Where Eagles Dare

By Wayne M. Hoy and Theresa S. Ysiano

Lady Efrona Drake dreaded the upcoming house party hosted by her parents. Her fathers announcement that Lord Blakely Hansford, the marquess of Sudeley, would be in attendance caused a feeling of fear and loathing to curl in her stomach. Efrona realized her time had finally run out and her parents plans to end her six-year betrothal to the insufferable future Duke of Warwick would soon result in an unwanted and miserable marriage. Oh, Lord Blake was handsome enough, gorgeous even, but Efrona detested his pompous strutting and arrogant womanizing and total disregard for anything beyond his many mistresses and absolute life of leisure.

But the young man standing so still and composed in her fathers study was not at all the marquess she remembered, and rather than inviting those familiar feelings of disdain and disgust, Efrona felt her heart race and senses tingle when in his presence. What could have wrought such a change in the man? Was he merely toying with her and concealing his true nature with some twisted agenda in mind?

Plagued with the constant and uncanny sensation of danger, the marquess of Sudeley fought his growing attraction for the Lady Efrona. What had he gotten himself into? He was an impostor, and he was playing with fire. But after a second attempt on his life, the marquess realizes he must do all he can to keep Efrona safe even if it means exposure and with it, the sure knowledge that he will never be able to call her his own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524698621

Wayne M. Hoy

Wayne M. Hoy presently resides in Southern Indiana with his wife of 62 years. A retired Police Lieutenant and father of nine, Wayne has taught a wide range of courses in criminal justice during his law enforcement career. His diverse education has supplied him with an expertise in many areas and he is an educator in the field of Theology as well. In his spare time, he indulges his passion for writing and researching settings for his historical romances, which include, The Wolf and the Stag, The Miniature, Appeal to Honor, Banners of Canvas, Fire in the Sky, Lone Star Justice, Ambush at Piñon Canyon, Day of the Outlaw, The Long Way Home, Where Eagles Dare, The Lady and ‘The Eagle’, The Eagle’s Wing, Casey Sue Thornton, A Chance Encounter and his latest, An Occasion of Valor.

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© 2017 Wayne M. Hoy. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 07/10/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9863-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9861-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9862-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017910552

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

Prologue

Warwickshire, England

May, Year of our Lord 1794

H is Grace, Johannes Archer Hansford, sixth Duke of Warwick kept an anxious eye on his wife Agnes as the carriage raced down the dark road. Although she hadn’t said a word he guessed by her breathing that his wife’s labor had begun. He tried not to let his concern show on his face and was grateful that the dim light in the carriage, illumined only by a lone lantern, capably hid his expression. His wife had insisted upon coming along to the reading of her uncle’s will even though he told her it was not necessary. He was thankful now that he had ordered her midwife to accompany them.

John, dear, I wish you hadn’t argued so heatedly with Henry, his wife said somewhat surprising him out of his thoughts.

Cousin Henry is a fool, Agnes, he replied and immediately regretted his outburst at the sound of her painful gasp. Had it been his spiteful words or the baby’s contractions?

I’m sorry, Agnes. Let’s not discuss Henry—

Oh! she gasped and her fingers dug into his arm as her panting breaths became harsher.

Agnes! he cried.

She didn’t reply and the only sound for several seconds was her strident panting. He felt helpless. This was her first pregnancy after they had been married nearly two years. Her breathing evened and she smiled at him. Oh God, how he loved her! She took his hand and laid it gently upon her huge belly.

I’m afraid, dear husband that your son will not wait much longer, she panted. I think you had better call Mary.

He felt the blood drain from his face. Here? His son, the Marquess of Sudeley was to be born in a carriage in the countryside?

Yes, he faltered.

Mary Higgins, the midwife, and Jane his wife’s maid, rode in the second coach following behind with their luggage. Hansford reached and releasing the clasp on the panel separating the coach’s interior from the driver on the high seat, gave a sharp knock. The panel immediately slid back.

Your Grace? the driver called.

We must pull over. Her Grace is experiencing difficulties, the duke said.

Your Grace, I see a light just yonder. I believe it is an inn. Do you want to try for it? the driver asked nervously.

Y-yes, John, his wife hurriedly said squeezing her husband’s arm.

Go, then, Hugh, the duke said addressing the driver.

