Jane found Margaret in the nursery, doll cast aside, her small body shaking with sobs. “They don’t love me,” she cried, burying her face in Jane’s gown. “They never have!”
Jane gathered her close, her fingers brushing through soft hair as the child nestled into her shoulder. “Hush, my darling. Your papa and mama are very busy people, burdened with many cares. They do not show their love as we would wish, but that does not mean they feel nothing.”
Margaret’s sobs only deepened. “They don’t! They don’t care at all!”
Jane held her tighter, her own throat aching. She could not deny the truth—not fully. Yet neither could she allow the child to despair. She whispered to her, steady and low:
“Then listen to me, Margaret. I love you. Truly. And I see how clever you are, how much you have learned. One day, they too will see it. You will astonish them, little one, I promise you. But until then—remember this—you are not alone. You have me.”
Margaret sniffled, clinging tighter, as though Jane’s embrace were the only safe harbor left in the world.
* * *
By mid-January, Westford Castle had fallen quiet again. The Duke departed for London, summoned by business at Court and affairs that could not be neglected, while the Duchess announced she would take herself south to the estate of the Earl of Halebury.
Charlotte had relayed this with a smirk that made Jane uneasy. “Her Grace was obliged to travel to Italy last year,” sheremarked, idly smoothing the fold of her gown, “after extending her stay with Lord Halebury rather longer than propriety might excuse.” The implication was clear enough, though Charlotte never said it outright.
Jane, though hardly worldly, had read enough to piece together the meaning. The thought that the Duchess had gone abroad to hide a birth made her blush hotly to her roots. She had no answer, and Charlotte, clearly satisfied, changed the subject.
* * *
The weeks passed in quiet rhythm. Margaret’s letters grew neater; her temper softened. She began to delight in her small victories. “Miss Ansley, I read it myself,” she’d cry, bright-eyed, each time she conquered a line aloud without stumbling.
Spring crept in. The warmer days drew them outside. Lessons moved to the terraces and, when the ground dried, into the parkland and woods. Margaret carried her slate and primer, and Jane carried her own volumes. Sometimes they worked; sometimes they simply sat companionably beneath an oak, Margaret practicing her reading while Jane sat immersed in her own book.
In the full bloom of a late April afternoon, Jane had brought with her Byron’s poem,Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. As Charlotte had promised, the verse unsettled and entranced her, its restless cadences so unlike the measured calm of the works she was used to. More than once her breath caught as a line seemed to burn from the page—words of longing, beauty, and desire laid bare without shame. Heat crept into her cheeks, a quickening in her chest, yet still she read on, compelled as though each stanza unlocked something in her she could not name.
On their walk homeward through the green hush of the woods, they met one of the neighbors, Lord Fovargue, riding back from Westford Castle. His coat was unbuttoned, the breezeruffling his hair as he reined in with a broad smile. “Miss Ansley! Lady Margaret! Have you heard the news?”
Jane shook her head, surprised.
“Napoleon has abdicated!” he declared. “The war is over! It’s all over London. The courier brought word this morning.”
Before Jane could answer, Margaret let out a small gasp of delight. “Then we have won!” she cried, clutching Jane’s hand.
They hurried back to the estate, Margaret almost skipping with excitement. Inside, they found Charlotte in the morning room, a fresh newspaper spread before her. Her face, usually cool, was bright with animation.
“Listen to this,” Charlotte said, tapping the column. “They write that at Toulouse General Blackmeer’s command turned the fight—that his composure under fire and his judgment of the field secured the victory. They call his conduct exemplary, his name spoken with the highest praise. He is the toast of London, Miss Ansley—my brother, hailed as a hero.”
Margaret’s eyes shone, though she barely knew her elder brother. Jane had never seen him either, never spoken of him beyond the few mentions Charlotte had let slip. But her heart beat faster, unbidden.
A duke’s heir turned general, a man lauded in triumph—William Strathmore, Marquess of Blackmeer—was returning to England. And whatever peace and quiet they’d known was coming to an end.
Chapter 7
Somewhere in Mayfair, London, May 1814
Morning light crept past velvet curtains, its amber glow muddied by the grime on the panes. The air was thick with the heady scent of drink, candle wax, and the unmistakable tang of spilled seed. William stirred on the crumpled bed, bare skin against linen gone damp and cool. His head throbbed faintly, from the night’s excess.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the cracked plaster ceiling, momentarily disoriented. Then he saw the red silk canopy, the discarded petticoats, the wine stains down the damask wallpaper—and he remembered. Miss Nadia’s.
How many nights had he spent here, wasting coin and vigor alike, before the war had scrubbed the edges off his sins? Before he’d learned that killing in uniform offended society less than bedding a married woman or taking a girl’s innocence.
A soft sound stirred beside him. The woman—Lisette? Harriet?—shifted against his side, a tangle of limbs and perfumed hair. Her hand slid over his stomach, fingers idly tracing a path lower, wrapping around his manhood.
“Morning, my lord,” she purred, lips grazing his shoulder. “Shall I serve you again?” She grinned, unbothered by the bruises blooming like violets on her thighs.
William caught her wrist lazily, brought it to his lips, and kissed the inside with a gentleman’s care. The kind of thing thatmade even whores blush. “I thought you were worn out,” he murmured, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth.
