Page 3 of Lord of the Lost

Chapter One

February 1816

“You must not torture yourself,” Wilhelmina Shelton, Countess of Eldwood, joined her daughter, Lady Desdemona, at the window. “Devlin was always a tough boy. Too tough for his own good, the village folk sometimes remarked. Impudently, of course, but one can’t help but agree with them. Do you remember when he ran all the way to the seaside, to that small fishing village? He was gone for over a week! How old was he, Desdemona?”

“He was eleven, Mother.” Desdemona sighed. “The late Duke found him with a family of fishermen. I remember.”

“Nonsense. You remember being told about it, I don’t doubt that for a moment, but you were too young to remember it happening. Do not forget, my sweet daughter, that Devlin is seven years your senior.”

“He is the Duke now, Mother.”

That was, Desdemona thought, if he still lived… But no, surely he had not been killed on some battlefield? Surely, if he had, a letter would have come…

But perhaps, if it had, the Duchess would not have told anyone outside her own household – after all, she had been born in France, and most in the district regarded her with suspicion, no matter that she had been in England for fifty years.

Still, Mona, as he had always called her, could not imagine it, could not believe him dead. In her mind, he was too real, frozen in time, perhaps, as the boy she had run across the fields with, but real, still of this world, surely?

Beside her, her mother waved a hand.

“Yes, yes, I know.”

Mona nodded, still staring out across the valley, watching the rain partially hide Grimstoke Castle from her view. Her mother sighed, and went back to her chair by the fire.

Lower down, Grimstoke Village lay between the two great houses, like a scattering of pebbles between two great rocks. Here, on the western side, twenty miles from the sea, stood Crooked Hill Manor, named for the misshapen hill upon which it sat. A gravelly, torturous road snaked up the hill from the gate which had stood for five generations. Quite why her ancestors had chosen to build in such an awkward place, Mona could not imagine, but perhaps the view was worth it.

From Crooked Hill Manor you could see the entirety of Grimstoke Village, the market road dominating the small village; and beside that, the church. Opposite Crooked Hill, on the eastern side of Grimstoke Village, sat Grimstoke Castle, whose medieval brickwork, buttresses, and towers made an imposing, if rather oppressive, sight. Until his death, six months ago, His Grace, Gregory Vickery, the Duke of Grimstoke, had lived in the sprawling castle complex – the estate of which extended for near twenty miles to the east, away from the village – and now only his French Duchess and her daughter remained, for her son had gone to war....

Mona ran her fingers over the glass, tracing falling raindrops down its length, and wondering about the fate of the Grimstoke Duchy. It was 1816 and the war was over. The son of the Vickery family should have returned by now.

Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps Devlin was dead, the thought came again, and she pushed it aside, again, refusing to even contemplate believing that he could be gone from the world.

The light rain pattered the panes, obscuring Mona’s view even more. His Grace had died six months ago, and still there was no sign of the son and heir. The Duchess had postponed the funeral, but one could only do that for so long, and in time, they had laid the Duke to rest. Mona pitied the Duchess, for even that delay had been criticised, by those in the village who whispered about the ‘French wife’s’ machinations. Perhaps, the line of thinking ran, Emilie Vickery had worked as an agent for Napoleon and had poisoned the Duke. The rumours were absurd when one remembered that the Duchess had lived in England since she was six, long before this most recent series of wars with France – but some village folks liked to have someone to whisper about….

She tapped her fingernails against the glass, listening to the sound of it, overlaid on the sound of the rain, and wondering if it could sing out across the miles and sound in Devlin’s ears, as if something could reach him, wherever he was, and call him home. But even if it could, would he come? And if he did, would he even remember her?

And if he never came home, what would she do?

He was the only man she had ever cared for, and eleven long years had gone by since he left – years in which she had grown from barely more than a child, into a beautiful woman – one who turned away every suitor, for they were, none of them, the man who held her heart.

The sound of the door interrupted her maudlin musings, and she turned to see her brother entering the room.

She remembered when Roland had been a rough-and-tumble young man with a quick smile and easy laughter. Now he was Lord Eldwood, man of the house, come into his title far too early, when their father had been taken from them by a hunting accident.

Now, Roland’s smile was slower, and his laughter was not easy in the least.

He was a tall, thin man with the look about him which is commonly referred to as ‘dashing’. All of his features were sharp and angular, so that he had the overall appearance of a hunting falcon, and his eyes were the same dark brown as his hair. The responsibilities of the title weighed heavily on him.

“Still pining, sister?” He went to sit in Father’s old armchair, lit his pipe and blew plumes of smoke. “I’ve told you before, and I do not hesitate to say it again. Devlin was a fool to go over there. He had every reason to stay. How long has he been gone? Nine, ten years?”

“Eleven,” Mona muttered.

“Ten years!” Roland ignored her mutter and waved his pipe. A scatter of ash fluttered to the carpet. “And what for? Oh, do not confuse my cautious sensibilities with cowardice. One must think of one’s family. How much difference can the son of a Duke make in a war? I’ve heard it was dreadful over there, Frenchmen eating babies and like monstrous things. Ghastly!”

This was delivered with what Mona knew to be mock seriousness – Roland had always tried to draw her out of blue-devilled moments by provoking her, and that was something which had not changed when he became the Earl of Eldwood.

“You’re exaggerating, and teasing me, brother.”

Mona went and sat opposite him, in her favourite seat beside the bookshelf.