Chapter One

April, 1815

Sussex

            “James, are you drunk?”

            Slumped in a straight backed wooden chair, contemplating the whys and wherefores of life, death, and grief, James Witherspoon cast a brooding glare over the rim of his brandy sniffer at his righteously indignant mother.

            Are you drunk? What sort of a question was that? Of course he was drunk. He was by definition—a drunk.

            “Is it past noon?” he asked peevishly.

            “Barely.” Constance Witherspoon stalked across the room in a cloud of black mourning skirts. She snatched the crystal brandy decanter off the table and the sniffer from his hand.

“Then I am most definitely drunk,” he drawled, reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve the silver flask hidden inside. “Give me another hour and I’ll be bloody foxed.” He twirled the flask lid, tilting the nozzle to his lips.

She plucked the flask from his fingers, sloshing amber whiskey onto the red wool sleeve of his dress uniform. “On today of all days, how can you sit here and drink yourself into oblivion?” Constance stormed to the open window beside the oak bookshelf and emptied the contents of the flagon into the grass below.

“Funny,” James grumbled, lamenting the loss of such fine whiskey. “I thought today more so than other days I had a damn good reason to get soused.” Not to be deterred, he slid open the end table drawer and removed yet another spirit filled flask.

“Have you no respect for your father’s memory?” She turned wide teary eyes on him.

Anger twisted his gut. “The general was not my father,” James spat, liquor loosening his tongue. “My father died twenty-five years ago.”

The lines around Constance’s mouth deepened as her eyes turned cold, frosting her tears. “This is an old argument, James.”

He shrugged. “I’m not arguing, merely stating a fact.”

“I will not have this discussion again. Not today. Not ever.” Her gaze fell hard upon him. “The fact remains the general is—” she stopped short, blinking quickly, “—was… your uncle and your blood relative. Your true papa, God rest him, would be gravely disappointed to see you so disrespectful of his brother’s memory.”

Disappointed… If that hadn’t been the general’s favorite word in regard to James. A familiar flicker of guilt swelled in his breast. James took a long drag from his flask, quickly washing the emotions back down. He’d spent years learning to show no weakness—to feel as little as possible—and a bout of sniffling wouldn’t weaken his resolve today. Maintaining his usual show of nonchalance, he spun the lid back onto the second flask. “The general knew very well what I am.” A disappointment. “Somehow I doubt he expected a sudden reformation at his funeral.”

Wordlessly Constance tugged a lacey handkerchief from the black beaded reticule dangling from her wrist and scrubbed at the wet spot on his jacket.

“Mother, please stop that. I’m not five years old any longer.”

“No.” She continued aggressively rubbing the stain. “You’re not, but I won’t have you mingling with the guests smelling as though you’ve bathed in a rum keg.”

James shrugged.

“Heaven save me, James, sometimes I don’t know what to do with you. I’d suggest you marry except that I wouldn’t wish a fate as your wife on any woman I know.”

“Your vote of confidence is overwhelming.” He heaved to his feet, and tucked the drink back inside his jacket. He made the mistake of making solid eye contact with his mother. Hell…

Swollen, red rimmed eyes locked with his. “Jamie—” her voice cracked. “You are all I have left. With Tobias and your uncle gone I… I don’t know how I’ll go on.”

A white hot needle of pain pricked clean through his breast, arresting his show of indifference. Oh, but she knew exactly where to strike. Tobias, the favored son, or rather, the staid and trustworthy son, had died near five years ago. Boots James would never fill.

With effort he suppressed the foul urge to lash out, and faced his distraught parent. “Forgive me, Mother. I have no wish to fight.”

“Neither do I. Not today.” She sniffed, tears tipping over her lids. Her gaze shifted to a point on the wall to the left and slightly above James. “I-I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Nor I.” James followed his mother’s gaze to the one item in the room he’d avoided laying eyes on since setting foot inside. A life size portrait of General George Witherspoon. For all his uncle’s faults the man had truly loved his wife.

The likeness loomed over the hearth with such brooding menace James would not have been surprised if his uncle stepped from the painting—brow furrowed… a glowering frown on his face—and began lecturing him on the folly of some vice or other. The artist had captured the general’s aura to immaculate perfection, from his intimidating stance to the piercing hue of his eyes. Eyes that delved straight to a man’s inner lining. The hard blue held James captive, dragging back memories of the last time he’d seen the man…

“It should have been you, James. Not your brother. I always expected you to die young.”

