Page 2 of A Duke to Restore her Memory

“Just a little while longer, Romulus,” said Christina wearily, leaning to whisper into the horse’s ear. “Not too much further, boy.”

The horse whinnied, his ears flicking at the sound of her voice. Christina could feel the tremble in the horse’s limbs and the sweat permeating his body.

They had been riding for over two hours, hugging the cliffs along the coastline, galloping like the wind. She had headed out at first light, clutching a small bag, trying to get to the stables before the stable hands roused for the day and set off the alarm.

Her heart gave an almighty throb. She was really doing this. She was heading towards Plymouth to set sail on one of the tall ships heading north to Scotland. She was running away from home and marriage to the Earl of Cheltenham.

It is just as well that I acted before contemplating further. I may have lost the courage entirely to do this.

She had watched the sun rise slowly over the sea, casting burnt orange and yellow flames on the water. If she hadn’t been riding for her liberty, she might have stopped to admire its breathtaking beauty.

Now, grey mist had descended over the sea, giving the landscape an otherworldly, ethereal quality. But it also made it difficult to see anything and the path more perilous.

She didn’t have time to acknowledge what was around her, anyway. Draycott Manor would be aware by now – or very soon – that she was missing, and she didn’t have time to spare, even though Harriet had promised to delay the inevitable as long as she could, telling her parents and the other servants that she was feeling sick and would be lying in her bed longer than normal.

Christina sighed heavily, pulling in the reins and stopping the horse abruptly. Romulus needed a short break, and so did she – she knew she was getting closer to Plymouth and her destination.

Her mouth was dry from thirst. Quickly, she dismounted, talking soothingly to the horse for a moment, before wandering towards the cliff edge, gazing out over the sea.

A slight breeze lifted the ribbons of the old bonnet she was wearing, courtesy of Harriet, as she opened the water canteen, drinking thirstily.

She glanced down at the faded gown she was wearing. It was pale grey and coarse, rubbing and scratching against her skin. She had no idea what she looked like – she hadn’t even bothered to glance at herself in the mirror before she fled Draycott Manor.

But she knew she didn’t look like herself. If any of her acquaintances happened to be out riding this morning, they wouldn’t recognize Lady Christina Whitford, the only daughter of Viscount Draycott. They would assume she was a maid or another kind of servant in this plain garb.

She sighed again, her heart contorting wildly, as the enormity of what she was doing hit her with the force of a brick in the face. Uncertainty swept over her. Was she acting prematurely? Should she return home and keep trying to convince Papa to change his mind? Would it work?

You know it will not work. At least not now. Papa is adamant. The only way he might be persuaded to change his mind is if he faces losing me. And if he never changes his mind, then I must forge my own path, estranged from my family forever.

She took two little steps towards the cliff’s edge, lost in her thoughts. What if Penelope’s family refused her sanctuary?

She knew her dear friend would advocate for her to be allowed to stay, but what if her family resisted the entreaty? What would she do then? She didn’t have much money in her purse. She would be forced to try to find work to support herself – something she had never contemplated in her life and was ill-equipped to do. She had been born and raised a noble lady. She couldn’t be anything else …

Suddenly, she heard a faint squawk emanating from below. She peered down, leaning over the edge of the cliff, spellbound.

There was a bird’s nest perched on some craggy rock – she could clearly see it, with three shiny large eggs nestled in the twigs and branches and a large bird hovering over it, staring at her suspiciously with black beady eyes.

“Oh, you are magnificent!” she cried, the wind catching her voice. “Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm …”

Suddenly, the bird took flight, sweeping towards her. Christina stepped back hastily, flailing, realizing too late that she was too close to the edge and the ground was slipping and crumbling beneath her feet.

She put her arms up to ward off the bird, feeling it brush against her head.

The ground gave way beneath her, and she fell down the cliff, bumping and colliding violently with the rocks into an old, abandoned mining shaft. She hadn’t even realized it was there. She hadn’t even seen it.

She screamed, her hands desperately trying to break her fall. With a rush of sickening certainty, she knew it was too late. She felt the sharp, jagged bump of her head colliding with a rock, the agonizing pain, white-hot and overwhelming, before everything faded to black.

***

Sebastian Cavendish, the Duke of Newquay, took the reins of his horse, leading it along the shore, and frowned. The mist had grown thicker, and it was difficult to see.

For the umpteenth time, he wondered why he had felt compelled to head out for a ride so early this morning. He had lived in this area of Cornwall his entire life and knew that the early morning mists made visibility almost impossible.

I will head back to Newquay Hall soon. I will meander for just a little longer.

