October 19th, 1805
Hazelbrook, Surrey
Marcus strode down the marble staircase, grim momentum building with each step. It’s like having a tooth pulled. The faster one does it, the easier it is. “Mr. Albin?” he asked the footman on the landing.
“In the long gallery, sir.”
His grip on the riding crop tightened. “Thank you.”
Marcus’s boots slapped the floor, each stride taking him closer to Barnaby. Face to face. For the first time since Lavinia’s death.
The long gallery was hung with paintings, but Albin wasn’t looking at scenes from Holland or Italy. He was gazing at the portrait of Lavinia, his mouth half-open, awestruck.
Marcus’s jaw clenched. Paris must have looked just as foolish when he first set eyes on Helen of Troy. As must I have, the first time I saw Lavinia.
Albin’s head turned. “Sir. Good morning.” He blinked, frowned, turned back to the portrait. “Was she truly that beautiful, sir?”
Marcus crossed the gallery. He stared at the portrait. Golden hair. Sky-blue eyes. “She was.”
“She did look like an angel.”
“Yes.” Sir Thomas Lawrence had perfectly captured Lavinia’s delicate beauty, the expression of sweetness on her face.
Marcus’s mouth tightened. Sweetness. It had snared his heart as much as Lavinia’s slender, golden beauty had. He had wanted to cherish, to protect, to love.
But Lavinia’s sweetness had gone no deeper than her smooth, petal-soft skin.
Marcus slapped the riding crop against his thigh, a sharp sound, and turned on his heel. “Let’s go.”
Marcus’s mood didn’t improve once they emerged from the house. Everything brought back memories of Lavinia. He’d strolled with her down the slope of the lawn to the reed-fringed lake, almost dizzy with disbelief in his good luck. My wife. He’d picnicked with her in the Grecian folly on the far side, had kissed her beneath the cool, marble shade of its portico, had thought himself the most fortunate man in the Empire.
Lord, what a fool I was. Marcus turned away from the vista of lawn and lake, trees, hills. “We’ll ride over.”
“Ride?” Albin looked dismayed.
“You do ride, don’t you?”
“Of course. It’s just . . . it’s been a long time, sir.”
Marcus grunted. He strode in the direction of the stables, his boots crunching sharply in the gravel. “Hurry along, lad. I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”
It was a lie. He didn’t want to visit Barnaby. Didn’t want to see his face. Didn’t want to speak with him.
Like pulling a tooth. The faster one does it, the easier it is.
Their arrival in the stableyard sparked a bustle of activity. Two mounts were brought out. Marcus’s stomach tightened as he swung up into the saddle, as he found the stirrup with his right boot, as he settled his weight. Like pulling a tooth, he told himself again.
He watched Albin heave himself up, fail to get his leg over the horse’s back, and lurch back to the ground.
The lad tried again, launching himself so vigorously that he almost pitched over the other side of his mount. He clutched the saddle, barely keeping his seat.
Marcus snorted. A drunken sailor could have mounted with more finesse. “Would you prefer we took the carriage?”
Albin flushed scarlet. “No, sir.”
Marcus shrugged. He pressed his heels to his horse’s flanks and trotted from the stableyard. He didn’t look back. No thud came from behind him, so presumably Albin managed to keep his seat.
Marcus followed the curve of the carriage sweep. At the edge of the trees, he waited for Albin. The lad held the reins in a death grip, as if he expected to fall off at any moment.
“How are you at jumping?”
Albin hesitated. “Not very good, sir.”
Marcus grunted. At least the lad was honest.
He chose an easy route through the woods, avoiding such challenges as fording the river and jumping the high yew hedge that marked the boundary between his land and Barnaby’s. The woods were bleak, wintry. Trees reached skeleton arms to the sky, the bare bones of their fingers outstretched. Dead leaves lay like sloughed skin at their feet.
The knot in Marcus’s belly grew tighter the further they rode. Here was the old oak he’d fallen from, breaking his collarbone, knocking himself senseless. Barnaby had run for help as fast as his six-year-old legs could carry him to fetch help. Here was the stream he and Barnaby had dammed, hauling rocks and branches, making themselves as filthy as two children could possibly be. And here was the glade where bluebells bloomed. Where he’d kissed Lavinia. Where perhaps Barnaby had kissed her, too.
