Lord Shallow (Maitland's Rogues Book 2)

Lord Shallow

Eileen Putman

Lord Shallow

Copyright © 2020 Eileen Putman

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission requests, please contact the publisher.

Formatting by Wild Seas Formatting

This book grew out of a story published in 1995 as So Reckless A Love. It bears no resemblance to that book.

For Abby, who taught us to believe in miracles.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,

on life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!

Unskillful he to note the card

of prudent lore,

till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

and whelm him o’er!

Robert Burns

PROLOGUE

Summer, 1795

Summerlin House, Gloucestershire

From that darkest of days, the day by which he measured all others, it had always been Elizabeth.

Why are you crying? A small hand shook his shoulder.

Sebastian buried his face in the clover. He wanted to be alone. He had run far and fast from the faces that tried to comfort him, the solemn words as meaningless as they were brutal.

Doctor did what he could…both gone. Your cousin wishes you to know of his sorrow.

Sebastian knew William wasn’t sorry. Feeling did not live in such a man.

Although Sebastian was only a boy, his legs were strong. And so he had run. He ran toward the horizon and the waning light that wouldn’t last the hour.

Was that rain on his face? Not tears, surely. Traherne men did not cry.

His mother did, though. Usually her eyes danced with life, copper sparks shimmering amid the silver-green—except at those tedious family gatherings that came with disparaging remarks uttered without heed as to whether a small boy was listening.

Where did Gerald find her? ’Tis fortunate William’s got Hubert next in line. With luck, she’ll never be duchess.

Sebastian knew Faylinn heard. How else to explain why she fled up the stairs, why his father followed, calling her name in such a stricken voice?

Gone. Both gone.

Boy, the girl said. What is wrong?

He raised his head. Her brown eyes filled with concern. He guessed she was about his age. Taller, but girls his age usually were.

Have patience, his father had said. The time will come when you will tower above them.

Gone. Both gone.

Sebastian batted at her hand. Go away!

Now he recognized her. He’d seen her in a carriage with a man he guessed was her father. You’re Elizabeth.

Yes. A smile swept her features. Who are you?

Sebastian looked away.

But she caught his hand, and even though hers was smaller, he allowed her to pull him up. She started to run toward a large house in the distance.

Sebastian ran after her. He didn’t want to go home. Home was where his parents lived.

Had lived.

What would happen to him? Where did he belong?

Not with William, surely.

His mother’s family? He’d never met them. He didn’t even know her family name. Pell, he thought, or some such. Who would take care of him?

Clover-scented air filled his lungs as Sebastian ran faster, relishing the exertion, for it pushed the questions aside.

Boy! she shouted as he swept past her.

Finally, she caught up, crashing into him. They went sprawling in a tangle of legs.

What’s this?

The man he’d seen with her in the carriage stood over them. He had the same brown eyes. You’ll be Gerald’s son. Sebastian, is it?

Sebastian scrambled to his feet. He nodded warily.

The man’s eyes filled with compassion. Sir Bertram Throckmorton, lad. Our property marches with yours. I cannot think why we haven’t met. No matter. Supper’s ready. Come in, and bring that little hoyden with you.

Elizabeth giggled. Sir Bertram extended an arm to help her up. She grabbed it, and he swung her up and over his head. Her laughter had a joyous sound, like bells.

In short order Sebastian found himself sitting at the table with Elizabeth’s family—Sir Bertram, and Lady Throckmorton.

The table was laden with cold gammon and jelly, fresh bread, greenish vegetables, boiled potatoes, a plum pie. Everyone talked at once. He absorbed the chatter without hearing it.

Once or twice, Sebastian saw Sir Bertram and his wife eye him with something that might have been pity. But no one asked him questions.

He was grateful. He had no words.

An incoherent swirl of emotions consumed him. Sebastian felt sick, sicker than he’d ever been—sick unto death, a phrase he’d heard in church without knowing what it meant.

Now, he knew.

Elizabeth said something that must have been funny, for her parents laughed. Her soft brown eyes shifted to him.

She was good, Sebastian decided. A friend.

He wanted her with him, always.

After dinner, Sir Bertram brought the gig around and drove Sebastian home.

To the place that had been home, but never would be again.

