by Cheryl Holt
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
PROLOGUE
Sissy was in her bedchamber, hiding in the corner by the bed. Her twin sister, Bec-Bec, was hiding with her. They were nose to nose and whispering. They talked in a language grownups didn’t understand, but they understood it.
Scary events were happening. Mother and Father had flown up to Heaven, so she and Bec-Bec had spent hours looking out the window, wondering if they might be floating overhead, but they were never there.
Would they ever return? If not, why not?
Nanny wouldn’t explain it. She was in her rocking chair, and she was weeping, dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief. The sight of her being so sad was frightening. They’d tried to comfort her, but she’d pushed them away.
A servant called from down the stairs, claiming it was time for them to leave. For days, there had been gossip that they would have to go and live elsewhere, but they couldn’t figure out why they were departing. If they left, how would Mother and Father find them?
Nanny put down her knitting, and she bustled about, tying their bonnets and latching the clasps on their cloaks. Once they were ready, she grabbed their hands and started out, one of them on each side. Sissy kept peeking behind Nanny’s legs to see Bec-Bec staring back.
They reached the foyer, and suddenly, a wicked witch swooped in and grabbed Sissy. Before she could blink, she was carried off. The move was so quick and so terrifying that she cried out with dismay. Bec-Bec cried out too, but where was she?
The witch was tall and wide, so she blocked Sissy’s view. She and her sister were never separated. Everyone knew that, so why had they been jerked apart?
There was shouting and arguing, and for an instant, she had caught a glimpse of Brother as he demanded, “Where are you taking them? Why won’t you say?”
She was wiggling and kicking, attempting to scoot down so she could run to Brother and Bec-Bec, so she’d be safe, but she couldn’t scramble free. The witch tossed her in a carriage, and even though she meant to jump out and rush to Brother, a housemaid pressed her down on the seat so she couldn’t escape.
Bec-Bec was screaming, Brother yelling at the adults, but over the past few weeks, she’d learned that adults didn’t listen to children. She clapped her palms over her ears to drown out the awful sounds.
The witch loomed in and settled herself on the opposite seat. She spoke to the servants in the driveway, scolding Nanny for being lazy, scolding Brother for being so loud, then the driver cracked the whip, and they lurched away.
As the noises faded, the witch muttered, “Gad, that was dreadful.”
In response, Sissy wrestled and kicked again, and the witch said to the maid, “Shut that urchin up. I’ve had enough caterwauling to last a century.”
The maid pressed Sissy down even more firmly, and she was so heavy that Sissy couldn’t breathe.
Where were they going? If the witch wouldn’t tell Brother the destination—when he was a boy and six years old—she would never tell Sissy who was a girl and just three. Where was Bec-Bec? How could they leave her behind? How would Sissy find her again? Had she flown up to Heaven to be with their parents? If so, why couldn’t Sissy have joined her?
They rattled through the city for a very long time, then finally, they lurched to a halt. The maid eased away and pulled Sissy to a sitting position. Sissy glared at the witch, wanting her to know that she was being very cruel, but the witch didn’t notice. Sissy might have been invisible.
The witch placed some papers in Sissy’s hand, wrapping her fingers around them, showing Sissy how to squeeze them tight.
“Don’t drop those,” the witch told her. “They’re important.”
The door was opened, and the step lowered. The witch climbed out, and a footman lifted Sissy to the ground. They were next to a large building, and there was a big sign on the front, but she couldn’t read, so she had no idea what it said.
The witch led her to the door, then she leaned down and hissed, “You stay right here until someone comes out to get you.”
Sissy frowned at her, her gaze worried and alarmed.
“Did you hear me?” the witch barked. “You’re not deaf, so don’t be disobedient. You’ll remain here until someone fetches you. Nod yes if you understand.”
Sissy nodded.
“And don’t you dare lose those papers,” the witch commanded.
She knocked, three sharp raps that made Sissy flinch, then she went to the carriage and climbed in. The footman leapt into the box, the driver yanked on the reins, and the horses trotted away.
“Wait!” Sissy called to them, but they ignored her.
She stood on the cobbles, watching as they vanished. She was all alone in a strange spot—but without Nanny to tell her what was supposed to happen. People hurried by, but they didn’t stop to offer any instructions or to ask why she was by herself.
The witch had ordered her not to move, insisting her knock would eventually be answered, but what if it never was? What if Sissy dawdled forever and no one came?
“Bec-Bec?” she whimpered. “Brother? Where are you?” Then she began to cry.
CHAPTER ONE
Twenty-four years later…
“This is the place.”
Sarah Robertson glanced over her shoulder at the teamster who’d conveyed her in his wagon. They were only a few miles out of the city, so the distance wasn’t as great as she’d expected.
If she’d had the energy—which she didn’t—she could have walked from town. Or if her life had been plodding on in its usual condition, she could have paid a cab to bring her. But funds were never abundant, and recent events guaranteed they would soon be in even shorter supply. It was vital to hoard every penny.
