she swung around and raised a hand.

“One hundred ten.”

A round of exclamations erupted from the crowd. Gradually, people parted until she was facing the pale-faced clerk across the mud and dirt of the yard. Having already retreated to back edge of the crowd, the man shook his headat the auctioneer and looked back at Millicent.

“Lady Wentworth can have her Negro at the price of a hundred ten pounds.”

The mocking tones of the man, accompanied by his sneer, caused the sailors to lose the last of their restraint, and two took off after him. The clerk turned and bolted from the yard. Watching him run, Birch felt the urge to go after the clerk himself. There was no doubt in the lawyer’s mind that this ordeal had been arranged. In a moment, the sailors returned empty-handed.

She laid her hand gently on his arm. “Regardless of Mr. Hyde’s actions, I had to save this woman’s life, Sir Oliver.”

Millicent Gregory Wentworth could not be considered a great beauty, nor could her sense of style be called au courant by the standards of London’s ton. But what she lacked in those areas—and in the false pride so fashionable of late—she made up in dignity and humanity. And all of this despite a lifetime of oppression and bad luck.

Birch nodded respectfully to his client. “Why not wait in the carriage, m’lady. I would be happy to take care of the details here.”

A small writing desk was being handed up and placed exactly where the slave woman had stood a moment earlier. Millicent watched several members of the crowd edge forward for a better look at the piece of furniture. They were far more interested in this item than in the human being who was auctioned off before it. Only the competition of the bidding had attracted their attention. She turned to watch the woman being led across the yard, with Sir Oliver trailing behind.

Appalled by the entire proceeding, Millicent pushed her way through the crowd to the carriage.

“She will be brought to my office this afternoon,” Birch said as soon as he had climbed in some time later. “And, since you do not wish to have her delivered to your sister’s home, I’ll arrange for a place for her to stay until you’re ready to leave for Melbury Hall.”

“Thank you. We shall be leaving tomorrow morning,” Millicent replied.

“Rest assured, m’lady, everything will be handled with the utmost discretion.”

“I know it will,” she said quietly, looking out the small window of the carriage at the door of the shed where the old woman had been taken.Millicent couldn’t help but worry about how much more pain these horrible people would inflict on her before she was delivered to the lawyer’s office that afternoon.

As they rode along in silence through the city, she thought of the money she’d just spent. A hundred ten pounds was equivalent to seven months’ worth of salaries of all twenty servants she employed at Melbury Hall, not counting the field hands. It was true that the purchase of the black woman would cut deeply into her rapidly diminishing funds. And she wasn’t even considering the money that she needed to pay Jasper Hyde next month. Millicent rubbed her fingers over a dull ache in her temple and tried to think only of how much good it would do, bringing this woman back to Hertfordshire.

“Lady Wentworth,” the lawyer said finally, breaking the silence as they drew near their destination, “we can’t put off discussing your appointment with the Dowager Countess Aytoun any longer. I’m still completely in the dark concerning why we are going there.”

“That makes two of us, Sir Oliver,” she replied tiredly. “Her note summoning—or rather, inviting me—to meet with her arrived three days ago at Melbury Hall, and her groom stayed until I sent her an answer. I was to arrive at the Earl of Aytoun’s town house in Hanover Square today at eleven this morning with my attorney. Nothing more was said.”

“This sounds very abrupt. Do you know the countess?”

Millicent shook her head. “I do not. But then again, a year ago I didn’t know Mr. Jasper Hyde, either. Nor the other half-dozen creditors who have endeavored to come after me from every quarter since Wentworth’s death.” She pulled the cloak tighter around herself. “One thing I’ve learned this past year and a half is that there is no hiding from those to whom my husband owed money. I have to face them—one by one—and try to make some reasonable arrangement to pay them back.”

“You know that I admire you greatly in your efforts, but we both know you’re encumbered almost beyond the point of recovery already.” He paused. “You have some very generous friends, Lady Wentworth. If you would allow me to reveal to them just a hint of your hardship⁠—”

“No, sir,” she said sharply. “I find no shame in being poor. But I find great dishonor in begging. Please, I don’t care to hear any more.”

“As you wish, m’lady.”

Millicent nodded gratefully at her lawyer. Sir Oliver had already served her well, and she trusted that he would honor her request.

“To set your mind a little at ease, though,” he continued, “you should know that the Dowager Countess Aytoun is socially situated far differently than Mr. Hyde, or your late husband. She’s a woman of great wealth, but she’s rumored to be exceedingly…well, careful with her money. Some say she’s so tightfisted that her own servants must struggle to receive their wages. In short, I cannot see her lending any money to Squire Wentworth.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. I should have known that with your attention to detail we would not be walking into this meeting totally unprepared. What else have you learned about her?”

“A few things, m’lady. Lady Pennington’s given name is Beatrice. She’s been a widow for over five years. She’s Scottish by birth, with the blood of Highlanders in her veins. She comes from an ancient family, and she married well besides.”

