Ivory & Ebony's Kismet: A Mornington Park Novel, #4

By K. E. Chaloner

Laurence Rutherford, the Marquess of Westcott has always enjoyed music as his mistress, hoping for his life to be quiet, ordered and filled with the rhythmic sounds, but growing up with the Blackenhawke brothers has not always allowed that to be the case. So when his close friend Nicholas Blackenhawke asks him to take his wife's sister, an escaped slave from America into hiding at his quiet manor house in the country, he jumps at the chance to spend time with the black blue-eyed beauty, entertaining her in the peace of his music. 

A simple request until he finds he is spending more time keeping his emotions in check, instead of watching the approaching danger that not only has the power to shatter their peace, but to kill them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. E. Chaloner
• Release date: Jul 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648081432

Book preview

Introduction

Laurence Rutherford, the Marquess of Westcott has always enjoyed music as his mistress, hoping for his life to be quiet, ordered and filled with the rhythmic sounds, but growing up with the Blackenhawke brothers has not always allowed that to be the case.

So when his close friend Nicholas Blackenhawke asks him to take his wife’s sister, an escaped slave from America into hiding at his quiet manor house in the country, he jumps at the chance to spend time with the black blue-eyed beauty, entertaining her in the peace of his music.

A simple request, until he finds he is spending more time keeping his emotions in check, instead of watching the approaching danger that not only has the power to shatter their peace, but to kill them all.

Prologue

England 1795

Percival Rutherford, the sixth Marquess of Westcott glanced out the carriage window to see his ancestral home called Saunderson Hall, silhouetted against the night sky. He could see the candlelight glow in the distance, illuminating from two rooms in his large manor house.

At this hour in the dead of night, he knew only one other person outside himself who would light all the candles in his study, keeping a vigil and that was his ten-year-old son Laurence, hoping the morning would bring him home with a more favourable outcome than the night before.

His eyes were now drawn to the third floor where another set of lights lit the windows and he knew his wife was in their bedchamber, hoping for the same outcome and she would patiently wait in bed reading, until he returned. But it was not her he was concerned about, as they had never held any secrets on who he was or what he did for England and she would take his secrets with her to the grave.

What concerned him was his son.

How did one lie to his beloved child? It would be the first time in his life, but not only was he about to lie to him, but all mankind for what he had done over the past six weeks since he left England.

Everything he had done in his life to help others who were less fortunate, was not what history would remember of his endeavours, because history could never know the truth.

He knew what he had done would have to go with him to his grave, never to be put in his diary or ledgers for the world to see in the future, the same way his escapades would die along with Hollingsworth, the Musketeers and Devil, not to forget the Duke and Duchess of Dunsborough, for what they had been asked to do and endure, because their task was too important to be interfered with. He had no doubt the consequences would weigh heavily on their conscience for the rest of their lives, and prayed the Duchess of Dunsborough would not regret her sacrifice, knowing she could never confide in anyone in the wider world before she died.

Alexander Blackenhawke was now dead and he knew their secret had died with him, never to be told to his sons, or more importantly their descendants. A secret he also could not divulge to his own son or their descendants.

But he understood he needed to put in place a safe guard so Laurence would protect the ten-year-old Oliver Prendergast, the new Duke of Dunsborough’s son, if by some miracle Oliver survived and had any hope of growing into a man.

It was a lot to ask his son let alone any child, to do before he became an adult, but he had a lot of faith in his son, knowing his heart was pure and only saw the good in the people around him.

What sort of man Oliver may grow into also now weighed heavily on his conscience, for he was in no doubt Oliver may very well turn out to be a very cold and angry man, disillusioned with the world and could very well lash out to all who had hurt him and his family, wanting retribution and revenge for everything that had happened to his family in the past few years.

Percival leant back into his well-padded carriage and closed his eyes. He knew the men involved could never involve the Blackenhawke boys or Hollingsworth’s son, but they were hoping the sensitive Laurence, who believed the soft tones of music could always calm a restless soul, may befriend Oliver and help him in the future.

As both boys were only ten, he hoped he had another few years of life to guide Laurence on that friendship, but after what had happened, he was now not sure anymore. If anyone found out, he was a dead man along with his family and the generations to come could be in danger if they survived.

Opening his eyes he watched Saunderson Hall coming closer, that had been in his family for over six generations, knowing there were two lies he had to get into his mind so they became truth before he arrived.

