She scattered the rest of the breadcrumbs on the ground and stepped back to let the more timid inhabitants of the aviary seek their bounty in peace. Closing the door behind her, she picked her way across the ground toward the main building.
Clayton House was a large mansion built during the Jacobean era, but through the years, each incumbent had added layers of ostentation, as if to establish their superiority of rank. To Lilah, the building served a purpose, for it was a reminder of the evils of society. It served to inspire her Essays on Patriarchy, and it provided her with respite from Dexter’s admonishments and Dorothea’s attempts to turn her into a lady.
She crossed the main hall and entered the library, where row upon row of books filled the shelves, their colors clouded with a thin film of dust, punctuated by occasional fingerprints, evidence of Lilah’s trespass. Plucking a book from the shelf, she traced the title on the spine, running her fingertips across the smooth surface of the gold embossing. Byron’s Hours of Idleness. Published when he was younger than her.
Might her poems be published one day? What would it feel like to have her name embossed in gold on the spine of a book?
She smiled at the notion of realizing her dream.
A creak echoed outside, followed by a faint scratching. The sounds of London always filtered through the air—a voice from the street at the bottom of the drive, the cry of a bird, or the soft creaks as the fabric of the house expanded and contracted in the ever-changing temperature as day turned to night, summer turned to winter. Or perhaps it was one of the many rats which resided in the bowels of the building.
Lilah sat in an armchair beside the empty fireplace and opened the book.
Reading should be a means to further a moral and spiritual education. But Byron’s words, written by a man renowned for debauchery, stirred unwelcome feelings in her body, and she closed the volume with a snap, coughing at the dust which tickled her nostrils.
To succumb to the body’s desires was the first step to humiliation. And one only had to recall the fate of Lady Caroline Lamb or Augusta Leigh to understand the imbalance of society in favor of rakes such as Byron.
She had no desire to suffer humiliation at the hands of such a man. Her first ball of the Season had shown her the dangers of doing so, when, in search of the dance partner Dexter had taken great pains to secure for her, she’d come across him in flagrante delicto with another.
Which just went to prove that men of the aristocracy were not fit to rule the world.
She jumped at another crash—this time much closer.
Someone was in the house. A ripple of fear raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She stood from her seat and looked around the room.
Her gaze landed on a vase situated on a pedestal beside the window, decorated in bright, gaudy colors and embossed with gold leaf. It contained the ashes of the seventh duke. Perhaps, today, one of the cursed Molineuxs would prove himself useful in her hour of need.
She picked it up, drawing comfort from its cold hardness, as she tried to dispel images of ruffians and brigands ransacking their way through London and murdering the innocent.
She heard a curse right outside the door, which resembled a deep growl.
The door handle turned, metal winking in the fading sunlight, and she lifted the vase over her head, ready to defend herself as the door swung inward.
*
Fraser crossed the front garden and stopped when the house came into view.
It was worse than he feared. Clayton House was a bloody ruin. The cost of restoring it would reduce his funds to almost nothing.
He cursed himself for not coming to London sooner, though there had been little point while the Excise Act was still being debated. But now that the Act had been passed, he could openly attract investors and customers, and show these London fops, that compared to a MacGregor single malt, French brandy was nothing more than horse piss.
The building before him seemed to soak up the light, the windows, reproachful eyes staring blankly out. The light of the setting sun glittered on the glass, where some of the windows had been smashed.
Perhaps he should burn it to the ground and start again. Or let the dissidents do it for him. The newspapers had been full of stories of houses being ransacked. It seemed as if the Terrors in France had ignited bloodlust in the dispossessed, and a handful of riots had sprung up, resulting in the occasional nobleman finding himself standing outside a burning building in his breeches.
One paper, the City Chronicle, even encouraged such behavior. Not directly, of course, but a careful editor could use language to incite unrest. Only last week he’d heard someone complaining in Whites about a new series of articles entitled Essays on Patriarchy. The author, a Mr. Jeremiah Smith, was nowhere to be found—most likely, too cowardly to write under his own name. The bastard had even made a reference to the Molineux lineage in his first piece.
Though Fraser might agree that the previous dukes had earned their reputation as wastrels, such notoriety risked his chances of using the title to further his business prospects.
A flicker of light caught his eye, then a shape moved across one of the ground-floor windows.
A trespasser. Or worse.
The front door was ajar, and he pushed through it, wincing as the hinges creaked. He paused but heard no movement from inside. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of dust, damp, and rotting vegetation, he crept across the hallway. Patches of mold adorned the walls, and the marble statues guarding the doors had a greenish hue.
As he moved deeper into the building, a noise came from behind a door to the right.
Someone was there. In his house.
The noise stopped, then he discerned faint footsteps. They were too light to be those of a man. Perhaps a child was playing hide-and-seek. With a stern word and a clip on the ear, Fraser could dispatch him with little trouble.
He pushed the door open. The walls of the room were lined with books, from floor to ceiling. A deep red rug lined the floor, its pattern illuminated by a thin ray of sunlight. Beyond, a pedestal stood by the window. It was empty. Presumably, someone had broken in and stolen whatever ornament had graced it.
A sound came from behind, but before he could move, pain exploded in the back of his head, and he crumpled to the floor.
*
The unconscious man at Lilah’s feet seemed to have shrunk in size compared to the ogre which had emerged through the door.
But nevertheless, he was a man, and a large one. Save the stubble on his chin, he looked every part the gentleman. A dark green jacket fitted his form like a glove, leaving little to the imagination regarding his athletic, broad-shouldered form. A wicked heat pulsed inside her body at the sight of his breeches through which muscular calves and thighs were visible to the point of wantonness. Polished black boots completed the ensemble, mud spatters evidence of his efforts to conquer the weeds and brambles surrounding the house.
A man of tenacity.
Thick, honey-colored locks framed a strong face with a high forehead, straight nose, and a square jaw, which could have been chiseled by Michelangelo. Her lips parted involuntarily as her gaze traced the line of his mouth.
He let out a low groan and turned his head. The sunlight caught the strands of his hair, igniting a flare of red. Then he opened his eyes.
Her senses were assaulted by the most striking blue she’d ever seen. Two pools, the color of an ocean, stared back at her, and she took a step back.
Until now, she’d always believed her brother to be the most handsome man of her acquaintance. But he was nothing compared to the specimen before her. Had she not felled him by her own hands, assuring herself of his mortality, she would have believed him a gift from the gods.