Prologue
Sarum Lacy House, Wiltshire
February 1812.
“Don’t leave me, Archie, are you there?” Gwendolene said, and Archibald Thompson placed his hand on his sister’s, wanting to reassure her of his presence.
She was failing fast, her face pale, her hand cold to the touch. Her eyes were closed, and her lips, once so red and full, were now pinched and drawn. It was as though she was retreating into herself, preparing for her final journey. Archie felt tears welling up in his eyes, and he drew a deep breath, trying to stay strong, even in the face of such inevitable suffering.
“I won’t leave you, Gwendolene. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” Archie replied.
He had kept vigil at his sister’s bedside for the past three days, refusing to leave her, and sleeping in a chair next to her. Their mother had tried to persuade him to rest, but Archie was adamant. Gwendolene was his sister, his dearest friend. He loved her more than anything, and the thought of losing her was unbearable.
“My Lord, it’s time for her ladyship’s tonic,” the nurse said, and Archie looked up to find her standing in the doorway of his sister’s bedroom.
She had arrived after Christmas, when it was clear Gwendolene’s condition was only getting worse. Archie had been reluctant to admit it, adamant he could look after her, but the fever had taken hold. She had been so full of life, but now, she was reduced to a shadow of her former self, slowly fading like a tree losing its leaves, or a flower dropping its petals. He did not know how this had come about. It all seemed so unfair. Archie rose to his feet, stepping back to allow the nurse to carry out her ministrations.
“I’m still here, Gwendolene. Let Marie give you your tonic,” Archie said.
He did not know if his sister could hear him, or if the tonic, prescribed by a doctor who had come up from London to attend her, would do any good. Nothing had seemed to work, and now it seemed to be a case of when, not if, she would slip away. A stream of sunlight was coming through the window, falling on his sister’s bed, the dust dancing in the rays. But it was not the warm sun of a summer’s day, but the cold light of winter. Snow was lying thick on the ground around Sarum Lacy House, and there was no prospect of a thaw. Archie had insisted on his sister’s bedroom fire being maintained at all times, and now he crossed over to the hearth, placing another log into the spluttering flames and warming his hands.
“That’s all until this evening, My Lord,” the nurse said, and Archie turned to her and nodded.
She was a practical woman—the sort who took no nonsense, and she had been diligent in her ministrations, even as little by way of progress had been made. Prayer was Archie’s last recourse, and he looked up at the crucifix hanging above his sister’s bed, remembering the words of the priest who had visited the previous day to administer the last rites.
“Peace is what she deserves, My Lord. The peace only God can give her,” he had said.
But Archie still clung to hope. He did not want his sister to die. It was a cruel and meaningless thing. She was still so young. Her whole life was ahead of her. She had barely begun to live. He looked up at the crucifix, not understanding why, even as he knew it was not his place to question. Gwendolene had fallen asleep, the tonic as much a sedative as a cure, and Archie now sat down again at the side of the bed, maintaining his vigil, and longing for his sister to recover.
***
“You need to get some sleep, Archibald. You’ve sat here for days. Go to your bed and rest. I’ll stay with Gwendolene,” Archie’s mother—who always called him Archibald—said.
He looked up at her in surprise, not having realized she had entered the room. His mother, the dowager, was an imperious looking woman, very grand, dressed in a black gown with pearls at her neck, every bit the aristocratic lady. But her appearance disguised the fact of her true nature. Gwendolene had inherited much from her; her looks, her kindness, her gentle ways. Archie sighed.
“I want to stay, mother. What else can I do?” he asked, and his mother shook her head.
“Have something to eat, lie down in your own bed, read a book… anything to distract you from… this,” she said, glancing down at Gwendolene, whose eyes were closed, her head, with its red ringlets, turned to one side.
Her face had grown paler, more withdrawn. No one really knew what was wrong with her. She had been well until the start of December. But on the first Sunday of Advent, when the vestments the priest wore for Mass were purple, a sudden sickness had seized her. That had been the start of it, and since then, she had gradually faded.
“I… but she needs me, mother,” Archie said, even as his eyes were heavy with sleep.
“And I’d like a few moments alone with her, Archibald. She’s my daughter, as well as your sister,” his mother said.
It was not often she adopted a stern tone, but Archie now realized she was right. His was not the only grief, and he knew how it pained his mother to see Gwendolene suffer. Archie rose to his feet, offering the chair to his mother, who sat down with a sigh. There were tears in her eyes, and Archie placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and she nodded.
