The Promise E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Pennington Family Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 592

Beschreibung

PREQUEL TO THE PENNINGTON FAMILY SERIES   TO PROTECT On a desperate journey to America, Rebecca Neville promises the dying wife of the Earl of Stanmore to raise and care for her newborn son, James. Once in the New World, Rebecca begins her new life, as a mother... TO CHERISH Ten years later, the Earl of Stanmore learns of the fate of his family. He sends to the colonies for his young heir so he can raise him as a peer of the realm. With no intention of forsaking her vow, Rebecca returns to England with James to face a future without her beloved charge. But she must also face her tumultuous past... TO LOVE At first glance, the formidable Stanmore sends Rebecca reeling. But beneath his coldly attractive façade and seeming indifference to his son's plight, emotions roil. For there is more to Stanmore and his motives than meets the eye. The enigmatic lord has his own promise to keep, and a passion for Rebecca that cannot be denied...   About The Promise...   "McGoldrick's gift for characterization extends from the book's courageous heroine and wounded hero down to a fascinating cast of secondary characters, including a viperous villain and a wonderfully scheming mistress. This vibrant Georgian historical is perfect for readers who like a nice mix of history and passion." – Booklist Review (American Library Association)  

Leseprobe

THE PROMISE

MAY MCGOLDRICK

MM Books

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

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Excerpt from Borrowed Dreams

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.

Copyright © 2010 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: MM Books.

First Published by NAL, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc. September 2001

Cover Art by Dar Albert, WickedSmartDesigns.com

Created with Vellum

To our Mothers

1

London, England

July 1760

The nervous hand, fluttering across the worktable, knocked over the inkpot, spreading the liquid on the surface and staining the young woman’s skirt as she leaned quickly to right the well.

“Have mercy, Lord,” Rebecca whispered under her breath as she quickly blotted the ink on the table with used scraps of paper. The sudden appearance of the serving girl at the door only added to her growing anguish. “Ah, Lizzy. You’re back.”

“Sir Charles wants you now, miss, and he ain’t one for waiting.” The serving girl’s quick eyes surveyed the room, taking note of the damage. “You’d best be on your way before the master really gets angry, if you don’t mind me saying. You don’t want him coming after you himself. Here, let me see to this mess.”

Rebecca found herself being pushed aside as Lizzy took charge of cleaning up the spilled ink. She stared for a moment at the rag the serving girl had stuffed into her hand.

“Is Lady Hartington back?”

A knowing smirk crept onto Lizzy’s young face as she scrubbed the surface of the table. “The mistress just left for the opera an hour ago. She won’t be back for hours, I shouldn’t think.”

Rebecca was having no success at all wiping the stain off the palm of her hand. “I think I should go and check on the children. I believe little Sara wasn’t feeling very well during our reading lesson.”

“Maggie’s in with them, miss. And that’s her job, anyways.” Lizzy straightened from wiping the table and met Rebecca’s gaze. “Look, there’s no putting it off. You’d best go off and have done with it. He’ll have his way sooner or later.”

Have done with it! She felt the words reverberate in her mind. Have done with it!

But she’d only been ordered to go down to Sir Charles in his library. Alone. While his wife was gone for the evening. While his children slept only a floor above in their bedrooms.

The shiver that wracked Rebecca’s body was violent. She shoved her trembling hands into the folds of her skirt and started for the door.

“I have to see to this dress first.”

“He won’t care. He won’t give a damn what you’re wearing.” Lizzy’s words rang sharply with experience.

With tears burning her eyes, Rebecca fled the room.

But there was to be no escape as she came face to face with the butler in the corridor leading to the main portion of the house. Desperately, Rebecca tried to fight back her emotions as she stared at the buttons of the man’s dark waistcoat.

“Sir Charles is waiting, miss.”

She could not lift her gaze to meet the old man’s eyes. She knew what Lizzy had said was true. She had sensed it herself. For the fortnight since Sir Charles Hartington had come back from the continent, she’d felt his eyes upon her constantly. Several times he’d come to the room where she tutored his children, leaning over her, pressing against her. His attentions were unmistakable.

What made her think they would stop?

With the continual presence of his wife and the other servants in the house, though, Rebecca had fooled herself, hoping that she would be safe. Safe, at least, until her plea to Mrs. Stockdale was answered. In her letter she had begged her old schoolmistress to begin searching out a new position for her. But even with the new mail coach going directly to Oxford, Mrs. Stockdale may not have received the letter yet.

“You should be going to him now.”

The young woman willed herself to look up at the butler. “I cannot. I think I’ll just remain in my room until Lady Hartington returns.”

The man’s perpetual frown only deepened. “Sir Charles will not be pleased. He is master of this house. If you know what’s best, you’ll do as he bids.”

“I was engaged by Lady Hartington to tutor his children. The children are all abed. My work is finished for the day.”

“If you don’t go down to the library, Sir Charles will surely come up for you. He is not one to be disobeyed, and in the years I’ve served this family, I must tell you I have several times witnessed his temper.” He didn’t have to finish the words. The warning was clear.

The taste of bile was burning in her throat. Rebecca placed a hand against the wall to steady herself. It took a moment for her to find her voice, and to gather her strength. When she spoke, her voice sounded far clearer, far more self-assured, than she’d expected. Far more than she felt.

“I’ll not go down to him, Robert. I believe I’ll go to my room and pack my things. I’m leaving Sir Charles’s service tonight. Now, in fact.”

There was a momentary look of disbelief in the butler’s face. Then, for the briefest of instants, the old man’s eyes glinted with something akin to respect before he bowed and allowed her to pass. But the rewarding feeling she gained from Robert’s approval lasted only as long as her next thought.

Leaving. Tonight. But to where?

Rebecca’s state of mind, as she hurried on, was in total chaos. Where was she to go? It would take her only a moment to pack. As a tutor she had little need for an extensive wardrobe, and she’d brought very little from Oxford. But the uncertainty of where she was to go, in the middle of the night, with no carriage or company or any means of protection. The confusion was nearly paralyzing.

