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October 1815
London, England
Christian had indeed managed to gain superior care for his wounds by pretending to be his half-brother. No one had questioned him in the slightest, and he’d decided to continue the ruse once he’d returned to London. He’d spent quite a few weeks enjoying all the finer things the city had to offer, then sold the commission, receiving more for it than he could have ever expected to earn in his entire lifetime.
The world had suddenly opened up before him. He could go anywhere, do anything. The possibilities dazzled him. However, he found that when he truly thought about it, what he really wanted was a home of his own, somewhere in the country. All his life, he and his mother had moved from one horrid flat in the worst parts of the city to another, each one a bit of a step down from the one before. When she’d died, he’d gone to the workhouse, then to the Army, where he’d also moved around constantly.
The war still haunted him, his injuries still pained him, and he needed somewhere quiet to lick his wounds. He wanted to be around horses and growing things, to breathe in clean air, and stare out his windows at green meadows.
Then, one night, laying in his bed in his rented room, he remembered something that could work quite favorably to his advantage. As far as he knew, his estranged uncle, Theo Barnes, still worked as Andrew’s butler. Could he take this charade even further? Avail himself of not only Andrew’s name but his title and properties as well?
The next morning, Christian gathered all his courage and took himself off to Mayfair. He stood for a moment in front of Andrew’s townhome, awed by the white marble façade. As a boy, he’d once come here, wanting to see where his father lived. He hadn’t dared come any closer than the park across the street, but even then, it had been clear to him that were it not for the circumstances of his birth, all of this could have been his one day.
He had aristocratic blood flowing through his veins, as his mother had constantly reminded him. She’d been a sixteen-year-old ladies’ maid to the viscountess when Lord Trowbridge had forced her into his bed. He’d then dismissed her without reference for the crime of being pregnant with his own child.
She’d been very well-spoken, having grown up in the Bradford home. and she’d insisted he not fall into the rougher speech of his contemporaries. She’d taught him to read and always told him he’d amount to more than what his father’s neglect had reduced them to.
Now, all he had to do was walk through that door and claim the title as his. Swallowing nervously, he decided to do just that. If Theo no longer worked here, or if anyone seemed in doubt of his identity, he could just make his escape before the authorities arrived.
He strode up the wide front steps, wondering for a moment if he should knock, then decided that in order for this to work, he had to act as a viscount would and simply turned the knob, a bit surprised to find it unlocked. He stood for a moment in the grand foyer, then slammed the door behind him with a resounding thud.
A moment later, a tall dark-haired man with an uncanny resemblance to Christian’s mother hurried toward him, his eyes widening as he took him in. Though it had been a decade since Christian had seen him and the man was a bit grayer than he remembered, he’d recognize his Uncle Theo anywhere.
“Lord Trowbridge! Forgive me. We had no idea you’d returned.” As he spoke, Theo divested Christian of his cloak and hat, seeming a bit flustered.
A thrill went through Christian that even his own uncle, who’d served the Bradford family nearly all his life, had mistaken him for Andrew. Perhaps he really could pull this off.
“Theo,” he said quietly, glancing around to see a maid staring down at them from the top of an ornate staircase. “Can we speak privately?”
Frowning, Theo nodded, gave the maid a fulminating glare that sent her scurrying away, and then led Christian down a long hallway to a beautiful wood-paneled room full of books. Christian glanced around covetously, thinking that this room alone might be reason enough to try and pull this off.
Theo shut the door and then stood stiffly just inside the room. “How may I be of assistance, sir?”
Christian blinked, surprised that his uncle still didn’t recognize him. Perhaps this would be easier than he’d thought. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the question, Lord Trowbridge,” Theo said uneasily, obviously thinking this was some sort of trick.
“I’m Joan’s son,” Christian admitted. “It’s me, Christian.”
“Christian,” his uncle said slowly, taking a step forward, his dark eyes widening as he took Christian in from head to toe. “My God. I thought you were the new viscount, Andrew Bradford. You look exactly like him.”
