The Most Wonderful Earl of the Year: a

Christmas Regency standalone

romance (Headstrong Heroines
Standalone books) Sandra Sookoo
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 The Most Wonderful Earl of the Year
a Christmas standalone Regency romance
Sandra Sookoo

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the author. Likenesses of
characters to anyone living or dead is strictly a coincidence.

THE MOST WONDERFUL EARL OF THE YEAR © 2022 by Sandra Sookoo

Published by New Independence Books

ISBN- 9798201977252

Contact Information:
sandrasookoo@yahoo.com
newindependencebooks@gmail.com
Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com

Book Cover Design Forever After Romance Designs

Publishing History:
First Digital Edition, 2022

Contents
Dear Readers,
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Regency-era romances by Sandra Sookoo
Author Bio
Stay in Touch

Dear Readers,
Ever since I began my writing career back in 2008, crafting Christmas romances has been a fun little
hobby. Now, readers love my holiday romances so much they expect at least two every year. I’m
happy to provide them and more than one close friend/reader has dubbed me the “Queen of Christmas
romances.” I don’t know if that’s true, but I certainly love them. My favorite trope for these is the
second chance romance, which is what The Most Wonderful Earl of Year is.
I hope you enjoy this couple. They were interesting to write and very entertaining. Also, it wouldn’t
be a Christmas romance if I didn’t throw in a couple of tear-jerking scenes.
Happy reading!

Sandra
 Dedication
To Jeff Salter. Thanks for the support over the years and for enjoying my stories. Best wishes in your
future endeavors.
 Acknowledgement

It's always fun to "poll the audience" when writing a book to get a general feel of what readers like and to also make them a part of the
book's creation.

Thanks to the following friends on Facebook for answering the question of what a man would leave a woman at the altar:
Belinda Wiley Wilson
Ilene Bieleski
Sandie Liu Morehead
Donna Antonio
Jeff Salter
Debbie Kummoung
Kelly Price
Penny Elliott
Sandra F. Schehl
Amelia Hester
Donna Acosta
Tiffany Tinney Dwibhashyam
Gloria E. Trinidad-Tellez
Melanie Bryson Purcell
Robyn Porter
Eliza Lloyd
Dawn Roberto
Jen Bergmann
Gina Griffin Johnson
Sharon Villone Doucett
Kat Tolle
Mari Peterson
Patricia Way
AnnMarie Spiby
Cindy Bartolotta
Melissa MacKinnon
Carrie Burke
Jena Lang
Paula Shene
Meghan Lyndsey Ann Edwards
Roslynn Ernst
Lynne Connolly
Angie Eads
Linda J. Rahrig Burkhalter
Tana Hillman
Margaret Murray-Evans
Deanna Dent
Marina Bauman Leonard
Michelle Fidler
Roni Denholtz
Lori Cooper Lewis
Christie Kelley

And thank you to the following Facebook friends for spit balling fun Christmas activities:
Alison Pridie
Jessica Downing
Rachel E. Moniz
Morgan James
Jennifer Morin
Dorothy Callahan
Meghan Lyndsey Ann Edwards
Donna Antonio
Diana Lloyd
Marina Bauman Leonard
Marilyn Parry
Melanie Bryson Purcell
Judy Johnsen
 Blurb
Love at Christmastide is wonderful… if the couple in question believes in the magic.
Alistair Forsythe, the 12th Earl of Reardon, is the most sought-after man in the ton this Christmastide season. Handsome, of good
character, and possessing a large fortune, he finally intends to do his duty to his title after being in India for years. In the market for a
wife, he can now easily have his pick of any woman, yet none of them have snared his interest—not since Carole—but she is beyond his
reach.
Miss Carole Hazelton doesn’t give two farthings about a man’s position within the ton or his looks. In fact, she’s not thought about the
beau monde since that horribly embarrassing day five years ago when Alistair left her standing alone at the altar. Now making her living
as a governess, she’s both dismayed and furious to discover the neighbor who’s returned to the townhouse next door is the man who’d
jilted her—Alistair.

As that old scandal recirculates, it throws their reputations into question. To repair the damage, the earl and Carole must practice
forgiveness. While she’s not quick to forget, he’s not above employing charm and mistletoe to his advantage or drawing on their past
romance, but when the feelings they both thought long dead come rushing back, that love just might ruin them both… or provide a second
chance they never knew they needed.
 Chapter One

December 12, 1818

Forsythe House
London, England
Alistair Forsythe, the 12th Earl of Reardon, frowned at his best friend as they sat in the
drawing room that afternoon. Rain spattered upon the windows outside, for when did it not rain in
England? The gloom didn’t help bolster his already maudlin mood, and neither did it foster an attitude
of holiday cheer. Christmastide was nearly upon them, yet it certainly didn’t feel that way since he
could never quite manage to escape the memories.
“I beg your pardon. What did you say?” He required a repeat of the statement, not because he
was hard of hearing but due to the fact that it was so preposterous it was almost worrisome.
Jonathan Whitmore, Viscount Frawley, shot him a grin full of mischief as he rested an ankle on
a knee. “If word of this gets out—widely, I mean—it will be the gossip of the Season, but I have had
word—from a mutual friend, of course—the governess who works for the family residing in the
neighboring townhouse is…”
“Yes?” Alistair cocked an eyebrow. “Spit it out, man.” Why the devil did his friend wish to
tease?
Frawley chuckled as if it was the most entertaining thing he’d heard all month. “That
governess is none other than Miss Carole Hazelton, the fiancée you jilted at the altar five years ago.
She is your neighbor.”
“Well, buggar.” Shock reverberated through Alistair’s chest as he absorbed the news again.
“What the devil possessed Viscount Collingsworth to have the family in London for Christmastide? It
is quite dull in Town for the holidays.”
Unless one sought out the social circuit, had a mistress, or spent time at gaming hells.
Only one of those things was on his agenda now he’d returned to London, for he had made it
known he was on the hunt for a wife so he could do his duty to the earldom and the title.
“Who can say?” Jonathan shrugged, but his amusement only grew. “Some men delight in
having their family around them during this time of the year, but rumor has it the viscount has some
lingering business to attend while in Town and traveling between his country estate and here would
take too much time.”
“We have had a rather wet autumn. I’m sure the roads are horrid just now.” Yet that didn’t
make the situation any better. The fact remained he hadn’t seen Carole for five years, not since the day
he’d walked away from her and the life they’d hoped to build together.
And left her steeped in gossip and rumor.
“Truth to tell, I had forgotten Christmastide was coming. Travel doesn’t lend itself well to
keeping count of the days.” Additionally, it was a time of the year he strove to forget merely because
he didn’t wish to remember. The last five years, he’d been in India for various reasons, and outside of
the English community in Bombay or other large cities where there was an English occupation, the
holiday wasn’t celebrated.
“It isn’t difficult to let such a thing slip your mind. If you ask me, I’d rather be anywhere but
London just now.” Shadows briefly clouded the viscount’s eyes. “But I’m damn glad not to be in India
any longer.”
“I would drink to that if I had a brandy.” He’d thought it too early in the day to imbibe in
spirits, to say nothing of the fact he’d only just arrived in London yesterday, and he’d given the butler
his preferences for drink an hour past. Those supplies would undoubtedly come tomorrow.
“So, what do you plan to do?”
He frowned at Jonathan. “About what?”
“About Miss Hazelton.” The viscount uttered a huff, as if the identity of Alistair’s neighbor
was the only conversation worth having.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I plan to do nothing.” It didn’t matter that he and Carole had a
history together—broken such as it was. They were nothing to each other now, and he had been away
for five years besides. Neither of them was the same people they used to be. “She has her life; I have
mine.”
Under no circumstances would he allow those feelings he’d once had for her to well up and
bedevil him. There was no doubt in his mind she would hate him on sight.
The viscount looked at him with speculation in his eyes. “Are you quite certain you have no
lingering regard? You waxed poetic enough about her during that first year or so while in Bombay.”
And he would know, for Jonathan had accompanied him on that trip.
That’s how good a friend the man was.
Heat rose up the back of his neck, but he nodded. “Yes, I’m certain.” Hadn’t he already put
Carole from his mind and heart? It had taken the better part of three years, but he’d done it, and now
he was ready to move forward with his life. “I matters not, for I intend to make full use of the Season
in the hopes of finding a bride.”
His friend grunted. “Do you fear the old rumors will resurface and prevent you from matching
an advantageous match?”
“Of all the things I worry about, that doesn’t even make my list.” Another frown tugged at the
corners of his mouth. “Though this news is quite unsettling.”
“Truth be told, you will probably never see the woman. She’s a governess, after all, and those
sorts of women rarely attend society functions unless a hostess is short on numbers.”
“I hope you are correct. I also hope I don’t make a fool of myself back among the ton.” Polite
society in India was much different from that of London. “While I don’t necessarily need an heiress to
take to wife, I’d rather not have the leftovers since it is rather slim during the holidays.”
“Ah, yes, the freedoms of a man possessed of a good fortune.” Jonathan rolled his gaze to the
ceiling. He stood and tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat. “You may not need it, but I would like a
snifter of brandy, so allow me to seek out your butler and stock your sideboard myself.”
“You can ring for Cooper, you know,” Alistair called to him as the man crossed the room.
“I can, but that won’t help you be any less maudlin. I’ll return in a twinkling.” Then he left the
room, and Alistair sighed.
“Perhaps I am merely fatigued from travel,” he said to himself as he stared once more into the
cheerful flames of the fire, which made him frown all the harder. Carole Hazelton was his neighbor.
Well, buggar to that.
Unbidden, his thoughts danced back to that horrible time five years ago.
 December 14, 1813
St George’s,
Hanover Square
“Oi, Mr. Forsythe!”
The hail had Alistair looking about as he climbed the steps to the church. In under an hour, he
would wed the woman who held his heart and he would gladly succumb to domesticity with her.
“Yes?” It was not yet ten o’clock in the morning. Everyone he knew was already within the church.
A man of unassuming looks and lower-class clothing bounded over to him with a leather folio
in hand. “An urgent missive arrived for you at your townhouse. A Mr. Cooper dispatched me to
deliver it to you here.”
“Ah, thank you.” It must have been highly important if the butler had sent the man. He snagged
the folio from the courier’s fingers. “I appreciate that. It must be dire if it arrived the morning of my
nuptials.” After digging in his waistcoat pocket, he tossed the man a coin. “Thank you.”
Once the man scurried off, Alistair frowned at the folio. He undid the leather ties holding it
closed. Inside, was a sheaf of papers as well as a smaller envelope. Trying to puzzle out the official
looking seal set in green wax, he then tore open the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper.
Dated three months earlier, it had come from an assistant to a general at Fort George, in Bombay,
India.
My apologies for the urgency of this letter, Mr. Forsythe, but this is a
matter of some delicacy as it pertains to your father, the Earl of Reardon.
As you already know, your father departed England under mysterious
circumstances two years prior. Bombay was his destination.
Now Lord Reardon’s life is in peril, and there are other matters I cannot
trust in a piece of correspondence that will be read by many more pairs of
eyes than your own.
Enclosed is the address of the fort as well as all travel documents you will
need to make the journey posthaste. This is a delicate affair that needs
your attention with as much haste as you can manage, for to put a fine
point here, you have a twin brother, older than you by a few minutes, and he
was kidnapped years before. When your father stopped paying the ransom
money, things turned complicated, but now, your father desperately needs
your help to retrieve your brother as well as to assist in pulling him out of
the spot of bother he’s fallen into…
As Alistair stood there stunned while reading the remainder of the missive, it became more
and more evident he didn’t truly know who he was in the world any longer. I have an older twin
brother. That meant he wasn’t next in line to be the earl, and the identity he’d always known deep in
his heart had been a lie. He’d never known he wasn’t an only child.
 Why had his brother been kidnapped at all? Who had done it? It must have occurred when he
was quite young. Had his father stumbled upon the truth recently or had he known all along?
Quickly stuffing the letter into the folio, his frown deepened. His father had left home two
years before, but the nature of the trip was never told to him. Now he knew why. He wasn’t his
father’s heir… That thought kept circling around his head like a snake ready to strike. Worry filled his
chest. Hot embarrassment went through his gut. How the devil would he tell Carole he wasn’t the man
she thought? That she wouldn’t have the life promised when he’d brokered the marriage contract with
her father?
Oh, God!
He glanced at the door to the church. How could he go in there and marry her now under false
pretenses? In light of this new information, Alistair was a man with nothing to recommend him, no
title, apparent secrets in his family tree that went back to his birth, and no right to anything he’d
previously thought. Certainly, no income. One thing was certain: he needed answers, which meant
he’d need to travel to India and continue his father’s work and hopefully bring both his father and
brother home.
Knowing he couldn’t go to the marriage altar while the very foundation he stood upon was
crumbling beneath his feet, Alistair glanced once more to the door of the church, then he turned his
back upon it. Carole deserved a man who could deliver on his promises, who could keep her in the
style she deserved, who could give her future she had assumed she’d have when he’d asked for her
hand; that man wasn’t him.
At least not now.
A terrible ache set up around his heart and expanded until it filled his chest. With one hand to
that organ and a wash of moisture in his eyes, Alistair retreated down the steps. He scurried along the
pavement until he came to a line of hackney cabs. Then he hailed one, scrambled inside, and quickly
gave the driver his address. The best—and only—course of action available to him right now was to
travel to India, search out his father, and then hopefully clear up the mess of his family’s name.
After that, he would return to England, and if Carole didn’t despise him, perhaps explain, and
try to salvage what was left—if anything—of his engagement.

