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The Lady Who Broke the Rules
Marguerite Kaye


‘Your rebellion has not gone unnoticed…’Anticipating her wedding vows and then breaking off the engagement has left Kate Montague’s social status in tatters. She hides her hurt at her family’s disapproval behind a resolutely optimistic façade, but one thing really grates… For a fallen woman, she knows shockingly little about passion!Could Virgil Jackson be the man to teach her? A freed slave turned successful businessman, his striking good looks and lethally restrained power throw normally composed Kate into a tailspin! She’s already scandalised society, but succumbing to her craving for Virgil would be the most outrageous thing Kate’s done by far…















Survival of the fittest is fine, so long as you’re the one on top … but the family that has everything is about to lose it all …

The Montagues have found themselves at the centre of the ton’s rumour mill, with lords and ladies alike claiming the family is not what it used to be.

The mysterious death of the heir to the Dukedom, and the arrival of an unknown woman claiming he fathered her son, is only the tip of the iceberg in a family where scandal upstairs and downstairs threatens the very foundations of their once powerful and revered dynasty …

August 2012

THE WICKED LORD MONTAGUE – Carole Mortimer

September 2012

THE HOUSEMAID’S SCANDALOUS SECRET – Helen Dickson

October 2012

THE LADY WHO BROKE THE RULES – Marguerite Kaye

November 2012

LADY OF SHAME – Ann Lethbridge

December 2012

THE ILLEGITIMATE MONTAGUE – Sarah Mallory

January 2013

UNBEFITTING A LADY – Bronwyn Scott

February 2013

REDEMPTION OF A FALLEN WOMAN – Joanna Fulford

March 2013

A STRANGER AT CASTONBURY – Amanda McCabe


Duke of Rothermere

Castonbury Park

Darling Kate,

I know you have had a turbulent time of late and that being part of the Montague family comes with its own pressures. Still, it is good to have you home, where I hasten to say I can keep an eye on you. Daughter, your fiery nature and past misdemeanours have not gone unnoticed by me or the rest of the household. Still, your reputation can be salvaged—and I do hope you’ll take this time to find a most suitable husband.

Yours,

Father










About the Author


Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise. Instead, she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining a first-class honours and a Master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition, she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write and submitted her first historical romance to Mills & Boon. They accepted it and she’s been writing ever since. You can contact Marguerite through her website at: www.margueritekaye.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

THE RAKE AND THE HEIRESS

^ (#ulink_7ce6b633-1345-536a-a656-1ae5f1acb1ce) INNOCENT IN THE SHEIKH’S HAREM

^ (#ulink_7ce6b633-1345-536a-a656-1ae5f1acb1ce) THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH

* (#ulink_c296cee5-d4f8-5624-b08d-53f26bb83872)THE HIGHLANDER’S REDEMPTION

* (#ulink_c296cee5-d4f8-5624-b08d-53f26bb83872)THE HIGHLANDER’S RETURN

RAKE WITH A FROZEN HEART

And in Mills & Boon


HistoricalUndone!eBooks:

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER

THE HIGHLANDER AND THE SEA SIREN

BITTEN BY DESIRE

TEMPTATION IS THE NIGHT

+ (#ulink_74d9e75b-423e-5294-a8c1-91dca871f6f2) CLAIMED BY THE WOLF PRINCE

+ (#ulink_74d9e75b-423e-5294-a8c1-91dca871f6f2) BOUND TO THE WOLF PRINCE

+ (#ulink_74d9e75b-423e-5294-a8c1-91dca871f6f2) THE HIGHLANDER AND THE WOLF PRINCESS

^ (#ulink_7ce6b633-1345-536a-a656-1ae5f1acb1ce) THE SHEIKH’S IMPETUOUS LOVE-SLAVE

SPELLBOUND & SEDUCED

^ (#ulink_57e41cf6-9d70-5689-b7d9-ddd671e93c3b) linked by character

* (#ulink_3c4cb992-bc60-5115-8cad-0567aff7b5c1) Highland Brides

+ (#ulink_ddeba7e3-df44-5d13-b945-992fd59c86ea) Legend of the Faol




AUTHOR NOTE


The history of slavery has fascinated me. It’s a complex, emotive and often controversial subject and no one except those who experienced it can know what it was really like. In writing this book I did a lot of research, but ultimately what I’ve written is a personal take which may or may not resemble ‘reality’. What I want to share with you are some of my reasons for choosing to take on the challenge of making a freed slave a romantic hero in the first place.

The Lady Who Broke the Rules is set in 1816. In the United States the trade of slaves was abolished in the north in 1804, after which the manumission of slaves in those states gathered momentum. In the South, however, where cotton was in increasing demand (paradoxically thanks to the north’s industrialisation of textile manufacture), slaves were a hugely important part of the economy and resistance to abolition was significant.

Virgil, my hero, was born into slavery in the South and freed in the north. He was one of the fortunate ones who came to true eminence and used his wealth to give others the chances he had had to make for himself. Though in reality this kind of success was rare, it was not unheard of. Robert Purvis is just one example of the black philanthropists from whom I took inspiration for Virgil, but his entrepreneurial side is an amalgamation of a whole number of black men and women who flourished in nineteenth-century Boston, renting out real estate, setting up restaurants and beauty parlours, making shoes and clothes for the mass market, taking on the establishment by training as lawyers and doctors.

Across the pond in Great Britain many aristocratic families had derived a large part of their wealth from plantations in the West Indies which relied on slavery, but their influence was on the decline. The actual trade of slaves became illegal in 1807 and, although it was not until 1833 that slavery itself was abolished, by 1816 the growing Abolitionist movement, coupled with the decline of the economic significance of the West Indies plantations, made the idea, if not the reality, of slavery much less politically and socially acceptable than it had been a decade or so before.

From the point of view of this story, what interested me most about the British abolitionists was how many of them were women. It was one of the few political causes in which it became acceptable for women to participate and in which women took a leading and influential role, so I relished the opportunity to create a heroine who could, without it seeming a historical anachronism, be active politically and philanthropically. Josiah Wedgwood’s daughter, Sarah, who introduces Kate to Virgil, was just one real-life example I drew on.

There’s a huge difference between perception and reality. Kate had only read about slavery. Virgil had experienced it. As a writer, I had to try and imagine myself in both sets of shoes and whether I’ve managed it or not—well, that’s for you to decide. But ultimately this isn’t a book about slavery—it’s about love. And I hope you’ll agree that Kate, The Lady Who Broke the Rules, is as perfect for Virgil as I imagined her to be.




The

Lady Who Broke

the Rules


Marguerite Kaye




















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To the strong women in my life, from my mother and sister to my friends and the authors who inspire and encourage me.

Annie




Prologue


Booth Plantation, Virginia, Fall 1805

It had been cold last night, the temperature dropping rapidly as dark fell. The initial pain of the whipping had passed. He was used to it, the searing heat of the lash as it ripped open his skin, the white-hot flashpoint as the salt water bit like acid into the open wounds, the sudden blackness which accompanied the soaking—which always accompanied it, no matter how hard he tried to remain conscious. Now the cycle of recovery would follow. He was inured to that, too, the throbbing which became a dull ache as his flesh began to heal, the stiffness in his shoulders and neck from holding himself upright.

Huddled into the corner of the tiny space of the cellar, Virgil was grateful for the cool air on the lacerations which crisscrossed his back. He must have leaned against the rough stone walls, for there was a raw pain tugging at the knitting flesh of his wounds this morning. It was almost impossible to avoid the walls in the confined space, which was not big enough for one his size to do anything other than crouch, not wide enough for him to lie down. He could only curl, foetus-like, on the hard-packed mud of the floor.

Tentatively, Virgil sought out the newly tender spot. His fingers came away wet. Unable to see anything in the pitch-black of what his fellow slaves called the hellhole, he sniffed. The iron tang of fresh blood reassured him. Once, when he was fifteen or sixteen, his wounds had become infected. He’d wondered, before then, whether death would be better than the life he was shackled to. No more after that, and now that there was Millie, what he wanted was not just any life but a better one.

Virgil winced, dropping his head onto his knees. He’d been so sure their strike would succeed this time. So damned certain! But even though the tobacco leaves ripened on the stalks, even though the clock was ticking mercilessly towards the arrival of the merchants’ ships, Master Booth had held strong and the rebellion had been broken. He’d thought they would hang him for it, but he’d been festering so long in the dungeon now that Virgil had concluded he would be sold instead.

If it were not for Millie, this would be a victory of sorts. What would she do without him? What would he do without her? The sweet, tender moments they shared were what kept him going. Lying together under the stars in the blissful aftermath of lovemaking, they wove their dreams. His insurrection hadn’t come close to making them real.

Guilt, an agony much worse than any whipping, racked Virgil’s soul and wrung his heart. Millie was everything to him. Everything! He clenched his fists tight, making the cords of his sinews stand out. He would keep their dreams alive. He would make them happen and that would be his revenge. The time for trying to right the system which kept them all in chains from within was over. Master Booth and his like would never bend. No point in bloodthirsty plans for taking revenge on them either, for bloodshed only led to more bloodshed. He would have his revenge, he would triumph over them all, and he would make his dreams happen, not by physical force but by force of will. His will. He was better than them. He was stronger. He would show them, he would prove to them all that he could be better, and he would do it on his terms. He would win his freedom. He would win their freedom, his and Millie’s. He could read and write. He knew himself smart, for he’d seen that look, fear and confusion, on Master Booth’s face when he’d presented his case before the strike. And he could work. He could certainly work. No one could work as hard as he. The interminable hours he’d worked for the larger part of his nineteen years on earth had honed his body into a powerful machine.

They’d most likely sell him in one of the northern markets, for everyone in Richmond would know him for a troublemaker. If he hit lucky, his new master would be a liberal. It was of no import. He would triumph, and no matter where he was sent to, no matter how long it took, he would win. Then he would come back for Millie. He would make sure and tell her that somehow, though she’d know—she knew him enough not to doubt that, surely? He’d come back for her. He’d tell her so. She just had to keep herself safe until then.

