A Baron's Scandalous Quill: A

Historical Regency Romance Novel

Henrietta Harding
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/a-barons-scandalous-quill-a-historical-regency-roman
ce-novel-henrietta-harding/
A Baron's Scandalous Quill
A REGENCY ROMANCE NOVEL

HENRIETTA HARDING
 Copyright © 2024 by Henrietta Harding

All Rights Reserved.

This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.

In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed

format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written

permission from the publisher.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Free Exclusive Gift

A Baron's Scandalous Quill

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23
 Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

An Earl's Christmas Seduction

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4
 Free Exclusive Gift
Sign up for my mailing list to be notified of hot new releases and get my latest Full-Length Novel “The Lord's Favourite

Game” (available only to my subscribers) for FREE!

Click the link or enter it into your browser

http://henriettaharding.com/diana
A Baron's Scandalous Quill
Introduction

The fiery Becca, a commoner and a mysterious writer, yearns to explore the scandalous lives of the ton. Writing under a
pseudonym, she dreams of unveiling aristocratic secrets. When an invitation by a stranger promises an opportunity to expose a
baron's concealed truths, Becca is tempted to break all the rules of the past to experience her dream. However, as she delves
into the wicked baron's world, ambition takes a backseat to an unexpected desire that threatens to entwine her heart.
Can Becca resist the allure of the enigmatic baron?
William, finally freed from his father's influence and deceptive past, strives to redeem the family name. When an opportunity to
publish a book and unearth all of his father’s secrets arises, William is wary, until he meets the alluring Becca. As they journey
to unveil hidden truths, Becca's spirit and flame illuminate the shadows of the past, making him crave her stolen glances and
sinful touch. The more secrets are revealed, the more William can not resist his passion for the seductive writer.
Can he stay focused around Becca’s scandalous quill?
As Becca and William’s moments blossom into an irresistible bond, unearthing the dark history of his father, each revelation
tests the limits of their flaming romance. In a world tainted by scandal and deception, they confront the past to forge a future
where passionate love triumphs over convention. Will William forsake the ton's approval to claim Becca's heart, or will
lineage secrets tear them apart?
Chapter 1

London, England, 1811

“Oh, my apologies!” Becca called as she ran through the backstreets of London. The poor grocer boy she had darted past
yelped in surprise, throwing one of the apples out of his tray. Becca managed to catch it in time, pushing it back into the
wooden tray before she was off again.

“Watch where you’re going, miss!” the boy shouted after her, but she didn’t have time to slow down.

She only had a matter of time to get the papers to the publisher. She glanced down at the rather large reticule in her grasp. Old
and tattered, the metal clasp struggled to shut fast these days, but it served its purpose. Large enough to stuff the papers inside
for her latest article, it would do for now.

Hitching the skirt of her poor gown up around her ankles, she sprinted down the next street, cutting through the market of
Covent Garden. Already, at this early hour of the morning, the roads were full of sellers.

Ladies carrying fresh milk pails on their shoulders angled their heads to look her way as she hurried past them, probably just a
blur of dark blonde hair that was falling out of her updo. Men gathered at stalls bearing salted beef and fresh oysters that had
reached London that morning on the Thames also looked her way.

She ignored them all. Usually entranced by the excitement in the streets and how the people ran their days, she would often sit
in this street and watch people go about their business.

She darted down another street, one she hoped would be quieter, and ended up in a part of London she usually liked to avoid.
This was the road occupied by the ladies of the night, those who offered their bodies up for a price.

Two people pressed against a wall made Becca stop sharply. The lady had her skirt up around her hips as the man pressed up
against her made such a guttural sound; it left little to the imagination.

Becca backed up as hurriedly as she could, leaving the road quickly and glancing back only once. Her face blushed red, and
she laughed, trying to hide the sound behind her gloved hand as she moved on again.

Growing up in the streets of London, Becca had seen many such things quite by accident. What men and women could do
together was something she was well aware of, though as she left this road, strangely, she felt a curiosity making her glance
back again. It was a curious sensation she had never had before, but for the first time, she wondered what it could be like to
share in such a thing.

Shaking her head, she shed such thoughts from her mind and returned to the busy streets of Covent Garden. These were the
roads she preferred to occupy. Sometimes, she would sit for hours to watch people go about their business. Most of all, she
was interested in the members of the ton who would wander into the market later in the day.

The ladies walked with their noses high, their lady’s maids following behind them carrying boxes from the modiste shops. The
teahouses also fascinated her, filled with ladies and gentlemen, either sharing the most fashionable tea leaves brought in from
India and China, or hot chocolate to warm their bones in these winter months.
“Watch out!” another man called to Becca as she rounded a corner, narrowly missing colliding with the man’s nose as he
waved in the air with the early-morning paper. The sight of the ready-printed papers made her stomach knot all the more.

“My apologies,” she called, skirting around him and avoiding the papers and the boys who stood behind him, demanding
money with their open palms dirtied with mud.

At the end of the road, she could see her destination, at last. People wandered back and forth in front of it, all too busy with
their own business to notice the tiny red-brick building, pressed between others, with the chimneys smoking from the rooftops.
Those fires not only kept the workers inside the print house warm but kept the machinery and printing presses going, too.

Becca reached for the door, but found it locked, the old cold handle pressing through her thin glove. A particular hole in her
glove, frayed and torn from years of use, made the cold more noticeable on the palm of her hand.

“Oh, no,” she mumbled, knocking relentlessly on the door. She didn’t desist, but just kept knocking, fearful that her frantic tap
would not be heard above the clacking of the machinery beyond the door.

“That you, Becca?” a voice called from inside, heavily accented with the notes of East London that were all so familiar to
Becca these days.

“Charlotte? I’m here, I’m here at last.”

“You do like to leave it close to the wire these days, eh?” The door opened and the face of Charlotte Sanders appeared on the
other side of the door. Her dark auburn hair, swept up behind her head, had a loosely curling fringe across her forehead, which
only went a little way to masking the ink stains that dappled her forehead and cheeks.

She wiped such ink stains from her fingers on her printing apron as she humorously looked Becca up and down. “Well, Miss
Rebecca Thornton, what time do you call this?”

“You turning into your mother?” Becca asked, clutching her chest as she tried to catch her breath.

“Slowly, I am.” Charlotte chuckled. “This way. As always, my mother has been mitherin’ to read your writin’.”

Becca smiled at her good friend’s warm accent as she stepped into the print house, allowing the door to close behind her.

“Did I miss it?” Becca asked in a panic, reaching into her reticule and pulling out her papers.

“No, but you didn’t leave it far off, mind you.” Charlotte eyed her warily, her dark green eyes narrowing to slits as she led the
way through the front office.

Becca barely glanced at the office, for it was something of a front for if they ever had a member of the ton come to their
establishment. Most work was conducted in the back rooms and in the print house itself, for Charlotte’s parents had no qualms
and false airs about their business. They preferred to be hands-on, and as Charlotte’s mother said, ‘No one will see the work
through but ourselves.’ It was such a lesson that Becca had taken it to heart years ago.

If I had not pushed my own writing, I still wouldn’t have been published.
“Come on, let’s see it then.” Charlotte halted at the far end of the print house. Across the room, the metal letters were clacking
out early drafts of the Sanders’ Periodical, which had been running nearly twenty years now, ever since Charlotte was born,
and her father knew he had to do something to bring in more money for the family.

“Here it is.” Becca reached for the papers in her reticule and handed them over.

“You been runnin’ again?” Charlotte asked, taking the papers but keeping her eyes on Becca.

“Perhaps.” Becca smiled, prompting Charlotte to laugh before she finally looked at the papers.

“What’s this article about? Ah, Covent Garden! Your favorite subject.” She giggled as she read the caricature-like descriptions
of the ladies in the teahouse, talking loudly and flitting their heads back and forth like birds twittering, an illusion only helped
by stuffing their updos with feathers.

“Yes, my favorite subject,” Becca whispered, chewing her lip. As she waited for Charlotte to read the article, she turned this
thought over in her mind. She longed to know more about the ton, to see what the world was truly like from within it. “I just
feel as if when I am looking at the members of the ton, I am like a child with their nose pressed against the window of a
confectioner’s. I’m always looking in.”

“You want to be a part of the ton? Pah!” Charlotte laughed and sat down on some of the machinery, hopping up onto a level so
that she was at Becca’s height. Becca, unusually tall, often towered over Charlotte unless she found some sort of platform to
stand or sit on.

“No, no. Who would want to be a part of that?” Becca wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you. I hardly wish to be that proud.”

“Not all of them can be proud.”

Becca raised her eyebrows. She was not so convinced. As much as she was fascinated by their world, she had not had much
experience with the ton. What experience she did have persuaded her that there was quite a lot to be desired in some of their
company.

Her own father, a lawyer and businessman, had talked frequently of how his business affairs had been affected by the pride of
gentlemen in the ton. More than once had he been cheated out of payment, for some gentlemen knew that to get ahead in life,
they had to avoid paying their bills.

These days, her father preferred to work with the lower classes. He didn’t earn a lot of money, but he got satisfaction in
working for men who deserved a lawyer defending their causes.

“Well, it’s brilliant,” Charlotte declared, “as it usually is.” She rang a bell nearby, and a young boy came running in. He could
be no more than thirteen years old, yet he was already hard at work in the print house, with as much ink across his face and
hands as Charlotte bore. “Take this to my mother and father, would you, Skip?”

“Yes, Miss Charlotte.” Skip nodded and took the papers, running off again. His small height meant he could squeeze through the
tall machinery with ease, disappearing fast through the smoke that grew out of the fires across the room.

“Why are you so fascinated with the ton anyway?” Charlotte asked as she hopped off the machinery and beckoned Becca to
follow her. They rounded some of the printers with difficulty, squeezing themselves into the small gaps which Skip had darted
through with ease. “They’re probably just like us, aren’t they?”

“Are they?” Becca wasn’t so sure. “You’ve read the scandal sheets that get printed about the ton. They seem to find mischief
and gossip in the smallest number of indiscretions. We don’t seem to bother with such things.”

“No?” Charlotte stopped walking, turning to look back at her with raised eyebrows. “Do I need to remind you of what
happened when you first started writin’?”

Becca didn’t answer but stood there fidgeting with her reticule, fiddling with the broken metal clasp. She remembered well
enough the furor that had ensued when she had written a piece in her own name. Even her father was targeted by people in the
streets who thought it an ill thing for the daughter of a lawyer and a woman who had been practically a beggar to start writing
as if she were an educated gentleman.

“Well, I sorted that, didn’t I?” Becca reminded her friend. “Only you and your family know who I am now.”

“Oh yes,” a voice called from across the print house, his deep voice competing with the machinery. “I see we have Mr.
Reginald Baxter in our midst.” One of Charlotte’s elder brothers, Jarvis, walked toward them, struggling even more than they
had done to move around the machinery. He used the pseudonym with which she wrote all her articles in their periodical. “You
told her yet?” he asked, nudging his sister with his elbow.

“Not yet,” Charlotte mumbled, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “I was buildin’ up to it.”

“Tell her. It means lots of money.”

“I will.” Charlotte snatched the envelope from him and waved him away with a flick of her hand. He chuckled and left,
following the path Skip had taken through the room, though he clambered over the machinery in order to do so.

“What’s going on?” Becca asked, eying the envelope that Charlotte now turned back and forth in her grasp.

“It’s hard to explain. Even harder to shout over all this noise.” She looked angrily at the other end of the room as Skip and
Jarvis started to line up the letters to print Becca’s article. “Follow me.”

Charlotte backed up and headed for a door in the side of the room. She burst through it quickly, with Becca following behind
her. In this room sat another of Charlotte’s brothers. The youngest of the lot, and not much older than Skip; he was cleaning out
old print letters by the fireplace, sitting on the stone hearth as they had no rug. He looked up tiredly at their entrance, yawning
widely.

“Make yourself scarce, Bernie,” Charlotte said to him, flicking her fingers back to the door.

“You think we don’t know what you’re goin’ to be talkin’ about?” Bernie laughed, standing and collecting the metal letters
together. “It’s about that fine man, isn’t it? The one wearing the nice suit and carrying the stick. Looked like an illusionist.”

“He was not an illusionist.” Charlotte waved him away again.

“Hmm. There’ll be an argument about this.” He left, casting a clearly wary glance back in Becca’s direction.

Her stomach knotted at that look. As the door closed, Becca shifted her focus back to Charlotte.

“What is going on?”

Charlotte sighed, not hurrying to answer as she sat on a small desk that was pressed into the corner of the room. She laid the
envelope down beside her on the desk, then lifted her head and sighed as she looked at Becca.

“This could either be a great opportunity, or somethin’ ill.”

“Is there a point any time soon where you will stop talking in riddles?” Becca asked, placing her hands on her hips as she
walked toward her friend.

“A man came to the print house yesterday.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t give his name.” Charlotte shook her head. “But he was lookin’ for Mr. Reginald Baxter. He wanted to speak with
the great writer who had taken London by storm with his characterful, yet truthful, portrayal of people in the streets.” She thrust
a finger toward Becca.

“He wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes.”

“But…”

“I know, I know.” Charlotte held her hands up in the air in innocence. “He had no idea the name was an alias. That you were, in
fact, a woman. Believe me, when Jarvis first explained someone was lookin’ for you, I panicked.”

“Why?”

“A man skulkin’ about Covent Garden lookin’ for a lady?” Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Only one reason jumps to mind, and
that’s usually left to the ladies in that back street of Covent Garden—”

“Yes, thank you, Charlotte.” Becca dismissed the words. Her mind cast back to the lady and man she had seen together in the
street before she thrust the thought away. “Regardless, you said this man was looking for Mr. Baxter.”