“I asked the servants to have something ready for you in the dining room. We still need to eat,” she said. Thanking her, Archie left his sister’s bedroom, closing the door behind him and sighing as he stood on the landing.
He was exhausted, even as he felt guilty for leaving Gwendolene’s side even for a few moments. But his mother was right, it was only fair to leave her and his sister alone for a moment. The day had turned dark, snow clouds gathering over the house, and as Archie made his way downstairs, he felt the chill of a draught around his legs. Sarum Lacy House was the ancient seat of the Barons of Sarum, tracing its foundations to the Norman Conquest. Archie had inherited the title from his father six years previously, and since then, he had his sister had managed the estate as a joint enterprise. The thought of losing her was unimaginable, and Archie had believed the two of them would grow old together, sharing in life’s joy and sorrows.
“Your mother asked me to lay a place for you in the dining room, My Lord. A little soup, perhaps? Some cheese?” asked Hargreaves, the butler, as Archie came down the hallway, finding him standing stiffly at the dining room door.
Hargreaves had been with the family since before Archie was born. He was fiercely loyal, and Archie knew he—along with all the servants—would mourn the loss of his sister as well.
“Thank you, Hargreaves. Some soup will suffice,” Archie said, and the butler opened the dining room door for him.
The east wing was the most ancient part of the house. Once a fortified dwelling, it had served the family well during the civil war, and in times of persecution against the Catholic population. The house was a maze of corridors and locked rooms. There were no less than three priest holes, though the days of hiding visiting clergy for days at a time were mercifully over. Now, the house seemed unnecessarily large and cut off, hidden away in the depths of the English countryside, and surrounded on all sides by a vast estate, made up of tracts of woodland and remote farms. Hargreaves had lit candles around the room, and there was a fire in the hearth, but still, it felt cold. The single place setting at the large table, watched over by portraits of Archie’s long-dead ancestors on the paneled walls above, only served as a reminder of how it would be when Gwendolene was gone.
“One moment, My Lord. I’ll bring the soup,” the butler said, retreating from the room.
Archie looked down at the place setting. The soup spoon was at a slight angle, and the napkin folded hastily. He rearranged it to his liking, angling the cutlery to precise terms, and straightening the napkin. Archie was a stickler for doing things properly. His clothes and appearance were always neat and tidy, and he ordered his surroundings in the right way. Nothing was allowed to be out of place. Satisfied with his rearrangements, he sat down at the table with a sigh. But while he could order himself, and his environment, he felt powerless to bring order to the sad circumstances he found himself in. He could do nothing for his sister. He could not make her better, and in that, he felt a failure. A wind whistled around the house, and through the window, Archie could see it was snowing again. The house could be cut off for weeks at a time in the winter, and Archie could not help but wonder as to the practicalities of what would happen if the worst was to be realized.
“Carrying the coffin through the snow,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head at the very idea of it.
Hargreaves now brought the soup, but despite knowing he was hungry, Archie did not feel so. He picked up his spoon, taking a few mouthfuls as the butler stood stiffly behind him. But having toyed with the soup for some time, he put his spoon down and sighed.
“What’s the use of it?” he exclaimed, pulling his napkin off and tossing it to one side.
“My Lord?” the butler asked, stepping forward, and Archie rose to his feet.
“All this? She’s going to die. And there’s nothing I can do about it,” Archie exclaimed.
He was not usually given to such emotional outbursts, but now he felt quite overwhelmed by the prospect of losing his sister, not knowing how he would cope without her. She had been his constant companion since childhood, his best friend, his closest confidant…
“My Lord, you’re doing all you can. No one could do more. Your loyalty to your sister is… admirable,” Hargreaves said, but Archie shook his head.
“But it’s not going to help her, is it?” he replied.
But before the butler could reply, the sound of footsteps in the hallway caused Archie to look up, his heart skipping a beat. There was an urgency in the approach, and the dining room door now opened, revealing the anxious face of Marie.
“Come quickly, My Lord. Your sister doesn’t have much time,” she said.
Archie ran from the dining room, clattering up the stairs, and bursting into his sister’s bedroom. He found her writhing on the bed, moaning in pain, as their mother stood powerless at her side.
“We don’t know what happened. She was sleeping peacefully and now…” the dowager said, as Archie hurried to his sister’s side.
“Gwendolene? I’m here. It’s me, Archie,” Archie said, kneeling at the bedside as his sister groaned.
“Oh… the pain… Archie, the pain. Make the pain go away,” she said, as he clutched at her hand.