Deep in thought, he hadn’t noticed the tiny fingers of light slanting through the hatch of the cellar. Only as the key grated in the trapdoor lock did Virgil realise they had come for him. He braced himself for the pain as he unfurled his large frame, shading his eyes against the light, taking his first stumbling step in five days.

The plantation square was headed by the master’s residence, the other three sides formed by the huge drying rooms which housed the newly harvested tobacco leaves. His fellow slaves filled the space. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, fear made Virgil’s skin clammy. All of them, field workers and indoor servants, were there in ranks. In front of the whipping post stood Master Booth himself. Was he to be beaten again? Anxiously, he scanned the row of house servants, looking for Millie, but she wasn’t there. Fear turned to dread. The sweet, rotten smell of drying tobacco was overlaid with the sharp, tangy scent of sweat. He saw his dread reflected in the faces of his fellow slaves. A terrible premonition made him stand stock-still. Only a sharp nudge from one of the white servants urged him forward, the manacles on his ankles clanking, to stand in front of the master.

‘You will be sold,’ Master Booth said in that peculiar drawl which still held the faintest traces of his English ancestry. Beads of sweat dripped down his ruddy cheeks. His brown tied wig sat at its usual odd angle. ‘I will not tolerate insubordination. It is time you learned your place in life, boy.’

Virgil straightened his shoulders and threw back his head, meeting Booth’s gaze full-on. ‘There is nothing you can teach me about my place in life,’ he said, his voice raspy from lack of water.

In the past, such defiance had angered Booth. Today, he smiled. It was this which tightened the knot in Virgil’s stomach. Following the direction of the master’s gaze, he was aware of that smile broadening. His knees threatened to buckle as his stunned mind absorbed what he was seeing. Millie. Her hands tied with rope. Her eyes fastened on him. Pleading. Terrified. And beside her, Harlow. The overseer.

Virgil lunged, but the white men holding him strengthened their grip. Even so, he had all but escaped when his manacles were yanked, dropping him to his knees. Millie was crying now, loud, racking sobs that pierced his heart. Not this. Not Millie. Not this. The pride which had kept him silent all his life meant nothing in the face of this new horror. ‘Please,’ he yelled to Booth, ‘please.’

But the master simply scowled. ‘Too late.’ He nodded at his overseer. Millie was struggling desperately. Regina, the cook, took a step towards her, but she was pulled away by one of the housemaids. They all knew from bitter experience that interference would only result in a more brutal assault. Virgil knew it, too, but it made no difference. He continued to struggle, his muscles straining with every last ounce of their power to free himself, to reach her.

He called her name over and over. Their eyes met across the dusty courtyard. The overseer readied himself, unbuttoning his breeches. His white buttocks would have looked absurd under any other circumstances. Millie screamed. One almighty surge of energy and Virgil was back on his feet.

The two blows fell at once.

The overseer smacked Millie hard across the mouth. Silenced but still conscious, she fell onto her back and Harlow made short work of rucking up her brown sackcloth skirts.

The cosh hit Virgil hard across the back of the head. He fell, his face biting into the hot dust, into an oblivion denied Millie as the overseer set about the brief and brutal business of punishing her for her lover’s crimes.




Chapter One


Maer Hall, Staffordshire, 1816

‘Kate! So glad you could make it.’ Sarah Wedgwood pushed her way through the crowd to greet her friend. ‘I was afraid you were still in the Lake District.’

Lady Katherine Montague grimaced. ‘No, I returned a couple of weeks ago, just in time for my cousin Araminta’s wedding.’

‘I heard that your other cousin, Ross, ran off with a ladies’ maid,’ Sarah said sotto voce, eyes agog as she led Kate to a quiet corner of the room. ‘Surely that cannot be true?’

‘We don’t actually know what happened. When my Aunt Wilhelmina discovered that Ross’s intentions towards the girl were honourable, she rather lost the rag with the poor soul and sent her packing. Ross was furious —he headed hotfoot after her, and frankly we have no idea where they are now. Wherever it is, I do most sincerely hope they are married, for it seemed to me that Ross was quite besotted, and of course,’ Kate said with a mischievous smile, ‘to discover that her meddling has had the exact opposite effect of what she intended will make my dear aunt furious. She can talk of nothing but nourishing vipers in her bosom, and my father—actually, I’m not sure that Papa takes in anything much these days, since Edward and Jamie …’

Kate broke off, the familiar lump in her throat preventing her from continuing. Though it had been more than a year since Ned died at Waterloo, longer since Jamie had disappeared, the loss of her brothers still felt unreal. Both were buried in the distant lands where they fell. She wondered sometimes if that was it—with nothing to mark their passing, she could believe that they were still abroad, fighting. At times, she could wholly understand her father’s desire to live in the past. Though Jamie had always been too much the duke-in-waiting for her to do anything other than spar with him, she had loved Ned.

‘Sorry,’ she said to Sarah. ‘Things at home have become rather horribly complicated. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say that your invitation for tonight was most welcome, though my aunt was furious at my accepting it. But I could not deny myself such an opportunity. Where is your guest of honour, I do not see him here?’

‘That is my fault, I fear,’ Josiah Wedgwood, son of the famous potter and the owner of Maer Hall, interrupted. ‘Mr Jackson was with me at the Etruria works, and I did not notice the time. He is changing for dinner, but he should not be long. How are you, Lady Katherine? It is very good to see you.’ Josiah bent low over Kate’s hand. ‘Our Mr Jackson made his fortune in American stoneware, you know, and we plan to do some business together, but I will not bore you with the details, my dear. Tell me how the duke does?’

‘Bearing up. He sends his regards,’ Kate said, a barefaced lie, for her ailing father was not even aware that she was here in Staffordshire, and would never have thought of sending his regards to a man he would consider to be a tradesman. ‘Never mind Papa, tell me about Mr Jackson. I cannot tell you how excited I am about meeting him. What is he like?’

‘See for yourself,’ Sarah replied, nudging her arm in a most unladylike manner. ‘Here he is now.’

As the double doors at the end of the Great Hall were closed by the Wedgwoods’ head footman, a ripple of excitement fluttered through the assembled guests. All eyes turned towards the man making his way down the room. Whispers, like the ruffle of a spring breeze playing on new leaves, rose to a murmur of anticipation. Silks rustled as the ladies of the company vied surreptitiously to be the first to greet him. Gentlemen edged closer to their host with the same intention.

The focus of all this attention seemed oblivious. He was tall, which was the first thing which struck Kate. And he was exceedingly well-built too, with muscles straining at the cloth of his coat, though he carried himself with the grace of a predator. There was about him something fierce, an aura of power, of sheer masculine force which should have repelled her but which Kate recognised, with a frisson of awareness, was actually fatally attractive. In every sense, Mr Jackson was different from any man she had ever met.

As his host stepped forward to greet him, Virgil Jackson resisted the urge to pull his coat more closely around him. A huge fire blazed at the end of the long gallery, but the heat it emitted radiated out to a distance of a few feet only, before disappearing into the chilly air. The copious renovations which Josiah had explained to him in detail during the tour of the hall the day before had not extended to this great gallery, which was part of the original Jacobean building. Despite the tapestries and hangings, a permanent breeze seemed to flutter around the cavernous space. The English didn’t seem to notice the cold, however. The ladies were all bare-shouldered, the rich silks and lace of their evening gowns low-cut, showing an expanse of bosom that in Boston would have been deemed shocking.

The starched collar of his shirt was chafing Virgil’s neck. The gathering, which his host had described to him earlier as ‘a few choice friends,’ seemed to consist of at least thirty people dressed in their finest. He smiled and made his bow to a stream of faces it was not worth his while remembering, relieved that he’d had the sense to visit a London tailor upon arriving in England.

Though he had nothing to be ashamed of in the quality of his Boston-made clothes, there was no denying that they were behind the times compared to English fashions. The dark blue superfine tailcoat he wore tonight was fitted so tightly across his shoulders and chest that it was frankly a struggle to put on, but the tailor had assured him that this was how it should be. His knitted grey pantaloons seemed indecently tight, and a far stretch from the formal black silk breeches and stockings worn on such an occasion back home, but the valet he’d hired—much against his own inclinations—had assured him that in the country evening dress was reserved for balls. The man had been right. He had been damned finicky, fussing over the perfect placing of a pearl pin in the cravat Virgil had been forced to allow him to tie after his own third attempt ended in a crumpled heap with the others, but he’d been right, and though it irked him that it should be so, Virgil was grateful for this small mercy. In attire, at least, he was the same as every other male guest in the room.

Of course, in virtually every other sense he was quite different. Virgil suppressed a sigh. He was grateful for the effort that Josiah and his wife had made to welcome him into their home, but with business concluded, he would much rather have avoided this soirée and the collection of influential people Josiah had invited for the sole purpose of demonstrating their support for what they perceived to be a shared cause. So many variations of that famous abolitionist medallion created by Josiah’s father were being brandished under his nose—the manacled slave cast in gold and silver worn as a bracelet, a necklace, a fob or a hair ornament—that he could be in no doubt of their goodwill. But the people of Old England were as ignorant of one salient fact as those in New England. It was one thing to cut the chains of slavery, quite another to be free. No one in this room knew that better than he.

He was the only black person at the gathering. Since leaving London, Virgil felt as if he was the only black man in England. Being so distinctively different nibbled away at the edges of his hard-earned confidence. He felt as if he were constantly teetering on the precipice of some irrecoverable faux pas, for though his success made him accustomed to mix with the highest of Boston society, and the people in this room were rather politicians and businessmen than aristocrats, the rules seemed to be quite different. It was disconcerting, though he was damned if he’d allow anyone to see he found it so!

‘Virgil, I would like you to meet our most esteemed neighbour and my sister Sarah’s dear friend.’

‘Surely not most esteemed, Josiah. That honour must go first to my father, and I have four older brothers who—I mean, two. I have just two older brothers now.’