First, history could never know what he and his friends had done under any circumstances over the past two years, no matter the conspiracy theories that may follow now or in hundreds of years to come. Everything they were about to do in the future would be carefully scrutinised, so they would need to cover their tracks very carefully, so no conspiracy theories ever surfaced, now or in the future.

Second, his son Laurence must befriend Oliver and show the world they were friends, especially as they became adults and Oliver took the Duke of Dunsborough’s title. There were only eleven people in the world who knew the absolute truth and even with Alexander Blackenhawke now dead, it was far too many.

He had no problem with his friends knowledge, but it was Oliver himself he worried about the most and how he would decide to live his life once he became a man.

Laurence Rutherford sat in the bay window staring at the tall grandfather clock, listening to the chimes ringing out, clearly stating it was now well past midnight.

He turned his head back to the window, wiping the condensation from the glass and peered through the wet panes, just making out the carriage under the full moon. His father had been away from England for over six weeks and he was finally coming home.

He jumped from his seat and ran from the study, through the house until he entered the long corridor that led to the foyer when he saw their butler Mr Morris, asleep in a chair by the door.

He slowed his pace and quietly crept towards the man, placing his hand gently on the butler’s shoulder.

Father is coming home, he whispered, into Mr Morris’ ear.

Morris woke with a start, shaking his head only to see the blonde headed boy beside him.

Master Rutherford…I must have dozed…off, he stuttered, with embarrassment as he tried to shake himself awake. And when he did in that split second, he immediately jumped up out of the chair and gazed around the deserted foyer.

It is all right, father is just coming up the long driveway, Laurence declared, not surprised to see Morris stand to attention.

Morris pulled the heavy wooden front door ajar so he could peep into the darkness.

Right you are, he confirmed, seeing the carriage lights. Closing the door again he quickly straightened the chair he had been asleep on, before straightening the silver tray and candles on the small table beside the door.

What are you doing? Laurence quizzed, moving to the butler’s side inspecting his movements.

Just making sure everything is ship shape, Morris smiled, hearing the carriage wheels crunch to a stop on the cobblestones.

Laurence giggled, for he knew his father hated ships, but believed everything should be in its place so life was as well organised as his thoughts.

He would often say;

Everything should always be shipshape.

Morris quickly opened the door again.

Good man Morris, Percival acknowledged, nodding at his butler as he advanced through the door. Laurence my son, why are you up at this hour?

Waiting for you father. What else?

What else indeed! Percival smiled, taking off his hat and gloves handing them to his butler, but before he removed his heavy coat he took a bottle from the deep pocket and handed it to Laurence. Morris I need a drink, so you are free to go to bed and I will put Laurence to bed. Thank you for waiting up and I suggest you have a late morning tomorrow, as I will not require your assistance before ten.

Thank you, My Lord, Morris replied, bowing before leaving.

How about you and I have a night cap in my study Laurence before we retire? Percival declared, taking the bottle from his son as he led him towards his study.

You have circles under your eyes father, Laurence observed, as they entered the study. He jumped up and sat on top of his father’s desk. Did your trip not go well?

Percival first poured himself a brandy from the bottle in his hand, before turning around to study his son.

Laurence was tall for his age, but his limbs were very fine, like his long talon fingers that danced across the pianoforte as if they were a ten-legged spider, creating beautiful sounds, transcending all who heard the notes into a land of serenity.

And with that thought, he had always known his son was certainly nothing like his tall boned bear statue. You only had to see his wife to know where his son’s lanky limbs came from.

But his son was smart even at ten. Smarter than himself at thirty-five if he wanted to inspect the truth. And truth is what he had to examine as he and his friends conspired to save a son and send another dying son to Hell. A truth he did not want to acknowledge, but a truth that needed to be recognised if he was to once again call himself a man, a gentleman and most importantly, a father in protecting a son.

Percival’s own father had taught him if a man was not courageous with what he believed in, and act on that courage no matter the pain to himself, then his virtue and morals were unable to help anyone, least of all himself or his family. It had been a hard lesson to learn let alone act on, but he knew in his heart and soul he would go to any lengths and fight the world to save a son and he would ask his friends to do the same.

One had to have confidence in oneself he thought, to make sure one fostered true and loyal friends and advisers, who held the same honest ethics and morals.

