Page 1 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

The last of the Hartwell silver disappeared beneath the auctioneer's hammer on a grey November morning, leaving Miss Evangeline Hartwell with nothing but her mourning dress and the bitter taste of penury upon her tongue.

She stood in the doorway of what had once been her father's study, watching strangers rifle through the remnants of her childhood with the casual indifference of those who dealt in other people's misfortunes.

The mahogany desk where Captain Edmund Hartwell had taught her to cipher and write her letters now bore a sold ticket, as did the leather-bound volumes of Aristotle and Shakespeare that had been her dearest companions during the long years of his absence on campaign.

How many evenings had she spent curled in the window seat of this very room, reading aloud to her father when he returned from the wars?

He would sit behind that great desk, still bearing the invisible weight of battles fought and comrades lost, listening to her voice as she transported them both to worlds where honor always triumphed and love conquered all.

Now even those precious books would grace some stranger's shelves, their margins no longer bearing her father's careful annotations or her own youthful observations.

"Begging your pardon, miss," came a gravelly voice behind her, "but the gentleman who bought the desk is asking after the key to the locked drawer."

Evangeline turned to face Mullins, the auctioneer's assistant, a thin man with calculating eyes who had been eyeing her with poorly concealed speculation since dawn.

She lifted her chin, though her heart hammered against her stays with something approaching panic.

The vultures circled ever closer, and she was running out of carrion to throw them.

"I fear I possess no such key, sir. My father kept his private correspondence secure, as was his right as master of this house."

"Aye, well," Mullins scratched his grizzled jaw, "the purchaser ain't likely to be pleased. Paid good coin for the piece, he did. Mayhap you might have a look about? It could be tucked away somewhere."

"I assure you, Mr. Mullins, that I have already conducted a most thorough search of my father's effects.

" The lie came smoothly to her lips, born of desperation and the knowledge that the small brass key currently nestled against her stays was the only thing standing between her and complete destitution.

Whatever papers her father had deemed worthy of such concealment might yet prove her salvation, or at least delay her inevitable fall into the workhouse.

She had discovered the key quite by accident three days past, hidden behind a loose stone in the fireplace of her father's chamber.

With it had been a small slip of paper bearing a single word in her father's familiar hand: "Evangeline.

" Nothing more, there was no explanation, no instruction, merely her name written in the careful script he had used for his military dispatches.

She had spent sleepless nights wondering what secrets that locked drawer might contain, but with the auction looming and strangers tramping through every room, she had not dared investigate.

Mullins grunted his displeasure but moved away to harass the cook about the state of the kitchen copper.

Evangeline pressed her fingers to her bodice, feeling the small, warm weight of the key through her mourning gown.

Three weeks had passed since they had laid Captain Hartwell to rest in the churchyard at Little Wickham, and in that brief span, her world had crumbled with the efficiency of a military campaign.

The irony was not lost upon her that a man who had survived twenty years of warfare, who had faced French cavalry charges and artillery barrages with unflinching courage, should be felled by a simple fever contracted while visiting a tenant's sick child.

But perhaps that was fitting for Edmund Hartwell—a man who had always placed duty and compassion before his own welfare.

"Miss Hartwell?"

The voice was cultured, bearing the crisp accent of the better sort of London tradesman.

Evangeline composed her features into a mask of cool politeness before turning to face the speaker—a gentleman of middle years dressed in the sober black coat and plain white linen that marked him as a man of business rather than fashion.

His countenance was grave, his manner respectful but wary, as though he bore news of uncertain reception.

"I am Miss Hartwell, sir."

"Mr. Josiah Blackwood, of Blackwood, Whitmore & Associates, solicitors." He executed a proper bow, neither too deep nor too shallow for the circumstances. "Might I beg a moment of your time? I have travelled from London expressly to speak with you regarding your late father's affairs."

A solicitor. Evangeline's stomach dropped like a stone into a well .

Undoubtedly, another creditor has come to plunder what remains of the Hartwell estate, such as it was .

Or perhaps some military colleague of her father's, seeking recompense for an old gaming debt or a promise made over cards.

She had thought all such obligations settled, but it seemed the grave offered no sanctuary from the demands of the living.

"Certainly, Mr. Blackwood. Though I fear you shall find little satisfaction here. As you can observe, the contents of Hartwell Manor are already spoken for." She gestured toward the chaos of the auction with a bitter smile that tasted of ashes. "The debts, I am informed, were quite substantial."

Indeed, they had been staggering. Her father's man of business, the odious Mr. Wickham, had taken evident pleasure in detailing each outstanding obligation with the precision of a military quartermaster.

Tradesmen's bills stretching back years, loans secured against the property, funds advanced against her father's military pension—all now come due with the inexorable weight of mathematical certainty.

"Indeed, Miss Hartwell. Your father's man of business, Mr. Wickham, has apprised me of the situation. Might we speak privately? What I have to discuss is of a rather delicate nature."

Evangeline felt heat rise in her cheeks.

Delicate nature, indeed. No doubt this Mr. Blackwood had come to inform her that some gaming debt or obligation remained outstanding, requiring her to surrender even the few pounds she had managed to secret away from the household accounts.