“I wish I could. Oh… more than anything, I wish I could. If I could take your pain, Gwendolene, I’d gladly do so. My poor sister. Is there nothing you can do for her?” he asked, turning to Marie, who shook her head.
“There’s no hope of getting a doctor now, and even if we could, I don’t think there’s anything more to be done,” she said.
Archie was now seized with desperation. There was nothing more he could do, and it seemed inevitable she would slip away. He would have given anything—his entire fortune—to save her. But he was powerless, and tears now welled up in his eyes, running down his cheeks, as he sobbed at his sister’s side.
“Oh, Gwendolene. I’m so sorry, I did all I could, but it wasn’t enough,” he moaned.
He had his hand clasped in hers, and now she gripped him with a weak but determined hold.
“Archie… don’t mourn for me,” she said, and he looked up to find his sister looking at him, her eyes barely open, her lips trembling.
“But I will. I won’t ever forget you, Gwendolene. I can’t bear the thought of losing you. What cruel fate took you from me? It can’t be natural. Why would God do this to us?” he exclaimed, glancing again at the crucifix hanging above the bed.
“We can’t ask such questions,” Gwendolene replied, her voice growing fainter with every word.
“But it’s so unfair. It’s not right. I’ll find the reason, I’ve got to,” Archie said.
He did not believe a woman so full of life, so full of hope for all that was to come, could succumb to such a dreadful fate. It had all been so sudden, and despite knowing the foolishness of his thoughts, Archie could not help but think someone was to blame for what had happened. This was not natural, it could not be…
“No, Archie. Let me rest in peace. This is all that matters,” Gwendolene whispered.
“What? What is it that matters?” Archie replied, staring at his sister imploringly as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Live your life as I’d have lived mine. Don’t shut yourself away. Don’t hide from what can be. If I’m to die, I don’t want you to die in kind, Archie. Promise me you’ll live your life as I’d have done,” she said.
It was a promise Archie could not bear to make, even as he knew doing so would allow his sister to depart in peace. The thought of life without her was unbearable. He could not imagine it, even as he knew its inevitability.
“Don’t leave me, Gwendolene. I don’t know how I can go on living without you,” he said, but Gwendolene shook her head.
“We’ll meet again—on another shore,” she said, and now she squeezed his hand, her grip lessening, her eyes closing.
“Gwendolene, please…” Archie implored her.
“Promise me,” she said, and he nodded.
“I promise. I promise I’ll live the life you deserved. Until we meet again. I love you,” he said, and a faint smile came over her lips.
“I love you, too,” she whispered, and now she breathed her last.
Archie buried his face in the blankets, sobbing uncontrollably, and now his mother put her arm around him, kneeling at his side. For a moment, their heads were bowed in the heartbreak of loss, sobbing together, even as Archie tried to pray, just as the priest had told them, too.
“My poor Gwendolene,” the dowager said, and as Archie looked up, she made the sign of the cross over herself.
Archie did the same. But as he looked up at the crucifix above the bed, he could not help but feel a sudden sense of anger at the loss of his sister, who now lay still and lifeless before them.
“I don’t know how I’ll go on,” he said, knowing the promise he had made, but hardly daring to believe he could ever find happiness again when his sister had left him for another shore…
Chapter One
Tall Chimneys, Wimborne, Dorset, England, August 1812.
“It’s all right, Burns, I’ll fetch it,” Lavinia Stuart rose from the breakfast table as the butler turned to bring the coffeepot from the sideboard.
Her grandfather, Viscount Cranborne, cleared his throat.
“Sit down, Lavinia. You’ll embarrass the poor man,” he said, and Lavinia paused, already halfway out of her seat.
The butler, his face flushed red with embarrassment, hurried to fetch the coffeepot to fill Lavinia’s cup. She glanced at her grandfather, who smiled and shook his head.
“I was only trying to help. It seems silly for me to sit at the table and wait, when it’s just as easy for me to get up and help myself,” Lavinia said.
Her grandfather laughed.
“Tell me this, Lavinia. When you were a maid, would you have liked it if your mistress had deprived you of your function and served herself? And if she’d got a taste for it, and realized she could do without you, would you have been glad if she’d told you to leave because you were no longer needed? We all have our place in the natural order, Lavinia. I know you’re still getting used to your change in circumstances, but allow me to be your guide in such matters. I know you want to help, but don’t deprive Burns—or any of the other servants—of their proper function,” he said.