“She has children?”

“Three sons. All men now. Lyon Pennington is the fourth Earl of Aytoun. The second son, Pierce Pennington, has apparently been making a fortune in the American colonies despite the embargo. And David Pennington, the youngest, is an officer in His Majesty’s army. The countess herself led a very quiet life until the scandal that tore her family apart occurred this past summer.”

“Scandal?”

Sir Oliver nodded. “Indeed, m’lady. It involved a young lady named Emma Douglas. I understand all three brothers were fond of her. She ended up marrying the oldest brother and became the countess of Aytoun two years ago.”

That hardly sounded scandalous, but Millicent had no chance to ask any more questions as their carriage rolled to a stop in front of an elegant mansion facing Hanover Square. A footman in gold-trimmed livery greeted them as he opened the door of the carriage. Another servant escorted them up the wide marble steps to the front door.

Inside the mansion’s entrance hall, yet another servant greeted them. As Millicent shed her cloak, her gaze took in the semicircular alcove at the far end of the hall and the ornate gilded scrolls and rosettes that decorated the high patterned ceiling. In a receiving area beyond an open set of doors, she could see upholstered furniture of deep walnut by Sheraton and Chippendale tastefully arranged about the room, while handsome carpets covered the brightly polished floors.

A tall, elderly steward approached and informed them that the dowager was waiting.

“What was the nature of the scandal?” she managed to whisper as they followed the steward and another servant up the sweeping circular stairs to a drawing room.

“Just rumors, m’lady,” Birch whispered, “to the effect that the earl murdered his wife.”

“But that is⁠—”

She stopped as the door to the drawing room was opened. Trying to contain her shock and curiosity, Millicent entered as they were announced.

There were four people in the cozy, well-appointed room: the dowager countess, a pale gentleman standing by a desk that had a ledger book open on it, and two lady’s maids.

Lady Aytoun was an older woman, obviously in ill health. She was sitting on a sofa with pillows propped behind her and a blanket on her lap. Blue eyes studied the visitors from behind a pair of spectacles.

Millicent gave a small curtsy. “Our apologies, my lady, for being delayed.”

“Did you win the auction?” The dowager’s abruptness caused Millicent to look over in surprise at Sir Oliver. He appeared as baffled as she was. “The African woman. Did you win the auction?”

“I…I did,” she managed to get out. “But how did you know about it?”

“How much?”

Millicent bristled at the inquiry, but at the same time she felt no shame for what she’d done. “One hundred ten pounds. Though I must tell you I don’t know what business it is of⁠—”

“Add it to the tally, Sir Richard.” The dowager waved a hand at the gentleman still standing by the desk. “A worthy cause.”

Sir Oliver stepped forward. “May I say, m’lady⁠—”

“Pray, save the idle prattle, young man. Come and sit. Both of you.”

Millicent’s lawyer, who probably hadn’t been addressed as “young man” in decades, stared openmouthed for a moment. Then, as he and Millicent did as they were instructed, the countess dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand.

“Very well. I know both of you, and you know me. That pasty-faced bag of bones over there is my lawyer, Sir Richard Maitland.” The old woman arched an eyebrow in the direction of her attorney, who bowed stiffly and sat. “And now, the reason why I invited you here.”

Millicent could not even hazard a guess as to what was coming next.

“People acting on my behalf have been reporting to me about you for some time now, Lady Wentworth. You have surpassed my expectations.” Lady Aytoun removed her spectacles. “No reason for dallying. You’re here because I have a business proposition.”

“A business proposition?” Millicent murmured.

“Indeed. I want you to marry my son, the Earl of Aytoun. By a special license. Today.”

2

Faced with the threat of another life in hell, Millicent shot to her feet. In an instant, propriety and decorum were cast to the winds.

“You’ve made a grave mistake, Lady Aytoun.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your servant must have delivered the message to a wrong address.”

“Sit down, Lady Wentworth.”

“I’m afraid I cannot.” She glanced in the direction of her lawyer and found him standing as well.

“If you please, Lady Wentworth. There is no reason for panic.” The dowager’s tone was gentler. “I’m well aware of your fears. I have been advised fully of the suffering you endured during your marriage. But what I’m proposing to you now has no similarity to the situation you were forced to endure under the brutal tyranny of your first husband.”

Millicent stared at the old woman, trying to understand how she could know any of that. The dowager was speaking of her life as if it were public knowledge, and a queasy feeling gripped her stomach. The urge to run for the door was strong. She wanted nothing more than to go out of the house and return to Melbury Hall.

To Millicent, marriage meant being owned by a man. She had felt the chains of that “blissful” state for five endless years. There was no protection for a married woman. Marriage was a state of mental and physical abuse. Period. The vows of matrimony were nothing more than a curse contrived by men to control women. And after Wentworth’s death, she had sworn never to allow herself to be subjugated to that life again.

