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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2022 by Kristin Vayden

  Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Judy York/Lott Reps

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Back Cover

  Dedicated to my grandmother, Nadine Lainhart, who, through every season in life, found a reason to be joyful, even when it seemed impossible.

  One

  England, 1815

  “Your Grace, the incident has been resolved.” His mother’s nurse spoke succinctly, eyes averted. “Your mother is resting now. The doctor would like to talk to you.”

  The fire crackled as the silence stretched into several moments before Rowles Haywind, Duke of Westmore, acknowledged her words with a nod. “I’ll meet with him shortly. You’re dismissed.”

  The nurse gave a quick curtsy and took her leave.

  When the door to his study closed, Rowles let out a pent-up breath. His mother had grown progressively worse since his older brother’s untimely death. Robert, the late Duke of Westmore, had lost his life with several others in a fire at a party. The loss had cascaded through several powerful families in the London ton, shifting the mantle of titles to several younger sons—himself included.

  His mother, Amelia Haywind, Duchess of Westmore, hadn’t been well even before Robert’s death, and once she learned her favorite son had passed, what was left of her mind fractured into shards like broken glass. It was frustrating to keep her under the watchful eye of her nurses and doctor, but Rowles saw no other way. Left to her own devices, she would run stark naked through Hyde Park.

  She’d done it before.

  And she’d tried it again today before being thwarted by the footman stationed outside her bedroom door. But unlike earlier times, on this occasion, she wasn’t as easily persuaded to return to her rooms. The doctor had been called and had laced her tea with laudanum to calm her down.

  Rowles stood from behind his desk and knocked on the mahogany surface with his knuckles. He released a wry snort of irritation as he looked to the door, then to the crackling fire. It had been hard enough losing his brother. His mother too? Wasn’t that too much? A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips as he thought how condescending he’d been to his students at Cambridge when they posed similar questions.

  As a professor of divinity at Christ’s College in Cambridge University, he was expected to have the answers, or at least know how to pray for them. But even with all his knowledge, his study, and his researched answers, he was coming up empty on the questions that plagued his own soul.

  A person could be crushed under the weight of it all. Yet maybe that was the unfortunate secret: A person never really broke; they bent till they had nothing left. Was that what was happening to his mother? Her mind hadn’t broken, had only become bent so far it no longer was able to think straight?

  Worse yet, the thought he didn’t want to dwell on, the one that haunted his moments of weakness was: Will the same happen to me?

  “Your Grace?” Himes, their new butler, bowed low.

  Rowles tugged on his shirtsleeves, straightened, and forced the unwelcome thoughts from his mind. “Yes?”

  “The doctor asks for you—at your leisure, of course,” the butler finished, then slowly rose from his bow.

  Rowles nodded. “I’ll come directly.”

  Himes stepped back from the doorway, allowed Rowles to exit first, then followed close behind.

  The hall extended to the main entrance and then flowed to the grand staircase. The living quarters were on the second floor, in the western wing of the Elizabethan-era house. Built in an E shape, the house had undergone several renovations to keep it modern. However, the grand staircase and the location of the family apartments had remained unchanged.

  Rowles took the stairs slowly, not looking forward to the conversation with the doctor. He was sure it would be a different rendition of the same advice: sedate her, keep her comfortable, post a guard at the door.

  The white-haired doctor was frowning at the wooden floor as Rowles approached him. Upon realizing the duke’s presence, the doctor straightened, then bowed.

  “Your Grace.”

  “Doctor Smithe.” Rowles waited for the doctor to begin.

  The doctor’s bushy eyebrows drew together, covering his bespectacled eyes. “I’m afraid it required more laudanum than I usually have to administer, so she will be sleeping for several hours.” The doctor paused, seemed to consider his next words. “The agitation she exhibited was abnormal. Was there perhaps some sort of event that troubled her?”

  Rowles shook his head. “Nothing of which I’m aware.” Rowles studied the doctor. “It’s worse, isn’t it?”

  The doctor met his look, and Rowles appreciated the lack of pity in his expression as he answered with a directness often absent in others. “Yes. And it will likely continue to progress, Your Grace.”

  Rowles bowed his head with the weight of the truth. “Is there nothing to be done, then?”

  “At this point, no. Unless you wish to—”

  Rowles’s head snapped up, and he met the doctor’s stare, which had shifted to a look of wary concern. “Hell will freeze over before I send my mother to Bedlam. If there’s nothing else?”

