Ted raised his glass. “To the Viscount. The seventh Lord Driscoll.”

Whitbread raised his glass too. “His Lordship informed me and the family solicitor of a secret way to correspond with you in case of necessity. Lord Jared knew, also, of course.”

Ted drank and made another toast. “To the Viscount. The eighth.”

“And to the ninth, My Lord.”

“I should not be in the tally.” Ted fell silent, thinking of his older brother, the eldest son who had succeeded their father for so brief a time. Jared and Ted had been best of friends, playmates and partners in every mischief two lively boys could find. Jared grew to a more sober lad, as befitted his position. It was he who had to study agriculture and investments, everything connected to the Driscoll holdings. Not Theodore, the devil-may-care second son, up to every rig and row. How Jared must be laughing now. Ted felt like crying.

“I wish I could have seen him again. Both of them. The mail was so deucedly slow.”

“Across the ocean, in times of war, with you travelling the entirety of North America, it seemed? I found it amazing that you received our letters at all.”

Sometimes it took years, sometimes Ted knew letters had gone missing. “I treasured the ones I did get. Except for all the bad news.”

“Sad times for Driscoll Hall, My Lord. But at least you have finally returned to take up the title and responsibilities.”

“If he wasn’t already dead I would curse Jared to hell for not taking care of his duties before shuffling off. Begetting little Driscolls is the primary job of the heir, not the spare. I never wanted to step into my father’s shoes, much less Jared’s. He should have had a son by now. Or two, by all that’s holy.”

Whitbread sighed. “Before the old Viscount died, Lord Jared promised to find a wife when he turned thirty. I’m certain His Lordship never expected to meet his maker before meeting the perfect female. Not at such an early age.”

Jared had been eight and twenty, the age Ted was now. A damnably, painfully, young time for his brother to die, Ted thought, feeling the familiar ache of loss and the sense of years rushing by. He’d seen many a young man die, though, a lot younger. Some in battle, some from disease, some from the harsh life in the northern territories. Ted could not let himself dwell on those tragic losses either. The present had to be for the living, not the dead. “Influenza, your letter said.”

“Yes, the epidemic took many in the vicinity. The apothecary, the vicar’s two infants and the entire Gorham family. Baron Cole, too.”

“I will not mourn Cole’s passing. If not for that self-righteous jackass I’d never have gone to Canada to make my fortune in the first place.” Ted tried to shake off the gloom of past misfortunes. “But enough of dwelling on losses or rueing what cannot be changed. Tell me of Noel. My baby brother is well?”

“Master Noel is twenty years old, My Lord, and a fine, strapping young man.”

That was hard to imagine. Noel had been the baby of the family, a sickly infant after their mother’s death giving birth to him. Then he’d been a pampered pet to his father and two doting older brothers. He’d been a sprig of thirteen when Ted took passage to Canada, stick-thin and spotty. How could he be a man already?

“He was away at university during the scourge,” Whitbread went on. “Lord Driscoll would not permit him to return home despite the physician’s dire prognostications.”

Which was dashed wise of Jared, not knowing if Ted could or would ever make it back to England and the succession. He might not ever have returned. Why should he? His dreams of England had died years ago, starting in Lord Cole’s estate office. He was making a new life in the New World … until Whitbread’s letter reached him seven months after Jared’s death. The passage home had taken longer than that.

Poor Lord Noel was left in a muddle, the trusted servant had written, with people dubbing him Lord Driscoll, when he knew he was no such thing. Ted was the heir, ready or willing or not.

Not.

“So he up and left?”

“He left his studies and his friends in London, rather than answer awkward questions. He stays close to home now, consulting with the steward and the solicitors. Today he’s gone with the bailiff to purchase a new bull. Reluctantly, I might add. Master Noel fancied himself a regular London swell, not a farmer.”

Well, Ted never fancied himself a viscount either. Or a soldier, much less a dishonoured one. He always had a head for figures so he’d set out to be a trader, a shipping magnate, a success, so he could come back to England a rich man and prove Baron Cole wrong. Too bad the old puffguts wasn’t there to see.

“Learning about the estate cannot hurt him,” Ted told the butler. “A bull might.”

Whitbread poured another splash of cognac into both of their glasses. “To hopes he never succeeds to become the tenth Lord Driscoll, for all of our sakes.”