Heaviness settled around James in a dark cloud… the same dark cloud he’d battled near fifteen years. Reflexively his fingers itched to drag his flask back out of hiding… drown those bitter memories until—

“Jamie, please don’t.”

He jerked his attention from the painting back to his mother then dropped his hand from the whiskey tucked in his jacket. Internally he cursed his weakness. Surely he could make it through the next hour without a drink. For his mother’s sake at least. He cleared his throat. “If I’m not mistaken the services begin in fifteen minutes.”

Soft gray eyes met with his. “Will you walk with me?”

“Of course, Mama.”

The ghost of a smile touched her pale lips. “You haven’t called me mama in years.”

“Nor have you called me, Jamie.” Offering his arm, he led her from the room. “Chin up.”

The weight of the general’s gaze followed from above the hearth. In death did his uncle finally know of the age old secret stashed in James’s pocket? James never had revealed the truth of that ill-fated night fifteen years prior. He had never believed he’d run out of time.

*          *          *

“Lady Phoebe? Lady Phoebe? Is everything quite well?”

“Hm?” Phoebe Landon jerked from her reverie and dragged her blurring gaze from Reverend Alistair’s oversized Adam’s apple to his overly round eyes. “Y-yes,” she stammered. “I, uh… I…” She scrambled to grasp at some shred of what he may have been speaking about, but truthfully he’d lost her a good ten minutes ago while lecturing the meaning of some obscure Psalm. Phoebe cleared her throat, eyes flipping from the mantel clock to his expectant face. “Will that be part of your sermon this Sunday?”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her response, and linked his ankle over his knee. “I think the book of John offers up an excellent parallel that will speak to even the most ardent of sinners.”

Phoebe wanted to point out that most ardent sinners would not be present in church, but offered a prim smile instead. Such peevish banter would be terribly rude, and, more to the point, completely impossible given the reverend’s wont to drone on with nary a breath to sustain him.

Alistair slouched back in the chair, continuing on about scripture and the overall weakness of mankind.

Phoebe shifted slightly, trying to ease the stiff ache in her back. An hour and a half in this straight-backed chair—cushioned or otherwise—was entirely too long to maintain good posture in a sitting position. The reverend had absolutely no concept of propriety or the length of a polite visit.

A soft rap at the door offered a much needed distraction and Mrs. Condon, the portly housekeeper, bustled into the room with a silver tray perched on one arm. “Pardon the interruption, Lady Phoebe, Reverend Alistair.” She nodded politely to each in turn. “I’ve brought the tray of biscuits you requested.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Con—”

“Lovely!” the reverend interrupted, rubbing his palms together in a greedy fashion. He leaned forward, crumbs from the previous two trays tumbling from his collar to his rounded middle, and began grabbing the steaming rolls before Mrs. Condon placed the platter on the table. “We’ll be needing a bit more jam as well.”

“Certainly, sir,” the housekeeper clipped in a barely civil tone.

Phoebe cast Mrs. Condon an apologetic smile. Whenever the reverend saw fit to visit the Corsair Estate—which, unfortunately, was growing ever more frequent—he kept the staff running with demands for food and drink. One might suspect the man to be starving except that his middle threatened to pop the buttons clear off his waistcoat. He never allowed a staff member to leave the room without three requests.

“And some of those little cucumber sandwiches.”

Request number two.

Mrs. Condon’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Of course.” She turned to leave, presumably before a third demand could burst from his lips.

“Oh, and if it’s not too much trouble…”

Mrs. Condon ground to a halt. “Yes?”

“More lemonade,” Alistair finished.

“Lemonade won’t be necessary, Mrs. Condon,” Phoebe interrupted. “As you can see we still have half a pitcher here.”

Alistair scowled. “But the ice has all melted.”

Phoebe smiled and folded her hands in her lap. “Come now, Reverend, surely a God fearing man as prudent as yourself wouldn’t wish to be wasteful.”

Caught in a trap of his own idle prattling, Alistair opened his mouth, paused, and finally snapped his jaw shut again. “Jam and biscuits will be all,” he grumbled.

The housekeeper tossed a questioning glance to Phoebe who shrugged helplessly in response. A lady could hardly be rude to the local vicar, however deserved the reverend may be of being tossed out on his ear.

Mrs. Condon exited the room and Phoebe sucked a deep breathe into her lungs, steeling herself for another hour of Reverend Alistair’s one-sided conversation.