But one thing was clear. Staying in this house even a moment longer than necessary was not a choice.

For as long as Rebecca Neville could remember, she’d lived at Mrs. Stockdale’s Academy for Girls, next to the vicarage of St. George’s in Oxford. Until a month ago, when she left the school at the age of eighteen, she’d never spent a night anywhere else. Until she came to the London mansion of Sir Charles Hartington, she’d never known any other home than the room she’d occupied on the school’s second floor.

As far as she knew, she had no family. Rebecca had only an anonymous benefactor about whom she knew nothing whatsoever. All Mrs. Stockdale would ever say—all she was allowed to say—was that funds for Rebecca’s education and upkeep came twice a year from a law firm in London. Growing up, she’d always envisioned London to be filled with kind and generous benefactors.

Rebecca took her cloak off the peg on the wall. Despite the warmth of the summer night, she wrapped it tightly around her. Opening up her small purse, she quickly counted the money. Three pounds, five shillings, and some copper. Hardly a nest egg, Mrs. Stockdale had said when Rebecca left to take her new position. Nonetheless, her coach fare of four pounds and eight shillings to London had been paid by her employer, Lady Hartington, and with a salary of ten pounds a year plus room and board, Rebecca had been sure she would need nothing more. What Mrs. Stockdale had failed to warn Rebecca about, though, was the danger presented by men like Sir Charles Hartington.

The small window was open to the darkness outside. A breeze, still exceedingly warm, wafted through her chamber. She did not feel it, though. Rebecca was chilled, inside and out.

Tucking her purse inside her traveling bag, she glanced at the small but tidy room that had offered so much hope, so much promise, not a month earlier.

Most of the girls Rebecca’s age who had attended Mrs. Stockdale’s school in Oxford had returned to their well-to-do families some time during the summer of the past year. As she’d watched their carriages roll away, she’d been struck once again with the hard fact that she was the only student with no place to go. She had no future awaiting her beyond the front door of the academy. To Mrs. Stockdale’s credit, the old schoolmistress had never even hinted that she should seek a position, but the young woman had been coming to the realization for a long while that she must take her future in her own hands. She could not live forever on the generosity of her longtime benefactor.

The sound of steps coming down the corridor launched Rebecca into action. She picked up her traveling bag without another moment’s delay and headed straight for the door. Outside, the corridor was empty except for two of the upstairs maidservants who stared at her with surprise as they rushed past. She could hear their whispering as they moved down the hall.

Though her heart was racing, Rebecca’s feet were leaden as she descended the paneled staircase. A tavern on Butchers Row. A clothing shop on Monmouth Street. The household of Sir Roger de Coverley on St. James Square, where she’d heard they were forever in need of servants. All these possibilities of employment presented themselves at this moment of desperation, affirming her decision.

She’d find a position. Perhaps not as a tutor, but as a servant. She’d do anything. All she had to do was to find a place for the night. In the morning she could seek employment in any of the places she’d remembered. There had to be so many more. She’d certainly be fine, if she could only last until morning.

“I did not believe Robert when he told me of your insolent intentions.”

She was only a few paces from the stairs leading to the ground floor. She could see the front door.

“Stop where you are.”

Her steps faltered at the command. Cold panic washed down her back as Sir Charles approached from behind. She gripped her bag tightly and tried to hide her terror as she half turned to him.

“I meant no insolence, sir. I only informed him that I’m leaving your house.”

“With night already upon us? With gangs of young brigands roaming the streets? Why, you’d only find yourself rolled in a barrel down some hill. Or perhaps they’d do something far, far worse.” Rebecca repressed a shudder as he drew near, but his voice was low and his insinuation unmistakable. The smell of brandy and cigars hung in the air. “What kind of a gentleman do you take me for, Miss Neville? Do you think I could possibly allow such a delectable creature as yourself to leave here unprotected?”

“I ask for no protection, sir.” She tried to step away, but the man’s sudden grip on her arm halted her escape. “Sir Charles, please let me go.”

“Not before we get to the bottom of this precipitous decision of yours, Miss Neville.”

She found herself being pulled toward the baronet’s library. With a cry, Rebecca planted her feet and jerked her arm free as she turned sharply to him. “No, sir! I want you to release me this instant.”

The man’s pale blue eyes sharpened in an instant. Color edged into the angular planes of his face, betraying his rising temper. Rebecca took a step back and clutched her traveling bag tightly before her.

“What do you have in that bag?”

His question stunned her, and she looked down uncomprehendingly at the bag. “My belongings.”

“Not very likely, I’d say.” He had Rebecca’s elbow in a death grip before she could utter a word and forcibly dragged her toward the study. A serving maid appeared down the long hallway, and he called out to her. “You. Get Robert and the others. I want this house searched for what’s missing. The silver and the plate. My wife’s jewels. Yes, be sure to check my wife’s jewels.”

Rebecca found herself thrown roughly into Sir Charles’s library, and heard the door slam shut as she whirled around. They were both holding onto her bag, and she released it, backing away from him. With a look of a satisfaction, he turned the key in the lock. Rebecca backed away to the farthest wall until her shoulders were against the shelves of leather-bound books. She could see the look on his face, and it horrified her. Her eyes looked for some avenue of escape. There was none.

“Sir Charles, there is nothing of yours or your wife’s in that bag.”

“My dear Miss Neville. You’re not only young and tender, but a dolt, as well.”

“If you think so poorly of me, sir, then why not let me go.”

He laughed as he tossed her traveling bag aside and shrugged out of his coat. “Letting you go, my dear, is not even a remote possibility. You see, young chits like you need to learn a lesson in life. You are just so very fortunate that I shall be the one to educate you.”

Nearly frozen with panic, she forced herself to move, edging behind the exquisite mahogany desk. Tears burned in her eyes as she saw him reach for the buttons of his waistcoat. “Why me? You can have anyone you want. You have a wife. Please, please. Not me!”

He flashed her a brilliant smile and crossed the room slowly, like a cat on the hunt. “You, my dear, are the one that I must have. You see, you come from—how shall I put it?—from a very fine line.”

