Chapter 1
Fenwick, Winter 1882
Perched atop Buttercup, the gentle bay she’d hired from the Pilgrim’s Rest Inn, Lady Annabelle Montrose huddled deeper into her velvet-lined cloak and squinted against the icy January wind. A gust carrying invisible sleet bit into her cheeks like tiny shards of glass and she tugged the cashmere scarf she’d wrapped around her head higher. She flicked a glance behind her, wanting to ask her ridiculously overpriced guide how much longer before they’d reach the Pilgrim’s Way, but he’d fallen back—again—to ride beside Lucy, and she feared he might not hear her over the howling wind lest she shout. She would not lower herself to that.
Before they set out on the return portion of this journey she would have a small chat with Lucy—Miss Dunnfor this particular occasion—and remind her that despite the role she was playing, acting as Annabelle’s chaperone, she was not free to lollygag at will.
So much for time being of the essence, as her guide had insisted with his annoying lecture concerning the inclement weather and the inadvisability of crossing to Holy Island until a later date.
A later date would never do. She had no intention of tarrying in the frigid North any longer than necessary. No, indeed. If her hunch proved correct, and she had no reason to think otherwise, she would soon unearth the conveniently vanished Lord Sterling Randall, Viscount of Stoneford.
She smiled inwardly, congratulating herself on the clever bargaining she’d employed for this day’s work. She might have agreed to the guide’s exorbitant fee—and that only because he was the sole conductor who’d agreed to see her and her so-calledcompanionsafely across the marshy causeway to Holy Island and back—but she’d had the foresight not to pay him a farthing until the journey was complete. She knew how his sort operated. Once he had her money in his meaty, grasping fist, he would have no reason not to simply take her a short distance along the path and then pronounce the crossing too dangerous. He’d disappear—along with her money.
She crested the hill and awaited her guide with mounting impatience.
Eventually Mr. Blackwell halted his horse beside hers. Lucy, thanks to her plodding pace, still lagged behind.
Annabelle turned her gaze on Holy Island. In the waning light of dusk, the island’s vast expanse of grasslands, its ruins of a long-abandoned priory, and a lone, stately castle standing tall and proud against a backdrop of sea and sky seemed both desolate and beautiful. The latter she hadn’t foreseen.
Her brother would laugh at her reaction, were he here to witness it. But he wasn’t here, and that was precisely the point.
Her gaze flicked over the surrounding dunes and expanse of silt leading to the island as snow flurries alighted atop theglimmering mud only to vanish in an instant. Intermittent poles lined the causeway from one end to the other, marking the sole land access from the mainland.
Supposedly this crossing could only be utilized for a few hours each day. In another few hours, this same path would become impassable, taken by the sea.
She squelched the shudder of fear trying to roll through her, imagining the scene.
“You wish to proceed?” Mr. Blackwell asked her, raising his voice to be heard above the din of waves and wind.
“Of course,” she said, no hesitation. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back, and you receive your fee.”
He issued a solemn nod which she suspected held more than a trace of sarcasm, and urged his horse onward.
They’d no sooner reached the marsh than two riders appeared from the east, their approach obscured by the dunes.
Annabelle arched a brow at the nay-saying guide. “You see? Safe as houses. These two men appear ready and willing to make the crossing. Let us get on with it.”
Her guide ignored her in favor of eyeing the riders.
Annabelle’s patience reached its limit. She had traveled the entire day, boarding the train in London at sunrise, hiring a post chaise in Berwick-on-Tweed for a miserable journey over rutted roads to Fenwick, only to encounter undue resistance in her simple request for someone to take her across the flats, and now this insubordination.
“Lady Woodville, I suggest we make a run for it.”
She had to have heard him wrong. “I beg your pardon?”
Her words cut off when the newcomers sidled directly into their paths—or hers, at any rate. Her guide had turned his mount and was barreling back the way they’d come. Lucy, too, suddenly had the wherewithal to speed her horse along and rode neck and neck with the guide.
One of the two riders took off after them. The other man, all of his face save for his beady brown eyes concealed under the brim of his large hat and behind a wrapped scarf, held what appeared to be a pistol, aimed at her.
Outrage filled her. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Dismount, deliver your valuables, and no one gets hurt,” came his gritty demand.
She lifted her chin and, at the same time, concentrated her efforts on steadying her horse who had begun dancing uneasily, as if sensing danger.
“Dismount? Out of the question, and how dare you ask it of me, sir. Do you know who I am? Move aside.”
His huff of laughter proclaimed him entirely unimpressed. Then, very deliberately, he cocked the pistol.
