guilty that we are not filled with sorrow as is Mama. Papa was on his sick bed for quite some months and we had expected that he would be gone on to his reward soon. Papa also bid us not to cry and honor him by only remembering the pleasant memories. When we told Mama of this, she only cried more. I believe if you were here, this sting of pain would feel less to her.
Mama also frets incessantly about what people will say if you are cavorting about town and not honoring the period of mourning. We heard her say it to Grandmother. But Louisa and I know you must have something terribly important to do, or you should not have left us.
We miss our lessons with you most terribly. Today Lydia shot her arrow at a target at fifty feet dead in the center. I was terribly impressed. I am aiming to reach her level by the time we see you next. We are looking forward to your extended visit during Michaelmas.
We love you,
Your sisters, Lydia and Louisa.
He released a slow breath, folded the letter, opened the exquisitely carved wooden box, and placed the missive amongst the other twenty or so letters. All from Lydia and Louisa.
They had been born to his parents later in life to the marchioness’s joy, for he had been an only child. Fifteen years separated him from his sisters, and though they had been small, he had missed them dreadfully during his sojourn in Paris.
Upon his return to England, he had made every effort to ensure they did not get lost in his need for retribution. He made time for them, returning to their country estate often. Despite his mother and father’s shock at the time, he taught them archery and how to fence. His mother had even discovered that he was now teaching them the art of boxing.
She had scolded him most severely, but he had calmly told her he would not leave his sisters unable to defend themselves from the wolves of this world. His mother had stared at him for a long time, for she had known of the dreadful rift between father and son, and the ugly cause of it. She had simply nodded before lifting her chin and walking away.
Last year when he had gotten word of his father’s illness, he had quit the season and headed home to Delacree Park, an affluent, lavish estate which held many fond memories of his childhood. For almost one year, the men he had been so close to taking down had been given a reprieve, for he had directed more of his thoughts then to his family.
Nicolas had remained in the country for several months by his father’s sick bed, slowly mending the hurt that had been like a canker between them. His journey to town had been intermittent and then he would only stay for a week at most, all in the vainglory of continuing to stroke the fires under his roguish reputation. After burying his father in the family crypt, he had only stayed with the girls and his mother for three weeks before returning to town.
Dipping the ink into the well, he wrote,
Dearest Louisa and Lydia,
A day does not go by I do not think of you both and miss you. I shall be home for Michaelmas and will be there for a few weeks before I return to town. Business in town has kept me here a little longer than I had hoped. Remember to be good helpmates to our mother and give her my love. My thoughts are with you all at Delacree Park. I am sending you some lengths of material for the seamstress to make up since you are growing girls and will need new gowns.
I am glad you like the ponies and look forward to hearing how you have named them.
Your loving brother, Nicolas
The butler was summoned, and the letter given for immediate delivery to Delacree Park. Then after taking a deep breath, he plucked the duke’s letter from the pile and opened it. It was an urgent request to come to his town house in Grosvenor Square for an intimate card party.
Knowledge settled low in Nicolas’s gut—the moment had come for the duke to be removed from the board. Nicolas made his way to his chambers, stripped naked, and tumbled onto the well-padded mattress. The chamber was slightly chilled, just how he liked it. His valet, much used to his late-night activities