So…she’d stood on the road and had begged for a ride.
It was difficult to believe London was so close. The noise, crowds, and traffic had quickly faded, and they’d been spit out into pretty, rolling woods that meandered along the river. The trees were so green, the August sky so blue. Fluffy clouds drifted by, and the ambiance was soothing.
She was London born and bred, and she never ventured out into the rural countryside. Why didn’t she? It was lovely.
“You just head down the lane,” the teamster said. “It’ll lead you directly to the manor. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
She slid to the ground and studied the gate that indicated the entrance to the grand property. There were carved posts on each side and an arch over the top that spelled out the name of the estate: HERO’S HAVEN.
“That’s a tad pretentious, isn’t it?” she asked.
“What is?”
She gestured to the sign. “The Sinclairs aren’t big on humility.”
The teamster’s jaw dropped. “There’s no need for them to be humble. The whole nation agrees with me. For goodness sake, the Royal Family attended Sir Sidney’s funeral. Who are we to quibble over their status?”
“Who indeed?” Sarah muttered.
Obviously, her opinion of the exalted Sinclairs was vastly at odds with the rest of the kingdom. She had to remember that fact and be more circumspect.
“Thank you again,” she said, simply wanting to get on with her unpleasant mission.
“You’re welcome, and if I may inquire, Miss, should you visit all by yourself?”
“I’m not a fancy lady, sir. I have no maid, and I am twenty-seven this year. I think I can knock on the front door without a chaperone to show me how.”
“Yes, you seem very…mature, but young Mr. Sebastian Sinclair is in residence, having inherited from his father.”
“Isn’t he thirty? I’d hardly describe him as young.”
“Yes, but his adventuring friends are all staying with him. It’s the men from Sir Sidney’s African expedition team? They’re a collection of rich, important fellows who have too much time on their hands.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning there are rumors flying around the neighborhood that there’s mischief occurring. I’d hate to see you land yourself in a jam.”
“You imagine one of them might accost me with wicked intent?”
The teamster shrugged. “It’s been known to happen.”
“Not to me it hasn’t.”
She viewed herself as being fierce and independent. Her dear, deceased father, Thomas Robertson, had reared her to be. In her line of work, as sole proprietress of the Robertson Home for Orphaned Children, she had to project a tough, imperious air, and she could never allow herself to be worn down by negativity, failure, or strife.
Yet she was only five-foot-five in her slippers, and she was much too thin. Her white-blond hair and big blue eyes made her look like a princess in a fairytale, a damsel in distress who was caught in a tower and in desperate need of a prince to save her. She appeared frail, vulnerable, and helpless, when she was none of those.
If a determined rogue espied her when he was bent on mayhem, she couldn’t defend herself, but at the moment, she couldn’t worry about bumping into any potential cads. There was one cad in particular with whom she had to speak—that being Sebastian Sinclair—and he was likely the most despicable in the entire group.
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted, and she smiled her best smile, the one that calmed terrified urchins and encouraged patrons to open their purses.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure. I’ll be meeting with Mr. Sinclair himself, and as he is Sir Sidney’s beloved son, I am positive I’ll encounter no problems.”
“Mr. Sinclair might be a gentleman, but watch out for his companions.” He leaned closer and murmured, “I hear they’ve been away from England for so long that they behave like natives. They’ve forgotten our British ways and habits.”
She could barely keep from rolling her eyes. Didn’t he read the newspapers?
Sir Sidney had died in Africa, and he’d received a state funeral where no expense had been spared to honor him. His team of explorers had been present at all of the events, and as far as Sarah was aware, nary a one had exhibited the conduct of a savage.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but you needn’t fret over me.”
She was anxious to continue on, and she waved to him and headed for the gate. He sighed and almost delivered another warning, but apparently, he seemed to recall she was just a stranger he’d picked up on the side of the road. If she wanted to imperil herself, what was it to him?
He whistled to his horses, and the wagon lumbered off. She tarried until he vanished around a corner, then she squared her shoulders and marched down the lane. Orchards skirted the route, the branches laden with fruit, and through the trees, she had occasional glimpses of the mansion.
She’d spent plenty of time with the affluent. Her orphanage was a private facility that housed the natural children of the famous and infamous. The wealthy scoundrels who sent their bastards to Sarah were required to pay the cost of raising and educating them, but if they refused, or if they stopped paying, no child was kicked out, so she constantly scrounged for funds.
If she’d been forced to clarify her employment position, she’d have described herself as a beggar. She solicited money from every available source, and she was shameless about it, so she was used to observing prosperity and opulence, but it annoyed her.
When a smattering of people could have so much, and the rest have so little, the world was a very unfair place.
