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The Headmistress of Rosemere (Whispers on the Moors)

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by Sarah E. Ladd




  ADVANCE ACCLAIM FOR

  The Headmistress of Rosemere

  “[E]ngaging scenes of the times keep the pages turning as this historical romance . . . swirls energetically through angst and disclosure.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Sarah E. Ladd has written a story sure to warm your heart even on the coldest day.”

  —LAURIE ALICE EAKES, AUTHOR OF A RELUCTANT COURTSHIP

  “Readers will cheer for the determined heroine and the flawed hero in this engaging story of redemption, set in the lush English countryside. Sarah E. Ladd is quickly establishing herself as a rising star in Regency romance.”

  —DOROTHY LOVE, AUTHOR OF CAROLINA GOLD

  ACCLAIM FOR

  The Heiress of Winterwood

  “If you are a fan of Jane Austen and Jane Eyre, you will love Sarah E. Ladd’s debut.”

  —USATODAY.COM

  “My kind of book! The premise grabbed my attention from the first lines and I eagerly returned to its pages. I think my readers will enjoy The Heiress of Winterwood.”

  —JULIE KLASSEN, BEST-SELLING, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF

  THE TUTOR’S DAUGHTER

  “Oh my, what an exquisite tale! With clarity and grace, Sarah E. Ladd has penned a timeless regency that rises to the ranks of Heyer and Klassen, a breathless foray into the world of Jane Austen with very little effort . . . and very little sleep.”

  —JULIE LESSMAN, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF

  THE DAUGHTERS OF BOSTON AND WINDS OF CHANGE SERIES

  “This debut novel hits all the right notes with a skillful and delicate touch, breathing fresh new life into standard romance tropes.”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES, 4 STARS

  “Captivated from the very first page! The Heiress of Winterwood marks Sarah E. Ladd as a rising Regency star sure to win readers’ hearts!”

  —LAURA FRANTZ, AUTHOR OF

  THE COLONEL’S LADY AND LOVE’S RECKONING

  “A delight from beginning to end, The Heiress of Winterwood is a one-of-a-kind Regency that kept me sighing with joy, laughing, crying, and even biting my nails when the occasion called for it! A whirlwind of emotions captured in an exciting tale of intrigue, kidnapping, and bittersweet love. This is Ms. Ladd’s debut? I can’t wait to see what she writes next! Remember the name, Sarah E. Ladd, because I’m sure you will be seeing much more from this talented author.”

  —MARYLU TYNDALL, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF

  VEIL OF PEARLS AND THE SURRENDER TO DESTINY SERIES

  “Ladd’s charming Regency debut is enhanced with rich detail and well-defined characters. It should be enjoyed by fans of Gilbert Morris.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “This adventure is fashioned to encourage love, trust, and faith especially in the Lord and to pray continually, especially in times of strife.”

  —CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES

  OTHER BOOKS BY SARAH E. LADD

  WHISPERS ON THE MOORS

  The Heiress of Winterwood

  The Headmistress of Rosemere

  A Lady at Willowgrove Hall (Coming Fall 2014)

  © 2013 by Sarah Ladd

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ladd, Sarah E., author.

  The Headmistress of Rosemere / Sarah E. Ladd.

  pages cm. — (Whispers on the Moors ; 2)

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8836-3 (trade paper : alk. paper) 1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Girls’ schools—Fiction. 3. London (England)—Fiction. 4. Christian fiction. 5. Love stories. I. Title.

  PS3612.A3565H43 2013

  813'.6—dc23

  2013025256

  Printed in the United States of America

  13 14 15 16 17 18 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  I lovingly dedicate this novel to my parents, Ann and Wayne. Thank you for going on this journey with me and for believing in my dreams.

  Contents

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  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  DARBURY, ENGLAND, FEBRUARY 1816

  There was no doubt in William Sterling’s mind. He was being followed.

  He was an easy target—now more than ever.

  He knew better than to travel at such a late hour in the moors, when midnight’s haze shrouded the moon’s gray light and the new-fallen snow gave the illusion of an even terrain.

  An owl’s mournful cry sliced the night’s uncomfortable silence, and with a sharp click of his tongue, William urged his mount into a faster gait.

  He’d avoided the main road that leads directly to Eastmore Hall’s iron gate, for it was too broad. Too exposed. He chose, instead, the cart path leading from Darbury’s town square to Wainslow Peak. For although it was narrow and masked with snow, he’d be hidden.

  The thoroughbred beneath him pranced and skittered to the left, tossing his magnificent head in tenacious indignation. William regarded the horse’s caution. Perhaps the stubborn beast was wiser than he was.

