Anne Herries - Counterfeit Earl

Captain Denning moved more gracefully than she could possibly have expected, but somehow she knew it was not just his dancing that was affecting her so powerfully that evening.

She raised her eyes, smiling a little shyly. Was it her imagination, or had some of the shadows been lifted from his face? He seemed that night to have shed some of the strain that she had seen in him the morning they had met.

Jack smiled at her in return, and Olivia’s heart did a rapid somersault. There was such charm and sweetness in his face at that moment, but also a haunting sadness. She wondered what lay behind his expression. What could possibly have caused so much pain?

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lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers.

Lord Ravensden’s Marriage, by Anne Herries

An Innocent Miss, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Reluctant Bride, by Meg Alexander

A Companion of Quality, by Nicola Cornick

A Most Improper Proposal, by Gail Whitiker

A Noble Man, by Anne Ashley

An Unreasonable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

An Unconventional Duenna, by Paula Marshall

Counterfeit Earl, by Anne Herries

The Captain’s Return, by Elizabeth Bailey

The Guardian’s Dilemma, By Gail Whitiker

Lord Exmouth’s Intentions, by Anne Ashley

Mr. Rushford’s Honour, by Meg Alexander

An Unlikely Suitor, by Nicola Cornick

An Inescapable Match, by Sylvia Andrew

The Missing Marchioness, by Paula Marshall

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

April 1812

Captain Jack Denning sat huddled into himself by the campfire. Even in summer, the evenings could be cold on the mountain, and sometimes a dense mist came down so that the peaks were hidden. There was no mist that evening, but he still felt chilled to the bone. He had begun to wonder if he would ever feel warm again.

“Still cold, Captain?”

The voice of his sergeant and friend Brett brought Jack’s head up. In the light of the Spanish sun, which was only just beginning to dip towards the sea, his face had a tortured, haunted expression, his eyes red-rimmed by illness and lack of sleep.

“It’s just the last throes of the fever,” Jack said. “I’ll be all right in a few minutes.”

“If you’re rested, we ought to move on,” Brett said. “We’ll need to travel most of the night if we’re to reach the ship before the tide changes in the morning.”

“Yes, I know. Get the wagons ready, Sergeant. I’ll see to the fire.”

Jack rose to his feet as Brett walked away to follow his orders. He kicked the smouldering wood apart with the tip of his boot, a scowl on his once handsome face. It was not handsome at that moment. Jack Denning looked gaunt, drained, his hair too long and straggling in greasy disarray, a blood-stained bandage about his head giving him the appearance of a cut-throat pirate.

Damn it! That’s what they all were, all Old Hooky’s brave bully boys. Scum of the earth, that was what Viscount Arthur Wellington of Talevara, Commander-in-Chief of the British forces in the Peninsula, called them—and by heaven and hell, he was right!

“God forgive us all,” Jack muttered as he kicked earth over the ashes to dampen down the remaining heat. It would not do to have the fire flare up again after they moved on, there were too many enemies in these hills. That included the damned Spanish, whom they were supposed to be helping. Instead of being grateful for Wellington’s superb tactics, which had led to success after success these past weeks, the pride of the Spanish generals had caused several setbacks and some of the guerrilla bands that roamed these hills would as lief attack the British as the French. “And God damn us—you too, Wellington!”

It was twelve days now since the conquest of Badajoz, three since his commander had sent for him.

“I’m ordering you home, Denning. You will be in charge of the seriously wounded, men who will never fight again. It’s your responsibility to get them down to the coast and on to a ship bound for England. And you are to go with them.”

“My wounds were superficial, sir. I was laid low by a fever for a few days, but I’ll be fit for duty again soon. May I have your permission to return to my unit after I’ve seen the wounded safe?”

“Damn your eyes, sir! Do you not know an order when you hear one? The Regent himself has requested your return. You have done your share of fighting, Denning—at what cost to yourself we all know. I am recommending you for bravery in the face of the enemy…”

“In the face of the enemy?” Jack’s brows rose.

“Yes, the enemy,” Wellington repeated. “We both know what happened, Denning, and the consequences. With things difficult at home I am on a thin string here. I charge you to keep certain things to yourself. They will become known in due course, but I hope to brush over them…do you understand me?”

Jack inclined his head stiffly. “I was never a gabble-monger, sir. I take no pride in what happened. Indeed, I shall bear the shame of it until my dying day.”

“Damn your eyes, Denning! You need have no shame.” Wellington scowled, his gaze narrowing fiercely as he inwardly cursed the fool who was compelling him to send this man home. Denning should have stayed to fight the remainder of the campaign. Only in the heat of battle might he learn to forget the horrors that were lurking in his haunted eyes. “Do not imagine it was my idea to send you back. I understand the request came from the Earl of Heggan, and since it is a command from the Regent that I accede to that request, I can only obey.”

An immediate return to England was the only avenue open to Jack since his commander had given the order, but the resentment was eating at his guts as he turned away. Since he was ordered to return to England, he would do so, but nothing on this earth should make him return to that lonely, forlorn house in which he had been born. If the Earl of Heggan wished to speak to his grandson, he would have to come in search of him.

Jack had made a vow never to return to his father’s house long ago, and he was determined to keep it!

“Is that a letter from Beatrice by any chance?” asked Mr Bertram Roade as he entered the parlour that afternoon in late June 1812 and discovered his youngest daughter frowning over her correspondence. “What does your sister have to say, Olivia?”