Brenda Joyce

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE - The Return

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  STANHOPE SQUARE, LONDON

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PART TWO - The Beguiled

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  PART THREE - The Heir

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  STANHOPE HALL

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BEDLAM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CAEDMON CRAG

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  STANHOPE HALL

  ONE MONTH LATER

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles

  REVIEWERS RAVE OVER NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  This book is dedicated to Adam.

  This book is also dedicated to the best friends

  a woman could possibly have: Anne Mohr,

  Wendy Mosler, Judy O’Brien, Carole Schuler,

  and Roberta Stalberg.

  PROLOGUE

  CAEDMON CRAG, 1746

  “What in God’s name ails you, boy? Shoot!” the earl of Stanhope bellowed.

  He squinted. The bevy of ducks just flushed from the heath by the hounds filled the cloudy gray sky, their frightened quacking mingling with the sound of their desperately flapping wings. He strained to see, but the mass of birds above him in the sky were oddly blurred. Beside him, his brother fired his five-foot-long matchlock rifle yet again, taking down what had to be his sixth duck. Garrick’s palms were wet with sweat.

  “Damn you, boy, shoot!” the earl, his father, shouted.

  Garrick squeezed the trigger as sweat dripped into his eyes, blinding him. The huge rifle, held against his shoulder, went off, the blast almost rocking him off his feet.

  “You missed!” the earl exclaimed in disgust.

  Garrick lowered his rifle and wiped one worn wool coat sleeve against his face, leaning heavily on the butt of the huge gun. He was aware that his father had turned his back on him in profound disapproval, while Lionel, having finished reloading, took one final shot. Another duck came hurtling from the heavens to land on the heath with a thump.

  The silence was now absolute. The frightened quacking of the ducks was gone, the guns silenced, the moors littered with the dead and broken birds.

  “That was fine marksmanship, Lionel,” said Richard De Vere, the twelfth earl of Stanhope. He was smiling as he slapped his eldest hard on his shoulder. “I daresay you arethe best shot in these parts, even at your tender age.”

  Garrick wished he could disappear into the grim graygreen earth.

  Lionel was laughing. He pushed thick, golden blond bangs out of blue eyes. Like his brother’s, his hair was unpowdered, shoulder length, and pulled back into a queue. But that was where all resemblance between the two boys ended. Although younger by a year and a half, Garrick was already taller, and his hair was dark, his skin swarthy. Lace cuffs frothed out of Lionel’s pale blue wool frock coat. Garrick’s coat was brown, and the lawn shirt he had hastily thrown on that morning was plain.

  “Father, fourteen is hardly a child, you know. If I could not shoot a duck by now, there would not be much hope for me, would there?” Lionel grinned.

  Garrick toed the dirt of the heath where they all stood. The sky was gray and windswept. Wisps of clouds twisted, shifted, whirled. Although spring had come to most of England, it was hardly evident on the Cornish coast. The moors appeared stark, deserted, exceedingly unfriendly; the gorse had yet to bloom. The wind was raw. The sound of the violent surf, crashing on the southwestern coast of the peninsula, could be heard somewhere not far below the trio standing on the heath.

  The earl of Stanhope, splendidly clad in a teal green frock coat and silver breeches, the long curls of his wig reaching his shoulders, agreed. “You were a fine shot by the time you were twelve, I do remember it well,” he said, and he cast a disparaging glance at Garrick, who was twelve and a half years old.

  Garrick busied himself with studying his matchlock, as if he might find something new and exciting on the barrel or butt of the gun. One of the spotted hounds came up to him, shoving its wet brown nose against the back of his hand. Garrick grimaced, pretending to be unaware of the dog. His father whirled. “And how many birds did you down, Garrick?”

  Garrick was slow to look up. He felt his cheeks burning. He knew his father was fully aware of the fact that he had not hit a single duck. “None.”

  A hard silence greeted his words. “None,” the earl said. “Lionel downed a good half dozen; you downed none.”

  Garrick met his father’s blue eyes—the very same blue eyes as Lionel’s. “That’s right, Father,” he said.

  “Perhaps, when we return to London, you should stay behind—and practice your marksmanship,” the earl said flatly.

  Garrick shrugged, managing an I-don’t-give-a-damn smile. The hound shoved its nose against his hanging hand again. Garrick could not help himself. He slid his palm over the smooth head of the dog. The dog could not soothe his jangled nerves. He despised hunting, and not because his damnable eyesight always seemed to fail him. He thought the sport excessively cruel, for he had always been fond of animals—his father said he was too fond. As if liking animals, even birds, made him less of a man.

  “Father,” Lionel said, no longer smiling, “remember the frost fair last winter? Garrick was undefeated in boxing—and only that farmer from Wickham outwrestled him. Does it matter if he cannot shoot?” He walked over to Garrick and grinned, throwing an arm around him. “And all the ladies like him better, too, although I’ll be damned if I know why, as I am definitely the handsomer of the two of us.” Lionel winked at him.

