​Table of Contents

  A NineStar Press Publication

  To Beguile a Banished Lord

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thiry-One

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Coming Soon from Fearne Hill

  Connect with NineStar Press

  A NineStar Press Publication

  www.ninestarpress.com

  To Beguile a Banished Lord

  ISBN: 978-1-64890-905-4

  © 2025 Fearne Hill

  Cover Art © 2025 Melody Pond

  Edited by Elizabetta McKay

  Published in November 2025 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

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

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.

  Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-906-1

  CONTENT WARNING:

  This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers. Depictions of alcohol use, suicidal ideation, and mental health issues.

  To Beguile a Banished Lord

  Regency Rossingley, Book Three

  Fearne Hill

  To Sebastian

  Chapter One

  Rossingley Estate, Summer, 1825

  I must not swive the stable boy (again).

  I must not swive the stable boy (again).

  I must not swive the stable boy (again).

  I must not…

  “Crocodile tears won’t save you this time, Master Rollo.”

  Pritchard’s lisping note of triumph was unmistakeable. “No matter how prettily you shed them, you’ve pushed your papa too far. He is provoked beyond measure.”

  “He’d be his usual fine and dandy self if you hadn’t gone running to inform him.”

  “My primary role in the Rossingley household is to serve the earl,” answered Pritchard, as prissy and prim as ever. “Not his licentious offspring.”

  Rollo harboured an ugly notion that his father’s valet had been waiting a long time for this moment, possibly since when Rollo, at age four, had sprinkled rich, resinous lily pollen amongst Papa’s meticulously folded white linens. It had been the opening salvo of a rather jolly dislike of each other.

  “You’re relishing this, aren’t you, Pritchard?”

  “Tremendously,” Pritchard confirmed.

  Escape flitted across Rollo’s mind, but only for a second. One step ahead, and perhaps recalling the time Rollo had feinted past him and sprinted away across the lawns, Pritchard had brought along reinforcements in the form of two burly footmen stationed on either side of the library door. The window, alas, was closed.

  Rollo shot a pleading look towards Kit Angel—Papa’s divine and terribly understanding paramour—currently decorating the settee, who shook his head. Everybody was loyal to Papa to a fault, and it was damned annoying.

  “Sorry, old chap.” At least Kit sounded genuine. “For what it’s worth, I tried to talk your father out of it. Some of us enjoy having you around.”

  What did he mean by having you around? Rollo wasn’t planning on going anywhere, unless swallow diving headfirst out of the nearest window and running for the hills until Papa had calmed down counted. And talk him out of what?

  Before Rollo could further parse Kit’s words, Papa himself swept into the library, dressed in his favourite chartreuse silk banyan and pearls. Rollo coveted both immensely. As always, the eleventh earl was impeccably turned out, though this morning, his flamboyant attire sat at odds with the discomfiting, frigid set of his mouth. Rollo barely dared meet his pale eyes; when his mouth looked as grim as that, his gaze could freeze a lake.

  “Rollo, my darling.”

  Rollo winced. Only a fool would mistake the endearment for anything other than an affectation.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  The ice-chip eyes glittered. “You know why you’re here, I assume?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Experience taught Rollo that short answers tended to be met more favourably. Unfortunately, his smart mouth had a lamentable tendency to act independently of his mind. “Writing out I must not swive the stable boy one hundred times was a significant clue. The lack of hot water in my room this morning more subtle. But no less vexing.”

  The faintest ghost of a smile twitched his father’s lips, gone in an instant. Even in the midst of a scolding, Rollo still appreciated he had the best of fathers. Most would have introduced his arse to the switch long ago.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Rollo?”

  Rollo straightened his shoulders. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb and all that. The importance of standing up for himself had been instilled in him from a young age; Papa could hardly complain now he was reaping what he’d sown.

  “Yes, Papa. Several things, actually.”

  Papa sighed. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  “Firstly, my wrist aches.” Rollo waggled it to demonstrate. “I have indelible green ink stains on my second-favourite blush waistcoat, and I’m still frightfully chilly. And, for the record, Ellis was an able, willing, practiced, and—dare I say—extremely encouraging participant.”

  “Naturally, he was; you paid him two pounds!”

  “And it was very well deserved.”

  “And then a further crown, on account, for future favours!”

  Goodness, Pritchard had been busy. Rollo shot him an evil look, though in having his financial transactions laid out so bluntly, his bravura hung by a thread.

  “At risk of repeating myself,” Rollo ploughed on, “I considered it money well spent. Ellis has several strings to his bow.”

  “Evidently.”

  His father’s fine blond brows knit together. The line between standing up for himself and cheeking Papa was a fine one; Rollo had a sneaking suspicion he might have tiptoed across it.

  “Darling Rollo,” began his father, a layer of frost coating each syllable. “For all I care, our stable boy could have the whole string section of London’s prestigious Philharmonic Society tucked behind the fall of his breeches. And you could have twanged every single instrument.”