He had just saved the son of a man who was not a friend, but he did know the man was a humanitarian at heart, the only problem was he had not surrounded himself with good honest friends and advisers, who fought for all and not self.

He also knew the man thought all small children, no matter who they were, should be protected at all costs. It was those small pieces of information that had driven him to do what he had done;

For it had been the right thing to do when the world had dived into mayhem and wrapped insanity around its neck.

His father had also taught him as a child, never to look down on anyone, unless you were giving them a hand to help them up.

He sauntered over to his desk and sat on top next to his son.

Take a sip Laurence, he warmly encouraged, moving the glass towards his son.

Why are you allowing me to try this? Laurence questioned, peering at his father as he snuggled up beside him.

This is possibly the only chance you will get to taste this brandy, Percival uttered, handing him the glass.

Laurence studied the glass in his father’s hand.

Why?

Everyone at least once should taste something that is exceptional in their life.

If this is your only bottle, maybe you should save it for a very special occasion.

My smart son. This is a special occasion because I am sitting with you, and to be honest, your mother and I are going to drink this together over the next few days until the bottle is finished, Percival affectionately expressed, with a wink. What I am about to tell you, I want you to remember when you are older and more so, just in-case I am not around.

Father, are you going away again? Laurence prodded, disappointed his father had been away a lot since the turmoil in France.

No, I have come home for good and will not be leaving again until I meet God himself, Percival admitted, wrapping an arm around his son and pulling him in closer to his side. We have lived in dangerous times with the problems in France. Not like in the fourteenth or fifteen centuries, but with new dangers where not all children are safe.

Am I not safe? Laurence fretted, eyeing his father.

You are very safe and I am now home to make sure all children have a life worth living and spend time with you and your mother, he commented, ruffling his son’s hair.

I do not understand?

I will explain, Percival reassured, handing the glass to his son. Now take a sip and tell me what you think of this brandy?

Laurence took the glass and placed his nose over the rim, breathing in the vapours like his father had taught him. When the brandy touched his lips and the vapour exploded in his mouth, he knew the liquid was extraordinary in every sense.

It is like the sun’s rays are warming your face on a cold winter’s day, he beamed, handing the glass back to his father.

It is at that. Well done son, Percival grinned, taking a sip. There is something I would like you to remember. When you meet Oliver Prendergast, the Duke of Dunsborough’s son, I would like you to be kind to him and go out of your way to help him. Especially if he is unfriendly and surly.

I do not know him.

No, you do not now, but you will if he survives in the coming weeks. You and I are going to visit him at Chalon Park Abbey for a week every month for the net year, where I would like you to play music for him during that week, he advised, knowing his son’s love of music could turn the sounds of life into a soft melody, making the hardest soul turn to water. He also knew every piece of music Laurence heard, he could remember and play in full, without ever needing to read the notes on a page.

There will just be the two of us and it is to be our secret. Your mother will know where we are going and on occasions will come with us, but you are never to tell anyone else under any circumstances. I would say Oliver may not live over the next year, but if he does, he may not be a very nice boy, for he has seen things in life that no child should have to witness or experience, but he will remember what has happened to him. He will remember everything in the future if he has the good luck to grow into a man and he will remember who was kind to him and more importantly, the people who were not, he emphasised, watching his son take in all he was saying, so he spoke very slowly and precisely.

If Oliver should grow up and be well enough to attend Eton, I would like you to befriend him again, no matter how he may like to sit on his own or how angry he may seem. Just let him know he has one friend, a true friend who will not judge him, laugh behind his back or make fun of him because he may not walk very well, for his legs have been damaged over the past few years. I would like you to show him how people are kind and that there is another way of life that does not contain hate, cruelty or nastiness. I would also like you to show him what true friendship is and how a family of love and friendship, like we have with the Blackenhawke and Hollingsworth families can be, when we are loyal and trust each other beyond a doubt.

Will Jack or any of the Blackenhawke brothers know what you are telling me?

No son. Only you. The others do not need to know, even if you all become well acquainted and friends with Oliver.

You are telling me this because you know I am very good at keeping secrets?

Yes son, he agreed, kissing the top of his child’s head. Oliver will only know you and will not get to know anyone his own age until he attends Eton, if he should survive that long.

