Miranda Jarrett - The Golden Lord

A life of deceit…

On the surface, Jenny Dell appeared the model lady,

but nothing could have been further from the truth.

For her, every word and every act was a deception.

Until she met Brant Claremont, the Duke of Strachen,

and learned firsthand about love based on a lie.

“Ahh.” For whatever reason, Brant relaxed. “Then you are a fatalist? You believe that we can never change from what we’re born? That our destiny remains always the same, with no hope of growth or improvement?”

“No, no, no! It’s not so complicated as that, Your Grace. I only meant that no matter how many changes you may make for the world to see, you are still at heart, or in your soul, the same creature you were born. That’s what I know,” Jenny said with conviction.

She did believe it. How could she not, when so much of her life was unabashed deception? If she didn’t believe in herself independent of whatever new identity she’d concocted, why, then, she’d have nothing at all.

“A marvelous author…one of romantic fiction’s

finest gems…each word is a treasure, each page

an adventure, each book a lasting memory.”

—The Literary Times

“Miranda Jarrett knows how to put life and love

into her pages and make you believe every word!”

—Rendezvous

“Ms. Jarrett’s ability to always draw the reader>

into a fast-paced tale peopled with likable and

realistic characters and a thrilling plot

is a crowning achievement.”

—Romantic Times

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Harrow Public School

Middlesex

1788

T he five boys sat cross-legged in a tight circle on the attic floor, the lantern in their center shaded so that just enough light filtered through to show the cards clutched in their hands and the hoarded heaps of coins before each of them. It was late, very late, and long past the six o’clock lock-up for the night, but no one would dare consider leaving this game.

Brant, as usual, had made sure of that. Through the sheer power of his personality, he’d made being asked to these clandestine games the most desirable invitation in the entire school, and the staggeringly high stakes that could gobble up a term’s allowance in a single hand of cards only served to increase Brant’s own mystique.

But why shouldn’t it? Brant Claremont was the sixth Duke of Strachen, Marquess of Elwes, admired as much for his wit as for his daring on the cricket field. As an orphan, he had only a distant, disinterested guardian to answer to, and his two younger brothers had been sent so far away that there wasn’t even a hint of fraternal competition. To the other boys in his form, Brant’s life seemed as close to perfection as any mortal British male could wish for.

Only Brant himself knew otherwise. Still months shy of his sixteenth birthday, he already understood all too well the terrifying obligations that his wastrel father’s death two years before had thrust upon him, along with the dukedom and a string of mortgaged, decaying properties.

Not that any of that mattered here in the chill of this drafty attic. Now Brant smiled as he leaned forward, the lantern turning his fair hair as gold as the guineas heaped before his crossed legs. He was winning, winning deep, and he did not want his luck to turn just yet.

“Your play, Galsworthy,” he said, his voice deceptively languid. “Draw or show. Any time before Michaelmas will do.”

The others sniggered nervously while the Honorable Edmund Galsworthy scowled down at his hand. “I say, Claremont, that’s cutting it a little rough,” he grumbled. “Not all of us are so deuced quick with ciphering as you are.”

“That’s why we call him the Golden Lord, Galsworthy,” said another boy, obviously with a better hand of his own. “He can turn pasteboard cards direct into guineas if you let him. Your guineas.”

“’Tis luck, no more,” murmured Brant with a modest shrug, careful to mask his own excitement. It was luck, but it was also skill, coupled with the rare gift he had for recalling cards. He could sympathize with Galsworthy’s dilemma—sympathize more, really, than anyone here would guess—but not now, and not with so much at stake. Nearly every shilling Brant won was sent off against his father’s debts, while Galsworthy’s mother was some sort of tin-mine heiress. The poor oaf could afford to lose almost in equal proportion to how desperately Brant himself needed to win.

“But you do know the rules of this game, Galsworthy,” he said. “Laggards must forfeit, else the rest of us fall asleep.”

“I’m considering, not lagging,” snapped Galsworthy, his fingers leaving moist dimples in the edges of his cards as he studied the red and black figures one last time. Slowly he puffed out his cheeks and spread his hand on the floor for the others to see.

“There now, Claremont,” he announced. “That was worth the wait, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” drawled Brant. He kept his expression unchanged as he fanned his own cards out on the floor in front of him. “I’d say I’ve won again, Galsworthy, and I— What the devil is that?”

Abruptly the door flew open, scattering cards and panicking boys as two large men thundered into the attic. Brant scrambled to his feet, stuffing guineas into his pockets as Conway, his boardinghouse monitor, caught him roughly by the collar of his coat while Parker, his tutor, gathered up the cards and loose coins as evidence.

“I’ll give you all the devil you can handle, Claremont,” growled Conway, yanking Brant’s feet clear from the floor. “Least I will after Dr. Keel’s through with you.”

“Dr. Keel will have little interest in this,” protested Brant as Parker now seized his arm. “This—this was harmless amusement, a mere game among gentlemen!”

“That’s not what Dr. Keel believes,” warned Conway ominously. “Now walk, you cheating little weasel. Walk!”

Brant twisted, struggling vainly to free himself from the grasp of the two stronger, older men. He heard the tear of fabric, the sound of the sleeve of his superfine coat ripping away at the shoulder, and as he turned to look, one of the men cuffed his ear, hard enough to make him see bright flashes before his eyes.

“You—you have impinged my honor as a gentleman and—and as a lord, Conway!” he gasped, desperate not to show his growing fear as the monitor shoved him stumbling toward the dark attic staircase. Of course he’d felt Conway’s wrath many times before—at Harrow even dukes were flogged regularly in the Fourth Form rooms—but never before had the monitor singled him out away from the others like this. “You cannot—cannot treat me like this!”

“I can treat you a deal worse if I please, Claremont,” said Conway. Like most of the monitors, he was a hulk of a man, able to worry even a tall boy like Brant like a terrier with a rat. “And I would, too, if Dr. Keel didn’t want you in his rooms directly. Now walk.”

This time Brant did as he was told, forcing himself not to panic, to order his thoughts as they half dragged him down the stairs and across the empty courtyard. Dr. Keel was a sensible man; surely he could be made to see this for the foolishness it was. Card-playing after lock-up was hardly the most grievous sin that took place at the school, scarcely worth this sort of melodrama.