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To Pam Xanthopoulos, Kim Warren-Cox, and Billie Gateley for all the dinners, bottles of wine, tears, and laughter we’ve shared over the years. My love and friendship to you always.
A very special thank-you to Michele Bidelspach, the best editor I could have hoped to work with, to Angelina Krahn and Mari Okuda for your attention to detail, and to Sarah Younger, the most patient agent in the world.
PROLOGUE
On the Battlefield in San Cristobal, Spain
November 1813
Forward!” Colonel Edward Westover yelled above the cracking gunfire and the clashing steel bayonets as he raised his saber into the air.
He dug in his heels, and his horse leapt toward the melee of blue and red uniforms on the field where until just hours ago sunflowers bloomed. The yellow petals now stained red with blood lay crushed beneath pounding hooves as the British cavalry charged the end of the enemy’s cannon line. Known as the Scarlet Scoundrels for their red uniforms on the field and their roguish actions off it, the dragoons were ordered to stop the barrage of artillery for the infantry’s advance, but Edward’s personal mission was to protect as many of his men as possible.
His two most trusted captains flanked him as they charged together into battle, shooting and slashing without pause, both prepared to give their lives to win the battle for the allied forces.
“To the right!” Edward shouted, setting his horse toward a gap in the line.
Nathaniel Grey shouted in answer as he struck his saber at a Frenchman who had advanced farther than the infantry should have allowed. Beside him, Thomas Matteson pushed through the gap, firing his pistols and reloading on horseback while never breaking stride.
As the French infantry gave way against the onrushing cavalry, the three men galloped to the right flank of the cannon. The enemy line broke into a confused scurry, with men succumbing to the horses bearing down on them.
Within two hours, the allied forces had routed the enemy and sent them fleeing in a disorganized retreat. The French cannon line abandoned, the British infantry pushed forward to secure the village. By the time the cavalry returned behind their line, they were exhausted, their mounts’ heads hanging low and the men slipping gratefully from their backs.
“Westover!”
Edward turned. “Here!”
His shout split the noise of the line as the men reorganized around him by tending to the wounded, capturing loose horses whose riders had been knocked from their backs, and collecting weapons they’d captured from the enemy.
Leaving Lieutenant Reed still on horseback, the man having solemnly volunteered for the dangerous mission of being the line messenger for the battle, Nathaniel Grey walked slowly toward Edward, his spine straight with solemn determination.
As he approached, Edward saw the hard lines of his face and the harsh set of his jaw. His friend’s normally bright eyes were somber.
It was the look of death.
He steeled himself. The battle had been horrific, and he was certain several good men perished in their charge. He’d grown used to the terror and fury of battle, but the aftermath never grew easier.
“Grey,” he said soberly as the captain stopped in front of him, then glanced over at Thomas to indicate with a nod that the other man should remain. The three men had been through hell together during the past few years, and they would face together whatever was in the message that made Nathaniel Grey suddenly so grim.
“Colonel, there’s news from England.” Meeting Edward’s gaze, Grey hesitated, then drew a shaking breath. “Your brother is dead.”
CHAPTER ONE
London, March 1815
Edward Westover stared across the card table at the man he was about to destroy.
The balding, paunchy gambler dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, then tugged at his cravat as if it choked him. The man’s gaze lifted to meet his, and a jolt of satisfaction pulsed through him at the fear on the man’s face.
Let the bastard be afraid. Let him get exactly what he deserves.
During the past year, Edward had thought of little else than the satisfaction he’d feel when this moment arrived, when he’d finally receive the justice that the English courts had denied him. Nearly every moment since he returned from Spain had been focused on ruining this man’s life, and even now, beneath the stoic expression he carefully showed the room, he burned with hatred and a driving need for retribution.
In a matter of seconds, Phillip Benton would lose his last hand, and with that, his life as he knew it would be over. Edward watched the man closely and waited, counting off each heartbeat, and the only outward sign of his anticipation was a slight quickening of his breath. This must be how the devil felt when he took a man’s soul, Edward decided, except that Benton had no soul to take.
The dealer turned the last card.
Benton gaped at it, unable to believe he’d lost. As Edward watched him blanch, a flash of satisfaction shot through him.
“The game’s finished, Benton.” And so are you. “Now, I’ll take what you owe me.” Welcoming the pleasure of the man’s destruction, Edward reached for the marker and tossed it to him. “Everything you owe.”
Benton forced a pacifying smile. “I haven’t got it all with me tonight, of course.”
Edward glared at him. From his arrogant demeanor, it was clear Benton still had no idea who he was or realized the tragedy connecting them. But he would learn soon enough, and then Edward planned on making him regret for the rest of his life the actions that brought them together.
Benton motioned the gambling hell manager to the table. “Thompson, I’ve gotten myself into a spot again.” With a forced laugh, Benton’s jocular tone belied the desperation of his situation. “Would you assist me with my friend here”—but the scornful glower Edward shot him was far from friendly—“by advancing me enough to pay off my losses?”
