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The Soul of a Stranger

By Dana Celich

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The Soul of a Stranger



Chapter 1



Miserable. That was undeniably the proper word for the weather on this gloomy spring afternoon — depressingly wet, unseasonably cool, and definitely miserable. But, after all, this was England, and, more to the point, it was a funeral.

Blunted raindrops — all but invisible against hard, gray church stones and sodden, black cloaks — battered the mourners as Henry Devreux, the third Earl of Hartwell, was laid to rest. Quite a few men had braved the downpour to be present at the cemetery, for Hartwell had always commanded the respect of people from all walks of life. Although he had been rigid in his opinions and reserved in his demeanor, he had lived an honorable and upright life. He was even rumored to have been strictly faithful to his wife of twenty-eight years.

It was rather an accomplishment for one of the aristocracy.

Standing well in the background on the fringes of the grieving crowd, William Devreux, the fourth Earl of Hartwell, watched his father’s lifeless body carried by pallbearers into the family mausoleum. As the heir, he should have insisted on serving as his father’s chief mourner, but to the outrage of many he had refused to do the job. His half-sister’s husband had stepped in on his behalf.

Will had also declined to carry an umbrella, and now the cold spring rain was soaking him to the bone. He welcomed the wetness on his face, however, because the drops falling off the brim of his hat masked the tears upon which Society frowned. These would be his only tears, he vowed.

He had admired the calm assurance his stepmother had shown in public throughout this whole ordeal, but he was glad women weren’t permitted here at the graveside. The Dowager Lady Hartwell had kept the vigil beside her husband’s body at the house and had been able to say her private goodbyes there. Will alone had seen her savage grief, by accident, when he had gone down to the drawing room in the middle of the night to offer to relieve her watch. Deep, aching sobs had stopped him in his tracks. Afraid she would see him and be embarrassed by the interruption, he had hurried back upstairs.

If only he hadn’t insisted on coming to Ashbourne Park in the first place! Would that he could turn back time, reset the clock, change his selfish decision. His father had written to him, suggesting that he postpone his visit, but he had been rather keen to avoid a certain angry gentleman from whom he had won two hundred pounds in a shady betting game. So he had made his way to the estate in the throes of a short-lived but nasty sickness.

That had been five days ago. He felt much better now, but the Earl had contracted the illness soon after his son’s arrival. The older man’s weak lungs had been unable to stand the strain of the virulent infection, and it had all been over in a matter of fewer than twenty-four hours.

Will’s stepmother had been remarkably kind, but he had hated that. He wished she had railed at him in front of everyone, accusing him of killing her beloved husband as surely as if he had plunged a knife into the Earl’s heart. After all, Will accused himself, he deserved her indignation. And although such a scene would have been ugly, he would have preferred her disdain to her soft tears and her attempt at hugging him, which she abandoned when it became clear that he would not under any circumstances put his own arms around her.

He had to get away from Ashbourne Park. The sooner the better.

He shivered underneath his cloak, resenting the cold air made raw by the unrelenting deluge. The interment was almost over, thank heavens. His father was now resting beside the mother he couldn’t remember and the half-brother he remembered too well. A triumvirate of the righteous dead.

So where could he go when he put Ashbourne Park behind him? Not to London, he thought irritably. As his expensive Hessian boots squished in the mud on his way back to the family carriage — in which he had insisted upon riding alone for the funeral procession — he ruled out returning to his town house. Although the idea of living out the next few months in a drunken stupor had a certain appeal, for the first time in his life the thought of it also strangely repelled him. He grudgingly conceded to himself that the pain of his guilt and grief would only be dulled temporarily, and he might do something grossly stupid in the meantime. Furthermore, the season was underway in London with its crush of parties, balls, and entertainments; solitude was a complete impossibility.

Better to take a journey far, far away. But where should he go?

He could ride to Southampton or Bournemouth and take a ship from there to some remote destination. Not to France, naturally, which like much of Europe lay in the grip of Bonaparte’s rule, but perhaps he could go to Sicily. Or, farther away still, he could even travel across the seas to North America or the West Indies. But what would he do in any of those places? The same things he would have done in London: drinking, betting, and other assorted forms of debauchery. He might as well go back to carousing with the Prince of Wales, he grunted with distaste, recalling what he considered to be the heir to the throne’s tedious company.