Present day
“Reardon?” The sound of fingers being snapped in front of his face wrenched him out of his
thoughts. Alistair blinked at his friend, who’d obviously returned from his errand. A bottle of brandy
was in one hand while a plate full of sweet edibles was in the other. “Woolgathering?”
“Perhaps. Mostly thinking about the day I left Carole at the altar without a word.” It had been
tantamount to an unforgivable sin and beyond the manners of a gentleman, but looking back, he
wouldn’t have changed a thing.
Not even for their reputations.
“Ah yes and created the scandal of the Season that year.” Jonathan pressed the brandy bottle
into his hand. “Here. Drink. I’ll procure glasses.” After leaving the plate of sweets on the small
ivory-inlaid table between their two chairs, he went to the sideboard. “Thank goodness society
doesn’t judge men by the same yardstick they do women.”
“Indeed.” Though heat went up the back of his neck all the same. Society favored men, and
titled men all the more, while they stacked every minute scandal upon women’s heads like burning
coals. “It is my fondest hope our paths don’t cross.”
When he’d arrived in Bombay all those years ago, the reunion between him and his father had
been awkward at best. Knowing there had been a secret in the family of such magnitude didn’t lend
itself well to congenial celebration. Of course, he’d questioned his father about the existence of an
older twin. He and his brother had apparently been parted when they were but a year old, and since
the bulk of their lives since birth had been spent on their father’s country estate, the rumors and gossip
was kept between the servants. If anyone else had known there’d been two sons of the Earl of
Reardon, it was hushed up quickly out of necessity and apparent embarrassment on his father’s part.
Not that such a conversation was any better when Alistair had arrived in India, for his father
had been beaten within an inch of his life from what he could only assume were the people who’d
kidnapped said brother. His father remained tight-lipped about that too.
Damn the man’s pride.
But the reasons for any of it were never discussed, and even now Alistair wasn’t certain what
had caused the rift between his parents after that day or why his father had been all too distant in
being a true father to him or what had happened to land his father into the sick bed.
“Here.” Jonathan shoved a cut crystal glass into his free hand. “Pour,” he ordered as he
dropped into the chair beside him. “You look like you need the fortification.”
Alistair blew out a breath. “Perhaps I do. I am feeling uneasy being back in London after all
this time.” He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, and then after spitting out the cork, he poured a
measure of the amber liquid into his glass. After doing the same with his friend’s matching glass, he
rested the bottle on the table. “Here’s to a better future.”
“So says the man who made a fortune and then some while we were gone,” Jonathan grumbled
and followed it up with a hearty sip of brandy.
He snorted. “As if you didn’t do the same.” They had both been lucky. Exporting tea and
various spices on a smaller scale than the enormous shipping outfits owned by the Crown, they had
been able to undercut their competitors and gain customers hand over fist.
Would my father have been proud had he liked me better than my twin?
There was no way to know. When Alistair had gone to India, he’d been immediately caught up
in his father’s work to retrieve his brother—who he was never able to meet—for by the time he and
the viscount had finally ferreted out the names and locations of the kidnappers—most of whom had
either left the area or had died—when his search party arrived, it was to find his brother not only
dead, but had apparently been that way for more than a few years. The only thing left had been a
desiccated corpse in a cave in the hills. Jewelry, various travel papers, and clothing on the bones all
pointed to a correct identification.
Once he came back to the fort where his father had been staying, Alistair had been forced to
tell him the unsavory news. Not only had he been paying blackmail coin, but the victim had perished
before the earl had set out for India.
After that, his father had taken a marked turn for the worse. In a matter of days, it seemed as if
the man had given up his will to live. Had the death of his firstborn son meant so much even though
he’d not seen the child since the first year of his life? Did it not matter about the other twin—him?
Those suppositions had caused more friction between Alistair and his father, and two days later,
leaving more questions than answers, his father had died, giving him the title he had always thought
would eventually be his anyway.
Now chance and fate had aligned, but it wasn’t the joyful occasion he’d once thought it might
be. Five years ago, he’d lost both his father and a brother that he’d never known existed. It still
haunted him to this day.
Thanks to Jonathan’s steadying presence, he remained in Bombay to settle his father’s estate
there, then they found the life so pleasing they’d made a living for years and filled both their coffers.
During that time, he’d been forced to forget about Carole and the romance they’d once had, for she
was better off without him, and the scandal connected to his family name, especially since it remained
shrouded in secrets.
She deserved better five years ago. That hadn’t changed.
“What the hell, Reardon?” The viscount poked him in the shoulder. “You once more popped
back into your thoughts while I am trying to tell you which women are the choicest morsels of the
holiday social scene.”
Right. The reason he had returned to London. He needed to start his life over yet again. With a
sigh, Alistair nodded. Tossing back the remainder of the brandy in his glass, he lifted an eyebrow. “I
suppose you have listed them into categories?”
“Of course I have.” Mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Looks. Worth. Connections. And how
well she kisses.”
“I see.” Damn, but one of the things he had adored about Carole was how she’d kissed him.
Almost as if each meeting of their lips had been a sacred covenant. But those days had passed. “How
long is your list?”
Jonathan shrugged. “Five ladies. Two of whom are society’s darlings this year.”
“Ugh.” At seven and thirty, he surely wasn’t in the mood to court a debutante. “I would rather
not align myself with a young lady just making her Come Out.”
“Then we shall concentrate on the other three.” His friend poured another measure of brandy
into his glass and then did the same for Alistair. “And whichever of the ladies you don’t pick, I shall
choose one for myself.”
“May fate grant us good fortune.” He put his drink aloft in silent salute. “I would like to hope
this Christmastide will usher in the lives we are finally mature enough to have.”
“Here, here!” Jonathan took a sip. “And here’s to firmly keeping the past in the past. I’m sure
Carole has moved on from you and is quite content in her life.”
“Here, here.” Though he echoed his friend’s sentiments, the unease of earlier hadn’t
dissipated. Knowing Carole was next door would make him self-conscious and forever remind him of
his greatest embarrassment.
Please let us not see each other in passing. Some wounds don’t need reexamined.
 Chapter Two

December 13, 1818

Collingsworth House
Mayfair
London, England
Miss Carole Hazelton frowned as she gazed out the window of her bedchamber in Viscount
Collingsworth’s London townhouse. It overlooked a corner of two intersecting streets in the Hanover
Square neighborhood, and even though thick clouds scudded across the skies, the sun’s glare made her
squint at the scene below.
Pedestrians scurried along the pavement. Scattered carriage traffic went along the
thoroughfare of people with important places to go and meetings to make.
In a half hour, she was scheduled to take her seven-year-old twin charges to Hyde Park on a
nature walk before the rain prevented it. Again. For that was her lot in life—being a governess. Six
months previously, she had been fortunate enough to come to London and interview for the open
position with Viscount Collingsworth. Both the lord and lady had asked her questions, and some of
them had been perilously close to her personal past.
She’d kept to the truth as best she could and evaded when that truth would have harmed her
future. Before she’d been given the governess position with Lord Collingsworth, she had been a
governess in Kent near her father’s country estate, but when that position ended because the children
had grown, she’d needed to move on.
It’s what she’d done for five years, shortly after her betrothal fell apart at the wedding altar,
and no other man in the ton would have her, which heaped mortification on top of the shame she’d
carried since that day.
Once more, movement on the street caught her eye and intruded into her musings. Perhaps the
women going to and fro had tea to take with dear friends or they were off for a drive with a suitor.
Her heart squeezed as that same organ hardened against anything smacking of romance. Love
was naught but a waste of time, and the only thing it did was cut deep enough to leave scars behind. It
didn’t matter she was nine and twenty; she wanted nothing to do with love and romance again.
Not after what happened that day five years ago and the agony that had followed.