Taking a seat in front of a big cherry wood desk, Christian gestured for his uncle to do the same. “Andrew Bradford is dead,” he said bluntly. “I saw him fall at Waterloo.”
“Well, I don’t know that anybody will miss him.” Theo sank into the chair opposite Christian, staring at him as though he’d seen a ghost. “Where have you been for the last decade, Christian? I looked everywhere for you after your mother’s death, but I couldn’t find you.”
“I was sent to a workhouse after my mother died,” Christian told him. “When I was old enough, I joined the Army.”
“I’m sorry,” Theo said, hanging his head. “I wish I would have known. I would have tried to figure something out. You shouldn’t have been sent there, not when you had family.”
Christian laughed bitterly. “I knew the viscount would never allow you to have me here, not when he sent my mother away for the crime of giving birth to me. Your hands were tied, Theo. I’ve never blamed you for what happened.”
“That bastard,” Theo said quietly. “He destroyed Joan, then couldn’t even be bothered to take care of you after she died. I hope he and Andrew are rotting in hell as we speak.”
Surprised by his uncle’s anger, Christian decided to tell him everything. “I exchanged jackets and papers with Andrew after he fell. I knew that in the chaos, no one would question me. At first, I just wanted to get better medical treatment, since I was wounded, but once I arrived in London, I sold his commission. No one knows he’s dead but me.”
Theo gave him a long, considering look. “Are you certain of that? Is that why you came here today?”
Christian nodded. “I just wanted to see if you were still here, if perhaps even those closest to him would be fooled. Everyone always said we looked like twins.”
“I didn’t question that you were Andrew for a moment,” Theo admitted. “The resemblance really is startling.”
For a few moments, silence fell between them, but Christian knew they were both thinking the same thing.
“If Andrew’s death becomes known, the title will go to some distant cousin, who has less right to it than you do,” Theo said, at last, giving voice to the insane idea. “You’re that bastard’s son. His oldest son. You deserve it.”
“It would never work,” Christian said, stunned by his uncle’s vehemence. “Surely, those who knew him well would be able to see through me in an instant.”
Theo waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t know that Andrew was close to anyone. He had many acquaintances but hardly any friends. Besides, he’s been gone for three years. I’m sure even the few friends he did have hardly remember him.”
“What are you saying?” Christian asked, needing to hear him say it bluntly. “Do you think I should pretend to be Andrew indefinitely?”
Surging out of his chair, Theo began to pace the library. “Why shouldn’t you? You speak well, you look like him...” He turned and met Christian’s gaze. “I can teach you what fork to use, all the rules of polite society. If we retired to the country estate in Wiltshire, we could establish you there. Only a skeleton staff remains at Trowbridge Manor. I could replace them all before you arrived. By the time you returned to London, no one would doubt you.”
“It’s dangerous,” Christian said, his heart pounding. “I can’t even imagine what they’d do to me if I were caught.”
“Isn’t it worth the risk?” Theo asked, his dark eyes intense. “How many men like us every get this sort of opportunity?”
Though Christian still had his doubts, a part of him believed that Trowbridge should be his. Andrew was dead, but no one knew it. In his absence, the estate and the people who lived on it were rudderless. As his uncle had said, even when enough years went by to make it obvious that something had happened to Andrew, the estate and inheritance would go to some distant cousin who had a much smaller claim to it than Christian himself did.
Why shouldn’t he be his father’s heir? The man had given him nothing and destroyed his mother’s life.
“You’re right,” he told Theo. “How can I pass up this opportunity?”
* * *
NOVEMBER 1815
Avebury, England
Lady Rebecca Davenport made her way through the country fair’s maze of stalls and wagons, ignoring those hawking their wares, intent upon finding her cousin Sabrina and convincing her it was time to leave. Since Sabrina spent much of her time in London, she found the Wiltshire fair quaint and exciting, but Rebecca had been here dozens of times, and the appeal of handcrafted buttons and bows had long since waned.