She emerged from the trees and went up the curved driveway to the manor. It was three stories high, constructed of a tan brick, with dozens, or perhaps hundreds, of windows gleaming in the sun. An expansive lawn surrounded it, the river slowly rolling by behind. It was peaceful and bucolic, and though she hated to admit it, she was quite charmed.
What would it be like to live in such an extravagant, marvelous spot? She couldn’t imagine.
A set of grand stairs swept up to the front doors, and they were wide open, as if the whole kingdom was welcome to enter without requesting permission. There were carriages parked haphazardly in the grass, a sign of many visitors, and she grumbled with frustration.
She needed to have a very frank, very difficult discussion with Mr. Sinclair who was son and heir to the exalted, deceased Sir Sidney, but if he was busy with guests, he wouldn’t have time for her, and her message was dire.
His illustrious father, Sir Sidney, may have been a national hero, but his morals had left much to be desired. Currently, she cared for two of his illegitimate children, a boy named Noah, and a girl named Petunia, whom they called Pet.
According to gossip, he’d sired many others besides them, but she hadn’t had the misfortune to have any of them dumped on her stoop.
Did Mr. Sinclair know about his father’s less savory proclivities? Had he been informed that he had at least two confirmed half-siblings? If he didn’t know, and she was the unlucky person to apprise him, how might he react?
Hopefully, he wasn’t the type to lash out in anger.
She climbed the stairs, and as she reached the top, she could hear laughter and raucous conversation. It was just after one in the afternoon, but it sounded as if a party was in progress.
Her exasperation soared. The rich and notorious never ceased to amaze her with their antics. Didn’t any of them have jobs? Didn’t any of them have tasks to accomplish?
Well, no, they didn’t. They thrived on their laziness and sloth, and it was accepted that a gentleman never worked. It was considered vulgar and common.
She strolled into the foyer, and a footman was there, but he was completely focused on the activities in a nearby parlor. It was packed with people, mostly men, but there were women scattered about too. They were perched on the men’s laps in a very scandalous manner that indicated dissipation was condoned by their host.
There was a harpsichord off to the side, and a pair of gorgeous women stood next to it and were about to sing a duet. They looked like doxies, attired as they were in bright red dresses that exposed lots of bosom. Everyone was drinking hard spirits, their glasses full, servants hurrying about to be sure.
The footman was so fixated on the party that he hadn’t noticed her. She tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped and whirled around.
“I’m here to see Mr. Sebastian Sinclair,” she told him.
The cheeky oaf rudely assessed her, then said, “You’re very pretty. He’ll like you.”
She frowned. “I beg your pardon? He’ll like me?”
“Yes. I’m to admit every female immediately.” He gestured toward the parlor. “Make yourself at home.”
“I assume Mr. Sinclair is in there?”
“Yes. He’s seated on the blue sofa.”
“Might you ask him to attend me somewhere quieter?”
“I wouldn’t dare disturb him.”
“It’s very important. I’m afraid I have to insist.”
He scoffed. “He’s having too much fun, so if you’re expecting him to take y
ou upstairs, I doubt he will.”
Sarah was appalled. “I wouldn’t go upstairs with him if he paid me a hundred pounds!”
“He never pays for any tart, so don’t get your hopes up.”
Sarah blanched. Was Mr. Sinclair consorting with harlots? Were there loose women in the house?
She always claimed nothing surprised her anymore. With how she had to talk to children about their salacious fathers, with how she had to explain bastardry and illicit bloodlines, she thought she was prepared for any eventuality.
But…harlots?
“Just fetch him for me!” she furiously said.
“I’ll try, Miss, but I don’t understand why you won’t simply join in the merriment. All the fellows would enjoy having you arrive.”
At the comment, she almost stomped out, but she couldn’t leave until she had a commitment from Mr. Sinclair on several pertinent issues regarding Noah and Pet. The most riveting one was that the orphanage was about to be shut down, and she’d been unable to find another home for them.
What might he do about it? She was terribly worried he might not be willing to do anything.
She had a powerful way of glaring at a man. She could cow and shame even the worst sinner into better conduct. She employed it now on the footman, and he scurried off to the parlor. He was gone for only a minute.
“Sorry, Miss,” he said as he strutted up. “Mr. Sinclair advises you to participate in the festivities or to depart if they’re not to your liking. He’s too busy to speak with you.”
She smirked with aggravation. Why keep pestering the Sinclairs? It was obvious they weren’t interested in the children’s plight. She’d spent weeks seeking an audience with Sir Sidney’s widow, Gertrude Sinclair, but she’d finally received a cease-and-desist letter from an attorney, and she was running out of time.
What if she returned to the orphanage and there was a chain on the door? Would she live on the streets with Sir Sidney’s children? Was it a conclusion the Sinclair family would be happy to allow?
Suddenly, the weight of the world seemed to press down on her until she could barely breathe. She was twenty-seven, a single female and spinster who was all alone and on her own except for her awful sister, Temperance, but having Temperance was very much the same as having no one at all.