Chapter One
Mid-May 1812
“Tell me again,”Lady Emma remarked as her friend took an ‘on guard’ stance, “why are we becoming all damp and sticky by learning to fence?”
“Because in three weeks, you are to marry my eldest brother, Richard, and you promised him you would not make demands on his service to the English government,” Theodora Duncan declared.
“And?” Lady Emma Donoghue asked again.
“And some of those who mean to overthrow our government are dangerous females, who would choose to seduce Richard, but are equally capable of killing him. Do not tell me you are a ‘woe is me’ kind of girl. I know better.” Theodora fisted her hands on her hips. “You asked what my father taught me, and now you want to quit before you begin.”
Lady Emma looked at Theodora oddly. “You seriously believe as Lord Marksman’s wife, you will occasionally be called upon to defend yourself?”
Theodora blushed. “There are no guarantees I will marry Alexander, but, even if I do not, I want my family safe. Do you think me unfeminine?”
“Not in the least,” Lady Emma admitted. “Initially, I was quite jealous of your relationship with Lord Orson.”
Theodora smiled. “Our Richard was truly so very besotted with you. I am thankful you have found each other, but I wish your marriage to be a success. Even if you never are required to lift a gun to protect Richard or your children or yourself, you should not be frightened to do so. The same goes for a sword or even a bow and arrow.”
“You do not truly think Lord Marksman would choose another? I have seen the look of longing upon his features when he believes no one is watching,” Lady Emma commented in serious tones.
Theodora attempted to keep her tears away, but they rushed to her eyes, nevertheless.
Immediately, Lady Emma’s arm was about Dora, “Oh, my sweet girl, I never meant to bring you grief.” She caught Theodora’s hand and tugged her to the small bench along the back wall of the garret. Emma pushed Dora down on the bench. Reclaiming Dora’s hand, her friend said, “Tell me what troubles you.”
“It is nothing,” Theodora said, dashing her tears away with the heels of her hands.
“It is something,” Emma declared. “By nature, you are not a crier.”
Dora shifted and sighed heavily. “Last evening, Alexander and I were enjoying a patch of the night sky.” She shrugged and her shoulders dropped in defeat. “I was speaking of the beauty of your wedding dress and how happy I was for you and Richard—at your finding each other just when you both required someone special in your lives.”
“Did Lord Marksman think you were hinting at a proposal of your own?”
“He simply became very quiet, saying nothing for some time. Then he said we should return inside.”
“And what do you believe causes Marksman to be so evasive?” Emma inquired as she stroked the back of Theodora’s hand.
Meanwhile, Dora looked off across the small room and wondered how she had come to this moment when she had thought her world would be different from the inherent loneliness that never left her of late.
“The day my father brought Alexander to live with us,” she began as the scene played out in her head, “you should have seen him, Emma. He was covered in filth from the slums where he had been living since he was perhaps two years of age. You see, his parents had married against the previous Lord Marksman’s edicts. Such sounds romantic, but neither Alexander’s father nor his mother had the wherewithal to survive on the small farm his father had inherited. The work was too difficult for a man and woman of society, and the money was too little to make ends meet.”
“What happened?” Lady Emma asked softly.
“They moved again and again, further and further into the depths of the impoverished. Alexander was one of those street rats you pray never to encounter. Even Covent Garden is clean in comparison to some of the areas in which Marksman resided. You have no idea how often Mrs. Chester changed out Alexander’s bath water before she deemed him clean enough to sleep in one of her beds.”
“And you remember this?” Emma asked.
“Not really,” Theodora admitted. “I was too young, at first, to know what was what, but it is one of Mrs. Chester’s favorite tales to tell when Alexander becomes too sassy. Yet, I easily recall aboy who would come to the nursery and learn to read with me and who would hold me when I cried about not remembering my mother, and he would tell me that someday, he would find his mother, and he would share her with me. We would both have a mother to love us.”
Lady Emma asked, “Did not his lordship’s mother die, as did yours? Though Lord Orson told me Marksman was looking for his mother and sister, I thought perhaps it was their resting places for which he searched. Many of our countrymen died on the Continent, and their British families wish to know where their loved ones are buried. I remember my father receiving such letters and bemoaning what he was to tell them.”
“Nothing so heroic,” Dora admitted. “Lord Robert Dutton was Alexander’s father. My father dragged him from the slums also, but he was near death and could not long be saved. My father kept Robert Dutton alive long enough to claim the earldom he was never meant to inherit, for he was the fourth of four sons. In that manner, Robert placed the earldom in Alexander’s young hands. Only one of Lord Robert’s brothers had lived long enough to marry and sire children, but both were girls. No heir to the earldom.”
“Then what became of Lord Marksman’s mother?” Emma asked again.
“Did you ever hear of wife selling?” Theodora asked.
“Not that I recall,” Lady Emma admitted.
