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Indecision is the thief of opportunity. It will steal you blind.

MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO

I thought we were friends. Allies.

Bridget’s words stung as I escorted a tipsy Mr. Beaumont and Lord Ainsley back to the estate. They were drunk enough to make the vein in my temple throb, especially after pulling Beaumont from a young miss in the garden.

“Capital evening.” Mr. Beaumont sighed with pleasure as he sank back on the worn leather seat.

“We should do this again. And you, Rafe, you seemed quite entranced with Miss Littleton. What on earth were you thinking chasing her out of the ballroom? You caused quite a scene. I didn’t think a stern man like you would show so much emotion. ”

“I agree. Do tell us if Miss Littleton is a freethinker in the ways that matter.” Lord Ainsley slurred his words as he slumped against his friend with a grin.

“I would recommend you keep her name out of your mouth,” I answered heatedly. Both men stared at me, Lord Ainsley finally snickering.

“You have no plans on the chit, do you? Marriage?” Lord Ainsley pulled his cravat loose with one long finger.

Marriage? A lord didn’t marry a vicar’s daughter. But I didn’t care what they thought. Bridget believed the worst of me, especially after our dance.

I had no intention of replaying the conversation for either gentleman. Her challenges circled enough in my mind. Handling the horses kept me occupied until Hawthorn Abbey appeared within the moonlight, its slate roof gilded with silver. I halted the barouche in the courtyard, weary of my guests.

Anticipating my needs, Mr. Whittle ran out to secure the horses. Bless that man. Had he waited at the door or window, watching for my return?

“Did you have an enjoyable time, my lord?” Mr. Whittle whispered as he unhitched the horses.

“No,” I said bluntly. Somehow, I felt myself pulled in the direction of the Perry farm, searching for the minuscule lights of the cottage, even if Bridget didn’t live there.

I saw only darkness on the horizon. How easily I pictured Bacchus with his drink raised high, trickling down his double chin while gladiators fought to the death, their blood spilling just as carelessly as the wine of the gods.

A valley of vice with gnarled roots digging deep into the black soil. How long had evil reigned within this pastoral setting? Was there anything good that could be redeemed in this land? Was I perhaps as weak as the men in my family? Too weak to refuse the Dilettanti and their connections?

“I have offended our host, Beaumont,” Lord Ainsley said cheerfully as he draped an arm around Beaumont’s shoulders and descended from the barouche. They tottered up the steps to the main entrance, pitching forward as if they might fall over.

Mr. Beaumont snorted. “Never mind. He simply needs to loosen up his cravat. Those poor military men never get past their rules and regulations.”

I followed them into the hall, dreading what the next day might bring. If I didn’t need the money, I’d have sent them packing after eight long days. Shame whispered in my ear.

Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners. The Biblical reference was long forgotten, yet my mother’s admonishment lingered.

Without a backward look at me, they stumbled into their dark rooms with peals of laughter.

The doors slammed, and I heard a round of curses as someone bumped into furniture.

Eager to escape, I headed to my chamber, nearly colliding with a slight form holding candles in the gloomy hallway.

Lucy handed me one tallow candle before eyeing the wing where our guests had sequestered themselves for the night.

“My lord, I heard noises. Is anything required?”

I shook my head. “Our company has had quite a night of carousing. I’d recommend you stay put for the evening and bolt your door. Let your father do the serving if anyone rings for it.”

She gasped, but I hoped for her sake she would listen to my advice. Thankfully, she turned and fled down the hall, her flickering candlelight descending as she ran down the servants’ staircase. Had the men already pestered her during their stay? Would they insist on my hospitality beyond this week?

I pulled loose my tight cravat and entered my room with the feeble candle in hand, barely illuminating the thickening gloom.

What a mess I’d made of things. Both with Bridget and now the Dilettanti.

The more I tried to secure my holdings, the more they seemed to slip through my fingers.

I set the candle on a table, the light flickering within the cavernous room.

