The words hung in the air like a funeral shroud. A Duke who inspired terror in his own tenants, who lived in isolation, scarred beyond recognition by war. And this was the man to whom her father had entrusted her welfare. Evangeline felt bile rise in herthroat as the full implications struck her.
"And if I were to decline His Grace's generous offer?" she asked, though her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.
Mr. Blackwood's silence spoke volumes. They both knew her options: accept the Duke's invitation or face destitution. There was no middle path for a woman alone in the world, particularly one burdened with her father's debts. The workhouse beckoned with skeletal fingers; a fate worse than any Gothic nightmare.
"I understand your hesitation, Miss Hartwell," the solicitor said gently. "But I would remind you that His Grace is, whatever his peculiarities a gentleman of the highest rank. Your safety and reputation would be secured under his protection."
Protection. The word had an ominous ring in the context of their conversation. Protection from what—or from whom? And what might such protection cost her?
Evangeline rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the bare branches of the oak tree where she had played as a child. Soon even this view would be forbidden to her, as would this house where her mother had laughed and her father had taught her to be brave. She was two and twenty, possessed of a respectable education and pleasing countenance, yet as powerless as a child. The injustice of her sex and station burned in her throat like strong spirits.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said without turning, "you speak of His Grace's reputation as though he were some manners of monster. Yet you would have me journey to his isolated estate in Yorkshire, far from any who might offer aid should I require it."
"I would not suggest such a course if I believed you to be in any true danger, Miss Hartwell. His Grace may be difficult but he is not without honour. Your father trusted him enough to appeal to his protection."
But had her father truly understood what manner of man he was entrusting her to? Or had he been so desperate, soconcerned for her future, that he had grasped at any possibility of salvation? The thought that her beloved father might have, in his extremity, condemned her to some dreadful fate was almost too painful to bear.
Yet what choice did she have? The auction would conclude by evening, and tomorrow she would be homeless. The small sum she had managed to save from the household accounts would not stretch to more than a week's lodging at the village inn, and winter employment for a gentlewoman was scarce indeed. She could perhaps find a position as a governess or companion, but without references and bearing the stigma of her family's financial ruin, even such humble employment might prove elusive.
The key pressed against her stays like a guilty secret. Perhaps whatever her father had hidden in that locked drawer would provide answers, or at least alternatives. But with Mullins and his confederates prowling the house, she dared not investigate until after their departure.
"Mr. Blackwood," she said, turning back to face him, "might I have until this evening to consider His Grace's proposal? This is all rather overwhelming."
"Naturally, Miss Hartwell. Though I should mention that His Grace expressed some urgency in the matter. He is aware that your father's creditors have seized the property and that your circumstances are pressing."
Indeed, they were. Time was a luxury she could not afford, yet the prospect of committing herself to the unknown terrors of Ravenshollow Manor made her stomach churn with dread. Still, was uncertainty not preferable to the certainty of destitution?
"Very well," she said, the words emerging with more confidence than she felt. "Pray inform His Grace that I accept his invitation with gratitude. When does he expect my arrival?"
"His Grace has arranged for a travelling coach to conveyyou to Yorkshire with all convenient speed. If it meets with your approval, you might depart tomorrow morning."
Tomorrow. The word fell between them like a gravestone, marking the end of everything she had known and the beginning of a future she could not imagine—and dare not contemplate too closely. Yet what else could she do? The Duke of Ravenshollow held her only lifeline, and she had to grasp it or drown, regardless of what monsters might lurk in the depths.
"Then I shall be ready, Mr. Blackwood. And please convey to His Grace my profound gratitude for his consideration."
The solicitor rose, executing another precise bow. "I shall indeed, Miss Hartwell. His Grace has also requested that I settle your father's outstanding debts, that you might leave Hertfordshire with a clear conscience."
Evangeline stared at him. "All of them? But surely the sum must be considerable—"
"His Grace was quite specific on this point. Captain Hartwell's daughter should not be burdened with obligations contracted in service to King and country." Mr. Blackwood's expression softened slightly. "Whatever His Grace's eccentricities he is not ungenerous."
After the solicitor departed, promising to return at dawn with the traveling coach, Evangeline sat alone in the cold room, listening to the sounds of her life being dismantled piece by piece. The brass key seemed to burn against her stays, a tangible reminder of secrets yet unrevealed. The Duke's letter lay upon her lap, its cryptic phrases offering no comfort.
A terrifying reputation. Considerable injuries. A man transformed into something fierce and strange. These were the warnings Mr. Blackwood had given her, yet he expected her to journey willingly into the monster's lair. Perhaps, when she reached Yorkshire and this mysterious Duke, she would finally understand what her father had left behind for her to discover.
But first, she had to pack what little remained to her and prepare to leave the only home she had ever known. Whatever awaited her at Ravenshollow Manor, salvation or damnation, it could scarcely be worse than the alternatives. Could it?
As the afternoon shadows lengthened across the empty floors of Hartwell Manor, Evangeline could not shake the feeling that she was about to step into a fairy tale—though whether it would prove to be the sort with a happy ending remained to be seen. One thing was certain: she was about to discover whether her father's faith in the Duke of Ravenshollow was justified, or whether he had unknowingly delivered his daughter into the hands of a beast.
Chapter Two
Dawn broke grey and cheerless over Hertfordshire, casting long shadows across the gravel drive where the Duke's traveling coach awaited like a harbinger of fate. Evangeline stood at the window of what had been her bedchamber, watching the coachman secure her modest trunk to the rear of the conveyance—a single piece of luggage that contained the sum total of her worldly possessions.
How quickly a life could be reduced to essentials. Three gowns of good black material, her mother's prayer book, a miniature of her parents, and the precious brass key that even now pressed against her stays like a talisman. Everything else—every book, every trinket, every memento of her two-and-twenty years—had vanished beneath the auctioneer's hammer or been claimed by creditors.
The irony was not lost upon her that she traveled to her uncertain future in greater luxury than she had known since childhood. The coach bore the Ravenshollow arms emblazoned upon its doors—a silver wolf rampant on a field of midnight blue—and the appointments within spoke of wealth beyond her comprehension. Leather seats, silk cushions, even a small lap desk fitted with crystal inkwell and a silver quill pen. The Duke, whatever his reputation, did not stint on comfort for his guests.
Or his prisoners, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind.