Millicent took a step toward the door.

“At least allow me to explain my purpose for this confusion.” The dowager raised a hand to her. “I know at first I spoke in haste. I believe if you would be so kind as to allow me to explain the unpleasant situation in which I find my family, then you will better understand the reason for the offer.”

“Any explanation of your family’s situation, m’lady, is completely unnecessary. If you know anything of my history, then you should also know that my revulsion to the very notion of marriage is unrelated to anything you might tell me of your own family. The topic is repugnant to me, Lady Aytoun, and under no circumstances am I willing to⁠—”

“My son is a cripple, Lady Wentworth,” the dowager interrupted. “After a horrible accident last summer, he has been left with no use of his legs. He has no strength in one arm. He has plunged into a state of melancholia from which he cannot lift himself. I thank God for the loyalty and persistence of his personal manservant and a half-dozen others who see to all of his needs, for without them I would have been lost. Indeed, without them I would have had no choice but to place him in a hospital for the insane. I don’t mind telling you that such a situation would surely have killed me.”

The distraught tone of the old woman’s words tugged at Millicent’s heartstrings. “You have my deepest sympathy, m’lady, but I fail to see what I could do.”

The dowager’s hands trembled as they absently straightened the blanket on her lap. “Despite all of my bravado, Lady Wentworth, I’m quite ill. To be blunt, I’m dying. And my physicians, the devil take them, are very happy to give me daily reminders that I might not see the next sunrise.”

“Really, m’lady, I⁠—”

“Don’t take me wrong. I don’t give a sin about myself. I’ve had a full life. Right now my greatest worry is what will happen to Lyon when I’m gone. That is why I have asked you here today.”

“But…but surely there are other options. Family. Friends. Other acquaintances who are not complete strangers to you. Lord Aytoun is a peer of the realm. You have so many venues available to you, so many treatments.”

“Please, Lady Wentworth. Please sit down. I’ll explain.”

Millicent turned and found Birch standing attentively a couple of steps away, awaiting her decision whether to go or stay. She looked back at the aging countess. The façade of strength she had encountered in the dowager when first entering was completely gone. What Millicent saw now was simply another woman. A dying woman. A mother who was just trying to secure the future well-being of her son.

She hesitantly sat down. The expression of relief on the dowager’s face was immediate.

“Thank you. You asked about family. Well, those remaining believe that if something were to happen to me, then Lyon should be put in a madhouse.” Temper flashed in the old woman’s blue eyes. “The Earl of Aytoun is not mad. He doesn’t belong in Bedlam. I won’t have him tied and tortured, bled and purged, dosed with opium and put on display for the rest of London’s ton.”

“But there must be other treatments for his condition. Every day there seems to be a new cure for yet another ailment.”

“I have tried every method and paid a great deal of money, and seen no improvement in him. Just this past week, there was an advertisement in the Gazette by a Mr. Payne at the Angel and Crown in St. Paul’s Churchyard. It claimed that sufferers from ‘loss of memory or forgetfulness’ for two shillings six pence could buy a pot of ‘a grateful electuary’ that would enable them to ‘remember the minutest circumstances of their affairs to a wonder.’ I had Lyon try it, hoping to spur some response in him. Nothing.” She gave a dismissive wave. “I’m tired of the charlatans and the Merry-Andrews who eagerly endorse the claims of these quacks. I’m tired of giving my son highly colored pills that have no good in them at all. You see, his legs and arm were broken, but now they are healed, and yet he has no ability to move them. He cannot walk. He cannot even lift his right arm. So the so-called doctors say he must have a secret disease. Those from the university have but one answer: Bleed him and bleed him again. But it has no effect.”

“I’m sorry, m’lady⁠—”

“So am I,” the dowager said, looking at her directly. “But I’ll have no more of that. And I’ll have no madhouse for my son. And I’ll definitely have no more of these quacks with their dung tea, stewed owls, and crushed worms. I’m done with them all.”

“I know there are many, many charlatans out there. But there must be some reputable doctors, as well.”

“Aye, there are. But the reputable ones, as you call them, are also at their wit’s end. Aside from bleeding and purging, their only other suggestion is to keep him sedated.”

“Why? Is he violent?”

“Of course not,” the dowager assured her. “But he has been terribly unhappy at Baronsford, the Aytoun family seat southeast of Edinburgh. That’s where the accident happened. In fact, this past fall he went so far as to insist on transferring control of all his inherited properties to his brother Pierce, my second son. Not that his hasty decision did any good for anyone. Pierce is not in England at present, and he has no interest whatsoever in the family fortune. Besides, Lyon is the earl. He’s the one to whom our dependents look up to and—” She abruptly stopped and waved a dismissive hand. “But Baronsford is the least of my problems right now. The reason I brought it up is so you would know why I needed to get him away from it. I need to find my son a place where he won’t be reminded of his past and what he has lost.”

