The Guardian

CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Newsletter and Social Media Links About the Author Other books by Carole Mortimer COPYRIGHT Copyright © 2023 Carole Mortimer Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper WebDesign Editor: Linda Ingmanson Formatter: Glass Slipper WebDesign ISBN: 978-1-914336-10-2 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All Rights Reserved. DEDICATION Jo, Because you always ‘get’ me. Thank you so much. CHAPTER ONE Lincoln House, London, September, 1816 “My good man, I do not care what your instructions might be, or who administered them, I must insist upon seeing the Duke of Lincoln. Immediately!” Hunter St. John, the duke referred to in that strident tirade, had no idea who the elderly lady—her tone and the querulous tremor in her voice were indicative of her advanced years—was causing a scene in the entrance hall of his London home. But whoever she was, Hunter did not intend to allow her to continue harassing his poor butler this way. Elderly or otherwise, Hunter did not receive visitors, except his four closest friends, all of them also dukes, unless it was by a previously agreed upon appointment. Any deviation in that stipulation and all and sundry might consider they had the right to knock on his door, day or night, and demand his time. Beggars might think they could invite themselves in off the streets to take tea with him. Or a flower girl or two think that they were allowed to pick fresh blooms from his garden so they could sell them for pennies to the people passing by. No, there had to be some rules to calling upon another person, and as far as Hunter was concerned, unannounced was not an acceptable method for doing so. “I have already told you, madam, His Grace is not at home today.” Stokes, Hunter’s butler, obviously agreed with that point of view as he valiantly persevered with his refusal to allow the woman entrance. Further entrance. Because for Hunter to be able to hear her side of the conversation as well as he could, the woman must at least have stepped over the threshold and now be standing in the entrance hall. “The gentleman who left here just a few minutes ago assured me that he had just spoken to His Grace and that he is very much at home,” the woman snapped in that imperious voice. Damn it, Hunter would need to have words with Guildford, his lawyer, regarding giving private information to a complete stranger. At least, Hunter had initially believed the woman to be a complete stranger. But the more he listened to her voice, the more he felt as if he had heard it before. Moreover, at the time of last hearing it, he believed he might even have approved of her imperiousness. Although he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he might have done so… “I wrote to the duke last week, informing him of the…direness of this situation, and I have no reason to think he did not receive the letter,” the woman continued. “No doubt he received it, as he has all the other letters I have written to him over the past five years, and has chosen not to respond to,” she added with a disapproving sniff. “Which is why I have traveled all the way here from Yorkshire, by public coach, I might add.” She sounded scandalized. “So that I might insist in person that he must do something!” With this new information, Hunter now remembered exactly who this woman was, and the reason, at their last meeting, he had believed her stern attitude to be an asset. Just as he remembered receiving her letters in the past and the one the previous week and had chosen not to respond to any of them. If he had thought there was anything of importance in their content, then he would have done so. As there was not, he had seen no reason to do anything other than file them away in a drawer in the desk in his study. His reason for ignoring the lady’s missive the previous week had seemed equally as sound at the time. The letter had taken three days to reach him, and therefore, its content was old news. This, in turn, had brought Hunter to the conclusion that the situation would have been resolved before he had even received the missive, and so any response from him on the subject would have been superfluous. It appeared, judging by the woman’s reference to “the direness of this situation,” that he might have been wrong in that assumption. Damn it, did he not already have enough of a situation on his hands without having to deal with what sounded to be no more than a domestic upset? Something, an act, and a purely rebellious one, on the part of a young lady who deserved to have her bottom spanked for alarming her elderly companion in this way and which she had done no doubt in the belief it would elicit a response from Hunter. Perhaps even encourage him to appear in person. He did not have time for such female histrionics when his thoughts and actions must all be focused toward identifying the man, the English officer, who had murdered his friend Plymouth during the confusion at the battle at Waterloo. He and the other four gentlemen known in Society as the Ruthless Dukes were on a mission to identify and punish the officer responsible for the death of their friend, the sixth Ruthless Duke. To date, three of those gentlemen had been able to dismiss three of the