"Lady Spaulding?" a maid's timid voice whispered through the door. "Your guests are concerned. Is everything all right?"

Justin frowned, but before he could order the servant to leave them in peace, Amelia had placed her hand over his mouth, her emerald eyes glowing with a happiness that nearly sent him to his knees in relief.

"Thank you, Mary, you may inform my guests that for the first time in my life, everything is absolutely perfect."

Kindred Souls.

Barbara Metzger.

One.

"'He's dead,'" she read.

Aunt Mary grabbed for the letter that dropped from Millie's hand. "Dead? Who's dead? When did he die?"

Aunt Mary held the page closer to her eyes, as if that would help her read the solicitor's letter. It would not. Miss Marisol Cole was born of an age when women's brains were considered too small to shelter facts or figures. What she lacked in education, however, Aunt Mary made up for in eccentricity. She turned to peer at her pets, three small sleeping canines of undetermined parentage and one ill-tempered tabby guarding the window seat: Finn, Quinn, Min and Grimalkin.

"The animals are not upset, so it cannot be anyone important."

"It's Papa," Millie said through a throat that was suddenly dry and scratchy.

"You see? No one important. The dogs always know. The cat must know too, but she never tells."

Millie took the letter back. "My father. Your brother."

"Who wrote both of us off after The Incident, the cold-hearted churl. What was that, five whole years ago? And we have not heard one word since. I am certain he did not mention either of us in his will, so no, he is not worth a single tear."

Millie dabbed at the one that trickled down her cheek. "He was my father. I always hoped, that is-"

"Jedediah Cole never forgot or forgave an insult in his life. He crossed both of us out of the family Bible, didn't he?"

With a big puddle of ink, Millie thought. She'd been told this by the solicitor who'd arranged their departure from the Baron's estate. All because of the scandal.

When a schoolboy was said to 'blot his copybook', it meant his penmanship was messy, his essay or test or practice page irredeemably ruined. Ah, but when society considered that a young miss had 'blotted her copybook', her whole life was irredeemably ruined. No matter the truth, gossip labelled her loose, immoral, tainted beyond repair, unfit for polite company or prospective suitors. Especially if the man involved was not standing by with a special licence that could magically erase many a black mark. There'd been no such rescue for the motherless Miss Mildred Cole, who'd been young and in love.

Helped by that selfsame involved man no gentleman, he the scandal spread like a fistful of mud thrown against a whitewashed wall. It cost her father his good name and, worse for Jed Cole, his money. It cost Millie's brother Ned his membership at his London clubs, and her younger sister a come-out season. Neither of them forgave her either. Her letters went unanswered; the small gifts she sent went unacknowledged.

Millie and Aunt Mary (who played a part in The Incident, as well) were banished to a tiny cottage in a village outside Bristol, with a piteously small, begrudgingly given, allowance and no communication with their family or former friends. Of course they'd made new acquaintances, a place for themselves in the small community. A community where the bachelors were all farmers and tradesmen, uninterested in a dowerless bride or a penniless spinster, no matter their pedigrees.

"Five years," Aunt Mary mused, lifting the nearest dog on to her lap. "We have done enough mourning for our own lives. Why should we mourn for his?"

The dog scratched its ear.

"You see? We shouldn't bother."

Millie took up the letter again. "It seems we need not put on black anyway. Papa died six months ago, of influenza."

"And no one thought to tell us?" Aunt Mary snorted.

"Papa made them all swear not to. But now that I have reached my twenty-fifth birthday, the solicitor wishes to speak about-"

"Money!" Aunt Mary's eyes lit up. "Perhaps the old curmudgeon left you something after all." She clapped her hands, which set two of the dogs to shrill barking. "Yes, the darlings think so, too. I am sorry I spoke so unkindly of dear Jed."

"What if the solicitor wants to tell us we're being evicted? Or that our pittance ends with Papa's death?"

"That dastard!"

Papa or the solicitor? Millie wondered. "I'll write back immediately to find out."