Sebastian felt the sea breeze lifting the curls on the nape of his neck before it grew harsher, threatening to take his hat off his head and send it into the sky.

He put a hand on his head to stop it taking flight, squinting his eyes and trying to see through the mist. The lone cry of a seabird sounded into the silence as he picked his way carefully over the rocks.

Suddenly, the mist lifted like a veil, and he realized he was almost upon an abandoned mining shaft. His heart shifted – the shaft belonged to him, one of the many abandoned shafts that dotted this coastline.

He frowned. The wooden boards nailed across the entrance were broken and scattered haphazardly along the ground, which was dangerous. How had it happened?

Abruptly, he stiffened. A black horse was wandering along the clifftop, peering down. A saddled horse without a rider. At that moment, the beast let out a whinny of distress.

Sebastian’s heart skipped a beat. A strange feeling stole over him. Slowly, he stepped towards the opening of the shaft, peering down into the inky darkness. It was as black and silent as the grave.

“Is anyone there?” he called, hearing his voice echo and bounce off the walls.

There was no response.

Sebastian’s frown deepened. There was no reason to think that anything was amiss in the shaft … except for the fact that there was a riderless, distressed horse wandering just above, and the boards were broken. He hesitated for a moment before dropping the reins of his horse and climbing down the old ladder into the darkness.

He swore beneath his breath. He couldn’t see a thing … but he knew he had some matches in the jacket pocket if he needed them.

He called out again, but there was no response. He hesitated. Was he being foolish? Was this strange instinct that something was amiss in the shaft entirely baseless?

He swore again as his boot missed a rung, righting himself. He heard crumbling dirt falling to the bottom.

His heart seized. A low moan from below. Had he imagined it?

He quickened his pace, reaching the bottom. With trembling hands, he found the matches, lighting one with difficulty. He looked around, finding an old lantern, lighting it, and holding it high. A pool of light illuminated the space, and he gasped.

A woman was lying there, not moving, dirty and dishevelled. His eyes raked over her, taking in the distressing scene.

She was wearing a faded, plain grey gown, the type that women servants wore, and a battered old bonnet lay next to her head, with her hair spread around her like a river of gold.

He rushed to her side, putting his arms around her and turning her around. She was as limp as a ragdoll, and her eyes were firmly closed. He could see she was deathly pale and there was a large, bloody gash on her forehead.

“Madam?” His voice was filled with trepidation. “Madam!”

There was no response. His heart filled with trepidation again. Was she dead?

But no. At that moment, he saw the rise and fall of her chest – almost imperceptible, but definite. She was alive. She had survived a fall down the shaft. She was injured and unconscious, but she was still breathing.

Thank you, Lord.

“Can you hear me?” he said loudly, shaking her a little. “Can you open your eyes?”

His eyes flickered over her face for any sign that she could hear him. He realized, quite suddenly, that she was beautiful.

Her skin was as flawless and pale as milk. Her cheekbones were high and sweeping, her lips parted slightly, full and luscious below a button nose, with a tiny smattering of freckles across the bridge. She had long, dark golden eyelashes. He guessed she was in her late teens or early twenties.

Suddenly, her eyes opened, quite dramatically, staring straight into his face. He gasped again. Her eyes were dark green, the colour of moss, with golden flecks within them. Quite beautiful. But they were clouded with confusion and pain.

“Where … where am I?” she gasped in a low, ragged voice.

“You fell into a mine shaft,” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off her face. “You are injured.”

“Oh,” she whispered, her lips starting to tremble. She screwed up her face as if she were about to burst into tears. “I … I cannot remember anything …”

“Ahoy down there! Is there anything amiss?”

Sebastian jumped at the rough male voice, squinting up. He could just make out a dark figure peering over the edge, gazing down at them, but he couldn’t see who it was.

“I am the Duke of Newquay,” he called. “And there is an injured woman here. She fell down the shaft.”

The figure swore loudly. “Your Grace! It’s Abraham Barstow, one of your tenants. I saw your horse and thought that something was not right …”

“I know who you are now, Barstow,” said Sebastian, his heart lurching with gratitude. “We need to get this woman to safety immediately. Can you assist?”

“Aye,” called the man. “I will get some more men. We will find something to gather her and pull her up. And I will send for the physician …”

“Thank you, Barstow,” called Sebastian, almost slumping with relief. “Go now. There is no time to waste.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” said the man tersely. Then he was gone.

Sebastian turned back to the woman in his arms. Her eyes had closed again. Her brief moment of consciousness was gone. A sliver of fear pierced his heart. Would Barstow find help in time? Or was this beautiful woman on the verge of death … and about to slip over the threshold entirely?