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Chapter 1
The Isle of Synne, September 1819
Mrs. Aaron Kitteridge,
Your husband was not the hero you believe him to be. I was witness to his cowardice at Waterloo, how he ran just before his death, leaving his fellow men to die, turning traitor to his country. If you wish to keep this fact silent—as I’m sure you must, related as you are to a viscount and not one, but two dukes—you will pay to do so. I require the sum of one hundred pounds to make certain I don’t send off letters to every major paper in the country detailing your husband’s cowardly retreat. I shall give you a full month, until the first of October, to secure the amount; I shall write to you when the date approaches to instruct you where to leave the funds.
Don’t fail me in this.
Where in God’s name was she going to get one hundred pounds?
The question had been burning through Mrs. Margery Kitteridge’s mind ever since the arrival of the blackmail letter two days ago. It had devastated her, that letter. Not that she had believed for a moment that her Aaron had been capable of turning his back on his fellow soldiers. He had been the most honorable, the most courageous man she had ever known. It was one of the reasons she had loved him so.
But who could possibly wish to cast such a dark cloud on him? Who could possibly hate him enough to commit such a heinous act?
Had the person known him? Had he served in the same regiment as Aaron, sat at meals with him, perhaps talked and laughed with him? Her mind drifted to the veterans who had come to settle on the Isle of Synne after the war, to make a new home here. She thought of their kindness, their friendship and support. And, not for the first time in the past two days, she considered the possibility of one of those men committing such a horrible crime.
Her mind recoiled from the very idea. No, it could not have been anyone who had known him. To have known Aaron was to see how innately good he had been.
Regardless of who the blackmailer was, however, she could not let this villain lie and besmirch her husband’s good name. No, she would fight to preserve his memory until her dying day.
But, though she tried to focus on the gaiety surrounding her—with so much of her family back on the Isle, this should be a time of celebration and joy, after all—there was no escaping the fact that she did not have the funds needed to pay off the blackmailer.
She could go to a number of family members for the money, of course. They would be only too happy to help her financially. But an image of her father rose up in her mind, his fury a palpable thing as he’d attempted to dissuade her from marrying Aaron.
“He will ruin you,” he’d railed, his face red, his steps growing more agitated by the second as he’d paced the floor of his study. “He’s nothing but a poor blacksmith’s son, a simple soldier. You are the daughter of a viscount, the great-granddaughter of a duke. You would sink so low as to marry somenobody?”
Margery had grasped tight to Aaron’s hand and smiled firmly up at him. His beloved face had been drawn with worry, pain etched in his gentle eyes. “He’s not a nobody to me, Father,” she’d replied with quiet pride. “Aaron is a good man, an honorable man. And I love him, with my whole heart. I’m going to marry him, even if I have to elope to do it.”
“Then you are cut off,” her father had snarled. “I disown you.”
The words had cut Margery to the quick. Instead of crying and begging her father’s forgiveness, as he no doubt expected, however, Margery had raised her chin, and with a shaky voice, said, “Very well. Goodbye, Father.”
As she’d left with Aaron, however, her father had called after her, “You’ll be back. If not to me for funds, then your grandmother, or your cousin the duke. This soldier of yours will break your heart and ruin you, mark my words.”
Despite her father’s proclamations, however, and despite the heartache the split from him had caused, Margery had never regretted her decision to marry Aaron. And they’d been happy, for what little time they’d had together. When he’d died at Waterloo, she’d nearly been destroyed from the grief of it. It was as if half her soul had died along with him. In the four years since that devastating day, she’d healed. For the most part. She’d found meaning and purpose with the rest of her family, those that had given her support and love through all the joys and sorrows that had followed her elopement. And though she missed her dear Aaron every day, she’d found happiness in her place in the world.
Until the letter had arrived…
She shook her head sharply. No, she would not think of that now. There would be plenty of time, after all, to find a way to secure the funds. The portion she’d received from her mother upon her death some years ago, while enough to live modestly on, could never cover the amount needed, but surely there was something she could do, mayhap something she could sell.
Again her father’s cruel words flashed through her mind. Whatever solution she found, however, she would do it on her own. She would not give her father the satisfaction of seeing her crawl to any of her family for funds.
Her grandmother’s strident voice broke into her thoughts then, blessedly distracting her from her miserable musings.
“And when will I be able to visit Swallowhill and see the changes you’ve made, I ask you?”
Margery’s cousin Clara, now Duchess of Reigate, gave her husband an amused glance, her hand drifting over her swollen belly. “Soon, Aunt Olivia. Lenora is finishing up the mural in the nursery and we want it just so before we unveil it to you.”
“Poppycock,” Gran grumbled. “I’ve waited long enough. It’s been over a year since you had the work started on the house, after all. And all that time while it was being done, with you traipsing about the globe and refusing to allow me near the place until your return, I’ve been patient.”
“And we appreciate your impressive patience, dear aunt,” Clara’s husband, Quincy, Duke of Reigate, drawled with his easy grin.
“Flirt,” Gran muttered, though her heavily lined cheeks pinkened. “Don’t think to charm me, m’boy.”
“I would never,” Quincy declared with impressive solemnity, before ruining the effect with a wink.
Margery, her troubles forgotten for the time being, smiled fondly at the exchange and glanced about her grandmother’s sitting room. Clara and Quincy, who had returned to Synne some weeks ago for the birth of their first child, were not the only ones present. Clara’s sister, Phoebe, had just arrived that afternoon with her husband, Lord Oswin, as support for the soon-to-be parents. Margery’s cousin Peter, Duke of Dane, and his wife, Lenora—who also happened to be Margery’s closest friend—were there as well, their infant daughter, Charlotte, slumbering peacefully in her father’s massive arms. And, of course, Margery’s grandmother, the dowager Lady Tesh, was seated amid them all, her darling pup, Freya, resting on a cushion beside her. Miss Katrina Denby, Lady Tesh’s new companion, was ever attentive at her side, as was Miss Denby’s dog, somehow named Mouse, though the creature was nearly as large as a horse. Gran looked as pleased as any one person should. No wonder, for there was no doubt in Margery’s mind that Gran had something to do with each happy union present.
