CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Newsletter and Social Media Links

  About the Author

  Other books by Carole Mortimer

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2023 Carole Mortimer

  Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Editor: Linda Ingmanson

  Formatter: Glass Slipper WebDesign

  ISBN: 978-1-914336-10-2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DEDICATION

  Jo,

  Because you always ‘get’ me.

  Thank you so much.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lincoln House, London,

  September, 1816

  “My good man, I do not care what your instructions might be, or who administered them, I must insist upon seeing the Duke of Lincoln. Immediately!”

  Hunter St. John, the duke referred to in that strident tirade, had no idea who the elderly lady—her tone and the querulous tremor in her voice were indicative of her advanced years—was causing a scene in the entrance hall of his London home. But whoever she was, Hunter did not intend to allow her to continue harassing his poor butler this way.

  Elderly or otherwise, Hunter did not receive visitors, except his four closest friends, all of them also dukes, unless it was by a previously agreed upon appointment. Any deviation in that stipulation and all and sundry might consider they had the right to knock on his door, day or night, and demand his time. Beggars might think they could invite themselves in off the streets to take tea with him. Or a flower girl or two think that they were allowed to pick fresh blooms from his garden so they could sell them for pennies to the people passing by.

  No, there had to be some rules to calling upon another person, and as far as Hunter was concerned, unannounced was not an acceptable method for doing so.

  “I have already told you, madam, His Grace is not at home today.” Stokes, Hunter’s butler, obviously agreed with that point of view as he valiantly persevered with his refusal to allow the woman entrance.

  Further entrance.

  Because for Hunter to be able to hear her side of the conversation as well as he could, the woman must at least have stepped over the threshold and now be standing in the entrance hall.

  “The gentleman who left here just a few minutes ago assured me that he had just spoken to His Grace and that he is very much at home,” the woman snapped in that imperious voice.

  Damn it, Hunter would need to have words with Guildford, his lawyer, regarding giving private information to a complete stranger.

  At least, Hunter had initially believed the woman to be a complete stranger. But the more he listened to her voice, the more he felt as if he had heard it before. Moreover, at the time of last hearing it, he believed he might even have approved of her imperiousness. Although he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he might have done so…

  “I wrote to the duke last week, informing him of the…direness of this situation, and I have no reason to think he did not receive the letter,” the woman continued. “No doubt he received it, as he has all the other letters I have written to him over the past five years, and has chosen not to respond to,” she added with a disapproving sniff. “Which is why I have traveled all the way here from Yorkshire, by public coach, I might add.” She sounded scandalized. “So that I might insist in person that he must do something!”

  With this new information, Hunter now remembered exactly who this woman was, and the reason, at their last meeting, he had believed her stern attitude to be an asset.

  Just as he remembered receiving her letters in the past and the one the previous week and had chosen not to respond to any of them.

  If he had thought there was anything of importance in their content, then he would have done so. As there was not, he had seen no reason to do anything other than file them away in a drawer in the desk in his study.

  His reason for ignoring the lady’s missive the previous week had seemed equally as sound at the time.

  The letter had taken three days to reach him, and therefore, its content was old news. This, in turn, had brought Hunter to the conclusion that the situation would have been resolved before he had even received the missive, and so any response from him on the subject would have been superfluous.

  It appeared, judging by the woman’s reference to “the direness of this situation,” that he might have been wrong in that assumption.

  Damn it, did he not already have enough of a situation on his hands without having to deal with what sounded to be no more than a domestic upset? Something, an act, and a purely rebellious one, on the part of a young lady who deserved to have her bottom spanked for alarming her elderly companion in this way and which she had done no doubt in the belief it would elicit a response from Hunter. Perhaps even encourage him to appear in person.

  He did not have time for such female histrionics when his thoughts and actions must all be focused toward identifying the man, the English officer, who had murdered his friend Plymouth during the confusion at the battle at Waterloo.

  He and the other four gentlemen known in Society as the Ruthless Dukes were on a mission to identify and punish the officer responsible for the death of their friend, the sixth Ruthless Duke. To date, three of those gentlemen had been able to dismiss three of the five officers also present in the woods that day.

  Hunter’s own quarry, Lord Richard Hutchings, was unfortunately dead himself, having also been fatally wounded during that final battle at Waterloo. No one seemed certain when Hutchings had received that wound, which meant that he could easily have been responsible for the fatal attack upon Plymouth before then dying.

  Hunter’s frustration at investigating the actions of a dead man was immense. But he was determined to see it through by whatever means were at his disposal.

  As a consequence, he had decided to ignore being informed of the rebellious actions of his ward, sure that she would now be safely returned to Lincoln Grange.

