by Sarah Ladd
“And Littleton?”
Her lovely smile faded. “He is still in London, or so we presume. We expect his return within the week.”
Her pink gown made her cheeks appear even rosier than normal, but that was not what first drew his attention. A baggy canvas smock protected the front of her dress, stained with paints of every shade. Was his betrothed an artist?
Her easel faced away from him, so he sidestepped her to view her work.
No, definitely not an artist.
He nodded toward her smock. “It appears you managed to get more paint on your smock than on your easel.”
She giggled, an unguarded, happy sound that he had not heard from her until now. His gaze drifted from her golden tresses to her sparkling sky-blue eyes to the curve of her neck. After months at sea with only men for company, one tended to underestimate the effect a beautiful woman could have on a man. The weight of her gaze rendered him a fool and momentarily speechless.
She frowned at the easel. “My painting leaves much to be desired, I fear.”
“Perhaps a little.”
“Captain Sterling!” she exclaimed with mock offense. “How can you tease me so?”
He laughed. It had been so long since a genuine laugh rumbled his chest that he’d forgotten its releasing power. “What is the subject of your painting?”
“You cannot tell?” She pointed out the window. “See that grove of elms and aspens just beyond the box hedge?”
“Oh. I see.” The uneven strokes on the page bore little likeness to the vast landscape framed by the window. “Hm, where’s your brush?”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“Your paintbrush.” His gaze swept across her collection of watercolors and rags. A brush rested on the easel’s edge. He took it in his hand.
“Why, Captain Sterling,” she said. “I didn’t know you were a painter.”
“I’m not.”
She stood very close to him, so close that the sweet scent of lavender danced around him. He adjusted the brush. It seemed too tiny for his thick fingers to maneuver, but he dipped it in green paint and pressed the bristles against the canvas. For a brief moment, Amelia’s gaze fell on the scar on his hand. His jaw relaxed when she looked away again.
He cared little for painting. In fact, he hadn’t stood before an easel since school days. But if pretending to be interested in art kept a genuine smile on Amelia Barrett’s face, he would learn to like it.
A long, curly lock of Amelia’s hair slipped from its comb. She lifted a hand to return it to its place, and as she did her arm brushed his. The realization that he was enjoying his time with her made him almost uncomfortable, as if he were breaking a code of honor.
He was grateful for her abrupt change of topic. “How was London?”
“Productive. I stopped in Sheffield on the way back and spoke with Carrington.”
She looked up. “What had he to say?”
“He has agreed to resume his duties of steward and will change his residence—for the second time in a fortnight—back to his cottage here on the grounds. Good thing. I’d be no help in any matter related to running an estate.”
Amelia untied her smock and hung it on a small peg near the easel, her eyes diverted. “And the special license?”
“I have it in my satchel.”
She bit her lip as if calculating the significance of his statement. “So that means, um, that we can, well—”
“Be wed?” he finished her sentence.
A vibrant, becoming hue colored her cheeks.
“Yes.” He leaned down to the leather satchel at his foot, amused at her sudden display of shyness. After all, had she not been the person to suggest the union in the first place? He pulled out the document and placed it in her ungloved hand. She balanced the weightless vellum on her fingertips and read the words. Her full name, Amelia Jane Barrett, on one line. His full name, Graham Canton Sterling, on another.
“We may be married any day, anytime, by any member of the clergy. And in my opinion, the sooner the better.” Graham adjusted the satchel at his foot and then straightened. “Have you given any thought as to when we will inform Littleton?”
Her head jerked up. “We?” She lowered the license. “No, no. If it is all the same to you, I think I should be the one to tell him. Alone.”
“Nonsense.” He assessed her face, certain she must jest, but the firm set of her jaw told him otherwise. “I’ll not allow you to bear the brunt of such an interaction alone. After all, this is as much my decision as it is yours. He will be angry, to be sure, but he can take the matter up with me, not my betrothed.”
Graham snapped his mouth shut as the last word slid from his lips. Betrothed. The word echoed in the paneled room. He cleared his throat before speaking. “We’ll need two witnesses.”
Gone was the unguarded Miss Barrett. She appeared distracted, her eyes not leaving the license. “Witnesses? Yes. Of course. Mrs. Hammond, the vicar’s wife.”
“My brother can be a witness as well.” He stood up. “We’ll need to explain things to the vicar. What’s his name?”
“Thomas Hammond.”
He retrieved the license and slung the satchel over his shoulder. “I think it is best if we talk to your uncle first thing in the morning and let him know of our plans. Then we’ll go explain the situation to the vicar. We’ll deal with Littleton when the time comes.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed on her face. The sudden change in her demeanor concerned him. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“My dear Captain Sterling, I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”
What exactly did William Sterling do all day?
Graham lowered the unread letter to his brother’s desk, leaned back, and rubbed his hand over his chin. Silence engulfed the room. He was alone, and William was nowhere to be found.
Outside the library’s only window, Graham’s nameless horse pawed at the earth. The stable boy had saddled the animal and brought him around in anticipation of the ride Graham and William had planned for the afternoon.