"What would we do? Where could we go? How could we feed the dogs?"

"I suppose we could throw ourselves on my brother's mercy."

"Your brother is as clutch-fisted and cold-hearted as your father ever was. And spineless, else he would have stood by us despite your father's commands. Now that Edwin has succeeded to the barony, he'll be more insufferable. And that priggish female he married is no better."

Millie had to agree. Ned's wife Nicole had been mortally offended by The Incident. Then mortally disappointed when her dreams of becoming a grand hostess in London had disappeared in that same dark cloud of Millie's scandalous fall from grace. Besides, she was all too happy to see Millie and Aunt Mary ostracized far away across Britain, leaving her sole mistress of the baron's London residence as well as the family seat at Knollwood, in Kent. She would not want the black sheep wandering back to the fold. "We cannot know anything until I hear more from the solicitor."

"I think we should go speak to him."

The dog in her lap yelped, which Aunt Mary took to mean they should start packing. Millie thought it meant the dog got squeezed too hard.

"To London?" Aunt Mary might have suggested they consult the man in the moon.

"No, we haven't the proper clothes, and I doubt we'd be received, not after That Man guaranteed our reputations were destroyed. But your father was never one for clever City lawyers, or their fees. He always had a man of affairs near the Knolls."

Millie checked the letterhead on the thick sheet. "You are right, although I do not recognize the name."

"I'd wager he's fat and finicky and smells of snuff, but it's better to know what he wants, isn't it, rather than sit and worry while waiting for a reply?"

"But what if Ned and Nicole do not admit us to the Knolls? That would be mortifying." And they might not have funds to return to Bristol.

"They wouldn't dare, because we'd put up at the inn in the village and tell everyone they were too miserly to house their own kin. You know how much public opinion means to them at home."

Home. Millie felt a pang of longing she'd thought suppressed years ago. She'd been happy in Kent, while her loving mother lived, at any rate. She could ramble across the fields, visit with the neighbours, knowing everyone within miles. She'd played with the miller's daughters and the viscount's sons. So what if her hems dragged through the dirt or her red hair was snarled with leaves. She was her mother's cherished child then. Returning to Knollwood could never restore that love, that freedom, or that carefree innocence. Why, she'd thought she'd grow up to live happily ever after. Millie looked around the tiny room they called a parlour, where no one came for afternoon calls and where the tea set had chips and the tea was reused until it had no colour. The curtains were clean but faded, the furniture all cast-offs from the previous owner. Their gowns were home-made, and of second-rate material at that. They had one old manservant to carry wood and tend the chickens and the old horse they kept for the old carriage, and a woman who came once a week to mop and do the laundry. They'd learned to cook and clean and grow vegetables. How much worse off could they be if the solicitor had ill tidings? Or if Ned tossed them out?

"I suppose we might as well go. I have some coins put by, enough for the coach fare, I hope."

"Nonsense. The dogs cannot travel in a public coach. Henry will drive us."

Henry, the coach and the mare were equally ancient. Who knew which would collapse first on the way to Kent?

"No, we can use my savings to hire a carriage. And the egg money for rooms along the way." That might be less costly. They could bring a hamper of food with them rather than paying for mediocre meals at exorbitant prices on the road. They'd have to carry their own provisions if the dogs were to come and sleep in the carriage if the nights were warm enough.

Millie knew better than to suggest her aunt's pets stay behind. "But not the cat. I still have scars from the last time we tried to give her a bath."

"I daresay Grimalkin wouldn't travel well. If Henry stays back, he can feed her and keep an eye on the cottage, although everyone in miles knows there's nothing to steal here. But what if we don't return? If we are invited to stay at Knollwood?"

If Ned and his wife did invite them, Millie thought, it could only be because they needed free servants in the nursery or the scullery. Either way, Millie had no intention of returning to this decrepit, draughty cottage, or to the meanest cat in creation. If worse came to worse, Millie still had her pearls, her gold locket and a pair of diamond eardrops to sell. She'd been saving them for an emergency. The end of their financial support, such as it was, counted as just such a crisis. "We can send Henry funds to take Grim home with him."

