Who the devil did Winter think he was? True, this was his family’s gaming hell. But this was the goddamned East End, and there was neither king nor queen nor prince in these far-flung, dangerous, forgotten streets. There was only keen wits, struggling chaps, and families doing their utmost to make certain they could stay together with a solid roof over their heads, filled bellies, and that ever-elusive feeling of home.
It had taken Rafe all his life to realize his home was The Sinner’s Palace. And then, not long after finally welcoming his family’s gaming hell as a place of comfort and familiarity and hope rather than darkness, he had realized his true home.
Miss Persephone Wren.
“Rafe?” Hart was asking, his hazel Sutton eyes searching.
Had he said something?
“Eh?” he asked, cupping a hand to his ear as if he co
uld not discern the words his brother was speaking. “Louder, brother. I can’t hear a goddamn thing you are saying.”
“Winter says he may have word of your Miss Wren,” his brother said, raising his voice.
Everything within Rafe froze. “Persephone? Miss Wren? Christ, why did you not say so sooner, man?”
“Come with me, Sutton. I’ll see to it you get a filled belly, and then I’ll tell you everything I know.”
CHAPTER 13
Her return to Silwood Manor had been a bittersweet homecoming indeed.
Persephone stood before her beloved mare, Echo for the first time in nearly seven years, holding back tears at the differences which had come to pass in the time she had been gone. Echo was no longer the youthful mare she had once been, and though the stable master had taken excellent care of her, judging from her fine form and healthy coat, her age was apparent in her gait.
But she remembered Persephone. Those brown eyes gazed into hers now with an equine sense of understanding that only served to heighten Persephone’s own heartache.
“It is a misery, is it not, Echo?” she whispered to her mare. “What has time done to us, my love?”
Rafe’s voice was there, an ever-present memory burned into her mind. How handsome and concerned he had been, the morning when he had hurried her back to her room, taking care to make certain they would go unnoticed.
We’d best ‘urry, lovely. Time ain’t exactly our bosom friend this morning.
His low rasp, the tinge of an East End drawl, his charm and the tender way he had gazed upon her, remained firmly tangled about her heart. They always would.
Time had not been their bosom friend at all, for it had been far, far too short. And now, she had been forced to return to Oxfordshire and face the wedding she had spent the last few years running from. It was either that or risk the life of the man she loved. Rafe was too precious to her. She would gladly sacrifice her future and her happiness if it meant preserving his.
A tear broke free and ran down her cheek, but she dashed it away before the servant attending her could take note. She had been in Oxfordshire for only several weeks, and the banns had been read. Cousin Bartholomew was leaving nothing to chance. In three more days, she would find herself wed to a man she loathed. One sennight before her birthday, when she would turn five-and-twenty.
She supposed that was why he was allowing her this small concession, the permission for a short ride without either a groom or himself as accompaniment. At least, according to the groom. He had said nothing of his intentions over breakfast when he had declared she might enjoy a turn about the stables since she had been an obedient betrothed since their return.
Oh, how those words had infuriated her. And how she had longed to throw her half-eaten eggs and kippers in his face. But she had not. Instead, she had calmly thanked him and inquired whether or not he would like to accompany her. He had declined, much to her relief.
In truth, Cousin Bartholomew was an abysmal rider. His large form and uneasiness with horses—brought upon by a childhood accident in which he had been thrown from a saddle—made him an awkward rider, looking always as if he were an inch from spilling to his doom. He had never cared for horses, aside from their monetary value or the éclat they afforded him.
“She is ready, my lady,” the groom said, interrupting her tumultuous musings. “His lordship expects your return in one quarter hour. You’ll want to be gentle with Echo as she’s occasionally been favoring her front leg on cold mornings.”
He was new here, like so many of the domestics at Silwood Manor. Cousin Bartholomew had changed much, she had discovered in her return, and she could not help but to wonder who had paid for all his revisions. New servants, the construction of a lake and fountain in the valley Silwood Manor overlooked, a Palladian pavilion on the front façade, fresh carpets, a small fortune in paintings dotting the new wall coverings.
All while she had been living on the meager wages of a governess, forced from one situation to the next, just for the chance to no longer suffer his tyrannical rule.
She nodded politely to the groom. “Thank you, sir. I will be back in a quarter hour, as his lordship wishes, and I shall take great care of Echo.”
Considering she is my horse.
Echo, like many of the horses here at Silwood Manor, was a part of her inheritance. Her mother’s side of the family had been mad about horseflesh and rich as Croesus. And Cousin Bartholomew stood to benefit greatly from that combination.
With the groom’s aid, she mounted Echo. Although years had passed since she had last ridden a horse, being seated upon her mare’s saddle felt as familiar as if she had last been there just yesterday. With her thanks to the groom, she departed, taking care to keep Echo’s pace slow and even. She was not limping today, but if Persephone saw the slightest hint of arthritis, she had every intention of dismounting and returning to the stables by foot.