She pushed a chair in his path and backed away as he circled the desk. “You’re mistaken. I’m no one. Nothing special. Please, Sir Charles. There can be no satisfaction in ruining a nobody like me.”

“A nobody?” he repeated, unfastening the buttons of his tight breeches. “A nobody you might be with regard to title and fortune, that’s true. But as far as your lineage...” He shook his head. “Nay, my dear. You’re far from a nobody.”

Rebecca was shuddering violently as the front of his breeches fell open. His face was a mask as he continued toward her.

“Do not proceed, Sir Charles. I beg you. You’re mistaken about whoever it is you think I am.”

He stood still for a moment, eyeing her across the desk.

“Mistaken?” He shook his head. “Your secret is out, Miss Neville. But to tell the truth, I had no difficulty at all finding out who you really are. Imagine the daughter of the notorious actress Jenny Greene under my own roof. A fine mother she was, I’ll grant you, though, to shield her offspring from the effects of her reputation for so long. And so near to London, too.”

Rebecca could hardly comprehend his words. Confusion had set her brain spinning, and she could only think of escape. She backed away from the desk a few steps until she found her back against the marble mantel of the fireplace.

“But the first moment I laid eyes on you, I sensed it. The same stormy blue eyes. The same golden red hair. The color of sunset.” His eyes swept over her body. “I knew it.”

Her hands searched the space behind her. He was so much bigger than she was. A great deal stronger. He was in the center of the room now. There was no escape.

“As a lad I used to sit in the upper gallery at the theatre in Haymarket, lusting after your mother. I would watch the fops who paid an additional charge to visit the celebrated Jenny after the performances. I would pine for her, wishing it was I enjoying her charms.”

He came closer, his protruding manhood belying the almost casual manner he now affected. She held her breath, looking to the side as he reached out and pulled the ribbon of her straw cap. Dropping it on the floor, he took a tendril of her hair beneath his fingers, rubbing it back and forth as she felt his eyes fix on her face.

“Full lips that cried out for me to kiss.” His gaze shifted downward, his voice a husky whisper. “Breasts made to be tasted.”

Rebecca cried out as his hands reached beneath her cloak, encircling her waist and pulling her roughly against his chest.

“I finally enjoyed your mother, you know. I took her this past week after her play at the Covent Garden Theatre. A little gin and she was chattering like a magpie. Getting her to talk about you was easy. I had to have her for old time’s sake. But also, so that I could compare the mother with the daughter.”

She turned her face away as he tried to crush his mouth down on hers. She pushed roughly at his chest and tried to turn in his arms. He laughed.

“She was willing. Easy. Hardly as exciting as you are now. Of course, she’s not the woman she once was.” He was hurting her, and all she could do was to restrain her sobs and pray. “I knew you would be better. Much better.”

She felt the tie of her cloak pull free from around her neck. She glanced wildly at him. He had the look of an animal on his face as he took hold of the modest neckline of her dress.

“How much?” Her voice was barely a croak. She forced out the words. “You paid my mother. How much will you pay me?”

His eyes sobered for an instant as they came up and met hers. His lips curled nastily. “A harlot like the mother.”

“How much?” she snapped with a firmness that was pure fraud. “I shall remain in your household. I shall keep my position, and you can use me as you wish.”

His teeth flashed, but he released the neckline of her dress. “What’s your price?”

She pushed back, taking a half step to the side. He let her, one hand still gripping her arm. “Your wife hired me for ten pounds a year. Make it twenty.”

His pale blue eyes studied her suspiciously for a moment. “And you’ll do whatever I command you to do?”

She swallowed once. “Whatever.”

“Are you a virgin?”

She stared at his shirt and nodded. “I am.”

Silence ruled the chamber while she waited, and then relief swept through her as he took a step back, releasing her arm. “This could prove quite diverting.”

He stepped back, eyeing her with his hands on his hips. She fixed her gaze on his face.

“Very well. I’ll pay you the difference. And my wife shall not know anything of our arrangement.”

She nodded.

“Then I command you to take your clothes off. And when you’re finished, I wish for you to lie on the desk.”

Rebecca stared at the dark mahogany desk and turned quickly toward the hearth.

“As you wish,” she said, bending to pick up her straw hat.

It was there, just as she’d hoped it would be. It was her only chance.

There was no hesitation in her actions now. Her hand darted to the poker, her icy fingers closing on the brass handle. Then, in one swift movement she whirled around and smashed the iron rod with a sickening crunch into the head of Sir Charles Hartington as he leaned, quite exposed, against his desk.

2

She’d killed the man.

Dropping the poker, Rebecca covered her mouth to stifle her own scream of horror. The crimson liquid pumped from Sir Charles’s scalp and soaked into the rug in a rapidly widening arc. He lay sprawled face down on the floor, his head away from her. In her haste to reach the door, she tripped over an outstretched foot and landed heavily on her hands and knees beside him. Immediately leaping to her feet, she gasped at the sight of her attacker’s warm blood covering her hands. She stared from her hands to his inert body.

She had certainly killed the man.

“No!” she sobbed, running her palms again and again over her skirts. “No!”

Her fingers were trembling violently as they tried to unlock the door. Glancing fearfully over her shoulder, all she could see of him was the head of powdered, golden hair now streaked with the dark shades of his own mortality.

The key turned, and Rebecca stumbled into the hallway. She only managed a few wobbly steps toward the staircase, though, before crouching down and retching violently on the brilliantly flowered carpet.

“Miss Neville. Rebecca.”

She lifted bleared eyes and saw the butler coming down the stairs. The serving maid Lizzy was directly behind him.

“Oh, my God! What have you done?”

She had no chance to answer Robert as another serving maid began to screech at the library door.

“Blood!”

And still louder.

“Murder!”

Rebecca covered her ears and shook her head as she staggered to her feet. The shouts and the chaos surrounded her, but she couldn’t answer. There was no sound in her throat but broken gasps for air.

And then she ran.

