1

Near Saint Osyth On the Southern Coast of England

MARCH 1831

The night was as black as the Devil’s dreams‚ not even a ghost of a moon‚ not a single star to pierce through the thick rain clouds. It was a perfect night.

Julian tethered his sixteen–hand bay gelding‚ Cannon‚ to a skinny branch of a lone bent oak tree and made his way carefully down the steep narrow winding path to the hidden cove‚ a trek he’d made countless times in the years before he’d left England. It was good to be back. He slapped his arms against the cold‚ the wind off the channel slamming against his thick coat‚ wheedling in to cozy up to his bones. Down‚ down he went. When he finally reached the shadowed overhang in the cliff‚ he lit the lamp and held it up‚ flashed it three times‚ a signal he himself had established many years before.

Three answering flashes of light came five minutes later‚ some fifty yards offshore. Two boats were moving closer now with every passing second. Soon they’d be close enough for him to hear the oars dipping rhythmically through the water. Julian felt his blood pump faster‚ as it always did with the ever–present threat of excisemen suddenly appearing over the edge of the high cliff‚ waving guns and yelling. He could only hope the bribes his man Harlan had put into place held‚ though to his knowledge no one even knew about this small hidden cove.

No matter how you dressed it up‚ smuggling—free trading always sounded high–flying and righteous—was still against the law. And smuggling would continue until those idiots in the government finally did away with the high import duties. Would they ever see reason? Julian hoped it would take the old curmudgeons a while‚ since he’d enjoyed the midnight hide–and–seek since he was sixteen‚ when Sergeant Lambert had introduced him to the adventures of smuggling. Teas‚ brandy‚ tobacco‚ China rice‚ gin—it didn’t matter‚ he did it all. Every time Julian walked down to this beach‚ he thought of Lambert‚ who’d died the way he’d lived‚ all flash and excitement‚ charging forward‚ his bayonet fixed‚ a yell coming from his mouth when a howitzer shot had exploded at his feet. Julian remembered falling to his knees‚ tears flooding down his face as the mayhem continued around him‚ searching‚ tearing at the bloody ground‚ but there’d been nothing left of Lambert. Julian knew someone had dragged him away from where Lambert had died‚ because he remembered Wellington buffeting his shoulder‚ telling him to carry a message to his left flank. It was demmed important‚ move! And Julian had run faster than he ever had before.

He still wondered how he’d managed to survive Waterloo with only one sword gash‚ in his left shoulder. Blessedly‚ his memory of those long hours that became days blurred with the battle blood and screams and death‚ and with Wellington’s voice‚ yelling orders‚ always encouraging‚ even at the end of the day‚ when exhaustion sapped everyone’s will.

His mother had asked him once about Waterloo‚ but evidently the look on his face had stopped her in her tracks. She simply pulled him against her and said nothing more about it. But she’d been very proud when the Duke of Wellington himself had sent a commendation to the sixteen–year–old Julian.

Until Julian had left England three years ago‚ every June seventeenth he’d visited Sergeant Lambert’s empty grave at his farmhouse near Saint Osyth. Julian was certain Lambert’s spirit knew he was using his favorite smuggling cave‚ and perhaps he occasionally slipped through from the other side to watch Julian bring in his boats. Is there smuggling in Heaven‚ Lambert? Why‚ he’d asked Lambert on the eve of Waterloo‚ couldn’t men ever be content? Because greed and envy and jealousy were sewn into the very fabric of a man’s body‚ Lambert had said‚ and spat.

So quickly the future became the present‚ and the present became a collection of memories‚ some bringing a smile‚ others still with the power to smash you with despair. Would he die in the next war‚ blown apart‚ as Lambert had died at Waterloo? Witness what was happening in Europe‚ revolution everywhere‚ and death and destruction‚ and always there was hope that something good would come of the violence. He wondered if this was ever true.

“All’s well‚ Captain!” He smiled and walked down to greet Cockeral‚ a madman‚ some whispered—but only out of his hearing.

He stilled. He’d heard something‚ he knew it. Excisemen? He held up his hand for quiet‚ and Cockeral and his men fell flat beside the boats.

Someone was there‚ watching‚ waiting‚ Julian knew it. But what? Who?

Time passed. They unloaded the cargo‚ mostly brandy and tea this time‚ and stored it in the hidden cave. Julian listened but heard only the wind.

When he fell exhausted into bed an hour before dawn‚ he knew in his gut his prized hidden caves were no longer a secret.