Chapter One

Spring, 1816

Anglesey, Wales

The arrow shot swift and true.

Instead of the villain who haunted Gwynna Owens’s dreams, the lone elm near her mother’s tomb stood as her target. Two dozen yards away, an easy shot. The next would be harder, for the rain had picked up, and with it, the wind.

Night had stolen the light, save for a sliver of moon that peeked from rolling clouds.

Gwynna focused on a tiny, irregular spot on the tree.

Nocking another arrow, she brought the bow up in one fluid motion. She drew the string, savored the pull on her muscles. Despite her size, she could hold full draw longer than most of her countrymen.

Darkness teased the spot in and out of view.

Now.

Relaxing her fingers, Gwynna let the arrow fly.

A precise hit. Had the elm been her nemesis, he’d have been dealt a mortal wound.

Her bow would attract notice on her journey. The dagger must serve in its stead. Gwynna pulled the knife from its leather sheath. The cloak covering her newly shorn hair slid back as she held up the blade, sharpened on the stones of the ancient tomb.

Eryr digrif afrifid Owain… Her mother’s language. She repeated them in her father’s: Thou delightful eagle Owen—

Rain pummeled her face, but Gwynna paid no heed. She raised her voice against the wind: Thou art immortal, a wise and able warrior, and thy onset in the field of battle is terrible.

It was the first time she had uttered the ancient words since childhood. Silence had long been her due.

All the more reason, then, to fling the last lines to the hills: May due authority, success, and praise attend the Knight of Glyn!

Thunder boomed, as if Prince Owen himself echoed her battle cry.

Owen was her legacy, but this journey was in the service of a different legacy—one that existed in shadows and secrecy, maddeningly out of sight.

Gwynna turned toward the tomb and slid one finger over the deadly blade. A drop of blood spilled upon the dull, gray stones.

Megan Glendower Owen, she said softly. I will find him. I will make him pay for your pain. And I will make him help me rout the evil from this island.

Lightning flashed behind the tomb, as if the ancients urged her onward.

It was time.

Did truth lie at this journey’s end?

This new path felt foreign and strange.

But Owen was with her. The ancients, too. Her mother.

All she needed was courage.

***

London

Four seconds and two strides lay between him and freedom.

Sebastian Traherne dodged the purple ostrich feather as its wearer nodded vigorously. Eluding feathery missiles was a skill he’d honed during an oppressive number of nights in the company of matchmaking dowagers like Lady Hereford-Smythe.

Despite his best efforts, the feather grazed his cheek. Drat. His reflexes must be slowing.

He took the first of those two strides, now nearly beyond range of easy conversation.

Two seconds gone.

Oh, I quite understand your discomfort, Your Grace, the lady declared, raising her voice to stay within earshot. "Perhaps you think it is too soon to begin thinking about your choice of a bride. I know how devoted you were to dear Elizabeth." Her beady eyes narrowed.

A bird of prey in a purple turban. How had she been permitted to leave her home in that garish monstrosity? Ah, but there were so few true stylists, these days. He should know. All of London followed his lead.

If only servants had the wherewithal to face down purple-turbaned ladies before they took that first, disastrous step into the evening, and declare, Madam, that simply won’t do.

Or, failing that, to extend a leg and cause my lady to take the slightest tumble—nothing fatal, but sufficient so she must needs retreat and seek a cold wrap around that ankle, sparing the ballroom the sight of that feather.

Three seconds gone.

She closed the distance between them, sending that plume perilously near his eye socket.

A blind duke. That would scare away matchmakers.

Elizabeth’s poor mother had such hopes for a match between you, Lady Hereford-Smythe purred. "But life does go on. And you have obligations, now, Duke."

Ah, there was the rub: Blind or no, a duke was a duke. And an unattached one was prime husband material. The devil take William for dying without producing a more willing heir.

Come to think of it, the devil had taken him.

It was no use hoping that dark angel would return his cousin upon discovering him to be a cold, mean-spirited curmudgeon. William would give the devil his due.

Time had expired. Sebastian started the count anew. He’d give himself fifteen seconds and count backward, just to stave off tedium.

The matchmaking creature stared at him, her lips parted in a crocodile grin. She gestured to a young woman hiding behind her skirts.