The driver pulled the shiny black coach with its gold ducal seal on the door up before the inn. A groom was immediately at the carriage door lowering the foot step even before it came to a complete stop. The duke was the first to exit and turned to assist his wife after barking orders to the groom to secure the inn’s best suite. As the groom rushed off, Hansford gently lifted his wife in his arms.

John, I can walk, Agnes protested, but he paid her no heed and advanced with quick steps into the inn, Jane, her maid and Mary Higgins, the midwife, following quickly in their wake.

The groom he had sent ahead held the door of the old inn open. A thick haze of smoke filled the taproom from someone’s recently lit pipe. The pungent smell burned Agnes’ lungs and she coughed. She detested the nauseating smell of pipe tobacco, and had from the moment she became pregnant. Thankfully her husband never smoked in her presence.

Douse that bloody pipe! the duke shouted and there was a scurry of activity.

Gently, John, his wife whispered.

Humph! he snorted looking menacingly around for the innkeeper.

A portly, white-haired man with a pipe stuck between his teeth, rushed forward to greet them.

Ah, Your Grace, in need of rooms are you? he gushed.

The best you have, Hansford growled. And get rid of that bloody pipe!

Ah, er, of course, Your Grace, the man gulped stuffing the pipe in his pocket. This way, please.

The Duke of Warwick, with his wife’s pale face held close to his chest followed the owner up the rickety steps and down a hall to a door near the end. Pushing it open the innkeeper stepped back to allow Warwick with his delicate burden to enter. The duke halted just inside the room darting a piercing look around taking in everything from the cracked wash basin and pitcher to the scratched and scraped hardwood floor and thin threadbare carpet at the foot of the lumpy mattress.

This will never do, he growled. I will have your best rooms.

Er, these are my best rooms, Your Grace, the man fumbled cheeks turning ashen.

John, his wife whispered, it is better than a carriage.

Agnes, it’s a miserable room, he grumbled glowering up at the cracked plaster ceiling with water marks hinting at a leaking roof. I will not have you subjected to such grossness.

It will have to do, she said on a breathy cry.

Your Grace, if you will lay Her Grace on the bed, I shall take over, Mary Higgins said soothingly.

Yes…right, he mumbled and deposited his wife tenderly on the mattress uttering a disgusted sigh at its knobby surface as he did so.

Obviously no longer needed, the duke was ushered out of the room and the two women took over. Descending the stair to the taproom Hansford called for the innkeeper who shuffled forward an anxious look on his face.

See that Her Grace has all that she requires, he said casting an uneasy glance up the stairs.

Of course, Your Grace, the man replied.

Here you are, Your Grace, a woman who he suspected was the innkeeper’s wife said rushing over to pull out a wooden chair before a table near the large fireplace. It wobbled on uneven legs. He hesitated a moment before cautiously taking the seat. The woman sat a tankard before him. He nodded his thanks and took a long swig of the ale. He coughed. It tasted bloody awful. He emitted a deep disgusted sigh. What did he expect? Thirst drove him to take another sip of the bloody stuff just as the woman placed a plate of something before him. He warily eyed the suspicious burnt portions on the plate. He grimaced and picked up his fork and shoved around the fare which might or might not have been some form of pudding.

He pushed the plate away and leaned back in his chair aware of two servants bearing buckets of hot water and several sheets and towels scurry up the steps to the rooms above. He passed the drink back and forth between his hands as he waited occasionally forcing himself to take a sip of the foul tasting ale. His coach driver entered and bowing let him know that the horses were settled for the night. He motioned for the man to sit. Nervously the driver claimed the rickety chair he indicated. On this night Warwick didn’t welcome being alone with thoughts of what was occurring in the upstairs room where, at this very moment his wife was giving birth to his first born son; his heir.

It hadn’t seemed like that long a time had passed but it must have been hours when one of the servants hurried down the steps to summon him. He leaped to his feet face set. Something had gone wrong. At the top of the stairs he met Jane. She held a small bundle in her arms and a gleaming smile on her lips.

Your Grace, you have your heir, she beamed. Would you like to hold your son?

He forced himself to relax, yet his hands trembled as he took the tiny infant. Her Grace, how is she…?