However, before she could catch a glimpse of Sabrina’s golden curls, her gaze fell upon something she’d never seen here before. At the fringes of the market, under a copse of trees, stood a fanciful gypsy wagon, emblazoned with the words Madame Zeta. A gorgeous, exotic woman sat at a small table in front of it. Her lithe body was draped in a silk dress of shimmering copper, which set off her caramel-colored skin to perfection.
Rebecca found her footsteps slowing, intrigued despite herself. A fortune-teller?
The woman looked up, and her intense light-colored gaze—green or blue? —locked with Rebecca’s. A sly smile tilted her full lips, and she crooked a long, elegant finger in Rebecca’s direction.
Swallowing, Rebecca moved toward her as though she’d been summoned. As she silently took the chair across the table from the woman, she thought perhaps she had been summoned. Perhaps her uncertainty about her future had been evident even across the crowded market.
“Hello,” Rebecca said uncertainly, suddenly wondering at her audacity. She hadn’t even asked if she could sit down!
Madame Zeta stared at her for a long moment, then gave her a mysterious smile, sprinkling some tea leaves into a porcelain cup and then pouring steaming water over them from an elegant kettle on a small fire behind her. “Drink,” she urged, sliding the cup forward. “We’ll see what the leaves have to say.”
Rebecca took a sip, surprised to find a smooth Earl Grey, instead of whatever more exotic flavor she’d expected. As she drank the tea, Madame Zeta observed her carefully, making her feel very uncomfortable.
“Did you grow up in this area?” the woman asked her suddenly, surprising her so much that she jumped, spilling a bit of the tea.
“Um... yes,” she answered. “I was born in Wiltshire.”
“Do you know anyone by the last name of Elliot?” Madame Zeta asked with a strange intensity, and Rebecca discovered her eyes were actually grayish-blue.
Rebecca thought for a moment and then shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not.”
Silence fell between them for a moment, as though her answer had made the gypsy woman sad, but then Madame Zeta seemed to shake it off, regaining her former calm demeanor. “What question do you have for me?” she asked, those bright eyes sparkling with wisdom and a knowledge Rebecca would have given anything to possess.
Rebecca blinked, her mind racing. In truth, she had no real answer. Her life had been stagnant for years. She’d become engaged to Andrew Bradford, Viscount Trowbridge, at her father the Earl of Marlborough’s insistence, soon after her eighteenth birthday. However, Lord Trowbridge had left with His Majesty’s Army soon after, and in the three years since, he’d sent her an average of one letter per year. He seemed to be in no hurry to actually marry her, and so she’d languished at her father’s country estate, waiting for him to return.
“Do you see a happy future for me?” Rebecca found herself asking, the words surprising her. In truth, she wasn’t eager for Andrew’s return. Their fathers’ lands adjoined, and she’d known Andrew since they were children. Though they’d gotten along well enough, she’d always sensed a cruelty in him, a disturbing lack of emotion. She wanted a home of her own and children, but she wasn’t certain if Andrew would treat her well, and she found she wanted to know that even more than she wanted to know when he’d come home. Better to remain alone forever than embark upon an unhappy marriage she could never escape.
“Happiness,” the fortune teller mused. She stared up at the sky for a moment, as though drawing inspiration from it, then met Rebecca’s gaze again, her lips turning up in a wry smile. “I am seldom asked about happiness. Instead, I am asked of marriage and fortune and luck.”
Rebecca felt heat race to her cheeks. She took another sip of tea to cover her unease. “I suppose it is a silly question. How does one even measure happiness?”
Madame Zeta shook her head. “I did not say it was a silly question. In fact, I’d say it is incredibly wise. But I don’t need a crystal ball to answer your question, lovely girl. For you see, happiness is a choice. Each day, you can wake up and choose to be happy, no matter your circumstances.”
Rebecca laughed, a little disappointed that the fortune teller hadn’t been able to give her a glimpse of things to come yet enchanted by her words of wisdom. “You are absolutely right. I will endeavor to do so from now on.” She finished her tea and pushed to her feet, fumbling in her reticule in order to offer payment, but the woman reached out and touched her hand, stopping her in her tracks.
“Sit down,” Madame Zeta said in a hushed voice. “I feel that there is more I need to impart to you. Let me read the leaves.”