Lavinia had not thought about it like that. She was still getting used to the fact she was no longer a servant. Her position had dramatically altered some months previously when, following the death of her father, her grandfather had arrived at the home she had shared with her parents, desiring a reunion with her mother—his estranged daughter. It had been the most remarkable turn of fortune, revealing a history Lavinia had been entirely unaware of.
“No, I suppose I wouldn’t have done,” Lavinia admitted.
“Your father had his function, too, didn’t he?” her grandfather persisted, and Lavinia nodded.
Her father had been a merchant, though not a very successful one, and Lavinia had resigned herself to a life of service, before discovering the truth as to her aristocratic connections. Her mother had been estranged from her grandfather, but his advancing years had meant a thawing in views of her elopement with Lavinia’s father, and he had desired a reconciliation. On hearing of the death of her father, Lavinia’s grandfather had sought them out, and the rest was history.
“I’m sorry, Burns. I’m just not used to… all this,” Lavinia said, looking around her at the grandeur of her grandfather’s dining room.
Tall Chimneys was a magnificent house, set in its own grounds, and with more rooms than Lavinia had yet explored.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Stuart,” the butler replied, as he poured the coffee for Lavinia.
This was something else Lavinia was not yet used to. As a maid, albeit in a house with a kindly mistress, she had never been addressed in such formal terms. There, she was merely “Lavinia,” and her position was a lowly one. Now, she was elevated to the ranks of the aristocracy, and her grandfather had done much to introduce her to the ton, albeit with mixed results.
“I just feel… well, I want to do more,” Lavinia said, and her grandfather raised his eyebrows.
“But what do you mean, more?” he asked, and Lavinia sighed.
She was used to hard work. As a child, Lavinia had worked day and night alongside her parents, fetching and carrying in the warehouse where her father stored the myriad of things he bought and sold by way of making money. As soon as she was old enough, not wanting to be a burden on her parents, Lavinia had entered service, where long hours and few days off were the order of things. To find herself suddenly idle, and with little more to do than read, and change her dresses to fit whatever social occasion came next, did not come naturally to her. She wanted to be doing something—anything—to feel useful. But her grandfather was insistent. Her place was among the aristocracy, a world she found strange and unsettling. Her grandfather had been unfailingly kind to her, and to her mother, whom Lavinia knew was so grateful to be reunited with the father she had thought lost. But as for being what she now was, Lavinia found it challenging, to say the least.
“Well, as a maid, I was up every morning by six to make the fires. Then there were the beds to see to, sweeping and dusting, polishing, fetching, and carrying. I never stayed down, but now, I hardly stand up,” Lavinia replied.
She was almost envious of the servants. Her grandfather spoke of each person having their place in the natural order of things, but for Lavinia, her place was confused, and she felt uncertain of where she belonged. Not upstairs, but not downstairs, either. Her grandfather had promised to introduce her to society at the proper time, intending to allow her to get used to her new way of life. But Lavinia did not think she would ever get used to it. She missed her former ways—the camaraderie between the servants, the dinners in the servant’s hall, the outings on their days off. Now, Lavinia felt alone. She had not made any friends—the introductions her grandfather had made for her often resulting in misunderstandings. And as for her future prospects, Lavinia remained uncertain what was expected of her…
“But you’re not a maid anymore, Lavinia. You don’t have to do anything like that anymore. Aren’t you pleased about that?” her grandfather asked.
Lavinia could not very well say she was in two minds about the matter. She knew her new life would take some getting used to, but the thought of being forever idle filled her with dread.
“Yes, I am,” Lavinia said, and her grandfather smiled.
“You’ll get used to it, Lavinia. Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to fall into line. I just want what’s best for you,” he said.
Lavinia knew what was coming next. Her grandfather had spoken of it on numerous occasions since her arrival at Tall Chimneys. The question of her marriage…
“I know you do, grandfather,” she said.
“And once you’re married. It’ll be easier. Navigating the whims and wills of society can’t be easy, Lavinia. But you’ve already proved yourself, and I’m sure it won’t be long before an eligible suitor presents himself,” her grandfather said, signaling to the butler to pour him another cup of coffee.
If Lavinia was yet to get used to the ways of her new life, she was certainly still to get used to the idea of a marriage being arranged for her. In service, she had given the matter little thought, presuming marriage would occur for her when the right time—and the right man—came. But in the world of the aristocracy, things were very different. Introductions were made, arrangements were pressed, and marriage was more a matter of making the right match than falling in love. Lavinia’s grandfather had first mentioned the matter a week or so after she and her mother had arrived at Tall Chimneys. Lavinia had not given it much thought, but her grandfather had been persistent. He had introduced her to several potential suitors, all of whom Lavinia had found wanting. She disliked them all, and when one in particular had persisted, she had shied away.