Why will the Blackenhawke brothers not know of him before we all get to Eton?

Percival's face was sober as he looked around the room, knowing his son remembered every snippet of conversation he ever heard.

The old Duke of Dunsborough and his eldest son died two years ago as you well know from the flu. His second son George has lived in the South of France all these years, married to a French lady named Clementine and their only surviving son is called Oliver. At the moment Oliver only speaks French, but will learn English. He is very ill and I am hoping we may be able to make him well enough so he can live to adulthood. Alexander Blackenhawke before he died, asked the Earl of Hollingsworth and myself if we could find them and bring them back to England. George is now the new Duke of Dunsborough, so he and his family will reside at Chalon Park Abbey, as past duke's have done for well over four hundred years.

That is why you have been gone so long, because you had trouble finding them? Laurence prompted.

That is correct, Percival confirmed, closing his eyes for a brief second while trying to forget not only the trauma and horror he had seen, but every depravity humans had distilled on another human because they could, and under the disguise of the revolution. It would be forever etched in his mind. My main concern is how we are going to save Oliver from dying and make him well, both physically and mentally.

Laurence really did not know what his father was talking about. Especially as his father was not a doctor, so he did not know or understand how his father could help to save Oliver.

Turning to his father, he placed a hand on his cheek, hoping what made Oliver sick, would not make his father ill.

Father, you are not going to die are you?

No, not for a long time if I can help it, Percival coughed, putting his glass down, before hugging his son.

He and his friends had all agreed with Mornington’s wild idea and had known from the start if caught, they would surely die. Everything had gone so easily to plan and they had all survived, but now he knew the hardest part would be if they could all survive with the secret they held.

I always come home to go riding with you and your mother, do I not? he proclaimed, making the sound of his words and disposition softer.

You do, Laurence cried, kissing his father’s cheek.

Most definitely, Percival laughed, kissing his son’s head. Just promise me you will keep this secret and never tell Jack or any of the Blackenhawke brothers.

I promise father, Laurence assured, fighting to stop his eye lids closing as his head fell onto his father’s shoulder. I like secrets.

I know son, that is why I am entrusting you with this, as Oliver will need at least one friend he can trust and rely on, otherwise all our endeavours will have been in vain.

Chapter One

21 Years Later

Monday 9 December 1816 - 9:30 AM

Blackenhawke’s sleeping carriage north of London.

---

The sleeping carriage suddenly dipped then crunched into a rut in the road before moving on.

Laurence Rutherford, the Marquess of Westcott woke with a start, his body automatically moving into a sitting position as one arm pushed down onto the bed supporting him.

His eyes blinked into the darkness, as he took in deep breaths while trying desperately to take stock of where he was, and why he had been dreaming of his father and that conversation after so many years.

The dream had been so real, he could have sworn his father’s arm was wrapped around him.

He brought his hand up to wipe his eyes, only to realise it had probably been his own arm hugging himself.

Feeling the bed beneath him sway again, he realised he was in Blackenhawke’s sleeping carriage.

Of course, he thought. It was only a dream and a memory.

A memory he had not had in years, but a memory on how he had met and befriended Oliver Prendergast, who was now the Duke of Dunsborough.

He had visited Oliver for nearly three years with his parents, always playing his own special music to the sick boy, either in the beautiful French parlour at the Abbey or the Orangery surrounded by plants…when the weather was warmer.

Oliver had hardly uttered a word to him in that first year and if he did, it had always been in French. The only reason Oliver spoke was to ask if Laurence could play a certain piece of music again and again…and it had always been a French tune.

Like his father advised, when he met Oliver at Eton, he was a very angry young man. He himself never tried to renew the friendship, mainly because Oliver only ever blinked at him, as if the memory of their childhood was to painful to forget. They barely spoke when they met in the corridors or their classrooms, only acknowledging the other with a nod of the head.

Yet it was never substantial and over the past twenty years their conversations had been even more brief, as if they were only acquaintances, ignoring their childhood when they crossed paths in a gaming hall that he himself, now very rarely visited.

He remembered his father had only disappeared once in his lifetime, when he did not know where he went, and that was in the May of 1795, when he was gone for those six weeks. Whatever it was his father, Hollingsworth, Dunsborough and the Musketeers did during those weeks, his father never spoke of it again as he grew up, as if the whole episode had died along with his memory.