  Rollo had been on his knees attempting exactly that until he’d been discovered by the second groom, who’d blabbed to the head groom, who’d gone tittle-tattling to Pritchard.

  “Nevertheless, as you are well aware, there is nothing I detest more than fortunate, well-heeled members of society taking advantage of those in their employ.” With an irritable flick of his hand, Papa waved away Rollo’s attempt to defend his actions. “That Ellis was willing is an irrelevance. You placed the man in a devilishly awkward position, and I simply will not tolerate it. Have I made myself crystal clear?”

  “Yes, Papa,” he replied meekly. “Sorry, Papa.”

  “And so you should be.”

  Yet to be mollified, his father folded his arms and began pacing in front of the fireplace. “The simple truth remains. Our loyal servants are out of bounds. I distinctly recall this being made perfectly clear to you when you returned from Eton last year. Did I not?”

  Rollo hung his head. “Yes, Papa.”

  “If it had been your first demeanour and you had been totally in the dark, then, of course, I would instruct you on how a Duchamps-Avery should behave. It would be remiss of me not to. But, as it is, the fact that you stand here, arguing the point after all I’ve…”

  Ahhh, to begin the day with one of Papa’s sweet lectures. Rollo didn’t need to tune in for the rest. He knew how things ran. Their disputes were well rehearsed operatic duets, composed of increasing exasperation on Papa’s part, Rollo feigning abject apology, a discourse on how a Duchamps-Avery should conduct themselves, ending with a loving embrace and a promise to do better. As usual, Pritchard and Kit had been making a fuss over nothing. Rollo would bow his head a few times, continue to appear suitably repentant, and ride this one out.

  Content in the sure knowledge he was loved, Rollo’s thoughts drifted. In a few moments, Papa would fizzle out and decree his penance. Idly, Rollo wondered what it might be. Papa was nothing if not creative. Over the years, Rollo’s punishments had ranged from counting
all the earwigs in the orangery (aged five, he was discovered hiding in the coal cellar after two hours of searching) to scrubbing the scullery steps with a toothbrush (for convincing his twin brother, Willoughby, that eating crushed pinecones would allow him to see better in the dark). Willoughby casting up his accounts the next morning during the church sermon aside, some of Rollo’s so-called punishments had turned into rather good fun. Like the time he was consigned to digging over the vegetable patch and unearthed an adder, which had slithered over Pritchard’s foot.

  “To that end, Rollo, it is high time you had a firmer hand. My own father, rest his soul, oft quoted that a rose bush must be heavily pruned in order to produce the best blooms. And, on this occasion, I believe he was speaking with the weight of wisdom. Don’t you agree?”

  Papa’s lecture appeared to have taken a horticultural detour. “Er…yes?”

  “Excellent.” His father clapped his hands. “Therefore, Dobson will accompany you when you depart for your trip to Norfolk this afternoon, see you safely settled in, and return to collect you in three months’ time.”

  “D-Dobson will…what?” Rollo’s happy flights of reminiscence screeched to a halt. Did…did he…did…? “Sorry, Papa, I must have misheard. Did you just say Dobson’s accompanying me to Norfolk?”

  “Got it in one, darling. You are clever. To Goule Hall, to be precise. On the edge of the Broads, between some hellish backwater named Stokesby and another provincial bog going by the name of Wroxham, I believe. A delightful, if not a tad isolated, property belonging to the Ashington estate. The duke’s twin brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons, remains in residence after spending an enforced period of seclusion there a couple of years ago, whilst he…ah…reflected on several episodes of…ah…poor behaviour in and around the ton. I shall spare you the details. Suffice to say that in comparison, dear boy, your antics are those of a rank amateur.”

  This Lord Lyndon Fitz-something-or-other could have kidnapped the moon from under the noses of the sun and the stars for all that Rollo cared. “And this…this Goule Hall is in Norfolk?” he clarified, aghast. Perhaps, somehow, his father was confusing Norfolk with Mayfair.

  Alas, no.

  “Unless the hall has been excavated and deposited elsewhere since the duke and I corresponded less than a week ago, then yes.”

  “And Willoughby is coming too,” Rollo decreed, praying if he said it with enough confidence, that would somehow make it true.

  His father shook his head. “On the contrary. Willoughby will be travelling to London with me. I plan to use the time you are apart to begin schooling your brother in the rudiments of my business affairs.” He flashed Rollo an evil little smile very much like Rollo’s own, displaying all of his sharp pointed teeth. “And perhaps take the opportunity to do some shopping, pay a visit to my tailor, and so forth.”

  Ugh. That was a low blow. Rollo didn’t give two hoots for learning about business. Willoughby would inherit the title and all that nonsense, anyhow. But how he adored their family shopping expeditions! Much more than Willoughby ever did.

