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CHAPTER ONE

“ L ord Ravenscroft awaits an audience, Your Majesty.”

King Charles II turned from his chess game, dismissing the overdressed courtier sitting across from him—who was still a bit flustered at having been given the honor of playing him—with a swift wave of his jeweled hand.

“Show him in,” he said to the waiting footman, his deep voice filling the room. He watched silently while the man bowed and left.

In truth, the king was glad for the interruption.

It was an interruption he'd been anticipating since waking, as he did each morning at precisely the hour of five.

He'd long since grown tired of the chess game, his choice of an opponent having proved a poor one.

The man lacked skill or even rudimentary knowledge of the game, it seemed, and had spent the better part of the past hour complimenting the king on everything from his “fine and fashionable suit of clothes,” to his “innate mastery of the game,” all of which, Charles was well aware, had been uttered in a determined effort to gain a more favorable position at court.

A determined, but failing, effort it was.

How he despised such artifice, Charles thought, twisting the end of his mustache betwixt thumb and forefinger, a gesture he performed out of habit.

Living amidst this fakery and posturing each day, Charles had begun to wonder if there existed a man within the whole of England who still had the backbone to simply speak his mind.

And then the man he'd been awaiting strode into the room.

Charles’s well-practiced expression of ennui vanished the moment he stood from the chair.

A wide grin, the one reserved for his closest acquaintances—the one that caused certain ladies of the court to swoon and flutter their fans—lifted one corner of his full mouth as the other man came forward to bow before him.

“Rolfe, my good man, ‘tis superb to see you again. How long has it been? Six months? A year? Regardless, it has been too long between visits, much too long. We are pleased you were able to travel to London so swiftly.”

The man made a well-stockinged leg, bowing with a flourish. “I am, as ever, at your service, Your Majesty.”

Rolfe Brodrigan, Viscount Blackwood, and more recently titled the Earl of Ravenscroft, rose to his full six feet and two, one of but a handful of men at court who could look his sovereign square in the eye without benefit of the fashionable elevated heel.

Here was a man uninterested in any pretense, Charles thought assuredly as he shook Rolfe's gloved hand.

Rolfe made no attempt at currying favor like the other members of his court.

He had no need to. He wore his clothing simply with no need to dress himself up in fine satin or silk to give the impression of importance.

His jackboots were spattered with mud from his ride and he tucked his black, wide-brimmed hat under one arm, coming straight to the point.

“I left Sussex as soon as I was able, Your Majesty. Your summons indicated it was a matter of some urgency.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Charles motioned to a pair of matching gilded armchairs that faced the tall windows.

Whitehall Palace was by far the largest of the numerous royal residences, situated on some twenty-three acres along the northern banks of the River Thames.

In truth, it was more a rambling village than a palace, made up of a multitude of wandering galleries, gates, and gardens all running one into another.

The King's Drawing Room, to where Rolfe had been shown, was made cozy by an inviting hearth fire, while affording a commanding view of the river through its wall of ceiling-high, mullioned windows. Outside, the king could see the royal gardeners at work on the Pall Mall court lawn along the river’s edge.

Charles took up one of his beloved spaniels, stroking it gently behind its furry brown ears. Three others vied for attention at his feet, nipping at the wide velvet bows that decorated his red-heeled shoes.

“Brandy?” Charles glanced at one of the uniformed menservants hovering nearby even before Rolfe responded. The man quickly bowed and went off to the drinks table.

The king was dressed, as always, to the edge of extravagance, but not for any ostentatious reason.

Where he'd spent the better years of his youth in impoverished exile, wearing threadbare coats and stiff woolen breeches, Charles now gloried in his restoration to the throne.

He reveled in rich velvets and golden gimp and galloon, curling his hair in the profuse French peryke style that covered his shoulders like a bushy black cape.

It was a style most every man at court went through pains and a vast amount of guineas at the wigmakers to imitate.

Most, that was, except Rolfe.

By contrast, Rolfe’s hair was cut moderately to the collar of his coat, a style he’d assumed during the wars and had retained afterward.

