One

Outside Wellesborne, Warwickshire – December, 1814

For the entire journey from Arrington, Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell, could not get the image of his old school chum out of his mind. For God’s sake, the service should have been a closed casket. Despite the undertaker’s best efforts, one could clearly see the puncture wound left in Richard’s head from Lady Arrington’s fire iron.

A fire iron, for God’s sake! Apparently, the lady had screamed, “I’ll give you something to poke!" as she dealt her husband the final deathblow.

Berks shuddered at the thought. And it truly was a terrifying thought! Who would have ever imagined Lady Arrington—who was most definitely on the slight side of the scale, all things considered—would have even had enough strength to lift up a fire iron, let alone murder Richard with the bloody thing?

Glancing out of his traveling carriage upon the village covered in freshly fallen snow, Berks willed his disturbing thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t keep dwelling on Richard, not now at any rate. As soon as he arrived at Wellesborne Park, he’d have to be in a much cheerier state of mind, or at least appear as such. His sister, brother-in-law, and new nephew would already be in residence; and his brother and sister-in-law would be arriving the next day. There was no time for maudlin thoughts.

The holidays were upon them, whether Berks was in the mood for festivities or not. And everyone would expect him to play the role of courteous host. He snorted at the thought. More like play the role of peacekeeper between his brother and their brother-in-law. But at the moment, Berks didn’t think he was up for the challenge. How could he be, with the image of Richard’s lifeless body in that casket flashing over and over in his mind?

Lady Arrington had hit him how many times? He’d heard varying accounts. But honestly, being struck once was plenty.

Lady Arrington. He’d never have thought her prone to violence or madness. She’d always seemed to be of the sweetest disposition. Mousy, even. If she was mad, however, it was no wonder Richard had strayed from his marriage vows. Berks couldn’t imagine bedding a madwoman, being tied to a madwoman the rest of his life. Of course, Richard’s life was not long lived in the end, was it?

He spotted the first spires of Wellesborne Park and sighed. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about coming across any madwomen at home. His sister, Pippa, was the gentlest soul. Kind, caring, and not the least bit mad. His sister-in-law, Miranda, was… Well, Miranda might be a bit mad, now that he thought about it.

His brother had met the girl, who’d disguised herself as a fop, inside a gaming hell in London the previous year. A sane woman wouldn’t do such a thing, would she? Berks made a mental note to warn Harry to look for any signs of madness within his wife. After all, doing so just might save his brother’s life. Harry was nearly twice Miranda’s size, but Richard hadn’t been a small man either. A blow to the head from a fire iron seemed to even things out in that regard.

The coach bounced a bit as it started down the long drive towards Wellesborne Park, and Berks tried to shake all the terrible thoughts from his mind. He was never going to marry, so there was no point in fretting any further about the situation. Richard’s death had been a warning, one Berks would heed until the end of his days. But for now, the holidays were here. And he had a family to entertain.

Berks closed his eyes as the carriage drew to a stop. Then he took one last steadying breath. The holidays. He was ready for the holidays.

His coachman opened the door and lowered the steps.

Berks alighted from the carriage, glanced up at his familiar sandstone Tudor manor which seemed to blend with the imposing grey sky above, and then he strode towards the large front door, careful not to slip on the icy stone steps.

Davis, the butler, opened the door with a welcoming smile. “Lord Berkswell.”

Berks shrugged out of his greatcoat. “I take it Lord and Lady St. Austell arrived safely?”

As Davis took the coat from Berks, he nodded in response. “Yes, milord. And Lord Harrison and his guests have arrived as well.”

“Guests?” Harry hadn’t said anything about guests. If that oaf Albie Potsdon was scarfing down every last crumb at the Park, Berks would toss the fellow right out on his…

“Yes, sir. Mr. Pratt and his niece.”

Mr. Pratt and his niece? Berks didn’t have any idea who Mr. Pratt was or his niece, for that matter. Why the devil would Harry invite a pair of strangers home for the holidays? “Where is my brother?”

“The white parlor, milord.”

Berks handed his beaver hat to Davis and then started in the direction of the white parlor, until a somber tune coming from the music room and the faint scent of gardenias halted him in his step.

Miss Theresa Birkin ran her fingers over the ivory keys of the pianoforte. She adored Bach. If ever a composer was inspired, it was him. And the Goldberg Variations was one of her favorites, though Tessie doubted she’d ever master the piece. The hand crossings alone required tremendous talent, patience, and precision. In truth, she only possessed the patience part.

Just as that thought entered her mind, she hit a wrong note that seemed to reverberate around the room.

“That was a bit sharp,” came an unhappy voice from the threshold.

Tessie leapt from the bench and turned to face the interloper. “I—um—” Whatever she meant to say died on her tongue as her gaze landed on a most handsome gentleman, just a few feet away. The gentleman was tall, though not as tall or broad as Lord Harrison. Still there was a family resemblance. He had the same chiseled jaw and a strong, aristocratic nose. But it was the gentleman’s eyes that most struck her. His warm brown eyes, tinged with a bit of skepticism, settled on Tessie, robbing her of her breath.

The gentleman’s brow lifted. “You were saying?”

Was she saying something? Tessie shook her head. “I—um—wasn’t,” she stumbled over her words, feeling like the biggest ninny every born.

“You must be Mr. Pratt’s niece.”

Tessie nodded quickly. “Yes. Theresa Birkin. Lord Berkswell, is it?” she asked, though he couldn’t be anyone else. Wellesborne Park was the marquess’s home and this gentleman did favor Lord Harrison. The two were most definitely brothers.

“Birkin, you say?” His brow rose even higher as his eyes swept across her form. “Miranda’s friend?”

Heavens. He’d heard of her before. That couldn’t be good. Still, no matter what she’d gone through the last few years, she wouldn’t deny her own name. “Yes, my lord. Miranda Casemore is my dearest friend.”

“I see,” he clipped out. “Well, then—” he frowned “—I’ll let you return to Bach. Do watch the sharps.” Then he turned on his heel and continued down the corridor.

Tessie’s heart pounded a staccato in her chest. Lord Berkswell hadn’t said much to her, but his commanding air and condescending gaze had left her a bit breathless. She sank down to the piano bench and tried to catch her breath. She was fairly certain the marquess’ frown would haunt her dreams.

No matter how Miranda tried to assuage Tessie’s fears, there had to be talk about her in Town. There had to be. Why else would Lord Berkswell frown at her as though she was the lowest bit of gutter trash? He must have heard the rumors. The rumors Miranda and Lord Harrison had promised her were not making the rounds in London.

So much for returning to Town in the spring for the Season. She couldn’t take that same condescending look from every lord, matron and debutant in London. She just couldn’t. It had taken quite some time before she could meet her own eyes in a mirror.