Millicent’s nerves had once again settled. She was calm enough to realize that no one could force her into anything. The choices were hers; so were the consequences. “I still can’t see how your proposal could improve the earl’s life. I’m no physician, and I’m hardly capable of⁠—”

“He needs to be out of Scotland. He needs a home with people who will care for him. Since your husband’s death, it is no secret that you have provided a safe haven for the people Squire Wentworth enslaved.” The dowager paused for a moment before continuing. “But you should know that I intend to make this arrangement as advantageous to you as it is for my son.”

Without waiting for the younger woman’s response, she motioned to her lawyer to hand her a large sheet of paper lined in the ledger style of banking clerks.

“My dear, this is a summary of all the loans and promissory notes that Squire Wentworth left you. We went to a great deal of difficulty in gathering them together. It may be that there are some that we have missed. Your lawyer here can scan them at his leisure and let us know. And as you know, there are a number of individuals who take great enjoyment in revealing the painful layers of your indebtedness just to watch you unravel.”

Millicent reached for the proffered paper and glanced down the list of debts. The totals at the bottom were huge, but she would not allow her distress to show. She’d known for some time that she was drowning. The depth of the water made very little difference. The end result was the same. She handed the paper to Sir Oliver.

“What is it exactly that you propose, Lady Aytoun?” she asked dully.

“A marriage in name only. A business arrangement, pure and simple. If you were to agree to the terms, the Earl of Aytoun will come to reside with you at Melbury Hall. But he will arrive with his own manservant and servants. We have a new doctor who can travel up from London on a regular basis. All you need to do is arrange for space for these people. In return, my lawyer Maitland here will have all the debts listed on that paper—and any others that are unfamiliar to us—paid in full. In addition, these two gentlemen will settle on a generous amount that will be paid to you on a monthly basis to support the upkeep of Melbury Hall. It will be more than enough for you to continue to pursue your causes.”

Millicent’s head reeled with all that the dowager had just proposed. She had spent endless nights awake, tossing and turning as she worried about her expenses. The last six months had been especially difficult. Lady Aytoun was offering her an opportunity to free herself of the shackles of her husband’s debts once and for all. But the thought of the price she would have to pay kept pushing itself forward in her mind with terrifying clarity. Marriage again.

“What will happen to our arrangement, m’lady, if the Earl of Aytoun recovers from this affliction?”

“I’m afraid there is no hope. No doctor who has seen him recently believes…” The countess paused to quiet a quaver in her voice. “None of them believes there is any chance of him recovering.”

“But he might.”

“I envy your optimism.”

“I want a provision in the agreement that, in the event of his recovery, a divorce will be uncontested.”

The dowager glanced at her lawyer.

Sir Richard nodded curtly, rising from his chair. “Considering the nature of the marriage and the earl’s present health, an annulment or a divorce could certainly be arranged.”

Sir Oliver agreed. “His present state of mind makes it an arguable case for annulment.”

Millicent couldn’t believe how far she had been persuaded. In her mind, she was actually weighing the benefits versus the loss, and the scale was definitely tipping.

“Anything else? Any concerns that you have been left with?”

The dowager’s question lifted Millicent’s chin. “Aye, m’lady. Why me? I’m a stranger to you. Why did you decide on me?”

“We did not settle on you without serious consideration. Faced with my requirements, my lawyer here had a great challenge laid at his door. His search has been painstaking. But I must tell you that your history and your reputation for goodness, combined with all that Sir Richard was able to gather about your present financial situation, made you the perfect candidate.” The older woman nodded approvingly. “I hope you’re not offended by the amount of poking and prodding that my people have been doing into your past and present affairs. When they concluded, there was very little about you that I did not know.”

Millicent raised a curious brow. For all her life, she had maintained a very private lifestyle. She doubted there was much out there for anyone to dig into.

“This surprises me, m’lady, and I should like to hear a sample of what your people might have discovered about me.”

“If you wish. You are Millicent Gregory Wentworth, twenty-nine years of age. You have been widowed for a year and a half. You were entered into an arranged marriage by your family.”

“These are facts easily obtainable. They don’t say anything about the person.”

“That is true. But my meeting with you today has settled my mind about that. With the exception of an overnight stay at their residence now and then, as in the case of this trip to London, you’re practically estranged from your kin. Not that I blame you. Your family consists of two older sisters and an uncle whom you do not trust, since he gave you to Wentworth without any inquiries into the man’s character.” The old woman’s hand smoothed the blanket tightly over her lap. “There is little correspondence between any of your family. During your five years of marriage, you never once confided to any of them about the abuse you were receiving at the hands of your husband. You have very few close friends, but your pride does not allow you to ask for help, even when you’re desperate. What else? Yes, you’re involved in freeing your slaves⁠—”

“My late husband’s slaves.”