She is recovering. Mary is with her—

The door to the room jerked open and Mary Higgins’ appeared in the threshold. Your Grace, she called in a hesitant voice. Handing the child back to the maid he hurried to her.

What is it? Her Grace? he cried a stricken look on his face.

She is fine, Your Grace, only…you have another son.

He stared flabbergasted. Twins?! He stepped into the room to see his wife propped up in bed clasping an identical little bundle against her chest.

Warwick, she said, voice weary but contented. Jane is holding your heir. This… she nodded to the tiny form in her lap, is the spare.

He knelt beside the bed and bent to kiss his wife’s forehead. You are a magnificent woman, he breathed.

He abruptly got to his feet and slid the signet ring depicting a soaring eagle, its wings outstretched and wrapped about the sides of the ring above the Latin words: Alis Aquilae from his finger. Brendan George Archer Hansford, Marquess of Sudeley, did little more than scrunch up his tiny aristocratic nose as the ring, secured on a thin strip of blue ribbon, was slipped over his head.

There is no need, husband. Your heir has a vivid birthmark on his left hip that he will never outgrow, Agnes said softly.

Yes, Your Grace, the nurse said, It’s the shape of a bird’s wing—

An eagle’s wing, corrected the midwife. Would you like to see, Your Grace?

He shook his head, still overwhelmed by the whole event. Blakeley Edward Archer, the Marquess’ younger brother by twenty minutes, slept through the whole thing.

Much later found the duke of Warwick pacing contentedly along the stable path the glow of his cigar a red dot in the darkness. Life couldn’t be any better than this. He had a beautiful wife, whom he loved dearly, and now an heir, and a spare, all in one fell swoop. He grinned into the night. He only wished that the relationship between him and his cousin was not so strained. Things had been getting along fine, but had recently, for some reason, turned sour. He couldn’t put his finger on the cause. He turned back on the path his previous contentment darkened by thoughts of his cousin Henry Archer. He was halfway to the inn when he suddenly caught a strong whiff of smoke and at the same moment saw a red glow through the taproom window. He quickened his pace heart racing. Jerking open the heavy oak door he took a step back. Flames covered one wall and thick smoke was rapidly building beneath the heavy rafter beams.

Without thought he raced up the stairs pounding on the wall as he went. He reached his wife’s room and banged open the door.

Your Grace! Jane gasped leaping from the chair she had apparently been dozing in. A single candle burned in a holder beside the bed.

Warwick? Agnes mumbled sleepily. What is it?

We must hurry. The building is on fire, he shouted reaching to catch the delicate white hand his wife thrust out to him.

Oh God! she cried. The babies!"

Mary Higgins burst into the room a hand covering her mouth and nose. Warwick gathered one of the twins, wrapped in a blanket, in his arms and turned to Jane holding out the infant which she clasped to her chest. Whirling back to the bed he picked up the baby’s brother and turned to Mary who grasped him tightly.

Quickly now! he ordered, I’ll see to Her Grace.

Wrapping a blanket from the bed around his wife’s slender form he lifted her easily in his arms. Mary snatched up a blanket and flung it around herself all the while holding the babe tightly in the crook of her arms; she darted out into the hall where smoke was rapidly advancing along the floor. Warwick, carrying his wife realized immediately that the front stair was impassable and shouted for the others to follow him toward the rear servant’s stairs. In the chaos of the smoke-filled hall Mary mistakenly turned toward the main stair while the others made their way to the rear stair. Mary reached the head of the stairs only to be driven back by the intense heat. She staggered backward disoriented in the dark smoky hall frantically seeking a means of escaping the smoke and heat. Bending low where the smoke was not so thick she saw the window and realized her mistake. She had somehow retreated back into one of the bedrooms. She turned back to the hall, but now saw that it was too late. Smoke and flames blocked her. She was trapped!

Crawling to the window, Mary threw open the sash, all the while holding the tiny infant to her chest with one arm. The heat on her back was becoming unbearable. She looked down at the ground some thirty feet below. Tears streaked her smoke-blackened cheek as she clutched the tiny infant tightly to her chest. Swinging her legs over the windowsill she hesitated only a fraction of a second before leaping into the cool night air twisting so that her body would protect the baby when she struck the ground.