March 15, 1814

Hazelton Park
Kent, England
 It had been three months since Alistair Forsythe had left her at the altar. The man hadn’t even
the dignity to tell her in person he couldn’t wed her. The dratted worm had sent a courier to deliver a
hastily penned note saying circumstances had changed and he couldn’t, in good conscience, marry her.
What the deuce had that meant? Three months later and she still tried to puzzle it.
Now, on what should have been a lovely spring afternoon, the far reach of Alistair’s horrid
decision once more rocked through her family. Her dear, lovely, robust father who used to have the
heartiest laugh and had always smelled like peppermint and pipe tobacco, had retreated to this estate
directly following the jilting for the gossip had been too much to bear.
Though he’d been granted a lordship decades before by the king for loyal services to the
Crown and was largely known as Lord Montford, none of those accolades could cheer him or buoy
his spirits once his eldest daughter stood in embarrassment at the church in front of all those people.
So he’d herded his family home to the Park, but his health had never recovered. He’d taken the slight
hard and rarely made public appearances. As the weeks passed, his stamina and strength had steadily
declined until the shame and embarrassment and possibly worry had simply been too much. His heart
attacked him, and he’d died suddenly in mid-sentence as he’d been talking to her mother.
That had happened not an hour past.
Carole was still in shock and couldn’t yet shed tears. Instead, she sat by herself in the drawing
room with her hands clenched in her lap and her thoughts—as well as her ire—firmly resting upon
Alistair. The death of her father could fully be laid at his selfish feet, and she would never forget this
day. She might forgive him in the future, but she would never forget, and if he ever came ‘round again,
there would be nowhere in England he could hide from her rage.
Eventually, her younger sister Alice joined her, and the tear stains on her face and the front of
her dress bore testament to her grief. The poor thing was just nineteen and everything that happened to
her cut her to the quick wherein an emotional outburst would inevitably follow. Granted, she’d been
tight-lipped when the family had to retreat to Kent, but her chances of making an advantageous
marriage had been obliterated, tainted by Carole’s defeat.
God only knew if her sister would forgive her.
“What will we do now?” Alice whispered as she flounced onto the sofa cushion next to
Carole and began to sniffle into her lace-edged handkerchief all over again. Her chestnut hair had
been put back in a messy chignon, and even with the red splotches of high emotion on her face, she
was as beautiful as an angel. Definitely, out of the two of them, she’d had the most potential in making
an advantageous match. “Papa is gone, and I overheard the butler telling the housekeeper we are
nearly destitute.” She looked at Carole with moisture-spiked lashes. “Is that true?”
“If it is, then Papa was even worse with money than we thought.” Then she shrugged, for they
would probably never know the whole truth. “Papa gave Alistair a substantial dowry for my hand, for
he had apparently wagered everything we owned that having an earl for a son-in-law would solve our
financial strain in future endeavors. He thought Alistair would take care of the Hazelton family’s
woes.” At the catch in her voice, she cleared her throat. “What folly… for all of us.”
Every hope she’d personally had was dashed; every dream she’d ever dreamed would never
come true. Their family would never be the same, thanks to the selfish, horrid actions of Alistair
Forsythe. Had she loved him? Of course. But he had taken her heart, tossed it away, and ground it
beneath his heel as if she’d never meant anything to him at all.
It would take a while to heal from that hurt, and that was what she planned to do since they
had a year of mourning ahead. Not that it mattered. After what had happened, in a very public way,
everyone within the ton assumed there was something wrong with her or that she had done something
scandalous enough that had caused such a catch like Alistair Forsythe to abandon her at the altar. The
speculation had been so much worse than the truth, and the gossip alone had been enough to cause her
family to flee London in high embarrassment.
Alice dabbed at her streaming eyes, and Carole once more focused on her. “You know
Alistair didn’t have anything to do with Papa’s death, don’t you?”
“Ha!” The laugh held no mirth. “He had everything to do with it. Papa was hale and hearty
before I was abandoned at the altar.”
“No.” Her sister shook her head. “Papa was ailing. The signs were there.”
“Perhaps, but his death was ushered in sooner because of this.” She couldn’t quite keep the
bitterness out of her voice, didn’t want to try. “If I ever see that blackguard again, it will be too
soon.”
In fact, there had been no sign or word of Alistair’s whereabouts since he’d thrown her over
three months before. Gossip held that he’d fled the country, but the reasons for that were unknown,
and if there had been an explanation bantered about, they were mostly wild speculation.
She assumed. But wherever he’d gone and for whatever reason, it had better have been worth
it.
Worth more than me.
“There will be other opportunities to marry, Carole.” There was hope in Alice’s eyes that
only a nineteen-year-old girl could have, even after circumstances looked bleak. “And for me.”
“I hope you are right. However, I feel in my heart the gossipmongers have done their hideous
work all too well. My reputation has been destroyed, and yours by association.”
Never would she forgive herself for that.
Or Alistair.
I hope you are happy in the life you have chosen for yourself… that doesn’t include me.

Present day
A strangle of giggles erupted from the corridor beyond and pulled her from her tortured
thoughts, belonging to the seven-year-old twins who were her charges. A boy and a girl—William
and Mary—they were a handful as soon as they woke in the morning, named after their father and
mother respectively and not the historical figures. No doubt they were on their way to luncheon—
albeit late—but she wouldn’t begrudge them the time. They were children, after all, and if their
mother wished to be in their company even though it upset the schedule Carole had laid down for
them, who was she to complain?
Constantly she had to remind herself she was merely the help—not exactly part of the servants
but not good enough to mingle with the Quality—and her opinions should be kept to herself.
As she continued to watch the ever-changing traffic on the streets below, her thoughts once
more turned inward.
Following the death of her father and once the family had emerged from their year of
mourning, the Hazelton’s required an income to keep the house running and to pay the handful of
servants still employed. Carole took a position of governess which let her remain in Kent to be near
her mother and sister, but as time went on, the two children grew and no longer needed her care.
Facing another financial crisis—and since her sister might still have a chance to make a good match if
they were very careful—once more it was up to Carole to save them.
She’d applied for another position, and this one was in London with Lord Collingsworth, and
that had proved to be a turning point in her life. Since the old scandal surrounding her name had been
five years before, she’d felt confident enough it had blown over and everyone had forgotten her in the
face of other more scandalous on-dits. To her delight, the viscount and viscountess had found her
acceptable in face, form, and abilities, and they had offered her the position on the spot.
Every day she woke, Carole would always remain grateful to them for giving her a chance. As
long as she didn’t flaunt herself in society, no one would have cause to remember what had happened
five years ago. Everything would be fine. She would have her position and the comfort of watching
her charges grow into functioning—and hopefully kind—members of society. The best she could hope
for personally was to get on with a decent gentleman, perhaps a military man or a merchant, and have
a modest life. If she were truly fortunate, she might have children of her own. As of yet, none of that
had happened, for being a governess meant she wasn’t able to circulate through society as she used to,
but that was to be expected for someone in her reduced circumstance.
Not that it was a terrible life. She enjoyed the work, and she’d become invested in her
charges’ growth and upbringing. It was interesting to fill in at various dinners the viscountess threw if
numbers needed to be made up.
Above and beyond all of that, her heart was still broken. It didn’t matter that so much time had
passed between now and when her engagement had fallen apart, she suspected those feelings would
never quite fade. Never would she fully trust another man again, and that made for a future which
would stretch endlessly before her, filled with staying on the fringes of someone else’s life.
Drat Alistair’s eyes.
Worrying and letting bitterness fester in her soul wouldn’t solve any immediate problems, so
she turned away from the window with a sigh and then grabbed up a gray pelisse. Not the most
cheerful of colors, but there was no longer enough coin to purchase fripperies that weren’t
serviceable and suitable for the position of governess. She shoved her arms through the sleeves and
frowned at her equally unappealing navy day dress.
Had she married that scoundrel, she would have been dressed in the first stare of fashion and
elegance as befitting the next countess of Reardon. Instead, she was forced to mend her own clothing
and find ways to not only make them last but also look as fetching as she could without people
thinking she was putting on airs.
And thus, recalling why her name might sound familiar.
Perhaps spending some time in the garden before her assigned trip to Hyde Park with the
children would help to clear her mind. With a sense of boredom mixed with ennui, she donned a
bonnet of brown silk and trimmed with black velvet ribbon and a few pheasant feathers. Once, she’d
had smart, pretty little bonnets, but unfortunately, she’d been forced to sell them years ago. A yank at
the ribbons beneath her chin made an efficient bow.
No sense in worrying about that now.
She snagged a pair of brown kid gloves from the vanity along with her reticule that matched
the boring pelisse, and then Carole quietly exited her room. Since the schoolroom and nursery suite
took up all the space on the third floor, she’d been given one of the guest rooms on the second. Both
she and the viscountess thought it good enough, for the children were old enough that they wouldn’t
have dire emergencies in the night, and if they were frightened, they could always come down a level
and wake Carole.
As of yet, such a situation hadn’t made itself known, for William and Mary were quite self-
sufficient… and mischievous.
She deliberately avoided the morning room where luncheon was being served. No sense in
having her limited free time taken away when there wasn’t a need. On the ground floor, she took a
short cut through Lord Collinsworth’s library, went straight to the double French-paned doors, and
then slipped outside into the small stretch of garden separated from the neighbor’s house by a four-
foot stone wall.
As of yet, there had been no snow in the London area, but there was a decided chill in the air.
It reminded her of the years she’d spent in Kent, but being so close to the sea, the chances of having
snow in the winter was slim. Perhaps there would be some this winter in London, but probably not
for Christmastide.
As she paced about the abbreviated walkway that wound through a handful of ornamental fruit
trees toward the row of low hedges at the back wall, Carole filled her lungs with the relatively clean
air. At times, when the weather was fair, she would retreat here with a book of poetry and sit for a
couple of hours by herself. At others, she would escape to the green space behind the Hanover Square
area to walk and let her thoughts run wild.
Still, though, the worries mounted and worried her, and in those moments, the incredible
loneliness snuck in to bedevil her. Then she remembered to remain grateful she held a respectable
position and hadn’t needed to rely on making a livelihood on her back like so many women were
forced to. Additionally, her employers were lovely people, and most days, so were their children.
Next door, the soft woof of a dog filtered to her ears. Carole frowned. When had the neighbor
returned? The townhouse had sat empty for as long as she’d held the governess position here, and
from what the housekeeper had told her, no one had been in residence for a few years.
“I mean it, Fitzroy, do your business. I have an appointment yet this afternoon.”
Immediately, upon hearing the masculine voice, her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach.
Surely not… She crept toward that side of the wall separating this garden from his.
Then he spoke again. “Good boy. Now, back inside with you. Go find Mother, and no
complaints this time. I do not have the time or wherewithal to play nursemaid to you.” A hint of
annoyance wove through that baritone, and this time there was no mistaking to whom the voice
belonged to.
Her gasp must have been all too audible, for he turned about, and then the man’s eyes widened
with the same horrendous shock that currently battered her insides. It was true and not just a trick of
her ears. “Alistair.” How was this possible?
“Carole?” He moved closer to the wall, and she couldn’t help but look him over.
In the five years since they’d been apart, he had matured. His dark brown hair, combed into a
popular style was now sprinkled with threads of silver, especially at the temples. A frown tugged at
the corners of his mouth that was as sensual looking as it had ever been. As she crept even closer to
the wall, he followed her movements with eyes that were still as rich as brandy and his shoulders as
wide as she remembered, covered now by a black greatcoat. A top hat was clutched in one gloved
hand and drat the wall that prevented her from seeing the rest of his body.
“You are the neighbor who has been absent?” It was much too difficult to wrap her mind about
the possibility, so she’d been forced to utter it. Yet she couldn’t deny the evidence of her own eyes: he
was even more handsome than he’d been when she’d last seen him—the day before they were
supposed to have been wed.
 Drat his rotted soul.
“I am.” From his expression, it seemed he couldn’t believe it either.
“But…” She shook her head. “That cannot be correct.”
“If that is so, then I am currently living in a house not mine, and also, if said accusation is true,
then someone should really tell my mother. She won’t be best pleased.” Those lips she’d once kissed
with abandon, curved downward in a fierce frown. “And knowing none of that is certainly not true,
this is surely my townhouse, so please move past your shock.”
The nerve of the man! Using all the willpower she possessed, Carole refrained from stamping
her foot as she wished. “Can you blame me? I haven’t seen you for five years!” Her voice rose an
octave on the exclamation.
“That was in the past.” He glanced about. Fearful someone would overhear?
Well, too bad. “And now, here you are, as big as you please, without apparent regret or the
good sense to offer up an apology, thinking to order me about as if we were strangers.” She propped
her hands upon her hips and glared at him. This time she lowered her voice. It wouldn’t do to have
everyone on the street bear witness to what was surely going to be a lovely row. “Perhaps you had
best explain to me what the devil you are doing here, looking at me as if I’m the one affronting you,
for after you do, I intend to give you the dressing down you so richly deserve. And do remember, Mr.
Forsythe, I have had five years to think of exactly what to say if I ever had the ill-fortune of seeing
you again.”
For she wouldn’t be trifled with. Since she’d locked her heart behind a cage, she was a
woman immune to charm and love. At least now her rage would be assuaged.
 Chapter Three