The voice, slightly husky, lost its lightly ironic tone as the woman’s smile faded. Josiah patted her bare shoulder. She flinched and tightened her jaw in response. ‘Lady Katherine’s youngest brother died fighting for his country at Waterloo,’ Josiah said, oblivious of the fact that the sympathy he exuded was making his guest squirm, ‘and her eldest brother—the heir, you know—also died fighting in Spain. It is quite tragic.’

‘It is, however, of no interest to Mr Jackson, I am sure.’

Virgil, who had been about to offer his condolences, was rather taken aback by this brusque tone. Was she simply a very private person, or was she in some very English way slapping him down? Before he could make up his mind, a slim, gloved hand was held out towards him, confusing him even further, for ladies, whether old world or new, did not shake hands.

‘I am Lady Katherine Montague. How do you do?’

His first impression of her was that she was rather severe. His next, that she had a clever face, with a wide brow, sharp cheekbones and a decided chin. Her eyes were her best feature. Neither blue nor grey, fringed with curling lashes, they seemed to tilt up at the corners like a cat’s. Virgil took the proffered hand in his own, noting the way her gaze fell to the contrast of his dark skin on the white kid of her glove. ‘My lady,’ he said.

‘Lady Katherine is the daughter of the Duke of Rothermere,’ Josiah Wedgwood said. ‘Castonbury is the biggest estate in Derbyshire, and the Montagues are the oldest family in the county. You have heard of them, I’m sure. The duke …’ He broke off in response to a summons from his wife. ‘Ah, you will excuse me, I must go and see—dinner, you know. Virgil, if you will escort Lady Katherine?’

A forbidding duke’s daughter, who would cast her eagle aristocratic eye over his table manners. No doubt she expected him to eat with his fingers or, at the very least, use the wrong cutlery. As Josiah hurried over to join his wife, Virgil repressed another sigh. It was going to be a long night.

‘Are you enjoying your visit to the Midlands, Mr Jackson?’ Kate asked politely, wondering at the harassed look which flitted across his handsome face. ‘Josiah was telling me that you are to go into business together.’

‘Imported Wedgwood pottery will be subject to the new Protective Tariff which our government is introducing, putting it well beyond the means of your average American. We plan to introduce a new range, manufactured in my factories, which can fill a gap in the market for affordable luxury. Josiah’s people are working on the design at the moment.’

Virgil Jackson’s voice was a slow drawl, neither ironic nor lazy, certainly not languorous, but mesmerising. Though she was, like all the Montagues, above average height, Kate had to look up to meet his eyes. Almond-shaped and deep-set, they were an indefinable colour between tawny brown and gold. His hair was close-cropped, revealing a broad, intelligent brow. His lips were full, a sort of browny pink tone which she found herself wanting to touch. His skin was not really black, but closer to … bronze? Chestnut? Coffee? None of those did it justice. Bitter chocolate, maybe?

Realising that she had been silent far too long, Kate rushed into speech. ‘You will forgive me if I tell you that I find you far more interesting than tea sets,’ she blurted out. ‘I cannot tell you how thrilled I am at having the opportunity to meet you. I braved the wrath of my brother and my aunt to do so, you know, and my aunt is a most formidable woman.’

‘To brave an aunt and a brother, your desire to meet me must have been strong indeed. I’m flattered, Lady Katherine.’

His teeth gleamed an impossible white. She supposed it must be the contrast with his skin. Despite his smile, his expression had a shuttered look, as if he had seen too much. Or perhaps it was simply that the habit of always being on his guard was so ingrained as to be impossible to overcome. Virgil Jackson was not a man who would trust easily. Or at all, Kate thought. She wondered what there was in his history to have made him so.

The fullness of his lips were a stark contrast to the hard planes of his face. She had not seen such sensual lips on a man before. The thought made her colour rise. She was not in the habit of having such thoughts. ‘It is Kate, if you please—I hate Katherine. And as to being flattered—why, you must be perfectly well aware what an honour it is to meet you. Your achievements are little short of miraculous.’

All traces of his smile disappeared. ‘For a black slave, you mean?’

Kate flinched. ‘For any man, but perhaps especially for a black slave, though that is not how I would have put it.’ She met his hard look with a measuring one. ‘Every man and woman in this room is in awe of you.’

It was the truth, but he seemed quite unmoved by it. ‘As they would be a performing bear, I suspect,’ he replied.

Was he trying to intimidate her? On consideration, Kate thought the opposite. Unlikely as it seemed, given the kind of man he must be to have achieved so much, it appeared to her that he was actually trying not to be intimidated. ‘We are all staring, I know, and it is very rude of us, but I doubt any of us has ever met an African before, let alone one with such an impressive story to tell. Our fascination is surely quite natural. Is it so very different in Boston?’

Virgil Jackson shrugged. ‘Back home, it is not so much my colour as my success that makes people stare.’

‘Unless the ladies of Boston are blind one and all, I doubt very much it is that alone,’ Kate retorted. ‘You must be perfectly well aware that you are an exceptionally good-looking man. Why, even my friend Sarah is sending you languishing looks, and believe me, Sarah is not a woman who is prone to languishing.’

She was laughing, not at him, but in a way that seemed to include him in a private joke. Virgil couldn’t help smiling in return, even while he wondered whether her words contained a hint of the irony for which the English were so famous. ‘And yet I do not see you languishing, Lady Kate. I suppose you will tell me that you are the exception which proves the rule?’

‘I am afraid languishing, along with every other feminine wile, is anathema to my nature. Which is just as well, since I am hardly endowed with the feminine graces which make such wiles effective.’

The laughter faded from her eyes, which was a shame for it had quite transformed her, softening her expression, making her bottom lip look more kissable than prim. Even that white skin of hers above the creamy froth of lace on the décolleté of her gown had turned from winter snow to warm magnolia. Was she fishing for a compliment? Virgil studied the tiny frown which puckered her brows and decided most definitely not. ‘That is a very disparaging remark,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Realistic, merely. My mirror tells me the limitations of my attractions whenever I look in it, Mr Jackson. I bear rather more resemblance to a greyhound than I would like.’

Her words were a challenge, but in the short space of this conversation Virgil already knew her well enough not to fall into the trap of flattery or polite contradiction. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said coolly, ‘there is about you a kind of sleek gracefulness in the way you carry yourself, and your bone structure, too, has that delicate, well-bred look.’

For a fraction of a second, she looked as if she would slap him, before she laughed again, a low, smoky sound, intimate and sensual. Once more he was struck by the transformation it wrought, as if a curtain had been thrown back, allowing him a very private glimpse of the person behind the severe facade. Why would such a privileged woman require such a disguise?

Before he could pursue this question, the butler announced dinner. Virgil offered his arm, and he and the duke’s daughter followed their hosts through a succession of chilly corridors to the dining room which was, thankfully, in the renovated part of the house. The petticoats of Lady Kate’s gown rustled seductively as she walked. The claret velvet of her dress lent a lustre to her skin, and brought out golden highlights in her brown hair. As Virgil held her chair out for her, catching an illicit glimpse of very feminine curves as he did so, the first stirrings of attraction took him by surprise. It had been so long, he hardly recognised them.

Lady Kate sat down, leaving the faintest trace of her scent in the air, flowery and elusive. Despite the relative heat of the dining room compared to the gallery, it was not particularly warm. Another quirk of the English, Virgil had discovered, to serve their food tepid—or perhaps it simply travelled so far from the kitchens that it could not help being cool. Warming dishes were a rarity here, though kitchens built in the most inconvenient place possible were sadly common. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ he asked abruptly, taking his place on Lady Kate’s right-hand side.

She took a sip of her wine. ‘A little. I forgot my wrap. It was my own fault. Polly, my maid, was offended by something the butler said to her, and for almost the entire dressing hour I had to listen to her wax lyrical about servants who were no better than they ought to be, who wouldn’t know a hard day’s graft if it bit them on the ankle, who lived a cosseted life wrapped in cotton, and who had no right at all to look down their noses at a working woman. My dresser used to be a working woman of a very particular kind, you see.’

Virgil replaced his glass on the table, slopping a drop of red wine onto the immaculate damask. His eyes narrowed. ‘You can’t mean you have a—a courtesan for your maid?’

‘Streetwalker. I don’t think Polly ever rose to anything so lofty as a courtesan,’ Kate replied candidly.

She was expecting him to be shocked, Virgil realised. There was a defiant look in those blue-grey eyes. He recognised it, and he liked it. She was no insipid English rose. ‘Did you take her on to annoy your aunt or your brother?’

‘Let us not forget my father, the duke. And no, I did not. Well, only partly,’ Kate admitted ruefully. ‘I took Polly as my maid because she used to work the streets around Covent Garden, and since her protector was rather eager for her to continue to do so, I thought it best to remove her from the city.’

‘And does she like being your maid, this reformed streetwalker—I take it she is reformed?’ Virgil asked, torn between amusement and shock.

‘Oh, I’m pretty certain of that. There is Mrs Taylor’s Gentlemen’s Parlour in Buxton, of course, but I really don’t think Polly is refined enough for Mrs Taylor, and besides, I feel sure that I would have heard if my maid had been practicing her arts so close at hand, for it is a mere two or three miles from Castonbury you know, and we are a very tight-knit community,’ Kate said, smiling once again. ‘Though Polly is an extremely loyal maid, she’s a little like a vicious dog, liable to savage anyone else who tries to pat her. Her taste in clothes, however, is exquisite. I can see from your face that you’re thinking I am one of those English eccentrics you have read about.’

‘I’m thinking that you are about as far from a typical Englishwoman as I am likely to meet,’ Virgil said bluntly.

‘I shall take that as a compliment. My father would agree with you, though he views my eccentricities in a rather less positive light. He would much prefer me to be what you call a typical Englishwoman, though to be fair, since I put myself beyond the pale, his efforts to make me conform have been rather half-hearted.’

Though she had not put the shutters up completely, she had definitely begun to retreat from him. There was an edge to her words. Virgil was intrigued, and a little at a loss. ‘You must have committed a heinous crime indeed,’ he said, careful to keep his tone light. ‘And here was I thinking myself privileged to have such a blue-blooded dinner companion. Should I have shunned you? No, I have that wrong—given you the cut direct?’