He had tried to ask his father several times over the years and again just before he died five years ago, in what he did in 1795. His father had advised him it was of no importance anymore. The only important thing now, was to protect his mother and sisters.

He again studied the darkness of the carriage. It was not like his father to tell him one thing and disregard it once spoken. He had been through all his father’s papers and diaries over the years, page by page, yet there always seemed to be one book missing.

And the book he was really interested in, was of the missing month of May in 1795 and what that time had to do with Oliver Prendergast, the Duke of Dunsborough.

It was as if his father knew he would go searching for it.

Yet as the years went by, he only ever thought of that night with his father when he saw Oliver, but as neither of them saw much of each other from one year to the next, he had quite frankly not thought of it since Hollingsworth had left for India and Brandon had passed away.

Yet that night in his father’s study was as clear in his mind as the soft black studded leather in front of him.

And his father was right, he had never tasted another brandy that good or exceptional, like the one his father brought home that night.

He again took a deep breath as he swung his legs off the bed and into the aisle. He turned around and swiftly sat down on the seat between the door and the bed, only to see who he considered to be the most beautiful woman in the world, lying in bed with her head on the pillow, her hands clutching the sheets to her neck, staring at him in horror.

Chapter Two

Monday 9 December 1816 - 9:15 AM…Fifteen minutes Prior

Juliette Martin woke with a start as she felt the bed beneath her move. She slowly rolled onto her back, unable to remember where she was and really did not care, for the pain surrounding her brain in her skull was intolerable. She very carefully and tenderly rolled her head across the pillow.

She dared not open her eyes until she had all her faculties and she was sure her head would not allow her to move again anyway.

Faculties or not.

She stretched her legs out under the white crisp linen sheets and eiderdown keeping her warm. She could feel her hair cushioned between her head and the softest pillow she had ever felt, for this was certainly a dream if her head was laid on a soft pillow and a dream she did not wish to part with. A very painful dream as far as her brain was concerned, but a dream nevertheless.

Hearing the wheels crunch over the ground beneath her and feel the bed lightly sway, she immediately opened her eyes into the darkness, only to see a slither of light streaming through the thick black curtains.

She very slowly and carefully pulled the crisp white sheet with its cover around her neck, but as she did so, she felt it snag.

She really did not wish to raise her head again, but if she was to solve the problem so she could snuggle back into the beautiful soft bed, she would have to move. Lifting her head up she slowly and tentatively peered over her shoulder to see what had caught the cover, only for her eyes to open so wide she thought they may pop out of her head.

There lying beside her was the silhouette of a fully dressed man, sprawled on top of the cover, his blonde hair inches away from her nose. She instantly realised her arm had been laying over his chest keeping her warm, before she rolled onto her back.

Her head snapped back onto the pillow, causing bells to ring in her ears as her eyes stared into the darkness. As the fog lifted from her brain, the full force of the ache hammered into her soul and she remembered who she was.

What was more disturbing…was where she was, as her eyes watched the slither of light dancing beside the curtains, bringing in the new day and with it the fear of what had possibly happened during the night, and with whom.

But what had happened during night she questioned herself, all the while trying desperately to push the hammering of nails pounding in her brain aside, so she could remember.

And then as the dust particles danced along the light beam, she remembered bubbles drifting up the stem of a glass.

‘Oh God…’ she softly moaned, placing her hand over her eyes.

How could she have been so stupid.

She should have been more aware, for she knew what rich men did and the Blackenhawke family were very rich indeed and so were their friends no doubt.

They had all charmed her and hoodwinked her with their kindness, bestowing on her clothes and food she had never known existed and the most beautiful golden bubbly drink known as champagne. The first time she had ever tasted wine was the day she arrived at Mornington Castle with Carolina.

She had found she could take the wine or leave it, but it was the taste of the champagne at Carolina’s wedding lunch, she really enjoyed as the bubbles played with her lips and tongue.

And that enjoyment and those two glasses or was it the four she had drunk in London, along with the fact she had not slept for weeks, was why her head was throbbing, leaving her to be in a beautiful warm bed with the worst headache she had ever encountered.

She did not know carriages had beds, but she vaguely remembered the duchess, Mrs Anderson and the Auntie Elizabeth all helping her to dress into pants and a shirt, saying they were pyjamas so she could sleep comfortably on the journey.