“Indeed. Partly because of your efforts to correct that situation, however, you’re on the verge of being crushed under the resulting financial burdens.” The dowager’s gaze swept over Millicent’s face. “On a much more trivial level, you appear contented with your unadorned looks and your obvious disinterest in style. Actually, you have never been an active member of London’s fashionable set and, since becoming a widow, have taken shelter within the walls of your country residence, Melbury Hall, at Hertfordshire.”

“I have missed nothing important by staying in the country, m’lady.”

“Quite true. And this attitude is one of the things that I find most advantageous. You will not miss the parties in town during the Season nor hold a grudge against your husband for not escorting you to London, or Bath, or wherever the ton is running wild at the moment. In addition, you’re a bright woman who is endowed with great compassion. You have finally discovered the value of independence, and you’re now striving to wield the power that goes along with it. But to succeed, you could very well use the protection of a husband’s name to keep the wolves from the door.”

The battle inside Millicent raged. She did indeed need the protection of a husband’s name in order to pursue her goals. Already she had found it nearly impossible to hire and keep a capable steward to manage Melbury Hall. Even in going to an auction by the Thames, she found that society demanded the presence of a male overseer, since obviously a man had such a higher level of intelligence than any woman.

Millicent did her best to control her temper and instead thought of her best friend’s story of the ten years that she had spent in Philadelphia. Going under the assumed name of Mrs. Ford, Rebecca had used the ruse of having a husband to establish herself and a newborn in that city.

“What do you think of the offer, Lady Wentworth?”

Millicent shook off her struggle and met the dowager’s direct gaze. “Why today? What is the significance of this marriage taking place today?”

“You don’t stay away from Melbury Hall more than a day or two at the most. My guess is that you’re traveling back there tomorrow morning.”

“I am.”

“When I add that to my physicians’ predictions about the scarcity of sunsets and sunrises in my future, I could not bring myself to tempt fate by waiting. There is too much at stake.”

“How does his lordship feel about this great scheme you have been devising?”

The dowager drew a deep breath and released it before answering. “I didn’t know if I would be able to convince you, but I explained to my son that it would be out of your need for financial support and not out of charity that the marriage might be arranged. Once he heard that, he was resigned to it. He’ll not be pitied. Whatever else might be stripped from Lyon, he will always have his pride.”

Lyon Pennington, fourth Earl of Aytoun, remained motionless in the seat before the window. The muscles of the peer’s gaunt face were drawn tight beneath the dark, untrimmed beard. His eyes were fixed on an invisible point somewhere out beyond the glass, out amid the dreary scenery of Hanover Square.

The earl’s two valets had laid out a brocade coat, a silk waistcoat, a black cravat, breeches, stockings, and silver buckled shoes for the wedding. Neither man dared to approach him and they stood by the door, exchanging nervous looks.

“She’s here,” a young woman whispered, coming in with a tray of tea.

She hurried to put the tray down on a table near the earl. With a curtsy, she backed away and returned to where the men were standing.

“The dowager thinks,” she whispered to one of them, “that the visitor will be looking to meet with his lordship before the ceremony.”

Another serving girl walked in carrying a tray of pastries. Following her, the earl’s man Gibbs entered the chamber.

“What’re ye waiting for?” he growled at the valets. “His lordship should be dressed by now.”

As Gibbs took a step toward them, the two men moved to do his bidding. The earl’s man was as tall and as broad as the great oaks in the deer park at Baronsford, and they both had felt the weight of his displeasure in the past. One of the valets reached for his master’s buckskin breeches. He looked uneasily at his lanky fellow servant, who was picking up Lord Aytoun’s shirt. They were both still hesitant to approach the master.

The one called John whispered warily to Gibbs, “’Slordship was none too keen about dressin’ this mornin’.”

The two serving maids hurriedly escaped the chamber.

“Aye, Mr. Gibbs,” the other valet put in quietly. “By ‘slife, sir, Lord Aytoun near killed us both while we was tryin’ to dress ‘im. Not till we gave him the tonic the new doctor left for ‘im did he settle down at all.”

“His lordship had that already this morning!” Gibbs exploded, quickly lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. “’Tis not to be given any bloody time ye fancy giving it to him.”

“Aye, sir. But what he had weren’t enough.”

“If I had the time right now to wring your necks and kick ye from here to…” Gibbs tried to compose himself. “But the lack of time is going to save yer bloody arses. The company is already downstairs, and he’s still not dressed.”

“’Tis only a minute or two that he’s calmed ‘imself.”

Scowling at them, he motioned for the two men to follow him as he moved to the earl’s chair. “M’lord?”

Lyon’s gaze never wavered from the window. He was neither asleep nor awake. Gibbs closed the shutters and stepped in front of the sitting man again.

“We need to get you ready for company, m’lord.”

The earl’s face was blank as he looked up at the three men now standing before him.

