The Ruin of a Rogue by Miranda Neville

Author:Miranda Neville [Neville, Miranda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 006219951X
Google: 8h0uwgo1svQC
Amazon: B00BEFRWCO
Barnesnoble: B00BEFRWCO
Goodreads: 17368133
Published: 2013-08-26T16:00:00+00:00

Marcus stood alone in the drawing room. He hadn’t wanted to open the trunk in front of Anne. Whatever stolen or villainous thing his father had left him, he couldn’t risk her seeing it. She’d departed in her carriage, her burning curiosity obvious but unexpressed, from good manners and a natural delicacy. Before she left she’d rested her hand on his and given it a little squeeze and left him alone in the unheated room. Far worse than the chilly atmosphere was a cold fear in his heart at what he would find.

He folded his arms and stared at the leather trunk, a plain but well-made piece with an arched lid and brass hasp. All he could think of was that he didn’t know his mother’s full name. Aside from a few distant childhood memories, he knew nothing about her. He didn’t know if he dreaded more what he would find or what he would not.

He knelt and examined the closure. It wasn’t locked. Considering the efforts he’d made to find the mysterious legacy his father claimed to have left at Hinton Manor, he couldn’t understand his reluctance to look inside. His sense of foreboding was ridiculous. Pressing his lips together, he flipped up the hasp and raised the lid.

The contents had belonged to a lady. They were the kinds of thing a woman might leave behind when she left a house to be married. Nothing of value or importance, merely the remnants of an old life not worth packing for the new: some worn undergarments, a cracked embroidery hoop, a crushed bonnet. A handkerchief bore those same initials in a corner, figured in blue thread. Marcus raised it to his nose, expecting—hoping—to be wafted back to the long-forgotten scent of his mother’s embrace. He smelled only musty linen.

At the very bottom lay a paper package, about the size of a novel. He recognized the handwriting of the inscription from the papers in the office. In his uncle’s upright and resolute letters were penned five words.

“The Sins of the Father.”

Most likely letters incriminating some rich and powerful person, blackmail material that, for whatever reason, Lewis hadn’t felt were ripe for use. If so, Marcus wanted no part of it. Though a weakness in one who thought himself impervious to most prickings of conscience, he drew the line at extortion.

He untied the knot, and a collection of neatly folded squares tumbled out onto the floor. At a glance they appeared to be written in a lady’s hand. What erring society dame’s love letters had fallen into his father’s hands? He expected a duchess at the very least. Resigned disgust had scarcely had time to settle when he noted that the addresses were all the same: to Josiah Hooke, Esq., at Hinton Manor, Wilts. When he opened one at random and scanned the closely written lines, his own name, Marcus, popped out at him. The letter was signed, Your obedient niece, Ellen C. Lithgow.

He learned when he had taken his first steps. The date told him he’d been a little less than a year old.

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