At least he had the answer to one question. Apparently, Carole—Miss Hazelton, he should
really call her—did remember, and no, she hadn’t managed to get move past it.
Alistair eyed her warily. “Actually, it is Lord Reardon now.” When he’d responded to her
initial greeting minutes before, it had been a touch cooler than he’d intended. Mostly out of shock, but
more because he hadn’t been ready for the rush of emotion that had crashed over him. He might have
told Jonathan he was completely immune to her, but that obviously wasn’t true.
“I beg your pardon?” Confusion reflected in her blue eyes that used to remind him of the
sapphire on his mother’s favorite tiara.
“I am not a mister. Haven’t been for nearly five years. My father died, leaving me the earldom
and the title.” It was the best explanation he could—and would—give.
“Oh, you can understand my confusion. When one is absent from someone’s life, one tends to
not think of them any longer.” Sarcasm fairly dripped from her voice. Standing as she was with her
hands propped on her hips, he couldn’t help but study her.
Her chestnut hair beneath the unassuming bonnet was just as he remembered it. The equally
plain clothing did absolutely nothing for her frame, which was a shame because when he’d known
her, she wore gowns of sumptuous fabrics and rich hues, but it was the high color in her cheeks and
the daggers she shot at him from those eyes that would stay with him for much longer than the attire.
Then she narrowed her eyes. “You do not seem as surprised to see me as I am to see you. Why
is that, I wonder?”
“I, uh…” He tugged at the knot of his cravat. Under no circumstances could he let her see he
still held her in high regard, for she would make jest of that, perhaps use it against him. “Jonathan, or
rather Viscount Frawley, informed me yesterday you were here. He must have seen you on the street,
but in any event, he told me, so I had some time to digest that fact.”
“Ah.” She didn’t seem relieved or delighted. In fact, she continued to regard him as if she
hated the very sight of him. “How fortunate for you.”
Somewhat relieved she didn’t demand an explanation for the events of that day years ago, he
didn’t offer one either. No sense in ripping a scab off an old wound. There was a low-grade anger to
her now that he didn’t wish to stir further. Yet he had questions and was curious as to how she’d
passed those years. What happened to the sweet, docile, biddable miss he used to know and would
have married? This woman with a tart mouth had a backbone seemingly made of steel, and it was both
impressive and attractive. Another round of feeling for her welled in his chest. It was as if the five
years since he’d left had never happened. What would she do if he were to come through that curved
wooden garden gate that separated the properties and then catch her up in an embrace? Would she
receive him with gladness, or would she slap his face?
“Yes, I suppose I have been fortunate in many aspects of my life since… Well, you know.”
Now he realized why her entire attitude had become prickly. He’d ruined her, destroyed her
reputation that day. Perhaps if the same had happened to him, he wouldn’t be best pleased to see him
either.
 One of her thinly feathered eyebrows lifted. “The day you decided I wasn’t worth your time
and left me at the altar?”
That wasn’t exactly true, but he couldn’t clear the misconception unless he wished to open the
whole, ugly mess of the scandal that had rocked his family. Which he didn’t want to do. At least not
now.
“Yes.” What else could he say?
“Well, bully for you.”
The vernacular took him by surprise, and though his lips twitched, he tamped down on the
urge to grin lest she assumed he made jest of her. Obviously, she must have picked up the word from
one of her charges. The best course of action was to steer her away from asking about his life. “When
did you return to London, Miss Hazelton?” Would she mind he didn’t use her Christian name? Under
the circumstances, he didn’t feel comfortable to claim that right, especially since he didn’t deserve it.
“Ah, so then we’re to conduct ourselves in this manner. Like strangers?” Was that for her
benefit or his? Carole might have been civil and cordial, but her attitude was quite cool. It drove a
shard of hurt into his heart, but then, he could only blame himself. She stared at him as if she wished
to pin him to a board like he was a bug. “I arrived six months ago when Lord Collingsworth decided
his manor house needed too much refurbishment to make summer living relaxing.”
He shifted his weight. Right. Why couldn’t he remember the name of his damned neighbor?
Probably because everything he’d ever known had flown out of his mind the second he’d laid eyes on
her again. Then he frowned. It was all too odd, and vastly unsatisfying, to converse with her when
there was a stone wall between them. “I have only just returned to Town this week.”
Something flickered in her eyes, but it was gone before he could properly read it.
When Carole said nothing else, not even to ask after his health, he sighed. “Where have you
been in the interim?” Perhaps if he could ascertain how she’d passed her days, he could better talk
with her. “I assumed your father would have rented out a townhouse every year.”
For a few seconds, her mouth pinched into a tight line. “About two weeks following our
broken engagement, my family and I went back to Hazelton Park in Kent. I have been there ever since,
with the exception of needing to come to London.”
They could have been acquaintances passing each other in a corridor at a society function for
all the warmth that wasn’t between them. “I see.” Though, he rather didn’t. What he wanted to ask her
was if she’d thought of him over the years, but he was too much of a coward to voice the inquiry.
Instead, he rushed on with the first question that popped into his mind. “How does your family fare?”
“Oh… you… jackanapes!” It wasn’t a compliment. If possible, even more anger had gathered
in her eyes, and if a storm at sea were personified, Carole Hazelton was exactly that. “My father is
dead. Three months after our broken engagement. Thanks to you.” So much animosity roiled in her
voice, he unconsciously took a step backward even though the wall separated them.
What was this, then? No matter that he still had feelings—residual or not—for the woman,
when she was basically accusing him of killing her father, that’s where he drew the line. “How the
devil could I have been responsible? I wasn’t even there!”
“That is the whole issue, you thick-skulled lout!” Carole crossed her arms at her chest. “You
never showed at the church that day, and the shame killed my poor papa.” Sadness jumped into her
eyes. “Because you didn’t keep your promise, my father is dead. I don’t know if I can ever forgive
you for that.”
Confusion ran rampant through his mind. “Which are you more upset about: my jilting you or
your father dying?” The words were out of his mouth before he could recall them.
 How much more of a bacon-brained idiot can you be, Reardon?
She fairly vibrated with fury. Twin spots of color blazed on her cheeks, made even more
prominent due to the fact that the blood had drained from her face. “How can you be so cruel?” The
words were soft, but emotion trembled in the tones.
And damn if he still didn’t know to what she referred. That only deepened the mystery
surrounding her, but one thing he could say with certainty. He both wanted to be her comfort and
simultaneously run as far away from her as he could. “I’m afraid you will need to be more specific.”
If she thought she could rake him across the coals, he was under no obligation to stand there and take
it without making it just as uncomfortable for her.
It didn’t matter it wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do. All of that flew out the window when
she’d more or less accused him of murdering her father.
“Argh!”
Thank goodness the wall was between them, for he felt it deep down into his soul that she
would have slapped him. He held up a hand, palm outward. “I do not wish to fight with you.”
“That is readily obvious,” she snapped with the fire still dancing in her eyes. “You never did
fight for what you wanted, did you?”
Did that mean she took exception to him choosing a family crisis over her? When she hadn’t
known about the scandal to begin with? Bloody hell. Never before had he realized what a woman
scorned looked like, but he refused—flat out refused—to enter into the conversation or put forth the
explanation she hungered for. He needed a clear head and to organize his thoughts before he’d do that.
“Enough. Can we not call a truce?”
Carole stood there doing nothing except blinking at him, and even that held a furious edge, but
it was somehow appealing. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, she thinned those lips into a flat
line. “No.”
“Fine.” Alistair heaved out a sigh. He was going to be hopelessly late for the meeting with his
man-of-affairs. “Why are you a governess for Lord Collingsworth?” Perhaps if they started off with
small, easy to answer questions, her anger would fade.
“Why do you think?” Hurt clouded her eyes. Vulnerability lay stamped across her face. She
looked so fragile, and a tad lost that his heart squeezed. The delicate tendons in her throat worked
over the collar of her pelisse. He wanted to protect her from every bad thing in the world, even if one
of those things was apparently him. “When you jilted me, everything changed.”
“But I—”
“No.” Carole shook her head. “My entire life was upended. It never went back to what it was
on that morning.”
“Did you marry?” What a nodcock question, Reardon! If she had, she would not have needed
to take a position.
“I did not. The rumors surrounding your defection saw to that.” The infinite sadness in her
eyes warred with annoyance. “I am not the same woman I was when you knew me. I am a governess
now and would appreciate it if you would simply leave me alone.”
How could he do that when his entire being screamed at him to make things right with her?
Five years had gone by in seemingly the blink of an eye, and now that he was here with her once
more, he wished to start over again, to discover if she might be able to love him anew.
Apparently, he hadn’t banished those old feelings as well as he’d thought.
But none of that would be accomplished while she continued to present the front of a hellcat.
“Carole, please, if we could—”
 The remainder of his words were lost as the back door flew open and two tow-haired
children spilled out into the garden. Perhaps around seven years old, the boy looked the perfect image
of a country gentleman in tan breeches, brown boots, and even a brown tweed waistcoat, while the
girl was more demure in a pale blue dress with plenty of frills and a matching pelisse and bonnet.
“Miss Hazelton, Mama says the carriage is out front and ready for our trip to Hyde Park.” The
boy bounced his curious gaze between Alistair and her then ended up frowning. “Are we still going?”
“Of course we are.” In that moment, Carole transformed from a woman scorned and a
veritable storm to a nurturing ideal of what he thought his wife might be. “I was merely chatting with
our neighbor, who has finally come home from…” A trace of confusion went through her expression
as she connected her gaze back to his. “I apologize. I have no idea where you have been.”
That was the crux of the matter, indeed.
The longer Alistair peered at the twins, the more his mind was hurtled back to Bombay and
the horrible time he’d been obligated to suffer through that had prevented the life he’d wanted once
upon a time. All these years later, he couldn’t believe he’d been a twin, and no one had told him
throughout the whole of his existence. As he stared at the boy, both twins stared back at him, as
curious as he was.
“Hey, mate, Miss Hazelton is waiting on an answer,” the boy reminded him with an intense
look about him.
“Right.” Alistair shook his head in order to clear it. “I was in India, actually.” Never had he
despised that decision more than he did right now. He’d missed out on so much of Carole’s life,
hadn’t been able to enjoy her company as he’d originally assumed. And for what? Both his father and
the brother he’d never known about were dead. “There was a matter of some urgency that demanded
my attention.”
Once again, Carole’s gaze was upon him, and it was filled with sad speculation. “In any
event, Lord Reardon is now in residence, and I should think you will treat him with the respect he
deserves in his station, William,” she gently admonished as she ruffled a hand through the boy’s hair.
A pang of jealousy went through Alistair’s chest. What he wouldn’t give for her to lay a hand
—even a finger—on him again, merely so he could feel that connection. He focused on the children.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Both of them peered at him with matching hazel eyes. The boy nodded. “I have never met an
earl before. Is it difficult, Your Lordship?”
That largely depended on the day. He shrugged. “At times. You may call me Alistair.”
Carole snorted. “No, he may not.” She shook her head for emphasis, and with a hard glance,
said to the boy, “He is Lord Reardon, and I don’t want you to bother him.”
The boy—William—scowled. “What if I see him over the garden gate? Should I ignore him?
That isn’t good manners, and you are forever telling Mary and me we should be on our best
behavior.”
Alistair bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. These children would prove a
handful if they hadn’t already.
A hint of a blush filled Carole’s cheeks. “Of course you should behave, but his proper form of
address is Lord Reardon.”
For the first time, the girl spoke. She waved shyly to him. “Hello, Lord Reardon. I am Miss
Mary Fairfax.” As she crept closer to the wall, she flashed him a smile that would undoubtedly win
half a dozen hearts when she was older. “I think it’s lovely you live next door. That house has been
sad and empty for too long.”
 He gave her a grin. If he and Carole had been married as planned, would they have had a
child, perhaps two, by this point? “Actually, my mother and her dog have been in residence during my
absence. Have you not seen her?” It was entirely possible the two hadn’t crossed paths, for his
mother wasn’t one to socialize overly much, and the child wouldn’t have gone out without
supervision.
The child’s eyes were round, but her smile widened. “I have seen the dog. May I meet him
sometime? Mama won’t let us have a dog, so I am stuck with him.” She hooked a thumb over her
shoulder to indicate her brother. “And Miss Hazelton. She is a lovely governess, but she is sad all the
time.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Did that mean Carole still thought about him? Wished things had
been different? Perhaps this was his way into spending a few more minutes with her. “Of course you
can meet the dog, but make certain you gain permission from Miss Hazelton first.”
Carole’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she shepherded the children
toward the door. “Go inside and wait for me in the entry hall. I shall be only a moment. Then we’re
off for our nature walk.”
Glad to once more be in her company alone, Alistair came closer to the wall. He laid a
gloved hand atop it. “You and I need to talk privately. Might you set aside some time in your schedule
to do so?” It felt all too awkward conversing as if they were strangers while ignoring the history
between them, but perhaps that was what their relationship amounted to now.
“We were done talking the day you left, Alistair.” The fury had returned to her voice with such
force that the tones shook from it even as she kept her pitch low. “You never even wrote to me!” Her
chin trembled before she got hold of her emotions. “Do you know how much a letter from you would
have been welcomed? When I needed words of comfort and reassurance from you, I had nothing
except silence. It was a smack in the face after everything else.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. That was a fair point. He could have written, could have
explained in letters why he’d done the egregious thing that he had. But in that, he was also a coward,
so he’d let the matter drop. “I apologize for my appalling lack of manners. Everything happened so
quickly. I didn’t think about it…” His words trailed off. That wasn’t exactly true. There had been so
much thought put into that decision, and ultimately, he hadn’t wished to hurt her with the onslaught of
gossip that would eventually befall his family name if word of the missing twin got out, hadn’t wanted
to give her a life that had been based in a lie. “I thought about you, many times, until I… didn’t.”
Well, damn. He didn’t know when it had happened, but eventually, he truly did cease to think
about Carole and the world he’d left behind. Once his father had died, too many responsibilities had
filled his moments, and when he wasn’t working toward a fortune, he’d taken refuge in sleep, for at
least then the memories would cease to haunt him.
Mostly.
“I see.” Pain reflected in her impossibly blue eyes. “I need to go. Please, if you have a shred
of decency left in your body, leave me alone.”
“But I thought—”
“No.” She shook her head. “You have your life; I have mine. This is how it must be. Good
day, Lord Reardon.”
Then she vanished inside the house and closed the door firmly behind her. Alistair stood
looking at the spot she’d vacated for long moments after. There was much he needed to think about,
for his feelings hadn’t been left strictly to the past. The question now remained: did he want a
renewal of what they had, or should he start again from the beginning?
That was if Carole would give him the chance.
 Chapter Four