‘You are mocking me, but believe me, in what is termed the ton, I am very much a social pariah.’

She was turning a heavy silver knife over and over, not quite looking at him, not quite avoiding his eye. Hurt and determined not to show it, Virgil guessed. ‘Then that makes two of us,’ he said, covering the back of her hand with his. ‘I know all about being an outcast.’

Kate was not used to sympathy, even less used to understanding, but she was accustomed to insulating herself with her flippant tongue. ‘You are very kind, but I know perfectly well the circumstances are not the same at all.’ The words were out before she could consider their effect.

Rebuffed, Virgil snatched his hand back. ‘Temerity indeed, to compare myself to a duke’s daughter.’

‘I didn’t mean that!’ Kate exclaimed, aghast. ‘I merely meant that …’ But Virgil Jackson shrugged and looked the other way, and they were clearing the plates, and Kate’s other neighbour was patiently waiting to claim her attention. She was almost grateful for the interruption, despite the fact that the subject would inevitably be her family, and could not be anything other than painful, given the recent developments at Castonbury.

Sure enough Sir Merkland, an old hunting friend of her father’s, and one of the few who seemed either oblivious or uncaring of her tarnished reputation, asked after the duke with that mixture of morbid curiosity and smugness which the healthy reserve for the decrepit, especially when the decrepit person in question was overly proud of his superior rank. Kate abandoned her soup. The consommé was good, but the Wedgwoods’ chef was an amateur compared to the genius currently running the Castonbury kitchens. Not that Monsieur André was likely to remain with them for much longer, for her father’s taste, since the loss of his sons, ran largely to milk puddings and gruel.

She provided Sir Merkland with a much more optimistic account of her sire’s health than Papa’s frail appearance the day before merited, then listened with half an ear to the squire praise her sister Phaedra’s prowess on a horse, smiling and nodding with practiced skill as he proceeded on to one of his interminable hunting anecdotes. On her other side, Virgil Jackson was discussing American politics with the wife of one of Josiah’s business partners, patiently explaining the differences between the federal system and the British Parliament. That slow drawl of his was mesmerising.

The arrival of a haunch of beef and various side dishes distracted Sir Merkland, who was almost as dedicated a trencherman as he was a huntsman, tempting Kate into leaning a little closer to her right. Virgil Jackson was a very solid man. There was a presence about him, a very distinct aura of power which drew one into his orbit. He was certainly different, and undeniably the most innately charismatic man she’d ever met, and it was nothing to do with his colour either, she decided, taking the opportunity to study his profile while his attention was fixed elsewhere. There was just something about him.

She could not imagine him ever being subservient, which must have made him a rather unusual slave. Had he courted danger? She did not doubt it. Was the skin of that broad back covered in a fretwork of scars? She shuddered, for the answer to that question was almost certainly affirmative. What other scars were there, hidden deep inside that attractive exterior? For she did find him attractive, a fact which was somewhat confounding, given that she had been quite convinced that she was immune to such feelings. Was it that Virgil Jackson was in almost every way the antithesis of Anthony? Or was it, she wondered wryly, the fact that he was in every possible way ineligible, which tempted her wayward streak? Imagine Papa’s reaction if she introduced him to the family. Or better still, Aunt Wilhelmina’s. Oh, if only!

Finally released from his neighbour’s earnest interrogation, Virgil stared down with distaste at the slice of bloody beef on his plate and decided to confine himself to the accompaniments. He was hungry, but the food seemed more designed for display than satisfying a healthy appetite. The goose in the middle of the table looked good, but it was out of bounds. Why it was that he must serve himself only from those dishes within reach he did not know, but he had no wish to repeat the shocked silence which had greeted him at the last formal dinner, when he had asked his neighbour to pass the peas.

He helped himself disconsolately to some mushroom fritters. On his other side, Lady Kate was moving her food around without making any attempt to eat. A smile played at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were unfocused, her attention obviously far from the dining room of Maer Hall. Her skirts brushed against his leg. He could smell her scent over the rich aroma of beef. The delicate diamond and ruby drops she wore in her ears drew attention to the slender line of her neck. At her nape, wispy tendrils of hair clung. Such a tender spot. What would it be like to breathe her in, to taste her? The muscles in his stomach clenched. It had been a long time since such thoughts had occupied him. Eleven years.

Lady Kate looked up, perhaps conscious of the intensity of his gaze. Their eyes snagged. A trickle of sweat ran down between Virgil’s shoulder blades. He couldn’t understand how he’d ever thought her severe. He couldn’t take his eyes off her plump lower lip. Moist. Pink. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he asked a little desperately.

Kate gazed down at her untouched plate and shook her head. Around them the scraping of china, the clatter of silver being dropped into the clearing baskets, made it clear that she’d been wool-gathering for some time. ‘You don’t like the beef, Mr Jackson,’ she said, looking at the slab of meat sitting untouched in front of him.

He grimaced. ‘Blood. You will call me heathenish, but it puts me off.’

‘Monsieur André, our very superior French chef at Castonbury, would call you heathenish. He thinks beef is overcooked if the animal’s heart has ceased to beat,’ Kate replied, ‘but I prefer it properly dead and what he would call burnt to a crisp. Not that I would dare say so to his face. Monsieur André has a very Gallic temperament and would likely beat me with his rolling pin.’

Virgil laughed. ‘I would like to see him try.’

‘I wish you could—come to Castonbury with me, that is,’ Kate said impulsively.

‘Well, I … That’s very nice of you, but—’

‘It’s not nice, it’s selfish. I have to leave first thing tomorrow, you see, and I haven’t had the chance to talk to you properly. There is so much I would love to discuss with you, I have so many questions, but there are matters—family matters—oh, why is it that family matters always arise at the most inconvenient of times?’

‘I wouldn’t know, since I have no family,’ Virgil said.

‘Lucky you!’ Kate exclaimed, then was immediately contrite. ‘Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry, I did not think. Have you indeed no family at all? Your parents—?’

‘I was separated from my mother as soon as I was weaned,’ Virgil said tersely.

‘So, too, was I. Mama was not much interested in any of her children, and as a female of course, I was …’ Kate broke off, covering her mouth in horror. ‘Do you mean you were sold?’

‘Family ties are very much discouraged in the plantations. It was—still is—common practice to separate mothers and children.’

‘And your father?’

Virgil shrugged. ‘I never knew him.’ He took a draught of claret. ‘As I said, family ties were discouraged. You should be grateful for yours, whatever your relationship with them.’

‘I am quite humbled.’

‘That was not my intention.’

‘You need not concern yourself. To be honest, what I meant was that I ought to be humbled. If you knew my family, you would understand why it’s very difficult to be grateful for them—some of them, at least.’

He liked that hint of wickedness in her smile. She was not only unconventional but irrepressible. It was a pity their acquaintance was doomed to be of such short duration, Virgil thought. ‘You are not, then, in the habit of doing as you ought?’

Her smile disappeared abruptly. ‘My aunt would tell you that I am rather in the habit of never doing so. Tell me, Mr Jackson, did Weston make that coat?’

He would have taken the change of subject for a deliberate snub had it come from anyone else, but he was pretty sure that a snub from Lady Kate would be much more direct. He had obviously quite inadvertently touched upon a sore point. ‘My tailor was Weston, though how you knew I have no idea.’

To Virgil’s relief, Lady Kate laughed. ‘My brothers go to Scott, being military men, so I knew it was not one of his, and I confess that I know only one other tailor. It was an educated guess, that’s all. You will have the Bostonian ladies sighing into their teacups at your style, Mr Jackson. Though perhaps you are interested in the sighs of just one particular lady?’

‘I am not married, and nor do I have any particular lady in my life,’ Virgil replied curtly. ‘As to my coat—I doubt it will see the light of day when I get home. It took that valet I hired several minutes to get me into it, and I feel as if every time I breathe the shoulders will burst at the seams. Back home, I dress for comfort.’

‘I’d like to hear more about back home,’ Kate said, telling herself that the fact that Mr Jackson was unattached was neither here nor there. ‘May I ask how long you expect business to keep you here in Staffordshire?’

‘Actually, I’m planning on heading north tomorrow while Josiah’s men work on the samples for our wares. We’ll meet up in London to conclude our business before I return to America, but I have other business in Glasgow to see to in the meantime, and there is a model village not far from that city which I have arranged to visit.’

‘Do you mean Mr Owen’s New Lanark?’ Kate exclaimed. ‘How I would love to see it. I am a great admirer of Mr Owen, I have read all his works, and in fact our own little school in Castonbury was established along similar lines—or at least that is what I would like to believe.’

‘Your school—you mean you have set up a village school?’

‘Do not look so astonished. Not all English ladies confine themselves to playing the pianoforte and painting watercolours for amusement, Mr Jackson. Some of us prefer to utilise our time to more effect,’ Kate said stiffly.

‘So you rescue streetwalkers and educate the village children. I did not mean to offend you, but you’ll admit it is something out of the common way, to meet a duke’s daughter who is a revolutionary.’

‘You are far too modest. Rare as we revolutionary aristocrats may be, a freed slave who has made himself into one of the richest men in New England must be rarer. I wish you would tell me more about how you became so.’

Virgil shook his head. ‘I am much more interested in your school. Do you teach there yourself?’

‘I help out when I can, but we have an excellent mistress in the form of Miss Thomson. I rescue governesses in addition to streetwalkers,’ Kate said with a smile. ‘Miss Thomson tries to follow the principles which Mr Owen set down, but to see them in practice would be so much better than reading about them. I wish I could visit New Lanark. How I envy you. Were you serious about establishing a similar place?’

‘Serious about testing its merits. Very serious about the school. Without education, it is not possible to make the most of freedom. I believe that education is power.’

‘With that I wholeheartedly agree. My own education did not amount to much, which goes some way to explaining why even setting up a simple school has taken an enormous amount of effort.’ Kate pulled a face. ‘That, and the fact that as a mere woman I am not considered worthy of having an opinion on the subject. Being female does rather shackle one.’