Sebastian knew what was expected. An introduction, a dance. Flowers the following day, an afternoon call. The parson’s noose drifting inexorably toward his neck.

But the new Duke of Claremont had no intention of being outdone by a rapacious mama hen. He pulled out his bejeweled quizzing glass, pausing to brush an imaginary speck from the lapel of his midnight evening coat.

Truly, he couldn’t see a damned thing out of the glass. Nevertheless, he was now at twelve seconds.

He allowed an additional moment—two seconds!—for an ostentatious inspection of his coat sleeves and the strip of spotless white muslin at his wrists that echoed the snowy white of his cravat.

Ah, the cravat. The Throne of Love was his own masterful creation. He preferred trone d’amour, if for no other reason than to mock the ton’s absurd envy of all things French—rich irony, since the two nations had been at war for centuries, give or take.

Regrettably, the cursed neck-cloth made it nearly impossible to move his neck. Indeed, he had spent an hour in front of the mirror last night, striving for ever more intricate architecture and height. What he had achieved was wildly inventive, and silly in the extreme.

Ten seconds.

Sebastian returned his attention to Lady Hereford-Smythe. He peered at her through his quizzing glass, having judged it a kindness not to take note of the timid creature behind her.

Favoring the woman with his haughtiest gaze, he did not dignify her speculation about what had transpired between him and Elizabeth.

Yes, he was cruel. No gainsaying that.

Perhaps one day his situation would cease to be of interest to the vultures who masqueraded as polite society. Yet he could hardly blame them, as he himself had planted the story that kept their tongues wagging.

Alas, the death of his obscenely wealthy cousin had but added to his allure by gifting him a title that was a magnet for misses with scheming female relatives.

Burns, ever present when least wanted, niggled at him..

The polish’d jewels’ blaze

May draw the wond’ring gaze;

And courtly grandeur bright

The fancy may delight,

But never, never can come near the heart.

Best to keep one’s heart locked in the dark dungeon of one’s blackened and useless soul.

Ah, but blackened and useless weren’t quite right, were they? Alliteration would better serve. Beaten? Battered? Bruised? Bullied? Bedeviled?

Plainly, poetry did not reside in him. Burns, God rest him, had nothing to fear.

Duty, devotion, discipline, denial—that was the alliteration by which Sebastian lived. Order above all. Messiness cluttered the mind, obscured the path.

The woman’s features remained frozen in an expression of naked greed. If she held it for a moment longer, it might become permanent. Her death mask, perhaps.

Seven seconds! He shouldn’t have allowed himself the luxury of Burns, much less his own pitiful poetic meandering.

Sebastian’s gaze slid languidly to a spot across the room.

Egad, he drawled.

Is something wrong, Your Grace? Lady Hereford-Smythe asked.

Sebastian pulled out his watch. He flicked open the case, with its entwined leaves in three kinds of gold: rose, yellow, and white. Carefully, he inspected the watch face, where tiny diamonds were embedded at twelve, three, six and nine o’clock.

Three seconds. Damned near a death knell.

From his lofty height Sebastian looked down at the woman. His brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t quite recall who she was. Please excuse me, madam. Lord Sidmouth has arrived.

She granted him an obsequious smile. You must not let us detain you, Your Grace. I collect that you have important business with the Home Secretary.

Indeed. Sebastian dismissed her with an idle wave of his quizzing glass. He has most urgently requested the name of my tailor.

He melted into the crowd. Thus, he did not hear the softly terrified voice of Lady Hereford-Smythe’s trembling charge as she ventured into the open at last.

What is it, Auntie? she asked.

His Grace is excessively puffed up with his own consequence, Lady Hereford-Smythe replied acidly. One would never consider such a prideful fop husband material were he not so very handsome and exceedingly wealthy.

He is indeed beautiful, her niece whispered. I wonder why his fiancée cried off.

The ostrich feather bobbed more vigorously. Perhaps when he is not putting on a show for his admirers he is quite repellant. Her aunt’s gaze narrowed. It would take a strong woman to bring that one to heel, Hyacinth. You are not up to it.

Certainly not, her niece agreed, aghast.

