CHAPTER TWO

4th July 1815

Two weeks and two days after The Battle of Waterloo

It was finally over.

After 12 long years, Napoleon's army had fallen.

The Duke of Wellington had defeated the French army at Waterloo, but it was close. Napoleon had known that Wellington and Blücher's armies were positioned near the North-East border of France, waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. It was information that only a select few in favour of the Prince Regent could have known.

As Napoleon had gained this information, he had made advances, attacked, and won a battle with the Prussians two days before being defeated at Waterloo. It was no wonder the Duke of Wellington was being hailed a hero across the country.

Prinny had some he trusted above all others, and Samuel Ashford, the third son to the Duke of Essex, was one of them.

Sam had been summoned two days after the battle and sent out to find who had betrayed their King and Country. So far, his investigations had led him to the Earl of Kinnear's residence in Scotland.

He stood in the shelter of a small woodland nicely placed about half a mile from the castle. It had begun to rain on his way there. Tiny water droplets, so light they floated on the air as a fine mist, settled atop his clothes.

Watching the castle, hugging his greatcoat about him for warmth, and began sifting through the information he knew of the family. The last Earl of Kinnear had died twelve months ago in a tragic hunting accident.

If he recalled correctly, the new earl, a great nephew of the late earl, had taken over with great gusto. His widow, Letitia Vane, the Countess of Kinnear, still resided on these lands but in the Dowager Cottage. She was currently in London for the season, so none of this could have had anything to do with her.

A vision of the countess entered his mind, and he gave an involuntary shudder. She was not only an awful woman but not one he thought of as a beauty. She was too slender, all sharp angles and was rather horse-faced. He didn't know of many men she hadn't tried to lay with over the years. Undoubtedly the late earl must have been cuckolded more times than any other man.

Naturally, she had not given her husband a full year of mourning. He reckoned she was in London within a month of his funeral.

She had cornered him at a rout party last season, and the thought of being caught alone with her had scared him half to death. The idea of her hands on his body made his skin crawl even now. He had given up on procuring any vital information that night and left the party immediately.

Shuddering once more, he actively put thoughts of the cold, vulgar Letitia out of his head. He started walking back to the quaint village where he was staying. The path running between the village and castle was well-trodden and conveniently snaked through the woods that he used to watch over the house.

As he walked back, he revisited the past few weeks and all the results of his investigation that had led him to Castle Kinnear. All that he had found indicated that this was the source of the letters.

He needed to write to Rees and get him up to Scotland. Rees Roper was his best friend and right-hand man.

The two had been inseparable growing up, and after Eton and Oxford, they had shown an interest in the army. They were quickly seized upon before buying commissions so the British Army could use them to spy on the French. They had darted in and out of France and its neighbouring countries on dozens of occasions over the years.

They monitored Napoleon's movements and reported it back to Prinny, giving the British Army vital advantages many times. His big brother, Josiah, was also a Commodore in the Royal Navy. He had been able to share valuable information with him with Prinny's permission.

Upon his return to the village, he headed straight for the inn. It was small and a little run down, but he had slept in worse places. After having a filling supper of stew and freshly baked bread - all washed down with a pitcher of ale - he penned a letter to Rees.

4th July 1815

Dearest Friend,

You must join me in taking in these breathtaking views. Scotland is

wonderful! Pheasants are plenty in these parts, and hunting is made with

much success. I pray you will meet me in the town of Biggar in ten days

hence.

Yours faithfully,

Luke Dormer

P.s. Bring the family.

He reread the concise note. It had everything he needed to say. He and Rees were well acquainted with each other's coded meanings.

The pheasant would indicate to Rees that he had met with success, the day and place to meet him, and a postscript to bring the family meant to bring extra men as a backup.

He walked to the innkeeper polishing glasses with a questionable rag behind the bar. Putting on his best Scottish brogue, he asked, "Do ye have a mail coach going past tomorrow?"

The innkeeper did not raise his head but gruffly replied, "Nay, laddie. It'll stop off here around noon the day after next."

"Ah, right. Do ye have a seal and wax I could use?" Sam asked.

The barman didn't utter a word but turned and went through the dark mahogany door behind him. He didn't wish to inconvenience the man. Still, his request showed that he did not carry such things by asking.