  Rowles didn’t wait for the doctor’s response, but spun on his heel, gave the doctor his back, and left.

  He doubted the doctor would suggest such a preposterous idea again. As if he could relegate his mother to within the stone walls of that institution legendary for harboring insanity. His mother wasn’t herself, but she wasn’t a danger. And she would be prey in a place such as that. Never had he been so grateful for the privilege of his rank. Because of it, he wasn’t forced to consign his mother to Bedlam, but could provide a better way to care for her needs.

  A shudder racked his body as he thought about the implications that would course throughout the London ton should he make such a move. His mother’s infirmities were whispered and laughed about, but he didn’t begrudge the murmurings. They were all accurate, or at least mostly. It would be like a tiger without stripes if the London ton didn’t gossip about a widowed duchess who had a bent mind.

  But that didn’t mean he found it easy to deal with the furtive peeks in his direction from people wondering if the infirmity was in his blood. Though apparently that wasn’t enough of a threat to keep the mamas of the ton at bay when it came to throwing their daughters in his direction. How his late brother had dealt with such officious attention was beyond comprehension.

  Rowles descended the stairs and returned to the quiet solitude of his study, welcoming the sight of shelves of books all well-worn with use and appreciation. Life had been so much simpler when his brother carried the mantle of the family title. Rowles missed teaching; missed it with an intensity that was too similar to resentment to be healthy. He would be a better professor now, he was certain. Life had taught him some harsh lessons, and humility had been one of the most p
owerful lessons.

  If he’d learned anything, it was that he truly didn’t have all the answers. And maybe that was the greatest lesson of all. Knowing how little one knew. But damn and blast, it was a difficult lesson to swallow. His eyes drifted to the hearth, the embers glowing in the evening light, and he felt a kinship with the charred wood. Could anything be made from ashes?

  He struggled with the answer that rose from his long study of the Bible.

  Beauty. Beauty came from ashes. Perhaps his and God’s interpretations of beauty were vastly different. It wouldn’t be the first time. And unfortunately, it likely wouldn’t be the last either.

  Two

  Every man gives his life for what he believes. Every woman gives her life for what she believes.

  —Joan of Arc, from “Joan of Lorraine” by Maxwell Anderson

  Joan Morgan studied the two pieces of linen paper on her brother’s desk as she considered his question. One missive was written in broad, feminine penmanship with little care for efficient space usage on the expensive linen paper. The writing on the other was more linear, with clean lines and perfect flicks across the t’s and evenly spaced dots above each i.

  “Well?” Morgan, her elder brother and the Earl of Penderdale, asked impatiently. His Christian name was Collin, but she’d only ever called him Morgan. It suited him better, she thought, and he apparently agreed.

  “Left. The one on the left,” Joan answered, then lifted her eyes to meet her brother’s gaze.

  “You’re sure?” he demanded. He was so temperamental these days, like an irritated stallion constantly snorting and pawing the earth as if restless deep in his soul.

  “Yes.” Joan nodded, then clasped her hands in front of her, willing a peaceful demeanor against her brother’s irksome one.

  Morgan held her gaze for several moments before looking down at the papers and collecting each one carefully. “I’ll let them know.”

  Joan nodded, not that her brother was looking at her, but out of habit as he slid the papers into the leather folder from which they had come. After closing the folder, he took a deep breath through his nose and met her scrutiny.

  Joan sighed. She knew that look. Dear Lord, she’d dealt with that expression her whole life, and was certain she knew the lecture that was about to follow.

  Holding up a hand, she tipped her head and met his look with a frank stare of her own. “Before you break into the ‘Joan, we’re playing a dangerous game’ lecture, please remember that I’m the one who’s anonymous, and you’re the one who takes the risk. So if anyone should be lecturing, it would be me giving the speech to you. And so help me, if you begin one sentence with anything regarding me being of the feminine sex, I will take this letter opener and—”

  “There’s no need to threaten me, Joan.” Morgan’s look shifted into one of amusement as he deftly slid the gilded letter opener away from her reach. “You’re right—”

  “Say it again,” Joan demanded.

  “I don’t think I will.” Morgan lifted the leather folder and smirked. “I’ll be back this afternoon, long before we need to prepare for the ball.”