Lady Hereford-Smythe sighed. "Very well, then. We must adjust our sights. I see a crop of eligible church mice in the corner. Perhaps they will not frighten you. Come."

***

Unrest is all about, Claremont. Last week there were riots in Suffolk and Norfolk.

Sebastian emitted a bored sigh. Boredom was his endless lot these days. He was so bored, in fact, he might be dead.

Was it possible to check, somehow? If he stood before a mirror, would his reflection deign to look at him? Or would it be entirely too bored to show?

He’d give Sidmouth five minutes. Home Secretary, and all that. Former prime minister, as well, so perhaps six minutes. An eternity.

Already, Sebastian was studying the pattern of the parquet floor, plotting an escape route.

Sidmouth had stopped talking. He seemed to await a response. Sebastian sent his brain back a few seconds and retrieved a memory—riots? Yes, in Suffolk and Norfolk.

Was there a reason he should care?

Words. Sidmouth expected words from him.

Fine. He was a wordsmith par excellence. Had he not dazzled Metternich, Nesselrode, Wellington, and countless others with his verbal acrobatics?

Alas, Sidmouth was not one for acrobatics, verbal or intellectual. Simple concepts only.

There have been riots in the country for years, Henry, courtesy of Ned Ludd, Sebastian said. I fail to see why I should be concerned about an unruly mob in Norwich.

"I never mentioned Norwich. So you have kept up." The other man eyed him accusingly

Truly, being shallow required inordinate work. One ought never read a newspaper.

These aren’t Luddites, Sidmouth continued. They could care less about machines. Down in Bideford, a kick-up erupted at the quay over a cargo of potatoes. The rioters say prices are too high. They claim people are starving.

Potatoes. Three minutes to extricate himself from a conversation about potatoes.

Nonsense, Sebastian replied dismissively. The riots are but cover for those who want to reform Parliament. Universal suffrage, or some such.

Did suffrage exist in Sidmouth’s vocabulary? he wondered.

Still, we cannot dismiss the uprisings, and now I am afraid you must deal with these matters directly, the man said. Have you forgotten your new position?

Sebastian surveyed the ballroom. He could see Lady Hereford-Smythe’s beady eyes searching the crowd. The woman was indefatigable. What is my cursed title to anything?

If you had bothered to respond to my emissaries, you would know the Duke of Claremont is Lord-Lieutenant of Cheshire—responsible for security, magistracy and so forth. Your authority extends to the border of North Wales. Both areas are ripe for unrest. The war depleted our security forces; there’s none to send to restore order. You may have to form a militia.

I have no wish to dirty Weston’s best by breaking up potato riots.

Sidmouth scowled. Inheriting a dukedom has made you too high in the instep.

On the contrary, Sebastian drawled. He was proud of that drawl. It began in the low register—on the contrary must start low or lose its power—and drifted up past baritone before descending again with admirable finality.

"The rarefied heights—Sebastian let the word bloom into full-on condescension—have always been my milieu. If you must know, a dukedom is deuced inconvenient."

He eyed Sidmouth mournfully. I’ve had to give up Wednesday nights at Almack’s. The price on my head is too high. Matchmakers assume I’m in urgent need of a wife to spend my money. Before, I could move about at will. But now…

Hell. That prideful little speech had cost twenty seconds.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sebastian saw Lady Hereford-Smythe marching determinedly through the crowd, dragging her unfortunate relative.

Sidmouth glowered at him. I suppose what I hear is true—that you haven’t lifted a finger to take up your new responsibilities. Shockingly, I’ve been told you’ve not met with the late duke’s solicitors or taken the reins of your affairs, or been presented at Lords, or—

Perhaps you will enlighten me as to how that is your concern.

Have you not been listening? Sidmouth demanded. Things are urgent. The old duke took so little interest that the area is ripe for conflict. There’s talk of revolution. You served your country admirably in the effort abroad, but it is time you attend to your obligations here.

Obligations. It was the second time tonight Sebastian had heard the word, so he took a moment to parse it.

Obligation was not one’s actual duty, but someone else’s opinion of that duty. All of society might think he was obliged to be presented at Lords, but that was merely their view.