2

The Prince Returns

Ravenscar Near Saint Austell‚ Southern Cornwall

APRIL 1831

Corinne threw her arms around him‚ hugged him close‚ and

breathed him in. He smelled of a wild wind and a storm–tossed

sea. His face was darkly tanned from months spent striding the deck

of his ship‚ and his eyes were alight with pleasure. He looked fi t and

healthy and splendidly male. Her son. She’d thought of him every

single day he’d been gone‚ savored his letters‚ most arriving each and

every week‚ and she’d worried‚ but he hadn’t wanted her to come to

Genoa‚ where he’d lived. Too dangerous‚ he’d written.

She stepped back‚ her hands still clutching his arms. “At last you’re home‚ dearest. Ah‚ three years‚ Julian‚ three whole years—but now you’re here safe and sound. Come and sit down‚ and I will serve you tea‚ just as you like it‚ a tiny squirt of lemon‚ nothing more. Oh‚ dear‚ you haven’t changed‚ have you?”

“Not about how I like my tea‚ no‚ I haven’t.” Julian lightly laid his palm on his mother’s soft cheek. She looked not a day older than she had when he’d left her on that miserable stormy Tuesday‚ only two days after Lily’s funeral. Her eyes and hair were nearly as dark as his‚ but unlike him‚ her complexion was fair. “You’re still as beautiful as when I left you three years ago.”

“That is very kind of you to remark upon‚ dearest.” She studied his beloved face for a moment‚ so very beautiful he was‚ and she could see some of herself in him‚ the way his eyes shined when he was pleased‚ how he threw back his head when he laughed. Did he look at all like his father? She didn’t know‚ she’d never seen a portrait of her husband as a young man. She supposed there was a portrait hanging at his ancestral home‚ Mount Burney. She’d sometimes wondered if the father had resembled the son when he’d been young‚ if he’d had Julian’s habit of tilting his head when he listened‚ if he’d usually thought before he spoke‚ if he’d been as beautiful as his son. Such a pity Julian’s father had been old‚ white–haired‚ but never stooped‚ no‚ the old duke had stood straight as a sapling until his death‚ and he’d had most of his own teeth when he’d breathed his last breath.

“Three years‚ Julian‚” she said again. “I hope you have—” Recovered from your grief hung in the air‚ unspoken. “That is‚ how are you feeling‚ dearest?”

He grinned down at her. “I am fine‚ Mother. Three years is a long time‚ too long‚ truth be told. I am very glad to be home. No‚ I do not still mourn Lily‚ but I miss her. I suppose I always will.”

Corinne looked up when the drawing–room door opened. “Pouffer! There you are‚ tea and some black cake for my returned prodigal.”

“Yes‚ your grace‚” Pouffer said‚ his old eyes on Julian‚ but he bowed grandly in both their general directions. He gave another wide grin to Julian‚ so happy he was to see him at last.

“Ah‚ Prince‚ I was remarking to Mrs. Trebah that you look as grand a gentleman as even the sternest critic could demand. She agrees‚ though she only saw the veriest glimpse of you.”

“Thank you‚ Pouffer.” Julian’s earliest memory of the Ravenscar butler was from his third year of life—he’d rolled a ball against Baron Purley’s feet‚ and Pouffer had bowed to the baron as grandly then as now‚ scooped Julian up‚ rubbed his head‚ stuck him under his arm‚ and carried him out‚ Julian yelling for his ball. Pouffer had little hair now‚ only a white tonsure circling his head. As for Mrs. Trebah‚ the Ravenscar housekeeper‚ she’d been here even longer than Pouffer‚ come when the old duke had been a mere seventy‚ five years before he’d married Julian’s mother.

“Come and sit down‚ Julian.”

Julian hugged his mother once more and gladly accepted her fussing over him. She gently slipped a thick blue satin pillow behind his back‚ positioned the hassock directly in front of his wing chair‚ and even lifted his booted feet. He was laughing. “Enough‚ ma’am‚ I am not used to being so spoilt.”

“I am your mother‚ I will spoil you as much as I like. Now‚ while we wait for Pouffer to bring in sustenance‚ I will tell you we must leave for London very soon.”

He looked at her blankly. “London? But I just came from London.”

“You went to London? Already?”

“Well‚ yes‚ I had business with Harlan.”

“Ah‚ well‚ Mr. Whittaker and business‚ that is very different. No‚ dearest‚ I mean London‚ as in the Season. You did turn thirty–two last month—although you were not here to celebrate your birthday— and in my disappointment‚ I downed an entire bottle of champagne. I drank so many toasts to your beautiful self I was flat in my bed all the next day. It is past time you were wed again.”

