But he could not lose Sharottewood now. Not for scruples. Not for Constance Kensley.
Not even for his son.
CHAPTER 1
Rosenleigh Leicestershire, England April 1809
It has happened again.” William Kensley stood at the entrance of the redbrick stables, mud caking the lower half of his breeches and Hessians.
Mr. Nolan, the stable master, seemed to search William for injuries before he asked, “Ahearn?”
“Lying in the gully.”
“Perhaps an accident—”
“It was no accident.” Speaking the words unpent some of the fury. William fished the bur from his riding coat pocket, displayed it on his palm, then dropped it. He crunched it beneath his heel. “No more an accident than the other calamities that have befallen me. Excuse me. I must get a gun.”
“Mayhap someone else should—”
“No. I shall do it myself.” He started back for the manor, the early morning sun cutting through the clouds and stabbing his eyes. The ache spread through him, fissuring through his composure until it turned into rage.
The first few times it had been easier. When they called it an accident that his bed had caught afire, or that his breakfast made him ill, he had believed them.
Until it happened again.
And again.
He brushed the sweat from his forehead and tried to erase his mind of Ahearn’s screech as they toppled headlong into the gully. What blackguard would dare do such a thing to the best horseflesh Rosenleigh had ever seen? To any horse?
Indeed, what blackguard would do such a thing to William? What possible gain could anyone have in seeing him dead?
He didn’t know. Not yet.
But he would. One way or another, this madness must come to a stop and answers must be given him. He knew just where to go for such answers too.
Whether or not the old gardener would part with the answers was yet to be seen. He never had before.
Reaching the grey-stoned house, with its white-trimmed windows, jutting chimneys, and perfectly trimmed boxwoods lining the front, William burst through the entrance and into the foyer. He rushed through rooms and down halls, grimacing a bit at the trail of mud he was leaving behind for the housekeeper.
At the trophy room, he pushed inside. The room was quiet, spacious, with light slanting through the tall sash windows and brightening the trophies of roebuck and muntjac deer hanging on the walls. He walked for the hearth and grabbed the double-barreled shotgun from above the mantel.
“Going after pheasants, are you, Cousin?”
William glanced to the other side of the room, where Horace Willoughby was slumped into a wingback chair—a decanter of port in one hand, a wineglass in the other. His neckcloth was loose and stained with splotches of drink.
“A bit early for hunting.” Horace hiccupped. “Is it not?”
“As it is for drinking.”
Horace sprang to his feet, though he seized the arm of his chair to keep from careening. His round cheeks blazed red. “I shall drink if I wish, and I’m bloody-well weary of you plaguing me about it.” Shakily, he poured more port into his glass, drained it, then wiped his mouth. “Where are you going?”
“To put Ahearn out of his misery.”
“What has happened? What have you done to my horse?”
“He is not your horse.” William started for the door. “And I am certain details of his malady would only bore you.”
“That horse was Father’s.”