Reaching the stables Warwick saw the innkeeper and his wife and their two servants huddled before the structure. He sighed with relief that they had escaped the fire as his first concern had been his family. He gently sat his wife on her feet and darted a look around searching for his wife’s maid Jane and the midwife Mary. His wife was already taking the babe from Jane’s arms. His heart began to beat wildly. Where was Mary with the other twin? He raced back toward the inn, but by now the old inn was totally engulfed in flame. Mary and his son had not made it out. Oh God what would he tell his wife!

Ten year old Ruth Grant was drawn by the flames she could see far in the distance leaping up over the treetops. She hurried along the path eyes round. What was burning? It had to be the Dove and Fowler she decided. By the time she reached the clearing and saw that her guess was correct; the old inn was only burning embers. She sat on the side of the hill and watched the dying flames. She wondered if old man Martin and his wife had gotten out. She knew Sadie Smith one of the two servants who worked there and hoped she was safe, too.

She had wasted enough time; she had better get home her mother would be beside herself with worry, especially after Ruth’s new little brother’s death. They had told no one and she had buried the tiny infant’s blue body that night in the little garden. That had been five days ago. Her mother had seemed to have lost her strength of mind and lay abed most of the days. Until she got back on her feet the daily chores rested on Ruth’s head. The villagers were little help. Many turned their nose up at actor’s kin. She supposed she couldn’t blame her father for rushing off to London and leaving his wife; and she being near her time. But the show must go on and her father would not deny his chance to play at Drury Lane theatre. Nothing would have prevented him from what he considered his destiny. She sighed wistfully as she got to her feet. There were eggs to gather and she had wasted enough time. She wondered what kind of mood her mother would be in this morning.

As she turned away a dark shape caught her eye and she froze. It looked for all the world like a body lying there. She edged closer. Yes. She could see it was a woman. She lay very still and Ruth cautiously knelt and peered at her bloody face. She gently touched the woman’s cheek. It was cold. She listened for her breathing but could detect none. What had happened to her? Was she someone from the inn? She surveyed the blanket about the woman’s shoulders which she could see was heat singed as was the hair on the back of her head. The woman must have jumped from the upper story of the burning inn and hit her head when she landed. Somehow she had managed to crawl as far away from the flames as she could before she died. How sad. She started to get to her feet when a faint sound caught her attention. She slowly pulled the blanket aside and gasped. There lying in the crook of the woman’s arm was a baby. It was still alive. She stared. It was so tiny. It couldn’t be more than a few hours old she decided. She sat momentarily stunned. The poor child was obviously an orphan now. Her heart began to beat wildly in her diminutive chest. It was a miracle! No one could convince her otherwise. It was the very answer to her mother’s despondency. Another babe to love and care for.

Prayers do come true! she gushed.

Gently she lifted the infant and pressed him to her thin chest. Something hard brushed her hand and she saw the ring on the thin ribbon. She studied the insignia but had no idea what it symbolized. She suddenly caught her breath. Oh dear! Would someone, a rich lord, make claim to the baby? Oh that would never do. She slipped the ribbon over the infant’s head and stuffed it in her pocket. The baby was an orphan. It was God’s gift to her grief stricken mother. Nobody would take him away…Nobody.

Chapter One

Cheltenham Castle, England

June, Year of Our Lord 1819

L ady Efrona Drake was twenty-one and had been betrothed to Lord Blakely Hansford, the Duke of Warwick’s only son since she was fifteen. And to top it all off she hadn’t seen the man since the Lehigton’s summer house party when she had just turned seventeen. Oh, he was handsome she had to admit and she suspected young ladies fawned over him with his extremely tight-fitting coat and trousers that provocatively revealed a good deal of his figure, and she shuddered to think she had once—albeit being only thirteen at the time—thought him gorgeous, until that is, his true pompous and eccentric nature showed itself. She thought herself much wiser now. Plus, rumor had it that he had a mistress. She had informed her father, the Earl of Chedworth, no more than four months earlier that she would never marry the man, which brought on a fearsome row. His shouts still echoed in her ears. Angry words spewed past a sneer that twisted his features and let her know that a powerful peer had little use in a daughter, except for the match she might someday make. But she had not relented; little good that it did.