The words burst out of her in a torrent. Julian raised a black brow at her as he pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “I have been home exactly ten minutes‚ Mother. Perhaps we can wait to leave for London? Perhaps in a day or two?” Past time for him to wed again? What was this?

He found himself looking around the vast drawing room‚ giving his mother time to marshal her arguments‚ always entertaining‚ always worth waiting for. “I like what you have done with this room‚ Mother‚ the blues and cream shades suit it nicely‚ and the Aubusson carpet is magnificent.”

“I am glad you admire the carpet‚ since you paid a substantial number of groats for it.”

“As for London‚ you’re right‚ Mother‚ I was there only a few days. As you said‚ I spent most of my time with Harlan‚ reviewing all Ravenscar expenditures‚ tenant profits‚ repairs to be done‚ crops to be adjusted. You’ve done an excellent job‚ Mother.”

“Well‚ none of the stones are crumbling away‚ all our tenants are content—well‚ several of them would complain even if God himself were to take tea with them. Actually‚ since you wrote detailed instructions to me every single week‚ it required little thought on my part.” She paused for a moment‚ gave him a fat smile. “Did you not notice the score of palm trees—so very tropical they look‚ and so very distinctive—and the silver maple and oak trees I had planted along the drive? And now all the bare ground is covered with heath and daffodils. They have softened the landscape‚ which is what I wanted. I always thought Ravenscar looked so brutally stark.”

Actually‚ Julian had always liked the barren promontory that sloped down until the land fell away gently into the channel. “I must admit the new trees add interest. I suppose since there are no more enemies to invade our shores‚ Ravenscar has no more need to intimidate anyone‚ so the clumps of daffodils waving in the breeze add a nice romantic touch.” He paused‚ thought of Elena‚ and smiled.

“Ah‚ Pouffer‚ here you are at last. Bring on the black cakes for my beautiful son. He is fair to dwindling away before my eyes.”

When Pouffer grandly lifted the silver dome to uncover Mrs. Coltrak’s black cakes‚ Julian’s stomach growled.

He was drinking his second cup of tea when his mother said‚ “Lily died three years ago‚ and you left England‚ not‚ of course‚ to avoid scandal‚ since there wasn’t any‚ but to leave the Langworths and their terrible grief‚ and their blame. It is behind you now‚ Julian.”

The gentleness dropped from her voice. She became brisk. “You are not getting any younger‚ dearest. I will remind you yet again that you are turned thirty–two years old. You really must have an heir.”

This was an interesting approach. “An heir? Why? Mother‚ I’m a duke’s son‚ true‚ but I am only a second son‚ not a duke’s heir. Why is it so important that I produce a male child?”

His very smart mother realized her logic wasn’t sound and retrenched in an instant. “Well‚ what I really meant is that I have the fondest wish to be a grandmother.”

Now‚ that was a lie that didn’t bear scrutiny. He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Shall you be called Grandmama‚ or perhaps Nana Corinne?”

She shuddered.

“Mama‚ I have no desire to return to London. Indeed‚ I have an overdue ship from Constantinople‚ the Blue Star. I must travel to Portsmouth.”

“Why? How can your being in Portsmouth hurry the ship up?”

She had a point.

She hurried on before he could muster another objection. “I miss all my particular friends‚ dearest. I miss attending balls and routs.” She closed her eyes. “And there are many new plays to be enjoyed on Drury Lane.”

And shopping‚ he thought.

“And shopping‚ naturally. I do adore shopping on Bond Street‚ you know.”

She also adored shopping in Saint Austell‚ Julian thought‚ recalling the quantity of clothing bills that arrived punctually on Harlan’s desk.

“And you need to visit your tailor. Your coat is very well indeed‚ for Italian society‚ but not exactly what you would want here in

London‚ and your boots‚ well—”

Yes‚ he did need new boots‚ but—

She rose from the blue brocade settee opposite him‚ patted his shoulder‚ leaned down to kiss his cheek. “I truly wish to go. There has been so much rain here‚ and to be blunt about it‚ I am growing mold‚ not an elevating sight. It is time for a change of scene— specifically‚ it is time to visit London‚ for the Season this time‚ not for your wretched man of business.”

Julian felt the earth shifting beneath his boots‚ his old boots. At last he was home. He wanted to settle in‚ manage his property‚ play with his spaniels on the dog run that ended at the low cliff above the beach. He knew it was time to see if Richard Langworth and his father‚ Baron Purley‚ still blamed him for Lily’s death. “You really don’t need me‚ Mama. You could as easily travel to London‚ open the town house‚ and do whatever pleases you. Why do you want me along?”