“Lady Wentworth and her lawyer have arrived, sir,” the earl’s manservant said calmly, pulling the blanket off the man’s unmoving legs. “The bishop has been waiting in the library an hour. Ye’re expected, m’lord.”

One of the valets reached down to undo the buttons of the double-breasted dressing gown. Perceiving the scowl being directed at him by his ailing master, he stopped and shrank back a step.

“Put me in the bed,” Lyon growled in slurred tones.

“I cannot, m’lord. Her ladyship insisted that we should have ye ready.”

With no thought for the legs that did not move—that had not supported him in months—the Earl of Aytoun pushed himself up from the chair. Before the hands of his panicked servants could reach him, he fell heavily to the floor.

“Bloody hell…!”

“…landed on ‘is right arm!”

“Help me roll him off it.” Gibbs was down on his knees beside the earl in an instant.

“I ‘eard the doctor say he’d have a surgeon amputate if that arm breaks again.”

Gibbs flashed John a killing look for his comment and gently turned the earl over.

Lyon Pennington was as large a man as Gibbs. His months of confinement had detracted somewhat from his prior robustness, but moving him still required several men. Even more when he was not in the best of tempers.

“M’lord, if I may remind ye…” Gibbs gingerly bent and straightened the earl’s right arm. The bone didn’t appear to be broken again. “Your lordship promised the dowager that ye would go through with this plan of hers.”

“Put me back in bed.” Anger was woven tightly into the words that escaped his lips. His good hand formed a fist and pounded once on the floor. “Now!”

“Your mother had another sick spell last night, m’lord. We had to send for the doctor.” Gibbs crouched nearby, knowing better than to maneuver the earl when his anger was on the edge of exploding. The man’s blue eyes were boring holes in the manservant’s head. “The only thing pushing her from her sickbed this morning was your promise to abide by her wish. If she hears that ye have decided to throw it all down the well, then that could be the last straw. If ye please, m’lord, her ladyship has gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange this for ye. I’m thinking ye might give her a wee bit of peace for the few days she might have left in this world.”

Whether it was the sedating medicine the valets had administered earlier or the realization on the earl’s part that he had few choices left, Gibbs couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, the servant was relieved when Lyon Pennington didn’t fight them when they lifted him again into the chair.

“And what of this woman, Gibbs?” he muttered. “Do you think this new bride of mine will ever have so much as a moment’s peace?”

3

Jasper Hyde pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and looked at it. It was nearly three in the afternoon, though there was no sign of his blasted clerk or Platt, either.

White’s Club was crowded, as it was every day, and Hyde glanced around at the other gentlemen. He was beginning to recognize some of the faces of the players and the others who simply milled about drinking and being entertained by the sight of those intent on losing their fortunes. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day it was here; the card and dice tables were nearly always full. Hyde knew, though, that the crowd would soon start to thin as some went off to the dinners and parties and the many other vices that London offered in abundance.

Hyde stared at the dice cup in the Earl of Winchelsea’s hand. He himself had already lost more than he cared to, but he knew it was well worth it to be rubbing shoulders with such members of the ton. And it didn’t hurt to lose money to them, either.

“All bets down,” the periwigged croupier called in a bored voice.

Behind the man, by the large open hearth, a harpist and horn player were playing, and the director was upbraiding a servant for being slow with his delivery of a bottle of wine to a hazard table in the corner.

Lord Winchelsea rattled the dice once more for luck and rolled them out onto the table.

“Seven.” The men crowded around the table responded with groans and shouts of victory, depending on their wagers, and Hyde watched Winchelsea smile arrogantly as the dice were passed back to him.

“Now this is what I call a celebration,” Winchelsea said to the Earl of Carlisle, standing to his left. The other nobleman snorted in response, and Winchelsea smiled at Jasper Hyde. “Still betting with my erstwhile friend here, Hyde?”

The plantation owner glanced down at the quickly dwindling sum before him. Hyde knew the young earl had easily lost three thousand pounds this week. Winchelsea’s luck, however, had definitely turned today.

“If you don’t mind, m’lord, I believe I shall wager with you.”

“Smart move, Hyde. By the way, I have reserved a private room at Clifton’s Chophouse down by the Temple Bar before we go on to Drury Lane. Care to join us there for dinner?”

“I would be delighted.” Extremely pleased at being included, Hyde doubled his initial wager on the table.

“Considering your good news today, you should invite everyone here for dinner,” Lord Carlisle challenged.

“Damn me, but you’re right about that, Carlisle. You can all come.” Winchelsea started rattling the dice cup amid of the loud laughter and calls of approval by those gathered around the table.

“If I maybe so bold as to ask, m’lord, what is the nature of your good news?”

Carlisle answered Hyde’s question. “Rumor has it that our friend’s chief nemesis is escaping to the country first thing in the morning.”

“Aytoun is leaving London?” someone said from across the room.