  Unfortunately, it seemed that was not the case and that his ward’s companion had now come knocking on his door demanding he show due diligence in the situation.

  Much as he would prefer never to have so much as learned of Evelyn Gardener’s existence, he had not been allowed to do that five years ago, nor could he do so now. She was his responsibility, no matter how much he might wish she were not.

  Drawing in a long, controlling breath, Hunter strode the rest of the way down the hallway from his study to the entrance hall. A single glance confirmed that the woman standing in the doorway, her gray hair confined beneath her bonnet, her face showing the lines of her age, was, as he had suspected, Lady Margaret Hathaway.

  The woman, who must now be aged in her late fifties, was a plump and very prim and proper spinster, the younger sister of the previous and now deceased Earl of Cranford. She had long been friend and companion to Hunter’s mother before her death six years ago. At the time, Hunter had been at a loss to know what to do with Lady Hathaway, knowing that her own family were either dead or uninterested in offering their unmarried and elderly aunt a home.

  The solution, when it presented itself, was fortuitous for Lady Margaret, if less so to Hunter. The woman would act as companion and governess to the fourteen-year-old girl to whom Hunter suddenly found himself the unhappy guardian.

  Unhappy, because Hunter had had no idea of the girl’s existence until he was contacted by the family lawyer informing him that this girl’s mother had died and he was now her guardian.

  He had called upon the lawyer at his earliest convenience to discover that the girl, one Evelyn Gardener, had been the only daughter of Jane Gardener, a widow residing in Hampshire.

  Still none the wiser as to why he should now be guardian to a girl he didn’t know, Hunter had demanded more details.

  Jane Gardener, it transpired, had been his father’s mistress for the last four years of that gentleman’s life. At first, Hunter had wondered if he possibly had a much younger and illegitimate sister, but it seemed Evelyn Gardener had been five years old when the arrangement between the previous duke and her widowed mother began. The duke, being fond of his mistress, had made provision for both the mother and daughter in his will upon his demise four years previously. As the mother was also now dead, the guardianship of the daughter had passed to Hunter.

  To say Hunter was displeased would have been an understatement. He had known his parents’ marriage was not the happiest, the couple having resided in different households for many years before the duke’s death. But to suddenly find himself guardian to the daughter of the woman his father had cared for had added further insult to that injury. Thank God, his mother had not still been alive to learn of it.

  The only positive factor in the whole situation was that Evelyn’s existence had given Hunter the answer as to what should become of Lady Hathaway.

  H
unter had believed that by sending the two away to the remoteness of his Yorkshire estate, a place he never visited, he would, for all intents and purposes, be able to forget their existence.

  Lady Hathaway had shown uncommon fortitude when she began, and had continued to write to Hunter once a month to report on the progress and health of his ward.

  “There you are.” Lady Hathaway announced the moment she saw Hunter step into the cavernous entrance hall. “Your man here tried to tell me you were not at home, but I had no doubt that you were. Even if you had not been, I should simply have waited here until you returned.”

  This woman’s commanding demeanor, no doubt acquired by being the sister of a now-deceased earl, and which had seemed entirely suitable as a companion to Hunter’s mother and governess to a young girl, did not seem quite so attractive a trait when it was directed toward him!

  He looked down the length of his aristocratic nose at her. “Stokes was acting upon my orders in telling visitors I am not at home this afternoon. After consulting with my lawyer for an hour, I am now busy working on private papers and did not wish to be disturbed.”

  At least a foot shorter than Hunter’s several inches over six feet, the woman nevertheless raked her pale blue gaze over him with critical appraisal. “I hope you do not mind my saying so, Lincoln, but you are looking so much older than when we last met.”

  Hunter did mind. He minded a great deal.

  The past year had not been kind to any Englishman, what with Napoleon’s escape from Elba and his triumphant return to France and determination to once again rule that country as its emperor. All of which had come to a head in the battle in the woods and countryside near the town of Waterloo in the Netherlands.

  The same woods where Plymouth had been seen being struck down by a sword wielded by an English officer. Something Hunter and his friends had only recently been made aware of.

  But despite the anguish of the past few months as the remaining five Ruthless Dukes searched for the officer responsible, Hunter believed that his dark auburn hair showed only the slightest touch of distinguished gray at his temples. There were perhaps more frown lines upon his forehead, but that was only to be expected and might be ascribed to concentration and wisdom rather than his merely being older.

  Three and thirty was not old, damn it!

  Besides, Lady Margaret was not young herself.