  That was also a lie, but Garrick loved his brother for coming to his rescue—yet again.

  “That will change; you’re the heir.” The earl of Stanhope eyed his second son. “Boxing and wrestling are hardly sports; they are suitable for peasants, Garrick,” De Vere said rather coolly. He turned and waved at their waiting retinue. Immediately their horses were led forward by the liveried, bewigged servants on foot who were standing many yards away from them. The grooms rushed to see them mounted, while the kennel master fetched the setters and ordered his lackeys to retrieve the game. “I don’t want you engaging in such sordid activities again.”

  The earl spurred his gelding forward. Garrick, stiff with tension, mounted, and he and Lionel followed more slowly. The rugged, rocky coast came into view, a hundred feet or so below them, on their left. The beach was hardly pristine, the sand stone colored, with big black boulders littering the surf. They rode not far from the cliffs, and just to their left were the stark ruins of a twelfth-century keep. The locals said it was haunted.

  Lionel slowed his bay mount, as did Garrick. “Heed me well,” he said, his voice low. “The next time we do a bit of shooting, why don’t you say you’re ill. Plead a stomach flu, for god’s sake.”

  “As if he would believe me,” Garrick muttered.

  Lionel sighed.

  Caedmon Crag came into view a few moments later,
a three-story stone manor seemingly plopped down on a starkly treeless rise of land at the edge of the cliffs. Situated just a mile or so from the Norman ruins, it was a manor the earl rarely attended, and then only to inspect the workings of the Caedmon tin mine. A fortified stone manor, it had been built four centuries past and had hardly been modernized. Two towers guarded the walled entrance and barbican. The boys rode across the wooden drawbridge, which was never raised, through the domed entryway, and into the cobbled courtyard. The manor was set back a few yards from the barbican and outbuildings, its back to the perilous cliffs and the demanding sea.

  It was suppertime, and the boys followed their father into the great hall, with its ancient weapons and pennants hanging on the walls and from the rafters. Their mother was sitting in front of a massive stone hearth at least twice her size, a volume of sonnets in her hands. Blond and blue eyed, she was a stunning woman clad in dark green silk and emeralds, but she did not smile. She looked at them all with a question in her eyes, rising slowly to her feet and laying the thin volume aside.

  “It was a fine afternoon,” the earl told her heartily. A servant materialized with a mug of ale, which he accepted and drained. “Lionel has outdone himself, once again. I am very proud of him.”

  Garrick cursed silently because he could feel himself flushing again. His father could not be more clear, and it hurt. He felt all eyes upon him. Reluctantly he looked up, scowling.

  The countess came forward. “I am happy for you,” Eleanor said softly, her words almost melting together, kissing Lionel’s cheek. Her gaze settled on Garrick uncertainly.

  There was not much to say and Garrick said nothing, but inwardly he tensed.

  “Garrick failed to make even a single kill,” the earl said flatly. “I do believe he does his worst merely to displease me.”

  That was not the truth. Garrick met his mother’s soft, sympathetic eyes and turned abruptly, heading back toward the massive front door, brushing thick black bangs out of his oddly amber eyes. He felt like shouting, “I am your son, too!” but he did not.

  “Where do you think you are going?” the earl demanded. “Did I give you permission to leave?”

  Garrick gritted his teeth and refused to answer.

  He heard the earl say, as he opened the door, “His manners need vast improvement, madam. I am sorely tried with his behavior.” And it was a warning.

  He slammed the door closed behind him and ran.

  He ran across the courtyard and back out through the barbican. Servants eyed him, but no one was very curious—they all thought him strange with his solitary ways, and he knew it. But I am not strange, he thought savagely, running harder now across the old, rotting wooden drawbridge and down the road.

  Tears burned his eyes. He hated himself for being as weak as a child and told himself it was the wind, which was strong and high. He wished he were more like his brother, smart and strong and good at everything, and so well liked. He veered onto another path. He had no interest in going down to the village or even heading that way—he wanted only to be alone.

  When the ruins of the keep came into view he slowed, panting, to a walk. The wind was stronger now, and it gusted in his face, causing him to blink rapidly. He was thinking about the dead ducks and his father. Did the earl despise him? Why could he never please him? Why did his father always point out his shortcomings? He had truly tried to make his mark, but for some damnable reason, the birds all blurred together when they took to the sky. He had tried his best. He always tried his best, even when accused of giving up. Damn it.

  Sometimes he wished he were Lionel. Lionel was not just a splendid shot, he was a superb swordsman, too. He was far more adept than Garrick at both his letters and his numbers, and he was almost fluent in French, too. And Garrick was glad Lionel was so talented. He had been proud of his older brother for as long as he could remember. Lionel was the Stanhope heir, and Lionel was a hero.

  Garrick kicked a stone off the path. It rolled and rolled, finally slipping over the side of the cliff, where it would eventually plummet a hundred feet to the sandy beach below. Perhaps he had to face the fact that he was never going to be like his brother—that the earl was right. He was, damn it, an embarrassing failure, and he was never going to please his father.