Thompson coughed nervously, his eyes darting to Edward. “’Fraid I can’t do that.”
“Thompson!” he cried incredulously, loud enough that the men at the surrounding tables glanced up. He lowered his voice. “Have I ever failed to repay you? Have I ever forfeited so much as a pence?”
“You’ve always been a good customer.”
Benton beamed. “Hand me a paper, then, and I’ll swear out a note. My word’s good.”
Thompson turned awkwardly toward Edward. “What would you have me do, sir?”
“Why are you asking him?” Benton demanded.
“Because I hold your notes,” Edward drawled, taking immense pleasure in the confusion that flashed across the man’s face.
Benton snorted. “Thompson holds them.”
“I bought them from Thompson,” Edward explained, summarizing in a few words the time-consuming work of the past twelve months leading up to this moment, “just as I bought up all your debts. All the credit you owe the merchants, the lease on your rooms, your stable bills, and every pound of your gambling debt in every hell across London.”
Benton turned scarlet. “What in God’s name is going on here? Thompson!”
The manager shook his head. “You had too many notes, Phillip. You st
ill owe me from last autumn. When I received the offer to purchase your debts—”
“Purchase my debts?” His voice rang loudly through the hell, stopping the play at all the tables. The men paused to stare, and hushed whispers rose throughout the room. “Sir, I demand an explanation!”
“I purchased your debts,” Edward answered coldly, hating the man more with each passing heartbeat, “and now I demand repayment on them. All of them.”
“You cannot demand such a thing.”
“The law gives me the right to reclaim them with a fortnight’s notice. Consider this your notice.” Edward knew the answer, yet he took a perverse pleasure in asking, “Unless you can’t pay?”
“Of course, I can pay!” His indignation sounded loud enough that everyone in the room heard it, but as he sank down in his chair, his shoulders sagging, he lowered his voice. “But not in a fortnight.”
“Not at all,” Edward corrected, relishing the man’s defeat. “Even if you sold every possession you own, you would still be in my debt.” Exactly where the bastard deserves to be.
Despite the heat of the crowded gambling hell, Benton shivered. He looked at the marker on the table as if staring at his own grave.
“You’d send me to debtor’s prison?” Benton’s voice strangled in his throat.
Edward had considered doing just that many times during the past year—thrusting him into a cold, windowless prison to let the man rot away in his own filth behind stone walls.
“No.” He wanted a public revenge with absolute control of every aspect of the man’s life. If he couldn’t hang the bastard, he’d at least make the man wish he were dead. There was no mercy in him tonight. That died a year ago with Stephen and Jane. “But I will take your house, all its furnishings, your horse, your clothes…” He venomously bit out each harsh promise and signaled to a distinguished-looking man standing awkwardly by the hall’s entrance. “Every last pence.”
“I’ll be left with nothing.” He dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief, then croaked out a pathetic laugh. “Nothing except my daughter.”
“Then I’ll take her, too,” Edward said with an icy facetiousness. “And every last ribbon on her head.”
“Who are you?” Benton demanded again, furious at being publicly humiliated.
The man reached their table. “Yes, Your Grace?”
Benton blinked, then bellowed, “Your Grace?”
“This is William Meacham.” Edward calmly nodded toward his family’s longtime attorney. “He’ll inform you of the arrangements.”
“Go to hell!” Benton clenched his fists. “I’m not agreeing to anything.”
Benton swung his gaze to Meacham, and Edward could see the frantic thoughts spinning through the man’s head. He’d seen that same angry desperation on the faces of defeated enemies when the battle was over and the terms of surrender negotiated. How little men changed from battlefield to barroom. And for this man, surrender was unconditional.
He’d give no quarter of any kind to this enemy.
“If you refuse my terms, Benton,” Edward promised, “then I will throw you into prison.”
Benton’s face darkened with fury. “You would do that—you would ruin my life?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you ruined mine.”
Benton caught his breath. “Who are you?”
“Don’t you recognize me?” Edward rose from his chair, drawing up to his full six-foot height. This was the moment he’d planned for during the past year with an almost blind relentlessness, and as he’d expected, with it came a sweet flash of shattering satisfaction. “Edward Westover.”
“Westover…” The name struck Benton with a violent shudder. “You’re Colonel Westover?”
As he stared at Benton, the full force of his hatred and revenge rose in him and vanquished whatever brief satisfaction and pleasure he’d felt only moments earlier. Edward leaned over the table to gaze mercilessly at him. “I am the brother of the man you murdered.”
He spun away from the table and stalked through the gambling hell toward the front door, putting the length of the room between them before he strangled Benton with his bare hands. Lost in the wrathful thoughts of his vengeance, he was oblivious to the presence of the man standing in the corner, who had watched tonight’s events unfold and fell into step behind him.