She felt hands reaching for her. Shouts behind her. She didn’t stop, though, flying down the steps to the front door and opening it before they could reach her.

On the street she saw flashes of faces in the yellow arcs of lamps. Voices and shouts. On she ran as fast as her feet could carry her. She was not even a block away, though, when cries of murder rang out. The sounds of running footsteps. More shouts.

At the crossing street, Rebecca turned the corner and then stumbled off the high curb and into the thoroughfare. Regaining her balance she tried to dash across as the darkness of the park on the far side caught her eye. But the rush of a carriage coming straight at her froze her in her tracks. She could not move, could not breathe. Stunned, she watched the hooves of the horses pounding toward her.

So this was to be her end. There would be no hanging. She would be trampled escaping the murder.

“Get out of the way. Out of the way, you fool!”

Rebecca saw the coachman struggle with the horses, but she couldn’t move. The carriage veered to the left. The horses reared as they plunged past, and she felt a hand pull her away as the wheels of the carriage thundered by.

The next moment, she found herself sitting on the street. Faces were staring down at her with evident concern and surprise, but not one of them looked at her accusingly.

With senses suddenly acute, she looked up as the carriage stopped a short distance away. The driver was shouting at his team of horses and trying to start the carriage again. From the tiny window, a young woman’s ashen face peered out.

When their gazes connected, Rebecca knew. In that face she saw desperation that matched her own. She dragged herself to her feet and ran toward the carriage, stretching out a hand.

“Help me,” she called. “Please, take me!”

From the corner of her eye, she saw a mass of people rounding the corner.

“Murderer! Hold that woman!”

The carriage was already rolling when she saw the door swing open. She could barely hear the weak commands from inside but saw the driver look back at her.

With renewed strength, Rebecca dashed for the open door and climbed inside as the driver cracked his whip. The carriage jerked forward and in an instant was racing through the streets of the city, leaving the shouting throng far behind.

The pale woman in the carriage drew the curtains, and darkness enveloped the two riders. It took a long moment before Rebecca managed to catch her breath. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she heard the driver shouting at the team of horses as he slowed to turn a corner.

The woman who sat across from her stared searchingly at Rebecca. On her lap, beneath a well-made cloak, she held a small bundle.

“I’m innocent.” Rebecca heard herself blurting out. “My name is Rebecca Neville. I lived at Mrs. Stockdale’s Academy in Oxford up until a month ago.”

Her rescuer continued to study her in silence. The woman was young…not much older than Rebecca. Her clothes bespoke obvious wealth. But there was fear in her drawn, pale face…a look of desperation that Rebecca could see now even more clearly.

“I was hired to be a tutor by Lady Hartington for their three children and then her husband arrived.” She lost the words as a knot rose in her throat. She dashed tears off her face with the back of her stained sleeve. “He tried to...he attacked me. The wife was away. I swung the poker at him. I killed him. And now they’re after me. But he tried to...I...”

She couldn’t continue. Burying her face in her hands, Rebecca leaned forward and lost herself in her own misery as the carriage jerked roughly from side to side. A moment later, a delicate handkerchief was tucked into her hands. She took it gratefully and wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have involved you with…”

“Do you have family?” The woman’s voice was kind but weak, as if she were in severe pain.

“I don’t. I was told tonight that I might have a relation.” She shook her head hopelessly. “I have no one to go to. For all of my life I’ve been told I was an orphan.”

“No matter what he did, they will hang you.”

Rebecca stared down at her hands in her lap. The stains from Sir Charles’s blood, mixed with the ink she’d spilled earlier, created grotesque markings on her dress. The white handkerchief against it was a shocking contrast, even in the darkness of the coach.

“I would not have acted any differently, even knowing the consequences.”

She stabbed again at her tears. There was a noise from the woman’s lap. A small mewling cry. Rebecca’s eyes rounded as she watched her rescuer push aside the cloak and reveal an infant tightly swaddled in blankets.

“He’s awake.” There was tenderness in the young woman’s face as she looked down on the baby in her arms.

“So small,” Rebecca found herself whispering as she leaned over to look at the child.

“He was born only this morning.”

Her eyes lifted to the pale face. “Are you the mother?”

The woman smiled faintly. “I’m Elizabeth Wakefield. And yes, I’m the mother.”

The carriage lurched, and Rebecca laid a hand on Elizabeth’s knee as the woman winced with pain.

“You’re not well. It is too soon for you to be leaving your bed after delivering a child.”

“I’m well enough to look after my son.” She ran a finger over the infant’s furrowed brow. “I’m calling him James.”

There were other questions racing through Rebecca’s mind, questions more important than the child’s name. Where was her husband, for example, and why was it that Elizabeth was traveling alone at this time of night with her infant son? But the sadness that enveloped the woman, the love that shone in her eyes as she looked down on the baby, restrained Rebecca from asking anything more.

Instead, she sat back, thoughts about her own situation crowding her brain. Thoughts about how insignificant her entire life had been. Thoughts about how quickly it was going to end when they tried her and hanged her for Sir Charles Hartington’s murder. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her throat as she wondered for a moment how painful it was to hang.

Her eyes focused again on the mother and child across from her, and she wondered if there had ever been a moment such as this in her own life. She wondered if her own mother had ever held her with such tenderness.

She shook her head and looked away as emotions tightened like a fist in her throat. Too late for such thoughts, she scolded herself. Even if Jenny Greene were indeed her mother, it was far too late for such thoughts.

From the time she’d been a little girl, Rebecca had been raised with Mrs. Stockdale’s constant reminders on the value of virtue that must accompany the improvement of a girl’s mind. Indeed, she’d grown into womanhood schooled on the difference between right and wrong and, more importantly, on the fragile nature of a woman’s chastity. Much more so than with the other students, it seemed, the schoolmistress had been keen on constantly reminding young Rebecca about the necessity of hiding her “unusual” looks, of binding and taming her willful and flame-colored tresses. No, nothing should ever be allowed to steer her, even momentarily, off the narrow path of decency and respectability.

