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Richmond Castle, Sussex, December 1814
Simon’s horse stood on its hind legs as a strike of lightning hit the shaky path. The hail poured like a cloudy river, obstructing everything ahead of him and making the carriage disappear in seconds.
“Go, Alex!” Simon’s deep voice bellowed though he doubted his horse could even hear him over the howling of the wind.
He pushed his horse to leap over a frozen puddle as the carriage came into view once more. It was shaking left and right, and Simon’s breath caught in his throat. It was too close to the cliff—far too close. One wrong turn, and everyone would be sent to their death.
He hurried his speed, hoping to get in front of the carriage before the inevitable happened. Another bolt of lightning struck closer to him, forcing him to shut his eyes. But when he opened them again, the carriage was no longer there—it had vanished from right in front of him.
“Madeleine!” he yelled. He jumped off his horse mid-stride, running to the edge of the cliff. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move; he could only watch as the carriage tumbled down the cliffside, smashing rocks and breaking into a thousand pieces.
Simon raised from his bed in an instant, cold sweat dripping from his forehead. Wiping it with his bare hands, he stood up from the grand bed and looked out of the window across to a distant lake. It was seven o’clock. He could tell from the way the sun threatened to spill over the horizon. Nightmares of his haunted…past had unfortunately become a regular occurrence. So much so, it was needless to say he wouldn’t let them sour his mood any longer, as the ghost of a smile found its way to his face soon enough.
He covered his bare torso with a loose hanging, white shirt, brushing his tousled hair away from his eyes with a wavy hand, deep in thought. Today was…important, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. A glide over to his diary left open atop the dresser reminded him again.
Ah, the Prussian actress.
With that, he opened the door, revealing the familiar sight of his old and loyal servant on the other side, that customary grin present on her face. Simon would notice day by day how old she was getting. She refused to admit it, of course, and he dared not bring it up himself.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she chirped. “We’ll have your bath prepared soon. Meanwhile,” she tossed him an apple as she continued, “do enjoy your workout.”
“Looking as young as ever, Antonia,” he replied, biting out a large chunk of the fruit. Those words never failed to light up Antonia’s face, which Simon found endearing all the same.
He stepped away from his bedchambers, humming his way toward the makeshift gymnasium he’d use for daily exercise. He continued his stroll through the hallway, pausing the moment he noticed one of the portraits slightly slanted—an oily painting of his Great Grandfather in a dark costume, a haze of apathy coating his expressionless face. On its left stood vague portraits of a nameless ancestry stretching back centuries, but on its right, the distant face of his Father, Philip Crawford, sat scowling at him.
Simon Crawford, son of the late Philip and Susan Crawford, and the sitting Duke of Richmond was born a dagger to his lineage, with his mother passing soon after giving birth, and his father, descending into a crazed state, spending his final years fading in the pursuit of material wealth. But, most importantly, rarely attending to his son. Simon had never seen his mother. And in his father’s lack of appearances, Simon had learned to grow independent from his lineage. It was for that reason no portrait of Simon stood beside that of his father’s, nor would it ever. He made a mental note to remind his staff to double-check all of them once more, however, just to assure that everything looked perfect.
Finally, he reached his gymnasium after taking a long way around to avoid the west wing of the Castle. A glass of water was placed atop the table beside his workout space; its consistent placement molding a slight indent on the table’s surface. The gray room was small and modest, with only a two-meter circle in use by Simon, typically for fencing practice and body conditioning, while the windows and drapes were always left open to help him keep track of time. Sprawled across the rest of the room was an unattended boxing ring, some free weights and a couple benches.
He unfastened his shirt, inhaling deeply, then pushing onwards with one arm, battling a non-existent opponent with a steel epee. The burden of fatigue was rather a blessing—with each thrust of the arm and cross of a foot, the mental exhaustion wouldn’t allow Simon’s mind to wander. And upon indulging himself so regularly in swordsmanship, ‘accomplished fencer’ was added to the extensive list of titles bestowed upon him by the ton.
A knock on the door distracted him from his vigorous activities.
“Your Grace,” his valet said, “your bath is ready, and breakfast will be served in precisely forty-five minutes.”
“That’s all right. And Richard, did Lord Skeffington say if he’ll be arriving at nine o’clock this time? My memory is failing me today, you see,” Simon said as he stretched his muscles, beads of sweat dripping down his neck.
“Correct, Your Grace. Today’s schedule includes his visit.”
“Perfect.Resume normality. And I’ll be right up for my bath.” His valet was about to walk away, but Simon abruptly stopped him. “Oh, and one more thing,” he muttered, “do rid the drawing-room of all the love letters. I’d rather not keep unsolicited confessions.”
“I shall make sure of it at once, Your Grace.”
Richard stepped away, leaving Simon to his solitude once more. He would throw away the letters himself, really, but he felt his curiosity would drive him to open some. A greater act of betrayal he feared. They were letters from his mistresses, women who had the chance to spend the night with him, and who, for some peculiar reason, wished to see him once more.
Eventually, he made his way back to his room, removing his clothes. Simon wasn’t one to brag, but he was proud of his physique; it had taken him a long and arduous eight years to get into shape and maintain it. Now he himself could spend hours swooning over his reflection, not that such self-indulgence was necessary, what with half thetonproviding it for him.
After his bath and grooming, and after his valet helped him into his dark blue coat—something he’d wear each morning—he made his way to the dining room just in time for the gong.
The smell of coffee lingered. Frankly, he hated tea, as unorthodox as that was for an English man. He preferred coffee with a side of expensive brandy, served with the butter and toast he’d have for breakfast every Wednesday. Simon found six long days between any meal was just enough to whet his appetite but not dull its savor. Thus, each day of the week accounted for a specific meal, consistent and predictable, just the way he liked it.
“Richard,” Simon said as he took a sip of his coffee. “The newspaper dated for today?”
“Is right beside your meal, Your Grace.”
“Ah, of course, it is.”
Simon crossed one leg over the other, opening the contents as he took yet another sip of his coffee. “The Cursed Rake,” he continued, “the same title for two days on the trot? I’m deeply unflattered.”
