Esme. Colin sighed. Esme Kelverton was the impetus behind the Free Fellows League. If Lord Kelverton hadn’t broken the betrothal agreement between Colin and Esme, there wouldn’t be a Free Fellows Charter or League. And Colin wouldn’t have felt compelled to prove his worth to his schoolmates by climbing the bell tower and conquering his fear.
The business they were about was serious, and their dreams of becoming England’s greatest heroes were not to be taken lightly. Heroism required dedication—dedication to honor and to one’s country—and dedication required sacrifice. The heroes they read about and dreamed of becoming were dashing figures willing to forgo the comforts of family and home, of wives and of children, in order to fulfill their destinies. True heroes remained free of encumbrances in order to make the ultimate sacrifice. Griffin, Colin, and Jarrod prepared to do likewise.
There would be no more long, tearful nights filled with empty longing for the familiar comforts of home and hearth. No more waiting in vain for letters from loved ones. No more tender hearts thoughtlessly trampled by ignorant females who looked down their noses at lesser titles and dwindling fortunes. Females whose fathers blamed a son for his father’s shortcomings and who thought more of the title than of the boy.
Colin exhaled, remembering his emotional exchange with his two compatriots the day he had learned his future father-in-law had broken the betrothal agreement between Colin and his daughter. The day Jarrod had discovered Colin sniveling like a baby and commented upon it. Moments later, Colin had punched Jarrod in the nose. Jarrod had retaliated by blackening Colin’s eye, and Griffin had gotten a split lip when he attempted to separate the two of them.
As a result, the three boys had been sent to Norworthy. They had been punished for brawling and had received a caning before the whole assembly. A friendship forged in blood and pain began that day, and later that night, the Free Fellows League was born.
“I canna blame Sir Preston,” Colin had confided in a Scots burr thick with emotion when the three of them had slipped out of their dormitories and headed to the kitchens to draw up the rules of the Free Fellows League, “For wanting the best for his daughter. And there’s no doubt that with my father’s ill fortune at the card tables, my prospects have dimmed. The only thing I’ll inherit is a title and a mountain of debts.” He took a deep breath and fought to keep from crying. “But I canna help but feel bad about Esme. We’ve been betrothed from the cradle. I thought she cared more about me than about my prospects.”
Jarrod had let out a contemptuous snort. “You do better to learn it now. Nobody cares about us. We’re eldest sons. We’re supposed to stay alive because as long as we’re breathing the family line is safe. We’re supposed to breathe, but we’re not supposed to live. The only thing anyone cares about when it comes to eldest sons is their titles and prospects,” Jarrod pronounced, staring at Colin and Griffin as he imparted the wisdom his extra year of life and his higher rank had afforded him. “And there’s no use sniveling about it because, you see, girls are the very worst sort of snobs. They have no choice. They have to marry a man with good prospects. To do anything less is to disappoint the family.” He drew himself up to his full height. “Better to do as we’ve decided and swear off girls altogether.”
“That’s right,” Griffin had chimed in. “Who needs them?”
“Not us.” Jarrod reached around Griff and gave Colin a keep-your-chin-up punch in the arm. “We’re going to be the three greatest heroes England has ever known! And no girl is going to stop us!”
And no girl had! Colin grinned down at his friends from the top of the tower. He had done it! He had conquered his greatest fear and scaled the wall of the tallest building on the Knightsguild grounds.
Jarrod and Griffin smiled up at him and gestured for him to come down. Colin turned toward the interior stairs, but Jarrod shook his head.
“Not that way!” Jarrod called.
Colin took a deep breath and swung his leg back over the side of the bell tower. He might have known Jarrod wouldn’t let him take the easy way down. No stairs. The only way down for him was the same way he’d come up. The hard way.
Feeling for his first foothold, Colin began the arduous journey from tower top to ground. A quarter of an hour later, he’d made it.
Expecting congratulations from his friends, Colin was met with a brusque greeting and an order from Jarrod.
“Now,” Jarrod said, as soon as Colin’s feet touched terra firma, “do it again. Only faster this time. We haven’t got all night.”
“Yeah,” Griffin chimed. “If we’re late for morning assembly, there will be canings all around.”
Colin climbed. Up and down two more times before Jarrod was satisfied. And when they left the quadrangle and hour or so before the breakfast bells rang, the bonds between them had become unbreakable bonds forged from fear and pain and imbued with the sweet thrill of victory.
Three nights ago, Griffin, Colin, and Jarrod had formed a secret society guaranteed to protect them from further pain wrought in the name of love and family and had fashioned a charter to govern it. They called it the “Official Charter of the Free Fellows League,” and as they pricked their thumbs with the paring knife and eagerly signed their names to the paper in blood, the three had sworn to honor the agreement as long as they lived.
And tonight the members of the Free Fellows League had triumphed in their maiden mission. They had overcome their initial obstacle in their journey to becoming England and Scotland’s greatest heroes.
The work of the League had begun.
Chapter One
“Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.”
—William Shakespeare, 1564-1616
Twelfth Night
London
Early spring, 1812
“What do you mean you don’t know where she is?” The first Baron Davies was rapidly losing patience with the Bow Street runner he had hired to investigate the disappearance of his daughter.
“I mean, my lord, that we cannot find her.” He cleared his throat, straightened his scarlet waistcoat, and pulled himself up to his full height “We have found no trace of her in London, sir. Your daughter has disappeared.”
Lord Davies thumped his fist on the top of his oak desk. “Tell me something I don’t know. No one has seen my daughter in a week, not since she and her mother became separated at Lady Weatherby’s musicale. I know Gillian has disappeared. What I don’t know is why. Or why a man of my wealth and stature has yet to receive a request for ransom.”