It all made sense now. Mrs. Stockdale’s persistence had simply been the result of her suspicions about the “bad” stock Rebecca had probably issued from. Indeed, she wondered with a pang of bitterness, though, what her former schoolmistress might think of her actions tonight.

The carriage rumbled to a sudden stop. Rebecca’s heart leaped into her throat. She clutched her skirts in her hands and stared at the closed door of the coach. She could smell the rank odor of fish and rotted wood, and guessed they were close to the Thames. “I suppose this is the end.”

“There’s a boat waiting for me here.”

Elizabeth’s words drew Rebecca’s gaze.

“I’m taking a boat from here to Dartmouth where James and I’ll be boarding a ship headed for America.”

All Rebecca could do was hold her breath.

“I’m not well. And we’re traveling alone.”

A tear rolled down Rebecca’s cheek as she stared into her guardian angel’s face.

“I want you to come with us.”

3

Philadelphia, in the Province of Pennsylvania

April 1770

“We cannot teach a deaf boy in our school, Mrs. Ford. We simply cannot do it.”

Rebecca forced herself to remain seated on the wooden bench and stared irritably at the headmaster of the Friend’s School. “Jamey is not deaf, Mr. Morgan. Hard of hearing, that’s true, if you’re standing by his bad ear. But not deaf.”

The middle-aged man adjusted the spectacles on his nose and stared down at the papers on his desk. “I’ve had both of my teachers spend time with thy son—separately and together. They each say that thy son hears not a word. The lad cannot even speak, for all they can tell.”

“He’s only nine. He was…quite nervous the day I brought him here.”

The headmaster shook his head. “Mr. Hopkinson tells me he saw the lad running on the wharf with some other boys last week, and he didn’t respond to his greeting in any way.”

“How many nine-year-old boys do you know who would speak to an adult while they’re in the middle of mischief-making?”

“So, thy son is a mischief-maker, as well?”

Rebecca let out a frustrated breath and unrolled the papers she was holding on her lap. “I was speaking of boys at play. Jamey is not a mischief-maker, Mr. Morgan. He’s a very bright and vigorous lad who shows great promise in learning. Just look at these papers, sir.” She placed the sheets on the man’s desk. “These are samples of his handwriting. He can read, too. And I’ve already been tutoring him in mathematics, and he does quite as well as many of your own students.”

The headmaster took the papers and leafed quickly through them.

“Now, you tell me, sir. How could I be teaching him these things if he were deaf?”

“Mrs. Ford…” He paused, carefully rolling the papers up and holding them out to her. “Thou art a talented teacher. Many of our students have benefited greatly by being tutored by thee over the past few years. A number of parents cannot praise you highly enough for thy way with their young ones. But about thy son…”

Rebecca took the rolled bundle from the man’s hand.

“…with regard to Jamey, thou art better off continuing as thou have begun. Perhaps it is the bond that exists between a mother and son that allows thee to overcome the lad’s handicap. It is thou…and only thou…that he appears to respond to.”

“But there’s only so much more that I can teach him. There’s only so far in life that he can go if all of his education comes from me.”

“Based on what thou showed me here, thy son has already surpassed what most…laborers…or tradesmen might need as far as schooling in life. He has already done quite well by thee.”

“No, Mr. Morgan. I’ll not allow my son to think that becoming a laborer or a tradesman is the best he can do with his life.” Rebecca fought to restrain her growing fury. “Despite one deaf ear, regardless of a misshapen hand, I’ll raise my son to be whatever he wishes to be. If he decides to be a doctor, then he will be. If he wishes to become a lawyer or a clergyman, then I’ll see to it that nothing shall stop him. I’ll make sure that Jamey has every opportunity that exists for a boy growing up in Pennsylvania.”

“Thy intentions are quite admirable, Mrs. Ford.”

She glared fiercely at the headmaster and leaned forward on the bench. “Admiration is not what I came here for, Mr. Morgan. I came for understanding, openness, equality…things that you and the Society of Friends say you stand for. I came here seeking the opportunity of an education for my son.”

The headmaster’s face turned a reddish hue, and he stared down at his hands. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ford. But we have given thy request quite some time and attention. But with only two teachers and myself, we’re already handling over a hundred pupils. There’s simply no way we can handle someone with thy son’s difficulties at this school.”

Rebecca stared for a long moment at the headmaster’s balding head, at the thin spectacles that had slipped further down on the man’s nose. She stood abruptly.

“Good day to you, sir.”

* * *

The afternoon sun was lying like liquid gold on the spire of Christ Church when Rebecca stepped out onto the High Street, though she was hardly in the frame of mind to notice it. With one hand wrapped tightly around Jamey’s papers, and the other clutching the ribbons of her purse, she pushed through the bustle of activity that showed no signs of easing despite the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.

“Good day to you, Mrs. Ford.”

She turned her head and nodded blindly while making her way along the brick sidewalk. There were other schools. Perhaps the school in Germantown. But how to get Jamey there, day in and day out?

“Fine afternoon, Mrs. Ford.”

“That it is, Mrs. Bradford.” Rebecca forced a polite smile at the heavyset woman. Hiding her frustration with the headmaster, she lengthened her strides.

They would move. If that was the only way she could get Jamey into a school, then so be it. She was willing to do whatever it took. New York. Boston. Wherever. And as far as jobs that she had here…there had to be other positions in other cities.

Rebecca ignored the cries of vendors hawking everything from meat pies to apples to Dr. Franklin’s Gazette. As she turned the corner into Strawberry Alley, the curses of a carter driving his slow-moving team of oxen into the activity of High Street hardly even registered as she pushed along the crowded dirt street.

She had made a start—a life for herself and Jamey in Philadelphia over the past ten years. People knew her, respected her. She was never short of work, whether it be tutoring or sewing or helping in the bakery whenever Mrs. Parker needed to tend to her ailing husband.

She passed under painted signs extending from rows of neat brick dwellings, signs noting drapers and glaziers and cobblers and butchers working hard at their trades inside. Yes, there was work here, but if she had to go…well, she would find work in another city…in another colony. Anywhere, so long as she could find a school willing to overlook Jamey’s differences and treat him like any other boy.