December 14, 1818

Anemic sunshine worked its way through the seemingly ever-present cloud deck, but it was
cheerful illumination nonetheless, and exactly what Carole needed.
As she tidied the table in the schoolroom where she sat waiting for the twins to finish writing
the essay she assigned them, her thoughts jogged to the Earl of Reardon.
Drat Alistair anyway!
How dare he return to London and act as if nothing had happened! Granted, he had tried to
speak with her at least twice yesterday, but she’d cut him off before he could really start. In truth, she
didn’t want to hear his excuses or explanations. What he’d done had cut her to the quick, had left her
with a broken heart and a shredded reputation. There was nothing he could say that would mend any
of it.
There was a lifetime between them that nothing could bridge. Couldn’t he see she had her own
life now, a new life, that kept her heart safe and the remains of her reputation protected from the ton?
It might not be the life she would have had with him, but it was hers nonetheless, and there was
happiness to be found there.
Carole glanced at her two charges. A soft smile curved her lips. Under her tutelage, they had
grown by leaps and bounds academically. It was only a matter of concentration on their part. Was she
happy with their progress? Of course. Was she happy with her position? It kept her busy and provided
a much-needed income. But was she happy with her life? Not by half.
Drat him!
He invaded her thoughts like a recurring fever dream. When she’d seen him yesterday over the
garden wall, confusion had taken control. As did anger. From all accounts, their broken engagement
and his subsequent parting hadn’t affected him at all. When she’d almost succumbed to the emotions
swirling through her, he’d stared at her as if he couldn’t wait to be off to that all-important meeting the
dog had originally made him late for.
Oh, why did he have to look even more handsome now than he had when he’d left her at the
altar? And why had her silly heart thumped more quickly when he aroused her ire? And why was she
possessed of the urge to kiss him? Every time that urge came upon her during their brief conversation
yesterday, she’d thrust it away and covered it with anger, which wasn’t difficult for that emotion was
always simmering just below the surface.
She didn’t need Alistair any longer and she certainly didn’t want him. Then she stifled a laugh
and kept her focus on the ledger in front of her where she recorded the twins’ progress month to
month. What a ninny she’d become, for she might still want him. The earl was the first man she’d
ever loved, the first man she’d given her heart to, and he would have been the first man she gave her
body to if their wedding proceeded. During their courtship, though they’d indulged in heated kisses,
nothing had ever come of those embraces, for Alistair hadn’t wished to cause a scandal.
Then she did laugh, and quickly shrugged when Mary glanced at her with a frown. He’d ended
up tossing her into an even bigger scandal at his defection. She thought they would have a lifetime
together, but he’d left, just walked away with apparently no feelings to the matter at all.
How could she forget that?
The man had abandoned her with gossip trailing in her wake and a shadow on her reputation.
No matter what the truth was behind his flight from London, the ton had flayed her alive, had made
certain she could never wed a decent man. Or an indecent one. Every eligible gentleman throughout
Town had steered well clear, for if an earl’s son hadn’t wanted her, prevailing opinion said there must
be something wrong with her.
Drat the beau monde, too!
“Miss Hazelton, may I ask you a question?” Mary laid down her pencil and regarded Carole
with bright eyes.
“Is it related to your schoolwork?”
“No.”
She sighed. “If it has to do with Lord Reardon’s dog, you may not ask.” All afternoon at Hyde
Park, both children had talked incessantly about what sort of canine lived next door and when they
could see it.
William huffed. “I told you,” he hissed, but kept his focus on his paper.
“Well, it’s not about the dog,” Mary snapped and pulled a face as she looked across the table
at her brother. She then glanced at Carole. “It is about you, Miss Hazelton.”
“Me? Whyever for?”
The girl didn’t answer her question. “Are you and Lord Reardon friends?”
Oh, dear. How to phrase her words so they wouldn’t reveal too much. “We used to be.”
Please leave it at that.
Of course, her charges did not. In fact, William laid down his pencil, and she didn’t quite trust
the mischievous light in his eyes. “How long ago?”
“Many years.” Carole shrugged. The whole conversation was entirely too inappropriate.
“Now, if we could return to your essays?”
“Not yet, Miss Hazelton.” Mary tossed her head and her blonde curls bounced. “I heard what
you said to him, you know.”
“Oh?” Dear heavens, she could only hope the children hadn’t been eavesdropping.
“Yes.” The girl nodded and sat up a little straighter in her chair. “You were engaged to Lord
Reardon.”
William stared with round eyes. “She was?”
“Didn’t you hear them?” Mary looked at him as if she couldn’t believe he was her twin.
“Something happened and their engagement was broken.”
The ache around Carole’s heart shivered back into life. She thought she’d put the pain behind
her, thought she’d turned it into anger, but the fact her two charges were discussing her relationship as
if it were gossip on the street brought it all careening back.
“Well, Miss Hazelton?” William caught her in his probing gaze. “Were you engaged to Lord
Reardon?”
Merciful heavens.
“I…” There was really no sense in lying to them, for they could be as stubborn as dogs
fighting with a bone. “I was. Yes.” Not that it mattered.
“Oooh!” Mary’s eyes were now as round as her brother’s. “Why aren’t you now?”
“It was a long time ago.”
 “But why?” the girl pressed on.
Carole’s huff stirred the curls on her forehead. “Suffice it to say, it didn’t work out between
us, and now it’s become a lost romance.” That sounded more elegant than saying she’d been left at the
altar. Besides, they were children and too young to understand.
For long moments, both of them stared at her with grudging respect, and despite herself, she
allowed a tiny smile, for she’d risen in their estimation.
Finally, it was Mary who broke the silence. “That is sad, Miss Hazelton. Do you still love
Lord Reardon?”
Did she? Well, this question was easily answered. “No, Mary. I do not.” Alistair had made
certain of that.
“That sounds like a woman.” William snorted. “Will you die an old maid, then? You are
already quite old.”
Out of the mouths of babes, as the saying went. “Despite my advanced age, I rather doubt I
will marry, so I suppose I am going to be a spinster.” There were worse things.
Mary frowned at her half-finished essay. “Lord Reardon is quite dashing, you know.”
“Oh, I am well aware of his looks. Thank you, Mary.” Once more, his image jumped into her
mind, and she would have sighed in pure appreciation if she were alone.
“Don’t worry over it, Miss Hazelton.” William puffed out his little chest. “If it were me, I’d
want my lady to give me a second chance, no matter if I mucked up or not.”
A shaft of annoyance speared through her. “You do not know anything about it.” Those words
came out sharper than she’d intended. William and Mary blinked at her in surprise. Quickly, she
modulated her tone. “Once a heart is broken, it cannot be mended. Especially if the trust has been
forfeited as well.”
More solemnly than a seven-year-old should, Mary nodded. “If you don’t want Lord Reardon
any longer, Miss Hazelton, some other woman will snap him up, and once William and I are grown,
you will be alone.”
Oh, please make it stop.
She tried to fold her hands in front of her, but she was much too annoyed to sit still. Shoving to
her feet, she retrieved their papers and pencils. “It is better to be alone than always wondering if my
man will cave to wanderlust and leave without explanation.” Then she deposited the supplies on the
small secretary in the corner of the room where she wrote out her lesson plans. “I think we will cut
the afternoon short today. You have done enough work, and it is nearly time for tea besides. Play
quietly until the longcase in the corridor strikes four then join your mother in the drawing room.”
Mary frowned. “Where will you be, Miss Hazelton?”
As if she were ever invited to take tea with the family. As calmly as she could, Carole
smoothed her hands down the front of her navy dress—the same one she’d worn yesterday. “I am
going into the garden for some air and clear my head. Then I will spend some quiet time in my room,
reading.”
William made a gagging noise. “Reading? I’ve no use for it.”
At the last second, Carole stopped herself from pointing her eyes to the ceiling. “Most ladies
think men who read quite attractive.”
“Ha!” He sprang out of his chair. “I would much rather work at numbers and equations. They
are not as difficult, and a man can make coin with them.” He tapped a fingertip to his temple. “It is a
better choice.”
Was that the only thing that the male of the species cared about? “I’m sure it is.” Then she left
the room at a more rapid pace than usual.
Unfortunately, luck wasn’t with her when she escaped into the garden, for as soon as she’d
stumbled into the middle of the path, the earl next door came out of his townhouse, and their gazes
connected for one fleeting second.
Drat. Drat. Drat!
“Good afternoon, Carole.” The rumble of his voice sent gooseflesh sailing over her skin. Then
something on the ground took his attention.
It took her a few minutes to realize he’d brought his mother’s dog out with him. The animal
uttered a few barks of apparent joy. Perhaps he was racing about the garden. “Hullo, Lord Reardon.”
He moved to the wooden garden gate. Since that barrier only came to his hip, she could see
more of his form than she’d been able to yesterday, and right now he wasn’t wearing the greatcoat that
hid his body from view. Drat him. Those shoulders were a tad wider than they’d been five years
before, and those narrow hips set off by the snug breeches made her heartbeat race. “I would like the
opportunity to talk to you. Preferably alone.”
And drat her feet for carrying her to the gate without express permission from her brain.
“Why?” Stop it this instant, Carole. Nothing good will come from letting him back in. But that
didn’t quell her curiosity.
“To explain.”
She frowned. “It will not make a difference. I have consigned you to the past.”
But had she, though? Ever since she’d seen him yesterday, he’d consumed her thoughts, and it
was as if the separation had been fresh once more.
“How can you know that?”
Oh, why did he have to come back? Carole propped her hands on her hips. “You made it
perfectly clear you didn’t want me the day you left me alone at that church with hundreds of eyes on
me.”
Faint annoyance lined his face. “That wasn’t it at all!” He shoved a hand through his hair,
upsetting the perfect style. “There were dire circumstances at play that had nothing to do with you.”
When he implored her to understand with his eyes, she almost wavered. “That is why I wish to
explain what happened that day.”
It was folly to continue to give him her ear, but a part of her wanted to know why he’d done
the unthinkable. Of course, the other part of her wanted to see him to the devil, but that was perhaps
uncharitable of her. With a sigh, she rested a hand on the gate. “You destroyed my life, Alistair. Why
would I want to do anything with you?”
A partial grin lifted the corners of his mouth, and that brought out the slight dimple in his chin.
That was a dangerous prospect, because when that dimple flashed, she became weak at the knees.
“Because it is Christmastide. I remember it being your favorite season of the year.”
It had been one of the reasons they’d chosen December as their wedding month and drat if that
anniversary wasn’t around this time. “What difference does that make?” Perhaps if she pretended not
to care, he wouldn’t pursue the conversation.
He, too, laid a hand on top of the gate, so close to hers the warmth of him transferred to her.
“It is the season of miracles, after all, and I should like to have one where you are concerned.”
Why was it so important to him to make nice now, so many years later? Was it merely because
they were neighbors? She shoved the thoughts from her mind. “I am well beyond thinking about
miracles, and I certainly don’t believe in magic any longer.” What a sad commentary on what her life
had become.
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stems of the water-palm which was growing at hand in great
profusion, and answered the purpose excellently. It was, however,
partly destroyed by fire, and required great care in crossing. We
could not trust the animals on it, so we had to fall back on our rope,
and haul them across a little higher up the river, where the water was
deeper and the current consequently less violent.
Just below the bridge were a series of magnificent cascades,
which filled the air for a long distance round with their stupendous
roar. As we intended making another march that day, we went on
again after a short halt. The men had had no food for three days,
except the remains of the insignificant quantity of meat I shot a few
days before. We were therefore anxious to reach the cultivated
country in order to buy fresh supplies for them.
After a weary walk from eleven in the morning to four in the
afternoon, we were relieved to find ourselves among the shambas of
the natives. We camped beside a small stream close to a village,
and immediately opened a market, and when the natives appeared
we bought a small supply of maize and sweet potatoes, which were
at once served out to our hungry men.
 CHAPTER III.
FROM THE TANA TO M’BU.

