River of Fire

  River of Fire

  Fallen Angels Series

  Book 6

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-195-9

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1996, 2012 by Mary Jo Putney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Thank You.

  To Binnie:

  For support, boundless good nature—

  and because she loves tortured heroes.

  Prologue

  Sutterton Hall

  Bedfordshire, England, 1794

  The boy's hand hovered over the paper, the fragile length of charcoal poised delicately as he thought. Starting the drawing of his pony had been easy, but what about the legs? How did they move when Albie trotted? Kenneth Wilding conjured up a precise mental image, then made a small sound of satisfaction and bent over his sketch. The right foreleg like that. The hindquarters so.

  When he finished, he took the picture to his mother, who was rocking her infant daughter to sleep on the other side of the nursery. He knew she worried about the baby, but she looked up with a smile when he approached.

  "Very good, Kenneth," she said after examining the picture. "This isn't just any horse, is it? It's Albie." When he nodded, Lady Kimball continued, "A wonderful likeness. He looks ready to run off the page. I couldn't have done better myself."

  It was a fine compliment, for his mother drew like an angel. Kenneth returned to his sketchbook with a proud smile. He was starting another drawing of Albie when the nursery door opened, admitting a blast of chilly air from the corridor. His fingers tightened around the charcoal when he saw that the newcomer was his father. Burly, forceful, as rooted in the earth as one of Sutterton Hall's famous oaks.

  Lord Kimball frowned at his son. "I told you not to waste time drawing. You should be studying your Latin so you'll be ready for Harrow next year."

  "Kenneth had finished his Latin lesson, so I told him it was all right to do some sketching," his mother said mildly. "He's really quite talented, Godfrey. When he goes on his Grand Tour, he'll be able to bring back wonderful views of the Continent."

  Lord Kimball snorted. "Drawing is for girls. Gentlemen hire artists to sketch their travels." Swooping down on his son, he crumpled the picture of the pony in one hand and tossed it into the nursery fire. "Come with me. The cows are starting to calf and you're old enough to help."

  Kenneth made an involuntary sound of protest before pressing his lips together and getting obediently to his feet. "Yes, sir." One day he'd be the fifth Viscount Kimball and he would be responsible for all of the livestock. He must know every inch of Sutterton, as his father did. Nothing mattered more than the land and the people. Nothing.

  But before he followed his father from the room, he cast a last, regretful look at the drawing as it charred and fell into ash.

  Chapter 1

  Sutterton Hall, 1817

  The situation was even worse than he had feared.

  With a sigh of bone-deep weariness, Kenneth Wilding pushed away the account ledgers. He had known there would be serious financial problems when he inherited. But he'd thought there was hope—that years of hard work and frugality would be enough to preserve his heritage. The more fool he.

  He rose from the desk and went to stare out the library window at the gentle hills of Sutterton. The beauty of the landscape was like a knife in his heart. For fifteen years he had yearned to come home. He had not expected to find that the once-rich fields were fallow and weed-choked, that the livestock had been sold to pay for the trumpery pleasures of an aging man and his heartless, extravagant young wife.

  As he struggled to control his anger, he heard steps behind him, the irregular footfalls counterpointed by the tap of a cane. He schooled his face before he turned to his sister, Beth. She was all he had left, and he had loved her even when she was a colicky infant. But he didn't know how to talk to her. They had been apart too long.

  Her dark hair and gray eyes were very like his, though her features were delicately pretty, nothing like his craggy, scarred visage. She settled into a chair and clasped the head of her cane loosely in her hands. She had a composure that made her look older than her twenty-three years. "I haven't heard a word from you since the solicitor left this morning. Shall I ring for some food? There's a rather nice pork pie."

  "Thank you, but looking at the accounts has left me with no appetite."

  Her expression became grave. "How bad is it?"

  His first impulse was to make a soothing comment, but he rejected it. The grim truth could not be avoided. Besides, for all her air of fragility, Beth was strong. As a tiny child she had come to terms with a congenitally twisted foot, and as a young woman she had survived the waspish tongue of a spoiled, extravagant stepmother.

  "We're completely ruined," he said bluntly. "Since Father drained Sutterton's resources while he lived in London with dear Hermione, the amount of the mortgages far exceeds what the property is now worth. Hermione has the family jewelry, and there is no chance of recovering it. The estate will have to be sold. There will be nothing left, not even your marriage portion. The creditors will probably evict us in a matter of weeks."

  Beth's fingers clenched on the brass head of her cane. "I was afraid of that, but hoped I was wrong." She tried to smile. "Not that the dowry matters, since I'm a spinster by nature."

  "Nonsense. If Father and Hermione hadn't kept you buried in Bedfordshire, you'd be married with a baby on your knee." Then he wished he had not spoken, for her expression showed how much she wanted what she would probably never have.