He stared out of the window as rain-carved ruts rocked the coach uncomfortably from side to side. Who would welcome his presence and yet leave him to his own devices? Not his aunts and uncles or cousins; they would interfere, ask questions, write to his stepmother or half-sister, and generally make nuisances of themselves.

What about friends? Not that he had any real friends, he admitted to himself bleakly. The men with whom he surrounded himself were more like partners in crime, if his late father’s opinions were correct. No, he didn’t want to see any of their dissipated faces.

But another face rose up in his mind’s eye, taking him by surprise. Now there was a fellow Will hadn’t thought of in many years: Barney! Or — more precisely — Mr. Barnabas Worthington, now the squire of some undistinguished place in a far-off corner of Cheshire. They had been companions during their Oxford days, when Will’s courtesy title of Viscount Disborough had not yet become synonymous with fast living. Nonetheless, Will had been well on his way to garnering that reputation. He had been sent down for most of Trinity term his second year as punishment for a series of ill-considered juvenile pranks. Unfortunately, when he returned to the university for Michaelmas term, Barney had graduated. They had seen one another rarely after that, and it had been eight or nine years since Will had even written to the man, but now he recalled him fondly. Barney had not been above raising a rumpus on occasion, like any of the students, but he had been blessed with a steady temperament, and he had faced every day with good humor.

Yes, Will decided as the carriage came to a stop in front of the grand house at Ashbourne Park, he would search out Barney.

His stepmother was dismayed when he told her he was going away. “You are Lord Hartwell now,” she scolded him. “Your duty lies here. What makes you think that you have the luxury to go off and mourn somewhere by yourself?”

“Mama, you have Esmé and John right here should you need anything. They’re planning to stay at Ashbourne for several weeks.” Another good reason to flee, Will thought. “And this way you need not feel that you must move out of the main house and down to the dower house straightaway. It will give you more time to organize your things, to adjust to the situation.”

Her face fell. “Yes, that’s true. I am tired.”

“You see? It’s for the best that I leave.” He wanted to put his hand on her shoulder, but he resisted the urge.

She raised her eyes to his. “Won’t you at least tell me where you’re planning to go?”

“No. I don’t want anyone chasing after me, hunting me down like a wounded animal.”

“They won’t. I’ll see to it. I won’t tell anyone where you are.”

“They’ll weasel it out of you, and you won’t be able to stop them from tracking me down.”

She sighed in acknowledgement of the truth of his claim and gave up. “Please take care of yourself.”

He couldn’t promise that, but he lied easily enough. “Of course I will. I’ll come home eventually.”

There was a long silence, and neither of them moved. Then she whispered, “I don’t blame you for his death, Will.”

His throat closed up, and the tears he had vowed he would not shed again threatened to storm out of his eyes. He took a few steps backward. “Perhaps not,” he spat out, his voice cracking. “But I do!”

He whirled around on his heel and charged out of the room, slamming the door behind him with such fury that a maid walking in the hall jumped out of his way with a squeak of alarm. He stomped up to his bedroom, marched into the adjacent dressing room, and began to throw a few necessities into a satchel.

His valet came running into the chamber. “May I assist you, my lord…?” he started to say, but Will cut him off abruptly.

“I am going away for a while. Alone.”

“But, my lord…”

“I shan’t need you, Dibbs. Just stay here and — oh, I don’t care — see that my entire wardrobe is cleaned and pressed, or something.”

“But, my lord…”

Will closed the satchel and fastened it. “Do as I say. Be of assistance to the Dowager Countess whilst I am gone.”

“Of course, my lord, but…”

Satchel in hand, Will pushed his way past the dismayed man. It was almost as though he were being compelled by an unseen force to rush out of the walls of his childhood home and into the darkness.

He avoided saying goodbye to his sister and her husband and went directly to the stables. There he mounted not his usual steed, but one of the estate’s horses — an older, reliable stallion named Prometheus. Without even a clear idea of where he would sleep, he rode out into the dismal, wet night.

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