“He was. I just told him that a meeting between you two would be impossible. He kept pushin’ the point, and in the end, Jarvis
asked why he wanted to meet Mr. Baxter so much?”

“And?” Becca moved to stand beside the desk, now hanging on her friend’s every word.
“And he wanted to commission Mr. Baxter for a project. From what he was wearin’, fine suit, carrying this posh lookin’ stick,
too, I’d say it was a commission to write about the ton, Becca.”

She nearly dropped her reticule in surprise. She fumbled to catch it.

“Well, you look like an excited pup.” Charlotte laughed a little, though the sound died quickly. “When I refused to introduce
you, he offered something else instead.” She passed the envelope into Becca’s hand and said nothing more. She just waved at
Becca to open the envelope.

Tearing through the red wax seal, Becca found inside there was a small card, written with heavy calligraphy, the sort of
beautiful writing she had only seen in certain papers in her father’s office.

“An invitation?” she read aloud. “An invitation to an assembly at the Almack’s Assembly Rooms. God’s blood, what on earth
is this?”

“Well, if you’re goin’ to circle with the ton, you might want to curb your street curses, Becca.”

“But…” Becca trailed off, seeing the invitation was not the only thing in the envelope. There was also a small brooch made of
solid silver, engraved to look like two crumpled autumnal leaves entwining together. “What is this?” she whispered.

“They call it silver.”

“Charlotte! That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Charlotte’s lips flattened together once more. “The gentleman asked that you go to the assembly if you wish to meet
him. He has a commission for you, and he’ll pay handsomely to have you work for him. If you’re interested, he asks that you go
and wear that brooch so that he might recognize you.”

Becca lowered her hands, the invitation and the brooch clutched at her sides as she stared forward into nothing.

This was everything she had been hoping for. It was a chance to peer past that window which was between her and the world
of the ton, and an opportunity to see what the real people of the ton were like beyond their stiff collars and cravats. Could she
do it? Could she really meet this gentleman and go through with his offer to write for him?

“I’ve never written for a commission before. Only ever for your periodical.”

“There is another problem!” Charlotte suddenly said loudly, making Becca jump in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re daft!” Charlotte exclaimed. “Don’t you think this gentleman will be surprised when you turn up? You’re not quite the
Mr. Reginald Baxter he’ll be expecting, are you?”

Becca fidgeted and glanced down her body. She looked at the gown cinched at the waist on her tall figure, the bonnet that she
had flung over her wrist with tattered ribbons, and her boots that were dirtied from running through the streets. She thought she
saw a bit of oyster shell stuck to the toe of her boot and grimaced.

“Perhaps I’m not,” Becca murmured. “He’ll be expecting something finer.”

“Becca…he’ll be expecting a man,” Charlotte pointed out, jumping off the desk.

“I know.” Becca sighed heavily. Even if she went to meet this man, once he realized that she was not Mr. Baxter, but Miss
Thornton, he might retract his offer at once. Worse yet, he could reveal her secret. He could tell others in the ton that the now
famous Mr. Baxter was a woman, after all.

“So, are you going to do it?” Charlotte asked, nudging her for an answer. “Are you going to meet him?”

Everything in Becca’s gut told her not to go. It was ominous indeed, a well-dressed gentleman searching for a writer from the
backstreets of London. Surely, any commission he had to offer her could be for nothing good, or he would have chosen one of
the well-reputed gentlemen writers of the ton.

It bodes ill.

“Well?” Charlotte asked, nudging her again when she didn’t get an answer.

Yet Becca felt like that child pressed against the window once again, her nose flattened to the glass. Even if it could spell
misfortune, the chance to see the world of the ton, to go to a ball and pretend to be one of them, just for a night, piqued her
curiosity too much. She raised the invitation, reading it once again, her mind made up even before the smile grew on her face.

“You’ll need something to wear then,” Charlotte murmured, clearly reading the answer on her face before she needed to say it.
Chapter 2

“What do you think?” William asked. He tried to flatten his hair again, but it stood up on end as it was wont to do, the dark
brown strands curling crazily.

My father would have hated that.

He tried frantically to flatten it again as his butler approached from behind him, carrying his tailcoat.

“It is a fine suit, my friend,” Henry said warmly.

William met his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. Henry was only about five years his senior. He first came to the house as
his valet, when William was just fifteen years old. Fifteen years later, and things had changed between them. Henry was now
his skilled butler, and the dearest friend that William had ever had.

“Now, my lord, it’s time to put your jacket on.”

“Henry…” William turned around, leaving the sight of the curling hair behind to meet the sharp features of his butler. At first
glance, some people found Henry a bit frightening, for his jawline and nose were so sharp and aquiline, but not William. He
saw the kindness in Henry’s light grey eyes, and he knew the man’s soft manner. “How many times have I told you not to call
me that? Call me William.”

“You are the baron now,” Henry reminded him with a gentle smile. “It’s what must be done. Now—” He held up the tailcoat
again.

Sensing he was fighting a losing battle, William nodded his thanks and put on the black tailcoat, turning to face his reflection
once more. In the glass, he saw the tired lines on his face. They seemed to be ingrained into his skin this last month, ever since
his father died, born there from the things he heard said in the street when people thought his hearing to be poor.

They think I am a monster, just like him.

“Now, you’re ready, my lord.”

“Am I?” William didn’t move. He just continued to stare at the glass. He half wished he could swap places with Henry. His
butler always seemed calm and collected, at ease in any room, whereas William was not.

He’d grown accustomed to the prisoner his father had made him into. Scarcely going beyond the walls of their estate, he’d
mixed with few people in his life. Now, he had to go to an assembly and pretend to be perfectly comfortable, even though he
knew there would be many there tonight who would be pointing and whispering at him.

“I could put it off for another month?” William suggested, catching Henry’s eye once more. “I could claim I’m still in
mourning.” Henry quirked an eyebrow, and William laughed. “I know, hardly convincing, is it?”

“No one mourns him,” Henry said in a low tone. “I should not say such things—”
“Good God, Henry, you’re much more tongue-tied since I became a baron. Please, just be as we have always been.”

Henry nodded slowly, then gestured behind him.

“Now, are we ready?” He pointed at the door.

Slowly, William turned around, looking at the fine entrance hall of his house. He had been making changes since his father had
passed, and he had inherited the money.

Though the title of baron had been his ever since his mother had passed a few years ago, for the barony came through her
bloodline and not his father’s, the money had gone to his father first. Now that the money was his, he was redecorating the
house, making it into something other than the prison he had known for so long.

The heavy mahogany boards which once made up the floor had been lifted and replaced with white marble. The paintings that
were dark and ominous, with one that had even been titled The Nightmare, had been replaced with finer and lighter paintings,
too.

He had not chosen expensive paintings, but pictures that he liked, pastoral scenes of bright sunshine. There was just one
painting in the room that was a portrait and that picture sat near the bottom of the stairs.

His mother smiled out at him from a sunny scene in the garden of their country estate. Dressed in a light blue gown, her shining
brown eyes, much the same color as his own, stared back at him. There was a small smile on her lips, curving gently. The
image was as he wished to remember her: alive, healthy, and above all, happy.

“My lord?” Henry said, trying to urge him to the door.

William sighed once again, shaking his head at Henry.

“One of these days, you will call me by my name again.”

Henry chuckled softly.

“Trust me. This assembly will not be as bad as you fear. It is a chance to enjoy the world. To show your face and…” He trailed
off.

“To come out of my father’s shadow?” William finished for him. “Yes, a dark shadow it has been indeed.” He turned back to
glance in the mirror once more again, brushing back the hair that was curling.

It’s as good as I’m going to make it.

“Very well, let us go.” William walked toward the door and stepped out. On the track road leading to his house, his carriage
awaited him.

“I do not have to come,” Henry said slowly, following him. “It is hardly customary for a butler to accompany their lord—”
“For tonight, please, come,” William said again. “I’ll be more comfortable with you there.”

William had made up his mind. He knew plenty of gentlemen attended assemblies and balls with some sort of manservant in
tow, even if it wasn’t their butler, and out of all of his staff, Henry was the one he wanted there the most. If nothing else,
William could speak to him when he grew bored and frustrated with everyone gossiping about him.

As they climbed into the carriage, Henry lit a lantern overhead, lighting the way in the darkness with an orange glow. The
carriage set off, and William watched the lantern swing back and forth for a minute.

“You seem much more assured about tonight than I am,” William observed as Henry lowered the stick he often carried at his
side onto the bench beside him. It wasn’t a walking stick but a swagger stick, something he had inherited from his father, who
had served as a soldier in the war. “You seem even…excited.”

Henry flattened his smile, as if in an effort to be rid of such anticipation.

“It is for you that I am excited,” Henry replied with great passion. “It’s high time you came out from that house and lived life
fully.”

“You know why it has not been easy.” William scratched his chin uncomfortably. “All my father’s debtors, all the men he
offended and cheated—”

“You are not him. You are just his son.”

“And they see me as being of his blood. They see me as a man built in his image,” William muttered with scorn. “How am I
ever supposed to marry and have a family of my own if people in the ton look at me with this one image in mind?”

It was a thought he had confessed the day after his father had died. William longed to start a family of his own, to be happy as
his mother had been. Yet surely such a dream was out of reach, no matter how hard he stretched to take it, when all ladies
would be warned off from him, thanks to his father’s reputation.

“Maybe it’s time to rewrite your reputation,” Henry murmured, more to himself than to William at all; then he looked out of the
window, his eyes not blinking in thought.

“What do you mean by that?” William tilted his head to the side, watching his butler carefully.

“Nothing.” Henry looked back at him again. “Just go tonight with an open mind, my lord. You might be surprised by what you
find there tonight.”

“Hmm. Well, you have more confidence than I do.” William sat back, rubbing his hands together nervously. What he did not
speak his mind about was also the nervousness he felt about talking to ladies there tonight. Having been kept locked in the
house for so long, he had circulated among very few women.

Maybe this is a disaster just waiting to happen.

***
“Good evening.” Becca tried to keep the tremble out of her voice as she slipped the spencer jacket off her shoulders. She
couldn’t help glancing down at the fine gown she had borrowed from one of the modistes in Covent Garden, feeling as if she
was a fish out of water. The gown had been secured by Charlotte, whose cousin worked as a seamstress at the modiste’s shop.

The elegant sage green gown was gathered under Becca’s bust and fell to the floor in gentle waves of silk. The hem finished
just above the floor, hiding perfectly that her shoes were nowhere near as fine as the gown. The short sleeves finished just
beneath her shoulders, and the surprisingly deep neckline made her repeatedly pull at the gown, fearing she was revealing too
much.

“Your invitation, ma’am?” the man stood at the entrance to Almack’s Assembly Rooms asked, extending a white-gloved hand
toward her.

She passed the invitation over, praying that he did not see the fact her hand shook. He looked over the invitation, and for one
horrid minute, she held her breath, fearing that this was some awful trick, that perhaps it was a false invitation, and she hadn’t
been invited after all.

“This invitation is to a Mr. Reginal Baxter?” the man said coolly, looking at her with a clear question in his gaze.

“Yes, he is…my father,” she said hurriedly. “He was unable to make it, so he has allowed me to use the invitation instead.”

A beat of silence followed these words as the man continued to stare at her.

Behind her in the road, more people were gathering from their carriages, all impatiently calling forward as to what the hold-up
was.

“Very well.” The man sighed and waved her in.

She released the breath she had been holding and walked into the corridor of the assembly rooms, following others as they
discarded their jackets and cloaks with servants standing on one side of the corridor. She avoided meeting their gazes, fearing
that one of the servants might recognize her from the streets of London, then scurried in behind a particularly large group of
ladies who gossiped wildly, their chatter like the buzz of a beehive.

She was so busy being careful not to be seen alone that she did not pay attention to where she was going, not until she stumbled
into the main ballroom and the dazzling light of the candles took her breath away. She halted, her chin turning back and forth as
she took in the room.

The great candelabras hanging from the ceiling basked the room in lemon-tinged light, making the ladies’ faces glow, along
with their jewelry. As if their skin had been studded with stones, they turned their heads back and forth, making sure the light
caught all their fine jewels.

Gentlemen wandered back and forth, some standing tall and adjusting cravats as a budgerigar might preen his feathers, while
others stared coolly between the ladies, judging them as if it were a competition.

“I am in over my head,” she murmured, raising her hands over her arms and practically cuddling herself as she stood in the
corner of the room. The one piece of jewelry she wore was the brooch that had been gifted to her by the mysterious visitor to
the print house. It glittered like a candle flame all of its own.
Unsure what else to do other than make herself visible to whoever the gentleman was, Becca started to circle the room. She
started near the edge, her nerves making it impossible to go anywhere near the middle of the room. No one turned to
acknowledge her presence or speak to her. The feeling of invisibility grew, and rather than being perturbed by the idea, she
grew increasingly comforted.

She was able to observe the ton in their finery, listening in to scraps of conversation that inspired her, making her think of new
articles that she could write for the periodical.

“Oh yes, indeed,” one elderly lady said, grasping what had to be her granddaughter’s arm and clutching it tight with bony
fingers. “He has eight thousand pounds a year. Is it not a wondrous thing? Imagine being married to that.”

Married to the money or the man?

Becca bit her lip to avoid laughing as she moved on through the room and hovered by a drinks table, paying particular attention
to two gentlemen whose heads were bent together. One was the perfect image of a dandy with excessive lace cuffs and a
painted face, the other much more reserved and demure looking with a dark suit.