  He could dismount and lead Angus back to Eastmore Hall on foot. Considering the ice and wind, it would be less treacherous. But the walk would be long and would slow his pace considerably. As quickly as he had the thought, the memory of the two suspicious men who’d been eyeing him at Griffin’s End Inn came back.

  No, he needed the protection of Eastmore Hall. Now.

  William tightened his knees against the animal’s sides and cast yet another glance over his shoulder. “Ya!”

  In spite of the frigid air, perspiration trickled down his temples. Time seemed sluggish in the uncertainty. He crested Wainslow Peak, which was little more than a shallow hill with outcroppings of ancient stone, and circled his horse in the clearing next to Sterling Wood. He filled his lungs with the bitterly cold air and scanned the shadowed landscape.

  The snow-covered grass swept down to the valley of the River Thaughley. The moon’s waning light fell on Rosemere School for Young Ladies—his tenant.

  If only Eastmore Hall were that close.

  With a jerk of his gloved hand, he tipped his wide-brimmed hat low and turned his mount toward home. Without warning, a great, dark horse catapulted from the cover of the ash and birch trees and skidded, blocking the path and sending up a cloud of snow and earth. Plumes of white
breath spewed from the horse’s nostrils. Angus reared up, his frantic, high whinny piercing the eerie silence. With the strength afforded by shock, William tightened his legs around the horse’s girth and pitched forward. He whipped his head around, searching for a pass to break free from the stony crags caging him. But instead of finding an exit, he faced another man on horseback.

  “Get off the horse, Sterling.”

  Pulse hammering, William licked his lips and tugged the reins, circling his frenzied horse, desperate for escape. Every sordid incident that had led to this moment flashed before him in vivid detail. Remorse would do nothing now, not with a pistol pointed straight at his chest.

  “I said dismount!”

  William lurched around. A third pistol barrel challenged him.

  Surrounded.

  Muttering, William slid from the saddle and planted his top boots in the swirling snow. If he were a praying man, now would be the time to employ such a plea. But he was beyond such saving.

  William released the reins and raised both hands in the air.

  The first man stepped toward him, pistol pointed. “Introductions not necessary, are they, Sterling? I daresay you know why we are here.”

  William shifted as the man wearing a caped coat stepped closer. He forced his voice to be low. “I have little money on me, if that is what you’ve come for.”

  “It’s not your money I’ve come for. It’s Captain Rafertee’s money.”

  Perspiration stung William’s eyes. “I have given Rafertee my note of hand. We agreed on the terms. I have three months left to provide the funds, and I will.”

  The man smirked and called over his shoulder to the men behind him, “Three months, lads. What do we think about that? Seems like an awfully long time to me.”

  The men snickered. William clenched his teeth as the pistol pressed against the wool fabric of his greatcoat.

  The stranger’s gravelly voice was as threatening as the pistol. “I got concerned, you understand. You left London in a hurry. Secretly, as if to avoid us. Why, you didn’t even say farewell. And you’ve been gone for so long.” A sneer cracked the man’s face, and the moon’s light fell on his crooked teeth.

  The pounding in William’s head intensified. The men behind his accuser cackled.

  “We need to remind this fine gentleman that the captain won’t take kindly if his money’s not there when he sets foot on land again after all those months at sea. And it’s my job to make sure the captain stays happy.”

  The man grabbed William’s coat, yanked a button free, and ripped his leather pouch from the safety of his person. Without glancing down at his prize, the stranger tossed the leather packet to one of his partners.

  William’s attacker leaned in closer. His breath reeked of ale. If it had been only the one man, William would have taken a chance and fought—he could hold his own in a brawl. But with three, experience affirmed he’d stand little chance. A man standing behind the others walked over and slapped Angus’s hindquarters and shouted, sending the animal off into the black of night.

  Without a horse, William was at their mercy. He pressed his lips together and looked toward the stirring clouds.

  Tonight I will meet my maker.

  The gun dug into his belly. Chest heaving, William forced himself to look at his assailant. He knew not the man’s identity, but he knew one thing with certainty: Rafertee cavorted with the darkest sort. The most dangerous, evil men.

  William should know, for he had done the same.

  William shifted. “All my money is in there. I’ve nothing else to give you. If you kill me, you’ll never get the rest of it. What would Rafertee have to say then?”

  The man’s low, wide-brimmed hat shadowed his eyes. “Consider our visit a reminder. Either the good captain gets his money or you die.” A sardonic laugh oozed from the man’s unkempt face. “Just so you are fully aware, I’ll be the one who has the pleasure of carrying out that order.”

