The Rogue's Return Read Free

large room at the back of the house. The bed sat in an alcove concealed by a curtain during the day, which gave the room the look of a parlor. Sometimes Simon entertained friends here, though mostly he used the downstairs parlor. Isaiah enjoyed young company.
    He looked around at the welcoming fire with the jug of water nearby, covered to keep it warm. Strange tothink that this might be the last night he’d sleep here, the last night he’d wash his face and clean his teeth.
    He shook himself.
    He poured himself a glass of brandy and drank half, and then sat at his desk to write his will. There was little to it, for though he was heir to Brideswell, at the moment he owned only his personal possessions and a modest amount of cash left from the income his father provided.
    The letter to Isaiah was more difficult, for sooner or later he’d learn the cause of the duel and feel responsible. Simon couldn’t see how to avoid that, so he wrote a grateful, affectionate farewell, emphasizing that he’d chosen the duel as a way to expose the festering sore of corruption here.
    The most painful task was the letter to his parents, and for a while he couldn’t bring himself to write it.
    They’d tried so hard to keep him safe. It was the Brideswell way. St. Brides of Brideswell stayed close to home. They served their country but in quiet ways from Lincolnshire. For generations they’d flourished there, with large, healthy families, but like a hive.
    He’d wanted to follow his friends Hal Beaumont, Con Somerford, and Roger Merrihew into the fight against Napoleon, but his mother had thrown fits, and his father had talked of Simon’s responsibilities as the oldest son. As if his younger brothers, Rupert and Benji, didn’t exist.
    In the end, they’d allowed him to take a post as secretary to Lord Shepstone, who was traveling to Canada to make inquiries into discord with America. It had involved a somewhat risky sea voyage, but even he hadn’t expected to land in a war.
    When the Americans had invaded, however, duty had required him to fight. Despite the inevitable horrors of war, he’d reveled in it, and by the time the invasion was repulsed, he’d been outraged by the treatment of Britain’s Indian allies. He’d stayed to fight new battles. . . .
    He realized he was trying to excuse himself to his parents and dipped his pen. Though he could imagine all too well their agony and tears if he died tomorrow, surely reading something from him would be a comfort.
    In the end the letter was brief. What was there to say that would help? He simply told them how much he loved them and how much he appreciated their guidance and care. He ended it:
All I am that is good I have from you, my dearest parents. Any follies can doubtless be ascribed to Black Ademar’s hair.
    He wondered if a family joke was the wrong tone, but how could there be a right tone in such a damnable letter? And it was true.
    Most St. Brides of Brideswell saw no pleasure in adventure, but far back on the family tree lurked Ademar de Braque.
    Ademar had been born a younger son of a poor knight of the thirteenth century and made his fame and fortune through violence—on crusade, on the battlefield, and especially in tournaments. He had doubtless deserved to be called Black Ademar for many vile reasons, but it was said his other nickname, Diable, came from Teˆte du Diable because he had black hair shot through with red.
    The same devil’s hair Simon saw in a mirror.
    It was an attribute that lurked for generations, but whenever it popped up, the parents knew they had a cuckoo in the nest—a St. Bride who at best would want to wander and at worst would be a fiery hothead best suited to war. His poor parents had two. When a baby girl had arrived with the hair, they’d stared down fate and called her Ademara. Mara hadn’t run wild yet, but then she was only eighteen.
    He left the joke,