Never very far away, the butler, Berridge, and Greaves, the footman, were almost overattentive to his needs. So much so that by the third day, Rollo had the distinct impression his movements were being closely monitored. Given his past demeanours, both at school and as a trouble-seeking lad frolicking around Rossingley, that wasn’t an entirely new experience. But out here, it all felt very different. As if they were watching and waiting for him to do something. Though, for the life of him, what? There was nothing to do. Rollo was far too old to fall from a tree or set a fire under his bed. More to the point, if exile was to be a new line of punishment his father planned on meting out more often, then Rollo was determined to keep his halo well and truly polished at least until he reached his majority.

  “Where…um…does his lordship disappear to every day?”

  Rollo directed this question to Cook. So fed up with his own company, on day four, he decided he was still boyish enough to get away with hanging around the kitchen. A sound decision, as Cook rustled him up some hot scones and the comfiest seat by the stove. In fact, the exceptional standard of the food at Goule Hall was the sole positive to report back to Willoughby. Cook’s sponge pudding even rivalled the one they used to serve at Eton. On consideration, the whole Goule Hall experience was reminiscent of the one endless term he spent at school without his twin, left behind and recovering from scarlet fever at home. Every letter Rollo penned had focused on food, his lumpy bed, and interminable days hunched in the library.

  “His lordship is everywhere,” Cook replied in an enigmatic, singularly unhelpful fashion. The fat spider casting a web across the corner of Rollo’s bedchamber window (the second most interesting thing at Goule, after his absent host) was more forthcoming. Honestly, when Rollo resolved to take his father’s punishment like a man, he’d no idea it would be so…stagnating.

  “And…um…everywhere would be…”

  “Here and there. Doing good by folks, mostly.”

  Rollo almost choked on his buttered scone. “Good? Really?”

  Cook smiled a gap-toothed smile at him. “I’ll be bound. It occupies him most of his days.”

  A slip of a kitchen maid, stirring a big pot of something that smelled heavenly, looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. When Cook turned elsewhere, Rollo threw the girl a wink. She’d get nowhere batting her lashes at him, but allies were always useful.

  “I’m surprised you’re not spending more of your days together,” Cook added.

  “Are you?” Had she met Lord Lyndon? The man wielded poor temper like a broadsword.

  “Oh, yes. The sooner you get started, the sooner we can all go back to how we were before and sleep easier in our beds.”

  Get started with what? Planning my trip back home?

  Rollo contemplated her words, mesmerised by the fleshy woggle of her upper arm as she beat a bowl of eggs into submission. Their own cook at Rossingley was an alarmingly angled woman, while Goule’s cook was all soft curves and rosy cheeks, exactly as a cook should be. The homesick part of him wanted to curl up in her lap and let her rock him to sleep.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what is it about his lordship that’s keeping you awake?” And what am I expected to do about it?

  “Because he’s not himself, is he, sir? Hasn’t been for nigh on several years. Any fool can sense that.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes. I see.” About as clearly as a blind beggar, he nearly added. “If you don’t mind my asking, how is he…um…normally?”

  “Well,” she began, in the way of someone who had been dying to be asked. “He was a scamp the likes of which I’d never seen when he was so high.” She indicated a tallness not far from Rollo’s actual height, then smiled dreamily. Evidently, Rollo had alighted upon her favourite topic. “The family spent every summer here when the boys were nippers. Young Lord Lyndon was always getting under my skirts, pinching all manner of sweet treats from the larder when my back was turned. He liked his liquorice, so he did. He’d stare up at me with those big brown eyes. Like a bleedin’ spaniel he was. Never refused him anything.”

  “And now?” Rollo prompted.

  “Oh, I still can’t say no to him.” The woman nursed a tendre, that much was clear. Or for the old Lord Lyndon, at least.

  “But…”

  She sighed. “But now, nothing keeps him occupied except tending the gardens and doing good by others.”

  “He tends the gardens?” Rollo spluttered. “His lordship?”

  “As much as anyone else,” she confirmed with a note of pride. “Best blooms in the county, I reckon. Born to work the soil, he was.”

  “But…but…” Rollo shook his head. Was the fabled Ashington wealth built on a lie? “Doesn’t Lord Lyndon employ people for that sort of thing?”