“Where were we?” The vicar queried around a rather large bite of unbuttered biscuit. Crumbs rained from his mouth.

Phoebe swallowed back her annoyance, searching for a response. “I believe—”

“Ah, Phoebe, there you are.”

Supreme relief fused Phoebe as she turned a beaming smile to her brother Edward, Duke Corsair. “Brother, dear, what can I do for you?” Please save me, she begged silently.

The twinkle in Edward’s eyes told her he understood completely. “Mrs. Ford is here inquiring after her painting.”

“Oh, of course.” Phoebe leapt to her feet, genuine excitement warming her blood. “I will see to her straight away.”

“Painting,” the reverend grumbled with a disproving shake of the head. “A sinful endeavor for young ladies.”

Phoebe ground her teeth, ignoring the eccentric clergyman’s jibe. Painting was a true passion for her, a pastime inspired by her late mother. Rather than argue the point, she turned a polite smile to the strange man and curtsied. “Thank you for visiting, Reverend. I will see you Sunday in church.” Without waiting for a response she hurried through the parlor door, mouthing Thank you to her brother on the way by.

“Mrs. Ford is waiting in your day room,” Edward called after her.

            Phoebe rushed down the hall, stopping just around the corner to settle the unrest that often accompanied the reverend’s visits. There was something… off… about the man though she could never put her finger on exactly what. If he wasn’t a distant cousin and the son of Viscount Chatters, his constant prattle about sin and the devil would never be tolerated. She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and sashayed into day room.

The familiar faint scent of oil paint and chalk wafted through the air, relaxing Phoebe instantly. The day room was littered with varying sizes of canvas, drawing pages, pencils, charcoal for sketching, and paints. Several unfinished projects lay scattered about the room—some paintings, others sketches. This was her favorite place in the house. A space only for her.

The kindly widow, Lilly Ford, perched on one of the only open chairs in the room.

“Mrs. Ford, what a wonderful surprise. I didn’t expect you today.”

The older woman stood, sedate muslin skirts rustling about her legs, a rosy pink lighting her round cheeks. “I could not wait another day, my lady. I do hope I’m not troubling you.”

            “Not at all.” Phoebe grinned. “Would you like a bit of tea or lemonade? Or shall we get straight to the painting?”

“Running the risk of sounding rude,” Mrs. Ford began, eyes sparkling, “I’d rather get right to the portrait.”

Phoebe laughed, understanding completely, and crossed to the wooden easel beside the hearth. It was the perfect place to unveil a piece because of oversized window situated directly behind the easel. Sunshine spilled through the wavy window panes, providing idyllic lighting for Mrs. Ford’s first glimpse. She grabbed the top corner of the white sheet draped over the painting, hesitated a second for dramatic effect, and pulled the sheet down, revealing the completed painting.

“Oh, Lady Phoebe! The portrait is exquisite.” Mrs. Ford clasped one hand over her mouth and the other to her chest. “Absolutely marvelous.”

Phoebe released the anxious breath she’d been holding and smiled, genuinely pleased.

Mrs. Ford circled the painting with an expression of pure wonder on her face. The long feathers adorning her hat drooped in front of her eyes and she brushed them back, squinting into the face of the distinguished gentleman in the portrait. “I cannot even see where you’ve repaired the damage.” A tear glinted in her eye, but she quickly blinked it away. “To see the face of my beloved Piers face again… it’s magic. Pure magic.” She shook her head and beamed to Phoebe. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.” Phoebe strode forward to clasp the other woman’s hands. “To see this bring you so much joy is all the payment I need.” Phoebe rarely accepted compensation for the portraits her tenants and neighbors commissioned.

Mrs. Condon grabbed her in an impulsive embrace. “I declare, Lady Phoebe, you are a saint. Whatever will we do once you’re gone away to London?”

London. Phoebe’s spirits dampened instantly. The start of yet another season. Edward was growing impatient with her reluctance to marry, but Phoebe had no patience for the strictures of Town. Naught but endless gossip, parties and men chasing after silly girls. A London ballroom was as stifling as an afternoon with Reverend Allistair. Here, on the family estate, Phoebe was useful, needed. Her brother’s tenants appreciated her and she them. She had no desire to leave Corsair.

Brilliant sunshine flowed through the wavy windowpanes, beckoning her toward freedom. A mischievous grin quirked her lips. Perhaps she would take… a walk.