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His whistle came to a halt. “Hold up a moment, Dee. I’ve a lace untied here.”

She let her feet carry her a step farther while he bent down, let her eyes sweep across the moors that had never felt quite like home. Maybe one of these days she’d be able to return to Ireland. Settle down with a farmer or merchant who wouldn’t mind that her best years had been spent in a lord’s house in England, see that Mum passed her later years without working her fingers to the very bone.

Assuming she could ever get ahead of the debt Da had taken on when the crops failed back in 1902. It wouldn’t happen on a maid’s salary, for sure and certain, though the extra she made as head housemaid certainly helped.

“Dee!”

The panic in Hiram’s tone snapped her back to the present. Hooves thundered—and she had wandered into the crossroads. She hadn’t any time to realize where the horses were coming from before she was yanked backward. Her feet tangled with Hiram’s, and they both tumbled into the ditch. Pain shot through her bottom as she landed.

At the loud whinny directly before her, she looked up to see
that the two horses had reined in and one of the riders had dismounted.

Hiram muttered something unintelligible and helped her to her feet as the rider strode their way. A mere glance showed her why her friend had been so quick to pull her up—Deirdre dropped into a wobbly curtsy. “Lord Cayton, my apologies.”

The young earl frowned and halted a few steps away. “We are the ones who must apologize for such a careless race. Are you injured?”

“I am well, my lord.” Deirdre smoothed her grey skirt and directed her gaze to the ground. No doubt Lord Cayton wouldn’t recognize her from the times he’d come to Whitby Park, but it would take no great logic to realize from where they’d come. And his lordship may decide later it was their fault rather than his.

“And you, man?”

Hiram cleared his throat. “No worse for the wear, my lord.”

“Leave them to their outing, Cayton, and let’s be on our way.”

The second voice brought Deirdre’s gaze up, but only for a moment. A moment was sufficient to reveal the chiseled features and ebon hair that matched the smooth baritone.

“Coming, Pratt. You’re both certain you are well?”

Deirdre nodded along with Hiram as Lord Cayton remounted his horse. They held their place until the riders had continued past and then stepped back onto the road toward Eden Dale.

Hiram let out a whisper of breath and brushed something from Deirdre’s shoulder. “Are you hurt, DeeDee?”

“Nothing that hasn’t passed already.” She grinned to let him know she meant it. “And you?”

“Fine.” But he sent a rare frown after the gentlemen before he shook himself and smiled again. “We have an adventure to tell now. And some folks claim village life is too quiet.”

She had little choice but to laugh.

The rest of the walk into town was uneventful, and they
parted ways at the pub. Deirdre first posted her letters and then paused outside for a fortifying breath. A look around proved no one paid her any undue mind, so she headed for the church.

Silence embraced her inside the sanctuary, and light slanted in with all the colors of the stained glass. It ought to have brought peace, reverence, but instead her pulse picked up as she slid into the next-to-last pew. Only then did she check her watch—two minutes to spare.

No footsteps sounded, but she felt it when he came in, and she held her breath until he slipped into the pew behind her. Held it until, as always, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her jaw. “You nearly frightened me to death back there in the lane.”

Her eyes slid shut. “Nothing frightens you, Lord Pratt.” Least of all the thought of her being harmed.

“You think me such an ogre?”

“I think you . . . too far above me to be disturbed by my stumbling.” She slid away a few inches and turned to see his profile. The first time he had approached her, she had been struck dumb by his beauty. But it was the beauty of a dark angel—that she had learned quickly enough.

His chuckle made no pretense of mirth. Much like the fingers he trailed down her neck never pretended they wouldn’t as soon strangle as caress. “Tell me, my lovely Deirdre—how is it you know Lord Cayton?”

Though she wanted to swallow, she didn’t dare. Those fingers would note it and mark it against her. “He . . . he came to Whitby Park with his cousin last month. Lord Harlow. About the girl.”

“And that is the only time you’ve seen him? He hasn’t come another time to call on Whitby’s nieces?” He lifted a brow, his black gaze promising to know if she lied.

“He came to dine once since. But he seemed more taken with Lady Melissa than Lady Regan.”

“Good. Good.” Lord Pratt rested his arm on the back of the pew. “And Lady Regan—of whom has she been speaking lately?”

Not him, though she wished she didn’t have to admit that. “Her preference isn’t clear, my lord. Though her sister teases her most about Lord Worthing.”

“Hmm.” No one else she had ever met could pack so much displeasure into a hum. “You, of course, put in a word wherever you can.”

“Of course.”

“And Whitby—I heard he succeeded in breaking the entail on the estate.”

That, at least, should appease him. “Aye. With no possible heir through paternal lineage, they granted it. The estate will go wherever he wills it, and the title will go extinct when he passes on.”

She wasn’t sure why so distant a maternal cousin as Pratt had any thought his lordship might name him heir—but then, he knew it was unlikely. That was why he was so determined to court Lady Regan.

Lord Pratt leaned in until their noses all but touched. “And where will he will the estate?”

“I . . . Mr. Graham thinks it certain Lady Regan will inherit, but Lord Whitby never speaks of such things in my presence.”

“Of course not.” His smile did nothing to soften the steel in his eyes. “But he speaks of it to someone, and someone else overhears. Then that someone no doubt bandies it about in the kitchen later. I ask only that you keep your ears open, my sweet.”

Her nod was slight, lest it put her face any closer to his. “I do.”

“I know you do. After all, you realize my funds are not unlimited. I cannot keep supporting your family forever, not without—”

“I know.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Unless, of course, you are willing to—”

“Please. I understand.”