We reach and cross the Tana—Maranga—The abundance of food

thereof—We open a market—We treat the Maranga elders to
cigars, with disastrous results—Bad character of the Wa’M’bu—
We resume our journey—A misunderstanding with the A’kikuyu—
We reach M’bu.
Early the following morning we struck camp and travelled due north,
following native paths. Ascending a low hill, we were unexpectedly
greeted by the paramount chief of the district, who rejoiced in the
name of Kinuthia, and several of his elders. He presented us, by way
of an introduction, with a gourd containing about half a gallon of
fresh milk, which we much appreciated, signifying the same in the
usual manner. When we regained our breath once more, Kinuthia
handed us a note given him by Mr. Hall, a Government officer, who
had been up there a month before in order to select a site for the
new Government station for the Kenia district; which stated that
Kinuthia was a friendly chief, and desired to be recognized as such.
We immediately recognized him as such by enlisting him as our
guide to the Sagana, which we expected to be able to cross that day.
After a short conversation he took the lead, and on we marched
again. He led us across some very rough country for an hour and a
half, when we reached a small, swift river, an affluent of the Sagana.
We crossed without much trouble by the timely aid of the ragged-
looking A’kikuyu noblemen in attendance on their chief. Another two-
hour tramp followed, when we at last reached the Sagana, which is
really a noble river, abounding in hippo here, as indeed it does
everywhere. We saw no crocodiles, though we inquired most
anxiously after them.
Kinuthia informed us that the Somalis’ safari had crossed three
weeks or a month before. One of Jamah Mahomet’s cows, while
fording the river, had been seized by a crocodile and the poor
beast’s shoulder torn right out. We did not feel more comfortable on
receipt of this intelligence, but we were assured by the natives that
they had since poisoned all the crocodiles for a distance of half a
mile or so each side of the ford, though they thought it likely that a
stray reptile or two might have escaped the general poisoning. We
had no choice, however; so we stripped and waded, chin-deep, to
the opposite side, about eighty yards distant.
The current was immensely powerful, and the bottom very pebbly
and slippery; but we were assisted by some of Kinuthia’s aristocracy,
and made the passage in safety. Our men were tired and rather
nervous of the current, so for three “makono” (about 1½ yards) of
cloth each, we induced fifteen of the aforesaid A’kikuyu noblemen to
carry their loads across for them—a task they successfully
accomplished, Kinuthia himself not disdaining to discard his royal
robes (a goatskin) and earn his piece of cloth.
We breakfasted on the bank, and then made another move, as
Kinuthia impressed upon us the fact that an hour’s journey further on
was situate the village of Manga, the chief of the Maranga, whose
people had an abundance of food for sale, and where we should be
able to buy all the supplies we needed without any trouble. He said
he would accompany us and introduce us, which we thought was
very good of him.
Our way lay through dense plantations, which fully bore out friend
Kinuthia’s assertions as to the richness of the district in food-stuffs.
In an hour we reached a gently sloping hill, covered with short green
grass, on which we pitched our camp. We sent for the chief, who
shortly afterwards made his appearance. He seemed a very decent
old fellow, and anxious to assist us. We stated our requirements, and
he immediately commanded his people to bring us food for sale, and
did everything in his power—short of giving anything away himself—
to show us that he was friendly and well-disposed towards us.
His son, Koranja, a rather good-looking young fellow for a native,
had been down to Mombasa with a safari, and spoke Kiswahili fairly
well. He seemed very intelligent. Some of the old men of the tribe
also spoke Kiswahili, which, we presumed, they had picked up from
passing Arab or Swahili safaris. Kinuthia bade us adieu and returned
to his own village the other side of the Sagana, having received from
us a suitable present of beads, etc., to gladden his heart, or rather
the hearts of his wives.
Large quantities of food then began to arrive, and we decided to
stop where we were for a day or two, and buy at least ten days’
rations for the men, before resuming our journey northwards. We
retired that night a great deal easier in our minds about the
commissariat than we had been for some days.
Next morning the camp was fairly buzzing with natives of all ages
and both sexes. Most of them had brought food to sell, but many of
them came merely to look at us. Not that we were much to look at; in
any civilized community we should have run a great risk of being
arrested as vagrants and suspicious characters. El Hakim and
George both wore embryo beards, and our appearance generally
was rather that of tramps than otherwise. El Hakim had a great
affection for a pair of moleskin trousers and a leather jacket, both of
which had seen much service. His hat, too, had known better days;
but it was an idiosyncrasy of his to wear his clothes on safari work till
they were absolutely beyond further mending and patching. On one
occasion he was reported to have tramped about the Lykipia plateau
for months, clad only in a coloured cloth and a pair of brown boots,
with a towel twisted round his head turban-wise, he having lost his
only hat. I can vouch for the comfort of such a dress in a good
climate such as obtains on the Waso Nyiro, as I tried the experiment
myself.
THE CAMP AT MARANGA.
 BUYING FOOD AT MARANGA. (See page 54.)

As soon as we had breakfasted, we went about the important

business of marketing. Maranga, as is Kikuyu generally, is
extraordinarily rich and fertile. All kinds of grain are exceedingly
plentiful. Among those brought to us for sale were millet (Panicum
Italicum), called by the natives “metama;” Pennisetum spicatum,
known as “mwele,” a seed resembling linseed, which grows on a
close spike like a bulrush flower; Eleusine corocana, known as
“uimbe;” and “muhindi,” or “dhurra” (maize). A large variety of edible
roots is also cultivated, the most common being “viazi” (sweet
potatoes), “vikwer” (yams), and “mahogo” (manioc). Sugar-cane was
very largely grown, and is known to the natives as “mewa.” The
stalks of metama, which are called “kota,” are also chewed by the
natives on account of the sweetish sap. The half-grown stalks of the
same plant are known as “metama m’tindi.” “N’dizi” (bananas) are
also extensively cultivated, but we never ate any, as they are never
allowed to ripen. The natives pluck them while they are green and
hard, and roast them in hot ashes. When cooked they have the
appearance and taste of a floury potato, though with a slightly
astringent flavour. Wild honey was procurable in moderate
quantities. It is called “assala,” evidently derived from the Arabic
word for the same substance, “assal.” The Masai name for honey is
“naischu,” the word generally used in Kikuyu. At certain seasons of
the year the staple diet of the natives is “kundu” (beans), of which we
saw two varieties, viz. “maragua,” a small white bean like a haricot,
and “baazi,” a black bean which grows in pods on a small tree like a
laburnum. They also grow several kinds of gourds, named
respectively “mumunye,” which resembles a vegetable marrow in
size and appearance, “kitoma,” a small, round kind, and “tikiti,” a
small water-melon. It will be observed that we did not lack variety.
We bought large quantities of m’wele, which our Swahilis at first
refused to eat: they said it was “chickens’ food.” They knew better
afterwards. We also procured some “mazewa” (fresh milk) for
ourselves. Food was comparatively cheap. A “makono” of cloth or a
handful of beads bought several “kibabas” of grain or beans. A
kibaba equals about a pint. The term “makono” (meaning, literally, a
hand) is applied to the measure of the forearm from the tip of the
elbow to the end of the second finger, generally about eighteen
inches. Four makono equal one “doti” (about two yards), and twenty-
five yards or so make a “jora” or “piece” of cloth.
The beads most in demand were the small red Masai beads
known as “sem-sem.” We did not part with any wire, as we wanted it
for the districts farther north.
George and I went out in the forenoon to try and shoot hippo in the
Sagana, which was only an hour’s walk from the camp. On reaching
a likely pool, I sat down on the bank to watch. George had turned
very sick again on the way, and laid down under a shady tree. I shot
two hippo in the water, but they sank, and though I sent men down
the river to watch the shallows, I never saw any more of them.
There were a lot of guinea-fowl about, so I sent back to camp for
my shot-gun. George was feeling so queer that he went back also.
When my gun arrived, I had a good time among the guinea-fowl,
securing eight in an hour or so. I also got a partridge, which turned
up in a—for it—inopportune moment.
When I got back to camp, I found that El Hakim had been highly
successful in his marketing, and had obtained a large quantity of
food, mostly mwele, muhindi, and some viazi. For our own
consumption we had laid in a stock of muhindi cobs, maragua
beans, and some butter. The butter was snow-white, but, being
made from curdled milk, was very acid and unpalatable.
The natives always drink their milk sour; they do not understand
our preference for fresh milk. Another thing that tends to make their
milk unpopular with European travellers is the dirty state of the
vessels it is kept in. They are made from gourds which have had the
inside cleaned out by the simple process of burning it out with hot
ashes, which gives the milk a nasty charred flavour. The finished
milk vessel is called a “kibuyu.” I have been told that they stir the