The knot in his belly twisted even tighter, as if a fist squeezed his innards.
They came out of the woods. Mead Hall was visible ahead—gray stone and tall Tudor chimneys. Marcus halted. Nausea rose in his throat. He clenched his teeth together.
“Is that where Sir Barnaby lives, sir?”
“Yes.”
The mare caught Marcus’s tension. She tossed her head. Her muscles bunched; she wanted to gallop. Marcus held her back.
Rage chased away the nausea as they trotted across the last field. He and Barnaby had played together as children, endured Eton together, gone up to Oxford together, had lived almost in each other’s pockets, as close as brothers. And then he had an affair with my wife.
The rage was a hot, fermenting pressure in his chest by the time they reached the stableyard. Marcus dismounted and strode around to the front door, not looking back to see whether Albin followed. He rang the bell with a loud peal.
Albin hurried up, puffing slightly.
The door opened. “Lord Cosgrove.” Surprise showed on the butler’s face.
“Good morning, Yardley.” It took effort to be civil, to not elbow the man aside and barge into Mead Hall. “Is Sir Barnaby in?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus stepped into the stone-flagged entrance hall. He paid no attention to the tapestries on the walls, the crossed battle-axes above the doorway, the suits of armor flanking the oak staircase. “Breakfast parlor? Study?”
The butler hesitated. For more than twenty years Marcus had run tame in this house, entering without ceremony, needing no servant to announce him. “Study, sir.”
“Very good, Yardley.” He strode across the entrance hall, underneath the crossed axes, and down the corridor to the right.
Albin followed.
Marcus rapped once on the door to Barnaby’s study, a peremptory sound, and opened it without waiting. Rage seethed in his belly.
Time seemed to swing backwards. How many times had he entered this room? How many times seen Barnaby seated at that desk, papers strewn messily around him and a painting of Agincourt, the battle that had won the Wares their baronetcy, hanging behind him on the wall?
Barnaby looked up. His face was so familiar—the curling red-brown hair, the freckles, the hazel eyes—that Marcus felt a moment of disorientation, as if the clock had turned back and the events of last year been erased—betrayal, death—and he could step up to the desk with a cheerful greeting and Barnaby would once again be his closest friend.
It seemed Barnaby experienced the same disorientation. For a split second, a grin lit his face—and then died. There was a moment of silence, of stillness. Barnaby laid down his quill and pushed aside the sheet of paper he was writing on. His movements were jerky, as if he had a marionette’s wooden joints. “Marcus. Good morning.”
Marcus didn’t return the greeting. He clenched his hands, furious with himself for almost returning that grin, for wanting—if even for a second—to be friends with Barnaby again. “Did you send men to attack me?”
Barnaby stiffened. “What?”
Marcus walked towards the desk, fury building with each step. “I was attacked last week. Was it your doing?”
Barnaby stood, shoving his chair back so hard it struck the wall. “No, it was not.” Behind him, the painting of Agincourt trembled, the turmoil of knights and pennants and horses momentarily alive. “The devil take you, Marcus!” He came around the desk. “How dare you think I’d do such a thing!”
“Why not?” He had control of his anger now; his voice was cold and contemptuous. “You fucked my wife.”
Barnaby’s head jerked back, as if he’d been slapped.
“I take it the vandalism wasn’t you either?” There was a sneer in his voice. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to hurt Barnaby, wanted to wound him as deeply as Barnaby had wounded him.
“Of course not!”
Instinctively, he believed Barnaby. Instinctively, he trusted him. But he’d trusted Barnaby before, and Barnaby had betrayed him. Marcus’s upper lip curled. “On your word of honor? We both know how much that means.”
Anger flared in Barnaby’s face. “Damn you, Marcus! She came to me in tears! Said you were treating her cruelly, beating her—”
“Beating her?” The accusation took Marcus’s breath away. He stood with his mouth open for a moment, incredulous. “How could you think—?” Rage choked his throat. He swallowed, found his voice. “I never raised my hand against Lavinia. Not once.” He swung around abruptly and headed for the door, almost ramming into Albin. He’d forgotten his secretary’s existence.
“Marcus, don’t go. Please.”
Marcus halted. He stood motionless for a moment, trembling, tense, then turned back to face Barnaby.