Virgil bit back a smile. ‘You don’t strike me as being someone constrained by her position in society.’

‘I know perfectly well that there is no real comparison between myself and a female slave,’ she replied, disconcerting him by reading his thoughts, ‘but it is nevertheless how I feel sometimes. Perception and reality are not always the same thing.’

‘That is most certainly true.’

How had he come by his education? Kate was about to ask when a footman leaned over her shoulder, a huge lemon syllabub trembling on the platter in his hands. She shook her head impatiently. Sir Merkland was clearing his throat. The change of course dictated a turn in the conversation. Port and cigars and business would detain the gentlemen until tea. She would be obliged to surrender her monopoly of Virgil Jackson to the other guests when she had barely scratched the surface of what she wanted to know about him.

‘You could do a lot worse than come to Castonbury with me,’ she said impulsively. ‘Then you could see our school for yourself and it would give you something to compare with Mr Owen’s. You know, the more I think about it, the more I am sure it is the perfect solution.’

‘To what?’ Virgil asked, confused by the sudden change in the conversation.

Kate had been thinking only of her desire to know him better, so his question threw her, for though of course it was because she wished to know him better, to say so would imply something much more personal. And though it was personal in a way, it was not that sort of personal because she wasn’t the type of female with whom men wished to be that sort of personal. ‘The solution of your travelling all the way to Scotland without having seen anything of our true English countryside,’ she said mendaciously. ‘Derbyshire is the most beautiful of the counties, and though I admit to being rather biased, Castonbury is one of the most beautiful houses.’

‘Are you serious?’

Determined, more like, now that the idea was in her head, but Kate thought better, at the last minute, of saying so, for Virgil Jackson looked like a man who would resist any attempt to force his will. ‘Perfectly,’ she said instead. ‘I would love to show you our school, and I would welcome your opinion on the plans I have to extend it.’

Virgil frowned. He was tempted. A school established on the Owen model would certainly merit a break in his journey, and he had not yet confirmed the precise dates of his visit with New Lanark’s proprietor. Besides, there could be no denying that a visit to a real stately pile held its own subversive pleasure. He shook his head reluctantly. ‘Much as I appreciate the honour, I very much doubt your family would be as welcoming as you,’ he said.

Which was, as far as her father and Aunt Wilhelmina were concerned, the truth, but that only made Kate more determined. Since those same two relatives had taken such pains to collaborate in her ruin, she would have no compunction in flaunting that ruin in their faces. ‘Actually, it is rather your birth than the colour of your skin which will concern my father. According to him, there are less than a dozen other families in the country with blood so blue as the Montagues. Though since he chooses to confine himself to his own quarters, his opinions do not particularly matter. My brother Giles is acting head of the family at present and he is not at all prejudiced.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Virgil said, ‘I do not think …’

She could see she was losing the battle, but Kate, now quite set on winning, switched tactics. ‘Are you afraid you will be put under the spyglass, Mr Jackson?’ She could see from the way he stilled, that she had hit home. ‘How can you expect to break down barriers if you do not face them?’

‘I hope, Lady Kate, that you are not thinking of using me as a weapon in some sort of private war. Are you perhaps eager to prove your reputation for being a revolutionary to your father and your aunt?’

He spoke softly, but there was an underlying air of menace which made Kate’s skin prickle. Virgil Jackson was obviously not a man who could be threatened. She threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I admit, there is a part of me which relishes the notion of introducing you to Aunt Wilhelmina, but I promise you, it is only a small part. What I really want is to get to know you better.’

Her frankness disarmed him. He was tempted. Who would not be, by such an argument put forward by such a— He could not think of a word to describe Lady Kate Montague. Not that her personal attractions had anything to do with his decision. ‘I will think about it,’ Virgil said.

‘With a view to saying yes?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ he repeated, telling himself he would, though he had already more than half decided.




Chapter Two


His valet brought the note with his shaving water, proffering the folded sheet of thick paper on a sliver tray. Virgil knew who it was from the moment he saw it, though he couldn’t have said how. Had he been expecting it? Hoping for it? His name was written in a clear hand utterly bereft of flourishes, starkly legible. A man’s hand, he would have taken it for, under other circumstances. His valet was not taken in either though, judging from the curious looks he was casting at him via the mirror over the dressing stand.

‘I’ll shave myself, Watson,’ Virgil said, deliberately catching the man’s eye. Though he would have preferred to break the seal in private, he would not lower himself to the subterfuge of sending the valet away, nor indeed would he grant the note the importance such an act would imply.

I was perfectly serious. I wish you would do me the honour of paying a visit to Castonbury. We have much in common, and I am most eager to further our acquaintance. I leave at ten. I have sent a note ahead warning them to expect us, and arranged for your man to travel separately with my maid and the baggage. From what Polly has told me of him, he will have an entertaining journey! K.

Virgil smiled. Practical, blunt and wry, and leaving him with very little option but to accept. It was as well he had already resolved to go, for he made a point of never allowing himself to be coerced. Reading it again, he could picture the sparkle in her eyes as she wrote that last sentence.

‘A change of plan, sir?’

From the supercilious look on his face, Watson already knew the contents of the letter. How the hell? In the way that all servants knew, Virgil supposed. It had been the same on the plantation. Knowledge was power; he shouldn’t judge the man for that. He folded the note and placed it in the pocket of his silk dressing gown. ‘I take it you’ve been speaking to Lady Kate’s maid?’

Lathering his face, Virgil watched out of the corner of his eye as his valet debated between honesty and what seemed to be the English servant’s custom of pretended ignorance. He was relieved when the man plumped for the truth. ‘Miss Fisher did mention that Her Ladyship had invited you to Castonbury,’ the man admitted grudgingly.

‘And did Miss Fisher happen to share her views as to my likely reception there?’

Watson blanched. ‘Miss Fisher had a— She was—The truth is, sir, that Miss Fisher is not short of opinions,’ he said grimly. ‘I cannot imagine how Lady Katherine came by such a female, nor indeed how such a female survives in a ducal household.’

‘Like her mistress, I believe she is rather unconventional,’ Virgil replied. ‘Prepare yourself, Watson, for you will be sharing the baggage coach with her.’

‘You mean we are going to Castonbury? You wish me to accompany you? I was under the impression that you were journeying north alone.’

Judging from the look in his valet’s eye, the invitation was even more of an honour than Virgil had surmised. ‘Do you wish to return to London?’

‘No indeed, sir. I would not dream of leaving you to the ministrations of another,’ Watson declared.

‘Nothing better to do with your time, eh?’

Watson drew himself up. ‘If I have fallen short of your expectations …’

‘Don’t be an idiot, you know perfectly well that you’ve been keeping me right. I don’t like to be waited on, but it seems I must be, and you do it very well, so if you wish to continue with me in the short term …’

‘I do indeed, sir.’

‘Then get packing. I must make my farewells to my host.’

Kate swept down the stairs with her gloves and whip in her hand, trying to ignore the fact that her heart was fluttering in a quite ridiculous manner for one of her age. It was simply that she was interested in Virgil Jackson, that was all. There was a lot to find interesting in him. It was nothing, nothing at all, to do with the fact that he was an attractive man.

Just as the fact that she had spent much longer than usual dressing had nothing to do with wanting to look her best. As she very well knew, even at her best, she could never aspire to beauty, though it had to be said that this particular shade of blue was becoming, and the rather military cut of her riding habit, with its silver braiding and snugly fitting jacket, draped well on her slim form. Kate made a face, chastising herself. What mattered was that she was pleased with her appearance, she reminded herself. What did not matter was what Virgil Jackson thought.

Except, as she turned the corner to the last flight of stairs and saw that he was waiting for her in the tiled hall, dressed in a plain black coat with a grey waistcoat, buckskins and top boots polished to a gleam, and she noticed that his eyes lingered on her as she made her way towards him, she found that she did care. Chiding herself for it, she couldn’t help the tiniest flush of pleasure at seeing that he liked what he saw any more than she could deny that she liked what she saw too. Very much.

She held out her hand. To her surprise, he bent low over it, pressing a kiss on her knuckles. His lips were warm. The touch was fleeting, but it was enough to set her pulses skittering. In the bright light of the early-autumn sunshine streaming through the fanlight above the door, his skin gleamed. His eyes were more amber than brown. The way he looked at her warmed her, as if he saw something in her that no one else could see. ‘I’m so glad you decided to accept my invitation,’ she said brusquely, for it was embarrassing enough, this girlish reaction, without letting him see it.

‘I could not pass up the opportunity to visit this school of yours.’

It was most foolish of her to be disappointed, for what else was there between them save such business? Kate smiled brightly. ‘I’m glad.’

Virgil frowned. ‘Yes, but I’m not so sure that your family will be as enthusiastic. It is one thing to test barriers, as you said last night, but another to force an uninvited guest on people who, frankly, may not be very happy to receive me.’

‘You are invited, for I invited you.’

‘Did you tell them— The note you sent—how did you describe me?’

‘As a man of great wealth and extraordinary influence, a business associate of Josiah with a fascinating history.’

She had not mentioned the one salient fact that he was sure would have been the first to occur to almost anyone else. ‘You don’t think,’ Virgil asked tentatively, ‘that it would have been safer to warn them about my heritage?’

‘Why should I? I look at you and I see a man who has achieved what very few others have. You are rich and powerful and you have succeeded against overwhelming odds which also makes you fascinating. Why should I tell them the colour of your skin any more than I should inform them the colour of your hair, or whether you are fat or scrawny.’ Or attractive. Really extraordinarily attractive. Which, she should remember, was quite irrelevant. ‘Besides,’ Kate said disparagingly, ‘why encourage them to judge you before they have even met you?’

Virgil drew himself up. ‘I don’t give a damn—begging your pardon—about what your family think of me. I was more concerned about what they’d think of you.’

