Page 2 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)
Dawn broke grey and cheerless over Hertfordshire, casting long shadows across the gravel drive where the Duke's traveling coach awaited like a harbinger of fate.
Evangeline stood at the window of what had been her bedchamber, watching the coachman secure her modest trunk to the rear of the conveyance—a single piece of luggage that contained the sum total of her worldly possessions.
How quickly a life could be reduced to essentials.
Three gowns of good black material, her mother's prayer book, a miniature of her parents, and the precious brass key that even now pressed against her stays like a talisman.
Everything else—every book, every trinket, every memento of her two-and-twenty years—had vanished beneath the auctioneer's hammer or been claimed by creditors.
The irony was not lost upon her that she traveled to her uncertain future in greater luxury than she had known since childhood.
The coach bore the Ravenshollow arms emblazoned upon its doors—a silver wolf rampant on a field of midnight blue—and the appointments within spoke of wealth beyond her comprehension.
Leather seats, silk cushions, even a small lap desk fitted with crystal inkwell and a silver quill pen.
The Duke, whatever his reputation, did not stint on comfort for his guests.
Or his prisoners, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind.
"Miss Hartwell?" Mr. Blackwood's voice carried from the entrance hall below. "The coach is ready to depart at your convenience."
Evangeline took one final look around the chamber where she had spent her happiest and most sorrowful hours.
The morning light fell across the empty space where her mother's portrait had hung, illuminating nothing but faded wallpaper and the ghosts of memory.
In a few hours, strangers would walk these halls, and the Hartwell name would be nothing but an entry in the parish records.
She descended the stairs with what dignity she could muster, her black traveling dress rustling against the worn banister her grandmother had polished to gleaming during her tenure as mistress of the house.
In the entrance hall, Mr. Blackwood waited with the patience of a man accustomed to difficult partings, while behind him lurked Mullins and his associates like carrion birds awaiting her departure.
"I have taken the liberty of securing provisions for your journey," the solicitor informed her, indicating a well-appointed hamper being loaded into the coach. "The Duke's instructions were most specific regarding your comfort."
"His Grace is very thoughtful," Evangeline replied, though the word felt strange upon her tongue. A man with a terrifying reputation who nonetheless ensured his future bride traveled in comfort seemed a contradiction worth pondering.
Mrs. Darnel, the elderly cook who had served the family for thirty years, emerged from the kitchens with tears streaming down her weathered cheeks.
"Oh, Miss Evangeline," she sobbed, pressing a small parcel wrapped in brown paper into her hands.
"Just a bit of your father's favourite seed cake. For the journey."
The simple kindness nearly undid her carefully maintained composure. "Thank you, Mrs. Darnel. You have been so very good to us."
"Your dear mother would be that proud to see you being helped by the Duke as was your father wish, miss. Whatever the circumstances." The cook's voice dropped to a whisper. "You just remember you're a Hartwell, and your family has never been one to bow their heads to anyone, not even the French."
With that final benediction, Evangeline allowed Mr. Blackwood to hand her into the coach. As the wheels began to turn upon the gravel, she did not look back. Some bridges, once crossed, could not be traversed again, and she suspected this departure marked such a crossing.
The coach was well-sprung and moved smoothly despite the November roads, but comfort could not ease the tumult of her thoughts.
As the familiar countryside of her childhood gave way to strange terrain, Evangeline found herself dwelling upon the hidden papers that had consumed her thoughts throughout the sleepless night.
She had waited until the house was silent before retrieving the brass key and making her way to her father's study.
The desk's locked drawer had yielded its secrets reluctantly, the wood swollen with damp and age.
Within, she had discovered a collection of documents that raised more questions than they answered.
Military dispatches bearing her father's name, several in French that she could not decipher.
A letter of commendation from the Duke of Wellington himself, praising Captain Hartwell's "extraordinary valor and devotion to duty under the most perilous circumstances.
" And strangest of all, a small leather portfolio containing what appeared to be sketches of battlefield positions, annotated in her father's careful hand with notations about troop movements and casualties.