Unsettled, Rebecca sank back down in the chair, her gaze drawn to the medallion that hung from a chain around the woman’s neck. She pointed at it, intrigued. “What is that?”
The woman smiled and touched the intricate gold pattern lovingly. “It symbolizes the Path of Life.”
“The Path of Life?” Rebecca mused, liking the sound of it.
“We are all on a journey,” the woman said. “Every twist and turn in the path has meaning.” She gazed off into the distance for a moment, and Rebecca had a sudden urge to ask the woman about her own path. She certainly seemed to be searching for something. But then Madame Zeta drew Rebecca’s teacup toward her, staring down at it for a few endless moments, and the moment was lost.
“Beware the suitor who returns from war,” Madame Zeta whispered at last, her voice dropping to a husky rasp that sent a shiver up Rebecca’s spine. “He will seem a stranger to you, but he is the one you were meant to find. Look with your heart, not your eyes.”
Rebecca swallowed, disturbed at the way the fortune-teller’s tone had changed. When Rebecca had sat down, the woman had seemed at ease, amused even. But now it seemed as though she actually had seen or felt something. Her words were very cryptic, and Rebecca had no idea what to make of them. The advice of choosing her own happiness had made far more sense to her. Perhaps that was what she’d been meant to hear today, and she tried to shake away the feeling that the gypsy had called forth some actual magic.
Madame Zeta blinked and gave her a wistful smile. “Stay here for just a moment longer. I have something for you.” She pushed gracefully to her feet and opened the back of her wagon, revealing a glimpse of colorful fabrics and gleaming wood. She opened one of the many cupboards and picked through some items in a small bowl.
Rebecca glanced away, looking through her reticule once more and placing a few shillings on the table. When she glanced up, Madame Zeta had returned. Her gaze seemed to pierce through Rebecca’s soul as she pressed a small talisman into her palm. Rebecca looked down, unsettled. It was the size of a coin, with something resembling the Roman number two etched into it.
“What’s this?” Rebecca asked, wondering if she really wanted to know.
“Gemini. It represents duality. The twins. Perhaps it will help you to see both sides of the issue.”
“What issue?” Rebecca whispered.
“The one you are soon to face, my child. Do not worry, for some day, you will understand that the twins will be nothing but a blessing to you.”
The talisman seemed too expensive and old to just be given to her, but Madame Zeta shook her head when Rebecca tried to give it back.
“Keep it,” the gypsy whispered, a deep sadness in those striking eyes. “I hope you find the happiness you seek.”
Rebecca nodded and turned swiftly away, chiding herself for having been so foolish in the first place. A fortune-teller? She wasn’t a child to be taken in by such silliness. Still, the woman’s words were ones to ponder. Perhaps she had been simply drifting along, waiting for her life to start for far too long. She needed to stop looking to the future and start living for today.
“What did you buy, Becca?” Sabrina asked, coming up alongside her and jarring her out of her thoughts.
Rebecca glanced down at the talisman again, then clenched her fist around it, shoving it into her reticule. “It’s nothing. Just something the gypsy gave me.”
“A gypsy!” Sabrina cried, looking around with excitement. Though her cousin was nearly five years older than her and was currently serving in the capacity of Rebecca’s chaperone, she’d always had a childlike exuberance. Sabrina certainly wasn’t waiting for her life to start, even though she was firmly on the shelf. “I want to talk to the gypsy!”
Rebecca shook her head, pulling her along. “I have a bit of a megrim, and we’ve been here far too long already. May we head home? Please?”
Sabrina’s pretty face fell, but she nodded her blond head. “Of course, dear. Let’s go home.”
They headed back toward their waiting carriage, but right before they reached it, Rebecca glimpsed a sight that made her blood run cold, especially given the conversation she’d just had with Madame Zeta. A man rode down the lane toward Trowbridge Manor, the sun glinting off his black hair, his large body moving gracefully on his fine mount.
He was too far away to call out to, but she’d recognize him anywhere.
Andrew Bradford, her fiancé, had returned.