Heron House
1811
O ne might have been excused if one had thought that an eye patch would put the ladies off. It had not.
Maximus had always loved the ladies. He was a person who enjoyed life, making certain to experience it to its fullest, without descending into the sort of wild debauchery that some of his set found. And which generally led to terrible health. His name—Maximus—said it all.
From a young age, he had been singled out as someone who could not be small. No! He was always the most enthusiastic, trying the most things. He’d always gone to all the races, all the balls, to Covent Garden, to the clubs. He’d wined and dined, gone to the theater, enjoyed the actresses, and loved the opera singers.
What wasn’t there to love about life?
He had lived so far with great passion because, quite frankly, one never knew when it would end. He was bloody grateful to have been born in such times and to have been born into his family. He was lucky. Even missing an eye.
And so, after coming home to London after the battle in which he’d lost his eye, he had, again, thrown himself into being alive. How could he not? The day his horse had been shot out from underneath him and his own eye had been lost, there had been hundreds, if not thousands, of young men lost. They had not gone home to the people who loved them.
They would have no lives to live. No. He was one of the lucky ones. He insisted upon seeing it that way. Yet, as he strolled down one of the private halls of Heron House, where a party was taking place—for at Heron House, there were always grand balls and parties taking place—he found himself feeling a trifle tired of being completely and totally alive.
It wasn’t because he wasn’t grateful. It wasn’t because he didn’t understand all that he had. But there were times when he wished he could slip away to his room, sit in the darkness, and simply try not to feel at all.
Because something else had happened that day on the battlefield. He had realized the absolute and total terror of being alive. It was no longer a theory that life could be taken away at any moment. It was something he had intimate experience with now. He and death had whispered to each other, and he’d told death to hie off for several decades.
Death had agreed, or so it seemed, for he had not been killed by cannon, stray shot, trampling hooves, or the waves of soldiers’ boots as they’d stormed across the field, charging towards the French column.
Yes. He now understood that being alive, fully alive, was not all wonderful. That it wasn’t simply a matter of choosing joy. It was a matter of also surviving the hellish times that came to one and not permanently retreating into a very tempting husk.
Now, he had joined the club of people who had aged, who understood that sometimes hell came to one’s door, and one had to answer the knock. It could not be avoided, no matter how grateful one was for their existence and all the luck they had.
To prove that he would not succumb to the husk, or shrink, as memories of that cannon whistling through the air zoomed through his head, he had already danced five waltzes. He had danced to several reels and jigs. The country dances had come one after the other. He had danced each with tremendous enthusiasm.
Though…some nights, the sounds of the hundreds of dancers jumping up and down on the polished wood caused his stomach to turn, as he recalled the feel of the ground vibrating beneath him as Wellington’s army had gone to meet Napoleon’s that day.
After those dances, he had drunk punch and made witty conversation with all the people his grandmother, the dowager duchess, had invited.
How he adored her!
She was one of the few people who did not seem to expect him to be the life of every party at Heron House, and perversely, because she did not expect it, he felt the need to be it. He wanted her to believe that he was perfectly well. He wanted his mother to believe that he was perfectly well too. He needed his family to believe that he was perfectly well, even if he wasn’t. By God, he was going to make the world believe it.
He was going to make them understand that he was simply grateful to be alive. He wasn’t going to be some whiny ponce when all those other lads were dead.
It didn’t matter that he felt he had somehow lost his entire purpose for existing in the last year. Each day had been a day of getting by, of trying to focus on simply doing the things that could make life livable. Once, he had felt he had purpose. He was going to stop Napoleon.
Now, his purpose was balls and parties and the club. And, of course, regaling people with how mighty and important the war was.
Now, he was talking about it rather than doing it, and it became an exhausting, ongoing, never-ending state of affairs in which he wished he could still be fighting like his brother and his cousins.
But he knew talking about war’s importance to powerful men and their wives mattered. England had to stand firm.
Maximus slipped into the small, private sitting room at the back of the house that he liked to use, hoping for just a few moments of respite.
He blinked. Aside from the crackling fire, the room was oddly silent.
He headed towards the fireplace, knowing that just a few moments would give him the ability to go back out and perform. All Briarwoods were performers after all. Yes, he would play his role and do it well.
But the side of his face ached. It ached more than usual this night. The leather from the eye patch dug into his skin, and he felt the muscles of his jaw clenching. Smiling all night long at people who were, well, idiots did that to him. Not all of them were idiots, of course.
His grandmother did not only invite idiots. Actually, she invited marvelous people. But one still had to put up with idiots. Many people in power were idiots.
He let out a long sigh, considered a bottle of brandy, and quickly shoved it from his mind. He’d had too many friends wounded in war who had come back and taken up the companionship of a brandy bottle, only to never really get free of it again.
He would not go that way. He could not. He had to be stronger than that, though he knew strength really had little to do with it.
He frowned. Why the devil was it so quiet? Something…
His eyes went to the mantel. The French clock, quite a rare one that had once been in Versailles, was gone.
He frowned. Had it been taken for repair?
But the hairs at the back of his neck suddenly stood up, the instincts honed by war activating. He was being ridiculous, of course!
He blew out a breath. He hated how sensitive to sounds he was now.
And as if to prove his point, a strange noise caught his attention.
There was a rustle in the back corner of the room from one of the closets. It was odd that there was a closet in this part of the house, but it had once been part of a hidden room. Some said it had been meant to hide priests, but that was preposterous. The house wasn’t that old.
Still, the house was riddled with secret passages.
He swung his attention to that noise and frowned. Was there a rat in Heron House? His family was extremely careful about such things, of course, but it was located out of the city, and there was every possibility that something had gotten inside.