“Not a penny left. Not a bit of it!” the dandy said with a high-pitched tone. “Baron Lancaster’s father bled every man he ever
met dry. If you ask me, he belonged in debtor’s prison, not that fine house he got by marrying his wife.”

“Shh, someone will hear you,” the demure man beside him hissed, but the dandy didn’t seem to care and launched into another
tirade concerning money.

Becca moved on again, glancing back repeatedly as she noticed a pattern. A surprising number of conversations in that room all
concerned one thing, in one way or another—money.

She reached for another table lined with drinks and looked over the glasses spread across the table. There was champagne
bubbling in tall, thin glasses, and rich dark claret in much squatter glasses.

It was not the beer or gin that Becca was used to seeing in the backstreets of London, in tankards clutched and waved outside of
taverns and pubs in drunkards’ hands. Unsure what she would like, she took a glass of champagne and lifted it to her lips,
sniffing it cautiously at first before she dared take a sip. The bubbles tickled her tongue, and she stepped back in surprise
before she felt something under her foot.

“Oh!” she yelped in surprise as she realized she was stepping not on something, but someone. She tripped on another’s foot,
falling to the side before a hand came up and grasped her waist.

The sudden firmness, the practical intimacy of the touch to her waist shocked her, and she turned her head as much as possible,
her eyes flitting toward the bearer of that hand.

A face was much closer to hers than she had anticipated, a pair of dark eyes, the color of chestnuts, and dark brown hair like
cinnamon that curled across his forehead.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, the words falling from her lips as the smallest of smiles lifted the handsome face.

Who is he?
Chapter 3

“I…” William faltered for a second.

He didn’t seem able to move. His hand was still on the lady’s waist, and he somehow realized that in their kerfuffle together, in
danger of falling over, her hand had also gone to the center of his chest to keep herself balanced. It rested there still, over the
middle of his waistcoat buttons, as they stared at one another. Heat shot through William’s body, and his eyes couldn’t stop
drinking in the sight of the woman.

She was taller than most women in attendance, striking with her willowy frame, with her blonde hair curling so madly it was in
danger of falling out of its updo. It was her eyes that struck him the most, though. They were the purest blue, almost like
aquamarine gems set over high cheekbones.

Then, the heated spell was broken. All of a sudden, those aquamarine eyes shot down to her hand in the middle of his chest.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered and stepped back.

William released her waist, heat still coursing through his body, despite the fact he was no longer touching her. Every
scandalous thought he had ever indulged in his life seemed to return at once as he gazed at the pretty face of the stranger.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” he said hurriedly, not wanting the lady to run away from him just yet. “I was not looking where I was
going.” He cleared his throat, praying that somehow, by talking normally, he could persuade himself that he was not imagining
himself and this stranger now tangled together in some darkened room.

What is wrong with me? Have I lost all ability to think like a gentleman?

He cleared his throat for a second time and gestured to the busy ballroom behind them.

“I found a need to escape the people here tonight to get a drink and should have looked where I was putting my feet.”

She smiled a little, that look transforming her features into something all the more entrancing than before.

God’s wounds. I need to get control of myself!

He turned away to the table and slyly adjusted his trousers, reaching for a glass of claret with hurried desperation.

“Well, I should thank you,” she whispered, moving to his side. “For catching me, or my first night at one of these events could
have been a disaster, resulting in me falling flat on my face.”

“If it helps, I already nearly did that.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward her, wondering if it was the effect of the two
glasses of claret he had already drunk that evening which were making him bolder than usual. “I took two steps into the
ballroom, tripped on a step, and nearly went flying. I would have done, too, had my butler not been by my side to catch me.”
She giggled softly, her head bending forward and one loose curl falling past her cheek. His hand itched to push that curl back,
to instigate another touch, to feel that rushing heat again, but instead, he moved his hand behind his tailcoat, tightening it into a
fist to keep from touching her.

“I wonder how many gentlemen here tonight have been saved by embarrassment from the work of their staff?”

Her wit took him by surprise, and he chuckled warmly.

“In my case, I would be nowhere without my butler. He is my friend, too, and a lifesaver.”

Her expression softened even more, as if he had said something wonderous indeed. They stared at each other, and William was
suddenly aware of how deeply she breathed, her chest rising and falling. His eyes darted down to the rather revealing neckline
of her gown before he snatched his gaze away.

Get a hold of yourself!

“I hope you are not injured from our fumble?” he said, gesturing back to the spot where they had collided.

“No, no, I am quite well, thank you.” She shook her head, raising her glass of champagne to her lips and taking a sip. Her eyes
widened at the glass, and for a brief second, he wondered if she’d ever tasted champagne before or not. “I may have only had a
couple of sips of this champagne, but apparently, it’s too much for me already if I can’t even control my own feet anymore.”

“That men should put an enemy into their mouths to steal away their brains.” William raised his own glass to his lips.

He closed his eyes, feeling more inadequate by the second standing next to the woman beside him. He feared he was right when
he had told Henry earlier that evening that he was not practiced at talking to ladies and, therefore, feared he would make a fool
of himself. It was hardly helped by the fact that he was now trying to avoid looking at the lady beside him as much as possible,
in case he felt that heat again.

“Shakespeare,” she said suddenly. With the word, he couldn’t help looking back at her again, his jaw slackened. “Are you
surprised to find a woman that reads Shakespeare, Sir?” she asked, raising a single eyebrow.

“No, it’s not that, just that…” he faltered, wondering how best to describe it. “I think I have had a habit of boring all the ladies
here tonight. If I talked about Shakespeare with other women here, no doubt I would be scorned for it. I hardly expected
another to recognize a quote about drinking from the great bard.”

“Oh, but he had many great quotes on such a subject, did he not? Now, let me think.” She tapped her glass and lifted her chin in
thought, staring at the ceiling. Entranced, William could no longer look away as he waited for her to say more. “Thou invisible
spirit of wine, if thou has no name to be known by, let it be devil!”

“Ha! A great one indeed, and yet there are more still.” He turned to face her fully. “It provokes the desire…” He halted,
realizing exactly what he was saying. He certainly felt desire; it ripped through him like lightning as he stared at the lady,
though he was certain it had nothing to do with wine now.

“But it takes away the performance,” she finished the quote with a quirked eyebrow.
They both laughed together, she hid her laugh behind her glass as he guffawed, tipping back his head.

“Well, I can say categorically that no other woman here tonight would talk openly with me not only about Shakespeare, but
desire, too,” he confessed, controlling his laughter.

“No?” She looked around with a sudden blush pinkening the tops of her cheeks. “How dull.”

He laughed again, finding the feeling oddly easy with this stranger before him. Having made a fool of himself more than once
already this evening as he had attempted conversations with ladies he was introduced to, he now felt a need to stay by this
woman. At least with her, he could talk.

“You have no dance card,” he observed, gesturing to the fact her wrist was bare as she lifted her glass.

“Ah, no,” she murmured, looking around the room once more, presumably at the other ladies and their dance cards, which hung
from delicate ribbons on their wrists.

“Were you hoping to avoid dancing by not bringing one?”

“Something like that.” She smiled. “You’d find me a poor dance partner, sir. I know none of these intricate routines that I have
heard the to…I mean, that I have heard are danced at such events as these.”

“And what of the waltz?”

It is not because I am imagining having her in my arms again. That is not what this is!

Despite the thought, he purposefully clutched his glass hard, not yet outstretching an arm toward her.

“The waltz?” she murmured. “That is the one in three time, is it not?”

“It is all done through lead and follow, and I believe one has just begun.” He held up his hand in the air, and they both listened
for a beat. A long introduction to a waltz had commenced, and couples all across the room were moving toward the space
cleared for dancing in the ballroom. “Would you join me?” William asked, at last lifting a hand toward her.

She hesitated, and that moment’s pause made him feel as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Was it possible she had not felt
the heat as he had done when they had collided with one another? Were those wide eyes and pink cheeks merely embarrassment
and not excitement at all?

Then she downed the rest of her champagne glass. William laughed, startled, for he had never seen any lady do such a thing
before. Each lady here this evening sipped her wine delicately, as if the idea of parting her lips far at all was a scandal. This
lady, though, had no such qualms. Not a drop was left in the glass as she put the glass down.

“Dutch courage?” he asked with a humored smile.

“Perhaps.” She matched his smile, then passed her hand into his.
Unlike some of the other ladies here tonight, she didn’t wear long white gloves that reached her elbows, but her hands were
bare, the delicate and thin fingers resting against the palm of his hand so perfectly that the heat returned in an instant.

“Will you forgive me if I collide with you again, and this time, we really will fall on our faces?” she asked.

“Trust me. I will not let you fall.” He winked and drew her away.

***

Becca hesitated as they reached the dance floor.

What am I doing? Why in God’s name did I agree to such a thing?

She had listened to the drumming feeling in her chest, her thudding heartbeat, rather than the sound thinking of her mind, and
followed him to the floor. Other dancers surrounded them and were already taking hold of one another, ready to dance.

She waited, unsure what to do, and hastily curtseying once the gentleman opposite her bowed, then he offered his hand to her,
and she moved toward him. With trembling hands, she took hold of his hand and his shoulder.

I do not belong here. I belong beyond these walls as one of the classes that are closer to serving the people within. I should
not be dancing with a gentleman!

Strangely, it didn’t seem to matter, though, as he rested a hand on her waist. That warm, tingling feeling she’d felt before when
he’d taken hold of her returned tenfold, but if anything, even stronger than before.

Not a word passed between them as he led her into the first few steps of the dance. At first, she fumbled her steps, but rather
than despairing at her, he laughed warmly.

“Not embarrassed, sir?” she asked quietly.

“I’m still dancing with you, am I not?”

She smiled a little and slowly started to understand the figures he was leading her through. She concentrated on following him,
feeling the strength of his shoulder beneath the palm of her hand and the way their fingers slotted together with ease.

At one point, when he urged her to turn fast to avoid a collision with another couple, the two of them ended up closer together,
breathing the same air, her body nearly pressed to his. Her breathing grew faster still, her hands holding onto him all the more.

It suddenly didn’t seem to matter that she’d come here tonight for one reason only: to meet the man who wished to commission
her for a story. All she thought of now was the man before her.

The dance passed by too quickly. She smiled at every opportunity, marveling at the ease of his movements around the floor, the
way in which he never minded if she went wrong, and how they nearly fell together more than once when she stood on his toe.
By the end of the waltz, they danced as close to one another as they had been when they first collided. They slowed their
movements down with the music, bobbing from side to side, staring at one another, not once glancing away.

“That’s quite a dance,” he whispered.

“It was,” she agreed, trying to control her breathing and calm it down as he released her. She tried not to think of the longing
she felt for his touch again as he bowed, and she curtsied; then, he offered his hand and led her off the floor.

“Please, tell me your name,” he whispered as they left the floor. He was leaning toward her, far closer than any other man was
doing with a lady in the room. She supposed it was scandalous in this room, but she didn’t pull away.

“It’s—”

“Ah, my lord!” a woman called loudly, cutting across their conversation before Becca could finish speaking. “At last, I have so
wanted to speak to you this evening.”

Becca looked around to see a young woman rushing toward them. With dark hair slicked back beautifully across her head, she
was striking in her finery. Pearl-drop earrings hung from her ears, and her neckline glittered with gold and gems. Her dark
brown eyes zeroed in on the gentleman beside Becca, still holding her hand.

Wait…my lord?

Becca jerked her head around again, staring at the handsome gentleman she had danced with.

I have danced with a titled man. What was I thinking?

“Lady Heather.” He bowed to the woman. “It is good to see you again.”

“Lord Lancaster.” She curtsied just as Becca’s jaw dropped lower.

Lord Lancaster…

The whispers she’d heard earlier that evening repeated in her mind. Someone had spoken of Baron Lancaster and his father, a
reprobate, when it came to stealing people’s money. Was it possible she had indeed danced with a baron?

“I have been longing to talk to you all evening.” Lady Heather moved to his other side and took his arm, without asking or
waiting for an invitation. The presumption made Lord Lancaster’s eyes widen, but he said nothing in objection.

He simply looked at Becca questioningly, who had to bite her lip not to laugh at his reaction. “You must accept my dearest
condolences on your recent loss. To have lost your father so suddenly, oh, it is such a sad tale indeed.”

“Thank you,” Lord Lancaster said, though his response was completely wooden. Lady Heather made the appearance of trying
to walk away, drawing him with her, but his feet stayed firmly locked to the floor, and once more, Becca had to fight her
laughter.
“It is my hope that this evening, perhaps I can bring you some smiles in your grief. A reason to be happy.” She pulled out a fan
and fluttered it in front of her face.

Becca was rather reminded of a peacock displaying its feathers in order to draw attention from a potential mate. She committed
the image to memory, certain that, at some point, the description could prove useful in her writing.

“I assure you, I can find many reasons to smile. I have just shared a dance with this lady, for one,” he said pointedly, gesturing
to Becca who now just stood beside them. She flinched, startled to be returned into the conversation.

Lady Heather looked at her sharply, and her rather ostentatious smile began to falter.

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you.” She curtsied, as did Becca, trying her best not to get in a tangle with the hem of her gown.
“Who are your family here tonight?” Lady Heather asked, her tone holding a hint of sharpness, though it was not an overt one.
“What are your connections?”

Becca merely stared at her in wonder, once more understanding the way the ton worked.

She is looking for what family money I am attached to. It’s all anyone in this room cares about!