  Pritchard made an odd noise, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. Knowing the blasted valet, the whole thing had been his bloody idea. He’d always enjoyed having the earl to himself. Rollo would have said so, too, if every ounce of his not inconsiderable intelligence wasn’t fixated on desperately seeking a way out of the barren wasteland now known as his immediate future. Because, from where he was sitting, Norfolk already seemed horribly like a fait accompli. Three months. Three summer months. Stuck with a dull, ancient lord, in a draughty old hall in the middle of effing nowhere. They might as well just shoot him with a musket ball now and be done with it.

  He tried one last time. “Ha ha, very funny. But…really, Papa? Norfolk? Cold, flat, windy Norfolk? Even Bonaparte wasn’t exiled to Norfolk!”

  “No.” The earl tilted his white-blond head, so like Rollo’s own, in gentle acknowledgement. “But then, my dear, Napoleon Bonaparte wasn’t a spoiled second son of an earl, caught swiving one of my stable boys when he’d been given explicit instructions not to manhandle the servants. Pritchard? Ring for Dobson, if you would be so kind. I do believe Rollo’s valises are already packed.”

  Chapter Two

  My dearest Willoughby,

  Papa is an ass. You were paying an afternoon call to Miss Lavinia when we left. He didn’t even allow me to track you down and say farewell. Needless to say, three days sharing the landau with Dobson has been insufferable. On his return to Rossingley, please ensure somebody acquaints him with a bar of soap.

  God, I miss you already.

  We rode into the county of Norfolk two hours ago, yet still no sign of Goule Hall. Dobson has family around here. He says Goule isn’t on the way to anywhere, an end in itself. For all that his breath is foul, I think he may be onto something. The landscape is bleak, a never-ending cycle of green marsh and grey saltings, with limitless skies and a church tower on every horizon. Though sobering, it imbues me with an incredible urge to do peculiar things, such as hunting for wild garlic or skimming stones across the marshes. Mostly, however, it makes me want to demand that the landau turn around.

  I am being so terribly brave, despite everything.

  PS In your last ode to Lavinia, you may wish to revisit the definition of iambic pentameter.

  Your Grace, I write to thank you for permitting me to spend the summer at one of your country homes. I am truly blessed.

  MANY YEARS AGO, Rollo’s papa had a very special friend named Charles. Like Rollo, he was also terribly brave—a soldier. After fighting Napoleon’s finest on the battlefields of La Coruna, he returned home alive, only to sadly perish a few years later of consumption. Willoughby and Rollo never knew him particularly well because they’d been away at school, but Papa grieved his loss as if a cloak had been cast over the sun. Then, a couple of years later, Kit came along, and Papa went back to being his usual incorrigible, annoying, adorable self.

  The point being that if ever Rollo were in the doldrums, Papa would remind him that something terrific might be waiting just around the next corner. And if not that corner, then the one after, or perhaps a corner Rollo was unaware even existed until he stumbled around it. Though peeved at his father’s decision to send him away, and still smarting from his humiliating dressing down, Rollo would do his best. He’d spend his three months at this blasted Goule place, and even if, privately, he believed that making the best of things was a damned poor way of dealing with them, then that was what he’d do.

  Despite padding his brain with optimistic, courageous intent, as the landau rounded a sharp bend in a rutted track, affording him his first glimpse of Goule Hall, Rollo concluded his special corner had yet to reveal itself.

  “If this place ain’t haunted,” declared Dobson, leaning towards Rollo to get a better view, “then my prick’s a kipper. I reckon I can hear the creaks and bumps in the night from all the way out here.”

  Rollo breathed through his mouth for a few seconds; after three days in the confines of the landau, he concluded Dobson had a rotten tooth. Though, if his member really was a kipper, then it would explain the unfortunate odour.

  “Nonsense,” Rollo said. “You’ve been listening to too many of Cook’s silly stories. There are no such things as ghosts. Old houses simply make strange noises. When the wind blows and the windows rattle and such.”

  All the same, as the stark flint façade loomed closer, he wrapped his travelling rug a little more snugly across his lap and vowed to lock his bedchamber door that night. And then he vowed to stop harbouring mean thoughts about people. It was not a nice trait in him. Dobson was a good man. He’d also fought for his country. Big and strong, too, which was why Papa had selected him for this errand. Thieves would think twice about waylaying their carriage. The smell alone would be a deterrent.

  “Anyhow, I think it’s a pretty house,” Rollo lied, staring up at the three-storey, double-fronted hall. Cut in severe straight lines, as though someone had taken a sharp knife to it, the hall defiantly stared back. Half-hearted curls of smoke puffed from two of the chimneys. Considering it was the first week of June, the country air still carried a chill. “Good. The fires have been lit.”

  Even the slate-grey chimney pots appeared precisely drawn, four on the front aspect of the roof partnered with four identical ones on the rear, as if ready to join hands and dance a terribly sedate, terribly depressing minuet.