  Joan folded her arms across her chest. “You better not be late. You think my warning with the letter opener was hostile, but I will do far worse—I’ll find you a wife.”

  Morgan stilled. “Don’t remind me. But, since you did mention the w-word, I do believe it would be wise to remind you that since tonight is your come-out, less is more.”

  Joan narrowed her eyes and tipped her chin lower, as if bracing for a verbal fight. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  Morgan shrugged. “I think you know very well. As it is, I wanted to wait a year, maybe two before you started this whole debacle—”

  “I’d be on the shelf before I even had a chance!” Joan retorted. “Nineteen is late enough. There are ladies married at nineteen!”

  “Other ladies are not you, Joan.” Morgan’s voice sliced through her argument.

  She froze, then slowly nodded. “Exactly. Which is why I will be a sensation. Don’t you think? After all, I’m not simpering, limpid, and boring. I fancy myself to be fascinating, really. And I think others might as well. Having a secret always makes a person more interesting, don’t you think?”

  Morgan sighed. “I know. Believe me, more than anyone else in the world, I know. Which is why I’m taking this seriously, as should you. Just…do me a favor, please?” He turned his brown eyes imploringly to her, and some of her bravado faded into affection for her now only brother. They’d lost Percy; all they had was each other now. She might fight Morgan, but in the end, she knew he had her best interests at heart, so with a nod, she waited.

  “Even if you know something, see the details that others missed and piece together some scandal, or read someone’s expression that makes you think they’re lying, you must keep it to yourself. When you find the right man, I’ll help you talk with him about your remarkable work for king and country in the War Office, but till then, protect yourself, protect your heart. Likely you’ll see through all the bad apples, but in case…”

  Joan took a few steps toward him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “I understand, and I will be careful. Chances are even if I slipped up, it would be easily explained as a coincidence. I’ve worked with you long enough to know how to be on my guard.”

  “True, but multiple coincidences lead to suspicion, and I don’t want you to be the focal point of any of the ton’s bile in their gossip.”

  “Thank you.” Joan squeezed his shoulder. “I’m thankful for a big brother like you.”

  “Even if I’m an overbearing tyrant?” Morgan asked, releasing a tight chuckle.

  “Even if you’re an overreacting, overbearing, maniacal tyrant,” she answered.

  Morgan released a breath. “With Father and Mother gone, and then when Percy died in the fire… I don’t want to lose you too. Even if only to heartache.”

  “You won’t, but you will be taking your life in your hands if you don’t leave now so you’ll be back in time for the ball,” she teased, attempting to lighten the mood, but the mention of fire had her on edge slightly. Ever since they’d lost their brother in the blaze, she’d been fearful of that element.

  Morgan’s eyes widened, and he clasped the folder to his chest, then took his leave. “Be back in two hours at the most.”

  “We’ll see,” Joan called out as he disappeared from the library.

  Releasing a breath, she looked to the desk where the papers had rested. Her skill was hopefully going to save a life today. The missives were two letters sent from the same source; one was a decoy, the other the real message. Without information concerning which one was a ruse and which was accurate, the War Office didn’t know which location was the correct one, since each missive held a different destination. It was a smart precaution in case the messenger was caught—which he had been—but it wasn’t enough. Not when the War Office had someone like her in their ranks. Though any information and questions were passed through her brother, Joan had developed quite a name within the office.

  It was Morgan who had coined her alias, Saint. It was brilliant, really, since she was named for Joan of Arc, thus giving a fitting nod to her namesake.

  It had started when she was in leading strings, when her father had worked for the War Office as a handwriting analyst. As a student of graphology, he kept Camino Baldi’s book Trattato on his desk as a reminder of the power of the written word in deciphering clues about the writer. Baldi’s book, coupled with Charles Grohmann’s treatise on inferring character from handwriting, had been elemental in her father’s work of studying the handwriting of a potential criminal or threat given in writing.

  The late earl had traveled to Germany to talk to Professor Grohmann and returned with piles of notes, which had fascinated her. Thankfully, her father had encouraged her reading, and as she watched him work, she’d learned how to apply what she’d read. One day, she was in her father’s office looking at the same paper as him. When he denied finding anything suspicious about it, she’d placed her hand over his, halting him from shifting the parchment to the side. The memory was still strong in her mind as she recalled the scent of his tobacco that clung to his jacket and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. There was a small discrepancy, one that was almost imperceptible, in the second line of the missive.