She said‚ with a good deal of hauteur‚ “Do you forget you are my son‚ my only son‚ and I have not seen you for three—three—years? I wish all of society to gaze upon your exquisite self‚ admit there is no finer–looking a young man in all of England‚ and be jealous of me.”

What was going on here? He said slowly‚ “Don’t forget the other Monroe lady‚ namely‚ Lorelei‚ your stepdaughter–in–law. She will doubtless be there. You know you would rather have your eyebrows plucked than have to deal with her.”

His mother had thick black brows like his‚ and he’d heard her shriek when her maid‚ known as Poor Barbie‚ had to pluck them every week and a half.

“I shall firmly plant myself above Lorelei this time; I shan’t allow her to give me the headache with her obnoxious little observations on my looks and health and how you should never have been born and how your dear father turned into a pilchard–headed old moron when he turned seventy–five‚ and just look what came of it— namely‚ me—and would you look what I did—brought you into the world. And then‚ naturally‚ she will go on and on about you‚ her chins quivering all the while—a duke’s son‚ even though you should never have been born in the first place‚ and you’re obviously deficient‚ since you sprang from an old man’s tired seed‚ and not the healthy‚ intelligent seed of a vigorous man‚ as your dear father was many decades ago. Worst‚ you indulge in trade‚ and what a horror that is.”

She paused to take a well–earned breath. She tapped her long fingers against her teacup and brightened. “If I recall‚ Lorelei had gained flesh when I last saw her‚ and I haven’t‚ and I’ll wager she still persists in wearing all that purple.” She gave a small shudder.

Julian said nothing.

She eyed him. “Devlin is always in London for the Season. I know his father is beginning to agitate for a daughter–in–law‚ since Devlin is now twenty–seven—can you believe that?—and he needs to get himself wed and set up his nursery.”

“Both Devlin and I are to be consigned to leg shackles?”

She ignored that. “Really‚ Julian‚ do not concern yourself about my dealing well with Lorelei. I shall give her my most regal nod and continue on my way.”

Julian gave it one more try. “As I said‚ you really don’t need me with you‚ Mother.”

To his surprise‚ her small rounded chin began to tremble‚ and those beautiful dark eyes of hers sheened with tears.

“All right‚ I see you will have the truth out of me‚ Julian.”

3

The truth? Before he could find out this truth‚ Julian heard barking outside the drawing room and rose. “I have a surprise for you.” He opened the door and motioned to his valet‚ Pliny‚ to release the King Charles spaniels he’d brought back from Genoa.

Freed‚ the spaniels ran to him‚ yipping‚ leaping about‚ their long silky ears flopping up and down. They didn’t jump on him‚ but they circled him‚ dancing‚ as he’d taught them.

He went down on his haunches and gathered them all to him. He said‚ pointing‚ “Mother‚ I would like you to meet Cletus‚ Beatrice‚ Oliver‚ and Hortense. They are a year old. You might think they all look the same‚ but their personalities are as different as ours. Since my estate room gives onto the dog run‚ that is where they’ll spend most of their time.”

“Ah‚ that is fine‚ dearest. Goodness‚ they do leap about‚ don’t they? Look at that one.”

“Cletus.”

“Why‚ I think he would like to meet me.”

Julian picked up an excited Cletus and carried him to his mother‚ the other three spaniels barking madly behind him. She petted his soft hair‚ received a dozen enthusiastic licks.

“Cletus‚” she said. “I fancy you are a very well–behaved little fellow‚ are you not?”

Cletus wriggled free from Julian’s hands‚ yipped and barked‚ and relieved himself on the Aubusson carpet.

Corinne said‚ “Yes‚ your estate room is an excellent place for these charming little dogs. Call for Pouffer‚ dearest‚ to clean up little Cletus’s accident.”

Soon the four spaniels were racing after Pliny‚ barking‚ tails wagging‚ to visit their new home in the estate room‚ and Pouffer was directing a maid to clean up little Cletus’s accident‚ after which he burned two feathers to eliminate any possible odors.

“Pliny is looking well‚” Corinne said.

“As much as his poet’s brooding soul allows‚” Julian said. “He should have trod the boards‚ I’ve told him. He adores drama and being in the center of it. I’m pleased‚ though‚ he didn’t cry when Cletus relieved himself on the carpet.” Pliny‚ a dapper little man of forty‚ blessed with a full head of white–blond hair‚ had been selling boots in Portsmouth and fair to starving when Julian had hired him away as his valet. Eleven years‚ he thought‚ he’d been so young. On the other hand‚ Pliny had been young as well.

His mother eyed him and spit it out. “We must go to London because there is a young lady for you to meet.”

“Ah‚ so this is the truth you must tell me?”