Rebecca carefully stepped across the alley—avoiding puddles and muck and traffic—to the red brick building that housed Mrs. Parker’s bakery. There, above the ever-expanding Butler family, she and Jamey rented two snug rooms beneath the sloping roof.

She nodded to Annie Howe as the thin, squint-eyed worker from the Death of the Fox Inn stepped out of the bakery with an armload of bread.

“Oh, Mrs. Ford. There was a gentleman inquiring after you at the inn this afternoon.”

She stopped on the landing. “Thank you, Annie. This gentleman. Was he looking for a tutor for a young one?”

“He didn’t say anything about that, ma’am. But I shouldn’t think so. He arrived in the city two days ago, intending to stay at least for a few days at the Inn. Demanded a room to himself, if you can imagine.”

“Well, thank you, Annie.” Rebecca opened the front door.

“He’s a lawyer, you know…from England.”

A tight knot gripped Rebecca’s middle and she froze with her foot on the doorstep. Slowly, she turned to the woman. “Who was it exactly that he asked for?”

Annie shifted the bundles of bread in her arms. “For you. He asked for you. The mother of the boy with the crippled hand. To be perfectly honest, my first thought was that your Jamey must have been up to no good again down on the wharf. If I were you, I’d box the lad’s ears once a day whether he needed it or not. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about it. I’ve seen him down there myself, Mrs. Ford. Don’t think I mean to give a dog a bad name and hang him. I mean, he’s just a lad, to be sure, but you don’t know the way he runs wild down there, scaring the fancy lassies coming off the ships with that claw of his, and then running off with those hellions who live beneath you.” The woman squinted up meaningfully at the Butlers’ windows.

The tension in Rebecca’s belly eased a bit, but not much. “Thank you for telling me all of this, Annie. I’ll have a long talk with him.”

“A good strong willow reed across his backside is what he needs, if you ask me, Mrs. Ford. If your husband was alive…”

“Very well, I’ll see to it. Thank you.” Rebecca didn’t wait to hear any more, and with a quick wave she closed the door and started up the narrow steps to the upper floors.

There was not much of what Annie had said that she didn’t already know. Jamey had become a little wild this spring, but with so much going on, with Rebecca working at so many jobs, there were only so many hours in the day that she could be tutoring him, or watching him, or scolding him. Not that she had the heart to do much scolding. After all, he needed to stretch his wings a bit.

But this was another reason why she had to find him a school. He needed a place where he could find some direction for his energy. He needed a way to mold the growing defiance in his character into a positive quality.

As expected, Molly Butler’s door was open as Rebecca passed, and the neighbor—her belly big with child—waved her into the all-purpose front room. A small fire was crackling in the fireplace on the far wall, and Molly turned her back to stir a pot of stew hanging from an iron rod over the hearth. Satisfied, the rosy-cheeked woman eyed Rebecca as she sat heavily on the large settle beside the fire. Twin girls, barely toddlers, were napping side by side in a little bed in the corner.

“You don’t have to tell me. Your face shows.”

Rebecca dropped the scroll of paper and her bag on the table before walking to one of the two front windows. “That’s not the last school. There are others.”

“You know I love him like my own, but not for your Jamey, I shouldn’t think.”

She didn’t feel like arguing, and let the comment pass.

“I can tell, you’re already thinking.”

Rebecca turned and smiled. “You know me, Molly. I’m always thinking.”

As she sat beside her friend, the pregnant woman cut a slice off the loaf of bread that sat on a small table next to the settle. Without asking, she set the table in front of Rebecca and pushed the small pot of apple butter next to the bread. “You didn’t have any lunch, darling, and seeing how pale you look, I’d wager you didn’t eat anything this morning, either.”

“Jamey is not back yet?”

“Don’t fret about him. I sent my Tommy along with George and Jamey. With the older brother along, there’s only so much trouble those two urchins dare to get into.”

Thomas, the oldest of the Butler’s four children, was twelve and quite grown up for his age. He was already riding along occasionally when Mr. Butler would carry passengers Mondays and Thursdays from Strawberry Alley to the Trenton ferry for the first leg of the journey to New York. George, on the other hand, was exactly Jamey’s age and just as unruly.

“Rebecca, I still think you should consider Mr. Butler’s advice and let Jamey start earning his keep by working in a smith’s shop or…”

“I can’t.” Rebecca shook her head, staring at the slice of bread before her. “I’m writing to the headmaster at Germantown. There’s a good chance they’ll take him at the school there.”

“Mr. Butler tells me they have over two hundred pupils there already, and even if they were more understanding of your Jamey’s situation…”

“I have to keep trying, Molly.”

Molly shook her head. “You, of all people, a woman who gets nervous when your son spends half a day out of your sight. How are you going to cope with him boarding with strangers in Germantown? Worse than that, Rebecca, how are you going to afford it?”

She took a bite of the bread. She could not bring herself to reveal to Molly her plans of moving. The two women had been friends from the time Rebecca and Jamey had arrived in Philadelphia. In this very house, the two families had lived for nearly ten years. In this very room, Rebecca had learned so much about childrearing from her friend.

But there was more to their friendship than that. Much more. Many a night Rebecca and Jamey had joined the Butler family at their table for supper. How many Christmases had they shared together? From the beginning, there had always been a gift for the two of them…as if they were kin. And when Jamey was burning with fever as a child, Molly had sat with her at his bedside. And in the same way, when Molly was ready to deliver the twins, Rebecca and Jamey had taken in Tommy and George for a fortnight.

With John Butler away as much as he was, running the ‘coachee’ to New York, the two women had formed a friendship that only deepened with the passage of years. There was no denying it, outside of Jamey, the Butlers were the only family that Rebecca had known in all of her life.

But right now, as tired as she was, as dispirited as she felt, talking about a move that would change everything was not Rebecca’s idea of an inviting discussion.

“Forget about eating. Seeing how pale you look, you should go upstairs and lie down before your afternoon lessons. I’ll send some of this stew up when it’s ready.”

