The Second Sons

By Elle Sabine

Oliver and Alden quickly realise they want Lady Fiona de Rothesay, but she keeps a secret. Convincing her to trust them is going to be more difficult than they expected.

Lady Fiona de Rothesay isn't like her sisters, or even the typical academic bluestocking. She has a secret life, and she's determined to live it without interference, despite the overbearing supervision she unexpectedly acquires with the return of the Duke of Lennox's prodigal second son—and his lover.

Lord Oliver Morewell was perfectly happy living in Amsterdam with the love of his life. However, Lord Alden Swenson has been summoned to England for at least the next twenty years, and Oliver is committed to his lover. He also won't deny what his soul knows to be true. Alden is his past, present and future, but Fiona belongs there, too. Lord Alden can cope with the disapprobation of Oliver's family and the whispers of society, but Fiona is a complication he did not expect, despite the vivid fantasies he and Oliver have had about finding a woman to make their relationship complete.

Once Fiona is in residence, wild horses can't keep him away, despite her stubborn streak of independence and outright refusal to explain her mysterious absences, late night disappearances and male companions. Alden and Oliver will have to conquer Fiona's distrust, her secrets, but most of all her heart in their search for perfect, if unconventional, love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pride Publishing
• Release date: Aug 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781784306557

Book preview

Page

The Second Sons

ISBN # 978-1-78430-655-7

©Copyright Elle Q. Sabine 2015

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright July 2015

Edited by Jamie D. Rose

Pride Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2015 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

THE SECOND SONS

Elle Q. Sabine

Oliver and Alden quickly realise they want Lady Fiona de Rothesay, but she keeps a secret. Convincing her to trust them is going to be more difficult than they expected.

Lady Fiona de Rothesay isn’t like her sisters, or even the typical academic bluestocking. She has a secret life, and she’s determined to live it without interference, despite the overbearing supervision she unexpectedly acquires with the return of the Duke of Lennox’s prodigal second son—and his lover.

Lord Oliver Morewell was perfectly happy living in Amsterdam with the love of his life. However, Lord Alden Swenson has been summoned to England for at least the next twenty years, and Oliver is committed to his lover. He also won’t deny what his soul knows to be true. Alden is his past, present and future, but Fiona belongs there, too. Lord Alden can cope with the disapprobation of Oliver’s family and the whispers of society, but Fiona is a complication he did not expect, despite the vivid fantasies he and Oliver have had about finding a woman to make their relationship complete.

Once Fiona is in residence, wild horses can’t keep him away, despite her stubborn streak of independence and outright refusal to explain her mysterious absences, late night disappearances and male companions. Alden and Oliver will have to conquer Fiona’s distrust, her secrets, but most of all her heart in their search for perfect, if unconventional, love.

Dedication

To all the good girls of the world…from Lord Byron—

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

Lord Byron (1815)

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

She Walks in Beauty: Lord Byron

Author’s Historical Note

The Right Honourable George Canning was the British Foreign Secretary from September 1822 to April 1827 during the period of this tale. Afterward, he briefly served as prime minister until his death on 8 August 1827. He is sometimes known as the ‘lost leader’, because his death prematurely ended the coalition of Tories and Whigs he led. By 1824, he had four children. George Charles Canning—appearing here fictionally as Young Canning, aged twenty-six—actually died in 1820 from consumption. William Pitt Canning was twenty-two, Harriet Canning was twenty, and Charles John Canning—later a prime minister and First Earl Canning—was twelve. In 1824, the Foreign Office was located in the warren of government buildings in Whitehall and had been there since 1782. The Cannings lived at Canning House in Berkeley Square, and this house is still extant today. The author asks you to forgive these few fictional exaggerations related to the Canning family and political history in pursuit of intrigue, romance and fictional consistency.

Prologue

December, 1808

Fiona slipped out through the music room door. She didn’t know who left it unlocked in the evenings, but she was grateful. She’d been sneaking out of the nursery at night for years, and since the Worst Day in the country months earlier, the nurses and governesses had been particularly obsessive about not letting any of the four girls out of sight.

Sneaking out was the only way that Fiona could have time alone. They watched her when she studied, when she ate, when she played with her sisters, when she was with her tutors, when she walked in the garden or the park with her inconsolable mother.