After a few minutes, he returned and placed a candle, red sealing wax and an unbranded press on the counter. He sealed the letter, leaving it with the barman for Thursday's post and headed to his room.

He was dressed in clothing made from poorer quality than he ought to wear as the son of a duke. He had done so for years, spent months dressed likewise, yet could never get used to it. He found it itched like hell.

How privileged am I?

Perhaps being blue-blooded was a thing, and his skin would always repel the course material it currently had scratching against it.

He chuckled to himself as he walked into his room. It was a small room with a single bed, a washstand with an old mirror propped on it, and a surprisingly comfortable armchair in front of a small fireplace.

The fireplace was clean since it was July, and what felt chilly for Sam having come from the continent as recently as last week, the Scots found comfortably warm, even on dreich days such as today.

Sam removed the mirror behind the washbasin and placed it on his bed before kneeling and pulling his travel bag from under the bed. He took out some crisp, expensive parchment, ink and pen, and his signet ring and placed it all on the mirror.

He had to get into the castle to look around and make subtle inquiries of the staff there. The easiest way was through working within its walls. He sat down on the armchair and rested the mirror on his knees. With all care and in his neatest hand, he penned a letter of recommendation written by himself, Lord Samuel Jeremiah Ashford, to aid Luke Dormer in securing a job.

Of course, he was also Luke Dormer. Luke had been his favourite groom as a child, and the name seemed as good as any other.

He had arrived in the village two days ago. Yesterday, whilst talking to the local blacksmith about finding work, he mentioned what work he had previously done for the Duke of Essex' household.

As predicted, the blacksmith mentioned a castle nearby that might be more to his experience. Lord Kinnear was looking for some male staff.

"Ye'll get yer room and board their laddie if ye can do the job. They struggle, ye see? No young lads left much around these parts."

The plan was working out even better than he could have hoped. If his suspicions were correct, Castle Kinnear was the origins of the treasonous information. The best way to gauge who was responsible would be to observe the household as a staff member.

He had played many roles during his years spying, so he felt up to the task, whatever it may be.

He wrote a recommendation based on being a valet for the third son of the Duke of Essex. With his letter finished and left open for the ink to dry, he wrapped and placed the ink and pen back into his bag.

Once dry, he folded the parchment and sealed it with his ring, leaving this family emblem of two lions raised in a fight imprinted in the red wax.

He placed his ring back in his bag and tucked it under his bed. Leaving the recommendations propped on the desk, he left his room, took care to lock the door and headed back downstairs.

Mrs Innes was sitting at the desk in the small entry area. "Good evening, Mr Dormer," she said, smiling flirtatiously.

It's easy to see she could have been pretty in her youth. She was a buxom, middle-aged woman whose teeth had seen better days. He gave her his most charming smile and bade her good evening.

"Could I trouble ye for a bath the morra's morn at six, please, Mrs Innes?"

She tilted her head to the side, gazing at him with a dreamy look, and he knew she imagined him naked in the bath. He could almost see her sighing at the thought.

"It'll cost ye," she said in a throaty whisper she undoubtedly intended to be seductive. Sam chuckled and gave her his most roguish smile, "I'm tae head up tae the big hoose and see about some work ye see? So perchance I'll be sticking about these parts, Mrs Innes."

She giggled and sighed, giving him a light whack on his arms. "Away we ye, ya toe rag. I'll see tae it that there's one drawn fur ye by six. Ye ken where yer heading aye?"

"Aye, Mrs Innes, doon the hall fae me. No peeking, though!" he said, feigning a shy expression before turning and heading back upstairs.

Once in his room, he laid out a nice clean set of clothes and polished his boots until he saw his reflection.

It would not do him any favours to look anything but immaculate tomorrow. He was expected to portray Lord Samuel's valet and look the part. If he looked anything less, the butler would not even entertain him stepping foot in the door, let alone look over his references.

He pondered it all, ensuring he had his story straight while washing and undressing for bed. His story was that Lord Samuel had gone on a tour overseas and would be gone for an unspecified amount of time. His poor valet, Luke, did not travel well or do so good in the heat as they had discovered in the past and now needed some new employment.

