1
England, 1814
Richard Kendall, Marquess of Wilton, was beginning to wonder if finding the man who had ruined his sister’s life was a fool’s errand. He scowled down at the crumpled scrap of paper in his hand—three names already slashed through in furious strokes. Only one remained: a final “Mr. Smith”, as vague and common a name as the others. But what if this last lead was no different? What if this was just another dead end, another false hope?
With a sigh, he tossed the list onto the table and reached for his tankard of watered-down ale. The stuff was barely drinkable. He grimaced at the bitter swallow and longed for the comforts of home—his study, a crackling fire, and a glass of fine port, not this miserable excuse for ale in a dingy coaching inn on the edge of nowhere. His body ached from the journey, the jolting coach ride turning his muscles stiff and sore. When had he become so old? He was not yet thirty, yet the strain of this endless hunt weighed on him like an anvil strapped to his back.
He glanced around the hall, carefully avoiding the hopefulglances of the barmaid weaving between the tables. Her bodice was indecently low, her smile overly bright. It was a desperate kind of bravado that made Richard’s stomach twist with pity. She wasn’t much older than he was, but years of fending off leering patrons had hollowed her gaze. She deserved better than the lot she was dealt, but he had no kindness to spare today.
The door swung open, and Mr. Crosby, the Bow Street Runner he had hired, entered the hall. Tall, broad, and grim, the man moved with purpose, his boots thudding against the worn floorboards.
Without preamble, the Bow Street Runner pulled out a chair and said, “I come bearing good news.”
Richard was desperate for something—anything—that would move this wretched search forward. “I could use some,” he muttered.
Crosby leaned in, lowering his voice. “I spotted a man fitting your sister’s description leaving a manor on the edge of the village this morning.”
Every part of Richard snapped to attention. “Did you speak to him?”
“I did not,” Crosby replied. “I thought it would be best to approach the manor together.”
Richard shoved back his chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. “We should go now,” he said.
Crosby, however, remained seated, his hand tapping the table. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
“I am,” Richard asserted. “I’ll challenge him to a duel and we’ll be on the road before sunset.”
“Or you’ll be dead,” Crosby pointed out.
Richard gave him a smug smile. “I am an excellent shot.”
“And you think he isn’t?”
“He’s a coward,” Richard replied. “He eloped with my sister to Gretna Green, only to abandon her the moment he had herdowry in his hands. He deserves a fate far worse than a bullet.”
Crosby’s eyes flicked towards the pistol tucked in Richard’s waistband. “I agree he deserves punishment. But why not sue him for abandonment? You’ve found where he lives.”
Richard’s hand settled on the butt of his pistol, the gesture deliberate. “Because men like him slip through the cracks of the law. I would see him answer to me, not a distant judge.”
“You are angry,” Crosby said bluntly.
“Good gads, yes,” Richard snapped, his voice rising enough to turn a few heads nearby.
Crosby stood and held up a placating hand. “All right. Let’s go visit Mr. Smith, but keep your wits about you. Death’s a poor remedy if you plan to save your sister’s honor.”
Without waiting for a response, Richard strode for the door.
Outside, they retrieved their horses and set off at a gallop. The wind tore at Richard’s coat, but he relished the bite of the chill air against his skin. It wasn’t long before they arrived at a modest stone manor nestled behind oak trees, with neat gardens blooming along the front and a slender creek weaving through the property.
Richard scowled. It was far too picturesque for the lair of a scoundrel. He dismounted, tying his reins to a hitching post with sharp, jerking motions. He stalked up the path without hesitation and hammered his fist against the door.
“Subtle,” Crosby muttered under his breath.
The door creaked open, and a fair-haired maid peered out. Her apron was crisp, her expression wary. “May I help you, sir?”
Richard stepped forward, looming over her. “I demand to speak with Mr. Smith. Immediately.”
The maid glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I regret to inform you that Mr. Smith passed away a little over a year ago.”