  Without another word, the man’s balled fist slammed into William’s gut, stealing the wind from his lungs and hurling him backward. He lost his footing on the moor’s icy carpet, and the sudden jolt hurled him back against a rocky crag. Before he could regain his balance, someone grabbed his coat and a fist slammed into his jaw. He fell. His head struck rock. He moved to stand, but as he did, one of the cloaked figures kicked his middle.

  William collapsed, his cheek flat against the snow. A form approached, but William did not move. He could not move, even if he so desired.

  “Three months, Sterling.”

  Another sharp kick thrust white stars across his vision, curling him in agony. His breath came in jagged gasps and burned like fire.

  The voices were muffled. William could no longer decipher their words. A tunnel of sound whirred around him. Then the ground beneath him trembled as he heard the horses’ hooves thunder off.

  You’re alive.

  William lay still on the icy ground and groaned. The voices in his head were taunting him louder than his attackers and were impossible to ignore.

  Considering the sorry state of you, you should be grateful.

  Then all was still, quiet, save for the whistle of the wind through barren branches. William assessed his condition, limb by limb. Nothing appeared to be broken, but one eye was swelling shut and salty blood covered his lips.

  After several attempts, William managed to roll over onto his knees. Fresh snow had begun to fall and had accumulated on his coat. He shook his arms and it scattered.

  He attempted a whistle, hoping that by a miracle Angus would hear, but his upper lip was beyond such a task. So he waited and listened for any indication that his horse had not abandoned him.

  He heard nothing, save for the mournful too-wit call of the owls on a distant moor.

  He shouted as loud as his lungs would allow, “Angus!”

  Nothing.

  Head throbbing, ribs aching, he winced at the pain of simply breathing. He scanned his surroundings, disoriented. Had he been a more attentive estate master, he would know exactly how far he was from home. He’d be familiar with every tree. Every stump. Every vale. But in his confusion, he wasn’t sure. As he turned, he noticed the black outline of chimneys rising above snow-covered trees.

  Rosemere.

  Heavy snow had ridden in on the sharp easterly wind. William reached for his hat, which had fallen in the attack, and slapped it against his leg. His left eye was now swollen shut. Something warm trickled down his cheek, but his muscles ached too severely to try to wipe it away.

  The familiar sound of hoofbeats clicked toward him and stopped.

  Panic seized him. He scrambled under the shelter of a low bush, then turned and saw not Rafertee’s men but Angus enter the clearing and toss his head.

  Perhaps he would be able to return to Eastmore after all.

  But when he stood, the ground beneath him spun and he staggered. He managed to put one foot in front of the other, but after two attempts to mount the horse, it became clear he’d never be able to ride the animal, not in his state. He looked back down to Rosemere, barely able to make out the tiny stable that sat just inside the courtyard wall. Did he have any other choice?

  2

  Patience Creighton clutched her loosely woven shawl tightly around her neck with one hand and lifted her lantern above her head with the other.

  “Is he . . . dead?”

  Not waiting for her manservant, George, to respond, Patience knelt next to the stranger’s battered form and winced at the sight of his swollen, purple eyelid and the dried blood on his lips.

  “No, not dead.” George’s ever-present scent of leather signaled that he’d drawn near. “Yet.”

  With a trembling hand, Patience reached out to touch the man’s chest, hesitant, as if with one touch he would spring to life and grab her. But her shivering fingertips landed on the damp, rough wool of his caped greatcoat, and he did not so much as wince.

  “Who is he?” she asked, her eyes not leaving the still
form.

  “’Tis William Sterling. Do you not recognize him?”

  Her landlord’s name was the last name she expected to hear. “Surely not William Sterling of Eastmore Hall?”

  “Aye. One and the same.”

  Shocked, Patience lifted the lantern higher and leaned down, squinting to make out his features in the flickering light. Mr. Sterling’s hatless head rested against the dirt floor. A deep gash marred his forehead, and stubble darkened his square jaw. “Where did you find him?”

  “Right here. Came down to do my morning duties, like I always do, and here he was, sprawled out on the stable floor, looking just as you see him now.” The manservant knelt next to her. “His horse was in the courtyard, right outside the stable, saddled. Charlie is tending to him.”

  A sharp gust of wind curled in through the half-open door, slamming the door against the side of the wooden stable wall and pelting them with stinging sleet.

  Patience gave Mr. Sterling’s shoulder a gentle push, hoping for a response, but none came. His breath appeared so shallow that she wondered if he was still breathing. “We must get him out of the cold. Mary has a fire started in the kitchen. Quickly now.”

  George nudged her aside and leaned down to loop his arms under William Sterling and called to the stable boy. “Charlie, get over ’ere and help me!”

 

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