A Game of Hearts

Chapter One

Gloucestershire, England.
Early March, 1891

To Alexander Edmund St Thomas Duvelle, 11th earl of Ellismere, there was no manor in all of England as grandiosely menacing as Haversholme Abbey.

The formidable Palladian grand country house was looming in front of him like a sleeping sandstone giant decked out in friezes, pillars and statues of Roman gods and goddesses.

Its edifices, porticos, pillars and pilasters all told stories of grandeur, riches and beauty, and stood as a testament to the genius of William Kent: Haversholme Abbey was easily one of the most beautiful country houses between Gloucester and Oxford, nestled on an expansive, chervil-covered Cotswolds meadow between rolling hills and patches of beech woods, oaks, ashes and sycamores.

It was the first time in almost seven years that Alexander had set his eyes on his ancestral home, and judging by the shiver that ran down his back at the sight, he hadn't missed its looming grandiosity one bit - especially not at this time of the year when an early spring Gloucestershire fog surrounded everything and everyone. For a brief moment, a strong pang of desire ran through his entire body: a desire for the southern sun, for the dry Anatolian highlands, for scalding Turkish coffee and the veiled, dark-eyed beauties of the Orient...

"Alexander," Adelaide, the elder dowager countess and Alexander's pale-haired mother stated, as her younger son walked up the gravel to greet her. She was in a black mourning dress, complete with a hat and a veil, shielding her eyes from view. Alexander wondered if she'd don the same outfit if it was he who was the one in the grave.

"Mother," he said stiffly, and the two stood across each other in an awkward silence. They had not seen each other for several years, and Alexander was not even sure if Adelaide had ever wanted him to come back to Haversholme. But now, with Edward dead, she had had no choice but to call him back. He was, after all, the rightful owner of the house now.

"You're here."

That was all Adelaide said with an air of disappointment. The silence between them grew tenser, and Alexander suddenly felt like a scolded five-year-old under her cold stare.

"I am," Alexander confirmed,

He didn't want to be, but he couldn't tell his mother that to her face. But he was, all because of his older brother, who'd always been so easy-going, so merry, so foolishly naive and so well-liked by everyone who met him.

Edward, that damned daredevil, who had perished in the Thames because of a doltish, drunken game of cards.

His lifeless body, bloated and pale, had been recovered from the murky waters of the Dead Man's Stairs in Wapping. Three days he'd been in the water before the dockers pulled him out, and then three more in the St George-in-the-East Mortuary before the Duvelle family lawyer was tipped off and brought the body back to Ellismere house in Berkeley Square. His body had been stripped of all valuables, but an embroidered handkerchief with the Duvelle crest and a characteristic scar on his chin gave his identity away. The funeral had been held a fortnight later at the parish church in Haversholme. Doused with perfume to mask the smell of rotting corpse, the coffin had been lowered into the still-frozen earth. A week and 2500 miles of railroad travel later, Alexander arrived at Haversholme Abbey.

Had Edward not died, the new Earl of Ellismere would not be standing with his boots firmly planted in the gravel of the Haversholme Abbey courtyard and a soggy English fog creeping up underneath his coat. Instead, he'd be under the scorching spring sun of Cappadocia, on the hunt for a past long gone.

Awkwardly clearing his throat, Alexander changed the subject.

"Is Penelope here at Haversholme?"

"She is." His mother said dismissively, and Alexander took this as his cue to lead. Turning away from the woman he'd called mother since he could talk, he came to another well-known face.