Even inside the Mayfair mansion, London in December was suffocating. The air was stale and never just right. It burned hot or froze, from drafts that blew from unheated rooms and fireplaces belching heat waves over her woolen dresses, flannel petticoats and thick cotton stockings. The air was perpetually dark, with windows kept covered to preserve the heat while also preventing natural sunlight from filtering inside. Outside, the air was smoky from the wood and coal fires that kept the houses warm. The stagnant fog smothered the city, obscuring the stars and even the moon, but in the dark void of the gardens, Fiona knew every step of the paths. She’d walked them at night for months, restless from the nightmare memory that replayed in her brain. Early on, Fiona had awoken from her dreams and cried out, but the young women who watched Fiona and her sisters had no help to offer except to assure her that the Worst Day was not her fault and send her back to bed, before they returned to their own slumbers. It hadn’t been long before Fiona had stopped seeking them out and turned inward for comfort.

Mayfair was largely deserted, but Fiona’s mother had begged to stay in the City, even through the Christmas holiday. The family’s ancestral home at Winchester Castle had been tenanted since Fiona’s grandmother had died, and the family had no other country estate except Aston Manor. Fiona’s mother refused to return to the cursed marble-floored foyer near Chester again, especially not during a week intended to celebrate life. Fiona’s father, the Earl of Winchester, had agreed without argument. Fiona rather thought he never wanted to return to the scene of despair either.

The girls, like their mother, still wore black six months later, so Fiona’s cape and hood concealed her from sight once she escaped the house and wandered onto the garden paths. It was only in the grim, dark privacy of their back garden that Fiona felt capable of opening the memory of the Worst Day and grieving. She shed her tears alone, so that she could comfort Abigail, reassure Gloria that Johnny lived in heaven now and play with toddling Genevieve. It was certainly true that no one allowed Genevieve to wander or escape. If anyone was more obsessive than the army of governesses and nurses, it was Fiona, Abigail and Gloria when they played with little Genevieve.

Johnny had been so angry that morning. Eight years old, he’d shouted at the prim, sharp-nosed woman who had been their primary governess. Eight years old was too old to be kept in the nursery like a baby. He wanted to go fishing, had even gotten the footmen to agree to take him. But Lady Winchester had been entertaining callers that morning and the earl had been out. Old Mrs. Pringle had said no. He had to stay inside the hot attic rooms with his sisters and read or play quietly until he had permission from his mother or the earl.

She’d made the mistake of leaving him alone with Abigail and Fiona after lunch. He’d been angry, even mean, all through lunch, but when she’d taken tiny Genevieve and little Gloria one room away for their naps, he’d made good on his escape, slipping out through the door quietly while Fiona read and Abigail rocked her dolls to sleep for a nap. Both girls had been relieved to see him go, glad to be away from his cross despondency and ill-tempered manners.

A half hour later, Mrs. Pringle was still absent. One of the younger nurses—still a girl, named Miss Molly—had come to take them for a stroll in the gardens. Fiona and Abigail had raced to the landing ahead of her, hearing the front door open three floors below and the earl’s voice in the foyer. With a whoop from a staircase below them, Johnny had raced down the landing from the first floor to the front hall, his stockinged feet sliding on the freshly waxed and polished stairs. A great lark, his face had said—until he’d lost control and tumbled. He’d been unable to stop at the bottom and had flown toward the marble floor. His head had hit hard on the bottom step, then the marble itself.

Fiona’s and Abigail’s wide-eyed shock and another young nurse’s horrified cry—had her name been Annie?—had been nothing compared to the wild horror that had come from the newly-arrived Winchester’s throat or their mother’s agonizing wails.

Wondering for the first time what had happened to Mrs. Pringle in the aftermath of the Worst Day, Fiona passed the garden bench where her mother often sat in the afternoons and crept into the nut trees that sheltered against the back wall. They’d been packed up by their mother’s maid, Frenchie, on that very first evening and taken to Birmingham, returning to Aston Manor only for the funeral. Mrs. Pringle and three young nursemaids had been replaced by eight slightly older nurses, a head governess and two tutors who could run as fast as Gloria did and keep all four girls under constant surveillance.