Slowly, for he did not like the idea of having to evacuate an animal in the middle of a ball, Maximus crossed to the door and pulled it open quickly.
It was not a rat.
It was a young woman.
And his breath whooshed out of him as he stood, his hand frozen on the handle.
She was breathtaking, and alarmed.
Her luminous eyes met his as the light from the candles spilled inside, turning her auburn hair a beautiful gold. Those eyes of hers stared at him like twin lanterns of astonishment, and her mouth was parted.
“Dear God,” he said. “What the devil are you doing in there?”
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you have found me. I couldn’t get the door to open from this side.”
He blinked, absorbing her words, which made no sense. “It doesn’t lock.”
“It must have been jammed,” she replied quickly, her hands tucked into her skirts as her gaze darted to the space behind him as if she was planning a quick departure. “Thank you.”
And with that, she sashayed out around him and began making a quick bustle for the door.
He stood gaping for a moment, but then he whipped around. Again, he felt his suspicions arise. She was pert, quite attractive, and she caused his bloody senses to dance a jig.
“I say, stop. What were you doing in the closet?” he demanded before she could make her quick escape.
She turned slowly. “We really mustn’t be alone together. My lord?” she queried.
He gave a nod of his head. “Indeed. I am the eldest son of the Earl of Drexel. And of course, you are correct, but if you cared about such etiquette so dearly, you never would’ve been alone in this room. These are the family rooms, you know. What are you doing in here?”
Her brows shot up and her eyes widened with innocence. “Well, my father is building a house in the country, and I am most curious about storage. Closets fascinate me,” she rushed. “And I wanted to examine it, but then the door shut behind me. Terrible state of affairs. Thank you for rescuing me.”
“I don’t think I rescued you,” he stated, eyeing her carefully.
She was staring at him as if he might soon stumble over himself to assure her that he was pleased to have rescued her.
But he did not. She was no brainless miss. Her intelligence crackled through the room. Was she used to dimwitted men?
Likely.
There was something amiss. She wasn’t quite right. There was something a little bit off about the way she spoke. Her gown was ever so slightly off as well. And then he spotted it, the way her hand was tucked into the folds of her gown, and how the folds of her gown stood awkwardly at her hip.
“What do you have in your hand?”
She blinked at him. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What is your name?”
She swallowed. “You would have no idea who I am.”
“I’d like to know who you are,” he stated. “Or shall we go down to the butler and have him provide your name?”
Her mouth started to go into a straight line, and from that slight action, he knew she had not been invited. She did not belong.
He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew it in his bones.
“ Who are you?” he whispered, captivated by the bold young miss who had somehow gotten into the house and pilfered his favorite clock.
“None of your affair,” she replied.
“And the clock?”
“What clock?”
“The one you are hiding. It’s quite obvious.”
“You must be imagining—”
He strode forward and started to reach for it.
“Oh! This.” She laughed, the sound bright but forced. “I am fascinated by clocks, my lord.”
He cocked his head to the side. “You were taking it.”
She said nothing.
“Couldn’t resist a little bit of gold, or did someone send you here to do it?”
Her eyes narrowed, her innocent act fading. “Of course, you would think that someone sent me here to do it.” She cleared her throat and her eyes widened again, her free hand fluttering to her perfectly plumped bosom. “But I’m merely exploring this beautiful house, and I picked up the clock because it is made so well and…”
“You are an excellent talker, miss.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“And you carried it into the closet?”
Her lips pursed. “I did.”
He arched a brow.
She smiled widely. “I forgot to put it back.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll just be going. My friends are waiting for me—”
“Put the clock down.”
Her smile and the bubbling girl of a moment ago vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp beauty. She demanded, “What’s it going to take?”
He blinked, quite astonished by her transformation and how she was positively breathtaking. “I beg your pardon?”
“What’s it going to take,” she said firmly, “for you to let me go? What do you want?”
“Want?” he queried.
“A gentleman always wants something,” she said. “Tell me the price, and I will pay it.”
He tilted his head to the side, frowning. “I don’t have a price.”
“There’s always a price,” she said. “You may not even know it yet, but we’ll eventually get to it.”
The sprightly joviality of her chatter was gone now, replaced by a foxlike demeanor, a shrewd businessman-like attitude.
“I don’t want to go to jail,” she declared simply, but there was an undeniable tenseness to this statement.
“I’m not going to send you to the clink,” he replied.
She shook her head, tsked, then folded her arms beneath her beautiful bosom. “And if you knew what happened to women in such places, you wouldn’t make light of it.”
“Forgive me,” he said, clearing his throat. “You are correct, but why in God’s name were you taking the clock?”
She remained silent.
“I see. You think if you say nothing, it’ll aid you. It won’t.” He took a slow step forward, captivated by her as he hadn’t been captivated by anyone since that day on the battlefield. “Explain yourself and then perhaps, perhaps , I will simply let you go.”
She drew in a breath and said, “You have so much. Why would it bother you if I took something so small?”
“It is my favorite clock,” he said, “and I feel like with your logic, I cannot let you go or you shall just do it again and again.”
“Yes.” She gazed at him, bemused. “I shall do it again and again to people who have so much, when I know people who have so little.”
“Robin Hood, are you?”
She laughed. “Something like that.”
“You give to the poor?”
“I do give to the poor,” she said.
“Are you poor?” he asked.
A muscle tightened in her cheek.
Yes, he realized. She was. He crossed to her slowly. “I’m not going to let you go.”
“Worse,” she said. “You’re going to make sure I’m sent to Australia. Is that it?”
“Australia would be lucky to have you,” he said. “No. I’m going to take you to someone. Someone who will make judgment. Someone who will know exactly what to do with you.”
“And who is that?” she demanded.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”