  She made a dismissive motion with her hand, as if marriage and family were of no interest. "I'm sorry, Kenneth. I did my best to manage the estate, but I wasn't good enough."

  "Sutterton wasn't your responsibility," he said gruffly. "It was Father's and now mine. It is we who have failed you."

  "Don't blame yourself. It was Papa who married a woman young enough to be his daughter, and it was Papa who threw away generations of stewardship to give Hermione the fashionable life she demanded." Beth stopped abruptly, tears glinting in her eyes. "It's almost a relief to know that the end has come, but I... I'll miss Sutterton."

  Her refusal to blame made him feel worse. "I should have stayed instead of running away to enlist. If I'd been here, I might have been able to curb the worst excesses."

  "I doubt it. If ever a man was besotted, it was Papa. Only Hermione's wishes mattered," Beth said dryly. "You would have gone mad here. Do you think I'
ve forgotten the horrid fights you had with Papa before you left?"

  Her words brought back stomach-turning memories of those last days at Sutterton. Beth was right; he could not possibly have stayed. Wanting to forget, he said reassuringly, "You needn't worry that we'll starve. I have some money from the sale of my commission. That will keep us until I find a suitable position. We shall be quite comfortable." His gaze went to the hills and he swallowed hard, hoping that the pain didn't show. "I'm going for a walk. After dinner tonight, we can make plans. I believe you'll be allowed to keep personal possessions."

  "We'll manage very well." She got slowly to her feet. "Though I'm not much of a bailiff, I'm quite good at running a household. You'll see."

  After a nod of acknowledgment, he made his escape, grateful to get out into the chill February air. He had spent the twenty-four hours since returning home indoors, examining the accounts and listening to the disastrous news from the family solicitor. He'd also fired the insolent, incompetent bailiff who had been hired after Kenneth's father lost interest in the estate.

  Perhaps the late viscount had been ensorcelled by Hermione. He had seemed like a different man after his second marriage. As a boy, Kenneth had loved, feared, and respected his father in equal parts. Now only anger and contempt remained.

  As his long strides took him down a lane that had been old when Henry VIII was on the throne, he began to relax. Every hill, every view, was as familiar as his own hands, yet at the same time new, because fifteen years had passed. Fifteen long years.

  Some people would think the winter landscape bleak, but Kenneth loved the subtle colors. There were a thousand shades of gray in the trees, and the ever-changing clouds scudded across the sky like living beings. Soon the first buds of spring would unfurl in all their vivid green splendor. He paused at a brook, watching the crystalline splash of water over rippling weed and glossy stone. Home, and his, at least for the next month or two.

  He hurled a stone into the brook and resumed walking. While he could keep his sister and himself from starvation, Beth's life had been ruined. She was pretty and clever and sweet-natured, and her clubfoot probably would not have proved an insurmountable barrier to marriage if she'd possessed a decent dowry. But the combination of penury and disability doomed her to spinsterhood.

  He halted on the crest of Sutterton's highest hill. Above him, the leafless twigs of beech trees wove intricate patterns of marvelous complexity. He scooped up a handful of dry, crumbly soil. His ancestors had lived and worked and died on this land for centuries. Now, because of his father's criminal folly, the estate would be sold to strangers.

  Though he was no agricultural genius, his earliest memories were of loving this land, much as he had loved his mother. With an anguished sound deep in his throat, he flung the handful of earth away. He'd forgo his chance of heaven to save Sutterton. Not that heaven would want a man who had spent half a lifetime committing the crimes of war.

  The cold wind whipped at his hair as he stalked down the hill. With no real hope, he wondered if there was any chance he could borrow enough money to give partial payment to the mortgage holders. That might give him time to sell off some land and make the remaining acreage profitable.

  But the amount needed would be staggering: at least twenty thousand pounds. He'd talked with several London bankers before coming home. They'd been polite, as befitted his noble rank, but it was clear that none would lend money to a man who had inherited nothing but debts. And that had been before he'd learned how bad the situation was.

  Nor did he know anyone who might trust him for such an amount. His closest friends were in his former regiment, the Rifle Brigade. Though an elite fighting unit, it was far from fashionable. Most of the other officers had been the sons of doctors and vicars and country squires. Like him, they had had to live on their salaries, and sometimes send money home as well.

  The exception had been his closest friend, Lord Michael Kenyon. But Michael, though aristocratic and possessor of a comfortable income, was a younger son. He was also recently married and with a baby on the way. It was unlikely that he would have twenty thousand pounds to spare even if Kenneth were able to bring himself to ask. And that he would never do. He had taken his troubles to Michael enough in the past.

  By the time he reached the edge of the estate, he had mentally exhausted the possibilities for salvation. He turned back toward the house, his expression set. Sutterton was doomed. It was time to consider the future. With the war over, many former officers were searching for work. Luckily he had some family connections who might help him find some kind of position.