After throwing my dress coat onto the bed, I sank in the chair beside the fireplace, and opened Bridget’s tin of balm, inhaling the crisp scent. She stood by her convictions.

If only I could regain her trust.

I had fought so hard, yet I couldn’t seem to ensure my future no matter what I tried.

The estate would demand more money than it could earn, possibly proving to be a fruitless path in the end.

I needed guidance. As the thought crossed my mind, I spied my uncle’s Bible, now on my desk. Had Lucy or Mrs. Whittle put it there?

I opened it, flipping idly until I landed on the book of James, one my mother often read.

If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man think that he shall receive any thing of the Lord.

A note slipped free from the pages and tumbled to the hardwood floor. I reached down and picked it up.

April5, 1798

Dear Vicar Littleton,

I did as you recommended. I wrote to Anne again and asked permission to see her and her son. For years, my plea for forgiveness has received no response. Then a fortnight ago, I received word from her sister that Anne had passed away. Did she receive my letter? Or was I too late, yet again?

It is to my detriment that I allowed my younger brother to wreak so much harm at Hawthorn Abbey.

If only our father had refused permission for that sham of a marriage after Randall found out his dalliance had resulted in a child.

But why would our father, who kept mistresses on the side, even care?

Anne was to bring money to the struggling family coffers.

My brother did not expect that her father would cut her off completely for her indiscretion.

Few women, however, could refuse Randall when he wanted to charm someone.

But I might have warned her, and instead I remained silent.

If only I had shielded her when it mattered the most. I might have been the one to marry her and treat her son as my own.

Too often, my thoughts drift to what could have been. I am racked with regret and sorrow that I cannot escape from. I loved her. Randall mocked me for it.

There is naught for me to do other than pay for Rafe’s commission.

As my heir, he will, of course, inherit the estate.

When I learned of his desire to enter the military, I knew it was the least I could do.

Perhaps, in the service, he might find the discipline and purpose I never could.

How do I forgive myself, then? How does a man break free of the deep-rooted curses that bind him?

I tucked the letter back into the Bible, my mind swirling.

My mother had kept these letters from me—perhaps burned them.

But was her silence meant to protect me, or to bury the truth?

The more I uncovered, the more trapped I felt.

I sighed, realizing I might be one step away from a grievous error in aligning with the Dilettanti. But what else could I do?

Mr. Beaumont and Lord Ainsley ate breakfast in the solar, making quick work of their eggs and sausage.

I ordered extra coffee, relieved when Mrs. Whittle came to serve us instead of her daughter.

While I sipped the coffee, she delivered a note and glared at our guests before departing.

I tore into it, ignoring the curious gazes of the men sitting opposite of me.

The magistrate had written at long last.

Lord Hawthorn,

Forgive my tardy response. You mentioned sending several letters to my secretary.

I have spoken with him and discovered we have not received a single missive until now.

The records indicate the boundaries between your estate and Mr. Perry’s farm are clear and have been correctly surveyed.

Unfortunately, your steward, although dedicated, has labored under a false assumption for years.

The map enclosed details the precise line, confirming that Mr. Perry’s land extends farther than initially believed.

While you may commence work on your road and orchards, you cannot legally alter or touch any part of Mr. Perry’s property. Please review the map carefully.

Not received a single missive? Had the letters been intercepted? By whom? My skin prickled as I skimmed the rest of the note, including the small map which showed the property lines. A breath escaped me. Bridget would have her dig after all.

“Something of interest?” Mr. Beaumont rubbed his temples. He appeared in a fine temper this morning.

“None whatsoever,” I responded evenly. “Merely business.”

“Ah, the gentleman of trade. I suppose you have no other options, do you?” Lord Ainsley scoffed. I refused to feel offended by the insult. Why should a man be embarrassed by hard work?

“I find it rather invigorating. There is something about working in the soil with one’s hands that is surprisingly life-giving. You might try it sometime, gentlemen.”

“You think so? Then I should like to see Perry’s field today.” Mr. Beaumont threw his napkin onto the table.