Miranda Jarrett - The Silver Lord

George. A saint’s name, the name of kings and now the name of Feversham’s new owner.

But oh, when did Fan begin thinking of him like that, as George instead of his string of titles? She was his housekeeper, his servant, not his friend and certainly not his lover. To address him with such familiarity would be one more slippery step downward to her own ruin, with no way ever to climb back.

That kiss on her hand had been another. Why, why hadn’t she pulled away? Could she only protest when there were others watching? Or was she so weak that she’d cared more for that shiver of heady pleasure that came from his touch?

The Silver Lord

Harlequin Historical #648

Praise for bestselling author

MIRANDA JARRETT

“Miranda Jarrett continues to reign as the

queen of historical romance.”

—Romantic Times

“A marvelous author…each word is a treasure,

each book a lasting memory.”

—The Literary Times

“Miranda Jarrett is a sparkling talent!”

—Romantic Times

#647 TEMPTING A TEXAN

Carolyn Davidson

#649 THE ANGEL OF DEVIL’S CAMP

Lynna Banning

#650 BRIDE OF THE TOWER

Sharon Schulze

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and

MIRANDA JARRETT

Steal the Stars#115

*Columbine#144

*Spindrift#174

Providence#201

*Mariah’s Prize#227

*Desire My Love#247

*The Sparhawk Bride#292

*Sparhawk’s Angel#315

*Gift of the Heart#341

*The Secrets of Catie Hazard#363

Gifts of the Season#631

†“A Gift Most Rare”

†The Silver Lord#648

Other works include:

Harlequin Books

Christmas Rogues 1995

“Bayberry and Mistletoe”

For TFR,

For believing there are second acts!

With Affection & Regards

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Feversham Downs, Kent

March, 1802

The fog clung close to the coast, so gray and heavy and icy-wet that it seemed like an extension of the sea itself, risen up into the night sky solely to increase the misery of any shivering creatures it might touch. This fog had stolen away the moon and stars along with all earthly landmarks, and even the great rush and crash of the waves seemed muffled and muted. It was a night fit for neither Christian man nor beast, and certainly not for a lady.

But for Fan Winslow, it was the most perfect night imaginable.

“Keep the light covered, Bob,” she said briskly to the man on the horse beside her. “Even in this murk, I won’t have the risk of a glimmer to betray us.”

Dutifully the man tugged at the hinged window on the tin lantern swinging from the stake in the sand, the awkward bulges in his coat betraying the pistols in his belt. Though there was seldom any trouble, they were always armed; in this trade, it would be foolish to take the risk of doing otherwise. Now only the tiniest pinpricks of light showed through the punched holes on the back of the lantern, and Fan nodded her approval, drawing her black cloak more closely around her huddled shoulders.

Faith, as if that could keep out more of this wretched cold! The fog would always have its way, icy fingers that could creep through the woolen layers of petticoats and stockings and mittens and shawls under her cloak. The only real warmth came from the sturdy little horse beneath her, for Pie’s shaggy rough coat had been bred for weather like this. Fan wasn’t as fortunate, and she pulled the scarf higher over her face, trying to preserve some semblance of a ladylike complexion, even as the salty wet chill made her cheeks ache and her eyes tear, and plastered the few loose curls of her hair like clammy seaweed against her forehead and neck.

Yet still she and Bob Forbert waited on the beach, steadfastly staring out into the fog to where the little boat must be, squinting so hard to see what Fan prayed would be there that her exhausted eyes teared from the effort. Except for those careful few who knew the truth, no one would guess her place by day at Feversham Hall, or understand the risk she took by coming here on this night, and on scores of others like it.

Furtively she puffed her breath against the rough wool of the scarf pulled over her mouth, hoping to warm herself however she could, and twisted the reins in her cold-numbed fingers. It was a perfect night for their trade, exactly the weather she always prayed for. A fog like this kept secrets as surely as the grave itself.

But how long had she been standing here by the sea, the spray that blew towards them like tumbled flakes of snow? Had it been one hour, two, even three? She could reach for the heavy watch she wore at her waist, but to do so would make her look weak and unsure of herself, as if she hadn’t planned and anticipated every last detail of this night. She couldn’t let Bob sense her uncertainty. She couldn’t let him, or any of the others, ever see her be less than absolutely confident.

But hadn’t Father taught her that, never to show doubt to those who depended upon her? These folk are our people, Father would say, his black brows bristling with seriousness, these are the Winslow Company. They’re our responsibility, and you must be ready to put them first. That’s how it’s always been for us Winslows, daughter. We must be brave, be sure, be true. We must, my girl, else we’ll never hold their respect and their loyalty, nor shall we deserve it.

But then Father would never have imagined her in his place here on the beach, waiting with the lantern and pistols and praying that she’d said the right things to make the men follow….

“Leastways they’ll be no red coats after us tonight, mistress,” said Bob, spitting in the sand as an extra measure of contempt. “Nor blue Navy ones, neither. None of them bastards’d take their fat rumps from the hearth in this cold.”

“They’re all fair-weather rogues, true enough,” said Fan. “Let them stay by their hearths, I say, and leave us honest folk to ourselves.”

It had been a warm, clear night early last summer, the air full of the sweet scent of hay and new clover, when Father had let a bellyful of unwatered French brandy at the Tarry Man in Tunford rob him of his common sense. Off he’d stumbled towards the marshes and the beach with his old friend Tom Hawkins, the pair of them bellowing wicked songs about the king beneath the bright crescent moon, certain that there’d be a boat coming in from Boulougne.

And to her sorrow, it was the last she or anyone else had seen of either her father or Tom. Some said they’d drowned and been washed out to sea. Others were sure they’d been murdered, shot dead and their bodies hidden away by some rival company. There was even one version, still popular at the Tarry Man, that they’d simply hopped aboard some vessel for France on a whim, and were there now, drinking their fill of brandy and chasing the ladies and blithely turning their backs on their old lives.