freshly drawn milk with a charred stick from the fire, to preserve it,
but I never saw it done. The Masai especially are very bad offenders
in this respect. The old women who milk the cows invariably wash
out the empty vessels with another fluid from the same animal,
certainly never intended by nature for that purpose. If the milk is
intended for sale to the “wasungu” (white men), it is more often than
not adulterated in the same nauseous manner.
We lunched on some of the guinea-fowl I had shot in the forenoon.
Ramathani somehow boiled them tender. Afterwards we held a
“shaurie” (council), at which old Manga and many of his elders
attended. We wanted all the information we could obtain about our
road northward, the districts we should have to pass through, and
the position of the various streams and camping-places.
We were smoking Egyptian cigarettes, a box of which we
numbered among our most precious possessions, and it was rather
a nuisance to have to pass a freshly lighted cigarette round the circle
of natives squatted in front of El Hakim’s tent for each to take a whiff.
They could not properly appreciate them, and it seemed to me very
much like casting pearls before swine. In addition, when the cigarette
was returned, the end was chewed about, and a good smoke
thereby spoiled. If we lit another, the same process was repeated.
The native gentlemen called it etiquette. I considered it downright
sinful waste, an opinion in which El Hakim evidently concurred, as,
after we had had several cigarettes spoiled in this provoking manner,
he turned to me and said, “Get out your box of ‘stinkers,’ Hardwick,
and let’s try the old gentlemen with those.”
I thought it was a splendid idea, so I brought out two of them, and,
lighting one myself, handed the other to old Manga. He glanced at it
suspiciously, turning it over and over in his grimy paws. He had
apparently never seen a cigar before, but seeing me smoking a
similar specimen, he at last ventured to light it. It seemed to grate on
him a little, but he said nothing, and puffed stolidly away for a
moment or two, though I could see his powers of self-control were
being exerted to the utmost. After a game struggle the cigar scored a
distinct success, and Manga, deliberately passing it on to the elder
on his right, rose slowly, and, stalking with great dignity out of camp,
disappeared behind a clump of bushes.
The old man to whom he handed it gazed wonderingly after him
for a moment, then, placing the fatal weed between his aged lips, he
took a long pull and inhaled the smoke. A startled look appeared in
his dim old eyes, and he threw a quick glance in my direction; but I
was calmly puffing away at mine, so he said nothing either, and took
another whiff. In a few short moments he in his turn was vanquished,
and, handing the cigar to his next neighbour, retired with great
dignity to the clump of bushes, where he and old Manga offered up
sacrifices to the goddess Nicotina with an unanimity that was as
surprising as it was novel.
It was only with the very greatest difficulty that we managed to
control our risible faculties. We were inwardly convulsed with
laughter at the facial expressions of the old gentlemen before and
after tasting the fearsome weed. The looks of delighted, though
timorous, anticipation, the startled realization, and the agonized
retrospection, which in turn were portrayed on the usually blank and
uninteresting countenances of Manga’s Ministers of State, was a
study in expression that was simply killing. One by one they tasted it;
one by one they retired to the friendly clump of bushes that
concealed their exaltation from prying eyes; and one by one they
returned red-eyed and shaky, and resumed their places, inwardly
quaking, though outwardly unmoved.
We also had to get up and go away, but not for the same purpose.
If we had not gone away and laughed, we should have had a fit or
burst a blood-vessel. It was altogether too rich. We returned red-
eyed and weary also, and I believe that the old gentlemen thought
that we had been up to the same performance as themselves,
though they could not understand how I resumed my cigar on my
reappearance, and continued smoking with unruffled serenity. I
made a point of finishing my smoke to the last half-inch, and all
through the “shaurie” that succeeded I became aware that I was the
recipient of covert glances of admiration, not unmixed with envy,
from the various members of that little band of heroic sufferers in the
cause of etiquette.
When the “shaurie” was at length resumed, we gained a lot of
interesting information. We found that the people who had attacked
Finlay and Gibbons were the Wa’M’bu, who live two days’ journey to
the north of Maranga, on the south-east slopes of Mount Kenia. They
had a very bad reputation. The Maranga people spoke of them with
bated breath, and remarked that they were “bad, very bad,” and that
if we went through their country we should certainly be killed.
Jamah Mahomet’s safari, numbering nearly 100 guns, had refused
to go through M’bu, and had turned off to the west from Maranga, to
go round the west side of Mount Kenia and thence northward to
Limeru, as the district north-east of Kenia is called by the Swahilis.
There are many different peoples between Maranga and M’thara,
the most northerly inhabited country, though they are all A’kikuyu in
blood. Beyond M’thara the desert stretches away to southern
Somaliland and Abyssinia, with Lake Rudolph in the foreground
about twelve days’ march north-west of M’thara.
The Maranga elders entreated us very urgently to go round west
of Kenia by the same route as Jamah Mahomet and Co., but we did
not see things in the same light at all. We were three white men with
twenty-five guns; and, as El Hakim observed, we were “not to be
turned from our path and our plans disarranged by a pack of howling
savages, however bad a reputation they might have”—a decision we
conveyed to our Maranga friends forthwith. They heard it with much
raising of hands and rolling of eyes, and clearly regarded us as
persons of unsound mind, who really ought to be kept in
confinement; but still, they said, if we were determined to court a
premature end in M’bu, why, they would do all in their power to help
us—an ambiguity we indulgently excused in consideration of the
evident sincerity of their wish to advise us for our good.
We were informed that all the people northward were “kali sana”
(very fierce), and we should do well to use the utmost precaution in
passing through the various districts—a piece of advice we did not
intend to disregard. To go round the other way meant quite a
fortnight more on the road to M’thara, in addition to which El Hakim
was very anxious to see Mount Kenia from the east side, as, indeed,
were we all, as no white men that we knew of had been round that
way before. Perhaps the fact that the Somalis funked the M’bu route
had something to do with our decision also.
We gathered what information we could of the topography of M’bu
and the adjacent countries, which afterwards proved exceedingly
useful. We packed up our goods and chattels, and made our
preparations for a start on the morrow. One of our men, Hamisi, had
a severe attack of dysentery, and we made arrangements with the
old Manga to leave him behind with enough cloth for his keep for
some months. Manga’s son Koranja and some of the old men
signified their intention of accompanying us part of the way. It
appeared that for two days’ journey we should be among friendly
tribes. After that, the Wa’M’bu!
We started the following morning as soon as Koranja appeared.
The country was extraordinarily rich and fertile. The soil is bright red,
and produces, in conjunction with the constant moisture, a practically
unlimited food-supply. The ground was very hilly and well watered—
too well watered for our comfort. There were no large trees, but the
undergrowth was very rank and dense. We saw large quantities of
the castor-oil plant (Ricinus communis) growing wild. The natives
press the dark-coloured oil from the seeds and smear their bodies
with it.
Several times on that morning’s march we saw Koranja, who was
leading, dart hurriedly to one side, and, leaving the path, plunge into
the undergrowth, making a devious détour round something,
followed, of course, by the safari. We asked the reason of his
strange conduct, and the answer more than satisfied us. It was the
single word “ndui” (small-pox). We passed quite half a dozen villages
which were entirely depopulated by the scourge. Now and again we
saw a solitary emaciated figure, covered with small-pox pustules,
crouching on the side of the path, watching us with an uninterested
and vacant stare. On a shout from Koranja and a threatening motion
of his spear, it would slink mournfully away into the deeper recesses
of the jungle.
We reached a small clearing about midday, and camped. We were
unable to build a boma round the camp, owing to the absence of
thorn trees, or any reliable substitute; so that we were in a measure
defenceless against a sudden attack. Large numbers of armed
natives soon put in appearance, and swaggered in and out with
great freedom, and even insolence. We cleared them out politely, but
firmly, and they then congregated outside and discussed us. They
talked peacefully enough, but it was more like the peaceful singing of
a kettle before it boils over. We ate our lunch, and retired to our
tents. George and I went to our own tent, and, taking off our boots,
laid down on our blankets for a quiet smoke. Our men seemed very
much upset by the stories they had heard in Maranga concerning the
warlike qualities of the Wa’M’bu, and their condition could only be
described as “jumpy.” To put it plainly, they were in a pitiable state of
fright, and needed careful handling, if we were to avoid trouble with
the natives through their indiscretion; as trouble would come quite
soon enough of its own accord without that.
 GROUP OF A’KIKUYU.