Yes, that will work nicely, he thought to himself.

The most straightforward explanations always worked best. They seemed the most plausible, and relative truths were easier to remember. Sam was indeed the type to get seasick and always took plenty of ginger roots onboard with him, something his big brother, a man that practically lived on water, never failed to tease him about when they needed to meet in person.

He crawled into bed and turned over to blow out his candle. Tomorrow he would be in a position to solve this mystery. He lay on his side staring out of the window at the setting light.

He wanted to spend some time at home with his parents and brothers, attend clubs, bed beautiful females, play cards, and drink brandy. To do it all for sheer pleasure and not because he needed to obtain information. He was growing tired of it all now, but at least the war was finally over.

It had been a long time since he had been in his cups. He did not drink while working, and he had not stopped working for over ten years straight from finishing at Eton.

He blew out a long breath and closed his eyes. It'll all be over with soon, he told himself. Soon.

☙

Florence always woke with the servants and was dressed and sipped her jasmine tea as they had their morning duties. She wasn't a servant. At least the servants didn't think so.

Being a governess meant you were in the middle of the upstairs and downstairs. Too lowly to dine with the family and her station making her too high to dine with the servants. She had taken to dining with Cassie, which wasn't unusual for a governess.

Cassie was her charge and the ward to the newly appointed Earl of Kinnear. They ate dinner at seven then Cassie went to her chamber, reading a little before sleep. Most evenings Florence and the earl had fallen into the habit of playing cards or billiards.

His manners were easy, and they had fallen into a companionable friendship. Florence had no siblings to compare their relationship to, but she often felt that their playful banter and teasing ways could undoubtedly be recognised.

Florence gazed out of her window on the third floor facing East and was perfectly placed to watch the sunrise. Everything was always so peaceful and calm at this time of day. She loved the mornings here.

This morning she was up slightly earlier than was her habit. Today was the day she met the man. She did not know who he was or who had sent him. She had pondered the "Who is he?" question possibly a hundred times. Naturally, no answer ever materialised, for she hadn't a clue.

She first met with the man ten months ago while taking her morning stroll. Initially, she had been frightened when he approached her.

Fearing the worst, he might physically assault her, she backed up too quickly and tripped over a tree root. He had lurched towards her causing her to scream like a banshee. Holding up his hands, he'd spoken softly that he wouldn't harm her. He had been sent to her by his employer. Florence allowed him to help her stand before taking a few steps back, placing a respectful distance between them.

He had explained that her help was desperately needed and offered her plenty of coin for the work she was required to carry out. His employer provided one whole pound for each letter she took into the village and sent with the mailing coach on a Thursday.

In the last ten months, she had made forty-one pounds! Forty-two pounds once she had collected the letter today. She had saved every coin, hiding them away within her armoire.

As a governess, she only earned thirty pounds a year. These extra savings opened up other opportunities for her future. And on top of this, she was helping to save her country. She had aided in defeating the French and bringing British soldiers home safe by helping to end the war. All in the name of the King, so the man had said.

She couldn't deny that it had brought some excitement into her run of the mill existence here at Kinnear Castle. And so, she had asked Fergus, the Earl of Kinnear, if she could take Thursday mornings off for errands, and he had kindly agreed.

At four and twenty, she was well sought-after as a governess. However, work would be hard to come by when she is forty, which was considered too old for a governess. She has often freighted over the days in her future when she would not be able to work for a living.

Now she had the means to plan for a future in which she was self-reliant. When she turned five and twenty, she would come into a small inheritance from her father. It wasn't much, but she hoped to have five hundred pounds between her savings and inheritance.

Her walks each morning were filled with dreaming up ways to use the small fortune to give her some freedom and bring in a little income. She seemed to sway more towards opening up a bookshop. That would be ideal if she could find a shop with living space upstairs or through the back.

She knew she would never marry.

With no dowry and no family, she knew it was unlikely. It didn't stop her from dreaming that maybe a friendly younger tenant farmer might move nearby and be in the way for a wife.

Then she reminded herself that even though she was unwed and childless, that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy life. Investing her income through a bookshop or such would mean she would be not only comfortable for the rest of her life but also occupied.