  Pushing more hair out of his eyes, Garrick wandered into the keep. It was just a shell. The stone walls were broken, in places towering two or three stories high, in other places no more than five feet tall. Overhead, the sky was darkening. Underfoot, rocks and grass vied for control of the earthen space. Garrick stared at the section of charred black stone that had clearly been the hearth. He took a few deep breaths and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He had not been aware before of his trembling, but now it began to lessen. He wiped his eyes again, sniffing. He could actually envision the Norman knights come over with William the Conqueror, standing in front of the fire, clad in mail and bloody from battle, warming their hands. Then he turned and walked over to an arrow slit, and he stared down at the stormy gray sea.

  Waves pounded the shore. Plumes of white spray recoiled over huge, glistening black boulders, the sound deafening. The sky was ominously dark on the horizon, blackening. Garrick began to relax. He loved this wild, desolate place. He would not mind being left behind when his family returned to London.

  “Garrick?”

  He whirled and found his brother standing by the entrance to the keep. His queue had come undone, and Garrick pushed more wayward hair out of his own face. “What are you doing here?” he asked, but he was glad to see his brother.

  “I should be asking you that,” Lionel said with a smile. He walked over to where Garrick stood, and together they stared down at the sea. “A storm tonight,” Lionel commented.

  “Yes,” Garrick said. “In a few more hours, there’ll be good smuggling.” He smiled. Everyone knew the locals smuggled under cover of either darkness or inclement weather. Years ago the boys had discovered a series of caves in the cliffs below the keep. In one of the caves they had found a dozen wet barrels filled with French brandy. For years they had played in those caves.

  “We could sneak out after supper.” Lionel grinned, his blue eyes alight. He toyed with a gold coin hanging on a chain about his neck. “Who knows what we might find if we catch the smugglers at their work?”

  “We could,” Garrick said. “If Father catches us, there will be whippings all around, even for you.”

  Suddenly Lionel’s smile faded, his expression becoming very serious. He slipped the chain with the coin over his head. “You should take this.”

  Garrick looked at the offered coin. They had found it in the caves, it was Spanish, and Lionel had worn it for years for good luck. “I cannot.”

  “I want you to have it,” Lionel said seriously. “Perhaps it will bring you luck, as it has me.”

  He shook his head, bent and found a stone, and threw it over the wall, toward the sea, as far as he could. Both boys watched it in its flight. “You found it. It’s yours. Besides, you’re the heir. God knows one day you may need good fortune.”

  “But I really want you to have it,” Lionel said, very seriously now.

  His tone made Garrick stiffen, and he stared. “It’s yours. But thank you,” he finally said.

  “Very well.” Lionel slipped the chain back over his head, found a rock, and flung it with all his might. His throw went farther than Garrick’s had.

  Garrick grimaced, found another stone, this one smooth and round, and put all of his concentration into the throw. He smiled when he saw that he had outdone his brother.

  “Good throw,” Lionel conceded.

  The wind began to howl.

  “They fired arrows, flaming ones, out of that slit,” Garrick said.

  Lionel looked at him, and both boys walked over to the slit. They peered through it and down the cliff. “How could invaders climb up here? It’s impossible.”

  Garrick studied the cliff, which plunged down from the keep where they stood, into
the frothing, raging sea. “It’s steep, but not sheer. There are ledges for footholds. It could be done. Let’s take a closer look.”

  “No. I don’t think so,” Lionel said.

  “Why not? Surely you’re not scared?”

  “What would I be afraid of?” Lionel asked, but he was paler than before.

  Garrick eyed him and walked to the other side of the slit, where the stone wall was broken and not even as tall as he was.

  Lionel’s eyes widened with alarm. “What are you doing?!” he cried.

  Garrick climbed over the wall and stood outside of the keep on a narrow stone ledge that was just a few feet wide and a few feet long. Below him the cliffs plummeted jaggedly to the sea. It was a bit unnerving standing on the edge of the cliff, so far above the sandy beach, and heights did not usually bother him. But Lionel was afraid of heights, and Garrick knew it—even though he pretended not to.

  “What are you doing?” Lionel cried again.

  Garrick did not answer as it began to rain. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the wild wind, feeling a sudden peace come over him. Yes, he liked this savage place, and that probably made him strange in his father’s and even Lionel’s eyes. No one else that he knew liked godforsaken south Cornwall.

  Suddenly Lionel was standing beside him, having just climbed the broken wall. His face was white. “I am not afraid,” he said. “But tell me, what is the purpose of doing this?”

  The feeling of peace left Garrick, replaced with guilt. He should not have baited his brother, whose fear was now obvious. The two brothers stood shoulder to shoulder against the side of the keep, which jutted upward from the side of the cliff and the narrow ledge where they stood. At that moment, the wind howled again. A savage gust of wind knocked them both backward against the keep.