  “He does, but it’s him that decides what goes where. And he’s always happy to get his hands dirty. It gets him away from that desk and out of that drawing room.”

  “Oh.”

  Now Rollo’s opinion of the man was even more confused. Reconciling the oaf who pissed in the fireplace as the architect behind the design of those wonderful flowerbeds, never mind doing good by folks and once being a sweet, innocent boy was headache-inducing.

  “Why…why does he spend so much time alone in the drawing room? Why…why—” He searched for the correct diplomatic phrase. “Why is he so…so solitary?”

  Cook’s gaze flicked across to the girl who had ceased all pretence that she wasn’t listening, and her face turned stony. “Since he came back here for good, there are all sorts of stories. Some folks reckon he fell in love and had his suit rejected. Or got too fond of the liquor. His father, bless his soul, liked a tipple too. Or maybe him and his brother fell out. You know what twins be like.”

  “I do,” Rollo exclaimed. “I’m one myself. But…” He and Willoughby had never quarrelled. They’d wrestled each other, built forts, hunted pirates, and kept each other’s secrets as if cast from stone, but never quarrelled. Aside from penning execrable poetry, Willoughby was the finest twin brother a chap could ever wish for.

  “And what do you believe, Cook?”

  Again, her eyes shifted to the girl. “It’s not my business to say.”

  Rollo waited. In his experience, that phrase usually heralded the opinion of someone who had very much decided something was their business.

  Nodding to herself, Cook wiped her hands on a towel. “I think the poor soul never recovered from what happened down at the lake.”

  Chapter Four

  LYNDON LEANED AGAINST the window frame, watching the young man map out the perimeter of the gardens, on foot, for the second time that day. Slight of build and fair as a wisp of barley, from this distance the Honourable Rollo Duchamps-Avery cut an insubstantial figure. He plodded with his head down, occasionally brushing at the sedge on either side of him with a stick. If he sought exercise, and if Lyndon was more inclined to graciousness, then he’d have informed him there was an excellent, circular route leading from the stables over to Beccles Ridge and back. But the youth seemed reluctant to wander too far. Goodness knew why; the marshland didn’t fight back. And Goule was a far cry from London. There were no pickpockets or doxy’s lying in wait to catch the unwary. Loitering about the house and gardens, occasionally prodding at the undergrowth with a stick, he was about as much use as a square wheel on a curricle.

  Pup. The lad hadn’t liked being called that one bit, and had told Lyndon so, for all he was frit. He’d stamped his prettily booted foot and flashed his prettily coloured eyes. The spirited Earl of Rossingley’s son, through and through. A force to be reckoned with a few years from now, once his soft edges had been filed away.

  His visitor stooped to smell a summer bloom, the movement efficient and elegant. He had a pretty nose too. In fact, now he thought about it, Duchamps-Avery was far too extravagantly pretty all round. Like a damned chit.

  And then he disappeared out of sight, behind a hedge. A sudden thought curdled Lyndon’s belly. “He doesn’t ever wander as far as the lake, does he?”

  “No, my lord,” answered Berridge, tidying away the shaving things. Lyndon didn’t care for a valet; in London he hadn’t the funds, and now, even though his brother, Benedict, had restored the entirety of his generous income, he’d since discovered he valued his privacy too much.

  “Greaves says he rarely strays from the gardens.”

  “Good. If he enquires, suggest to our visitor that he takes a stroll somewhere else.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Berridge hesitated. “The gentleman guest doesn’t know the area at all. He seems a bit fearful of the marshes. Perhaps…perhaps you might accompany him sometime?”

  “So that he can interrogate me?”

  “I couldn’t possibly comment, my lord.”

  Lyndon smiled at his wily old butler. They had both guessed the real reason behind Benedict prompting this boy’s visit. Two years had elapsed since Lyndon’s banishment to Goule, and he had not encouraged visitors. Once Benedict had restored his allowance, Lyndon could have returned to the ton whenever he liked. But that would have required courage—courage to look his brother in the eye, to apologise, and admit they shared the same inclinations. Inclinations he’d used against Benedict, to torment and shame him, to almost bring down the Fitzsimmons name.