Perhaps her father had pledged his daughter's hand in some mad moment of desperation, or promised away her meager inheritance to settle a debt of honor.

In her current circumstances, any additional burden might well prove the final straw.

"The morning room remains undisturbed, sir. We may speak there without interruption."

She led him through the corridors of her childhood home, past the faded rectangles on the wallpaper where portraits had hung for generations, past the empty niches that had once displayed her grandmother's collection of Chelsea porcelain.

Each absent treasure was a small death, a piece of her history sold to strangers who would never understand their true value.

The Hartwell family had dwelt in this house for two centuries, their lives and love woven into its very stones.

Now it would pass to some merchant or manufacturer, someone with more money and no understanding of tradition.

The morning room, at least, retained some semblance of its former elegance, though the fire had not been lit in days and the November chill seemed to seep through the very walls.

The room faced east, catching the early light that had once made it her mother's favorite refuge.

Lady Catherine Hartwell had died when Evangeline was but twelve, leaving behind only fading memories and a daughter who resembled her so closely that her father sometimes caught his breath when the light fell upon her face just so.

"Pray, be seated," Evangeline murmured, taking her place in the wooden chair by the window, the one comfortable seat having been claimed by a creditor the previous week.

The loss of that chair, her mother's favorite reading spot, had grieved her more than many of the other more expensive pieces.

"I confess myself curious as to what matter brings you from London at such expense and trouble. "

Mr. Blackwood settled himself with the careful precision of a man accustomed to difficult conversations.

His weathered features bore the marks of one who had delivered many an unwelcome piece of intelligence, and his manner suggested he found little pleasure in his current errand.

He withdrew a leather portfolio from his coat and set it upon his knee with ceremony.

"Miss Hartwell, I represent certain interests regarding a debt of honour contracted by your late father during his military service. Are you aware of any such obligation?"

"A debt of honour?" Evangeline frowned, her fingers unconsciously moving to press against the hidden key. Her mind raced through possibilities, each more dire than the last. "Sir, my father was the most honourable of men. If he owed any gentleman money, surely, he would have made provision—"

"Not a monetary debt, miss," Mr. Blackwood interrupted gently. "Rather, an obligation of life itself. I am given to understand that your father, in the course of his duties during the war, performed a service of such magnitude that it cannot be repaid in mere coin."

Evangeline stared at the solicitor, her mind struggling to comprehend this intelligence.

Her father had spoken little of his experiences at the war, save to mention that the victory had come at a terrible cost. She had attributed his subsequent melancholy to the natural effects of witnessing such carnage, the way he would sometimes wake from troubled sleep calling out names of men she did not know.

But perhaps there had been more to his silence than she had understood.

Perhaps he had carried secrets as well as sorrows.

"I fear I know nothing of this matter, Mr. Blackwood.

My father was not given to boasting of his military exploits.

" Indeed, it had been quite the opposite.

Captain Hartwell had worn his decorations only when duty demanded and spoke of the wars only when pressed by curious neighbors seeking tales of glory.

He had seen too much death, he once told her, to find romance in warfare.

"Captain Hartwell saved the life of His Grace, the Duke of Ravenshollow," the solicitor continued, his voice dropping to a tone of appropriate reverence for such an exalted personage.

"At considerable risk to his own person and military standing, your father carried the Duke from the battlefield when all believed him dead.

Without such intervention, His Grace would certainly have perished. "

“The Duke of Ravenshollow.” Even in the wilds of Hertfordshire, that title commanded considerable reverence.

One of the oldest titles in England, with vast holdings in Yorkshire and a fortune that rivaled the Crown itself.

She had heard whispers of the family at county assemblies—their wealth, their power, their proud lineage stretching centuries back.

But what such elevated matters had to do with her present circumstances, Evangeline could not fathom.

"I am gratified to learn of my father's heroism, sir, but I fail to comprehend why this intelligence should be of particular moment to me."

Mr. Blackwood's weathered features grew more serious, if such a thing were possible.

"Miss Hartwell, His Grace the Duke has charged me to inform you that he considers himself deeply in your father's debt.

Captain Hartwell's final letter to His Grace—written, I am told, upon his deathbed—made specific mention of your current circumstances. "

"My father wrote to the Duke?" Evangeline's voice emerged as barely more than a whisper.

The thought that her proud father had appealed to anyone for assistance, even to discharge an obligation, sat ill with everything she knew of his character.

"But when? He was insensible for days before the fever took him. "

"According to His Grace, the missive arrived but a week past. Captain Hartwell appears to have dictated the letter to his physician, one Mr. Brookes.

" The solicitor withdrew a folded paper from his portfolio, the familiar hand of the local physician clearly visible upon the direction. "This is His Grace's reply."

With trembling fingers, Evangeline accepted the letter.

The paper was of the finest quality, bearing a ducal coronet impressed into the wax seal.

The very weight of it spoke of privilege and power beyond her comprehension.

She broke it carefully, her heart hammering as she unfolded the single sheet within.

The handwriting was bold and masculine, the letters formed with the confident strokes of one accustomed to command, though she noted with surprise that the hand trembled slightly, as though the writer had been in some distress: