Prologue
Fall 1822
The dingy pub on a muck covered street strewn with piles of offal was no place for a nobleman. Inside the dimly lit tavern on the outskirts of London, the seedy side of life indulged in ribald laughter, vulgar comments, and behavior unbefitting one of the aristocracy. Wenches were apt to be pinched or slapped on the backside as they served up pints of ale the patrons so coveted, or worse, dragged down onto a drunken sot’s lap, a filthy hand perhaps running up under their skirts. Fisticuffs oft times broke out among the riff-raff, and a drawn knife blade flashing in candle light was not an unusual sight. No, it was no place for a gentleman, but at a table far away from the soot covered window, one was definitely there.
Although the entire affair left him feeling uneasy, he felt he had to be in this miserable pub at this particular time, in order to carry out the necessary course he had chartered. There was simply no alternative.
Watching carefully that he not touch the grime covered palm, the well-dressed nobleman that held a kerchief to his nose in an attempt to allay the fetid smells that accosted his nostrils, dropped several gold coins into a messenger’s outstretched hand. Wanting as little to do with the small, ignoble man as was possible, he watched as the waste of human life bit down on one of the coins with his few remaining teeth to assure himself that it was indeed genuine. Well aware that the man was illiterate, as his investigation had shown, the nobleman had no qualms about sending the very important message by this piece of human rubbish.
“You are to deliver this missive to only one person, the one I have described to you. It is imperative that it reach him as quickly as is humanly possible. There are no names on the message, so don’t get it in your head that you might show it and return later to blackmail me. I am not a foolish man.”
“Ye can res’ assured, me lord,” the man whispered, “that it’ll be in his ’ands afore nightfall on the morrow. Th’ missive won’t leave me ’ands afore it touches ’is. Th’ Tankard Alehouse? He’ll meet up wit’ me ’ere?”
“Yes! Yes! I’ve told you several times,” the nobleman exclaimed, exasperated that the man had little understanding. “The gentleman will be wearing a grey cloak with a blue plaid neck cloth. There is no chance that you might miss him.” Shaking his head, he only hoped that what he spoke was true, that nothing would prevent his partner in this scheme from being at the inn. With a disgruntled wave of his hand, he spoke belligerently, “Now off with you!”
As the small man backed away from the well-dressed gentleman, his eyes grew round. He had little to do with the aristocracy and he held a certain fear of them. He’d seen too many of his cohorts that weren’t guilty of any crime taken by the Runners, at only the say-so of an angry nobleman.
Watching carefully as the slim messenger made his way through the contemptible elements of society, the aristocrat was well aware that the missive the man carried was a death sentence for several of his own ilk. That fact did not dismay him to any great degree. At this point in time, there was no other recourse. They must be disposed of. And true to his word, there were no names mentioned on the pages of script. The person receiving the message would know without a doubt who was to be destroyed... taken out of the way. He only needed to set his plan in motion.
Debating with himself on this most important matter for the past month, the nobleman could no longer deny his destiny. A horrendous mistake had been made, and he was the only one who could rectify the unwarranted error. To rid the prominent family of these few men was the only avenue open to him. As distasteful as it might prove to be, the very line of descent depended upon his taking charge of the situation. The descent could not be tainted, as it certainly would be if he took no action, and his sense of justice would not allow that happenstance.
When he finished his ale, he left the seedy tavern, stepping carefully into the hack that awaited him. As much as he detested fraternizing with the dregs of society, he had had no other choice. This particular order could not be trusted to the usual messengers he employed. His contemporaries must never discover his duplicity. He could not be found out.
At any cost, the lineage must be preserved.
One
Lady Shalan Kiley lifted the hem of her dress and with trepidation born of futility tiptoed into the great hall. Bearing on her mind for days, she had finally found the courage to face her father with her proposal, but there was little hope that he would pay heed to her request. There was a small chance that her papa would allow this one good turn that she so desperately desired, but not much of one. She asked her father for very little, but this matter was especially important to her.
Shalan stepped quietly into the library so as not to disturb her father if he were terribly busy. Staring at her papa reading one of a few missives he had evidently just received, she politely coughed to let him know she had entered the room. Looking up with his customary smile when he laid eyes upon his daughter, the missive he had been perusing was put aside.
“Papa, please forgive me. I hate to interrupt, but it is of the utmost importance that I speak with you.” Shalan’s nerves were shattered as she stood before him, wringing her hands in a way that was her wont when she was disturbed about something.
He pointed to a chair then turned all of his attention to his only child, noting her worried countenance. “Sit, my dear. What in the world has you on such tenterhooks, Shalan? You have the look of one who has suddenly encountered a wolf in the wild and does not know which way to run.”
Shalan came straight to the point. There was no sense in only alluding to the problem, nor skirting the issue. She feared that little ploy would only postpone the inevitable, and time was running short.
Hardly able to force them from her mouth, she took a deep breath and rapidly fired the words at her father. “May I please be excused from the trip to Haloran Hall, Papa? I really don’t want to go as the earl’s reputation has preceded him, and he is not the type of man a young girl would ever want to meet. Why will you not go alone? You have no need of my company to pay your respects to the new Earl of Haloran.”
Her papa’s brows furrowed and his hands clenched together as he knew exactly why Shalan had sought him out. She was of the opinion that if she pleaded with him, she would be relieved of the obligation. He had, more than once, allowed his daughter to have her way, especially in situations such as this one. But not this time. It was not to be borne as the earl himself had made the request that the Marquis' daughter be present when they met.
Staring down at his clenched fists, and then raising his arresting blue eyes to her, he announced, “You will accompany me, my dove. The invitation includes you specifically, and to deliberately snub the new earl without a very legitimate reason would be rude and most unforgivable. I do not relish this visit myself, as I suspect what this meeting is about, as I am sure you do also. It is the very reason you hesitate to be present. But we must welcome the new Lord Haloran to his home from London. It is only fitting and proper, since we were specially invited.”
He started fidgeting with the missives on his desk, as his daughter fidgeted with her hands in the cloth of her dress, both of them uncomfortable. He, for knowing that he had to insist that Shalan go, and Shalan for knowing she could find no way to escape the invitation from the earl.
Her father looked to her with pity, but understanding, attempting to explain to her why she must attend. “God knows it has been a battle for the courts to sort out just who was to inherit Haloran Hall, as the late earl had no issue, and his nephews are all so close in age. As you well know, several were in contention for the title since the deceased earl unfortunately