‘My family can think no worse of me than they already do. They are perfectly well aware of my support for the abolition laws, and I am perfectly capable of defending myself, if that is what you are concerned about,’ Kate said with a toss of her head. ‘I’ve had practice enough, God knows.’

‘I don’t doubt that. I suspect you take pride in being a rule-breaker.’

‘Not at all,’ Kate said, ‘you misunderstand me. Breaking rules, even unjust rules, is far more painful than unquestioning obedience. I wish I did not have to be a rule-breaker, as you call me. Life would be so much more pleasant if what one believed and what was expected of one coincided more often.’

She looked quite wistful and Virgil found himself at a loss, for it seemed that they were speaking about two different things. He could, however, agree with the sentiment. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

Kate nodded, touching his sleeve in a gesture of sympathy he was already beginning to associate with her. ‘Our cases are hardly comparable. There are a good deal of rules which ought to be broken, no matter how painful.’

She would not have said so if she knew the price he had paid for his disobedience. No matter how unconventional she was, she would likely condemn him for it, and quite rightly so. Virgil rolled his shoulders as if the familiar burden of guilt were a tangible weight he carried. ‘I play by my own rules,’ he answered, more to remind himself of that fact than in response to what she had said. He could see his remark confused her, but the crump of carriage wheels on the gravel kept him from saying more, and then the Wedgwoods’ groom appeared at the front door and informed them that the gig awaited Her Ladyship’s convenience.

Kate pulled on her driving gloves. ‘I hope you don’t mind the cold, but I drive myself. I hate to be cooped up in a carriage.’

‘That’s fine by me.’ Virgil pulled on the greatcoat his valet had insisted that he would require, having been forewarned that Her Ladyship scorned the closed carriage in which any other lady of her rank would have been expected to travel. With extreme reluctance, he donned the beaver tricorn hat which Watson had also insisted upon. Hats and gloves were items of gentleman’s apparel to which Virgil had never managed to become accustomed.

Kate leapt nimbly into the carriage in a flutter of lacy petticoats at odds with the masculine cut of her dress, and took up the reins. The gig rocked under Virgil’s weight as he climbed in beside her. His knee brushed her skirts. The caped shoulder of his driving coat fluttered against the braiding on her jacket. The air smelt of leaves and moss, with that sharpness to it that was distinctively English. As she urged the horse into a trot, she smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said impulsively.

Virgil laughed, and for once spoke his mind without thinking. ‘That makes two of us,’ he said.

They had left Maer village behind, and were heading eastwards along a country lane at a steady pace. The morning was bright but cool, the sun shining weakly in the pale blue sky. The blackberries which grew so prolifically in the hedgerows were past their best now. The leaves on the trees had turned from gold and amber to brown, curled and crisped by the change in the temperature, ready to float down at the merest hint of a breeze. In the distance, a bell clanged as a herd of sheep made their way across a field.

‘I was about to ask you last night, before the lemon syllabub separated us, how you came by your education,’ Kate said. ‘I realised later that I must have sounded quite the malcontent, complaining about my lack of formal schooling when it was likely that you’d had none at all—as a child, I mean.’

‘I never went to school, not when I was a slave, nor when Malcolm Jackson freed me either.’

‘Jackson is the man who brought you to Boston?’

‘Bought me at auction, and brought me to Boston. There’s no need to dance around the subject. I was a slave. I was sold. Malcolm Jackson paid for me in gold and set me free.’

‘You took his name.’

‘That man placed a lot of trust in me, it was the least I could do. Besides, the only other name I had belonged to the man who sold me. It was no hardship to give that up.’

‘And this Jackson, he gave you an education?’

Virgil smiled. ‘I gave myself an education. Malcolm Jackson gave me a job at his factory and a place to live. He let me have books, and when I was done with his, I found more, and plenty of ideas, too, at the African Meeting House in the city. I studied hard every night and I worked hard every day so that within a year there wasn’t a job at that factory I couldn’t turn my hand to. Sometimes I had just two or three hours’ sleep, but I didn’t need any more. I discovered I had a head for figures. I found I had a mind for business, too, which is more than poor Malcolm Jackson had. He was leaking money, he was being taken for a ride by just about everyone he did a deal with, and he was missing so many opportunities that it was criminal to watch.’

Virgil had shifted in his seat as he talked, so that his knee brushed against her skirt. He was more animated than she had yet seen him. His eyes glowed. He had cast his hat onto the floor, and tugged repeatedly at his neck cloth as he spoke. The finicky valet he had mentioned had obviously tied it tighter than he was used to. He had already admitted that he could not tie such a fancy knot himself. It was endearing, though Kate took care not to let him know she thought so, judging quite rightly that he would have been horrified. ‘I assume there came a time when you could no longer stand by and watch things going wrong,’ she said.

‘I would have interfered eventually, but I didn’t have to. Malcolm Jackson didn’t have the hardest business head but he wasn’t a fool. He could see what was happening, and he could see I knew what to do about it. He was getting old, and he was getting tired and he had learned to trust me. In a year I’d doubled our turnover and he made me a partner. Another year, and we had just about cornered the new market for cheap, practical stoneware.’

‘Was that your idea?’

‘One of them.’

‘And not too many more years later you are one of the wealthiest men in America. This deal with Josiah, is that going to allow you to corner another new market?’

‘I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise,’ Virgil said with a grin.

‘But you have other businesses than—what do you call it, stoneware?’

‘I sure do. I have real estate—that’s property, to you English. Homes to rent to the freed men coming north that are fit for human habitation. Rooming houses that aren’t flea pits. I have some interest in retail—shops to sell what we make at the factories. And some other investments too. As I said, I have a head for business.’

‘It must be a very ruthless one, to have achieved so much in such a relatively short time, with the odds stacked against you to boot. Your ambition knows no bounds. Tell me, do you still exist on two or three hours’ sleep a night?’

‘I prefer not to waste time sleeping if there’s something better I can be doing.’

Kate pursed her lips, her brows drawing together in a deep frown. ‘But why? Why not enjoy your success? Forgive me, but you sound almost like a man obsessed. What more can you possibly want? Aren’t you wealthy enough?’

‘I don’t care about being rich.’

Alerted by the change in his tone, Kate glanced sideways. The light had gone from his eyes. What had she said? ‘You’re so used to working twenty hours a day that you can’t stop, is that it?’ she ventured, trying to make a joke of it.

‘I’m not interested in money, Lady Kate. I’m interested in what money can buy.’

He had shifted in his seat again, to look straight ahead. His expression seemed to have hardened.

Kate’s brow cleared. ‘Oh, you mean schools? Your model village?’

He meant reparation, but it was the same thing. ‘Power,’ Virgil said. ‘The power to change.’

Kate nodded. ‘Yes. If I felt I could have that, I think I’d manage on two or three hours’ sleep a night too. Do you ever wish you could go back? To the plantation, I mean, to show them what you have become.’

He realised, from the casual way she slipped the question in, that this was the subject which interested her most. ‘No.’ It was baldly stated, making it clear, Virgil trusted, that neither did he ever discuss it. He could sense her eyeing him, calculating whether to press him or not.

‘I’m surprised,’ she said cautiously. ‘Were I in your position, I think I’d want to rub their noses in it a bit.’

‘There’s other ways of payback.’ This time, Virgil was relieved to see that she recognised the note of finality in his voice. He never talked about that part of his past, never consciously thought about it, for to do so would be to admit the tide of guilt he had spent the past eleven years holding back. It was one thing to talk around his history, quite another to paint its picture and admit to the pain which he had worked so hard to ignore. Yet there could be no denying that her choice of silence made him contrarily wish she had questioned him more.

The miles wore on. At the border between Staffordshire and Derbyshire they stopped at a village tavern, taking bread and the crumbling white local cheese on a bench outside. It was chilly, but there was no private parlour, and neither Kate nor Virgil wished to endure the curious eyes of the locals in the tap room who had greeted their appearance with a stunned silence.

As they continued on into Derbyshire the scenery changed. The land became softly undulating, the higher, rolling hills of the Peaks casting shadows over the valleys through which they drove. It seemed wetter and greener here. The limestone villages huddled into the creases and folds of the hills, or stretched out along the banks of the fast-flowing rivers such as the Dove, which they followed for some time, where the water mills turned.

It was beautiful, though incredibly isolated, each hamlet seeming to exist in its own world, unconnected and self-contained, Virgil thought. ‘Why aren’t you married, Lady Kate?’

The question startled her, for her hands jerked on the reins, pulling the horse to a walk. ‘Why do you ask?’

Why? He hadn’t realised, but now he thought about it he saw that her remarks over dinner last night had been niggling at him. He could not reconcile what she’d said of herself with the little he knew of her. ‘You said you were a social pariah, though I saw no evidence of it.’

‘Josiah’s guests are my friends but they are not what my father would consider high society. Were you to see me in that milieu you would have evidence aplenty.’

The horse took advantage of her lapse in attention to stop and crop at the grass verge. Virgil took the reins and looped them round the brake. ‘Why? I know I joked about you being a revolutionary, but …’

‘Oh, it is naught to do with that. I have always been outspoken, but the daughter of the influential Duke of Rothermere, you understand, is given rather more latitude than, say, a mere Miss Montague.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm. She threw her head back and glared at him, her eyes dark and bleak, the colour of a winter sea. ‘The fact is, I am a jilt.’

Virgil searched her face for some sign that she was joking, but could find no trace in her stern expression. ‘That’s it? You changed your mind about getting married?’

‘A mere two weeks before the ceremony, and the engagement was of very long standing. I had known Anthony all my life. I did not quite leave him at the altar, but I may as well have, according to my aunt.’

The husky tones of her voice were clipped. There was hurt buried deep there. Had she loved this Anthony? Virgil didn’t like to think so. ‘What made you change your mind so late in the day?’

‘We didn’t suit.’

‘But …’

‘I know what you’re going to say, if I knew him so well why did it take me so long to change my mind? I knew him as a friend of the family. I thought we would suit, and when I tried to think of him as a husband I found I could not.’

The anger in her voice was raw, fresh. ‘How long ago did this happen?’ Virgil asked.