Graham chuckled. What the beast lacked in elegance, he made up for in spirit. The animal’s ears twitched. His restless tail swished from side to side.
I really should give the animal a name.
At that notion, he shook his head. He only planned to own the horse until he returned to Plymouth, where he would sell the animal before returning to sea. Or perhaps, once he was master of Winterwood, the animal could stay on there. Either way, the two of them would soon part ways.
He returned his attention to the letter from his first lieutenant. He spread the wrinkled paper flat against the desk’s leather insert and read the account of the ship repairs. Foster had written that everything was progressing according to plan, but that damages exceeded the initial estimations. An extra three weeks would be needed to repair the hull and the first deck before the battered vessel would once again be seaworthy.
Graham leaned his head against his laced fingers, attempting to push the memory of the battle—and the accompanying guilt—from his mind. Oddly, it was not the battle that had crippled his ship that haunted him, but one from well over a year ago. The American frigate had emerged from behind a curtain of misty fog, catching them off guard. Before he and his crew realized the ship was upon them, cannon fire sliced the hull. Water poured into the ship. The mast roared in flames.
Graham forced himself to look at the scar, now purple and tight, crossing the top of his hand and arm. He had been fortunate. Many members of his crew had not. And it had been his fault. All his fault.
He needed to respond to the letter. He glanced around the library, looking for paper. He pulled the top desk drawer open and rummaged through old letters. Nothing. He pushed the drawer shut and pulled open the one beneath it. Inside, a large book rested on top of loose papers.
Graham lifted out the leather-bound volume. The expert embossing adorning the cover reminded him of his father’s ledger book. Memories o
f his father sitting at this very desk flooded his mind. He placed the book on the desk and lifted the cover. But William’s writing, not his father’s, covered the pages. Numbers. Figures. Names.
He flipped the parchment pages and skimmed the information. Never would he have guessed that such large sums of money flowed in and out of the estate. As he browsed the columns of more recent pages, it appeared that much more was streaming out than came in. He read down the list of names. James Creighton. Ernest Timmer. Who were they?
The nameless horse let out a loud whinny as raucous laughter wafted in from the front drive. Graham jerked his head up and slammed the book closed. William. He stuffed the book in the drawer and within seconds was out of the library and walking into the brisk afternoon air.
“There you are. I thought—”
Graham stopped short. William’s bloodshot eyes glowed against his pale skin. A lopsided smile slid across his unshaven face. The smell of spirits drifted on the wind.
William piped a lazy laugh. He slipped from his horse’s back, stumbling as his boots hit the ground. He patted at the horse. The animal sidestepped as William leaned his weight against the saddle.
Two mounted men accompanied William. They snickered, as if amused at their comrade’s difficulty in the simple task of dismounting. From their slack posture and the disheveled state of their attire, Graham assumed they were involved in whatever his brother had been up to.
Graham grabbed the horse’s bridle to steady the animal and waited for an explanation.
William giggled like a child as he found his footing and then straightened in an obvious attempt to hide the extent of his altered state.
“Gentlemen, meet my esteemed brother, Captain Graham Canton Sterling.” William flung a wobbly arm in Graham’s general direction. “He is the man defending the Crown while you and I keep commerce afloat on this hallowed isle.” Then, in a sudden burst of amusement, he thrust his fist into the air in mock triumph. “Hail, the conquering hero!”
The men dissolved in laughter. William crumpled to the ground, still chortling hysterically.
Graham’s nostrils flared at the blatant disrespect. On more than one occasion he’d come close to losing his life, and dozens of times he’d watched while men perished—all in pursuit of “defending the Crown.”
Graham pitched William’s horse’s reins to the stable boy who had come round. He stepped into No-Name’s stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. He would not stay and watch this ridiculous display of intemperance. He didn’t tolerate it in his crew, and he certainly wouldn’t stand by and watch it in his own brother.
By the time William noticed his brother wasn’t laughing, Graham had already circled No-Name around and was headed in the opposite direction. “Where you going?” William bellowed.
Graham ignored the jeers but did not attempt to hide his anger. How exactly was William keeping “commerce afloat”? He would reprimand his brother if he thought it would do any good. He’d pull him down from the horse and force him to listen, but to what end?
Graham clenched his jaw. He’d spent too many years in similar fashion. The price had been significant. By God’s grace he had been able to conquer the vice of drink, but it appeared that William followed their father’s footsteps in more ways than one.
He urged the horse into a canter and followed the tree line of Eastmore Wood. What he would give to be at sea again. The seafaring life held danger, true, especially in times of war, but at least on a ship he knew his place. His role. He knew who he was and where he belonged.
Being in Darbury reminded him of his childhood, which he wanted to forget, and Katherine, who would never be his again. Why would he ever want to stay here?
But as quickly as the thought entered his head, another thought, equally as persuasive, accompanied it.
Now the shore held Lucy. His Lucy. And Miss Amelia Barrett.
Amelia awoke with a start to the sound of shouting.
She threw off the thick quilt and paused, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the dying fire’s faint light. She held her breath and listened.
Deep voices sounded from somewhere inside Winterwood’s stone walls. She stood up and grabbed her dressing gown from the end of her bed.
