Page 1 of The Thorn and the Rose

Prologue

Dear Thorn,

I cannot believe it is May already. Work is coming on apace at Goshen Court and whilst there is still a mountain to climb, I believe it may be a place I can take a pride in soon, assuming it does not bankrupt me in the meantime.

For once the weather has blessed us with glorious sunshine and for the first time, I see that the gardens here, though sadly neglected, were once something special. Mama will love them, yet I am horribly aware that this season will come and go, and I promised her she and father could visit at summer’s end. It does not feel like enough time.

I have not yet told Tilly her grandparents will visit her, but I shall. I know they will be kind to her, no matter how angry or disappointed they are with me. How could they not be? I hope you will come and spend some time with us over the coming months, too. I imagine it is time you gave your liver a rest, in any case.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Lord Thomas Barrington, from his elder brother, The Right Hon’ble Philip Barrington, The Earl of Ashburton. (sons of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu)

15th May 1845, The Sons of Hades, Portman Square, London.

Lord Thomas Barrington, or Thorn as he was known to his friends, drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The air was damp and mild, and he was pleasantly bosky. He had also cleaned out his friend Ashton’s pockets, an achievement which he would not let the fellow forget anytime soon. Still, the devil would likely get his own back the next time they sparred. Ash had a punishing right hook, which they had all been on the receiving end of at one time or another. Not that they held grudges. Despite temperaments and personalities that were sometimes at odds with one another, they got along famously, and any disputes were settled in the ring. Few people fancied arguing with Ash, which meant he got away with bloody murder.

Thorn weaved a little, taking a moment to steady himself against a wall. Perhaps he had dipped a little deeper than he realised. Well, he’d pay for it tomorrow, but it had been an enjoyable evening. A shame Pip wasn’t a part of things any longer, though he seemed contented in a different way. The challenge of restoring his tumbledown property and making a home for his little girl had focused his mind and given him a goal. It was what his brother had needed, even if this wasn’t the way Thorn would have wanted it to happen. He understood why Pip had kept Tilly a secret, but he still wished he had not done so. Their mother would be hurt, and heaven alone knew what Pa would say. Thorn felt rather sick even considering that. Not his problem, thank God. Seeing his brother’s predicament had made him a good deal more cautious about how and with whom he dallied. Facing his father with news of that nature was enough to terrify anyone. Yes, perhaps he did understand why Pip had kept it to himself.

Smothering a yawn, Thorn pushed himself off the wall and walked on. The blow came from nowhere, sending him staggering forwards. He hit the floor hard, his knees taking the brunt of the impact as he turned, instincts forcing him to roll and scramble to his feet. Turning to face the threat, he realised too late that there were three assailants, and a different tactic might have been prudent. He fought hard, satisfied to hear the crunch of something breaking beneath his fist as a nose gave way, but he was too drunk and too outnumbered to taste victory this evening. Two held him still, his arms pinned behind him as the other stepped closer. His face was covered but Thorn felt certain he was smiling, the glittering eyes oddly familiar as the man drove a fist into his guts.

15th May 1845, The Sons of Hades, Portman Square, London.

“Wake up! Oh, do please wake up. You must get out of here. Hurry now.”

Thorn groaned in response to the soft, pleading voice that roused him from oblivion. He wasn’t certain if he preferred staying in the dark or not, for waking had delivered him into a world of pain. His head was throbbing fit to burst and everything hurt.

“What the devil?” he mumbled, utterly disorientated, but dimly aware of the hard, cold cobblestones beneath his battered body.

“Please, sir… please hurry. You can’t stay here.”

Thorn blinked, or tried to. There seemed to be something wrong with his eyes, for they would not open properly, and he gained only a hazy impression of a slender female until she got to her knees beside him. Thorn stared, gazing into wide hazel eyes, filled with tenderness and concern. She was crying for him.

“It’s all right. I’m not dead,” he said, wishing to ease her worry for him but she just swiped at the tears and shook her head.

“Only by the mercy of God,” she whispered, her voice tight.

“And you,” Thorn added softly. She was tugging at his arm, trying to move him, but he really did not wish to move at all.

“Who are you?” he asked, only to be gently but firmly hushed.

“Never mind that. Please, can you stand?”

Thorn was about to retort that of course he could stand—a damned silly question—when it occurred to him that the woman might have good reason to ask. As he attempted to get up, he discovered he was as unsteady as a newborn colt, his head whirling, his body giving him forceful signals that all was not well. What the devil had happened to him? A shadowy recollection of a brawl returned to his pounding brain, of being outnumbered and given a good going over until a kick in the head had quieted him and sent him spinning into darkness. Thorn lurched to his feet and fell against the wall, the only thing keeping him upright as his guts rebelled and he spewed a vile mixture of wine and brandy that stung his throat and made him utterly wretched.

“Here.”

Thorn turned his head with difficulty, seeing through his fast-swelling eyelids a slender hand holding a lace handkerchief. It seemed obscene to use such a delicate, pretty thing for wiping his mouth, but he took it, anyway.

“Thank you.”

“Come along. Oh, my goodness, you’re bleeding. I’m so sorry. I think you must be badly hurt, but you cannot stay here,” insisted the woman.

Little more than a girl, Thorn thought, gaining an impression of a petite figure, though the soft voice held a steely note. As his own brain seemed to have shut up shop and thinking was beyond him, he allowed her to steer him down the street, into a back alley and along a road. He followed with no resistance, aware of the dangers of being injured and alone on the streets of the capital and too dazed to protest. His head hurt so badly he had the desperate, if ridiculous, desire to remove it and set it aside. Finally, she took him inside a building, down a flight of stairs, and showed him a neatly made bed. Ready to weep with gratitude, Thorn lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

“Please, sir,” she said, her voice urgent. “You must be quiet. I ought not to have brought you here and… Oh, there will be so much trouble,” she murmured, though more to herself than him.

Thorn made a sound he hoped acknowledged this demand, to which he had no problem agreeing. His head was ringing too loudly and too relentlessly, and he just wanted to be quiet and still.

A cool hand touched his forehead, and he thought he heard her whisper something, but the words were too quiet for him to catch. She spoke again then, gently insistent, and this time he heard her.