CHAPTER TWO

      SIMON STARED BLINDLY AHEAD. He was seated in the first row of the chapel with his sons, but he was in a state of disbelief. Was he really back in Cornwall? Was he actually attending his wife’s funeral?

      Simon realized that his fists were clenched. He was staring at the reverend, who droned on and on about Elizabeth, but he hardly saw him and he did not hear him. Three days ago he had been in Paris, posing as Henri Jourdan, a Jacobin; three days ago he had been standing amongst the bloodthirsty crowd at La Place de la Révolution, witnessing dozens of executions. The very last one had been his friend, Danton, who had become a voice of moderation amongst the insane. Watching him lose his head had been a test of his loyalty. Lafleur had been with him. So he had applauded each beheading, and somehow, he hadn’t become physically sick.

      He wasn’t in Paris now. He wasn’t in France. He was in Cornwall, a place he hadn’t meant to ever return to, and he felt dazed and disoriented. The last time he had been in Cornwall, his brother had died. The last time he had been in that chapel, he had been attending Will’s funeral!

      And maybe that was a part of the reason why he felt so ill. Still, the stench of blood was everywhere, as if it had followed him from Paris. It was even inside the chapel. But he smelled blood everywhere, all of the time—in his rooms, on his clothes, on his servants—he smelled blood even when he slept.

      But then, death was everywhere. After all, he was attending his wife’s funeral!

      And he almost laughed, bitterly. Death had been following him for a very long time, so he should not be dazed, confused or surprised. His brother had died on these moors. Elizabeth had died in that house. He had spent the past year in Paris, where the Terror reigned. How ironic it all was. How fitting.

      Simon turned and looked at the rapt crowd, who was devouring the reverend’s every word—as if Elizabeth’s death genuinely mattered, as if she were not one more innocent, lost amongst thousands. They were all strangers, he realized grimly, not friends and neighbors. He had nothing in common with any one of them, except for his nationality. He was an outsider now, the stranger in their midst....

      He faced the pulpit again. He should try to listen, he should attempt to focus. Elizabeth was dead, and she had been his wife. The disbelief was almost stronger now. In his mind’s eye, he could see inside that coffin. But Elizabeth did not lie inside; his brother did.

      His tension escalated. He had left the parish within days of Will’s tragic death. And if Elizabeth hadn’t died at St. Just Hall, he wouldn’t have returned.

      God, he hated Cornwall!

      Not for the first time, he wished that Will hadn’t died. But he no longer railed against fate. He knew better. He had learned firsthand that the good and the innocent were always the first to die, which was why fate had just claimed his wife.

      He closed his eyes and gave up. His mind ran free. Tears briefly burned his closed lids.

      Why hadn’t he been the one to die?

      Will should have been the earl; Elizabeth should have been his wife!

      Simon opened his eyes carefully, shaken by such thoughts. He did not know if he was still grieving for his older brother, who had died tragically in a riding accident so many years ago, or if he were grieving for those executed by the Terror, or even if he grieved for his wife, whom he hadn’t really known. But he knew he must control his mind. It was Elizabeth, his wife, who was in that coffin. It was Elizabeth who was being eulogized. It was Elizabeth he should be thinking of—for the sake of his sons—until he went back to London to begin the dirty work of playing war games.

      But he just couldn’t do it. He could not concentrate on his dead wife. The ghosts that had been haunting him for weeks, months and years began to form before him, becoming the faces of his friends and neighbors in the crowd, and they were the faces of every man, woman and child he had seen in chains or guillotined. Those faces accused him of hypocrisy and cowardice, of ruthless self-survival, of his failure as a man, a husband, a brother.

      He closed his eyes, as if that action might send those ghosts away, but it did not.

      Simon wondered if he was finally losing his mind. He looked across the chapel and out the light stained-glass windows. The moors stretched endlessly away. No sight had ever been as ugly. He knew he must stop his thoughts. He had his sons to think of now, to care for.

      And the minister was still speaking but Simon didn’t hear a word he was saying. The image slammed over him and he could not move. He had been with the two grooms when they had found his brother lying on the hard rocky ground. He had been on his back, faceup, eyes open, the moonlight spilling over his handsome features.

      All he could see was his dead brother now.

      It was as if he had just found Will on the moors; it was as if the past had become the present.

      Simon realized a tear was sliding down his face. There was so much heartache, so much pain. Would he mourn his brother all over again? He hadn’t ever wanted to go back to the place in time!

      Or was he finally mourning Elizabeth? Or even Danton? He hadn’t allowed himself to grieve for anyone, ever. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care, but he was crying now. He felt the tears streaming helplessly down his face.

      He realized he was staring through tears at the open coffin. He saw Elizabeth, so perfectly beautiful, even in death, but he also saw Will. His brother had been as golden, as perfect, as beautiful, in death. Elizabeth had been an angel, Will had been a hero.

      There were so many memories rushing at him now, all vivid and painful. In some, he was with his brother, whom he had respected, admired and loved. In others, he was with his wife, whom he had tolerated but hadn’t loved.

      This was the reason he had not come back to this goddamned place, he thought, in sudden anguish. Will should be alive today. He had been gallant, charming and honorable. He would have been a great earl; he would have admired and loved Elizabeth. Will would not have sold out to the radicals.

      Simon suddenly thought how prophetic his father had been. On numerous occasions, the earl had faulted him for his utter lack of character. Will was the perfect son, but Simon was not. Simon was the shameless one. He was reckless, inept and irresponsible, with no sense of honor or duty.

      And he was the dishonorable one. For even now, he had two letters in his pocket, proving his absolute disloyalty. One was from Pitt’s secret spymaster, Warlock, the other from his French master, Lafleur. Even Will would be ashamed of him now.

      “Papa?”