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His mother’s voice was cold and flat, and brooked no argument. But Gordon was head of the family now. And while he had never showed Quincy even a modicum of affection, he did not hate him. Surely he would fight for him now that he had the power to.
But Gordon’s voice carried to him, once more indifferent now that his initial shock had worn off. “Very well. I suppose it will save us the cost of a new school.”
“Precisely. It’s best he learn his place sooner rather than later. We can finalize details of the arrangement tomorrow…”
Their voices trailed off, their footsteps receding. It took Quincy some time to emerge from the stunned grief that enveloped him, to realize that he was once more alone.
Alone.That word took on an entirely new meaning. The tears came then, falling down his cheeks, soaking the soft lawn of his shirt. Life had never been ideal. But he’d at least had his father’s love. Even when his pranks had gotten him sent down from school, when disappointment had been greatest, his father had always made sure Quincy understood that he was loved.
Now, however, he was simply a burden, to be gotten rid of at the earliest convenience.
The tears came faster. He let them fall unchecked until there was nothing left in him to give. When he was wrung dry of emotion, he felt his grief shift to anger. And not just anger, but a fury greater than any he had ever felt. They wished to be rid of him? Very well, they would get their wish. But it would be onhisterms.
Running his sleeve under his streaming nose, he crept from his hiding spot and pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk. Pushing aside the ledgers that filled the space, he carefully pried open the false bottom and slid his father’s book back within the shallow confines. It had been their secret from the world, their place to store dreams away from his mother’s sharp eyes. Tears threatened once more. Would that he could take the book with him. But while it was compact for all the treasures it held, light travel was imperative. “I’ll see them all, Papa,” he vowed brokenly as he gazed down at the book, nestled in its bed of papers, before carefully closing the hidden space up tight. “For the both of us.”
With one last parting look at the room he had spent so many happy afternoons in, he hurried out the door, making his way on stockinged feet through the silent house to his room. Once there he hurriedly packed what he could before slipping back to the ground floor.
Daylight was beginning to wane, the shadows deepening, and he clung to them as he made his way into the garden, letting himself out the back gate and to the alleyway that fronted the mews. And he did not look back.
Chapter 1
1818
Mr. Quincy Nesbitt had suspected his return to London would be painful—that riding down streets that were at once foreign and familiar would be like tearing open an old wound.
It brought him not an ounce of pleasure to know just how right he had been.
He took a deep breath as he headed down Brook Street from his hotel, trying to rein in the sensation of being suffocated under a wet blanket. But no matter his attempts, the feeling persisted, increasing with each clip of his horse’s hooves on the cobbles. Damnation, but this had been a mistake. He had thought it the ideal plan when setting sail from Boston: he could visit with his closest friend, Peter Ashford, now Duke of Dane, before setting off on the first leg of his world travels. And with Peter in London for the season, it gave Quincy the push he needed to finally confront the ghosts of his past. It was something he should have done long ago.
Now that he was here, however…
His mount tossed its head in protest. Quincy took a deep breath, relaxing his iron grip on the reins, silently reproaching himself for his distracted ham-handedness. There was no reason for his anxiety. Though his family’s townhome was two streets up in Berkeley Square, though he was closer to that place than he had been in fourteen years, he was not headed there just yet. He would see Peter first before bearding that particular lion.
The thought eased some of the tension from his shoulders. Over the past decade and a half, nearly from the moment Quincy had run from home and joined the crew of the American merchant shipThe Persistence, he and Peter had been inseparable. And while he was thrilled for the new life his friend had made for himself since returning to England, the past year with the whole of the Atlantic Ocean between them had been a long one. With the last of their business in America sold off and his responsibilities firmly behind him, Quincy could visit with his friend and make up for lost time. He urged his mount on until, finally, he was before Peter’s London home in Grosvenor Square.
Though the townhouse blended in with its surroundings in an understated way, it was an impressive specimen. Quincy gazed up at it as he dismounted, a low whistle escaping his lips. The filthy orphan he’d found hiding away in the hull ofThe Persistencehad certainly come up in the world. Back then Peter had been reeling from his mother’s untimely death and running from an uncertain and abhorrent future. Their fears had bound them, the friendship a lifeline for two young boys.
Now Peter was a duke. Quincy grinned, anticipation overriding his anxiety for the first time since he’d stepped foot off the ship and onto English soil. Damn, but he had missed his friend. Securing his horse, he strode up the front stairs to the imposing black door.
His knock was answered with alacrity by a stoic-faced butler. “May I help you, sir?”
“Is His Grace in?”
“Who may I ask is calling?”
Quincy grinned. “Oh, now, don’t spoil the fun.”
The man blinked. “Pardon me, sir?”
“I shall, and gladly,” Quincy said, pushing into the front hall, “if you play along and show me to the duke.”
The butler’s mouth fell open. “Sir, I must insist—”
“Have no fear,” he declared, holding up a hand. “His Grace will not bring down fire and brimstone on your head. Though he can be a grim fellow at times, I promise he will be happy to see me.” He smiled his most charming smile. “Now do a man a favor, for I’ve traveled long and hard to see my friend and I cannot wait a moment longer.”
The man, no doubt dazed by the barrage of charm Quincy was piling on his head, nodded and mumbled, “If you’ll follow me?”
Quincy’s grin of victory faded as he took in the interior of the cavernous house. Though the place had been impressive from the street, he hadn’t expected such a behemoth to be hiding behind the elegant façade. They’d lived a comfortable life in Boston, yes. And he had not been a stranger to these places of wealth and excess in the past. But this put that all in the dust. Soaring ceilings painted with heavenly landscapes of cavorting cherubim basking in their divinity, black-and-white marble tiles glistening at his feet, the walls a buttery yellow and covered with all manner of paintings. He just managed to swallow down a chortle. Best to save his mirth for Peter, when it would annoy the most.