Rebecca shook her head. “I’m fine…really I am.”

She came quickly to her feet at the sound of Tommy and George shouting up from the street. Crossing to the window, she spotted the two boys looking up at her.

“Is Jamey back yet?” the older boy called as she raised the sash.

Rebecca leaned out the window. “I thought he was with you two.”

“He was,” George said. “But this fancy-dressed gentleman stopped us on the corner of Front and High Street. Said he wanted to have a private word with Jamey.”

Molly’s voice shrieked over Rebecca’s shoulder, waking the two girls. “You’re not telling us you left him alone with a stranger, are you?”

“Nay, Mama,” Tommy hurriedly responded. “But we couldn’t hear what the macaroni says, either, as they stood a few paces from us. Then, a couple of sweeps come a-shoving and a-barging along the bricks. Well, by the time the bloody soot-suckers cleared off, all we see is Jamey pushing the man away and running. I ain’t never seen him run so…except maybe the time we snuck up the bell-tower of Christ Church and got almost caught coming down…“

“You did what?”

Rebecca pulled abruptly back from the window, giving room to Molly to question the boys about this latest misdeed. There was something very wrong. What was it that Annie had said about the lawyer who had asked about her? But he really had been asking questions about Jamey.

She had to find her son.

Without another word, Rebecca rushed to the door and started down the stairs. She hadn’t descended even two steps, though, before spotting his folded form on the bottom stair.

“Jamey,” she cried, crouching next to him. She took his face in her hands and brought it up until she could look into his face in the dim light of the stairway. “What’s wrong, Jamey?”

There were tears in his eyes. He wiped away at them with the back of one sleeve. Before Rebecca could ask again, though, he threw his arms around her and buried his face in her lap.

“Don’t let them take me away, Mama. Please don’t let him take me away.”

“I would never do that.” She lifted his head until he was looking into her face. “Do you hear me? I promise you I’ll never let anyone take you away.”

She crushed him against her chest, rocking him in her arms as the tears flowed down his cheeks.

Molly appeared at the top of the stairs. “Praise God, he’s back. I’ll skin those two rogues of mine…What’s wrong?”

Rebecca shook her head at her friend. “He’s fine, Molly. Just tell the boys he’s here.”

Clutching his hand, she led him up the stairs to their rooms. Molly followed them up, carrying the pot of apple butter and the bread.

Jamey just shook his head at Molly’s offer of food and escaped into Rebecca’s tiny bedchamber.

“Something’s wrong,” Rebecca muttered to Molly before going after her son.

In the other room, she found Jamey curled up on her bed and clutching tightly to her old shawl.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

He didn’t respond. She crouched down next to the bed and took his chin, turning his face until his large blue eyes met her gaze.

“What happened, Jamey? Who was the man that stopped you on the street?”

Fresh tears glistened in the boy’s eyes.

“What did he want?” She gentled her tone. “What did he say?”

She caressed his sandy blonde hair, pushing it away from his brow. She used a kerchief from her sleeve and wiped his tears.

“He already knew my name, Mama. But…he called me…James.”

“What else, love?”

“He grabbed my arm and stared at my hand.”

“Hush,” she cooed as more tears rolled down his cheeks. This wasn’t the first time that the child had faced people looking at him as an oddity. True, she’d made every one of those incidents a battle—a battle against ignorance—but she didn’t remember Jamey ever reacting as strongly to it as he was now.

“I love you, Mama. I promise to do my best.” There were hiccups mixed with the words. “I promise I’ll never pretend to not to hear. If you take me back to the Friend’s school, I give you my word this time I’ll behave. I’ll answer their questions and everything. Just don’t send me away.”

“I love you, too. And you’re not going anywhere without me. But I need to know,” she said more firmly, “what that man said to you, Jamey.”

But before he could answer, Molly appeared at the door. Rebecca looked up in surprise.

“There’s someone here to see you.”

“Take their name, Molly. Send them away.”

Her friend shook her head and motioned for Rebecca to come into the other room.

A fear as potent and as crippling as the one she’d felt in that library in London so many years ago pierced her body. She ran a hand over Jamey’s forehead before forcing herself to her feet. Her movements were slow, almost painful, as she closed the door behind her.

Molly motioned toward the door leading to the stairs.

Rebecca took a deep breath and opened it, her fingers tightly wrapped around the latch.

“Mrs. Ford?”

She nodded at the fashionably dressed gentleman on the landing.

“I’m Sir Oliver Birch, ma’am, of the Middle Temple in London. I’m here on behalf of the earl of Stanmore.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Birch?”

“I’m here to collect and accompany James Samuel Wakefield, the future earl of Stanmore, back to England.”

Rebecca stared at him for only an instant before slamming the door as hard as she could.

4

London

The white silk slid upward over the muscled back of her lover. As he pulled the shirt over his broad shoulders, however, Louisa’s lips curved into a practiced pout. She stretched like a cat between the rumpled sheets of the giant bed and watched him dress.

Carnally fulfilled she was, but the familiar sight of Stanmore leaving her bed and her house immediately after their lovemaking never failed to diminish her pleasure. Even now, the acrid, metallic taste of disappointment was in her mouth, but she forced herself to look casual, soft, alluring.

She was not above asking him to stay. She was not even above pleading with him. But she refused to yield to such a fatal inclination. She was far too clever for that. Louisa Nisdale had no wish to join Stanmore’s long list of castoff paramours. She’d invested the entire three years of her ridiculous marriage and the first two years of her widowhood keenly studying—albeit from a safe distance—the man and his restlessness. Samuel Wakefield, the earl of Stanmore, was openly disdainful of the women who swooned at his feet. He was impossibly arrogant toward the men of his station, especially those who tried to engage him in activities he saw as frivolous. Drinking, gaming, and whoring were beneath him, it seemed. It certainly seemed to matter not to him that the rest of his class found the diversions entertaining.

No, the earl of Stanmore took his politics seriously. A hero of the French wars in America, he was now an outspoken member of the House of Lords. He was regal in bearing and fiercely proud of his lineage, with ancestors who had served their kings back to the time of William the Conqueror.