‘Five years.’

‘Did you love him?’ He should not have asked such a deeply personal question. He could not understand why he had done so, for he was usually at pains to keep any conversation, especially with a woman, in neutral channels. But he knew all about the pain of loss.

He covered her tightly clasped hands with one of his own, but Kate shook him off. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, there is no need. I am not wearing the willow for Lord Anthony Featherstone.’

Rebuffed and baffled, Virgil said nothing. All his instincts told him to drop the subject, which was obviously extremely sensitive and extremely painful, but there was something in her voice, in the way she had closed herself off, that he recognised and could not ignore. She was hurt and determined not to show it. He gently unfolded her fingers and took one of her hands between his. ‘Then tell me,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

She hesitated. He could see the words of refusal forming, but for some reason she swallowed them. ‘Do you really want to know?’

When he nodded, she took a deep breath. ‘Anthony was—is—the son of one of my father’s close friends. His family has a bloodline which can be traced back to the Norman Conquest, according to my father. Our betrothal was the result of a bargain struck by our parents when I was still in my cradle. What you have to understand is that as far as my father is concerned, my only value is in making the best marriage which can be arranged. I knew from a very early age that I was destined to marry Anthony, and since I had not met any other man I preferred after almost two full Seasons, I agreed. Anthony was far from repulsive,’ Kate said, determined to be scrupulously fair. ‘In fact, he was considered to be something of a beau.’

‘But you were not in love with him?’

‘I have never been in love with anyone. I doubt it is in my nature to feel so strongly, and in any case, love has nothing at all to do with marriage. At least, not for a Montague. People of our sort make alliances, not love matches,’ she said bitterly.

Falling in love was the one thing Virgil had been free to do. He had loved Millie. He would have married Millie. Were there other forms of chains he didn’t understand? Duty had weighed heavily with Lady Kate. It was not a comparison she would dream of making, but he made it. ‘So you agreed to the marriage because it was what your family wished, even though you were not sure?’

‘I wasn’t unsure, it would be unfair to say that. I was resigned. No, it was not even that. I simply didn’t question it, I suppose.’

Virgil smiled. ‘I find that hard to believe. You seem to question everything.’

‘As I said, life would be less painful if I did not. Would that I had questioned this match earlier. Or had the strength of will to say no when I knew what—knew my own mind better.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘Mama died when I was a child. My Aunt Wilhelmina is her sister, and she was most—most anxious for the match to take place. Even more so than my father, in the end. When I tried to discuss my reservations about Anthony she—she did not— She said that I …’

Her hand curled into a fist within his clasp. Her jaw clenched, her eyes were bright with tears. This was obviously the source of her hurt, or one of them. Virgil felt a momentary spasm of anger at the unknown aunt.

‘And the duke?’

Kate laughed bitterly. ‘My father’s word is law. He made the match. As far as he was concerned, there was no question of my changing my mind, whatever the circumstances.’

‘And yet you did change your mind?’

‘I had to.’

I had to. It was a curious choice of phrase, Virgil thought, but the tightness in her voice, the way she held herself, as if she was afraid she might shatter, and the sheen of tears which he was fairly certain she would be mortified to shed, made him cautious. ‘So you called it off?’

She nodded. ‘My aunt said that I would be ruined, and she was right. Papa refused to put the notice in the paper. He left it to Anthony to do so. “Lord Anthony Featherstone wishes it to be known that his betrothal to the Honourable Lady Katherine …” You can imagine how that looked.’

What Virgil found extraordinary was that such an act could have led society to ostracise her, but he had discovered that there was much he found inexplicable about the English. He supposed it was something to do with her family’s status, and the fact of the date having been set. ‘But your father, your aunt, they are surely reconciled to your decision now, after five years?’

Kate gave another of those bitter little laughs. ‘You’d think so, but you see, I have refused to do penance in the only possible way by making any other sort of match. Though, of course, my situation must have reduced my expectations significantly,’ she said in a voice which left Virgil in no doubt she was quoting her aunt, ‘my blood and my dowry were still sufficient to tempt a few ambitious suitors. However, I may be foolish but I am not stupid. I have no intention of repeating my mistake. I am resolved never to marry.’

‘That is what you meant when you said you have put yourself beyond the pale?’

‘Did I?’ She smiled faintly. ‘Yes, that is what I meant. So you see, as far as His Grace and my aunt are concerned, I am a failure.’

She had said more than enough to make Virgil despise the duke, though it was the aunt, who had signally failed to support her as a mother should, towards whom he directed his anger. All his reservations about the effect of his presence in the ducal residence fled. He very much hoped he would throw them all into disarray. He could now perfectly understand Lady Kate’s desire to defy them. ‘I don’t think you are a failure, far from it,’ Virgil said. ‘To stand up for yourself in the face of such opposition took real courage. I think you are extraordinary.’

‘Do you?’

She had been staring down at her feet, but his words made her look up, and the vulnerability he saw there pierced Virgil’s defences. ‘Yes, I do,’ he said softly. Pushing back the leather cuff of her driving glove, he pressed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. ‘You really are quite extraordinary.’

He meant merely to show her that he understood. That he admired her. That he had not judged her as her family had. A token gesture of solidarity, that’s what he intended. But when his lips touched the delicate skin his intentions changed. Her scent, the taste of her, turned his empathy into desire.

She stilled, her eyes fixed on his when he looked up, wide, startled, but she made no move to pull away. A pulse fluttered at her neck. Entranced, Virgil could not resist touching it. The diamond drops in her ears glinted in the sunlight. He pressed his lips to her skin. It was cold and smooth. She breathed in sharply, but did not pull away. ‘Extraordinary,’ Virgil repeated softly. The air was still, save for the contented sound of the horse champing on the grass by the wayside. There was no one else in sight. He shifted on the narrow bench, his knees pressing into her thigh. Still she didn’t move. Her scent, flowery and already imprinted on his mind, made him think of summer meadows. His heart was beating in time to that fluttering pulse of hers. ‘Kate,’ he said, thinking that her name suited her precisely.

Admiration leached into wanting. He covered her mouth with his own, pausing just a second lest she protest. She did not. Her lips were so soft. She tasted of peaches or apricots or strawberries, sweet and lush. He slipped his arm around her back and pulled her closer. So long it had been since he had kissed a woman. His other hand he used to push back her hat and his mouth shaped hers so easily, so naturally, that he forgot to think about whether he could remember what to do, and sank into her kiss as if he had been waiting to do so from the moment they met.

Kate closed her eyes. Such a gentle touch he had. And the look in his eyes, as if he could see the feelings she kept parcelled up deep inside her. His mouth was warm. His kiss made her feel as if the sun had strengthened. His lips moved over hers slowly, tasting her, seeming to want nothing but to savour her. It made her skin tingle. It made her want. Just want. The purity of it gave her a pang. The simplicity of it, the ease of it, as if their mouths were made for each other, made her wonder. The gentleness made her want to cry.

But as she reached up to touch his hair, as she nestled closer, as she sank into the sensual haze of his kiss, Virgil pulled away. ‘I guess I should apologise for that.’

Kate blinked and touched her fingers to her lips. He sounded singularly unrepentant. She ought to be insulted, but in fact this realisation was pleasing. ‘Mr Jackson …’

‘I wish you would call me Virgil. Hardly anyone does.’

It was a relief to see that he looked slightly dazed, because that was exactly how Kate felt. Or was it dazzled? Were kisses supposed to make you feel like that? Not in her experience. ‘Virgil,’ she said. ‘I like it. Your name, I mean. I like your name.’ And his kisses. She didn’t want him to think she didn’t like his kisses, but she couldn’t very well tell him that. She fanned her cheeks.

Virgil took her hand, stroking the pulse at her wrist with his thumb. ‘I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone in a long time.’

‘Then that makes two of us,’ Kate said with a husky little laugh. His touch was making her even hotter. ‘How long?’

‘Not since Anthony.’ Had she ever wanted to kiss Anthony? She must have done, else she would not have … ‘What about you?’

Virgil shrugged. ‘A while.’

‘Days? Weeks? Months?’ Kate persisted. ‘Years?’ she squeaked, disbelievingly.

‘A while.’

He dropped her hand, moving away from her, as far as the gig’s limited seating allowed. She wanted to probe, but she knew better than to do so. Whatever a while was, it was surprising. Astonishing that a man as attractive, as assured, as Virgil had kissed no one. Though not as astounding as the fact that he had kissed her! She wanted to know why. Or did she? Perhaps ignorance in this case truly was bliss. Kate untangled the reins from the brake. ‘I hope it was worth the wait,’ she said, resorting to her customary glibness.

‘Have we much further to go?’ Virgil asked some time later.

Kate shook her head. ‘We’ve been on Montague land for the past couple of miles. The farmers here are all my father’s tenants.’

‘Good God, I didn’t realise he owned so much.’

‘Well, it’s not really my father but the dukedom. The land is all entailed, so he can’t sell it, and he can’t bequeath it to anyone other than Jam—I mean, Giles. Giles is the heir. Or at least he is at the moment. That may well all be about to change.’

‘How so?’

Kate grimaced. ‘It’s complicated. I should have told you. I’ve invited you into a hornet’s nest, but I so wanted you to come with me. I didn’t really think about it last night, but—oh, God, the truth is that we’re actually in a bit of a mess,’ she said. ‘Are you angry?’

‘How can I be, when I don’t know what you’re talking about?’

‘Yes. Of course. Sorry. Well, it seems that my brother Jamie took a wife in Spain just before he—he died. We knew nothing about it until a few months ago, when my father received a letter from the woman demanding that we do right by her son who is, she claims, Jamie’s heir. You can imagine the uproar that caused. My brother Giles suspects the whole thing is an elaborate fraud but Ross—he is my cousin—met the woman, and seemed fairly convinced by her. So now Giles, who is the heir at the moment but might not really be the heir, has sent my brother Harry—who is the next in line to Giles but of course is further out if this child … well, anyway, Harry is off to Spain to see what he can discover, and in the meantime my father, who is most anxious to detach his grandson from what he has called the scheming wretch, has insisted that they both come to Castonbury.’ Kate drew a breath and laughed at Virgil’s expression. ‘I told you, it’s complicated.’