  By the time he returned to the hall, he had achieved a degree of bleak acceptance. He went indoors and was greeted by the only male house servant left, the ancient butler, Harrod.

  "You've a visitor, Lord Kimball." The butler proffered a tray with a card as elegantly as if Sutterton were a royal palace. "The gentleman chose to wait."

  Lord Bowden. Kenneth frowned at the card, unable to place the name. "Where is he?"

  Harrod gave a delicate cough. "I took the liberty of putting Lord Bowden in the library."

  In other words, coal was expensive and the library was the only public room with a fire. Kenneth gave his hat and greatcoat to the butler, then went down the icy hall to the library, which was only marginally warmer.

  His guest rose from his seat by the fire at Kenneth's entrance. In his early fifties, Bowden had a spare, wiry frame and an air of cool self-possession. He might seem nondescript to anyone who didn't notice the intensity in his dark, assessing gaze.

  Breaking the silence, Kenneth asked, "Have we met, Lord Bowden? Or were you a friend of my father's?"

  "Your father and I were acquainted, though not close friends." Without waiting for permission, Bowden resumed his seat. "I came to discuss a matter of business with you."

  Kenneth's face stiffened. "If you are a creditor, there is nothing I can do. The estate is about to go into bankruptcy."

  "I know. The condition of the Wilding finances is common knowledge." Bowden's gaze went around the shabby library. "For that reason, I was able to purchase the outstanding mortgages at a substantial discount. The face value amounts to fifty thousand pounds, and all are overdue." He reached into an inside pocket and removed a sheaf of papers, then laid them on the desk.

  Kenneth scanned the documents. They were quite genuine, including his father's scrawled signature. The end had come even sooner than he had expected. "You made a poor bargain, Bowden."

  Trying to conceal his bitterness, he jerked open a desk drawer and removed the master keys for Sutterton. There were dozens strung on a massive, forged iron ring, jangling together like lengths of chain. "I wish you much joy of your new property. I suggest you consider retaining the servants—the few who are left are nothing if not loyal. My sister and I will leave tomorrow. Though if you insist, I suppose we could be out tonight." He tossed the heavy ring to Bowden.

  Caught by surprise, Bowden reacted too slowly to catch the keys. They bounced from the arm of his chair and crashed discordantly to the floor. He stared at the ring for a moment, then raised his gaze to Kenneth. "I didn't come to evict you. I want to make a proposal."

  Refusing to allow himself to hope, Kenneth said, "Do you mean you're willing to extend the mortgages? Given the state of the property, it will be years before I would be able to pay anything more than the interest."

  "I'm not here to negotiate new terms," Bowden said coolly. "If you can perform a service for me, I will cancel the debt and turn the mortgages over to you."

  Stunned, Kenneth stared at his visitor. It sounded too good to be true, which in his experience meant that it was. "What do you want in return—my immortal soul?"

  "I am not Mephistopheles, and your soul is your own business," Bowden said with a faint smile. "Sutterton can be yours. All you must do in return is destroy a man."

  It was too good to be true. Obviously Bowden was mad. Kenneth's mouth twisted as he pushed the mortgage docume
nts back across the desk. "Sorry. I'm a soldier, not an assassin. If you want a crime committed, you must find someone else."

  Bowden's brows arched fastidiously. "If all I wanted was an assassination, I could find some scoundrel to do the job for a few shillings. What I want is more complicated. A man who is considered above suspicion has committed a great crime. I want to see him unmasked, imprisoned, and executed." A muscle in his cheek jerked. "I want to see his precious reputation annihilated so that everyone will know him for the swine he is. I believe you are the man who can do that for me."

  A warning bell sounded in the back of Kenneth's mind. If he had any sense, he'd throw this lunatic out. Yet Bowden held Sutterton's future in his hands. Kenneth owed it to his sister and himself to listen. "Why me? We've never even met."

  "I learned of you from a passing reference made by your father. I was intrigued and made further inquiries. It is unheard of for a young man of noble blood to conceal his rank and enlist in the army as a common soldier. Not only did you survive, but by courage and merit you earned an officer's commission." Bowden's gaze narrowed. "However, there are other brave men. You have two qualities that make you unique."

  "Insanity is one or I wouldn't be listening to this," Kenneth said dryly. "What is the other?"

  Ignoring the interruption, Bowden continued, "You were a reconnaissance officer in Spain, which means you must be ruthless, resourceful, and have the ability to ferret out information. You were known as the Demon Warrior, I understand."

  Kenneth grimaced. "That was merely a nickname given to me after I hunted down a band of French deserters who had been terrorizing the Spanish peasants. I did what any officer would do."

  "Perhaps, but you did it with remarkable efficiency." Bowden's gaze became speculative. "After three years as an intelligence officer, you were captured by the French and held for several days. After you escaped, you returned to regular duty with your regiment. No one seemed to know why."