He knew Barnaby almost as well as he knew himself, could tell his moods at a glance, could see whether he was bored or amused or angry. Right now, it wasn’t anger that was stamped on Barnaby’s face.
He hates himself as much as I do.
“I’m sorry, Marcus. I never meant to . . . to . . .” Barnaby’s hands moved, a beseeching gesture. “If I could take back that afternoon, I would. If . . . if I could undo it . . .”
Marcus’s fury drained away. In its place was a weight of sadness. How could he blame Barnaby for falling prey to the same pretty face, the same caressing wiles, that he had? He made the same fall I did, and just as disastrously.
“Marcus, please . . . can’t we . . . can’t we—”
He knew what Barnaby was going to ask: Can’t we start again? Can’t we be friends? And he knew the answer. “No.”
Barnaby’s face tightened, the muscles around his mouth and eyes pinching in.
“I forgive you,” Marcus said, and—astonishingly—that statement was true. Two minutes ago he’d have sworn forgiveness was impossible, but somehow it had happened. In his heart, he had forgiven Barnaby. “But I no longer trust you.”
Barnaby swallowed. He gave a short, jerky nod.
“Good day,” Marcus said, and he turned on his heel again and walked from the room.
Albin followed.
Marcus let himself out through a side door. He walked slowly around to the stables. The rage that had propelled him into Mead Hall was gone. Silently he swung up into his saddle and rode out.
He left the road, cantering across the fallow fields, jumping the hedges. It wasn’t until he was halfway across the third field that he remembered Albin. He hauled on the reins, halting his horse.
Albin was only a dozen yards behind.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said, as the lad stopped alongside him. “I forgot you’re not—”
Albin grinned, and shook his head. “It’s fun, sir.”
Fun? Marcus grunted. He felt a thousand years older than Albin.
He urged his horse into a slow canter, watching as Albin took the next hedge, if not with flair, then at least with competence.
They forded the river and rode back through the woods, climbing a low hill. The trees pulled back for a moment. Mead Hall was visible, nestled in the valley, a gray stone building amid gray, leafless trees. Marcus gazed at it. He felt as gray as the landscape, tired and drained, almost elderly. He was aware of an ache in his chest, of sadness, of regret. “Barnaby didn’t do it.”
“No.” Albin shifted his weight in the saddle, and asked hesitantly: “Sir . . . why didn’t you duel with Sir Barnaby? After you found out?”
“Because I would have killed him. And that would have ended my political career.”
He’d wanted to kill Barnaby, had wanted quite fiercely to kill him. That desire was gone now, snuffed out. In its place was a hollow ache.
They rode slowly back through the woods. Dank drifts of leaves muffled the horses’ hooves. The village church bell tolled eleven o’clock as they emerged from the trees. On the other side of the lake, Hazelbrook sat smugly.
Marcus halted and gazed at it.
If it could walk, Hazelbrook would strut like the Prince of Wales, full of self-importance. It would pick up the wide marble skirts of its terrace and mince down to the lake and preen, admiring its reflection—the tall spears of the paladin columns, the glittering tiers of windows, the delicate tiara of its widow’s walk.
“Is that where your wife died, sir?”
“It is.” His stomach clenched in memory. He saw Lavinia’s face for a moment, the shock when she’d realized she was falling, the way her mouth had opened in a cry, the desperate grab she’d made for the railing, fingers outstretched. His ears almost heard the sound she’d made, shriek more than scream, full of rage.
“What’s that, sir?”
Marcus shook his head, dragging himself back to the present. He followed the direction of Albin’s finger. “The conservatory. My mother had it built. It’s one of the finest examples in England.” He frowned at the building. How absurd it looked, a turreted pavilion from the Far East perched on a hillside in Surrey.
“Sir . . . do you like Hazelbrook?”
Marcus uttered an uncomfortable laugh. The lad was far too perceptive. “No. If I could, I’d sell it.”
Albin gave a nod of understanding. “It’s entailed.”
“No. But my mother . . . she said the conservatory was her gift to her descendants. To my children and their children.”
“Oh,” Albin said. He looked slightly daunted.
Yes. I’m stuck with it.
“Up to a few more hours in the saddle, lad? I’ll show you round the estate, introduce you to the bailiff. You’ll be coming down here as part of your duties.” And I won’t be with you. Not if I can help it.