Then she looked at Lord Lancaster beside her, still feeling that strange hunger and yearning in her chest that had been there ever
since she had collided with him. He had not seemed to care about money, but then again, he was a baron. Perhaps he was just
more hidden in his true motivations.

“My family is of no consequence,” Becca said hurriedly. Fearing discovery, she curtsied hastily for a second time. “If you
would excuse me, there…there is another I need to talk to tonight.” She shared one last look with Lord Lancaster, seeing the
frown at her departure, and then she turned and left, walking quickly across the room.

He is not for me. No good can come from dwelling on a single dance with such a gentleman. He is a baron!

She reached the side of the room where the drinks tables stood and helped herself to another glass of champagne, taking a
rather large gulp before she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that some of the ladies looked at her with suspicion for this.
Fearing she was not behaving in a ladylike manner, she lowered the glass back down to the table.

“I do not belong here,” she whispered, fiddling with the brooch on her gown. She turned, ready to leave the assembly rooms
and abandon her endeavor altogether, when someone stepped in front of her.

Almost as tall as Baron Lancaster, he was a striking presence with sharp features and a rather aquiline nose. The grey eyes
looked straight at her, harshly, then he bowed his head, his eyes never leaving hers. She hastened to curtsy once more, growing
tired of how many times she had to bob up and down in this room.

“Mr. Reginald Baxter, I presume?” he asked in a humorous tone.

Chapter 4

“I…” Words failed Becca as she stared at the man before her. The sharp clean suit was plain, as was the swagger stick in his
clasp. The sight of it conjured the image Charlotte had described. “Yes, I am,” she whispered.

The gentleman’s eyebrows shot up then his smile grew, and it transformed his face. The knot of fear that had developed in her
stomach began to soften as she stared at him.

“Lord knows why I am so surprised.” He shook his head. “I know there are some great writers out there who do not write in
their own name. Why should Mr. Baxter be any different?”

“You do not mind, sir?” Becca asked, stepping forward in surprise. She felt eyes upon her and glanced across the room. She
met Lord Lancaster’s gaze and that excitement shot through her once more, as if she had taken an arrow to the center of her
chest, then he looked away, his attention caught by Lady Heather, and she returned her focus to the gentleman before her.

“No, indeed.” The man shook his head once more. “If anything, you have become more of an interesting writer to me now.” He
crooked his finger, beckoning for her to follow him. With some wariness, she passed around the drinks table, moving to the
corner of the room where they stood together. “I see you have already met my master, Baron Lancaster.”

Becca stopped her jaw from dropping another time that evening.

“Your master? Then you are his—”

“Butler, yes.” He nodded and inclined his head toward her in acknowledgement. “My name is Henry Fitzwilliam,” he said
calmly. “I wished to speak to the writer Mr. Reginal Baxter as I have a commission for him concerning my master, a
commission I hope you will be interested in, Miss…?” He waited for her to introduce herself.

“Thornton,” she said slowly. He smiled and nodded.

“What do you know of my master, Miss Thornton?”

“I…Well…” She struggled for words. Asked such a thing by Charlotte, she could have gone on at length about the
handsomeness of the man, the ease with which she had spoken, the flirtation, anything! Yet these were hardly things to discuss
with Mr. Fitzwilliam. “I have heard rumors about his father tonight.”

“Ah, and that is what I wish you to set right.” He held his finger up in the air, capturing her attention. “All around this room,
and in every other room the ton occupies, you’ll hear my master’s name and title lambasted. He shares his father’s blood, and
that is his condemnation, to be tainted by association with the devil.”

“Then his father…he was not a good man?”

“Far from it.” Mr. Fitzwilliam sighed deeply. “There is more to the story that concerns Baron Lancaster, much, much more. I
wish to create the opportunity for my master to tell his own story, the truth of what really happened with his father and how
different the two of them are.
Only then will the baron have his opportunity to live his life freely, to its fullest. Maybe then he can have true friends who look
at him with trust, not wariness, and perhaps he can marry someday, too.”

Marry?

Becca looked toward Lord Lancaster who stared without speaking at Lady Heather as she babbled relentlessly about
something. A kernel of jealousy bloomed in Becca’s stomach before she clamped down upon it.

“I understand.” Becca nodded slowly, trying to maintain a business manner. “Writing the truth of the tale could offer him a new
future, a better one, but there is something more I need to ask. Why choose me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“There are any number of writers who could perform such a task. The ton has its own scandal sheet writers, trusted names that
people go to for what they believe to be the truth behind the gossip. You have great memoir writers and essayists, too, who
could do a fine job. Why choose Mr. Reginald Baxter, a writer from a cheap periodical who portrays a world far beyond the
ton?” she whispered in a rush.

“Many reasons.” Mr. Fitzwilliam sighed. “A scandal writer would no doubt embellish the story, as they always do, and you can
never really trust what they say even if someone is foolish enough to believe them. As for great memoir writers, they publish
thick volumes which are left growing dusty on the shelves of bookshops and libraries. No, we need someone different.”

He gestured to her with the swagger stick. “Your writing captures the hearts of those who read. I’ve seen people from all
classes pick up the Sanders’ Periodical. They turn to your pieces, laughing warmly at your depiction of human nature, and even
sometimes shedding a tear, too. That is the sort of writing my master needs, even if he does not know it yet.”

“Oh.” She gasped, realizing that Baron Lancaster knew nothing of this. It was Mr. Fitzwilliam alone who had brought her here
tonight for this conversation.

“You would, of course, be paid for your work,” Mr. Fitzwilliam added quickly. “You would be paid well.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled. The money could indeed be useful to her, but there was something else on her mind now. To be the
writer who told the true story of a titled man and his father, a known deceiver and trickster, could afford her a fame in writing
that she had only dreamed of.

Yet it was not the only thing to consider. She would be meeting Lord Lancaster on a regular basis to make such a piece. Her
poor world of cheap printers and small houses in the back-to-back buildings of London would be colliding with his world of
riches and finery.

What would he think of the woman he danced with then?

“I need to think about it,” she said in a rush, clutching the brooch on her gown and pulling it off as quickly as she could.

“Keep it,” Mr. Fitzwilliam urged. “Of course, you need to think about it. If you decide it is something you wish to do, then
write to me at this address.” He handed her a small card. “I hope you will consider is seriously, Miss Thornton. I believe it is
a venture that could help both you and my master.”
With these final words, he departed, bowing his head to her once last time. She held the brooch between her fingers, feeling the
stones cold and harsh to the touch, as she sought out Lord Lancaster across the room. He was moving back to the dance floor
but with Lady Heather this time, and now their dance felt like a distant memory, disappearing like smoke from a fire that had
gone out.

***

Becca paced up and down her small room in the attic of her father’s house. There were so few chambers in the building that it
was the only option for a room of her own. The floorboards creaked beneath her weight, and wary of waking him up, she sat
down at the foot of her bed, staring through the dim light at nothing in particular, for her mind was such a whir.

Now clad in a nightgown with the fine gown she had worn that evening at the assembly tossed across the back of a chair
nearby, she felt more herself again. She was no fine lady, no actress on a stage playing a part, but a writer used to the darkened
corners of hidden rooms, where no one could see the true face behind what she wrote.

“I cannot do this. I cannot possibly do it,” she murmured aloud, somehow hoping that by speaking the words, she would
convince herself all the more. It was a war of head and heart. Her good sense told her it was too dangerous, but her heart knew
that there were good things that could come from it.

The possibility of writing for a titled man would indeed bring her writing attention that she could only have dreamed of.

Yet there was another argument her heart kept making, one that urged her heart to beat faster, her palms to grow clammy, and
her mind to start cursing at herself.

I would be able to see Lord Lancaster again.

She huffed and stood, dropping the shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders to keep herself warm. She no longer felt cold,
for a heat had begun at the thought of Lord Lancaster, and like a fire, it could not be easily quelled.

“I cannot do it,” she whispered once more, and turned to the small writing bureau in the corner of her room. The one candle she
had lit to keep her company rested on the desk, the flame flickering a little as she moved toward it.

In a single drawer, stuffed full, were the most recent periodicals that held her writing. She took out the top paper and turned to
her article, nestled deep within the pages near the back, hardly the title piece or the one that would draw the most attention.

It would be a way to become a new writer, to be more widely read.

She returned the paper, stuffing it into the drawer and slowly moving back to the bed, climbing under the covers.

“I know what I want to do,” she whispered aloud. It seemed her heart had made up her mind, even when her head argued
against it. “I have to do it.” She flung herself back onto the bed and pulled the covers over her head.

Sleep came quickly, and in those dark depths, Becca’s mind wandered.

She was no longer alone in that chamber. There was another walking into the room. He didn’t light another candle but leaned
against the doorframe for a second, just looking at her with those deep brown eyes. There was a little stubble across his chin
where he hadn’t yet shaved himself for the day, and his curly hair lifted up on his forehead. Becca longed to reach out, to tangle
her hands in that hair and pull him to her.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he walked toward her. He bent down over the bed where she lay, tugging at the bedcovers in one
swift movement. They fell off her onto the floor, yet she was not wearing much at all. Her night gown was gathered around her
hips, revealing her legs, and the neckline was wide open, offering a glimpse of her breasts.

Becca knew what could happen between men and women. As a girl of the streets, she and Charlotte had grown up away from
what the women who sold their bodies in Soho offered men at night, and sometimes early in the morning. Becca had once or
twice imagined what it could be like to share herself with a man, but never had it felt this heated.

She reached up as he bent down toward her, his lips finding her own. The kiss was sudden and passionate, not a brief peck on
the lips, but firm as he parted her lips. Her hands reached for his shoulders, pulling him down over the bed as he pulled at her
skirt, tugging it higher and higher until it was gathered just under her bust, revealing her whole lower body to him.

She raised her knee on impulse, giving him access to her, then his hand found her. His fingers reached for her core and slipped
inside of her, finding that pleasure point which made her lips part from his and a gasp escape her lips.

“Oh!” Becca woke up, sitting up in the bed suddenly. She looked around at the doorway, but there was no figure there, no tall
man walking toward her, ready to explore her body in the dead of night. She was alone, trembling in excitement, her body
feeling as if it was engulfed in fire. Rubbing her legs together, there was a wetness there she had not been expecting.

“Oh God,” she cursed aloud and flung herself back on the bed, thinking of the man that had so invited her dreams with such
sudden pleasure.

She’d happily been drawn into that dream, enthralled by the imagining, and even now as she tried to banish him from her
thoughts, she could not. Fully awake, she wondered what it would be like to be touched by him in such a way.

The image was so passionate, so strong, that her hands began to wander across her own skin to simulate that pleasure. When
she reached beneath her gown, she conjured that dream again, thinking of one man only.

Lord Lancaster.

***

Becca clutched to the letter in her gloved hands as she peered through the tall black gate and down the long track that led to
Baron Lancaster’s house.

Mr. Fitzwilliam’s reply to her letter of acceptance had come early that morning, in which he asked her to come to the house to
meet Baron Lancaster and discuss the proposal.

Biting her cracked lip in the cold, Becca stared at the house, wondering what Lord Lancaster would think to see her again.
There was a good deal of distance between her and the house, yet even from here, she could see its grandeur. The red-brick
building looked almost Stuart in build, with tall windows that had been lined in lead.
Around the front of the building, ivy crawled up the tall walls, and there were great borders full of green bushes that hadn’t yet
sprouted flowers. A stable yard could be seen on one side, as could a formal walled garden, the door left open in such a way
that Becca could glimpse a fountain beyond. On either side of the track, there were vast grounds, a parkland set within the busy
city of London, some gem from yesteryears still preserved.

Becca stuffed the letter back into her oversized reticule and reached for the gate, opening it wide and stepping inside.
Repeatedly, she glanced back at the street around her, but no one looked at the girl hiding beneath a large bonnet, creeping onto
Lord Lancaster’s estate. They all walked past, not once looking her way.

Closing the gate behind her, Becca walked down the track. At one point, she hurried her steps, feeling strangely out in the open
as she walked the path alone. When she reached the steps leading up to the grand house, she hesitated, her hands trembling
within the gloves.

Closing her eyes, she thought back to her meeting two days before with Lord Lancaster. She thought of his hand on her waist,
the heat of his stare, then she saw her dream again and the fire in his eyes as he’d entered her bedchamber, the shirt loose
around his body.

“Good God,” Becca murmured to herself, her eyes shooting open again.

I have become a scandalous woman!

She pulled the cord beside the door, ringing the bell inside. Scarcely a minute later, the door was answered, and Mr.
Fitzwilliam stood in the gap, smiling at her. As before, the harshness of his features cracked, and a man of much warmer
appearance appeared.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Thornton. Please, come inside.” He gestured for her to follow, then offered to take her bonnet.

“Thank you.” She removed her bonnet and spencer jacket, watching as he placed the frayed ribbon of the bonnet over a nearby
hook. Beside it was a moleskin top hat, perfectly groomed and cleaned to a shine. She glanced forlornly at the bonnet, feeling
even more out of place than before.

“If you would follow me,” Mr. Fitzwilliam practically whispered the words, urging her to trail behind him through the entrance
hall.

“Why are we whispering, sir?” she asked, distracted and looking around the bright white marble of the hall. It was a beautiful
and bright room with pleasant landscapes on the wall.

“Shh,” Mr. Fitzwilliam urged, placing a finger to his lips to quieten her. She cocked an eyebrow, showing exactly what she
thought of being shushed like a disobedient pup. “This way, please.” He beckoned her once more.

She sighed and followed him through a series of doors toward a back room where he eventually turned to face her.

“Please, wait here while I announce you to Lord Lancaster.”

“Announce me?” she said quietly. “Does he not know I am coming?”