He laughed. “Very well, my lovely, cling to your so-called respectability a bit longer.” The crinkling of paper drew her eyes open again, and she saw a banknote dangling before her.

Eyes wide, she looked past the note and to him. “Why is it more than we agreed?”

“Incentive.” He reached over the pew back and slid it into the handbag she’d set at her side.

There was nothing she could do but say thank-you. Even though she knew the devil never made a gift without demanding something in return.

Four

R
ain pelted the window, and the wind howled about the railway carriage. Brook pulled her coat tighter and wished for a blanket.

Across from her, Justin pressed his lips together, but a smile still winked. “Cold, Brooklet?”

Perhaps she ought not to have teased him so mercilessly over the years about his inability to adjust to the Mediterranean heat in the summers. Turnabout was fair play, after all. She crossed her arms and dug up a grin. “It is invigorating.”

As he laughed, Brook looked toward the door at the end of the car. Their companions would be back any moment—his valet, Peters, and her governess-turned-chaperone, Mademoiselle Ragusa. Perhaps Brook should have requested some coffee to warm her.

She decided to settle for a body to block the chill from the window and so moved to Justin’s side.

Her book thudded to the floor, and he leaned down to pick it up. Then laughed again. “
Dracula
?”

Lifting her chin, she snatched it away and set it beside her.
“It has a portion that takes place in the town of Whitby. How was I to pass it up?”

Though he shook his head, his eyes gleamed. A beautiful sight—for the week they remained in Monaco making arrangements for his father’s funeral, he had been so silent she feared he would turn to marble.

“Not exactly scientific research on your new hometown,
mon amie
.”

“Well, it was the best I could find in the meager ten minutes you afforded me in the book shop yesterday.” And the thought of her “new home” made her every bit as anxious as the red-eyed stranger had made Harker in the first chapter.

Justin studied her for a long moment, seeming as usual to divine her thoughts from her innocuous words. With a crooked half smile, he took her hand in his. And set the world to rights. “Look.” He nodded toward the window.

No new rain pattered the pane, though a few stubborn drops still clung and slipped along. Beyond them, sunshine broke through the clouds and painted the landscape with gold.

Brook drew in a long breath. She had read of the English moors, and Justin had done his best to describe them to her. But nothing had prepared her for the sheer expanse. The land seemed to roll on forever, hardly touched by man. Heather blossomed purple and shone green as far as the eye could see. “It’s beautiful. So . . . big. You could fit all of Monaco in that one valley.” It made her itch to find a horse and let it have its head, to fly through the countryside until she lost herself in its grandeur.

A new chill swept up her spine. Perhaps she didn’t want to lose herself quite yet—not until she knew she had been found.

“Another minute and you’ll be able to see the North Sea. That should help you feel more at home.”

She kept her gaze fastened on the moors, not arguing when
he slid closer to the window and pulled her along with him. She drew in a deep breath. “How do you survive in the Cotswolds without an ocean nearby? I don’t know that I could.”

“Whenever it becomes unbearable, I simply go to Monaco.” As he said that last word, the mirth faded from his eyes, and his tone went from cheerful to a low throb. His thumb stroked over her knuckle. “I suppose I have no reason to return there now.”

Her heart twisted at the pain in his voice. “It has only been a week. Give yourself time to take it in.”

Now he gripped her fingers so tightly they pulsed along with the memories. His face contorted for a fraction of a moment before he battled it back into a smooth, handsome mask over the agony. “I tried to warn him. He’d had too much to drink, he ought not to have—but he wouldn’t listen. He would never listen, not about anything.”

Covering his hand with her other one, she prayed the gentle pressure she applied would steady him. “His choices were his own.”

“I know. But I . . .” He touched his head briefly to hers. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t prattle on about my loss when you’ve a reunion before you.”

“Please. Prattle.” She tried to grin, though it felt unconvincing.

For a moment he simply stared at her, the sapphire of his eyes going deeper with contemplation. Then he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You have nothing to fear,
mon amie
. They will welcome you.”

She longed to believe him. But the heather outside stretched on and on, no civilization in sight. Everywhere she looked was green and soft purple instead of white and terra-cotta. Lovely, but not
home
. What if her family—assuming they
were
her family—were the same?

The breath she drew in quavered. “And if not?”

His fingers squeezed hers again. “Then you pay a visit to the Cotswolds. There is no ocean there, but there will always be a friend.”

Yes, better to focus on the unchanging. No matter what, Justin would always be there. Even if
there
was still too far away. Wishing she didn’t feel like a lost child, she clung tight to his hand. “But you will stay in Yorkshire a little while,
oui
? At least until we are sure that I . . . that they . . .”

“Until you are well and truly settled.” His smile was his own now, not the shadow it had been the last week. “My cousin Cayton has a house an hour’s drive from Whitby. I can stay with him as long as necessary.”

An hour’s drive—in Monaco, that would take one into France, most of the way to Italy. Odd how it now kept one within the same neighborhood. She nodded and directed her gaze to the window again.

Just in time. The train crested a little knoll, and there, out in the distance, beckoned the unmistakable sparkle of sun on a placid sea. Slate grey rather than emerald and azure, but that was no matter. It was the ocean, capable of raging and calm, of peace and war, of beauty and destruction.

Her lips tugged up. Justin was right—wherever there was a sea, she could find her place.

Mademoiselle Ragusa and Peters returned a moment later, the latter handing a cup of steaming coffee to Justin. The smell brought her to alert—though at the look on Justin’s face when he sipped, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Not to your liking, my lord?”

“In some things I will always be Monegasque.” Justin took another drink but then shook his head and handed the cup back to Peters. “Coffee, if not strong enough to wake a man from a coma, is not truly coffee.”