Prologue
1787
News of the untimely death of the vicar of St. Mary’s parish of Kittleston spread on a tide of dismay, causing sincere mourning among his parishioners. A mere forty-five years old, he had been well-liked, a calm, cheerful presence who always had a kind word, a helping hand, or a sympathetic ear for anyone in need.
The ladies of the parish gathered to console the deceased’s fiancée, Miss Calvert, who was just as beloved in the town and whose devastated sobs brought more than one neighbor to tears of their own. Everyone in the parish murmured to themselves how terribly sad it was, for poor Miss Calvert and for the parish, for how could either hope to find another such man?
Twenty miles away, in the sprawling grandeur of Carlyle Castle, the news spurred a very different sort of mourning, as well as a tremor of despair that seemed to unmoor the great house. Stephen St. James was not only the beloved vicar of St. Mary’s, he was also the youngest brother of His Grace the Duke of Carlyle.
“It was a wound from an old scythe,” said Mr. Edwards, the family solicitor. He had received the news of Lord Stephen’s worsening health two days ago and come at once to the castle. “He was using it in his garden on some pernicious vines, and accidentally cut his leg. By the time the doctor was sent for, the wound was deeply inflamed. I am told his suffering was brief,” he added quietly.
Her Grace the Duchess of Carlyle stared out the window. Her eyes were dry and her chin resolutely steady, but she gripped a crumpled handkerchief. “Thank heavens for that much. My darling boy,” she said softly. “He did so love being in his garden . . .”
“Miss Calvert was with him when it happened. She did urge him to send for the surgeon, but he believed it to be a trifling injury.” Mr. Edwards shared this with great reluctance, but he had promised he would. Emily Calvert had been hysterical, pleading with him to beg the duchess’s forgiveness and mercy. She thought herself a murderer for not insisting upon the doctor immediately.
“That poor girl,” replied the duchess, still staring out the window. “She must not blame herself. No one could persuade Stephen to worry. It was not in his nature.” Her voice trembled at the last. She took a deep breath. “Send someone to see if Miss Calvert is in want of anything we can supply.”
Mr. Edwards coughed. “She would like to visit his grave.”
The duchess was silent. “We must put him in it first.” She sighed, her hands moving restlessly for a moment. “Of course she may. I could hardly deny her that.”
Mr. Edwards made a note of it as the porcelain clock on the table ticked steadily along. “Have you any wishes for the funeral, Your Grace?”
“Heywood will know what to do,” she said, naming the august Carlyle butler. “As it was for—for Lady Jessica.”
Lady Jessica had been the duchess’s beloved only daughter. They had buried her just seven years ago. Her Grace’s voice still broke when she said the name.
“Yes, ma’am.” His pen scratched a few more notes. “I suppose His Grace has been told.”
The duchess’s face spasmed. “No. I will do it later. He was not well this morning.”
“Of course,” murmured the solicitor. Formidable though she was, the duchess was also a mother who had just lost her youngest son, and now must tell her last surviving child that they would open the family crypt again, to bury his brother. It was doubtful the conversation would be brief or easy. The duke’s mind was neither quick nor agile, and his understanding was always uncertain.
But there was nothing he could do about that. Mr. Edwards hesitated, then put the pen back into the stand. “There is one more subject I must broach . . .”
“Yes, yes,” she snapped, now glowering at the window. “I know.”
He waited, but when she said nothing more, he reluctantly went on. The matter was urgent, as the duchess herself would tell him, were she not so grief-stricken. “I have taken the liberty of examining the records . . . It is always better to be excessively informed, I believe, although I am deeply sorry it has become necessary . . .”
“Are you?” The duchess made a visible effort to gather herself. Mr. Edwards averted his eyes, in case she required a moment of privacy. “Get on with it, then,” she said crisply, a moment later. “Who is he?”
Lord Stephen had been not merely the duke’s younger brother; he had also been his only heir. A terrible accident years ago had left the duke with the mind of a child. He had never married, never had a son, and never would. Lord Stephen’s death meant the dukedom must now pass to a distant cousin.
It had been fiercely hoped by all at Carlyle Castle that Lord Stephen’s marriage would yield an heir. Miss Calvert was not a very young woman, but she was by no means past the age of bearing a child, and there had been genuine affection between her and Lord Stephen. Now those hopes were dashed, which meant the heir presumptive was wandering about somewhere, in complete ignorance of the monumental inheritance about to befall him.
Mr. Edwards drew a paper from his case. Thirty years ago, the second Carlyle son, Lord William, had been killed in the American colonies, shortly before the duke’s accident. As the years passed and Lord Stephen did not marry, the succession had become precarious. Quietly and discreetly, Mr. Edwards had begun investigating three men, against the grim possibility that this day would arrive.
Even so, despite the urgent necessity, this must be done delicately. Edwards had been the Carlyle solicitor for over twenty-five years, long enough to know the family secrets and stains. He chose to begin with the easiest point. “Captain Andrew St. James, of His Majesty’s Scots Guards. His grandfather was the younger brother of His Grace the fourth Duke.”
“Yes,” she said, her expression unreadable at this mention of her late husband. “I remember. He’ll be Adam’s grandson. Is this young fellow anything like his grandfather?”
Mr. Edwards cleared his throat. Lord Adam, by all accounts, had been both sensible and charming. That had not saved him from a vicious falling out with his older brother, the fourth duke, and Lord Adam had left the family estates decades ago. “I’ve no idea, Your Grace. My reports are that Captain St. James is an honorable and respectable man.”
She harrumphed. “Of what age? Is he married?”
“About thirty years, ma’am, and he is not married, to the best of my knowledge.”
She sighed. “It would be a military man.”
Her second son had gone into the British army, and never come back from it. Her opinion of the army was not high.
After a moment she roused herself. “I suppose we should be grateful that he’s survived this long. That may mean he’s very clever—or extremely stupid. I am not sure which I prefer. Who else?”
Edwards withdrew another sheet of paper. “Mr. Maximilian St. James.”
“I can tell from your tone of voice this one is not so respectable.”
The solicitor gazed at her evenly. “He is a gamester, Your Grace. He has no other income that I can discern, but he is well-known at the gaming hells. He is descended from the second duke, is about twenty-seven years of age, and also has no wife.”
“Such dissolute fools the young men of Britain are these days.” She frowned ferociously. “Are there no more?”