“Well…” Mr. Fitzwilliam paused and looked at her, something of a mischievous glint in his eye. “Not yet, at least.”

“What?” She balked, suddenly feeling a need to bolt from the room and run as fast as she possibly could back out of the house.
“What will he make to me being here if he does not yet know of it!?” she hissed in panic.

“Leave it with me. Please, stay here.” Then Mr. Fitzwilliam swept out of the room so fast that she was left there staring after
him, her jaw slackened.

Silence followed for a minute or so as she continued to stare at the door, wondering if it would be wise to creep out of the
window before Lord Lancaster could reach the room. Without Lord Lancaster having any warning of her arrival, what would
he make of her? What would he make of the idea of a woman writer describing his life story?

Will he be happy to see me again?

The possibility the answer to the question could be ‘yes’ left her riveted to the spot.

A minute later, footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. She smoothed her gown, fearing creases in the poor material,
and straightened her shoulders as much as she could, then the door opened, and she dropped her hands neatly to her sides.

“A writer?” Lord Lancaster was saying over his shoulder. “But—” His head flicked around, and once more, Becca met those
chestnut-hued eyes. He broke off, nearly tripping over the edge of the nearest rug as he stared at her in alarm.

“This writer, my lord,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said calmly, following Lord Lancaster into the room. “May I introduce the known
writer from the Sanders’ Periodical, Mr. Reginal Baxter.”
Chapter 5

William continued to stare, uncertain if it shocked him more that Henry had gone ahead and requested for a writer to come to
the house when it was just an errant idea they’d had one evening, or that Mr. Reginal Baxter was, in fact, a woman?

No. It’s the fact it’s the lady from the assembly.

“Mr. Baxter?” he repeated, suspicion and humor laden in his voice.

The lady curtsied rather deeply. Her gown was nothing like what it had been two nights before. It was a cheaper material, yet
still flattering on her willowy figure. His eyes trailed over her, and he had to snap his attention back to her face.

“As you see,” she said with wit, the smallest of smiles curling her lip.

“Henry—” William turned sharply to face his butler.

“I know.” Henry held up his hands in innocence. “It was merely an idea discussed, not yet a plan agreed upon.”

“Exactly.”

“Yet I do believe you should talk with the writer. At least it will be a chance to discuss the idea.”

“But…” William trailed off, his eyes returning to the lady as she raised a single eyebrow at him.

“Ah, I see.” That smile lifted into something else now, something altogether more challenging. “Do you think because I merely
use a man’s name and am not, in fact, one, that I lack the skill of being a writer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Perhaps you were thinking it.”

“Can you read minds as well as you write, ma’am?” he asked, mirroring her challenging tone.

Henry, at his side, cleared his throat, and William looked toward him. He knew well enough what his friend was thinking.
William was not usually challenging. He was a man who liked to keep his thoughts to himself and had done for years with his
father in the house, but with this lady, something had sparked within him.

“Men often think the same thing, that is all. It makes them easier to read.”

“You’d be wrong. I am currently wondering why you crept into the assembly the other night.”
Rather than answer his question, she turned with an accusing glare at Henry.

“Ah, that is my doing as well.” Henry held his hands up in innocence. “I may have suggested that she come to the assembly the
other night so that we could meet and talk about the commission.”

“No commission has been agreed upon yet!” William said with sudden passion, rounding on Henry.

He thought back to the night in this very room where they had sat together, each nursing a glass of brandy, as they spoke about
the future. It was Henry’s suggestion that William hire a writer to put together an account of his life and his father’s, to write the
wrong and set aside any misjudgments about him. After a glass of brandy, it might have seemed like a good idea. Sober,
William wasn’t so sure.

“Yet let us talk of the possibility, my lord.” Henry stepped forward, holding out his hands. “I have seen myself that you are fond
of Mr. Baxter’s pieces. You often laugh aloud when you read them, do you not?”

William glanced self-consciously at the woman. Those piercing blue eyes were on him again. The thought that he had actually
been laughing at her written words warmed him in a way he hadn’t been expecting. He fidgeted, adjusting the lapels of his
tailcoat.

“You have enjoyed my work, my lord?” she asked with a humored smile.

“I have.” He nodded. “I certainly cannot continue this conversation without knowing your real name.”

“Thornton,” she answered, lifting her chin a little, as if growing in confidence. “Miss Rebecca Thornton. Becca for short.”

“Becca,” William repeated the word. It was a beautiful name, one that suited her well.

“We also cannot complete this conversation without tea,” Henry said, moving to the side of the room and opening the door
again. He called for a maid to prepare tea, then turned back to face them again.

William just stared at Miss Becca Thornton. Neither one of them looked away from the other, and the power of those
aquamarine eyes made William wish Henry had gone to prepare the tea himself.

“Perhaps I could make a suggestion?” Henry offered and stepped between the pair of them. “My lord, you could interview
Miss Thornton. See what sort of a writer she is and consider if it’s a proposal you wish to go ahead with. Miss Thornton,
equally, you can decide if it is a story you would like to write or not.”

“Very well.” She nodded, her manner almost wooden all of a sudden.

It was nothing like her warm and flirtatious manner at the ball. William wished for that manner to return.

Slowly and silently, he moved to a nearby armchair and sat down, the air awkward between them. Miss Thornton chose
another chair, a little smaller than his own, and he noticed with interest that she avoided the finer-looking furniture in the room,
and as she sat down, she adjusted the hem of her gown, hiding what appeared to be a small hole.
He hardly cared if her gown was poor. He was too busy in admiration of the fact that Miss Thornton had a career of her own.

“Perhaps you could tell me exactly what it is you want from this piece, my lord?” she said, reaching into a large reticule she
carried and pulling out a small notepad and a pencil.

He hesitated, not saying anything and glancing Henry’s way. This time, though, Henry wasn’t going to take up the slack in the
conversation. He simply stared back at William, waiting for him to tell his peace.

“My father died just over a month ago, Miss Thornton. He left behind him a reputation. A vile one, in truth.” He leaned
forward, rubbing his hands together uncomfortably.

“Suffice it to say my own life alongside him was not…well, it was not a happy one. Now entering society properly after his
passing, I see that everyone presumes I will be like him. Henry has suggested I set the record straight, so that people will know
I am not made in his image.” The words had escaped him in a rush in the end.

It almost felt like a confessional, explaining his deepest thoughts in quite an intimate way. Rather than making any notes with
her pencil, Miss Thornton looked at him as he spoke, those aquamarine eyes never blinking.

“Talking of it though, well, it is not easy,” he said hastily.

She nodded in thought and looked down at the blank page in her notebook.

William said no more. Distracted, he stared at her, thinking of how they had danced together, how she had fitted perfectly into
his arms, how he had not been able to sleep peacefully since, for he had woken with sudden dreams that all had her in them.

Always he saw those blue eyes staring up at him from his bedsheets, with the blonde hair tousled, reaching down her back.
Thinking of her again now, he adjusted himself, crossing his legs self-consciously.

“May I tell you something, my lord?” She shifted a little, moving to the edge of her seat, and he nodded, encouraging her on,
fearful he wouldn’t be able to speak with a level tone after thinking of having her in his bed again.

“The first few times I wrote, I was terrified, and perhaps, I had a reason to be. I made the mistake of using my own name,” she
whispered in explanation.

“People were furious. Known acquaintances and friends called on my father. They lambasted him, for what I am not entirely
sure. Perhaps for having an educated daughter, for choosing to teach his daughter to read and write when they thought I should
have been trained to be a housekeeper or something of that ilk. Do you know how my father responded?”

“How?” he asked, intrigued by the nature of her story.

“He told them all that to have a daughter with her own mind was his greatest source of pride.” She smiled, rather sadly.

“It was for him, so he did not lose any more clients in his work as a lawyer, that I decided to start writing under a pseudonym
instead. My father was never bothered again, and since that moment, Mr. Reginald Baxter’s writing has fortunately been loved
by many.” Her smile grew into a happier one now. “It sometimes just takes the courage of challenging the status quo and even
deciding to do it in your way to get what you want. No matter what others think.”

William sat back in his chair, resting his spine against the cushioned seat as he stared at her.

“You speak wisely for one so young.”

“Do I?” she said, at last looking a little more at ease in her own chair and sitting back herself. “Don’t tell anyone, my lord.”
She winked at him. “People prefer the daughter of a lawyer to stay in her place and not be so bold as to give advice to barons.”

“Wisdom cries out in the street, and no man regards it,” he said with a chuckle, the words falling from his lips.

“Shakespeare again.” She sat forward, a sudden excitement in her movement.

“Just so.” He nodded. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. William quite forgot that Henry was in the room. He thought of
those eyes, those lips, the feeling of her waist beneath his hands, and then—

There was a knock at the door. William fidgeted in his seat, just as Miss Thornton did in her own. Henry stood and went to
answer it, taking the tea tray from the maid who had brought it. Setting it down on a nearby table, he prepared the tea as
William turned back to Miss Thornton.

“Well, what do you think, my lord?” she asked, clearing her throat as if she, too, had felt the awkwardness of them just staring
at one another. “Will you have the courage to tell your tale?”

William waited. Henry glanced back at him from his task and nodded ever so slightly. It was an encouragement to take that leap
for a change.

I am tired of being a prisoner between these walls. I don’t want to allow my father to make me a prisoner after his death,
too.

“Very well.” He sat forward just as Becca lifted her notebook and pencil again, urging him on with a wave of her hand. “Do
you know anything about my father, Miss Thornton?”

“I heard but a scrap of gossip the other night. I chose not to believe it.”

“In my father’s case, you would have been right to take it to heart.” William took the teacup Henry offered him with thanks and
chose to stare at the tea rather than look at Becca as he went on. “My father was no saint.”

***

My father was no saint.

The sentence was powerful, so strong that Becca found herself writing it at the very top of the page in her notebook before
waiting for Lord Lancaster to go on. He fidgeted, as he had done constantly since they had arrived in the room, crossing and
uncrossing his long legs.
The image of him constantly moving was stirring more memories of her dreams of him, so she focused on the page in front of
her instead, trying to control the mad beating of her heart.

“My father was a man by the name of George Dorset. He was born the son of a merchant, and part of a large family. He had six
brothers in total and was the youngest by far. From an early age, I believe it was impressed upon him that it would be up to him
to find his own way in the world.”

Lord Lancaster reeled these facts off quite plainly, as if they stirred no emotion in him at all. “He said as much and said the
words to me, too, about making your own way in the world. Strange teaching for him to impart, considering what happened.”

He paused momentarily, took a sip of tea, and then went on.

“He was well aware that advantage in life does not come free. I believe now he took this lesson with him throughout life. The
lesson carved a man who took advantage of everyone around him. I heard a tale once of my father when he worked as a stable
boy, stealing horses and selling them for the highest price, then buying cheaper versions that looked the same but weren’t as
good to ride, so that the owners would not know the difference.”

“A trickster?” Becca whispered.

“A hustler, through and through,” Lord Lancaster said harshly. He looked away into the fireplace. “He didn’t keep the job as a
stable boy. In fact, I now believe he moved readily between jobs in his early adult years. He ended up as a clerk for a merchant
in the town of Winchester, where one day, Baron Lancaster came to see the merchant with his daughter, Lady Anne.

I do not know how it happened, but my father managed to convince the baron and Anne that he was born a gentleman. Perhaps
he persuaded them he was spying on the merchant or learning merchant ways for future business investment, I do not know. He
pretended to be the cousin of a viscount. He worked wonders with the illusion.”

“All for what?” Becca asked. Even as she asked the question, she realized what was coming. Lady Anne had to be this Lord
Lancaster’s mother.

“He married Anne, my mother,” the baron went on. “I believe he obtained my grandfather’s blessing for the match, but all under
false pretenses. I only once ever heard my mother talking of this time when I was young.”

He at last returned his gaze to her. There was a darkness in those chestnut eyes, something brought by the sadness that made
them almost appear black. Becca longed to be by his side, to be kneeling beside his chair and reaching for his hand, to comfort
the sadness in that expression.

“My mother described a moment when she feared she’d married a man quite different to who she’d thought him to be. She
described it as having the rug pulled out from under her feet. Yet my mother was a happy person, and she always put a good
spin on the world. I think that was her attitude toward her marriage as well, to urge herself into being happy.”

“Yet not all was happy, was it?” Becca murmured, sensing worse things were to come.

“No, it was not.” He looked down into his teacup. “My grandfather died. Though titles cannot pass to sons-in-law, money and
land certainly can.” He gestured to the house around him.
“My mother had no siblings, no cousins, nothing. Everything that was my grandfather’s passed to her, and because of her
marriage, it passed into my father’s grasp. He had money and power, everything that he’d always longed for, and he decided to
use it to get more. There are many tales I could tell you.”

He looked up, a sharpness in his tone now. “Tales of debauchery, of gambling, of deception, and even theft. He amassed his
own fortune by persuading other gentlemen to invest in schemes that did not exist.”

“Fraud?”

“Absolutely.” Lord Lancaster nodded. “My mother, fortunately, taught better lessons than my father. She had more of a hand in
my upbringing, and it’s to her I owe myself not being tainted with his view of life. After she died, though, things changed. My
father chose to confine me in these walls.”

“Confine?” she repeated, quite ignoring her tea and scribbling down notes as fast as she could. “Like a prisoner?”

“I was a prisoner,” he confirmed. “He even refused to let me into the garden some days if I refused to help him with his own
dodgy business affairs. I think it was all control in the end that made him do it. He kept me under his wing in the hope that
someday I would be just like him. He was quite wrong.”