‘Extremely,’ Virgil said, amused by her method of recounting the tale, dismayed by its content.

‘The reason I had to come home today is because Giles has demanded a sort of family counsel of war.’

‘And knowing all this, you still insisted I accompany you! Surely your time will be quite taken up with these matters, and my presence in the midst of it all can only be an inconvenience at best.’

Kate slowed the horse down as they rounded a bend in the lane, pulling the gig to a halt at a large wooden gate. ‘You are angry. I’m sorry, I ought to have told you sooner, but I so wanted you to come to Castonbury and I was afraid that you would not, and that is the truth.’ She transferred the reins to one hand, placing her other on Virgil’s sleeve. ‘I’m glad that you’re here.’

He covered her hand with his, and smiled crookedly down at her. ‘Thank you, but I think perhaps I should not make it such a long visit.’

‘We’ll see,’ Kate said, deciding wisely not to push her luck. ‘Now, look over there.’ She pointed her whip. ‘That is Castonbury Park.’

The field by which they had stopped was on a rise, looking down on the house. Behind them, the trees which bordered the lane through which they had been driving would provide a pleasant perspective. The house itself was perfectly symmetrical with matching wings set to the east and west. In the centre of the building, a domed roof gave it a distinctive appearance, more like a classical Roman villa or place of worship than a family home. Though it was difficult to see the detail at this distance, it looked as if the architect had been an admirer of the classical style, for there were pediments and pillars, the rustic stonework of the ground floor giving way to the smooth finish on the piano nobile, from which a grand staircase curved down to the neatly manicured lawns. He had expected something flamboyantly grand, but the perfect proportions were so beautiful that he could not but admire them.

‘What do you think?’ Kate asked.

‘It’s not what I thought it would be. I thought the home of a duke would be more … showy.’

She gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Just wait. There is gilt and gold aplenty in the state rooms.’ She urged the tired horse into motion once more. ‘The prettiest part of the grounds is to the north, which is where the main lodge is. The smaller one you can see leads to the Dower House. And through those woods there is a path to the village, where Lily, Giles’s betrothed, lives in the vicarage.’

‘Let me make sure I have this right. Giles is your eldest brother now, and you are next in age?’

‘No, I come after Harry. Ned was next after me,’ Kate said, ignoring the familiar lurch in her stomach as she spoke Ned’s name, ‘and then there is my sister, Phaedra, who is twenty, four years younger than me. Since my spectacular failure to make a good marriage, all my father’s hopes are pinned on Phaedra making her debut next Season but I suspect they are misplaced, for though my sister has the potential to be quite dangerously attractive, she has very little interest in anything but horses, and none at all in either parties or clothes, much to my aunt’s despair. My Aunt Wilhelmina,’ Kate explained, seeing Virgil’s puzzled look, ‘is a widow, my mother’s sister and has been at Castonbury since Mama died. Oh, and then there is my cousin Colonel Ross Montague, the one who has met Jamie’s wife. He also grew up at Castonbury with his sister, Araminta, but she is lately married. And Ross has returned to India … and very possibly ran off with his sister’s maid! And that,’ Kate said, laughing, ‘concludes the current history of the Montagues. I can see from your face that we have signally failed to live up to your expectations, and I haven’t told you half the skeletons we have in our closet, believe me. Why Papa thinks himself superior, I have no idea.’

‘Nor indeed have I,’ Virgil replied, wondering what the devil he’d let himself in for, but unable to resist returning her smile, all the same.




Chapter Three


It was late afternoon by the time they turned into the main entrance to Castonbury Park. Virgil watched with increasing unease as Kate tooled the gig through the iron gates, waving her whip at the gatekeeper. She continued at a smart trot along a well-kept carriageway through pretty parklands where two lakes, the larger with an island in the middle, were divided by a rustic bridge, before coming to a halt in front of the main entrance of the house.

Close up, the building looked far more imposing, the central structure fronted by a colonnaded portico worthy of the Roman senate, flanked by two curved galleries sweeping out to an east and west wing. Rows of windows gazed watchfully down. As he leapt lightly onto the gravel and held out his hand to assist Kate, Virgil told himself that it was purely fancy to think that they looked disapproving.

Inside, a rather gloomy hall dominated by a number of stone pillars and four huge empty fireplaces.

‘Lumsden, I trust you received word that I was bringing a guest,’ Kate said to a superior-looking grey-haired man.

‘Indeed, Lady Kate, I have prepared the Blue Room.’

‘Excellent. Mr Jackson’s man is travelling with Polly. I don’t expect they will be too far behind us. This is Mr Jackson, Lumsden. Virgil, this is Lumsden, our butler, who has been at Castonbury longer than any of us care to remember.’

‘Pleased to meet you… .’

The butler stopped in the act of executing a bow.

‘Mr Jackson is an American,’ Kate explained.

The butler made a huge effort to pull himself together, but his protuberant eyes remained fixed on Virgil.

‘From Boston,’ Virgil corroborated, more amused than offended, for the man was looking at him as if he were about to pounce.

‘Boston,’ the butler repeated.

‘In Massachusetts. That’s New England. Though obviously I’m not originally from there,’ Virgil said helpfully.

‘Indeed, sir, I had gathered not.’

‘Oh, do stop staring,’ Kate said impatiently. ‘Mr Jackson is not going to bite you.’

‘Well, not yet, at any rate,’ Virgil said. ‘I’ve just been fed.’

Taken aback, for she had not thought him a man given to teasing, Kate suppressed a chuckle and cast Virgil a reproving look before turning back to Lumsden. ‘I take it you know about this counsel of war that Giles has called?’

‘Indeed.’ The butler looked as if he himself bore the burden of the Montagues’ woes. ‘A difficult business, my lady. Lord Giles wishes to discuss the matter in the drawing room before dinner. If I may suggest, perhaps Mr Jackson could take sherry in the library, since it is a family matter. We have the London papers there.’

‘That will suit me fine,’ Virgil said, smiling reassuringly at Kate, who was looking troubled.

‘If you’re sure? Then I shall see you in a couple of hours. Lumsden will show you to your bedchamber.’

Kate disappeared into the gloom of the vast hall, leaving Virgil alone with the old retainer, who made more stately progress in her wake. The guest rooms were in one of the wings which adjoined the main body of the house, connected by a curved corridor lined with ancestral portraits, where Lumsden slowed to a crawl, intoning: ‘the fourth earl who became the first duke’; ‘his first duchess’; ‘his second duchess’; ‘her second son’—as if he were introducing them at a party. Virgil wondered if he was expected to make his bow to each one. Their eyes followed him as he passed. He was pretty certain he could hear their affronted muttering.

Alone at last, staring out the window of the Blue Room at the lakes, he felt a wave of homesickness. This house was steeped in the kind of history he could not begin to comprehend. Though the current building was less than a hundred years old, Kate’s ancestors had lived on this land for centuries. A direct line, as Lumsden had informed him, fluffing his feathers like a proud cockerel, going back to the first earl, who had been raised from a mere baronetcy by Queen Elizabeth. The Montagues had roots so deep they were entrenched in the very soil of England. Their customs and traditions, their bloodline and heritage, hung around Castonbury like a protective cloak.

Virgil had not thought of himself as rootless until now. Gazing around the Blue Room, at the tapestry depicting a naked woman bathing surrounded by nymphs and exotic creatures, at the Chinese porcelain on the carved mantel, at the rich silks of the bed hangings and the thick oils of the paintings in their heavy gilt frames which hung on the walls, and the soft pile of the rug which covered the polished wooden boards, he felt as if all of it was conspiring to remind him that he had no place here. The antiques screamed of wealth and position, of traditions so well established as to be inviolable.

He ran his hand over the embroidered coverlet. Black skin on celestial blue silk. His being here was a violation of something entrenched. Though Kate did not think so. She had welcomed his touch. The contrast of his skin against hers seemed to fascinate her. In another world, the differences in their skin colour would not matter. Virgil stared at his image in the long mirror which stood by the nightstand. ‘Not another world, another planet,’ he muttered.

A gentle tap on the door made him snap to. He was here now, and he was damned if he would allow these blue-blooded aristocrats and their haughty servants to look down on him!

‘Ah, Katherine. So good of you to join us. Finally.’ The Honourable Mrs Landes-Fraser swept into the drawing room, the puce feathers in her turban waving majestically, the demi-train of her evening gown swishing violently, while the fringes of her shawl caught on the crook of a Dresden shepherdess perched atop a card table, causing the maiden to skitter across the polished rosewood before coming to rest just short of the edge.

Deigning to accept her customary glass of very dry sherry, a libation ideally suited to her extremely dry humour, Mrs Landes-Fraser disposed her wraith-like person upon one of the large blue damask sofas. The sofas, ornately scrolled and gilded, were adorned by a blatantly naked sea creature on each arm, a feature at which Mrs Landes-Fraser took personal affront each time she sat upon them. With a flair born of practice, she flicked her shawl expertly over the exposed bosom of a mermaid. ‘I am sure,’ she said, looking down her Roman nose at her niece and speaking in a tone which made it clear she was no such thing, ‘that your hasty visit to Staffordshire was necessary, but it was most ill-timed. Though I am aware you do not think so, I believe that your family have first claim on your time, particularly in a crisis. I cannot quite believe that you have, under the circumstances, inflicted a guest upon us. Really, Katherine, it is most thoughtless of you. You must get rid of the person as soon as possible. Giles will agree with me, I know.’

Her nephew, who was leaning his tall frame against the mantel, shrugged impatiently and sipped on his Madeira. ‘This is Kate’s home—she’s perfectly entitled to invite guests.’

‘But this man is apparently an American,’ Kate’s aunt said with a shudder. ‘Bad enough we have to put up with one outsider …’

‘If this woman’s claim proves to be true, then she is not an outsider but family,’ Giles said shortly.




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