August 1830
Brand sat in the rear-facing seat, his long legs crossed at the knee as the carriage steadily rolled along the winding road to Bellingham House.
He was brought to visit the brother of his father many years ago for the first time, and every landmark remained as he remembered. The residence of Lord Haversham and his insufferably vain wife; the yet-standing, yet-alive tree, struck and scarred by lightning years ago; the boulder that sat in the middle of the path, forcing the road to be rerouted around it.
Bemused at his remembrance, he kept his eyes out the window. As a boy, he had visited that one time, before his days were stolen, and never once after his rescue. He had not cared. His nights had been taken over by his demons, and his days commanded by his shipping enterprise and duty to the crown.
But now he much cared.
The marchioness was dying.