In fact, Sebastian was not obliged to don a taffeta-lined scarlet and ermine robe, carry a cocked black hat, and prance to the bar to kneel before the Lord Chancellor. Not that he didn’t admire Lord Eldon, a tenacious supporter of the war effort, although his politics—like those of all politicians—were mutable.

Responsibility, on the other hand, was different, for it came from within. Responsibility dictated that he create unique neck-cloths and flaunt them. That he breeze through ballrooms in ten minutes or less. That he disregard someone’s idea of his obligations.

That sort of thing.

Parsing had taken fifteen seconds, but it had been necessary to clear his head.

Sebastian stifled a yawn. I cannot drop everything and set off for some godforsaken rustic corner. Why, I would miss the height of the Season.

England needs you, Sidmouth insisted.

I think not. As you say, I have already done all my country has asked.

Sidmouth drew himself up to his full height. As he was nearly a foot shorter than Sebastian, that did not have the desired intimidating effect.

Your country wishes you to visit your estates. And, if it’s not terribly inconvenient, to see to the welfare of those who have the very great misfortune of being your responsibility.

If only the man knew.

Time was up.

Lady Hereford-Smythe was in view. But that was not what caused Sebastian to suddenly search urgently for a different escape route than the parquet path he’d chosen.

No, it was another man, whose attention had evidently been caught by Sidmouth’s posturing. A set of coal-black eyes fixed on Sebastian from across the room.

Andrew Maitland started toward him.

If there was anyone Sebastian wished to avoid more than that predatory purple feather wearer, it was Drew Maitland. Thus, he edged toward the door that led out to the balcony.

Come to think of it, London is becoming a shade tedious at the moment, Sebastian allowed. The countryside might be diverting, though I imagine it has nothing approaching an adequate tailor. Wales, did you say?

Cheshire, Sidmouth corrected as Sebastian disappeared through the balcony door. Claremont, where are you off to?

Fresh air.

And, though the balcony was some fifteen feet above the ground, the new Duke of Claremont jumped nimbly down to the courtyard below.

Just in time.

***

Eerie figures marched in the night, silhouetted against the inky horizon by a sliver of moon. Torches flickered, held aloft by faceless members of the outlaw group. An occasional barked command caused the figures to turn abruptly and march in a new direction.

The moor’s scrub grasses muffled the sound of their boots, but Gwynna could hear the men’s grunts from her position on the slight rise above them.

She hugged her arms around her against the chill. Cold had seeped into her bones, no matter that it was the cusp of summer.

Perhaps it was just the strange spectacle below that caused her to shiver.

Gwynna usually relished the night. At home, she loved to watch the low mountains across the serpentine strait disappear as darkness fell.

But here, in this land beyond the mountains, the night was a sinister place of forbidding moors where strange men drilled in secret, preparing for unknown battles.

Her companion giggled nervously.

Quiet, Anne, Gwynna whispered. We don’t wish to be discovered.

The brown-haired young woman at her side looked fearful. Papa says it is dangerous even to speak of these men. What would he do if he knew we were spying on them?

They won’t discover us. But your frock is light-colored, so best keep to the bushes.

Anne glanced at Gwynna’s dark cap, tan breeches, and brown shirt. Perhaps I should have dressed as a boy, too.

Gwynna couldn’t envision her new friend, endowed with a womanly shape, in breeches and rough-woven shirt. It’s easier for me to travel as a boy.

Anne regarded her sadly. I wish you would allow me to tell Papa about you. I cannot bear to think of you sleeping in that old abandoned cottage night after night.

I am grateful for the food you brought, Gywnna said. She had been down to a single piece of bread when Anne found her.

Papa could help you, Anne said.

But you say he does not know the duke.

No one does, Anne replied. He is said to be quite old, and lately I have heard rumors that he is sick. For years he has been shut up in that drafty castle.

Gwynna’s gaze returned to the marchers. I must see him.

You will not tell me why?

It’s a private matter.

Anne shook her head. I hope you have the sense to give up your disguise before long. In the darkness, you can pass for a boy but during the day… She trailed off.

Gwynna frowned. Why not the day?

You are small like a boy, but your features are too delicate, Anne said. You are brave to have traveled so far alone.

Gwynna studied the figures on the moor. They looked to be a rough sort. Instinctively, her hand moved to the hilt of her dagger. What do you know of these men, Anne?