Every sense tingled as she scurried across her chamber. Now fully awake, she cracked the paneled door to better hear the conversation’s echo.
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Upon my honor, I had no idea, sir.”
“Where is she?”
The words registered. Dread seized her and refused to allow her heart to beat. Her feet stayed fixed to the ground.
Edward!
She tried to force her mind into action, but her thoughts sputtered. The patting of Helena’s bare feet coming down the hallway snapped her from her trance.
“Whatever is going on?” Helena rubbed her arms over her shawl. “It’s the middle of the night. Who is here?”
Now wasn’t the time for secrets. All would be made known within hours—maybe minutes. “It’s Edward. Who else could it be? Help me, Helena!” Amelia flew to her wardrobe and pulled out a gown. “Button this for me, will you?”
Before Helena could even respond, Amelia found her stays and draped her dress over her arm. Helena stared at her in rare silence.
“Helena, please! I can’t lace this myself.” She turned her back toward Helena and waited for her assistance.
Helena squeaked in protest, but as the yelling intensified, she complied. When Helena finished, Amelia flew to her writing desk and stood so her body blocked Helena’s view. Her hand shook as she wrote.
Edward Littleton is here. I think he knows. Please come quickly. —AB
“What are you doing?”
Amelia barely heard Helena’s words over her own thoughts. She folded the note, tucked it up her sleeve, and headed toward her chamber door. But Helena stepped in front of her, blocking the exit.
“I said, what are you doing?”
Amelia’s shoulders tensed. “Very well. You might as well know. Captain Sterling and I are going to be wed. Apparently Edward has found out.”
Amelia braced herself for Helena’s dramatic retort, but one did not come. Instead, her cousin’s voice sounded almost sad. “This is a mistake. You know it is. But maybe it’s not too late. Mr. Littleton is not an unreasonable man, and—”
“No. I am resolved.” Amelia reached for her shawl and turned to face her cousin. “You would not happen to know how he learned of the engagement, would you?”
Helena tightened her shawl around her shoulders, eyes wide. “How could you insinuate such a thing? Of course not. Where are you going?”
Amelia did not answer. She flew down the servants’ stairs, leaving Helena standing in the hall. Blackness shrouded the lock of the servants’ entrance. Her fingers shook and she fumbled with the key. Eventually the door opened, and Amelia sprinted toward the stables.
The lawn had never seemed so wide. Her bare feet slipped several times on the dewy grass. As she rounded the back corner of the mansion, she lost her footing and fell hard on her stomach, sliding over the wet turf. She ignored the pain, pushed herself up, and continued.
She arrived at the stables, gasping for air. A lantern lit the front half of the stable, where two stable boys were tending a gray gelding. Edward’s horse.
“Peter!” She needed someone who was fast, and the younger of the two stable boys seemed the best choice. Obviously shocked at seeing his mistress in the middle of the night, he swept his hat from his head and stepped forward. “Yes, miss?”
She held the note out to the boy. “Take this as fast as you can to Eastmore Hall. Give it to Captain Sterling. Do not leave until you place it in his hand yourself. Do you hear me?”
The boy nodded his head emphatically. “Yes. Yes, miss.”
She shooed him on. “Go. Go quickly, and be smart about it!”
Without another word, the boy pulled a horse from a nearby stall. Flinging himself on t
he animal’s bare back, he disappeared into the black night.
She turned back to the house. From where she stood, she could barely see into the drawing room window. Faint light trickled from the opening, and a black figure moved across the space. Her heart thudded as she ran back across the lawn to the servants’ entrance.
As soon as she opened the door, animated chatter reached her ears. She didn’t see anyone, but it was clear the commotion had awakened the staff as well. She took the stairs at a very unladylike two-at-a-time pace until she reached her landing.
What she heard made her heart freeze. Footsteps stomped on the main stairs.
As if in a race, she bolted to her chamber. She dropped her wet shawl and grabbed a dry one, only now noticing the wet mud smeared across her front from her fall.
She didn’t even have time to groan, for a knock on the door demanded her attention. “Amelia Barrett, open this door this instant.”
Only Aunt Augusta. Amelia forced her breathing to slow before opening the chamber door. Her aunt pushed her way inside and grabbed Amelia’s arm.
Amelia yanked free. “Let go of me!”
“Edward is downstairs. What have you done, you foolish girl?” Aunt Augusta pinched her lips together, waiting for Amelia’s response.
Amelia straightened her spine, determined to stand her ground. “From your demeanor, I believe you already know the answer to that question.”
Her aunt’s rheumy eyes narrowed on her. “I do not know what you are trying to accomplish, but you listen to me. I will not allow you to ruin the future of this family. Of all the insolence! You will marry Edward.”
Amelia bristled at the words. Of course her aunt had every right to be surprised and even angry, but the accusation in her tone only fueled Amelia’s determination. “I’ve made no decision out of spite, Aunt. Lucy is my top priority, and I’ve made that clear since the moment she was born. I apologize for the effect that this has on you and Uncle and Helena, but I must consider my future. Lucy’s future. And if you knew Edward as I do, you and Uncle would think twice before trusting him with any matter of significance.”