Fiona paused at the base of the hazelnut tree and looked up. She knew not to leave the gardens. At ten years of age, she was still a child, but she understood London’s streets were dangerous to women and children. She could climb the tree and look past the end of the mews to the street beyond. Of course, the governesses and her mother wouldn’t have permitted her to risk a fall, so she’d taught herself to do it at night, hanging on grimly and scrambling among the branches.

A shout from the alley attracted her attention and she froze, turning her head, but it was quickly evident that no one could see her. Farther along the mews, but rapidly approaching, the sounds of male scuffling were evident. Behind them another shouted, and his lamp rapidly approached until the three met up directly below her tree.

Fiona hardly dared to breathe. All three were young men, maybe even still youths. In the darkness, the first pair had sounded as if they were fighting. By the dim lamplight, Fiona could see that the oldest youth was dragging a smaller boy behind him. Even with only the bare light from the lamp, it was clear that the smaller young man was bloodied and hardly able to struggle from a beating he’d already taken. Let Oliver go, March, the lamp-holder demanded, unafraid to intervene. This is between you and me and it always has been.

To her surprise, March spat in his direction and sneered, tightening his grip on Oliver’s collar and coat. It is about him. You bring him back into my house again, and I’ll kill him, Alden. His brother told me what the two of you are doing in private.

It’s not your house—

It will be! The man named March used his free hand, the one that wasn’t gripped into Oliver’s coat, to swing a punch at Alden’s stomach.

Alden, the largest of the three, sidestepped it neatly, set the lamp down in the middle of the mews and calmly drew back to throw a powerful punch at March’s jaw. His head jerked and, in his pain, March dropped Oliver.

It was only then that Fiona realized how close the unfortunate Oliver was to unconsciousness. He fell to the ground without even trying to save himself, his head landing hard against the bricks. Fiona clasped her hand over her mouth to hide her cry at the fall, but the two remaining boys were focused entirely on each other. With a low roar of rage, March launched himself at Alden.

The battle was quickly over. Alden responded to March’s attack by first blocking then ruthlessly throwing his own punches. Instead of a wild offensive, he delivered four hard jabs to March’s stomach in quick succession, then moved upward and hit both sides of March’s jaw and the underside of his chin. March stumbled backward. He landed hard on his backside against the back wall of Winchester House, unmoving. Alden turned to Oliver.

At once, Fiona noted, his behavior changed from aggressive to compassionate, even tender. Oliver couldn’t quickly limp away, but Alden simply knelt beside him, cradling his head patiently and quietly checking his injuries.

In her silent observation, though, Fiona could not help notice that, behind Alden, March was beginning to stir. He pulled himself to his feet, his hand against the wall. March looked up, and Fiona caught a horrifying image in the lamplight that was March’s rage projected as a looming, threatening shadow across the mews. She held her breath, praying that he would simply stagger away, but instead he twisted his mouth in an angry grimace and reached out to deliver a cowardly punch to the back of Alden’s neck.

No! she yelped. The single word was just in time for Alden to react. March’s fist landed awkwardly against his upper arm. In a single second, Alden punched back, and his quick movements took March to the ground, where this time he remained.

Alden looked up in Fiona’s direction, but she sank against the tree, grateful for the darkness. Thank you, lad, he said softly. But isn’t it past time for you to be out here?

Fiona knew instinctively that she had to protect herself from exposure, even though it meant lying. Luckily the man had assumed she was a boy. Jus’ wanted me some nuts, guv’na, she managed in a loud whisper, anxious for him not to hear her true voice.

These aren’t your trees, I take it, Alden returned drily. He knelt again on the brick, and lifted Oliver into his arms. My friend is badly injured and I must leave the lamp to take him to safety. Pray keep it as a reward for your warning, but come retrieve it before this mean excuse for a man wakes and catches you. It’s a good one. You can sell it for a few pounds sterling.

She couldn’t keep the lamp, but if she was brave and quick, she could be certain it was returned to the right household. Aye, she whispered in the dark, barely breathing. Only when Alden began to walk away did she slide down the tree.