“Carried away from London, to be more accurate,” Lord Carlisle answered.

“Finally sending him to Bedlam, are they?” the same person asked.

“Despite my heartfelt recommendation, no.” Winchelsea shook the cup more savagely. “But he’s being sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment all the same. We hear that he’s getting married again this afternoon.”

“All bets down,” the croupier intoned.

“What simpleton would give their daughter to him?” another person asked. “Didn’t he kill his first wife?”

“That was only an unsubstantiated rumor,” Carlisle said in defense of the absent nobleman. “No truth to it whatsoever.”

“I disagree with that,” Winchelsea argued, putting the cup of dice on the table. “Having faced the man’s brutal temperament, I find him perfectly capable of murdering his wife.”

“You faced Aytoun’s ‘brutal’ temperament because you were dallying with his wife,” Carlisle scoffed. “And you just say that now because he was the only man to best you in a duel. You’ve only just lately stopped complaining of the shoulder wound you sustained against him. If you’d beaten him, I say you would not be slandering him with such accusations.”

“Are you accusing me?” Winchelsea challenged hotly.

“No…and you won’t convince me to face you in the park in the crack of dawn, either, my friend.” Carlisle handed the cup of dice back to the earl. “I say we continue with our celebration and let Aytoun and his new wife just go to hell.”

Voices rose in agreement around the table at that. Still scowling at his friend, Winchelsea grudgingly took the cup and rolled out the dice.

“Six,” the croupier declared, handing back the dice.

Carlisle smiled smugly. “Hope this doesn’t mean your luck has changed.”

“Wishful thinking on your part.”

“Next we’ll be hearing that your tailor’s at the door waiting to be paid.”

“You are the devil himself, Carlisle, to wish such horrible things upon me.”

Paying no regard to the give and take of the two men, Hyde closely followed the roll of the dice across the table again. Seven. Winchelsea’s violent curse was mild compared to how Hyde felt at that moment. Losing five hundred guineas at a single throw might be insignificant among this group of gentry, but for Hyde it was another link in a lengthening chain of bad luck.

The plantation owner held his breath as a stabbing pain suddenly wracked his chest and shoulders. Hyde waited until the spasms subsided. He knew they would pass, and he didn’t want to draw any attention to them. Occurring with no warning and more and more frequently of late, the sharp pains came and went, but not before draining him of his vigor. He leaned on the table.

The dice cup passed on to Lord Carlisle, and once again wagers were being laid on the table. Turning his head, Hyde was relieved to see his lawyer finally appear at the doorway. He made his excuses at the table and made his way across the room to where Platt stood waiting. Without saying a word, the lawyer led him down the stairs to where the clerk, Harry, stood squirming just inside the front door.

A servant handed Hyde his cane and hat and gloves and helped him on with his overcoat. All the while, Hyde kept his gaze fixed on his servant.The pain in his chest had started to ease a little, but the air in his chest was scarce.

Hyde motioned to the two new arrivals to follow him into a small chamber beside the entryway. It was obvious that all had not gone as planned.

“Where is she?”

Platt closed the door of the chamber before breaking the news. “Harry was not able to buy the slave woman.”

Rage, like a strong gust of wind, rushed through him in a single sweep. The clerk shrank back against the wall as the end of Hyde’s cane jabbed him hard in the chest. “You had your instructions. All you had to do was to continue to bid on her until you won her.”

“I did, sir. But the price kept climbing.”

“Lady Wentworth showed up at the auction unexpectedly,” Platt offered from a safe distance.

“I couldn’t win the woman, sir, but I made her ladyship pay a fortune for her. She was a worthless refuse slave.”

Jasper Hyde’s fury boiled over, and he struck the man hard on the side of the head with the cane. “You are the worthless refuse. I should turn you out now. Did you hear nothing of what I told you before? Your specific instructions were to bid up and win that slave. What worry is it of yours about the price?”

“But she went for a hundred ten pounds, master,” Harry blurted out, rubbing his head with one hand and ready to deflect the next blow with the other. “And the crowds were against me. They thought I was pushing the price up on Lady Wentworth and took her side, sir. I looked for yer carriage, but ye and Mr. Platt here were nowheres to be seen. I never thought ye’d be meaning to go anywhere above fifty pound. But I braced myself and went double, and⁠—”

The cane flashed again, striking the clerk on his upraised wrist and causing him to howl in pain.

“This will solve nothing,” Platt said nervously. “There are other ways of getting the slave back.”

Jasper Hyde labored to breathe as he sank onto a nearby chair. He gripped his cane with both hands and tried to fight the pain that was once again raging through him.

“It is fortunate that Lady Wentworth was the one winning the slave,” Platt offered reasonably.“She owes you a fortune in promissory notes. And she has no credit available to her at all. She bid five times the value of the slave woman and might not even have enough funds available to pay for the purchase. Either through Dombey’s creditors or Lady Wentworth’s lawyer, I could have the slave woman in your possession by the end of the week.”