Whitbread left to see to Ted’s baggage, order his room readied and inform the cook to prepare a meal fit for a viscount.

While he was gone, Ted poured himself another glass of cognac and stared into the fire. He was home, yet he felt more lost than when he’d found himself in a log lean-to during a blizzard. He had no doubt Whitbread would have the viscount’s rooms prepared for him, not his old comfortable bedchamber on the upper floor. He’d have to sleep where his father and brother had died, with their ghosts scolding him for his sins and his seven-year defection. He’d sleep next to his mother’s room, the one that had stayed empty so long. Her ghost was sure to plague him to marry, to fill the nursery. Damn them all and the nightmares he’d suffer. Hadn’t he suffered enough?

They should rest easy. He understood duty and obligations. He’d come home, hadn’t he? Despite the bumblebroth sure to follow, despite the danger and the disappointment.

Home. This place was too quiet to be the home he remembered, with rowdy boys and a constant bustle, with boots and books and sporting dogs on the furniture, with friends and neighbours in and out all day, with dreams.

And now there was duty. And half a bottle of cognac left.

“What shall you do first, My Lord?” Whitbread asked when he returned with a tray of bread and cheese.

“After finishing this bottle? A bath and a good night’s sleep. Then I’ll lie low until Noel’s return. He’s been in charge for over a year, so he deserves to hear my plans before they are made public. I know I cannot keep my reappearance secret for long, not with the servants who saw me arrive and carried in my baggage.” And not with Whitbread settling him in the viscount’s suite and ordering a lavish dinner. “Please ask the staff to refrain from spreading the news in the village as long as possible.”

Whitbread stiffened his spine and pursed his lips. “Driscoll Hall servants do not gossip about their employers. The secret of your survival never passed through the gates.”

“Of course not. My apologies, Whitbread. I am merely used to strangers whose loyalty is as thick as one’s purse is heavy.”

The butler nodded. “Then once Lord Noel returns, you can take your proper place?”

“Not quite that easily. I’ll speak to the solicitor before travelling to London to face the War Office. Mr Armstead still handles the family’s affairs?”

“A somewhat younger Mr Armstead, the nephew of the gentleman in charge when you left. Very learned, this one, and equally as careful of the family’s business. Lord Driscoll had great confidence in him. Lord Jared, that was.”

“Fine. I’ll ask him to call here in a few days. And I’ll have to speak with the local magistrate, too. Who took over from old man Cole?”

“His son, Edwin.”

“Ned? He was always as stiff-rumped as his sire. He’s what? Thirty-five years old or so? I doubt he’s mellowed with age. But he’ll know me, so he’ll have to vouch for my identity. I’d have to pay my respects at the Knolls anyway, I suppose.” Which was the last thing he wanted to do, after being dead or being viscount. “Unless he’s gone to London for the season?” Ted could only hope.

Whitbread sniffed. “The Coles no longer travel to the metropolis.”

“No? I’d have thought that high-nosed wife of his would insist on taking her place in the ton.”

Whitbread decided to let Lord Noel explain about The Incident. “Rumour has it that Lady Cole might be increasing again.”

“Deuce take it, I suppose Cole has a quiverful of heirs by now.”

“Some gentlemen take their responsibilities to heart.”

Enough to take a shrew like Lady Cole to their beds. Ted shuddered and poured the last of the cognac into his glass. “Find me another bottle, Whitbread. Or two.”

Three

Millie moved ahead. With dread.

What if Edwin tossed them out? What if there was no more money, ever? What if highwaymen stole the little money they had? What if some woman recognized Millie from her wild red hair and steered her daughters to the other side of the street? Worse, what if some man recognized her — or just noticed her wild red hair — and thought she was a lightskirt or bachelor fare?

Millie tried to think optimistically, she really did. If nothing else, once they reached Knollwood she’d get to place flowers on her mother’s grave. Maybe she’d ask if anyone ever placed a marker for the neighbour’s son who’d never come home. She could bring her oldest friend flowers too, and shed a few more tears. Maybe then they’d be the last tears for the young man who’d broken her heart all those years ago, first by leaving, then by dying.

Now wasn’t that something to look forward to? Millie asked herself. Revisiting old graves and old dreams.