“But not Lord Bath,” Lavinia said, and her grandfather raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t see what’s wrong with Lord Bath, Lavinia. He’s a perfectly good and decent man,” he replied, but Lavinia shook her head.
She had first met the Earl of Bath at a ball in London, just a few weeks after her unexpected elevation. She had been nervous, not knowing what to do or what to say, and dreading the moment she would be expected to dance. Lord Bath had appeared charming at first, though Lavinia had soon come to realize he was the sort of man who liked to find himself in a position of power. He had purposefully sought her out, having, it seemed, heard the remarkable story of what her grandfather had done for her.
“You really are very pretty,” he had said, slipping his arm around her, and Lavinia had had no choice but to dance with him.
She had derived some satisfaction from having stepped repeatedly on his feet as they had danced, but it seemed he was determined to win her over, and in the coming weeks, Lord Bath had persisted in his attentions.
“He’s certainly keen,” her mother had said, but Lavinia had detected something more than genuine attraction in Lord Bath’s attitude towards her.
It was as though he found something amusing in pursuing her—the fact of her elevation from maid to lady was something he spoke of repeatedly, and Lavinia could not help but think he found it attractive in an unpleasant way. There were many men of his rank and class who had pursued their own servants in this way, and Lavinia could only imagine the earl would derive a sense of satisfaction in seducing her. But Lavinia was having none of it. She had resisted Lord Bath’s advances, though had not outrightly rejected them. In return, she feared he had spread rumors about her—her past, and manner of her behavior in her less aristocratic days.
“I just don’t like him, that’s all. There’s something… not quite right about him,” Lavinia replied, and her grandfather shook his head.
“Come now, Lavinia. You shouldn’t judge him until you know him properly. And even then, it doesn’t do to be judgmental. But these rumors… no, it won’t do. The sooner you’re married, the better,” her grandfather replied.
Lavinia shook her head. The rumors were just that—and they were lies. She had never behaved with impropriety as a maid, and since her elevation, she had behaved with total comportment, albeit with some mistakes along the way.
“Lord Bath probably started those rumors,” Lavinia said, and her grandfather furrowed his brow.
“Why would he do that?” he asked, and Lavinia sighed.
“So that he gets what he wants. If rumors are going round about me, he can be the one to apparently rise above them, marrying me “despite” what others say,” she said.
Her grandfather looked as though he did not believe what she was saying, but since finding herself in her new position, Lavinia had come to realize just how devious, how backstabbing, and how self-determined most members of the ton could be. She had never heard servants gossip with such glee, or delight in the downfall of others. There were those who lived for scandal, and sometimes it felt as though there was nothing her fellow aristocrats liked more than to see another of their kind brought low. It was terrible, and Lavinia would gladly have washed her hands of them all.
“Well, I don’t know about that. It all seems rather… farfetched,” her grandfather replied, but Lavinia shook her head.
She was adamant she wanted nothing more to do with Lord Bath, even as she feared her grandfather had other ideas…
“I’m sure someone other than Lord Bath might present himself,” Lavinia said.
She was in no rush to marry and given she had only just discovered who she really was, it seemed important to settle down before another upheaval occurred. Her grandfather shook his head. Whenever this discussion occurred, they always reached a stalemate. Neither of them was willing to give ground, and Lavinia realized she had inherited his stubbornness, as well as his striking red hair. Her grandfather was about to reply—thus prolonging their bickering—when the dining room door opened, and Lavinia’s mother, Octavia, entered the room with an excited look on her face.
“I’ve just received the most wonderful news,” she exclaimed, holding aloft a letter in her hand.
Lavinia’s mother had settled well into what had been her old life before eloping with Lavinia’s father. The grieving widow had become the grateful daughter, and Lavinia knew how happy, and relieved, her mother was to no longer have to worry about the practicalities of life, in favor of the ease with which she now passed her days. Lavinia was pleased for her mother, but that did not mean she herself was finding the transition any easier.
“What is it?” the viscount asked, and Lavinia’s mother handed her father the letter.
“It’s from Horatia—you remember, the Baroness Sarum. I haven’t seen her in years… well, I haven’t seen many people in years. We lost touch, of course, though she was never against my marrying Arthur,” Octavia said.