More important than any of that, though, Lord Stanmore was incredibly generous with his friends. And this was a virtue that Louisa highly esteemed in him—particularly in light of her highly developed taste for gambling and spending.

It was like a lovely play, she thought. And credit her own astuteness as a player, for here she was at the end of nearly a month’s run of pleasure and passion...and no hint of a finale in sight.

Cheered by her own thoughts, Louisa pushed the covers away and rolled to the edge of the bed. From here she had a full view of Stanmore’s handsome face in the mirror as he tied his cravat by candlelight. She savored the heat spreading through her at the sight of his eyes darkening as they traveled the length of her naked back and buttocks. She rolled onto one elbow, giving him a full view of her breasts.

“About Lady Mornington’s invitation for Friday night.” She gathered her long mane of blond hair in one hand and rolled back onto the pillows. His eyes followed her movements in the mirror. She tilted her head up and casually kicked what remained of the sheets off her legs. “Could you arrange to come for me here at six thirty? I much prefer to arrive there with you and⁠—”

“I’ve already declined Lady Mornington’s invitation.”

“But she’s such a good friend of mine. She’ll be greatly disappointed if we don’t go.”

He moved away from the mirror and reached for his waistcoat. “I only spoke of my own plans regarding this engagement. You are, of course, free to do as you wish.”

“I cannot understand what you have against her. This is the fifth invitation from that good lady that you’ve declined in the past month.”

“If it were the fiftieth, I would still decline. I have no interest in gaming establishments nor in gambling.”

“But that’s not all that she offers her guests. Why, she’s a respected⁠—”

“I have no interest in attending.”

Louisa heard the change in his tone. It was a subtle shift, nearly imperceptible, but she’d heard it before and recognized it. Stanmore did not raise his voice, but the note of danger was unmistakable.

“Ah, well…” she said, sliding gracefully off the bed and walking slowly toward him as he pulled on his jacket.

She knew that a little time was called for. Time for his flash of temper to subside. Time for his eyes to focus on her body once again and appreciate the display of her charms. But the earl seemed distracted, if not disinterested, and this alarmed her more than she wanted to admit.

Louisa Nisdale, however, had a gambling soul, so she picked up her dressing gown of the sheerest silk and draped it loosely around her.

“In fact, Stanmore, I have a much better idea.” Running a finger along the taut skin of his neck, she drew his gaze to her face. She moved into his arms and rubbed her body seductively against him. He towered over her. The dressing gown fell open, and a thrill raced through her at the feel of her soft skin against the superfine cloth, at the sight of her own creamy flesh pressed against the black fabric, at the heat of his buckskin clad thighs pressed against hers. “You and I…Saturday evening…strolling through the pleasure gardens at Ranelagh. As we pass by the arches with all the parties sitting at tea, you can whisper in my ear all the wicked things you’d like to do to me. And I, in turn, can whisper all the…”

“No, I think not.” Gently but firmly, he pushed her away and turned toward the door.

She reached out quickly and took a hold of his sleeve. “We don’t need to go anywhere,” she said, working hard to keep the note of panic out of her voice. “Perhaps here…we can…”

“I’m leaving town for Hertfordshire for a few days. Perhaps I’ll see you sometime next week, Louisa.”

She stared at him for a moment. Take me with you, she nearly cried out as he leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead. But she knew better and bit back the words, instead sliding her arms around him and lifting her lips to be kissed.

Again, he disengaged himself from her and started for the door. She felt the color flood into her cheeks.

“I understand. You’re restless because you’re impatient with the waiting. It has been several months now, has it not?”

He came to an abrupt stop at the door and looked back at her. His eyes were black, but she could see that distinctive light gleaming deep in their depths. She felt the danger heat the air around her. She had overstepped her position, but now she knew she had to hold her ground.

“What exactly has been several months, Louisa?”

His voice was even lower, now, than it had been before, and she pulled the sheer gown around her.

“I’ve heard things.” She could not maintain eye contact, so instead she picked up the silk belt to the gown and made an elaborate show of knotting it at her waist. “I just wanted you to know that I understand. I’m here if you need me.”

She gave him a smile that hoped was convincing.

“What is it exactly that you have heard?”

She ran her hands up and down her arms to ward off the chill she felt. There was no escaping this. He was waiting for an answer.

“I hear rumors of things all the time. I simply heard that you’d sent someone to the colonies...well, to retrieve your son. Everyone is talking about it. You know how people talk. Everyone knows how hard it must be on you after ten years and of course, if Elizabeth decides to return, also…well…”

The words withered on Louisa’s tongue as a hardness she had never seen crept into the Stanmore’s dark eyes. His face had taken on a look of carved granite. Cold and formidable. She took an unconscious step back.

“I was only concerned about you.”

“Concerned?” The shake of his head was barely discernible. His tone was cool, even, and tightly controlled. “We have taken pleasure in each other’s company, Louisa, but do not presume that there is anything more between us. Make no mistake about our connection.” He turned sharply and pulled open the door. “In the future, madam, you’ll not concern yourself with my affairs. Not now. Not ever.”

Louisa Nisdale watched him go and then sank against the edge of the bed. She stared at the door for a long moment and then stood up. She had erred in that skirmish, but she was hardly defeated.

No, she thought. She’d been formulating her strategy for too many years to throw it all away now. Conquering Lord Stanmore might require doing battle, but it was a campaign that she had no intention of abandoning.

Not now. Not ever.

* * *

Philadelphia

Rage and fear, like two iron-clawed creatures, tore at Rebecca’s insides as she turned her back on the door and looked wildly into the face of a surprised Molly. There was another knock at the door.

“Send him away, Molly. Get him to leave us alone. Tell him…” Hot tears suddenly scorched her cheeks, and she felt the knot rise in her throat at the sight of Jamey’s frightened face peering out from behind the bedroom door. “Tell him he has the wrong boy.”

The knocking was louder now, more persistent.

“Tell me what this is all about, darling…”