His carriage waited at the front entrance, and he climbed inside. The tiger closed the door.
Shutting his eyes, Edward took a deep breath and waited for the peace that should have been his, the relief and happiness at finally making the bastard pay. But it didn’t come, and even the flash of exquisite satisfaction he’d felt when Benton realized his identity was now gone. He felt only the same need to destroy Benton that he’d carried for the past year, tempered by the deep emptiness he’d felt since the moment in San Cristobal when he learned of Stephen’s death.
The door flung open, and the man who had watched him from the shadows jumped inside. He pounded his fist against the roof, signaling to the coachman to send the team forward into the night.
“Colonel Westover.” Thomas Matteson gave a short salute as the carriage lurched into motion. “Interesting evening.”
“Captain Matteson.” Edward glared at the old friend who had become like a brother to him while fighting together in Spain. And whom he now wanted to throttle for interfering in his life. “Get the hell out.”
Ignoring that, Thomas relaxed against the squabs as casually as if he’d been invited into the carriage rather than flinging himself inside.
“We’re in London. It’s Lord Chesney here, if you don’t mind.” Thomas flashed a charming grin, the same one that had attracted the hearts of women across the Continent. Edward had lost count of the number of times he’d rescued the man from angry Spanish fathers. “I’m a marquess now, I daresay.”
“So I’d heard.”
Shortly after the battle at San Cristobal, Thomas’s father inherited as Duke of Chatham, which meant this fearless former captain was now Marquess of Chesney and heir to a duchy. Which meant his life was too important to risk in the army. Dying in battle was fine for second sons but never for peers or heirs, a lesson that Edward knew only too well.
“I’ve proven you wrong.” Thomas angled out his long legs. “You said I’d never make anything of myself.”
“I said you were reckless and would get yourself killed,” he corrected solemnly, unable to keep his concern from his voice. He was afraid his friend might yet prove him right.
“We’re both headed for the Lords now.” Thomas grinned at him. “Say a prayer for Parliament.”
But Edward was in no mood for teasing around tonight, especially given the way fate had thrust the peerage upon both of them. The irony was humorless.
“Where’s Grey?” Edward wouldn’t have put it past the man not to be outside hanging off the carriage at that very moment.
“Somewhere in England.”
Thomas’s answer wasn’t facetious. After he was wounded in the war, Grey’s connections to the underbelly of society made him valuable enough that Lord Bathurst, Secretary of War and the Colonies, insisted he join the War Office. Grey was one of their best agents, and “somewhere in England” was as close as anyone could know.
Edward reached toward the door with the full intent of shoving Thomas out into the night. “I suggest you join him.”
The marquess clucked his tongue. “Becoming a duke has made you rather testy, Colonel. I prefer the man who used to set enemy tents on fire. He was more reasonable.”
“You have no idea,” he muttered. Then he exhaled a ragged breath, knowing the tenacious man wouldn’t leave him alone until he had what he came for. No matter how damnably irritating the trait, Edward couldn’t begrudge him. It was the same tenacity that had kept the former captain alive in Spain. “Why are you here?”
“I need your help,” Thomas answered solemnly. “I have a friend who needs me to save him from himself.�
�
Edward glared at him through the shadows. He trusted Thomas with his life, but in this, he was overstepping.
“If I wanted your help,” he growled, “I would have asked for it a year ago.”
“You weren’t ready for it then.”
Edward gave a derisive snort. “You think I’m ready for it now?”
“I think you’re just as bullheaded as you’ve always been,” Thomas answered, affection clear in his voice despite his words, “but I am not going to let you ruin a life without trying to stop you.”
“Benton’s, you mean.”
“Yours.”
Edward clenched his teeth, but even that small show of outrage was forced. He wasn’t angry at Thomas as much as at what he represented—his old life, the one he’d been forced to leave behind. But that life was gone forever.
“How do you know about my plans for Benton?” he demanded.
“Your aunt Augusta. She asked me to talk you out of this scheme of yours.”
“Then you can tell her it’s too late,” he assured him. “Meacham is settling the agreement now.”
“You can still let Benton go.” Thomas met Edward’s gaze with deep sympathy. “What happened to your brother was unforgivable, and Benton deserved to hang for it. But he didn’t. The magistrates let him go, and now you need to let him go, too, before he destroys your life as well.”
Edward stared at him blankly, saying nothing.
There was a time when he would have sought out Grey’s and Thomas’s counsel and most likely taken their advice just as he would have his own brother’s, but that was before his world changed. The Colonel Westover whom Thomas had ridden beside in the fires of war was gone. He might as well have died on the battlefield.
“You saved my life, Colonel, many times.” Thomas leaned forward, his face intense in the dim shadows cast by the swinging carriage lamps. “And I will not let you ruin your life now.”
Edward almost laughed. There was nothing Thomas could do to either stop him or help him. Except…“Can you watch Benton? I need someone I can trust to keep an eye on him until everything is settled.”
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