She did not want to end up in a small cottage, living out her days as a spinster with only cats for company. Cats would feed on her rotten corpse before it registered with anyone that she was dead.

She shuddered, then laughed at herself, wondering at the gothic turn of her thoughts. It was all because of that blasted book that Fergus had given her to read.

Fergus had poked fun of her endlessly. The Castle of Wolfenbach had scared her so much that she had to spend at least an hour playing chess or cards with Fergus before she could go to bed. Although sometimes sleep still evaded her as torturous thoughts of incest, familial betrayal, and murder had her wound so tight she flinched at every creak.

She smiled at the ease of it.

They were both orphaned and only children, so it was unsurprising that they took to each other. Each was sensing what the other lacked. Even though he was now an earl, he had never known this side of the family, and he hadn't known of the connection. His story had been fascinating when he had retold it to her.

The clock chimed seven times.

SEVEN! She mentally shook herself.

She had been wool-gathering for far too long. She was well past the time to head out and meet Mr Man. That was the name she had taken to calling him. He had explained that it was important that no one knew names. He didn't know hers, only that he was to approach her. There was no point in giving false names when you knew they were untrue.

She walked away from her bedroom window. Things had turned out better than she could ever have expected. To think she had been nervous and admittedly a little frightened of moving up to Scotland and leaving her hometown in Yorkshire behind.

She wrapped her hooded cloak over her shoulders and tied the ribbon under her neck. It was June, but it was still chilly at seven in the morning.

She left her usual way, running down the servant's spiral stairs at the back of the house praying, as was her habit, that she didn't trip and break her neck.

The servants were already in the kitchen preparing breakfast, and the smell of freshly baked bread engulfed her senses. Mrs McTavish made the best bread in all of Scotland, of this, she was sure. She was a well-rounded woman, with a robust figure and arms as strong as any man farming the land thanks to all the years heaving sacks of flour and kneading bread. Her cheeks were constantly rosy, even in the depths of winter.

Florence sometimes wondered if the woman applied rouge to her cheeks, a little too liberally, or perhaps indulged in a little too much sherry in the evenings.

"Good morning, Mrs McTavish. I am headed out on my morning walk. When Penny takes up Cassie's breakfast, could you ask her to relay that I am running fifteen minutes late this morning? And may I say your bread smells exceptionally delicious this morning," she smiled.

"HA! I see right through ye, Miss Clifton, but flattery always works with me. Help yourself as you walk by."

"Thank you kindly, Mrs McTavish," she replied and picked up two bannocks as she walked by. They were still hot, fresh from the oven only moments before, and Flo relished their warmth, one in each hand, as she headed out into the chilled morning air.

Smiling to herself, she made her way through the gardens nibbling on warm bannocks as she went. Once out the small gate on the south side, she walked along the little path between the beautiful, well-kept gardens and the fields used for pasturing sheep. Following the track for half a mile, she approached the corner of the woods and slipped in through the trees.

After walking for another ten minutes, she reached their meeting spot. Mr Man was waiting.

He was an average looking man, neither short nor tall, with hair of medium brown, as were his eyes. He was a willowy man in oversized homespun clothing. She often laughed at how bushy his eyebrows were for one so young.

Florence placed him in his mid to late thirties but had never bothered to ask. She knew she'd not get an answer.

"Morning. Yer late. Here's yer letter and coin. I must be on my way now. Good day to ye," he said as he handed her the small package and stalked off in the opposite direction from whence she came.

Well then, she thought wryly. Not that Mr Man had ever been much of a conversationalist, mind you.

She turned around and headed back out of the woods. She turned right and headed back to the gate as she approached the path.

After a few minutes, she started to feel uneasy, almost like she was being watched. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Turning on the spot, she glanced around, but no one was there. How strange. Could Mr Man be watching me from the woods? If so, why? She continued on her way, retracing her steps back to the house.

By the time she had reached the gate, she was positive she was being watched. The hairs on her nape all prickled, causing a shiver to run over her skin. Fear prevented her from looking back, and she quickened her step, making it back to the gate in record time, puffing and panting from the effort. She was sure she had trotted on occasion.

As Florence turned to close the gate, she glanced along the path again. A figure lumbering toward her, not more than a hundred yards away.

Someone had been watching her.

