Chapter 1

1

The docks of London were a mass of sights, sounds, and scents. As he stepped off the gangplank, Leander Mayfield fairly reeled under the onslaught. After nearly five weeks aboard the Persephone, he was glad to be onto solid land again, although his legs weren’t yet accustomed to it. It was preferable to attribute his uneven gait to that than to think the influenza he’d barely recovered from before setting sail had returned.

He did his best to keep out of the way of the other disembarking passengers and then the multitude of workers hauling cargo to and fro. The docks of Boston had seemed crowded and busy, but they were nothing compared to London with her ships and wherries and crates and wagons and people as far as his farm-bred eyes could see.

“Yer box, lad,” a stevedore dropped a small trunk at his feet.

“Thank you.”

“Get along wit’ye, then,” the man ordered briskly.

“Yes, sir.” Leander bent to grasp the handle of his trunk, only to be assaulted by waves of nausea. He straightened slowly and closed his eyes, praying both would pass. He shivered; for the past week he had been cold so long that it often seemed he would never feel warm again.

“Move along,” said another voice, not nearly as amiably as the first. “Out of the way, there.” The owner of the voice, an even larger stevedore, gave him a shove and he nearly fell.

Gripping the trunk handle, he began walking, scanning the area for somewhere to sit and collect his thoughts.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” The same stevedore that had jostled Leander sounded much meeker now. “Can I help ye?”

“The Earl of Dearborne was to arrive today on the Persephone,” came a haughty voice. “Is he still on board?”

Leander didn’t hear the stevedore’s answer, being lost in his own thoughts. There was an earl on board? If only I had known that when—oh. I wonder if I’ll ever grow used to the fact that I’mthe Earl of Dearborne. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. “I’m Leander Mayfield, sir.”

Both men turned toward him and Leander suddenly became acutely aware of his clothing. Although he was wearing his Sunday collar and coat, and his overcoat was only a year old, he felt decidedly shabby in comparison to the heavyset man in the fur-lined redingote that was opened to reveal a green silk waistcoat and a fashionably tied fine linen cravat.

“Leander Mayfield?” Cool gray eyes flicked over him and then the man removed his tall beaver hat and gave Leander a slight bow. “Lord Dearborne, I am Morleigh Mayfield. The late earl, as well as your grandfather, were my father’s half-brothers.”

Leander tried to follow. “That makes us…cousins?”

“Half-cousins, after a fashion.” Mayfield didn’t sound the slightest bit interested in the fact.

After losing his father and both brothers in the past few years, Leander was glad to find himself with any relations. Standing as straight as possible, he removed his felt hat and imitated Mayfield’s half-bow. “I am very glad to meet you, sir.”

“The coach is waiting,” was all Morleigh said in response. Then he glanced over his shoulder. “Dodds, see to his lordship’s trunks.”

“There’s only one,” Leander explained. “I can—”

The stevedore was also eager to make up for his previous error. “Yer lordship, I can—”

“I said the footman will see to it.” Mayfield spoke firmly, freezing the stevedore in his tracks. “Come along, Dearborne.”

Still a bit dazed, Leander allowed himself to be ushered to an impressive coach with a coat of arms—hiscoat of arms—painted on the door. However, it was the pair of perfectly matched bays drawing the vehicle that made Leander forget his weariness momentarily. He stood admiring them until he realized the footman was holding the coach’s door open and everyone was waiting for him. Quickly he climbed in and sat down, feeling shabbier than ever on the velvet-covered seats.

Mayfield followed, settling himself across from Leander. Silence descended in the coach as it rolled away. Despite the dim interior, Leander could feel Mayfield’s eyes on him and searched for something suitable to say. “You have very handsome horses, sir.”

“They are your horses, Lord Dearborne, just as this coach is your coach,” Morleigh replied, still maintaining his cool, formal tone.

“Oh.” Leander fell silent as he tried to absorb that information. His father had owned only two plow horses, and even on the rare occasions he allowed his sons to ride them, Kit and Chance—as the eldest—claimed ownership of them and Leander usually rode sitting behind Kit, hanging onto his brother’s coat. The idea of owning such fine animals himself was rather bewildering.