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Chapter 1
April 1805
The Honorable William Barlow becamethe fourth Viscount Farleigh in the usual way—with the death of the third viscount. That the deceased third viscount was William’s father was also usual in such situations.
What was less than usual was the complete apathy William felt about both the title and his father’s death. Nonetheless, his life had irrevocably changed as a result. It remained to be seen if it had changed for the better or the worse. If he were a betting man, which he emphatically was not, he would bet on the latter.
The carriage in which he rode was taking him closer and closer to the family home he’d avoided for years. There was no avoiding it now.
He folded the missive his father’s solicitor had sent and that had eventually found its way north to Edinburgh, where William had been for the past few years, and slid it into the breast pocket of his coat. He’d read it several times already since receiving it yesterday morning. He could recite it all by heart now.
Lord Farleigh, the letter began—as if that alone hadn’t been enough to enlighten William as to the letter’s contents—Lord Farleigh, I regret to inform you of the untimely passing of your father, William Barlow Senior, the former Viscount Farleigh.
William stared out the carriage window at the passing scenery. It was a particularly gray April day. Gusts of wind battered the hedgerows and whipped the trees alongside the Great North Road, bruising the young spring foliage already sodden from the slanting rain. It matched his mood entirely.
I regret to inform you of the untimely passing of you father, William Barlow Senior, the former Viscount Farleigh. His passing confers the title of viscount on you as his only son and heir. It would behoove you to return to Farleigh Manor as soon as you are able so that pressing concerns related to the viscountcy can be dealt with expeditiously. Your servant, Richard Heslop, Esquire.
It was worded in Mr. Heslop’s typically overwrought manner—oh, yes, he’d had dealings with Heslop before now—but in simple language, the solicitor was telling him the viscountcy and its associated properties, that were now William’s responsibility, were in a desperate state. But of course they were; that came as no surprise.
The only real surprise in all of this was that his father had managed to live for as long as he had, all things considered.
William settled back into the corner of the carriage the solicitor had sent along with the letter to bring him to Buckinghamshire, and he planted his feet firmly on the floor for balance. He slid the brim of his hat down, folded his arms across his chest, and shut his eyes, willing the motion of the swaying carriage to soothe him. He mentally recited as many verses from the plays of Sophocles as he could remember from his school days, but as they were all tragedies, they only added to his overall sense of gloom. He tried to take a nap.
Despite his efforts, his mind kept returning to the letter in his pocket—or, more precisely, to Farleigh Manor.
Farleigh Manor, the seat of the viscountcy and William’s childhood home, was filled with ghosts. Haunting memories. William hadn’t been there, hadn’t returned home, since he’d left for Oxford. He’d rarely gone home during his time at Eton before that, having left for school at the age of ten. His mother was long dead—buried in the family graveyard there, next to the little chapel, along with other deceased viscounts and viscountesses and assorted Barlow family members.
He wondered if Matthew, the groundskeeper, was still there and if he was keeping her grave well tended. It belatedly occurred to him that his father would have a grave to be tended now as well. The father William remembered would have insisted his final resting place look distinguished, as befitting a member of English nobility.
His mother would have cared only that any flowers planted there were treated well and allowed to flourish.
And what of Mrs. Holly, the housekeeper? Or Grimshaw, the butler? Good heavens, the man had seemed ancient to William when William was a boy. Was he still alive? And then there was Samuel, who’d been stable master and had taught William to ride.
Those dear people—the servants of Farleigh Manor who had remained faithful to the viscountcy and to William—had made his boyhood more bearable. He had thought of them frequently over the years, but to what end? The last time he had confronted his father about Farleigh Manor, its tenants and servants and the general state of its finances, he had been ordered to leave and never return. William had obliged him and had moved to Scotland. It had been the ideal location—the intellectual community in Edinburgh had kept his mind occupied, and the distance between him and Farleigh Manor had kept his longing for the good people of Farleigh Manor at bay—not that he had been entirely successful.
William knew from his last encounter with his father that if things had continued on the course his father had set, Farleigh Manor would most likely be bankrupt. The man’s unwillingness to change would have seen to that. William would need all his wits about him when he reached the manor and came face-to-face with the challenges he had newly inherited.
He pulled the brim of his hat farther down over his eyes. The movement of the carriage had finally done its work and had lulled him into a drowsy state. Sleep was preferable to the painful, nostalgic shards he was feeling with each servant and tenant he remembered. There was nothing he could do from the interior of a carriage anyway.
Farleigh Manor and its troubles lay ahead, so for now, William slept.
* * *
The Wilmington ball was this evening, and Lady Louisa Hargreaves had received an invitation from Lady Wilmington herself. It was the first grand ball of the year and Louisa’s first ball of her first Season, so she had chosen her gown with extreme care—after consulting with her mother, the modiste, her personal maid, her mother’s personal maid, and even a chambermaid who’d happened to enter the room right after she’d donned the gown just minutes ago. Presenting oneself to London Society was a greater ordeal than Louisa had imagined it would be.
Assured by them all that the gown was exquisite and would cut a fine dash, she took a deep breath and left her dressing room. It was time to join her parents and be on their way.
“Good heavens, Louisa, what is that thing you’re wearing?” her eldest brother, Alexander, said as he watched her descend the main staircase of their London home.
Louisa came to an abrupt halt halfway down the staircase.
“It is not a thing, Alex,” her brother Anthony said in a decidedly condescending tone, taking Louisa completely by surprise. It was so unlike Anthony, who was just older than she, to come to her defense. If there was one thing she had learned over the years, it was that both brothers could be terrible nuisances. “It is clearly a cloud of one sort or other,” he finished.
Louisa fought the urge to growl.
“The question we must then ask is what kind of cloud is it? Is it a cirrus cloud?” Anthony mused, tapping his chin in thought. “But no, the dress is too”—he made circling gestures with his hand—“too . . . puffy. Yes, that’s the word. Too puffy to be cirrus clouds, which are ethereal in nature.”
“Our sister is definitely not what I would call ethereal,” Alex said. “She planted me a facer once, and there wasn’t anything ethereal about it.”