“Yes. You remember Bethanne Wilkie. She was my very best friend. She died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry‚ Mama. You wrote to me of her death. I remember her as a charming lady‚ always smiling.”

“Yes.” Corinne sighed. “I still miss her. Do you happen to remember her daughter?”

Julian recalled a skinny little girl with dark braids scraped back from her small face‚ tall‚ awkward‚ never saying a word in his presence. He remembered once when he’d been working at his desk‚ he’d happened to look up and see her peering at him from behind a curtain in the estate room.

His mother cleared her throat. “The truth is Bethanne Wilkie and I always wished to have our families united.”

His stomach dropped to his dusty Hessians. He had a terrifying image of the skinny twelve–year–old gowned in white standing beside him in front of a vicar‚ a long veil covering her face‚ the beautiful Ravenscar ruby ring sliding off her small finger to land on the floor and rolling‚ rolling—“Good grief‚ Mama‚ she’s a little girl! When she wasn’t trailing after me‚ she was tucked against her mother’s skirts or lurking behind curtains to stare at me. As I recall‚ I once said hello to her‚ and she turned pale and ran from the room.”

“Little girls become ladies.”

“Why have you never spoken to me of this young lady before?”

“When you married Lily‚ she was far too young for you. When Lily died‚ she was still too young‚ but it didn’t matter‚ because you sailed from England for three years.”

“I don’t recall her name.”

“Her name is Sophie Colette Wilkie. Sophie is spelled quite in the French way‚ since her father‚ a clergyman‚ adores the French‚ a people few can stomach‚ and rightfully so‚ but so he does‚ particularly the classical French‚ particularly the playwright Molière. Sophie even has a French second name—Colette.”

He had no memory whatsoever of the little girl’s name. Sophie Colette—it was enough to curdle his innards. Julian had come home to find peace. And instead‚ his mama wanted to present him with a bride named Sophie Colette? He said‚ “I like Molière as well.”

“Yes‚ he is classical enough‚ I fancy‚ but I mean‚ who cares? Now‚ I have informed Sophie’s father that I shall present Sophie in London at the Buxted ball Wednesday evening‚ exactly two weeks from today. You will be there‚ naturally. I understand dear Sophie will be chaperoned by her aunt‚ Roxanne Radcliffe‚ who is one of Baron Roche’s daughters‚ and they will stay in the Radcliffe town house on Lemington Square. Since Roxanne was Bethanne’s sister‚ she must be well advanced in her years. Bethanne always told me Roxanne preferred the country‚ and so I simply must travel to London to assist her in bringing out my dear Sophie.” She paused‚ raised her dark eyes to his face‚ the look that always pierced him to his gullet‚ and had‚ obviously‚ pierced his father’s gullet as well‚ ancient though his gullet was at the time.

He tried once more. “If you tell me Sophie Wilkie is fresh out of the schoolroom‚ I will board one of my ships and sail to Macao.”

“I don’t know where this Macao place is‚ but it sounds nasty and foreign. Oh‚ no‚ dearest. Since her mama died two years ago‚ followed quickly by her grandmother‚ Sophie has worn black gloves forever‚ poor child. She is well into her twentieth year‚ not a child at all‚ indeed‚ very nearly a spinster.”

Twelve years between them‚ an acceptable age difference by society’s norms‚ but too many years for him. She’d been naught but a little girl when the Duke of Wellington finally vanquished Napoléon at Waterloo. She would have no memory of what was happening in the world during his first twelve years. Julian realized he might as well batter his head against the huge stone fireplace in the great hall of Ravenscar. No hope for it. He folded his tent. “When would you like to leave?”

His fond mama wasn’t a fool. She never rubbed her fist in a face when victorious unless it was that of her stepdaughter–in–law‚ Lorelei. She gave him a sweet smile as she rose to kiss his cheek and pat his shoulder. “Did I tell you she is a beauty? Her hair is dark brown‚ her eyes a light blue like a summer sky. She is no small mincing miss. Indeed‚ I find my eyes must travel upward a goodly distance to meet hers.” She patted him again. “You are a remarkably fi ne son‚ dearest.”

“Do you think‚ Mama‚ that I might have a week at home to see to estate matters?”

She patted his face. “With your exquisite brain‚ I believe four or five days will do the trick nicely.”

He wasn’t stupid. He had four days.

Julian hadn’t been home in three years. Why hadn’t he waited three more months‚ until‚ say‚ August? The wretched Season would be over. But he hadn’t. He would go to London‚ he would meet Sophie Colette—spelled in the French way—and he would pat her head and leave her to the younger gentlemen.