He shook his head. “What my father never fully realized was that, perhaps despite the fact I am his blood, I am nothing like
him. I get everything from my mother. I even think I have inherited her better heart. It wasn’t something he could teach out of
me, no matter how hard he badgered and bullied.”

He shifted uncomfortably once more, hastily taking a sip of tea and grimacing at the burn, for he’d plainly drank it too fast.
“When he died, his past came out on his deathbed. Maybe he thought atoning for the lies he’d told my mother in order to marry
her would mean he’d end up in heaven someday. I’m not sure. Either way, he told me all. And in those tales, he made me hate
him even more.”

He put down his teacup where it chinked loudly, ominously in the sudden silence as he breathed deeply. Becca’s hand hovered
in the air, the pencil just above the page as she waited to write more.

“Now I have taken my first steps into society, free of imprisonment at my age,” he scoffed at the idea, “and still, people
presume I am him born again. That I am as malicious; I am the same devil. Now, I ask you, Miss Thornton. What would you do
in my position? What would you write in order to make sure that when the ton look at me, they do not just see the devil?”
Chapter 6

Lord Lancaster said nothing more. He merely gulped the rest of his tea and fell into silence.

Becca stared at him, finding that so much more made sense about him now. She understood why, the night they met, he had been
trying to get away from the ballroom and felt a bit cramped in the crowds. If he was used to being alone in this house, his only
true friend, the butler, it was a natural expression.

Henry moved toward her now, urging her to drink the tea she had ignored so far. She thanked him and took the tea, drinking it
thirstily as she looked down at her notes.

Pity swirled in her stomach, a sadness for the man sat opposite her, whom she barely knew, but now had been given a glimpse
into his heart.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words escaping her fast.

“Don’t pity me, please, and do not apologize,” he said with sudden firmness that captivated her. “What I want from this story is
for people to understand, not to pity. Good God, if I have to go to events of the ton with people coming up to meet saying
words of pity, I think I’ll happily retreat back here to this house and live alone.”

“My lord,” Henry murmured.

“You know what I mean.” He waved the objection away. “All I want is not to be looked at as if I am the devil incarnate.”

“I understand,” Becca assured him.

“I know that with what I have told you, you may wish for no association with my story.” He held her gaze now, not once
looking away. He hesitated, and in that silence, they both breathed deeply.

She wondered absentmindedly if he felt as she did, that every time he looked at her, he wanted to be alone, if he wanted to be
in her arms again, that this mere proximity to one another was having a physical effect on his body. Her palms were clammy,
her heartbeat stuttered.

“Why would I want no association with you?” she asked slowly, finding her voice at last.

“For I imagine there will always be some who will refuse to believe it. They’ll believe their own version of the gossip,
instead of the truth. It may mean some will lambast the name, Mr. Reginal Baxter.”

“Well, if that’s the case…” She paused and smiled. “I can always get a new pseudonym if they turn against this one.”

His own smile appeared suddenly, clearly startled by her attitude. She was quite happy to risk the integrity of one pseudonym if
it meant helping out a man who was now a prisoner in his own home thanks to gossip alone.
“I will happily tell your story, my lord.” She closed up her notebook, knowing she did not need to look over the particulars
now. “But it will take time. We’d have to meet multiple times to discuss your life and your father’s. Could you bear my
company for so many meetings?”

“I daresay I could,” he said with a mischievous smile on his lips. She matched that look, feeling excitement brewing in her
stomach. “I can pay you for your writing as well. How does a hundred pounds sound?”

Becca dropped the teacup in her grasp. It happened so swiftly that she had no chance of catching the cup. It slipped out of her
hand, knocked her knee, and then fell to the rug, where it fortunately didn’t break but rolled away and spilled tea.

“I…I’m so sorry.” She bent down to retrieve it, but Henry beat her to it. He was already on his knees, mopping up the mess and
collecting the cup. Before she could phrase the apology again, he found another cup, poured out fresh tea, and pushed it back
into her grasp. “You trust me with another cup?”

“We’ll take the risk,” Henry said with a glint in his own eye. “I think you startled her with your offer, my lord.”

“A hundred pounds is far too much. Way above what I was expecting!” she declared with vigor. “You should save your money,
my lord. Do not spend it on me.”

“I gladly will,” he said with such heat that she was glad Henry’s attention was taken with by mopping up the tea, so only she
could see Lord Lancaster’s expression. “I will spend anything it takes to set the record straight, and at least now, you’ll be able
to spend dedicated time on the work, will you not?”

“Yes. Yes, I will,” she assured him. “Then, you would be happy for me to return tomorrow?”

“Happily.” Lord Lancaster smiled and looked at his butler. “Bring more teacups tomorrow, Henry,” he teased. “We might need
them.”

Becca kept staring at the baron as Henry stood and walked away with his dirtied handkerchief. She could have sworn for a
minute that he didn’t want to look at anything but her. Those dark eyes didn’t blink; they didn’t hesitate or flick away, but stared
right at her. She breathed deeply, and with the rising of her chest, it appeared to break the spell. His eyes flitted down to her
chest, then he jerked his head away.

There is an attraction there. I am sure of it!

He cleared his throat and stood. Clearly their interview was over for the day.

“Until tomorrow,” he said, his voice abruptly cool compared to the warmth it had held a few moments before.

“Until tomorrow,” she said, standing and curtseying to him. When he bowed, she stood straight, her eyebrows shooting up.
“You should not feel a need to bow to me, my lord. I am but a humble writer.”

“And a lady still,” he remarked simply. The way he said the words made a blush rise to her cheeks. She may have walked into
that room feeling as if they were from entirely different worlds, but as she left, there didn’t seem to be so great a distance
between her and Lord Lancaster after all.
***

William stood in the window of the parlor, staring out at the track which led from his front door to the London road beyond.
Miss Thornton walked along the track, her bonnet pulled close around her ears and her spencer jacket tight across her back.
The bottom of her gown was frayed a little, and she tugged at the gown to allow herself to walk freely, revealing that her boots
were old, too.

“I know she is perhaps not of the class you pictured for a writer—” Henry began from across the room, but William shook his
head urgently.

“Do not think such a thing,” William pleaded. “God’s wounds, Henry, I have read Mr. Baxter’s articles for months now.
They’re always my favorites. You think I am going to think the worst of someone because they come from a different class to
me? Pfft, hardly.”

He scoffed at the idea. Some of his dearest friends throughout his life had been from a different position to his own. Henry was
his dearest friend now, and as a small boy, his closest friend was the stable boy. Strangely, the discovery of that had outraged
his father, but not his mother.

His mother had always encouraged William to find a kind soul wherever he looked and a possible friend. His father, George,
in contrast, seemed to want to distance himself from anyone poorer than himself as much as possible.

It must have been his resentment of his own past. Perhaps he hated the manner of his birth.

“She is…intriguing,” William murmured, still watching Miss Thornton as she left down the track.

“She’s a beauty.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you were thinking.”

“I do not remember asking to be analyzed, Henry,” William said with a laugh, glancing back to see his friend sat nearby,
shrugging and holding back his own laugh. “Yes, yes, I know she is beautiful. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“Of course, you weren’t.” Henry’s dry tone showed he clearly didn’t believe him.

William held back further words.

How could I not think about her in such a way?

It wasn’t just beauty that captivated him. It was the way she talked, the way she looked at him, and the fact that she had this
great secret all of her own. She’d carved out a career in a world that did not want her. When no one declared a wish to read a
female writer, she had challenged them as if she were Mary Wollstonecraft, Miss Radcliffe, or Miss Austen. The admiration
that had stirred before now grew tenfold.
A little way down the track, she hesitated and pulled at the hem of her gown, lifting it enough so she could reach down to her
boot, for her laces had come undone. She didn’t wear stockings, and the flash of bare skin made William’s heart race. He
turned his back on the window, unable to look at her anymore without indulging in scandalous thoughts.

“What was that you were saying about thinking of her purely as a writer?” Henry teased him from across the room, clearly
having seen his expression.

“Haven’t you caused enough mischief for one day?”

***

“Becca?”

She froze in the doorway of the house, her hands clutching the reticule in her grasp as her father’s voice echoed through the
house.

“Is that you?”

“I’m here, Father.” She tried to keep her voice as level as possible, not wanting him to know about her meeting at that moment,
the excitement and the nervousness of it. Creeping toward the nearest open door, she looked into their small sitting room where
her father sat.

It was his day off from work. Rather than at work in his lawyer’s office in Covent Garden, he was sat in a small armchair by
the fire, reading a paper that rested on his lap.

“Where have you been?” he asked jovially. “Enjoying the weather?” His teasing made her smile, for the bitter wind outside
was rattling their old windows.

“Just for a walk. I went to see Charlotte in the print house.”

“Ah, very good.” He nodded approvingly and held up one of the papers on the table beside him. It was the Sanders’
Periodical. “I love your latest. As always.”

“Thank you, Father.” She walked further into the room, smiling and taking the paper from him. When she had first written an
article under a pseudonym, she hadn’t told him, but in the end, she’d had nothing to fear. After she eventually told him the truth,
he was delighted that she had found a way to be herself and still write, despite their friends’ disapproval.

I could tell him about the commission.

Yet her stomach knotted at the mere thought, and she fought against the idea. This wasn’t like writing an article in a small paper
about everyday things observed on the street, a caricature and humorous portrayal of the world. Far from it! She was to step
into the world of the ton and offer a reveal on two gentlemen’s most inner secrets of their lives.

He would not approve.

His general dislike of the way the ton worked made it all the worse. She chewed her lip as she took the paper, imagining the
furor that would overtake him, shocking him out of his generally quiet manner.

“Is all well, love?” he said warmly, resting his other paper on his lap and peering at her over his spectacles. His face was
more lined these days, marking the fact that he was getting older.

“Yes, Father,” she said, trying to keep all concern out of her voice. “Just a little tired after the walk, that is all.”

“I’m not surprised. This wind is enough to make anyone tremble and want to hide inside.” He put upon a shudder. “Go warm
yourself up. I’ll arrange for some luncheon for us with Franny.”

“Thank you.” She left the room, leaving the periodical behind her. She hesitated in the doorway, glancing back at her father,
though he didn’t appear to notice it, his mind elsewhere.

She could still remember the last time he had worked with a gentleman of the ton, how he had marched up and down this room
with anger in his every step.

“They cannot be trusted. Not one of them!”

She turned her back and hurried out of the room, not wanting to run into their cook, Franny, for the lady had a habit of reading
Becca’s emotions on her face.

She took refuge in her chamber instead and hurriedly found some paper, setting up her ink bottle and a fresh quill. Far from
writing out her notes, she wrote a letter instead, addressing it to Charlotte.

My dearest Charlotte,

Such a thing has happened this morning, I scarcely know how to begin! Suffice it to say the commission I have
been offered by this gentleman could change much indeed, but before I go any further, I need your advice.

She went on to describe Lord Lancaster’s situation and what both she and Mr. Fitzwilliam hoped for from her writing. Then,
she turned the matter of the letter to another.

I long to accept this commission. I’d be a fool to deny the fact I hope for the fame such a piece could give me. It
could open the door for further opportunities for my writing. Such things as dreams are made on! Yet there are
complications.

You know how my father feels about the ton after his own incidents with gentlemen of titles. If he were to ever
discover it, do you think he would be pleased? Or fearful?

There is another matter as well in which I am concerned. Oh, my dearest Charlotte, I met Lord Lancaster that
night at the assembly. To my shame, I danced with him. I talked to him, and I allowed myself to be charmed by
him, not knowing he was a titled man, and he certainly had no knowledge I was but the poor daughter of a town
lawyer.
 I cannot deny the fact that after seeing him again, I know what I felt for him that night was no rush of excitement
from the wine or being at an assembly. It was a depth of feeling, an attraction to a man who is completely
beyond my reach.

Is It wise for me to agree to this commission when spending more time with him could be so dangerous for my
heart? God forbid, if I was to form an attachment to the gentleman, what then?

I pray to have your advice soon. Write back to me when you can.

Your friend,

Becca

She finished the letter with a flourish and sealed it hurriedly, melting the short and cheap stick of red wax she had onto the
envelope, then leaving it to dry. With the letter done, she pushed it away and sighed, sitting back in her chair and closing her
eyes. In that darkness, she saw Lord Lancaster smiling at her and then saw wonder in his eyes.

“Oh no, what am I getting myself into?”

Chapter 7

“Miss Becca? A letter has arrived for you.”

“Ah, thank you.” Becca tried not to look too excited at the breakfast table as she turned in her seat to Fanny, who had just
walked in. She was the one member of staff they had at the small house with them, though her daughter occasionally came to
help with cleaning the house when needed.

As Fanny set down a plate of mutton for breakfast, she passed the letter to Becca, her brow furrowing when she clearly saw
Becca reaching for the letter eagerly.

“Is all well, Miss Becca?”

“Yes, thank you.” Becca took the letter and placed it down beside her plate, as if she was not so interested in reading it
anymore.

“From Charlotte, is it?” her father asked from the head of the table. Once more, Frederick’s face had disappeared behind the
newspaper he was reading. “You two write to one another often, don’t you? You should see what my clerk says to such a thing.
Two ladies writing to one another? One from a print house, the other my daughter.” He put upon a pretend horrified shudder.
“You’d think the walls of hell were coming up to enclose us!”

Becca laughed warmly.

“You work with some people who have odd opinions.”

“I quite agree.” He nodded, lowering the paper enough for her to see his wrinkled face. “I went on at length about how useful it
would be for my daughter to be able to read and write. I think I would have had more success persuading a brick wall than
him.”