But it was the final document that had truly puzzled her—a formal military inquiry into the circumstances surrounding "the recovery of His Grace the Duke of Ravenshollow from the field at the war.
" The papers detailed accusations that Captain Hartwell had abandoned his post during the height of battle, potentially allowing French cavalry to breach the line.
Only the Duke's own testimony had cleared her father of charges that might have resulted in court martial or worse.
What manner of service had her father performed that required such investigation? And what had transpired between the Duke and him that bound them so closely that even now, years later, the debt of honor remained unpaid?
The questions tormented her as the miles passed beneath the coach wheels. She attempted to read from the small volume of Shakespeare's sonnets she had secreted in her reticule, but the words swam before her eyes, her concentration shattered by uncertainty and growing apprehension.
As they progressed northward, the landscape began to change in ways that struck her as ominous.
The gentle rolling hills of Hertfordshire gave way to rougher terrain, with stone walls replacing hedgerows and sheep dotting hillsides that seemed to stretch endlessly toward a grey horizon.
The very air felt different—thinner, sharper, carrying scents of peat and heather that spoke of wilder places.
They stopped at noon to change horses at a coaching inn called The King's Arms, a sturdy stone building that squatted beside the road like a fortress against the increasingly harsh weather.
The innkeeper, a broad Yorkshire man with suspicious eyes, regarded their fine coach with the sort of wariness that suggested he knew whose arms decorated its panels.
"Yorkshire bound, are you?" he asked Mr. Blackwood as the horses were being changed. "Long way to travel in such weather, particularly with winter coming on."
"Indeed," the solicitor replied with diplomatic neutrality. "We hope to reach our destination before dark."
The innkeeper's gaze shifted to Evangeline, who had alighted to stretch her legs and take some air. "Begging your pardon, miss, but you wouldn't be bound for Ravenshollow Manor, would you?"
Something in his tone made her skin prickle with unease. "I am. Might I inquire why you ask?"
The man's weathered features creased with what might have been pity.
"No particular reason, miss. Just that it's a lonely place.
It has been that way since His Grace returned from the wars.
Servants come and go regular-like, and those that stay.
.." He shook his head. "Well, they don't much talk about what goes on up there. "
"I am certain His Grace maintains his household as befits his station," Evangeline replied with more confidence than she felt.
"Oh, aye, no doubt," the innkeeper agreed, but his eyes remained troubled. "Just seems a shame, a pretty young lady like yourself going to such a place. Especially alone."
Before she could respond, Mr. Blackwood appeared at her elbow with gentle insistence that they resume their journey. But the innkeeper's words echoed in her mind as they climbed back into the coach, adding another layer of disquiet to her already fraught nerves.
The afternoon brought increasingly desolate scenery as they penetrated deeper into Yorkshire.
The roads became rougher, forcing the coach to slow its pace over terrain that seemed designed by nature to discourage travelers.
Vast moors stretched on either side, broken only by occasional stone farmhouses that hunched against the wind like sleeping giants.
"How much farther?" Evangeline asked as the grey daylight began to fade toward evening.
Mr. Blackwood consulted his pocket watch with a frown. "We should reach Ravenshollow village within the hour, Miss Hartwell. The Manor lies perhaps two miles beyond."
As if summoned by his words, the landscape began to change once more.
Ancient oak trees appeared beside the road, their gnarled branches forming a canopy that blocked what little remained of the daylight.
Through the gloom, Evangeline caught glimpses of crumbling stone walls and rusted iron gates that spoke of bygone grandeur fallen into decay.
"The Duke's lands," Mr. Blackwood explained, noting her interest. "Ravenshollow has held these holdings for a long time. Twenty thousand acres of some of the finest land in Yorkshire."
Yet from what she could observe through the coach windows, much of that fine land appeared neglected. Fields lay fallow that should have been planted with winter wheat, and the few tenant cottages they passed seemed in poor repair, their gardens overgrown and their windows dark.