mother who had come into his house to replace his own, but because their father had loved his second son, too. Which was only right.
He didn’t need or want to see Adrian or anybody else in his family. To live in anticipation of the condemnation sure to come his way. To see the disrespect in his sibling’s eyes. To hear his mother sing his praises, and know that she did so only because he was her son, not for any merit she believed he possessed.
Suddenly, the nag stumbled on the mud-slick road. It quickly regained its footing, but not before the young man slipped from the saddle. He lay on his stomach, then tried to stand, too drunk to make much of a success of it. “I’ll just rest a moment,” he mumbled, lying down and laying his head on his arms.
In another moment, Lord Elliot Fitzwalter, second son of the fifth Duke of Barroughby, was fast asleep in a Lincolnshire ditch.
The indomitable old woman sat staring out the window, her back straight and her gaze fastened on the long, sweeping drive that led to Barroughby Hall before continuing to her habitation.
The Dower House stood on a low rise, and at one time, before the present dowager duchess’s occupation, it had been screened from Barroughby Hall by a row of larch trees. The dowager duchess had ordered them cut down, the better to see over the large lawn past the ornate gardens to the drive and the front entrance of the hall.
As she looked out, she paid no heed to the young couple who had quietly entered the tastefully furnished drawing room. The man was dark haired, tall, handsome and serious; his wife was not a great beauty, but there was a calm serenity to her features that the duke considered far more lovely.
The Duke of Barroughby glanced at his wife, and then addressed his stepmother. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
The dowager duchess did not turn to look at her visitors. She knew who they were; they came to the Dower House every day when they were in residence at the ducal seat. “Have you heard from him?” she demanded, as she did every time they called.
“No, Your Grace,” the duke’s wife replied softly.
“He will come tomorrow,” the dowager duchess said firmly, as she always did, referring to her beloved son, who had stormed from Barroughby Hall nearly five years ago after a bitter and angry confrontation. “Leave me now.”
Adrian and Hester looked at each other and obeyed, each of them silently wondering how long the dowager duchess could maintain her daily vigil before she gave up hope of ever seeing her cherished son again, for Elliot Fitzwalter had sworn that he would never set eyes on his family again.
Between themselves, they thought he must be dead. No one had heard from him. There had been no letters to his doting mother, and perhaps more surprisingly, no demands for money to his half brother. Every inquiry had been fruitless. There had not been even a whisper of a rumor concerning the handsome young nobleman.
It was as if Elliot, in his determination to be rid of his family, had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Chapter Two
Grace hurried along the road, no longer running, but walking as quickly as her laboring lungs would allow. A light rain had started to fall, and her high-top boots would be thick with mud if she was not home soon.
She was also mindful of the ruffians she had seen loitering outside The Three Crowns that afternoon. There had been many itinerant workers in Lincolnshire of late, causing some unrest, and certainly a sense of unease. Donald Franklin had brought over many poor Irish to work on his estate, and there were others, like those men today, who she suspected had never done an honest day’s work in their lives. Why they were in Barton-by-the-Fens was a mystery, and Grace hoped they wouldn’t linger, or, worse, come along this particular stretch of road.
She glanced back over her shoulder, then sighed with relief. Mercy would say it was only her imagination running away with her again, but Mercy had never understood how upsetting it could be when one’s mind persisted in creating vivid pictures of possibilities, most of them bad.
Grace halted abruptly. There was a bundle of clothing in the ditch. Some poor soul was going to be the worse for that. Maybe she should take it to the vicar.
She went closer to investigate and let out a gasp of shocked surprise, for it wasn’t an abandoned bundle of clothing: it was a man lying there, not moving.
For a moment Grace’s heart seemed to stop beating, until she saw his back rise and fall as he breathed. “Not dead,” she murmured with relief.
She regarded him from where she stood, nearly five feet away. His trousers and jacket were not clean, something not unexpected when one was lying in a ditch. His hat had tumbled off and lay on its side nearby, so she could see his rather unkempt blond hair. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow, his legs long and lean. His clothes, while dirty, were not ragged or patched. Indeed, once they had been quite fine.
Despite his resting place, there was something almost elegant about him, as if he were a prince in disguise. His head was turned away from her, and she very much wanted to see his face.
“Sir?” she said quietly, setting down her basket and taking another step nearer. “Sir?”
He didn’t stir, so she ventured even closer, moving slowly around his long, lean legs until she could see his face.
He was a young man, probably no older than she, and his profile revealed remarkably handsome features, including a shapely nose, strong chin, and long lashes, for a man. His complexion was quite brown, as if he spent time out-of-doors, and his blond hair clung to his brow. She wondered what color his eyes would be.
She bent down, prepared to rouse him with a slight shake, when the overpowering smell of wine drove her back.
Why, he was drunk! Handsome prince indeed! He was just a common…common…drunkard!
What a waste! she thought as she turned on her heel to leave, even as she wondered what had brought a young man to such a pass.
Then she told herself it didn’t matter. She had enough troubles of her own without worrying about a drunkard who didn’t even know enough to get out of the rain.
She grabbed her basket and started to march away, once again aware that she was far from physically comfortable herself. Her skirt was muddy, and her cloak getting wetter every moment.
Then she noticed the hoofprints fast dissolving in the mud. There was no sign of a horse nearby. None of their usual visitors had saddle horses, only the heavier draft animals. Had he been mounted?
If so, it was possible that he had been attacked. She recalled Miss Myrtle’s tale of a band of brigands robbing travelers. His less-than-sober state would have made him an attractive target for thieves who could have robbed him of his horse and money, too. Perhaps this poor man was not asleep, but unconscious.
She glanced back at him again, noting that the rain was falling harder now. He would soon be soaked to the skin.
Victim or not, he was none of her concern, and if she were smart, she would leave well enough alone.
She started to walk again. She should be thinking about Mercy, who was her responsibility. Mercy had been unwell this morning. When questioned, she had dismissed Grace’s fears and told her not to worry so much.
But