  “You are perfectly at liberty to tell me the same, Lincoln.” Amusement warmed those pale blue eyes as she guessed his thoughts before sobering. “But caring for your ward has not been the easiest of tasks.” She gave a doleful shake of her head. “Evie—Evelyn was, can be, a difficult and single-minded young lady when she gets an idea into her head.”

  Hunter scowled. “You did not report she was prone to rebelliousness in any of your letters to me.”

  “Hah, so you did read them,” Lady Margaret exclaimed triumphantly.

  “Of course, I read them, madam. Including the last one. I… Let us go to the library so we can discuss this matter in comfort rather than standing upon the doorstep.” He was aware that Stokes could not help but overhear this conversation when he was still standing beside the open doorway which Lady Margaret had obviously barged through and had no intention of going back out again until she had said what she came here to say. “Bring tea and refreshments to the library for Lady Hathaway,” he instructed the butler, then held out his arm in invitation to the lady. “There is a fire in there you might appreciate sitting next to after your long journey.”

  “I am not so ancient I cannot withstand a few days of discomfort!” she snapped back at him.

  That was not the impression given by the complaints she had been making to Stokes just a few minutes ago. “I did not mean to imply it was,” Hunter said smoothly. “I had assumed that everyone likes a warm fire and tea to drink beside it.”

  She slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “Your mother always said you were a very polite boy.”

  Hunter narrowed his eyes at Stokes when he saw the other man was having difficulty holding back his amusement, no doubt at hearing his haughty employer referred to as a boy.

  Hunter had inherited the dukedom at the age of three and twenty, and between his many and onerous duties to his title and estate, and having spent five years in the army, there had been no time nor situation for a single boyish thought in the years that followed.

  He ensured his guest’s cloak and hat were removed and she was seated comfortably next to the fire before Stokes came in to place the tea tray on the table beside Lady Margaret’s chair. Considering her domineering nature, it was a natural assumption on Stokes’s part to accept that she would be the one to pour their tea.

  Hunter remained silent in the chair opposite hers until she had handed him one of the cups of tea and then taken an obviously welcome sip of her own. Followed by another. Then another, until the cup was completely empty. His mother had been a great advocate of tea as a panacea to many ailments, including those inflicted upon the emotions. Obviously, this lady agreed with that sentiment.

  Hunter placed his own barely touched cup on the table beside him as a thought occurred to him. “Why was it necessary for you to take public transport here when you have a perfectly comfortable carriage in the stables at Lincoln Grange?”

  “Evie took the carriage with her when she left.”

  His brows rose. “She has not returned with it?”

  “Obviously not.”

  Hunter once again felt stung by the disapproval in Lady Margaret’s tone. “Then what has become of my ward?”

  “Impossible child!” The elderly lady immediately became agitated again. “I have done all that I could to keep her educated and amused, but at nineteen, she has grown restless and dissatisfied with the quiet life we necessarily live together in Yorkshire.”

  In all honesty, Hunter was surprised it had taken five years for the girl to reach this juncture. He personally found Yorkshire to be a cold and barren place, with little decent social life to speak of. The perfect place, he had thought, to send a fourteen-year-old girl he had no idea what else to do with.

  He had thought—hoped—that perhaps once she was old enough, she might meet some local boy and fall in love with him. At which time he would have received a request for his permission for her to marry.

  No such request had been made.

  Which did not mean there wasn’t a man involved. “Is it possible Evelyn has eloped?”

  “Absolutely not.” Lady Margaret looked scandalized at the very idea of it. “She is headstrong and willful, but she is not so much either of those things as to throw away her future on a whim.”

  Hunter frowned. “But you are saying she has not returned from her…escapade?”

  The elderly lady appeared scandalized by his question. “Running away from the only home she has known for the past five years cannot be referred to as anything so slight as an escapade!”

  He gave a nod in acknowledgment of his lack of gravitas. “I apologize if I have seemed…less than invested in this situation until now. I had thought my ward’s behavior to be nothing more than a bid for attention.” The idea of an elopement had, he admitted, only just occurred to him. Possibly because he still remembered Evelyn as being a gangly child with a rebellious expression upon her angrily flushed face.

  If he had been displeased at becoming her guardian, then Evelyn had been equally unhappy at becoming his ward. A displeasure she had not hesitated in revealing to him.

  Hunter frowned his puzzlement. “If not an elopement, then where was she going?”

  “To London, I believe.”

  “Why?”

  “To see you, of course.”

  “Why?” he asked again.

  “I believe you must ask her that yourself.”

  What possible reason could Hunter have for engaging in conversation with this rebellious and ill-mannered brat? “Lady Margaret, are you aware of the tenuousness of my…connection to Evelyn?”