Lavinia watched as her grandfather unfolded the letter and began to read. She had never heard of the Baroness Sarum before. But she was beginning to learn there was a great deal about her mother’s past she did not know. Her history was one Lavinia had not been privy to—though she had never asked about it, either. Lavinia had simply accepted her lot, and to find it was different from what she had expected was still something she was getting used to.
“Oh, yes, what a tragedy—losing her daughter. And she’s been a widow for… I think, six years,” Lavinia’s grandfather said.
“Who’s this?” Lavinia asked, and her mother looked at her and smiled.
“Horatia Thompson, the Baroness Sarum—well, dowager, now. We were friends in our younger days. She’s invited us to go and stay with her at Sarum Lacy House in Wiltshire—it’s the family seat,” Octavia replied.
The name “Sarum Lacy House” conjured up all manner of grand thoughts in Lavinia’s mind. She still marveled at the size of the houses of those she was introduced to—and she herself—occupied. A hundred rooms for a family of five and their servants, or a house with two wings and tower for a bachelor and his small band of staff. It seemed obscene, though it was not something unusual, of course. Those that had, had, and those that had not, had not.
“What a strange name for a house,” Lavinia replied.
“It’s a wonderful place, deep in the countryside. It gets quite cut off in the winter when the snow comes. But in the summer, one can roam across the estate all day and not meet a soul in the woods and meadows. I went there several times—when Horatia’s husband was still alive. Oh, and to think of going there again…” she said, clutching her hands together in delight.
Lavinia’s grandfather had now finished reading the letter, and he looked up at Octavia and smiled.
“She’s certainly keen on extending an invitation to you and Lavinia, isn’t she?” he said.
“Oh, father, do say we can go. It’ll do Lavinia good. I know you want to arrange a match for her, but… I can’t turn down the chance to go back to Sarum Lacy House,” Octavia said.
There was a wistful look in her eyes, and Lavinia could see how much the invitation meant to her. But as for accompanying her mother on the journey, Lavinia was in two minds. Everything was so new, and Lavinia did not feel ready for another upheaval. It was one thing to live with her grandfather at Tall Chimneys and make mistakes as to which piece of cutlery to use and which glass to drink from, but quite another to do so in another person’s house.
“Will she really want us there if she’s lost her daughter?” Lavinia asked, for she could not imagine a grieving mother wanting to entertain a long-lost friend and her daughter, returned from nothing to the center of the ton.
But Octavia shook her head.
“She had a son, too. I think she’d appreciate the company. She writes how difficult it’s been since Gwendolene’s death. I feel so sorry for her,” Octavia said.
Lavinia shook her head sadly. She, too, felt sorry for Horatia. To lose a daughter was surely one of the worst things that could happen, and she felt for Horatia’s son, too, losing his sister, while bearing the responsibility of his inheritance.
“Then you want to go, mother?” she asked, and her mother nodded.
“With your permission, father,” Octavia said, glancing at Lavinia’s grandfather, who nodded.
“I’m happy for you to go. But remember what I said, Lavinia—you can’t avoid making a match forever, and Lord Bath isn’t going to go away,” he said.
Lavinia nodded. She knew Lord Bath would be persistent, but putting distance between them might be enough to attract his attentions elsewhere. Despite her initial misgivings, the thought of going to Sarum Lacy House for the rest of the season certainly had its advantages.
“A Baron’s Disguised Lady” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
Lavinia Stuart thought she knew who she was, but a reunion with her grandfather brings with it an extraordinary turn of fortune. Thrust into a new world – a world she was never prepared for – Lavinia must now navigate what it means to be a woman like those she once served. When her mother takes her to visit an old friend, Lavinia stumbles from one disaster to another, fearing she will never get anything right…
However, it is an unexpected encounter that will forever alter her fate rather than a title…
In the solitude of his estate, the brooding Baron, Archie Thompson, mourns the loss of his beloved sister, Gwendolene. Haunted by grief, he lives a reclusive life, shrouded in mystery and consumed by a quest for answers surrounding her untimely demise. As Archie tussles with the weight of his sister’s memory and grief, the last he expected was the profound impact Lavinia’s arrival would have on his life.
Nor the shared journey they were destined to undertake…
In this unexpected encounter, where two very different worlds collide, can Lavinia and Archie ever find common ground? When a shocking discovery is made, and whispers in the shadows become more than mere rumor, Lavinia and Archie will find themselves tested, as the mystery over Gwendolene’s death deepens… Will their love blossom amidst the challenging obstacles? Or will their fragile bond not withstand the test of time?
“A Baron’s Disguised Lady” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.
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