She remembered giggling as she held onto the duchess as they descended the stairs, telling the duchess she wanted to go to bed and the duchess telling her she could do that when she entered the sleeping carriage, where she would be safe and then they would see each other again in two weeks at Mornington Castle for Christmas.

They may all act noble and kind, but they had left her in bed with a man. A strange man she did not know.

And a blonde haired white man at that.

The worst kind of man in the world to a black woman who was a slave from birth.

Lifting her fingers up very slowly so she did not wake the man beside her, she picked up the sheet and peered down at her body, relieved to see the cotton pants and shirt had not been removed. Holding the sheet to her neck, she again glimpsed over her shoulder and this time she noticed who the man was beside her.

It was the Marquess of Westcott, for he was the only blonde haired man present outside the Earl of Hollingsworth at Carolina’s wedding. All the Blackenhawke men were dark haired.

She had never met a white man with blonde hair and blue eyes who was kind, because all those types of men only told lies for what they wanted with deceptions, so they could extract their nastiness and cruelty on anyone who could not fight back.

Especially black women who were slaves and who they owned.

At first she thought he was like all those type of men, only putting on a show for the Blackenhawke women when they were introduced in the duchess’ beautiful yellow sitting room.

Yet his kind smile radiated from his eyes, telling her she was safe in his warm blanket of light, along with the sound that exited his vocal cords, reminding her of a warm summer breeze, instilling in her as his words sprung into the air;

‘It is my great pleasure to meet you Miss Martin,’

He had said, making her believe that he would continue to keep her safe from any snowstorm that could possibly cover the earth, until the sun once again pushed through the fog and warmed the world in kindness.

She had suddenly felt as if all the birds in the world had woken up and sung a sweet musical tune, encasing her ears while informing everyone that everyday would turn into sunshine if she had the courage to trust another human. Especially this human who believed that life was to be lived in love and kindness.

Those beliefs went against everything she had ever learned, yet in the short time they had spent together over the past forty-eight hours, she felt as if he was a man with a deep substance in caring for all humans, and he could see what was written between the lines on the pages of one’s life. And on reading those lines he knew how to make life better for that person, wiping away a lifetime of horror.

She had so much wanted to believe him, but now, laying in a bed in the sleeping carriage with the man sleeping beside her, without the Blackenhawke women present to protect her, uncontrolled fear once again engulfed her.

She closed her eyes as to what was to come when he woke.

She was a slave, an American black slave born to a black slave woman and a white father, who was a South Carolina plantation slave owner. The most despicable and vile man anyone could find their misfortune to meet, let alone be related too.

And on thinking that, a faint smile crossed her face as she tried to keep her fear at bay.

Who would have thought she could outsmart and outrun her cruel father and take his white daughter, her sister Carolina with her and escape to England? Certainly not her six months ago, for it was a dream that had seemed impossible.

Yet if it had not been for Carolina to have an illegitimate daughter born to the Englishman named Nicholas Blackenhawke, they would both be back in America, still experiencing their father’s hateful torments and horrors.

Carolina had been told the child had died, when in fact the child lived and had been whisked away to her father Nicholas, so he could suffer his shame according to her father.

But shame was not on the Blackenhawke family agenda.

The Blackenhawke family agenda was the love of family first, no matter what. This family only engrossed love and shared that love and kindness to all, never asking for anything in return.

A totally new concept to her when she had only ever known hate and cruelty.

Especially where blue eyed blonde haired men were concerned.

And even though Carolina had never known she was her half-sister, Carolina had always been kind to her. Not that she ever understood the emotion, but when their own excuse for a father decided to sell Carolina off into an unsavoury marriage, it had not taken long for an escape plan to form in her mind.

To free them both and tell Carolina the truth.

Suddenly the carriage swayed, dipped and crunched into a rut in the road.

The man beside her suddenly moved into a sitting position, then swung his legs off the bed and sat on the seat between the bed and door. His face turned to shock and surprise when he saw her.

Then he smiled, a big warm hugging smile.

And it was that smile of kindness that scared her the most, as she hugged the sheet closer to her neck.

Chapter Three

Laurence continued to tentatively smile as he ran his hands up through his hair and then more slowly as he watched Juliette, not wanting to frighten her.

I am so, so, very sorry. I must have dozed off and laid on the bed during the night to stretch out my legs, he warmly offered.