Efrona settled upon the window seat and kicking off her slippers drew her stocking-clad legs up under her cone-shaped skirts as she rested her forehead against the window pane. She gazed dejectedly out upon the farm fields spread out before her. A narrow dirt road meandered over rolling hills through the little village of Seven Springs that seemed almost to grow out of the landscape. Its weathered Cotswold stone glowed honey colored midst the green and brown countryside dotted with lavender fields bursting in flower.

What had put her in this present sullen mood was what her father had casually informed her at breakfast: Her mother Lady Chedworth was to have a house party here at Cheltenham Castle, her father’s country estate, and Lord Blakely Hansford, Marquess of Sudeley, had been invited. She could expect his arrival within a matter of days ahead of the party guests. This information had been met with a glower and stony silence on her part, which, of course, her father patently ignored. It was all contrived her mother’s house party. If Mohammad wouldn’t come to the mountain…then her father—more likely both set of parents, would see to it that he did. She was sure it hadn’t been strictly Sudeley’s initiative. If it was up to him she was sure he would stay away until…well, she shrugged. Which was fine with her, she hadn’t minded, being snubbed that was—she really hadn’t—but now… Obviously the two fathers had something to do with it, which reminded her that in her father’s eyes her only purpose in life was to make an advantageous match with another titled family. To hear her father tell it, it was time she gave up her silly resistance, her supposed freedom of being an unmarried woman, and place herself under a man’s control, as though being under her father’s control was anywhere close to freedom. Well, she was just as stubborn as her father. He could rave all he wanted. She would marry whom she wished—she had always known and believed that, and it wouldn’t be to gain a title. It would be for love. And she didn’t love the insufferable Lord Blakely Hansford, Marquess of Sudeley.

She was startled when suddenly a goldfinch landed on the stone windowsill only a foot away and she jerked back involuntarily before catching herself. Surprisingly the bird hopped closer to the glass its black and white head and red face tilted off-center as it stared inquisitively up at her. She smiled in delight studying the tiny bird. She had never had the occasion to be this close to a wild creature before, albeit there was a thin glass pane between them. The bird’s back and flanks were chestnut brown, its wings black with a broad yellow bar. Slowly she pressed her palm against the glass and to her amazement the bird pecked lightly, almost intimately, on the glass beneath her fingers.

My goodness, she giggled completely taken aback. What have we here?

The bird gave forth a pleasant silvery twittering, a tinkling medley of trills and twitters. Efrona couldn’t help the oddest sensation that if she opened the casement the bird would fly inside and perhaps even land upon her shoulder. Her absorption in the bird’s antics was cut short by a light knock on her bedroom door.

Efrona, her mother’s soft voice came from the opposite side of the door. Are you in there?

Yes, mother, come in, she called, quickly straightening.

Swinging her stocking feet to the floor she slid them into her slippers. The older woman stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind her. Efrona glanced back at the window. The bird was gone. She sighed disappointed.

What is it, mother? she asked trying to remain objective for she knew what this was about…her mother, always the peacemaker.

Well, you seemed rather upset when you left the breakfast table. I just thought I’d come check on you, the countess said sitting down beside her daughter.

Father is insufferable, Efrona sighed disgustedly.

Your father—is only concerned about your welfare dear—

Hah! Efrona snorted rolling her eyes.

Oh Efrona! Why are you always at odds with your father? I fear your lofty notions will only bring you heartache.

Efrona said nothing staring out the window silently wishing the little goldfinch would return.

My dear, the house party will be just the thing. You’ve been so absorbed in your books of late and have neglected your friends far too long. Besides, you haven’t seen Lord Hansford in—goodness, how long has it been? her mother suddenly quizzed.

Four years, Efrona said absently eyes searching the hedges below her window.

Oh, her mother gasped. Four years? Surely it hasn’t been that long!

Efrona looked at her mother with her figure round as her cheeks and a soothing softness in her tone. What would it be like to be her mother, soft, to allow herself to be meek and gentle, the total opposite of her father? Would it smooth over her own sharp edges? Her father called her a disappointment, a cruel daughter, an unnatural woman for her lack of enthusiasm for marriage to Lord Hansford. A loathing for marriage and the prospect of motherhood had less to do with her reticence than the man her father had chosen for her. The man did not inspire trust or desire.

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Four days later the inevitable occurred. Efrona’s nine year old sister Heather burst into the room and flopped unceremoniously on the bed. Efrona tilted