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       Letter from Mrs Laura Anstruther toEve, Duchess of WelburnMay 1810

      My very dear Eve,

      It was a great pleasure to receive your last letter and to hear that you and my cousin Rowarth are having such a splendid time on your wedding tour. I owe you particular thanks for the present of the beautiful negligee you sent me from Paris –Dexter likes it extremely!

      You mentioned that you were curious to know all the news from Fortune’s Folly and there is much to report. I fear that Sir Montague continues to inflict all manner of greedy and grasping taxes upon us under the terms of the medieval law. There are now only three unmarried heiresses left in the village, for all the others have embraced matrimony in order to escape the Dames Tax!

      My good friend Alice Lister tied the knot with my cousin Miles Vickery a month or so past. You will remember Miles, I feel sure. It is perhaps a blessing for the friendship between him and Rowarth that he always preferred blondes and so never sought your favour! However, he is quite reformed now. It is most amusing to see so shocking a rake hopelessly in love with his wife rather than with someone else’s. Stephen, Lord Armitage jilted Miss Mary Wheeler practically at the altar. A lucky escape for her, I feel. The other match is between Miss Flora Minchin and Lord Waterhouse. They are to wed in a few weeks. It is not a love match. His title for her money–you know the sort of thing. Though I have the strangest feeling matters may not go quite to plan.

      NICOLA CORNICK first became fascinated by history when she was young. She studied history at university and wrote her Master’s thesis on heroes. Nicola also works as a historian for the National Trust in a seventeenth-century manor house. She can be contacted via her website at www.nicolacornick.co.uk

      For Tony, Judy and Clare, with love

      Part One

      “From his brimstone bed, at break of day, A-walking the devil is gone, To look at his little snug farm of the world, And see how his stock went on.

      A lady drove by, in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied, For which he could have kissed her; Such a flourishing, fine, clever creature was she With an eye as wicked as wicked can be.”

      —From The Devil’s Walk by Robert Southey, 1799

      Chapter One

      The Folly, Fortune Hall, Yorkshire—June 1810 A little before midnight

      IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL NIGHT for an abduction.

      The moon sailed high and bright in a starlit sky. The warm breeze sighed in the treetops, stirring the scents of pine and hot grass. Deep in the heart of the wood an owl called, a long, throaty hoot that hung on the night air.

      Lady Elizabeth Scarlet sat by the window, watching for the shadow, waiting to hear the step on the path outside. She knew Nat Waterhouse would come. He always came when she called. He would be annoyed of course—what man would not be irritated to be called away from his carousing on the night before his wedding—but he would still be there. He was so responsible; he would not ignore her cry for help. She knew exactly how he would respond. She knew him so well.

      Her fingertips beat an impatient tattoo on the stone window ledge. She checked the watch she had purloined earlier from her brother. It felt as though she had been waiting for hours but she was surprised to see that it was only eight minutes since she had last looked. She felt nervous, which surprised her. She knew Nat would be angry but she was acting for his own good. The wedding had to be stopped. He would thank her for it one day.

      From across the fields came the faint chime of the church bell. Midnight. There was the crunch of footsteps on the path. He was precisely on time. Of course he would be.

      She sat still as a mouse as he opened the door of the folly. She had left the hallway in darkness but there was a candle burning in the room above. If she had calculated correctly he would go up the spiral stair and into the chamber, giving her time to lock the outer door behind him and hide the key. There was no other way out. Her half brother, Sir Montague Fortune, had had the folly built to the design of a miniature fort with arrow slits and windows too small to allow a man to pass. He had thought it a great joke to build a folly in a village called Fortune’s Folly. That, Lizzie thought, was Monty’s idea of amusement, that and dreaming up new taxes with which to torment the populace.

      “Lizzie!”

      She jumped. Nat was right outside the door of the guardroom. He sounded impatient. She held her breath.

      “Lizzie? Where are you?”

      He took the spiral stair two steps at a time and she slid like a wraith out of the tiny guardroom to turn the key in the heavy oaken door. Her fingers were shaking and slipped on the cold iron. She knew what her friend Alice Vickery would say if she were here now:

       “Not another of your harebrained schemes, Lizzie! Stop now, before it is too late!”

      But it was already too late. She could not allow herself time to think about this or she would lose her nerve. She ran back into the guardroom and stole a hand through one of the arrow slits. There was a nail on the wall outside. The key clinked softly against the stone. There. Nat could not escape until she willed it. She smiled to herself, well pleased. She had known there was no need to involve anyone else in the plan. She could handle an abduction unaided. It was easy.

      She went out into the hall. Nat was standing at the top of the stairs, the candle in his hand. The flickering light threw a tall shadow. He looked huge, menacing and angry.

      Actually, Lizzie thought, he was huge, menacing and angry, but he would never hurt her. Nat would never, ever hurt her. She knew exactly how he would behave. She knew him like a brother.

      “Lizzie? What the hell’s going on?”

      He was drunk as well, Lizzie thought. Not drunk enough to be even remotely incapacitated but enough to swear in front of a lady, which was something that Nat would normally never do. But then, if she were marrying Miss Flora Minchin the next morning, she would be swearing, too. And she would have drunk herself into a stupor. Which brought her back to the point. For Nat would not be marrying Miss Minchin. Not in the morning. Not ever. She was here to make sure of it. She was here to save him.

      “Good evening, Nat,” Lizzie said brightly, and saw him scowl. “I trust you have had an enjoyable time on your last night of freedom?”

      “Cut the pleasantries, Lizzie,” Nat said. “I’m not in the mood.” He held the candle a little higher so that the light fell on her face. His eyes were black, narrowed and hard. “What could possibly be so urgent that you had to talk to me in secret on the night before my wedding?”

      Lizzie did not answer immediately. She caught the hem of her gown up in one hand and made her careful way up the stone stair. She felt Nat’s gaze on her face every moment even though she did not look at him. He stood aside to allow her to enter the chamber at the top. It was tiny, furnished only with a table,