Why are we here? Juliette choked out.

You do not remember what we discussed last night? he sympathetically asked, seeing the horror in her eyes as he lowered his arms, placing them either side of his body, so his hands were flat on the seat beside him. To keep you safe?

No, she whispered, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the sheet closer to her neck.

Laurence remembered how she had enjoyed the bubbles of the champagne, and the taste of it she had remarked made it the most fantastic drink she had ever encountered. It was all the encouragement he need, as he made sure they both drank freely, glass for glass, causing her to relax and drop all her defences as she smiled and chattered. She had positively glowed. Maybe they had thrown too much caution to the wind and maybe that was why his head was pounding and why he had laid down during the night.

I do not mean to upset you, but we did drink more champagne than we possibly should have, he kindly declared, hoping his smile did not resemble a smirk.

Juliette sobered, now slowly remembering what they had done.

Am I your slave now? she croaked, keeping the sheet to her neck as she wriggled to a more sitting up position against the padded headboard, that would at least give her a fighting chance if he tried to attack her. She wanted to get to the point so she would know what was expected of her. Now or in the future. And will I ever see Carolina again, for I must know the truth?

Absolutely, he softly confirmed.

Yet when he saw her eyes open wider and covered with extreme horror, he realised he had answered the wrong question.

He instantly raised his hands with his palms towards her, moving them back and forth as if he was trying to calm her.

No, no, no, I mean absolutely you will see Carolina again, but you are not and never ever will you be my slave or anyone else’s slave for the rest of your life…if I have any say in it. And believe me…I will, today, tomorrow and everyday you wish to reside in England. In fact, anywhere you wish to reside in the world. You are free, for the rest of your life. In the few days I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, the truth is what you will always get from me, he affirmed, relieved to see her blink the horror away and then study him with a guarded wariness, wanting to believe him. He could not imagine what was going through her mind and he did not want to give her anymore grief or worry her, so he knew he had to choose his words more carefully, if they were to get through the coming weeks.

He pulled the curtain back from the window next to him, allowing the early morning sun’s golden rays to flood the carriage, so he could study and gauge her emotions on what he was saying.

Her black hair had escaped their pins and was now a mass of curls surrounding her face, making her even more beautiful if that was at all possible, especially now she had slept. She was definitely more beautiful today than the past three days since he had met her and he could only imagine what she would be like in a week or two weeks time when she was well rested and relaxed…and she trusted him. That is what he would aim for. And with that thought, what could he make of her raspberry lips, that he most definitely wanted to taste, if he thought for a split-second Nicholas Blackenhawke would not stab him to death and then proceed to kill his ghost anyway he could.

He shuddered at the thought and again glanced out the window to clear his brain, before he turned back to her. But when he did he could not get over how gorgeous she appeared, when the morning sunshine streaming through the windows covered her in light.

He tried not to gawk at her lips, otherwise he would have to shoot himself as he took a second to study her facial features, because other than her beauty, something else was annoying his senses, and it was the familiarity with her sister. The shape of their faces, their eyes and ears and the length of their nose was all symmetrical and exactly the same, as if they were a mirror image of each other, except for the colour of their skin and hair.

And the moment he thought that, he could see the whites of her eyes were like pure white snow surrounded by deep sapphire blue iris’, and identical to Carolina.

The instant he registered that thought, he could see the horror cross her eyes that she understood what he was thinking.

Will Nicholas divorce Carolina or hit her when he realises the truth about us? she softly asked, trying to gauge his thoughts.

He will most definitely not hit her or I will kill him, and on the other issue of your and Carolina’s appearance, I suspect if he does not already know, he will work it out. He is a smart man and your and Carolina’s heritage will not be of a concern to him. Anyone’s heritage along with the colour of their skin or the shape of their eyes has never been a concern to him. It is people’s ethics and morals that concern him, he softly insisted watching her. And whether that person is a good person or not.

Yet as much as she tried to hide the fear in her eyes, it was still quite plain to see he thought, and if the truth be told, a fear he never wanted to see again in her eyes, let alone in any female’s eyes.

No one should have to experience or see horror in their lifetime.

And truth is what he needed her to understand now, for in hindsight, they had all made a hash of it in not explaining themselves properly, since she and Carolina had arrived.

He placed the palms of his hands back on the seat beside