“Promise me.” Dorothy struggled up on her elbows, the effort draining what little strength remained. “He said he’d marry me. He said he’d take me to his house and set me up like a queen.”
She started to cough again. Nell released her and poured some water, but drinking only made Dorothy choke. “Rest now.”
Petulantly Dorothy struck away the glass, spilling water on the sheets. “When I told him about the baby, he laughed. Laughed and called me a brainless slut.”
Nell winced at the language, even as her anger focused on this devil. “I’m so sorry.”
“He has…a book.” Dorothy closed her eyes, gathering herself. This time, Nell didn’t interrupt. For the peace of her soul, Dorothy needed to speak. “A diary of his seductions. Girl after girl. All set out neatly as stories in a newspaper.”
“Oh, my dear…” This spiteful betrayal horrified Nell. “Why on earth would he show you that? That’s needlessly cruel.”
“He was proud of it. Proud of all the women he’d ruined.” Her voice thickened with tears. “If you find that book, you can destroy him.”
“But how?”
Dorothy became agitated. “Just don’t tell Papa. Please.”
“I won’t, darling.” Grief split Nell’s heart at this fleeting glimpse of the sweet child she’d once been. “But where can I find this book?”
Dorothy breathed in shallow gasps. “Go to his house.”
“His house?” Was Dorothy delirious? “Where is his house?”
“You’ll find it.” Dorothy drew a shuddering breath. “You’re clever, too clever to believe a man’s lies.” Lower still. “If only I’d been as clever.”
Acid tears stung Nell’s eyes. Over recent years, Nell’s cleverness had inspired Dorothy’s resentment rather than admiration. If Nell or William mentioned propriety or prudence, Dorothy had flounced away, convinced that her family was hopelessly hidebound. “Who did this to you?”
Dorothy opened glazed eyes and her grip tightened to bruising. “Swear you’ll find that diary and expose this monster for what he is.”
Her half-sister’s desperation sliced at Nell. “Of course I swear. Tell me the man’s name.”
Hatred sharpened Dorothy’s face. “The Marquess of Leath.”
Before Nell could respond to this astonishing claim, Dorothy began to shake and gasp. Nell surged forward to enfold her sister in her arms, but it was too late.
Pretty, reckless Dorothy Simpson had breathed her last.
Chapter One
* * *
Alloway Chase, Yorkshire, late September 1828
Finally he was home.
James Fairbrother, Marquess of Leath sighed with relief and whipped off his heavy topcoat as the footman fought to close the massive oak door against the blustery night. This year, winter came early to the moors. Most years, if Leath was honest. When he’d left London, lovely, golden autumn had held sway. The further north he’d ventured, the less lovely and golden the weather became, until he’d arrived at his family seat in a freezing gale.
“Go to bed, George. I can manage from here.” At thre
e in the morning, he wasn’t selfish enough to keep the man at his beck and call. Knowing that he’d beat any message he sent to Alloway Chase, he’d left London in a rush. He’d considered putting up at an inn before the final desolate run across the heath, but the moon was full and the night was clear, if brutal, and his horse had been fresh.
“Thank you, my lord.” The young man in crimson livery took the coat and bowed. “I’ll light the fires in your apartments.”
“Thank you.”
As George left, Leath collected his leather satchel of documents, lifted the chamber stick from the Elizabethan chest against the great hall’s stone wall, and trudged down the long corridor toward his library. Against the looming darkness, the candle’s light seemed frail, but Leath had grown up in this rambling house. The ghosts, reportedly legion, were friendly.
Physically he was exhausted, but his mind leaped about like a cat with fleas. The roiling mixture of emotions that had sent him hurtling up to Yorkshire still warred within. Anger. Disappointment. Self-castigation. Confusion. A barely admitted fear. He wasn’t ready to seek his bed, although the good God knew where he did want to go, except perhaps to blazes.