Fiona knew how to open the back gate, but there was no need. It was already unlocked, so she slipped into the shadows and doused the lamp. The complete darkness was easier to navigate, and she didn’t want March to see her if he did wake. Farther along, Alden turned into a back gate much like her own, and Fiona clung to the shadows as she followed.

She’d just left the lamp in the shadows at the back wall and returned to the mews when she heard March groan. Her heart beat so painfully that she was certain it could be heard, Fiona pulled the black hood over her face and waited motionless.

It was but a minute before he stumbled past her, cursing a streak of words that Fiona didn’t know. She listened, fascinated and distracted for a moment by the vocabulary, before he turned into the gate she’d just left. Someday I’m going to kill those damnable sodomites, he muttered.

Her heart raced, but she knew she could not stay any longer. Nor could she warn the other two, having no clue where they’d gone or what their roles were within the household. Revealing herself as a young daughter of an earl, even if the house belonged to a duke, would be scandalous.

Fleeing quickly, she raced back to her own gate and slipped inside. Whatever peace she’d wanted to find would not be found in the treetops tonight, and Fiona hadn’t even thought to return to her perch. Instead, she went upstairs immediately.

Still, she had no wish to go to bed. Instead, she found herself in the gallery, wrapped in her cloak, trembling as she sat behind the drawn curtains in a window seat that looked over the front of the house. Fiona stayed there a long time, staring at the empty street and the open square of grass beyond it, but eventually she stirred, freezing as a faint noise from the gallery reached her. Ever so silently, she tipped her head to the side and eased the velvet draperies open an inch.

To her surprise, Fiona’s own mother glided past. Like Fiona, she was fully engulfed in a black cape and hood, and her head was down. She looked neither right nor left, but moved silently past Fiona toward her own chambers at the end of the hall.

Only after her mother’s door closed silently on its well-oiled hinges did Fiona escape the window seat. She’d had too many close calls for one night.

It was past time she was in bed.

Chapter One

Late August, 1824

Sign this last document and we’ll be finished, my lord, the white-haired solicitor directed, shifting a sheaf of parchment from before the Duke to the ink-stained blotter in front of his second son.

Perfectly at ease despite the difficult subject of the papers, Alden dipped his pen and signed below his father’s name in a flourish, noting that the elder Collier had already signed shakily in his place as a witness.

Alden would be entrusting his personal business to the younger Collier, but the Duke’s son knew well that his father would patronize the frail solicitor as long as the old man could still climb the steps of Lennox House and attend the Duke personally.

The elder Collier, currently packing up stacks of paper at the head of the table, was witnessing the end of an era. The highly respected and often-feared Duke of Lennox was sharing, if not ceding, some of his authority with his only remaining son. Lennox and Lord Alden Swenson were attempting a new sort of working relationship, at least in the operation of the Duke’s business and personal finances. Alden had agreed to not openly thwart Lennox’s rule, but Lennox had also agreed not to intervene without first conferring with Alden privately.

Alden well knew that no one would have predicted such a thing a year earlier. Then, Alden had been happily managing the Duke’s affairs in Europe, largely independent of his father’s direct rule. He’d been content residing in Amsterdam, with occasional trips to the major trading centers of Europe. He’d had a full life there, making a home with Oliver in the diverse community of artists and musicians who flocked to Amsterdam.

The news of his nephew’s birth—his elder brother’s first son—had further removed Alden from the succession and cemented his residency in Europe.

But within a very few months, everything had changed for Lennox and his family. Alden’s elder brother, known by the courtesy title the Earl of March, had committed suicide in a very public and unmistakable scandal. With March’s son and Lennox’s new heir only a wee babe, Lennox had renewed an old request. The Duke wanted Alden to return to London, and with the louse who had haunted Alden for three decades finally gone, Alden had few reasons to refuse.

It’s done then, his father said softly, sighing and sitting back in his chair. Alden looked up and caught Lennox considering him. In addition to the business, I’m happy to have it legally established that you shall follow me as one of Eynon’s guardians. Lennox examined him carefully, even as the Duke spoke of his daughter-in-law and grandson. Gloria may be safely remarried now, and I am confident her husband will look after Eynon as he matures, but Eynon will still need you to protect his inheritance when I am gone. And Johna and the girls will need someone to look out for their interests.

Lennox was hardly failing, but he had