I should learn to trust my instincts.

As he approached her, she called out with more courage than she felt, "Good day to you, sir. Are you lost?"

All of the land for miles around belonged to the Kinnear estate. She knew how vast the land was through her evenings talking with Fergus. He was out all day, every day, working hard to recover the damage the estate had suffered through the lack of care by the previous earl.

"No. I am just where I need to be. Kinnear Castle," he said as he caught up to her. "I am here to apply for a position with the earl. Folks in the village said he was on the lookout. My name is Luke Dormer," he said, extending his hand towards her.

Florence hesitated but thought it would seem odd if she didn't accept. He lifted her hand and placed a kiss on its back, never lifting his gaze from hers. She never bothered to wear gloves on her morning walks, so the touch of his warm, soft lips against her bare skin sent tingles up her arm. It was an odd courtly gesture, better placed in a high society ballroom in Mayfair than a country estate in Scotland's.

He smiled, showing off a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. "A pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice suddenly husky as his breath caused another wave of tingles. Damn it, what was wrong with me!

☙

Samuel had intended to let go of her hand, but when he leant over to kiss it, he caught the faint smell of bread. "Your hand smells delicious," he said, his smile widening. He kept his accent lighter than before.

Still imitating a Scot, he was also believed to have been a valet to a Duke's son for many years. She pulled her hand away and sniffed it.

Smiling back at him, she replied, "Ah, bannocks. I begged a couple on my way out this morning."

He walked through and closed the gate while she spoke and now stood in front of her. Sam was tall, he knew he was, but he felt like a giant next to her. She must be a foot and a half shorter than him. "And are they any good? For if not, tell me, and I shall seek employment elsewhere," he jested, giving her his best boyish grin that was guaranteed to make the ladies swoon.

She laughed at this, and the sound made his heart soar. Her face lit up, and he noticed the tiny creases around her eyes. It told him she laughed often.

"I am afraid they are the best, sir. Mrs McTavish, I have often declared, is the best cook in the whole world."

He tilted his head and gave her a curious look. "What?" her hand nervously going up to her neck, then face. "Please do not tell me I have crumbs on my face?" she asked, her voice sounding high pitched to her ears as she fought back embarrassment. Though, he had given her no such indication there was.

He chuckled, surprised to find himself genuinely amused. When was the last time he had laughed without it being an act?

Clearing his throat, "No, lass, you do not. I was merely curious why you blushed when you said her bannocks were the best?" Sam watched, mesmerised as her blush deepened, even turning the tips of her ears pink.

She dropped her head, staring down at the ground, and Sam took the opportunity to examine her.

Her thick hair was blonde, not a bright golden blonde like his own, but had a deeper tone, and it looked almost like honey. She had a lovely heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, and he had already observed her eyes, similar to her hair, were golden like honey.

He examined her lips - full, kissable lips - before travelling down over her body taking note of her fuller figure. In London, her rounded figure would have been deemed unfashionable. Smaller breasts, smaller hips and an even smaller waist were what the ladies all vied for these days. Not that he shared that sentiment.

Sam had always preferred a woman to look, well womanly.

By God, she is a beauty, Sam thought. She lifted her head, and Sam raised his wandering gaze back to hers. As soon as they connected, he felt the breath leave him in a rush. It reminded him of the time he fell from a tree, winding himself and scaring his brothers witless by being unable to breathe for a whole minute.

The weaker morning sun hit her eyes, and Sam noted that they weren't just green. Flecks of gold glimmered back at him, looking more befitting to a lioness than a woman.

She was looking at him shyly. "I blush… well… as you can tell… because I perhaps… am quite obviously her biggest fan," she finished off with her hands gesturing to all of her.

Sam frowned, trying to make heads or tails from her stuttered sentence. Then it dawned on him. "Ah, your plumpness," he said without thinking. He knew instantly that it would have been better if he had cut off his foot and shoved it unceremoniously into his mouth.

What a blasted idiot!

He spent his whole career knowing people and always saying the right thing. This woman was rendering his brain useless within a minute. He instantly launched himself into an apology, and she just held her hand up to stave him off.

"I may be fat, sir, but at least I am not rude!" Sam watched as she stalked off through the gardens back to the house.