  How could Lyndon acknowledge all that, when he hardly had the courage to admit it to himself?

  Nonetheless, kindly, forgiving Benedict and their younger brother, Francis, would be fretting.

  “This fresh-faced Rollo Duchamps-Avery makes a perfect, innocent spy, don’t you think?”

  As Berridge sought a tactful response, Lyndon waved him away. “You can’t comment, blah-blah. I know. But this little scheme has clever Rossingley’s fingerprints all over it.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  If he were still a gambling man, Lyndon would wager the only person who hadn’t pieced the scheme together was Rossingley’s boy himself. Well, true to form, Lyndon wouldn’t make it easy for them.

  He waited a few minutes, but the boy didn’t reappear.

  Lyndon turned from the window. “I can take things from here, Berridge. Thank you.”

  “Will you be requiring Fury saddled up to visit Mr Elliot?”

  “Certainly. Thank you.”

  *

  BY THE SUMMER of his second year sequestered in Norfolk—latterly being of his own volition—Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons’s daily routines had been well established. Ablute, breakfast, pay a visit to Will, take a constitutional through the grounds in the company of his sketch pad, then dinner in his bedchamber. Followed by brandy-induced oblivion. Sometimes, he deviated and supped port wine, yielding the same result.

  For the first few weeks after Lyndon’s expulsion from society, Benedict had sent a man to keep tabs on him, to check he hadn’t turned Goule into a den of iniquity, or that he wasn’t, as many would have wished, stone-cold dead in a ditch. Given Lyndon’s reputation as a former rakehell of the highest order, no doubt Benedict expected his spy to return laden with tales of prodigal womanizing, lavish debts, and stories of Lyndon selling off the family heirlooms to settle them.

  Though it pained Lyndon to admit, his brother’s punishment had been a wise one. Enforced solitude and the bracing Norfolk air, coupled with the sick humiliation of admitting all his failings to his oldest friend, Will Elliot, underlined what Lyndon already knew and had desperately tried to fight. That causing merry hell wasn’t for him. Depraved vices and scheming to bring Benedict down didn’t banish his demons any more successfully than pious prayers and abstinence. Whatever peace and absolution he craved were not to be found in the gambling houses, racetracks, and ballrooms of London. Nor had he found them in bawdy house beds or with his nose between the breasts of buxom ladies. Much to his chagrin.

  Thus, after a series of dull reports, Benedict’s man ceased coming.

  *

  FOR A SHAMEFUL period immediately after the lake accident, Lyndon had struggled to look Will square in the eye. His breathing would become unbearable, as if by merely looking at what had befallen Will had shattered every single one of his ribs.

  Because, all too freshly, Lyndon remembered his beloved farm boy as he was before the accident, when Will’s long, thin face and direct gaze used to sit atop a firm and active body. A boy who thought nothing of tossing a dozen bales of hay into a cart without pause for breath, or ploughing four furlongs in between supper and nightfall. He remembered when Will’s lips would smother Lyndon’s own with deep, desperate kisses.

  These days, Will’s fine body was ugly and twisted. A lifeless arm hung loosely across his lap. Spit dribbled down his sagging chin. The physician surmised he’d banged his head and bled into his cranium, whilst the village healer insisted he’d upset the balance of the veil, whatever that meant. Yet despite all that, Lyndon now had no trouble looking at him at all. The other, more finely made man was still inside, of course, his clever mind miraculously intact. But with a heart as broken as Lyndon’s. Though they never spoke of it.

  “Hot weather’s coming,” Will slurred, by way of greeting. Will’s speech had markedly improved over the decade or more since the accident, or maybe Lyndon had become more adept at deciphering his liquid vowels. “There was a heavy dag at dawn.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” answered Lyndon with a smile. “At that godforsaken hour, I was still examining my eyelids.”

  Crossing the simple room, he laid a hand on Will’s thin shoulder then bent and kissed him, once on each cheek, and then, as fondly, on his smooth forehead. Straightening, he arranged his offerings on a tray, poured a mug of ale, and brought both closer to where Will was propped awkwardly against a heap of cushions.