He took up the Venetian-cut goblet presented to him and swallowed down the fine French brandy.

The liquid burned along his throat to settle warm and deep inside, a feeling he welcomed for he had ridden hard across the English countryside as soon as he'd received the king's summons.

He returned the empty glass to the waiting silver salver and motioned for another, savoring this second glass a bit longer.

“How goes it in Sussex?” the king asked, settling back in his chair.

“Quite well, actually. The improvements are nearly finished on the eastern wing and I'm told the main house should be fully habitable come spring.”

“We were most sad when we returned from the Continent to see what had become of dear Ravenwood.”

Rolfe slanted his sovereign a glance. “Sadly, war leaves destruction in its wake, Your Majesty.

The long period of time the house stood vacant wasn't much of a help either.

I actually found an oak tree growing in what used to be the ladies' morning parlor. I believe the renovations will be a decided improvement on the estate. We have stayed as true to the original design of the house as was possible, adding modern conveniences, of course, wherever needed. By spring, I would venture to say that Ravenwood will be well on its way back to its former glory.”

Charles smiled over a sip of his own brandy.

“This pleases us much to hear, Rolfe. As you know, Ravenwood was always one of our father, His Majesty's, favorite places to visit.

He used to love the seclusion of it, he told us, the quiet peace of the wood along the eastern fringes of the estate.

He was an avid birder, my father, you know, and he found some of the most interesting specimens there.

He wrote about them, describing their every detail in a journal he kept.

You can just imagine the creatures so clearly in your mind's eye when you read his record. Perhaps you would like to have his journal to keep at Ravenwood?”

Rolfe inclined his head. “I would be most honored by it, Your Majesty.”

Charles stared off then, his voice softening.

“Father used to say that Ravenwood was as close to heaven as was possible for a man to find on earth.

It was for that reason we wanted you to have it when we bestowed the Ravenscroft title upon you.

We knew you of all people would realize the estate's worth.”

“That I do, Your Majesty.”

“We miss him very much, our father ...”

After a wistful moment, Charles snapped out of his momentary melancholia, sitting more upright in his chair.

“But this is not the reason for our summoning you here today. There are other, more pressing matters we must discuss. Matters of grave importance to us.” Charles took in a breath.

“As you may have already guessed, we have called you here because we wish for you to take on an assignment for us.”

The statement came as no surprise to Rolfe. “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

Charles’s tone grew serious then, reverting from the royal “we” to the more personal singular.

“Rolfe, in truth, I have selected you for this particular assignment for several reasons. First of all, after risking your life to see me rightfully restored to my father’s throne, you have served faithfully and without question on every task I have called you to.

You never question my requests and I have come to rely upon you for certain delicate things as I know I can count on you to follow my wishes implicitly—and,” he added, “discreetly.”

Charles paused for a moment to take a sip of his brandy, the fine Brussels lace on his shirt cuff barely missing the glass as it caressed his jeweled knuckle.

“Secondly, since being bestowed with the Ravenscroft title nearly a year ago, you have been keeping yourself to the estate, away from court, and thus are not privy to the recent goings-on here.”

Rolfe noticed that Charles had tactfully neglected to elaborate on the events which had transpired a year before, the same events which had brought on this self-imposed exile to Ravenwood.

They were events which had caused Rolfe to be known thereafter as “The Exiled Earl” among Whitehall's gossip-loving courtiers.

He wondered, hopefully, if perhaps the whole episode had been forgotten, and then realized how foolish that hope really was. Such was the way of it with court society.

The king set his dog with the others on the floor. He sat back in his chair, resting his chin on his fingers. He regarded Rolfe carefully. “Tell me, Rolfe, are you familiar with the Montefort family?”

Rolfe searched his memory over another sip of his brandy, narrowing his eyes as he ventured a guess. “Halifax Montefort. A marquess, I believe?”

Charles nodded. “Very good. The Marquess of Seagrave to be precise, although, more recently, I am afraid he is known as the late Marquess of Seagrave. He was found murdered a fortnight ago.”

“Unfortunate. Has the murderer been found?”