Hyde considered that for a moment, waiting for the pain to pass. When he stood up, the clerk, Harry, cowered against the wall. The plantation owner turned to Platt.

“You make certain of that,” Jasper Hyde instructed his lawyer. “Time is running short.”

The articles lay before her on the brick hearth of the small fireplace. They were no more than a few things Ohenewaa had been able to hide in the sleeves of her ragged shift. A few stones, the crumbled broken bark of a tree, some dried leaves, a small satchel with a few strands of hair. The old woman poured a few drops of water onto the hearth and placed a small piece of bread as an offering next to the charms. She had much for which to give thanks, and she knew the spirits were listening as she knelt by the makeshift altar.

Reaching into the hearth, Ohenewaa took a fistful of warm ashes and spread them on her face and hands and arms. The ancient chant started low in her chest. Rocking back and forth where she sat, she thanked the Supreme Being, Onyame, for her deliverance from Jasper Hyde. She chanted her gratitude for having the shackles once again removed from her hands and feet and neck.

What was to become of her was still a mystery. She had been delivered to the office of the lawyer, Sir Oliver Birch, in the early afternoon. The tall Englishman had the name of a tree, she thought. Perhaps he had a soul, as well.

The lawyer had looked in on her a little later and had explained that the lady at the wharf had already signed the papers freeing her. A free woman, he had said. The words were difficult to comprehend fully. A free woman.

But the lawyer had also said that this same woman, Lady Wentworth, would be pleased if Ohenewaa would accompany her to her country estate in Hertfordshire. The lawyer had explained that there were many freed slaves who lived and worked at Melbury Hall, and Lady Wentworth thought that Ohenewaa might know some of them from her years in Jamaica.

Ohenewaa remembered the name Wentworth very well. She remembered clearly the people’s celebration when news of Squire Wentworth’s death reached the sugar plantations in Jamaica. But that was before Jasper Hyde’s iron fist had closed around their throats.

At the sound of a knock on the door, she ceased her chanting. The door slowly opened, and a young woman’s face appeared, peering in with uncertainty. “May I come in?”

The blue eyes were large and curious, taking in the articles on the hearth. They turned soft and the lips thinned when she looked at the ragged shift and the blanket covering Ohenewaa. Neither bit of cloth did much to hide the ugly bruises around her collar or her wrists.

“I’m Violet,” the young woman said softly, opening the door a little. Ohenewaa could see the woman was holding a tray in her arms, but she didn’t enter immediately. “I’m Lady Wentworth’s personal maid. She sent me here to see to your needs until we are ready to leave for Melbury Hall tomorrow morning. May I come in?”

Ohenewaa studied the young woman’s pretty dress, no doubt a hand-me-down from her lady’s wardrobe. The old woman nodded slowly, but did not rise.

“They told me there was some water and bread left here, but I brought you some hot food. My lady said that—good as he is—we shouldn’t put too much faith in an old bachelor like Sir Oliver.” She placed the tray she was carrying on the table beside the narrow bed and glanced around. A pitcher of water and a washbasin were on a small chest by the foot of the bed.

“I’m sorry not to have thought of bringing you a dress to change into. But I’ll leave you my cloak, and we’ll be at Melbury Hall by tomorrow afternoon. Once we get there, Lady Wentworth—and Mrs. Page and Amina, of course—will see to it that you have everything you need.”

The girl rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “Would you mind if I added some more wood to the fire? It’s really quite cold in here.”

Ohenewaa was surprised that the servant asked. The girl was waiting for permission from an old slave.

“Do as you please.”

Rubbing the chafed skin on her wrists, Ohenewaa pushed herself to her feet and went to sit on the edge of the bed. The young woman walked cautiously—perhaps even respectfully, she thought—around the items on the hearth before kneeling down and stacking more wood in the fireplace.

“You were praying,” Violet said. Soft golden curls framed the woman’s pale face when she glanced over her shoulder at Ohenewaa. “I admire that.”

“As a Christian, that does not bother you?”

“No. I admire it. This is an altar, is it not? I know you see the altar as the threshold of heaven, as the ‘face of God’, more or less.”

“How is it that you know as much?”

“I have many African friends at Melbury Hall, and I have the opportunity of spending many hours with them, especially with the women. For some of them, their beliefs are much stronger than mine, even if they aren’t…well, strictly Christian.”

“Is that so?”

“I realized, for one thing, that they believe they are never alone, despite being taken away from their kin, as they were. They believe the spirits of their ancestors are always with them.”

“You don’t like to be alone.”

“No. To be honest, I do not.” Violet shook her head and stood up. “And I’m glad you’re coming back with us. I’ll be back in a moment. I need to find a tinderbox.”

Ohenewaa watched the servant leave the room, and she stared at the open door. For the first time in her sixty years of living, she was free.