  “Some of Cook’s leek soup,” Lyndon declared, setting the tray down. He eased Will into a better position. “And an excellent cheese.”

  Messily, Will began feeding himself. Knowing better than to offer assistance, Lyndon prodded the fire, then set about arranging candles for later, for when the light grew dim.

  “I hear you’ve got a visitor up at the house.”

  For a person never receiving his own, Will was mightily well informed. Lyndon paid his housemaid’s sister a few shillings to keep a daily eye on him. He might as well put a full-page advert in the Norfolk Chronicle.

  “Yes. The Earl of Rossingley’s youngest son,” Lyndon confirmed. “Sent by Benedict to spy on me.” To cure me. Cheer me. Save me. Or something like that. “Got himself in a scrape at home; he thinks he’s been sent away as punishment. But I know his father and my brother better than that.”

  “Kind-hearted,” managed Will, stumbling over the words. “Your brother.”

  “Yes,” Lyndon said shortly. “Yes, you’re right.”

  Will slurped and chomped through his food. The sound didn’t bother Lyndon. In fact, he scarcely registered it. Saliva pooled at the corner of his old friend’s mouth, and every few minutes Lyndon dabbed at it with a cloth. That didn’t revolt him either, though guilt rolled through him that he’d once recoiled from it. A more agonising way to pass the meal would have been remembering how a once-perfect Will would nibble on strawberries, the sweet juice coating his lips. And how he’d once shared a handful of them with Lyndon. And how his grey eyes had fixed intently on Lyndon’s mouth as he took the soft fruit, then kissed him around it.

  Ah, God. Lyndon dabbed again, wiping a dribble of soup from Will’s shirt. Going over that mawkish, fustian nonsense was of use to neither man nor beast. In a moment, he’d clear away the dishes, help Will use the pot, then settle him into bed for a rest. Some afternoons, Lyndon read aloud to him. Will struggled to turn the pages and had an insatiable desire for gothic novels. Lyndon regularly replenished his library accordingly. Today, however, Will was too weary. His turnips needed a hoe—Lyndon would get on with that for an hour or so instead. The sun shone, he had an afternoon to kill, and for all he was a lord, Lyndon had two arms and two legs in full working order. He’d put them to good use.

  And so the afternoon trudged onward, much like the last, with manual labour keeping the circling blue devils at bay. Perhaps Lyndon didn’t need to be saved. Didn’t need to be rehabilitated in polite company. Perhaps this was his role in life, his penance for evermore. To be the mad, bad brother, living out in the wilds. Drinking alone, surrounded by fine gardens and amateur sketches, with no one to show them off to because nobody cared. Cleaning spit from an invalid’s mouth. Shooting at pewter soldiers. Who on earth imagined a lad barely out of short trousers could alter any of that?

  Chapter Five

  ON THE MORNING of the sixth day, Rollo delved into his meagre stores of bravery to wander as far as the Fitzsimmons family’s private chapel. According to Cook, no one had set foot in the place for years, even though it boasted a rare collection of ancient hymnals. As he caught himself almost looking forward to this venture, Rollo reflected on how far he’d sunk.

  English summertime was having one of those dilemma days, the weather gods undecided whether to bathe the land in blazing sunshine or blanket it in cloud. Twice, Rollo had removed his topcoat only to reshoulder it, tearing a shirt sleeve on an errant bramble in the process.

  The tangle of paths seemed as unconvinced as to where they were heading as the weather. When trees obscured the ugly gables of Goule Hall, Rollo prayed he’d memorised sufficient landmarks to find a route back. Nothing too terrible could befall him, could it, whilst on the way to a place of worship?

  Once more, Goule didn’t fail in its ability to disappoint. The chapel was small and lonely and, if the sinewy ropes of ivy clawing their way around the heavy oak door had any say in the matter, going quietly back to nature. Towering blue-marbled elms shaded it from the sunlight, stretching their arms in benediction over a small gathering of the Goule dead, marked by a row of humble crosses. No mighty Fitzsimmons were buried here in this boneyard reserved for countryfolk—the thatchers, gardeners, cooks, and maids—only simple remembrances of simple lives hard won and ultimately forgotten, now sunken into the ground and buried under a web of weeds.