Chapter 1
July 1816
Bath, England
The smell of death permeatedhis senses, adrenaline coursing through his body as he swiped left, right, up, and down with his sword, slashing and blocking, but the French kept coming. He pivoted left to avoid a sword strike, but not quickly enough, as the sword came down and a line of fire slashed down the side of his face.
He fell screaming to the ground…
Jonathan Lyle, the Earl of Hartley, bolted upright and kicked the bed covers, trying to get free as they wrapped around his legs like a constrictor, squeezing the life from him. He was sitting in utter darkness, and his heart beat erratically while his breath rasped in and out. When he finally realized he was safe in his bed, he fell back against the pillows, exhausted by the nightmare that wouldn’t stop haunting him.
How could it stop when every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the destruction the war had caused? Half his face now bore a horrific scar from temple to jaw.
So he’d done the only thing he could.
He’d stopped looking at his visage. It was easier that way.
He could hear his valet sorting his clothes in the dressing room—a lawn shirt, breeches, and boots were his desired costume these days. Hartley wouldn’t need anything fancier today, or any day for that matter. He expected no one to call on the Beast of Bath—the moniker given to him by the good people of Bath after an unfortunate foray into town when he’d firstarrived—and it suited him fine these days. He saw no need to dress as if he’d been invited to tea.
Hartley kicked off the covers and went to the bowl and pitcher of water to wash from his face the tears the nightmare had wrung out of him.
When would the nightmares stop? Would he ever enjoy two peaceful nights in a row?
Some nights were dream-free, but other nights, the memory of the day he was injured would rear its ugly head, and he’d have to relive that horrifying experience again and again.
“My lord, are you ready to dress?” his valet, Henry Seaford, asked.
Jon merely grunted, and his valet walked into the bedchamber carrying his clothes and laid them on the crumpled bed.
“I shall return with coffee,” Seaford added, leaving the room.
Hartley stripped off his sweat-soaked nightshirt, and dressed before slumping into the chair in front of the fireplace, waiting for his coffee. He had no desire to eat in the dining room, especially since he didn’t want to face the length of that enormous table alone. That would be more pathetic than just avoiding the room altogether. He knew Seaford would bring a tray of toast with his coffee, so he had no reason to expose himself to how pitiful his life had become.
It had been their daily routine for the past two years, and it suited him. He had nightmares, grumbled a lot, and Seaford appeared with fresh clothes, coffee, and toast when he rose for the day. Hartley Manor, located outside of Bath, had become his refuge. Living with his mother at his large country estate had become untenable when he found he could no longer abide her pitiful stares every time she looked at him, and he’d moved to the smaller manor house in Bath, closing his ears to her pleas to stay. He hadn’t seen her since and refused to answer her letters.She was better off not seeing the ruin of a man her only son had become.
He didn’t need anyone’s pity.
Seaford soon returned and placed the coffee and toast on the table in front of him. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“You’re fired,” Jon growled.
“As you wish,” Seaford said, walking into the dressing room.
It was the same every day. Every day, Jon fired his trusted valet, who’d served as his batman during the war, and every day, Seaford refused to leave. After the war was finally won, Seaford had found Jon again at his country estate. His father was dead, and Jon was now the Earl of Hartley. Even though Jon hadn’t agreed to hire him, Seaford refused to leave his former superior’s side. When Jon moved to Hartley Manor, Seaford followed him. Loyalty meant everything to soldiers, and Seaford would be loyal to Jon until the day he died. Jon made sure to pay his few remaining servants well above the normal salary, especially Seaford. He couldn’t afford to lose any more servants.
After drinking the coffee and eating his toast, he headed down to his study, where a full decanter of brandy was sitting on his desk. At least his staff listened to him on this particular issue. Some days, he drank the whole bottle, and other days, he barely touched it.
Today was not a good day.
He’d already gone through half the bottle when he heard voices. Who could be calling? He’d invited no one to visit him and expected to spend the day alone, just as he liked it.
Richard Ballard, the Marquisof Evans, and Lord George Spenser rode up the driveway to Hartley Manor. They’d talked about this when they were still in London and had decided it was time forHartley to allow them admittance. His time of being a hermit was over if they had anything to say about it.
“Are you ready to be turned away?” George asked.
“Perhaps, although I don’t plan on taking no for an answer, even if that means we’ll have to barge through the door.”
George chuckled. “I like the way you think.”
