CHAPTER1
Eammon
Hayward House,
March 1840
“Cousin Thomas,” Eammon exclaimed as he rose from his seat and rushed around the oak desk that had belonged to his father and his grandfather before him. He embraced his cousin and noted the salty scent of the ocean that still clung to him. He also took note of the slightly green hue Thomas tended to carry whenever he had been out at sea—or in a fast-moving carriage. Or anything with substantial locomotion, in fact.
“You look dreadful,” he said. “Have a seat. I shall call for some tea.”
“I would care for something a little stronger, cousin,” Thomas said, but Eammon shook his head.
“I think not. Peppermint tea will do you much better. I do recall the last time you returned from Ireland. I had to have my entire carpet taken up because you thought you could soothe your anxious stomach with brandy. And whiskey before that, if I recall correctly.”
“Perhaps you ought to stop sending me to Ireland then, Eammon,” Thomas said as Eammon pulled the cord that would summon his maid.
“I should hope I will not have to. Not after this last trip,” he said, and Eammon’s eyes grew wide.
“You have found out something? At last? You know what killed John and Maebh Keane?” He sat across from his cousin, who leaned heavily to one side of the armchair.
“I do. And it is just as your father said, Eammon. They were killed in a carriage accident. It was tragic, but it is what happened. I’ve spoken to the constable who investigated, their neighbor who tended to their home after it happened, and the man who drove the curricle that caused them to go off the road. There is nothing more to discover. It was an accident,” Thomas said as he leaned back.
“I can’t believe it. There must be more to it. It can’t have been so silly a thing, surely? An accident? How ordinary. I…I can’t accept it. Something more must have happened. Something…someone…”
“Do you wish for it to have been a murder?” Thomas asked, exasperated now. “Can you not be happy that nobody wished them ill? That nobody wanted them dead? Can you not be happy that you need not waste your time lollygagging over what happened to them anymore?”
“I am not lollygagging. How can you say such a thing? These people were my…They…Without them, I would not be here. It is bad enough my father did not want me to look into their deaths all these years and now you tell me I am wasting my time?”
He ran a hand through his hair. Ever since he’d arrived at Hayward at age 5, he’d thought of John and Maebh Keane, his first parents. Or as his mother always called them, his heavenly parents.
Their death had left a deep wound within his chest, and while he had found happiness with Alexander and Lydia, he’d never forgotten. Out of respect for Alexander, he hadn’t asked too many questions and accepted what he had been told by his parents and by the few people he’d had a chance to discreetly ask. John and Maebh had died on a rainy night in an accident.
That was it.
But he’d known in his gut there was more. There had to be. Fate was not that random. Surely? Or was it? Had he been lollygagging?
To be sure, there was much he had to do at Hayward and indeed the House of Lords. Since his father’s death a year ago, he’d taken on not only his title as Duke of Leith but also all responsibilities that came along with that—the estate, the tenants, the business, and his seat in the House of Lords. None of it had been easy.
Despite the fact that he had more aunts, uncles, and cousins than he could count, the transition had been vexing. Not just because he’d loved his father with all his heart. Or because he had seen how much his mother, Lydia Hayward, the Dowager Duchess of Leith, had suffered with his father’s passing. He’d done all he could for her too, but she’d withered away before his eyes and eventually decided to leave Hayward altogether, relocating to Eammon’s sister Hazel’s London townhouse.
“Eammon?” Thomas called, and he looked up.
“Yes?”
“Woolgathering, were we?”
Eammon shook his head. “I was just thinking of everything that has happened these last few months. I really thought that finding out what happened to John and Maebh would give me some sort of direction.”
“I should think you have plenty of direction, Eammon. You’re a duke, for heaven’s sake.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well, the scuttlebutt around London would have that drawn into question.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “So let them. They say this is a new age and a new era under Queen Victoria, but the old guard never changes. They gossip and chatter and say whatever they like as long as it is entertaining; it does not matter if it is the truth or not. You know.”
Eammon looked down at his hands. He adored Thomas like a brother. In fact, he had often regarded him as such. They were first cousins after all, by way of Alexander’s sister Hanna. Though they were five years apart, they had always been close.
They’d spent their entire childhood together, from holidays to summers away at their respective estates. They were, in fact, as close as two people could be. And yet, there were things he knew he could never tell Thomas.
