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The kind of man who would dally with another man’s wife at his own going-away party thrown by his mother.
    She once had idolized him. Now she loathed him.
    Not in the four years since she’d seen him had she forgotten it, and Nathaniel’s indiscretions brought the whole ugly gamut of feelings back up to the surface, like poison weeping from a half-healed but still infected wound. Even Robert leaving her stranded didn’t smart like that old memory of betrayal.
    Thanks to Alex Ramsey, she was all too familiar with disappointment in the sense of the honor among males she once thought noble and deserving of her trust and love.
    Hauling her trunk along with smarting arms, she walked toward home.
     
     
    His shoulder was killing him. Alex leaned back and closed his eyes against the lurching of the carriage, massaging the half-healed wound with his fingers. He wished he could ride outside and enjoy the fall afternoon, but it jarred a little too much for comfort to be in the saddle for any significant distance. Marcus had kindly insisted on sending down the family carriage for his journey home.
    Life was sometimes incredibly ironic, he couldn’t help but think. He’d wanted no more than to just go home and rest awhile. Actually, he hadn’t even requested that. He’d been ordered home. Somehow he’d ended up with a house of his own, quite a bit of land, and more responsibility than ever before in his life. The stopover in London had ended up being very fruitful.
    And it felt good.
    He’d always wondered what he would do after the war. Having the solution handed to him so neatly seemed like a dream. Marcus would be pleased—he was pleased himself. He might even resign his commission, perhaps not right away, for they needed him on the front as Wellington was poised to cross the French border, but eventually. Enough years of his life had been spent on Bonaparte. He was ready for laughter and music and the elegant sophistication of the ton . To think of beautiful women, soft beds and food that tasted like something other than sawdust was a relief from the harshness of war.
    And he oddly enough had Robert Roweland, of all people, to thank for his improved fortunes.
     
     
    Jessica stared in dismay at the wide, tangled expanse of lawn. The grass was at least two feet high and the bushes so overgrown she hardly recognized the place. It was dusk, and she felt a shiver of apprehension as she gazed at the facade of what had been her home all her life.
    Braidwood Manor rose from the neglected grounds like a specter from a moldy grave. The windows were utterly dark. Pitch black holes stared like blank eyes from sightless walls. The tall structure seemed a little ominous in the encroaching dark, the ivy gnarled and drying like a clinging disease to the venerable walls, slate tiles missing from the roof, the wide and once beautiful front entry dusty and shuttered.
    Robert was probably in London; perhaps that’s why he’d forgotten to send for her. However, she pondered uneasily, it was only early evening. Surely there would be staff in residence and therefore lights. But not a glimmer of illumination shone against the thickening dusk.
    Maybe it was a good thing, she thought as she lugged her trunk across the weedy gravel toward the front door, she had such a meager wardrobe at the moment. Otherwise she would have had to abandon her belongings. Considering that Robert had been very remiss in sending her allowance, she was lucky that Rebecca had shared her clothing so generously and that she and Jessica were about the same size.
    Though Jessica loved her lighthearted brother, it was a little hard to understand and forgive his neglect, both of her and the estate. Their father had been dedicated and hard working and increased the fortune he inherited, not squandered it. Robert acted as if the money would last forever. She abandoned her trunk at the foot of the steps and ran up them lightly.
    The massive front door was locked, not