“Pah! You probably would have done.”

“Nowt as odd as folk,” Franny said from the other end of the table as she adjusted some of the cold meats and fresh bread on
the table, her Yorkshire accent shining through. “People like to give their opinion, even when it is not asked for.”

“That they do,” Frederick agreed. “Especially if they disagree with something.”

Becca reached for her letter again, itching to read it. She hadn’t looked properly at the address before putting it down, so she
had no idea if it was from Charlotte or perhaps Lord Lancaster, asking her to come back for another meeting. When Franny’s
eyes shot toward her, she released the letter and pretended to be reaching for her cup of tea instead.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Franny said, moving to the doorway. Still, she glanced back more than once at Becca before she
disappeared. The moment the door shut behind her, Becca snatched up the letter and broke the seal, eager to read.

Frederick chuckled at her movements but made no comment and returned to his paper.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Meine
Erinnerungen aus Ostafrika
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Meine Erinnerungen aus Ostafrika

Author: Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck

Release date: October 14, 2023 [eBook #71877]

Language: German

Original publication: Leipzig: Verlag von K. F. Koehler, 1920

Credits: Peter Becker, Reiner Ruf, and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEINE

ERINNERUNGEN AUS OSTAFRIKA ***
 Anmerkungen zur Transkription
Der vorliegende Text wurde anhand der Buchausgabe von 1920 so weit wie möglich
originalgetreu wiedergegeben. Typographische Fehler wurden stillschweigend korrigiert.
Ungewöhnliche und heute nicht mehr verwendete Schreibweisen bleiben gegenüber dem
Original unverändert; fremdsprachliche Ausdrücke wurden nicht korrigiert. Wortvarianten,
insbesondere bei Ortsnamen, wurden nicht vereinheitlicht.
Die Fußnoten wurden an das Ende des jeweiligen Abschnitts versetzt. Der
Übersichtlichkeit halber erscheinen die Buchanzeigen am Ende dieses Buches.
Das Original wurde in Frakturschrift gesetzt. Passagen in Antiquaschrift werden hier
kursiv wiedergegeben. Abhängig von der im jeweiligen Lesegerät installierten Schriftart
können die im Original g e s p e r r t gedruckten Passagen gesperrt, in serifenloser Schrift,
oder aber sowohl serifenlos als auch gesperrt erscheinen.
Deutsche Denkwürdigkeiten
K. F. Koehler, Verlag, Leipzig. Druck Meissner &
Buch, Leipzig
 Meine Erinnerungen
aus Ostafrika
von

General von Lettow-Vorbeck

Leipzig
Verlag von K. F. Koehler
1920
Copyright by K. F. Koehler, Verlag. 1920

Spamersche Buchdruckerei in Leipzig

 Vorwort

Ü berall regte sich in den erst wenige Jahrzehnte alten deutschen

Kolonien verheißungsvolles Leben. Wir fingen an, den Wert
unseres kolonialen Besitzes für unser Volk zu begreifen; Ansiedler
und Kapital wagten sich herbei, Eisenbahnen entwickelten die
weiten Gebiete, Industrien und Fabriken blühten empor. Im Vergleich
zu anderen Völkern hat sich die deutsche Kolonisation friedlich und
stetig vollzogen, und die Eingeborenen hatten Vertrauen zu der
Gerechtigkeit der deutschen Verwaltung. Kaum begonnen ist diese
Entwicklung durch den Weltkrieg vernichtet worden. Trotz aller
handgreiflichen Gegenbeweise will ein unberechtigter Lügenfeldzug
der Welt vorspiegeln, daß die Deutschen ohne koloniale Begabung
und grausam gegen die Eingeborenen gewesen wären.
Eine kleine, wesentlich aus diesen Eingeborenen gebildete
Truppe hat sich dem Verlust entgegengestemmt. Fast ohne äußere
Zwangsmittel, sogar ohne sofortige Bezahlung hielt sie mit ihrem
zahlreichen Eingeborenentroß treu zu ihren deutschen Führern
während des ganzen langen Krieges gegen mehr als hundertfache
Übermacht. Als der Waffenstillstand kam, stand sie schlagfertig da,
von bestem soldatischem Geiste beseelt. Das ist eine Tatsache, an
der sich nicht rütteln läßt und die allein schon die Unhaltbarkeit der
feindlichen Entstellungen beweist.
Den Kampf der Schutztruppe für Deutsch-Ostafrika erschöpfend
zu schildern, war mir nicht möglich. Das vorhandene Material läßt es
nicht zu, vieles ist verloren gegangen, und noch jetzt fehlt mir die
Kenntnis mancher Ereignisse, deren Träger noch nicht in die Heimat
zurückgekehrt sind. Meine eigenen Aufzeichnungen sind zum
großen Teil verloren, und es fehlte mir die Muße, neben meiner
sonstigen Tätigkeit den Feldzug in Ostafrika eingehend zu
bearbeiten. So kann ich nur Unvollkommenes liefern. Im
wesentlichen bin ich auf mein Gedächtnis angewiesen und auf das,
was ich selbst erlebt habe. Irrtümer im einzelnen sind unvermeidlich.
Aber trotzdem dürften die folgenden Schilderungen nicht wertlos
sein, und vielleicht auch nicht ohne Interesse. Zeigen sie doch, wie
sich unser bisher größtes koloniales Ereignis im Kopfe dessen
abgespielt hat, der zu der militärischen Führung berufen war. Ich
habe mich bemüht, meine Erinnerungen aus Ostafrika so
wiederzugeben, wie sie wirklich sind, und so wenigstens subjektiv
Richtiges zu bieten.
 Inhaltsverzeichnis
Erstes Buch
Die Ereignisse bis zum Eintreffen der Südwest-
Afrikaner
Erster Abschnitt: Vo r K r i e g s b e g i n n 3
Gedanken über Aufgaben und Zweck der Schutztruppe. Die
Verteidigungsmöglichkeiten der Kolonie in ihren Einzelheiten.
Verteilung, Bewaffnung und Ausbildung der Truppe. Militärische
Verwendung und Gesinnung der Eingeborenen. Wirtschaftlicher Wert
des Landes und Wirtschaftspflege der Eingeborenen. Pferdezucht
und Jagd. Mehrere Besichtigungsreisen. Nationale Propaganda der
späteren feindlichen Missionen in den angrenzenden Gebieten.
Zweiter Abschnitt: D e r Beginn des Krieges 16
Eintreffen der Nachricht der Mobilmachung. Teilnahme am Kriege
oder Neutralität? Die Stärke der Schutztruppe und die englischen
Kriegsverluste. Der englische Konsul und seine Tätigkeit. Der
Gouverneur der Kolonie, die oberste militärische Gewalt und die
Verteidigung der Küstenplätze. Vorbereitungen der Mobilisation.
Etappenwesen, Nachschub und Verpflegung. Sanitätswesen und
Malaria.
Dritter Abschnitt: D i e ersten Kämpfe 24
Beschießung des Funkenturmes in Daressalam.
Übergabeverhandlungen von seiten der Zivilbehörden. „Königsberg“
und „Möve“. Einnahme von Taveta. Die Verschiebung der
Hauptmacht nach der Nordbahn. Neue Telegraphenverbindungen.
Beschießung von Bagamojo. Gegen die britische Ugandabahn.
Angriffe auf Britisch-Karunga am Nyassasee. Kleinkrieg im Norden.
Vierter Abschnitt: D i e Novemberkämpfe bei 31
Ta n g a
Erkundungen bei Tanga. Ein englisches Landungskorps erscheint.
Konzentration aller verfügbaren Truppen. Erste Gefechte bei Ras
Kasone. Aufklärung im verlassenen Tanga. Die Umgebung des
voraussichtlichen Gefechtsfeldes. Die Aufstellung der Kompagnien.
Die feindliche Landung. Der Angriff. Die ungünstige Lage der
Verteidiger. Der Gegenstoß der Verstärkungstruppe. Kopflose Flucht
des Feindes. Mißglücken der Verfolgung. Störung des Feindes am
Landungsplatz. Die ungeheueren englischen Verluste. „Die
dressierten Bienen.“ Verhandlung über Auslieferung der
Verwundeten. Die große Beute. Die eigenen Verluste. In den
Lazaretten. Die gleichzeitigen Ereignisse am Longidoberge.
Fünfter Abschnitt: I n der Erwartung weiterer
Ereignisse 43
Rückverlegung der Truppen nach Neu-Moschi. Der Dienstbetrieb
beim Kommando. Auto und Träger im Wettbewerb.
Erkundungsfahrten im Auto. Die Verpflegung und der Nachschub.
Die Etappenstraßen. Arbeitslast und Arbeitsfreudigkeit. Die reichliche
Verpflegung. Der ausgehungerte Oberleutnant.
Sonntagsjägervergnügen. Die Fleischversorgung der Truppe.
Sechster Abschnitt: W e i t e r e schwere Kämpfe
im Nordosten 50
Vorrücken feindlicher Kräfte bei Jassini. Erkundung des Geländes für
einen möglichen Kampf. Vormarsch deutscher Kompagnien gegen
die englischen Stellungen. Überraschung und Umzinglung des
verschanzten Feindes. Das schlechtkämpfende Araberkorps. Tapfere
Verteidigung des Feindes. Schwierige Lage der Angreifer. Der Feind
zeigt die weiße Fahne. Abmarsch zur Nordbahn.
Siebenter Abschnitt: K l e i n k r i e g und neue
Zurüstungen 56
Notwendigkeit der Schonung von Menschen und Material. Die
Fürsorge für die Verwundeten. Ein Funkspruch aus der Heimat.
Streifen in der Longidogegend. „A damned good piece of work.“
Bahnzerstörungspatrouillen. Leiden und Tod in der Steppe. Ankunft
eines Hilfsschiffes. Fieberhafte Herstellung von Munition. Ein Vorstoß
am Oldoroboberge. Rohstoffüberfluß und Mangel an Fertigfabrikaten.
 Neue Industrien zum Ersatz des Fehlenden. Wegebau. Ausbau der
Truppe an Größe und Gefechtswert.
Achter Abschnitt: I n Erwartung der großen
Offensive; energische Ausnutzung der noch
z u r Ve r f ü g u n g s t e h e n d e n Z e i t 65
Feindliche Massai greifen am Viktoriasee an. Die „Königsberg“ im
Rufiji. Ihr rühmliches Ende. Ein neuer Erfolg am Kilimandjaro.
Hartnäckige Angriffe gegen die englische Bahn. Vorstoß gegen das
englische Lager am Kasigao und seine Besetzung. Schutzmaßregeln
des Feindes gegen unsere Bahnzerstörungen. Gefechte im Busch.
Gedanken über die Möglichkeit des Widerstandes bei Angriff großer
feindlicher Truppenmassen. Vorbereitungen für einen Rückzug nach
Süden. Abtransport von Material. Zähes Halten der Stellung am
Oldorobo. Der neue „Mungu“.
Neunter Abschnitt: K l e i n k r i e g z u Wa s s e r u n d
zu Lande bis zur Jahreswende 1915–16 74
Die eigenen und die feindlichen Streitkräfte an den Grenzen der
Kolonie. Schwierigkeit der Truppenbewegungen innerhalb des
Schutzgebietes. Die Ereignisse an der Küste. Kleine Gefechte im
Ssonjogebiet. Dauernde Kämpfe östlich und westlich des
Viktoriasees. Die Ereignisse in Ruanda, am Kiwusee. An der
Russissigrenze. Land- und Wassergefechte im Gebiet des
Tanganjikasees. Das Gebiet um Bismarckburg. Am Nyassasee.