The cat rolled over and swatted at the threadbare curtains, leaving a jagged tear behind. Aunt Mary nodded. "I suppose that means she doesn't like it here, either."

So they were going. Back to the past with hopes for a better future.

That night Millie wept, not for the father who'd always been distant and disapproving, certainly not for leaving the place where she'd lived the past five years. No, she cried for the memories of what once was.

Two.

"It is I, Whitbread. Ted."

The white-haired butler stared at the unkempt brute at the entrance of Driscoll Hall, ready to slam the carved oak door or call for the footmen. And a blunderbuss. Then he looked past the bushy hair and the darkened skin. "Master Theodore? Is that truly you?"

The tall bearded man in rough leather coat, boots, and breeches stepped closer and smiled, showing even white teeth against the tan. "Truly, Whitbread. I am home at last."

"Oh, Master Theodore, how glad I am to see you after all these years. And looking so, ah, hearty. But I forget myself. I should be calling you Lord Driscoll, should I not?"

"Not yet, my friend. I still have to prove myself alive to anyone outside the family before I can officially announce my return. Then I have to prove myself innocent of countless spurious charges. I have much to do before I can present myself as Viscount Driscoll or take my seat in Parliament."

Whitbread led the way into the library, where generations of Driscolls had gone over accounts, entertained their cronies and escaped the day's worries in a gla.s.s of spirits. "I trust hiring a valet and seeing a tailor is among the first priorities."

Ted smiled again, this time with pleasure at the old retainer's unspoken affection, as well as the fine cognac Whitbread was pouring out. He pushed his long dark hair away from his eyes and smoothed out his untrimmed beard as best he could. "My first priority must be staying alive, hence the frontiersman disguise." Which was no disguise at all, simply the way he had looked and dressed for the past several years in the Canadian provinces. "I shall repair my appearance and my wardrobe in time, but not until I restore my good name and bring to justice those who tried to destroy it, and me."

Now the butler shook his head and frowned. "To think that anyone would try to murder you, much less label you a traitor and a deserter, My Lord. Not that anyone in the family would harbour suspicion for an instant. Not knowing what a fine young man you are, how loyal and honest and-"

Ted cleared his throat and gestured for the butler to join him in a welcome home libation.

The butler nodded his appreciation and filled another gla.s.s. "Kind and modest, too. Why, we were so thrilled to know you were alive, we wished to shout it from the rooftops. Except that might have put you in greater jeopardy, we feared, from reading your letters."

Ted sipped his liquor, savouring the rich, smooth taste. "It would have. The only way I escaped the firing squad was by changing my name to Winsted and my appearance to a fur trapper's, then disappearing into the Canadian backcountry. Staying dead, in effect. My father knew the truth. I wrote to him as soon as I was able."

"He kept your letter by his bedside, His Lordship did. And he pa.s.sed away content to know you survived."

Ted raised his gla.s.s. "To the Viscount. The seventh Lord Driscoll."

Whitbread raised his gla.s.s too. "His Lordship informed me and the family solicitor of a secret way to correspond with you in case of necessity. Lord Jared knew, also, of course."

Ted drank and made another toast. "To the Viscount. The eighth."

"And to the ninth, My Lord."

"I should not be in the tally." Ted fell silent, thinking of his older brother, the eldest son who had succeeded their father for so brief a time. Jared and Ted had been best of friends, playmates and partners in every mischief two lively boys could find. Jared grew to a more sober lad, as befitted his position. It was he who had to study agriculture and investments, everything connected to the Driscoll holdings. Not Theodore, the devil-may-care second son, up to every rig and row. How Jared must be laughing now. Ted felt like crying.

"I wish I could have seen him again. Both of them. The mail was so deucedly slow."

"Across the ocean, in times of war, with you travelling the entirety of North America, it seemed? I found it amazing that you received our letters at all."

Sometimes it took years, sometimes Ted knew letters had gone missing. "I treasured the ones I did get. Except for all the bad news."