Some fear they mean to seize the crops rather than pay such high prices.

They are clever to organize in this manner. The government would never countenance such meetings in the open, Gwynna said.

’Tis said that what they are doing is treasonous, Anne said. Papa called it sedition.

Sometimes it is necessary to rebel.

The way you talk is so strange. It makes me afraid.

Gwynna glanced at her. Welsh have always had to fight for their rights, especially on Anglesey. The instinct for combat runs deep.

This island of yours sounds very unusual.

It’s lovely. And yet... But she wouldn’t think about Evans now.

Footsteps crunched behind them. Anne gave a little shriek.

Eh, Billy! said a rough, masculine voice. What have we here?

The man’s face appeared to have been smeared with coal dust.

Stifle it, ’else you’ll have the law on us. Let’s have a look. Another blackened face peered from behind him. A slow smile exposed a coarse set of rotting teeth. Just a scrawny lad and his wench. Pretty thing, too. What yer doing out here?

Taking the night air like yourselves, sir, Gwynna said in a gruff voice. We have no more desire to bring attention to ourselves than you do.

This brought guffaws. Lad’s trying to scare us, Bill. Oughtn’t stand for that.

Watch out, Davey. The second man smirked. The lad has spunk.

The men were so close Gwynna could smell the sweat and thistledown on their clothing. Her gaze flicked past them to the moor below. Pointless to hope for rescue. No one with good intentions traveled these moors at night.

One of the men held a length of rope. If yer nice, laddie, you’ll save your neck and your lady friend’s, too. We’ll even let you watch us with the wench here.

Instantly, Gwynna whipped out her dagger. The men stared at it, then laughed.

Look at that old piece of tin, Bill. The lad’s ready to die for his wench’s honor.

Finish the upstart, his friend said. I’ll have me a bit of sport over here. He crushed Anne against him. She screamed.

Gwynna lashed out with her knife. But the other man grabbed her wrist and twisted it. The dagger sliced harmlessly through air.

With a rough laugh, he kicked her. Gwynna fell to the ground, stifling a groan of pain.

Two fine manly specimens you are, she taunted, hiding your faces and bullying people half your size. I give your revolution precious little chance if the rest are the likes of you.

What do ye know of any revolution, laddie? her assailant growled. Don’t remember mentioning it myself.

He snapped his rope taut. This’ll make short work of that scrawny neck of yers. Then there’ll be no more talk about revolution.

An utterly boring topic, in any case, drawled a masculine voice.

All eyes shifted toward the sound.

A lone figure on horseback surveyed them with an air of extreme ennui. Under arched brows, his eyes evinced only idle curiosity. Wind ruffled his sandy hair, giving him a rakish appearance at odds with his aristocratic clothing and remote demeanor.

Gleaming brass buttons on his midnight blue coat illuminated its precise fit. A snow-white cravat tied in an elaborate fashion bloomed at his throat. The buff riding breeches and banded dark boots were less showy, yet grander than any Gwynna had seen on Anglesey.

He sat atop a magnificent roan. Silver trim on its richly appointed leather saddle gave the enormous beast a princely air.

The rider himself looked to be well into his third decade. He was tall, for rider and horse together took up a large chunk of landscape.

Gwynna had never seen a London dandy, but he must be the epitome of the breed. He cut a strange figure here on the moor, yet eyed them as if they, not he, were the peculiar sight.

As I suspected. He sighed. No one here has the slightest idea how to dress.

The two ruffians stared at the apparition. Madman, one muttered.

The horseman favored them with a smile. Then, as if noticing their particular circumstances for the first time, he tilted his head in puzzlement.

Pray, is there some trouble here? I’ve no wish to ruin my travel clothes by embroiling myself in a local dispute.

Gwynna eyed him with contempt. This man was no rescuer, but a pretentious peacock.

No trouble at all, yer lordship, one man said with a smirk. Jest having a little fun.

The horseman’s brow cleared. Some eccentric game, I expect, that requires grown men to gad about with coal dust on their faces and tussle with two young persons in a desolate place.

Shifting uneasily, the men touched their faces. We keep to our own business in Cheshire, mister, one snarled.

The horseman nodded. "Indeed. I’m afraid