Zweites Buch
Der konzentrische Angriff der Übermacht
(Vom Eintreffen der südafrikanischen Truppen bis zum Übertritt
über die Grenzen)
Erster Abschnitt: F e i n d l i c h e r Vo r s t o ß a m
Oldoroboberge 89
Mehrfaches Vordrücken des Feindes. Die phantastischen
Panzerautomobile. Der Artilleriekampf. Die südafrikanischen
Truppen. Angebliche feindliche Grausamkeitsbefehle. Verstärkung
des Feindes am Longido. Im Kampf gegen eine Inderpatrouille. Die
 vornehme Gesinnung der weißen Offiziere. Unsere braven Askari
und die Irreführung der Engländer.
Zweiter Abschnitt: Vo r r ü c k e n des Feindes und
Kampf bei Reata 92
Spione an der Arbeit. Die Wege des feindlichen Vormarsches.
Abwehrmöglichkeiten. Der Feind greift am Kitovo an. Die feste
Stellung in der Linie Reata–Kitovo. Das „Königsberggeschütz“.
Erkundung feindlicher Kavallerie. Feindlicher Angriff und
Umzinglungsversuch. Einnahme neuer Verteidigungsstellungen.
Rückzug des Feindes nach Taveta. Nach dem Kampf. Neues
Vorfühlen des Feindes. Beim Kommando in Neu-Steglitz. Ein zweites
Hilfsschiff.
Dritter Abschnitt: Z u r ü c k w e i c h e n vor
übermächtiger feindlicher Bedrängung 102
Pläne und Erwägungen. Eifrige feindliche Erkundungsversuche.
Vorbereitungen zum Kampf. Vorstoß auf den feindlichen
Patrouillenschleier. Schwere Verluste. Neue starke Angriffe des
Feindes (am 21. März). Mißlingen des Gegenangriffes. Eine
Alarmmeldung: der Feind im Rücken. Rückzug nach Kissangire. Die
Alarmmeldung erweist sich als falsch. Die gute Stimmung der
Truppe. Die Lage der Zivilbevölkerung. Kampf und Kapitulation der
28. Kompagnie bei Lokisale (5. April). Heranschaffen von
Hilfstruppen. Konzentration der Truppen zur Zentralbahn.
Vierter Abschnitt: D a s Vo r g e h e n d e s F e i n d e s
im Gebiete der Nordbahn 111
Abfahrt nach Korogwe. In Handeni. Nachrichten aus Deutschland.
Die Hindernisse des Weitermarsches. Der angeschwollene Fluß. Zu
Pferde und mit der Feldbahn nach Kimamba. Erkundung südlich von
Kondoa. Etappenwesen und Intendantur. Fühlung mit dem Feinde. In
Stellung. Der Feind scheint seine Stellungen zu räumen. Ein
unerwartetes Nachtgefecht. Schwere eigene Verluste. Günstige
Patrouillenunternehmungen. Artillerieduelle. Die Beschaffung von
Verpflegung aus dem Lande. Ein mißlungener feindlicher Vorstoß.
Fünfter Abschnitt: Z w i s c h e n Nordbahn und
Zentralbahn 121
Vordringen des Feindes an der gesamten Nordfront. Gleichzeitige
Angriffe von Südwesten her. Ausweichen und Umklammern. Auf der
 Suche nach der schwächsten Stelle des Gegners. Der schneidige
englische Patrouillenführer. Erhöhte Fliegertätigkeit beim Feinde.
Weiteres Vorrücken des Generals van Deventer nach Süden.
Widerstand schwacher deutscher Kräfte auf langer Linie. Kämpfe in
der Nähe der Zentralbahn. Erkundungen. Heftige Gefechte mit dem
vordringenden Gegner. Am Wamifluß.
Sechster Abschnitt: D a u e r n d e Kämpfe in der
Nähe des Rufiji 129
Feindliche Angriffe aus dem Südwesten. Was wird der Feind tun? Ein
feindlicher Umzinglungsversuch. Das Gefecht bei Mlali. Rückzug
nach Kissaki. Die moralischen Wirkungen unseres Rückzuges. Die
„Boma“ von Kissaki. Sicherung unserer Rindviehbestände.
Feindliche Niederlage am 7. September. Vernichtung einer zweiten
feindlichen Abteilung. Deutsche Menschlichkeit — englischer Dank.
Ein überraschender Vorstoß bei Dutumi (9. September). Dutumi muß
aufgegeben werden.
Siebenter Abschnitt: F e i n d l i c h e Angriffe im
Südosten der Kolonie 138
Unsere ungünstige Lage bei Kilwa. Vergebliche feindliche Angriffe
bei Kissangire. Flußpferde und Elefanten als Fettlieferanten. In
Mpaganja. Der heimgeleuchtete Miesmacher. Vormarsch auf
Kissangire. Die verirrte Patrouille. Erfolge bei Kissangire. Die
Portugiesen bei Newala geschlagen. Im Lager von Utete. In fester
Stellung bei Kibata. Artilleristische Vorbereitungen. Die Wirkung der
schweren Granaten. Ein mißlungener Infanterieangriff. Die
militärische Lage Ende 1916. Starke feindliche Angriffe bei Dutumi
und Kissaki. Ein mißlungener feindlicher Umgehungsversuch.
Achter Abschnitt: S o r g e n und Bedrängnisse
während des Aufenthaltes im Rufijigebiet 151
Der Marsch durch die Kissiberge. Lager bei Ungwara. Die Truppen
auf Irrwegen. Unnütze Esser. Maßnahmen gegen den drohenden
Verpflegungsmangel. Die Verringerung des Trägerpersonals.
Herabsetzung der Rationen. Widerstände. Die Askarifrauen. Der
Mais als Retter in der Not. Eine Intendanturabteilung für Verpflegung.
Kleine Gefechte im Busch bei Ungwara. Das Einsetzen der
Regenzeit. Maßnahmen zum Schutz der Frauen und Kinder.
Weiterzug der Truppe nach Süden.
160
Neunter Abschnitt: D a s Ende der
Grenzenverteidigung auf den
Nebenschauplätzen
Am Ruhudje- und Ruahafluß. Ein feindlicher Angriff und plötzliches
Abbrechen desselben. Der Irrtum des Feindes. Kapitulation des
Majors v. Grawert. Teilung der Truppen des Generals Wahle. Der
Marsch auf Tabora. Zurück zum Kilimandjaro. Der Marsch des Majors
Kraut zum Rowuma. Verpflegungsschwierigkeiten und
Zukunftspläne. Auf reichem portugiesischem Gebiet. Patrouillen
gegen Kilwa. Eine schwere Niederlage des Feindes. Versuche mit
Brotersatz. Primitive Stiefelherstellung. Die krähenden Hähne. Salz,
Fett und Zucker. Das Sanitätswesen. „Lettowschnaps.“ Verbandzeug.
Operationen mit primitiven Mitteln.
Zehnter Abschnitt: U m Lindi und Kilwa 167
Umschau nach einer neuen Verpflegungsbasis. Erkundungen im
portugiesischen Gebiet über den Rowuma. Gefechte bei Kilwa. Die
Lage des Sanitätswesens. Um das deutsche Lager bei Lutende.
Eiliger Weitermarsch in die Berge von Ruawa. Die Erlebnisse der
Abteilung Lieberman in der Landschaft von Ndessa. Ein kaiserlicher
Gruß aus der Heimat. Feindliche Parlamentärspione. Ein feindlicher
Angriff bei Narunju. Die Fliegerbombe im Dynamitlager. Sammlung
der Nichtkombattanten in der Mission Ndanda.
Elfter Abschnitt: I n der Südostecke der
Kolonie 185
Konzentrischer Vormarsch des Feindes. Bei Ruponda und Likangara.
Unsicherheit beim Gegner. Gerüchte. Das Gefecht bei Mahiwa. Ein
glänzender Sieg. Änderung des Angriffsplanes. Die Taktik des
feindlichen Führers. Das Ende des Kampfes. Die Verluste und die
Beute. Ein neues Gefecht bei Lukuledi. Kleinkrieg.
Zwölfter Abschnitt: D i e letzten Wochen auf
deutschem Boden 193
Rücksprache mit dem Gouverneur. Erwägungen. Abmarsch von
Lukuledi. Kleinere Gefechte im Busch. Der Munitionsmangel und
seine Folgen. Dauerndes Vorrücken des Feindes bis Chiwata. Unser
Ausweichen auf Nambindinga. Pläne zur freiwilligen Beschränkung
der Truppenstärke. Auf dem Makondehochland. Wasser- und
 Verpflegungsmangel. Wohin? Neuordnung der Truppe in Newala. Die
feindliche Patrouille und ihr Brief. Außer Sicht des Feindes.

Drittes Buch
Kämpfe auf fremder Erde
(Vom Übertritt nach Portugiesisch-Ostafrika bis zum
Waffenstillstand)
Erster Abschnitt: Ü b e r den Rowuma 207
Flußübergang. Das feindliche Lager bei Ngomano. Sturm auf die
portugiesische Befestigung. Der „Tag der alten Gewehre“. Reiche
Beute. Weitermarsch den Ludjenda aufwärts. Auf der Suche nach
Verpflegung. Ein durchsichtiges feindliches Angebot. Nachricht von
der Kapitulation des Hauptmanns Tafel. Teilung der Truppe.
Reibungen und Unannehmlichkeiten. Einnahme mehrerer
portugiesischer Lager. Heldentat des Leutnants Kempner. Bei
Nangware. Büffelfett und Waldesfrüchte. Reiche Verpflegung bei
Chirumba. Patrouillen. Anmarsch des Feindes. Plänkeleien.
Feindliche Einflüsterungen. Neuer Mut und neues Vertrauen.
Zweiter Abschnitt: Ö s t l i c h des
Ludjendaflusses 223
Verpflegungsfragen. Im Regen. Tabakversorgung. Bei Nanungu. Der
Bau von Pontonbooten. Patrouillen über den Msalufluß. Nachrichten
von den Ereignissen in Europa. Kampfpause. Patrouillen bis zur
Küste. Das kostbare Porischwein. Neuer feindlicher Aufmarsch.
Dauernde Plänkeleien. Gegen den Feind am Kirekaberge. Ein
Buschgefecht. Eine irrtümliche Meldung und ihre Folgen. Die
beiderseitigen Verluste in den letzten Gefechten. Erfolge des
Hauptmanns Koehl. Weitermarsch zum Koromaberge. Ein Überfall.
Der Gouverneur in Gefahr. Unangenehme Verluste.
Dritter Abschnitt: I m Gebiet des Lurio- und
Likungoflusses 237
Auf dem Wege nach Koriwa. Die Kranken und Verwundeten. Lager
am Lurio. Abteilung Müller nimmt die Boma Malema. Anmarsch
feindlicher Truppen von mehreren Seiten. In einem reichen Lande.
Die Vorsichtsmaßregeln des Generals Edwards. Kampf im Busch.
Weitermarsch auf Alto-Moloque. Die Apfelsinenboma. Dauernde
 Patrouillengefechte. Die Station Nampepo und andere
Niederlassungen. Am Likungofluß. Reiche Beute. Das
Schätzungsvermögen der Eingeborenen.
Vierter Abschnitt: W e i t e r m a r s c h in südlicher
Richtung 247
Wo ist die feindliche Munition gestapelt? Auf der Suche. Das
Hindernis der langen Marschkolonnen. Kokosani-Namakurra. Über
den Likungo. Ein Erfolg bei Namakurra. Der verschanzte Bahnhof.
Artillerievorbereitung und Sturm. Flucht des Feindes über den
Namakurrafluß. Die Verluste hüben und drüben. Willkommene Beute
an Verpflegung und Munition.
Fünfter Abschnitt: W i e d e r nach Norden zum
Namirruefluß 254
Hindernisse für den Weitermarsch nach Süden. Die feindlichen
Operationen und die eigenen Pläne. Zurück über den Likungo.
Marsch in mehreren Parallelkolonnen. Eine merkwürdige Kriegslage.
Auf der Suche nach Beute. Bei Ociva. Die englischen und die
portugiesischen Gefangenen. Einnahme der Boma Tipa. Marsch
nach Namirrue. Erkundung der feindlichen Felsenbergstellung. Ein
neuer Feind taucht auf. Ein siegreiches Nachtgefecht gegen ihn. Das
Wirrwarr der feindlichen Kolonnen. Vergebliche Verfolgung des
fliehenden Feindes. Der Minenwerfer und seine Wirkung. Sturm auf
den Felsenberg. Abmarsch nach Pekera. Ruhepause im Lager von
Chalau.
Sechster Abschnitt: Z u r ü c k zum Luriofluß 264
Bei Chalau. Ein englischer Parlamentär. Der Anmarsch des Feindes.
Abmarsch über den Ligonja. In Ili. Marsch nach Numarroe.
Brotbereitung für die Gefangenen. Ein Frühstück im Busch. Die
Boma Numarroe. Ein Erfolg der Abteilung Goering. Die Einnahme
der Boma. Die beiderseitigen Verluste. Weiter über die Berge nach
Regone. Plänkeleien. Was wird weiter? Heftige Kämpfe bei Lioma.
Schwere Verluste. Keine Aussicht auf einen größeren Erfolg. Weiter
nach Norden. Durcheinander der Abteilungen. Ein schwieriger
Marsch durch die Berge. Am Lurio. Schlechter Gesundheitszustand
der Truppe. Beiderseitige schwere Verluste. Die Influenzaepidemie.
Siebenter Abschnitt: N o c h einmal auf
deutschem Boden 278
 Schneller Abmarsch nach Norden. Über den Ludjenda. Ein Ruhetag
bei Mwembe. Feindliche Kundschaftung. Aufklärung durch
Fernpatrouillen. Nach Ssongea. Das Heimweh des Samarunga. Die
Mission Pangire. Wechsel der Marschrichtung. Ernste Nachrichten
aus Europa. In der Mission Mbozi. Patrouillenmeldungen.
Achter Abschnitt: E i n m a r s c h in Britisch-
Rhodesien 283
Auf dem Marsche nach Fife. Der Feind in seiner verschanzten
Stellung. Erfolglose Beschießung und Weitermarsch.
Patrouillengefechte. Reiche Chininbeute. Kartenstudium. In
Eilmärschen nach Rhodesien hinein. Missionsstation Kajambi und
ihre ängstlichen Bewohner. Einnahme von Kasama. Eingeborene
plündern auf englische Anordnung. Weiter auf den Zambesi zu.
Neunter Abschnitt: W a f f e n s t i l l s t a n d und
Heimkehr 289
Der verirrte englische Motorfahrer. Waffenstillstand. Mit dem Fahrrad
zur Zambesifähre. Die Bedingungen des Waffenstillstandes.
Besprechung mit dem britischen Kommissionar. Die Lage in
Deutschland. Der Waffenstillstand und die Lage unserer Truppe.
Entlassung der Gefangenen. Schwierigkeiten bei der Entlöhnung der
Askari. Marsch nach Abercorn. „Übergabe“ und „Räumung“. Bei
General Edwards. Waffenabgabe. Nutzloser Widerstand gegen die
englische Auslegung der Abmachungen. Zu Schiff nach Kigoma.
Belgische Gastfreundschaft. Mit der Bahn nach Daressalam.
Internierung. Die Grippe und ihre Opfer. Die treuen Askari.
Bemühungen zum Schutz des Privateigentums. Einschiffung zur
Heimat. Auf dem „Feldmarschall“. In Rotterdam und auf heimatlichem
Boden. Rückblick und Ausblick.