"Sad times for Driscoll Hall, My Lord. But at least you have finally returned to take up the t.i.tle and responsibilities."

"If he wasn't already dead I would curse Jared to h.e.l.l for not taking care of his duties before shuffling off. Begetting little Driscolls is the primary job of the heir, not the spare. I never wanted to step into my father's shoes, much less Jared's. He should have had a son by now. Or two, by all that's holy."

Whitbread sighed. "Before the old Viscount died, Lord Jared promised to find a wife when he turned thirty. I'm certain His Lordship never expected to meet his maker before meeting the perfect female. Not at such an early age."

Jared had been eight and twenty, the age Ted was now. A d.a.m.nably, painfully, young time for his brother to die, Ted thought, feeling the familiar ache of loss and the sense of years rushing by. He'd seen many a young man die, though, a lot younger. Some in battle, some from disease, some from the harsh life in the northern territories. Ted could not let himself dwell on those tragic losses either. The present had to be for the living, not the dead. "Influenza, your letter said."

"Yes, the epidemic took many in the vicinity. The apothecary, the vicar's two infants and the entire Gorham family. Baron Cole, too."

"I will not mourn Cole's pa.s.sing. If not for that self-righteous jacka.s.s I'd never have gone to Canada to make my fortune in the first place." Ted tried to shake off the gloom of past misfortunes. "But enough of dwelling on losses or rueing what cannot be changed. Tell me of Noel. My baby brother is well?"

"Master Noel is twenty years old, My Lord, and a fine, strapping young man."

That was hard to imagine. Noel had been the baby of the family, a sickly infant after their mother's death giving birth to him. Then he'd been a pampered pet to his father and two doting older brothers. He'd been a sprig of thirteen when Ted took pa.s.sage to Canada, stick-thin and spotty. How could he be a man already?

"He was away at university during the scourge," Whitbread went on. "Lord Driscoll would not permit him to return home despite the physician's dire prognostications."

Which was dashed wise of Jared, not knowing if Ted could or would ever make it back to England and the succession. He might not ever have returned. Why should he? His dreams of England had died years ago, starting in Lord Cole's estate office. He was making a new life in the New World . . . until Whitbread's letter reached him seven months after Jared's death. The pa.s.sage home had taken longer than that.

Poor Lord Noel was left in a muddle, the trusted servant had written, with people dubbing him Lord Driscoll, when he knew he was no such thing. Ted was the heir, ready or willing or not.

Not.

"So he up and left?"

"He left his studies and his friends in London, rather than answer awkward questions. He stays close to home now, consulting with the steward and the solicitors. Today he's gone with the bailiff to purchase a new bull. Reluctantly, I might add. Master Noel fancied himself a regular London swell, not a farmer."

Well, Ted never fancied himself a viscount either. Or a soldier, much less a dishonoured one. He always had a head for figures so he'd set out to be a trader, a shipping magnate, a success, so he could come back to England a rich man and prove Baron Cole wrong. Too bad the old puffguts wasn't there to see.

"Learning about the estate cannot hurt him," Ted told the butler. "A bull might."

Whitbread poured another splash of cognac into both of their gla.s.ses. "To hopes he never succeeds to become the tenth Lord Driscoll, for all of our sakes."

Whitbread left to see to Ted's baggage, order his room readied and inform the cook to prepare a meal fit for a viscount.

While he was gone, Ted poured himself another gla.s.s of cognac and stared into the fire. He was home, yet he felt more lost than when he'd found himself in a log lean-to during a blizzard. He had no doubt Whitbread would have the viscount's rooms prepared for him, not his old comfortable bedchamber on the upper floor. He'd have to sleep where his father and brother had died, with their ghosts scolding him for his sins and his seven-year defection. He'd sleep next to his mother's room, the one that had stayed empty so long. Her ghost was sure to plague him to marry, to fill the nursery. d.a.m.n them all and the nightmares he'd suffer. Hadn't he suffered enough?