pocket a moment before the redcoats stormed through the door.
Chapter One
Hawk Haven Manor, England
February 1781
The moment the coach rolled to a stop, Drake Amberly, Fifth Duke of Hawk Haven, shoved open the door and leapt to the cobblestone drive. Icy rain struck his face, ran off the brim of his hat and slid down his neck, under the collar of his greatcoat. He marched up the wide front steps of his family’s palatial home, his mood fouler than the weather.
Chaney, his wizened butler, opened the ornately carved front door in perfect time, allowing him to enter the manor’s grandiose hall without slowing his pace.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
“I’ve yet to find the good in it.” Drake shed his hat and coat before passing them to the efficient servant. He raked his fingers through his black hair and turned in the direction of the sweeping staircase. Changing his mind, he headed for his study. His mud-splashed boots clapped on the marble floor, echoing in the domed space as he passed gilded mirrors and a display of fine porcelain. “I’m not available for the rest of this miserable day.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Drake crossed the threshold of his mahogany-paneled study, the sound of his steps muffled by the room’s thick red carpet. The welcoming crackle of a roaring fire in the hearth and the familiar smell of leather-bound books did little to soothe his irritation.
He took his place behind the massive antique desk and without pause snatched up a quill. Dabbing the tip in ink, he flipped open one of his journals and began ciphering the figures from his latest shipping venture. Trade was an unpopular activity for the nobility, but Drake gave little credence to convention. Convention had caused him nothing but grief. Besides, he enjoyed dabbling in business to relieve his boredom, or annoyance, as was the case today.
Drake slammed the quill down on the desk, sneering as flecks of ink splashed across his accounts. Shoving the book away in disgust, he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts turning toward his former fiancée.
Were all women deceivers? He’d heard the rumors about Penelope, but finding her in the arms of another man was not something he could tolerate. He’d broken their engagement this morning and would speak with her father tomorrow. No strip of land was worth having a wife who couldn’t be trusted.
A knock sounded at the door. Chaney peered into the room. “Pardon, Your Grace, but a Lieutenant Kirby is here. I explained you’re unavailable, but he claims to have news of Lord Anthony. I thought you might wish to see him straightaway.”
Drake frowned. “Show him in. If they’ve sent someone, it must be urgent.”
The butler departed. Drake closed his journal. An image of his brash younger brother came to mind. From childhood, Anthony had longed for adventure. When the revolt began in the Colonies six years ago, he’d booked passage on the first ship bound for New York. Determined to join their distant cousin’s regiment, Anthony had been blinded by his ambition and lust for glory.
“Your Grace?” Chaney spoke from the doorway. “Please allow me to present Lieutenant John Kirby.”
Drake studied the new arrival as he walked into the room and stopped several feet away. The man was short, wiry thin. Dirt marred his craggy face and sodden wig. His bulging eyes held respect and a hint of fear.
Kirby bowed low. His uneasy gaze flicked down at his less-than-spotless uniform. “Please forgive my appearance, Your Grace. The ghastly weather—”
“No matter, Lieutenant.” Drake remembered his own battle with the soggy roads earlier in the day. Impatient, he motioned toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “It would appear none of us is at his best this afternoon. Have a seat and tell me what news have you of my brother? I’ve received no word from him since before the new year.”
Kirby sat on the edge of one of the leather chairs. Fidgeting, the soldier cleared his throat. His nervous gaze fell to the floor. “The news I have is ill indeed, Your Grace. I regret to say I’ve been sent here on the worst sort of errand. There’s no delicate way to put this. Your brother, Lord Anthony, is…dead.”
“Dead?” Drake choked, inwardly absorbing the news like a blow to his gut. He’d anticipated something dire, an injury perhaps, but dead…? Not Anthony.
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such tragic tidings.”
Drake stood and faced the windows that framed the gray winter sky and constant drizzle. Though it was just after one o’clock, the dreary weather made it dark as early evening.
He took a deep breath, desperate to relieve the sudden painful tightening of his chest.
Anthony will never come home.
The thought went round and round in his head. If only he’d insisted Anthony remain in England. He should have found a way to curb his brother’s tempestuous nature. Now he’d lost the opportunity forever. “Are you certain? There’s been no mistake?”
“I’m positive, Your Grace.”
“How? Which battle?”
Kirby cleared his throat as though he had more news he was reluctant to convey. “No battle, Your Grace. A notorious spy known as the Fox murdered him.”
Drake clamped his jaw. Fury mingled with his initial shock and raged through him. His brother wasn’t the casualty of an honorable fight on the field of battle. A traitor had killed him in cold blood. “When?”
“The last week of December. In Charles Towne, South Carolina colony.”
“Was this ‘Fox’ apprehended?” Drake swung around to face the messenger. “If so, I want his neck in a noose posthaste.”
Kirby squirmed in his chair. “That’s the rub, Your Grace. The Fox escaped. The soldiers who caught him—”
“I thought you said the spy eluded capture. Make up your mind, man. Did he or did he not?”
After an uncomfortable pause, Lieutenant Kirby explained. “He…he was caught, but the soldiers let him go without realizing who they’d bagged.”
Drake seethed. “What ineptitude! ’Tis a wonder the rebels haven’t won the war with lackwits such as those to fight.”
“Yes, Your Grace, but you see, Lord Anthony arranged the Fox’s capture with Captain Beaufort, my superior officer. As a cousin to your family, Captain Beaufort knew your brother on sight, but the men he sent to meet him did not.
“When our men arrived, Lord Anthony was dead. The Fox remained, or so I heard, refusing to remove his mask. Apparently, the spy had rummaged Lord Anthony’s clothing and found his identification after he shot him. The Fox then used the papers to switch his true identity with that of your brother. Our men believed the Fox was dead until they took the body to camp. Once there, Captain Beaufort immediately realized the deception. By then, the Fox had flown, reward and all.”
“Reward?”
“Aye, there’s a price on the brigand’s head. Your brother, also known as