To resume, George and I had lain down, perhaps, half an hour,

and were quite comfortable and half asleep, when a terrific
altercation caused us to jump up and rush outside. We were just in
time to assist El Hakim in forcibly disarming our men. Some of them
were placing cartridges in the breeches of their rifles; a few yards
away a vast crowd of natives were frantically brandishing their
spears and clubs and yelling like demons. If a shot had been fired,
we should have been in rather a tight place, for, as I have said, the
camp was quite open, and practically defenceless. If the A’kikuyu
had rushed us, then the chances are that another fatality would have
been added to Africa’s already long list. As it was, by much shouting
and punching, we induced our excited and frightened men to put
down their weapons in time, and so regained control over them.
Koranja, shaking visibly, went up to the Kikuyu chief and smoothed
matters down, after which mutual explanations ensued. It appeared
that an M’kikuyu warrior had indulged too freely in “tembo” (native
beer), and had run amuck through our camp. Our men, in their
already fidgety state, jumped to the conclusion that they were being
attacked, seized their rifles, and were about to use them, when our
timely appearance on the scene prevented a very pretty butchery.
The natives professed to be very sorry for what had occurred, and,
seizing their drunken companion, hurried him away, and peace, if not
harmony, was restored.
We did not trust them, however, as they seemed very sullen over
the whole business. Koranja was also very nervous, and showed it,
which did not tend to reassure our men. We ate our dinner at dusk,
to the accompaniment of howling and shouting from A’kikuyu
concealed in the surrounding bush. We doubled the guard at
sundown, just before we went to dinner, giving them the most
precise instructions in the event of an alarm. At the conclusion of the
meal we were startled by a volley from the sentries. The whole camp
was immediately alarmed, and symptoms of a panic manifested
themselves. We restored order with a little difficulty, and, on
investigation, found that the sentries had fired on some natives
skulking round in undue proximity to the camp.
We now made every preparation for attack, and made
arrangements for one or the other of us to be on guard all night. I
took the first watch from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., and El Hakim the second
from 10 p.m. to 12 a.m.; but everything remained quiet, and El
Hakim did not think it necessary to call George at midnight, the rest
of the night proving uneventful, with the exception that our fox-terrier
gave birth to six puppies, of which she seemed very proud.
At daylight we struck camp, and were away before the sun was
fairly up. The country was much the same as on the day before,
though, if anything, the jungle was more dense. The shambas were
filled to overflowing with unripe muhindi and pumpkins, while sweet
potatoes and beans were growing in great profusion on every side.
Travelling in the early morning was decidedly unpleasant, as the dew
collected on the shrubbery was shaken down upon us in showers,
wetting us through to the skin. We crossed two or three small rivers,
and at midday reached and camped at a place called Materu.
 The chief soon put in an appearance, and we purchased a further
supply of food, in the shape of potatoes, beans, muhindi, and a little
honey. We also obtained further information of the road through the
notorious M’bu country which, I must confess, did not seem to have
any better reputation the nearer we approached it.
Our Maranga friends, under Koranja, appeared very frightened at
their close proximity to the dreaded Wa’M’bu, and intimated their
intention of returning to Maranga. We answered that they might go
when we gave them permission, but for the present we required their
services; with which answer they had perforce to be content.
The next morning we again travelled through much the same
densely populated and cultivated country as that hitherto passed,
though it seemed to get more mountainous. We had not as yet got a
view of Mount Kenia, as the sky had been for days covered with a
thick curtain of grey clouds. Koranja informed us that two hours after
starting we should reach a river called “Shelangow,” which was the
boundary of M’bu. We said the sooner the better.
At midday, after some hours’ steady march, we appeared to be as
far from the “Shelangow” as ever, though we had been informed that
it was “huko mbeli kidogo” (only just in front) for over three hours. As
the men were very tired, El Hakim decided to camp, in spite of
Koranja’s energetic protests that the Shelangow was “karibu
kabissa” (very near). The country was very wet with the constant
drizzle and mist, which made the steep clayey paths exceedingly
slippery, while between the shambas the way led through thickets of
brambles and stinging nettles, which caused the porters endless
discomfort. On halting, we built a boma of shrubs; not that we
thought it would be of any use in case of an attack, but to give the
men confidence. We wrote letters and gave them to Koranja, on the
remote chance that they would get down to Nairobi, and thence to
England. (They did get down four months later, and were delivered in
England five months after they were written.)
In the evening Koranja and his friends then bade us an
affectionate and relieved farewell. They remarked in parenthesis that
they would never see us again, as the Wa’M’bu would certainly kill
us all; a belief that probably explained why they helped themselves
to all our small private stock of sweet potatoes before they left; a
moral lapse that—luckily for them—we did not discover till next
morning. Our men sent a deputation to us during the evening,
pointing out the perils of the passage through M’bu, and saying that
we should of a certainty be killed, and most likely eaten. This
statement we received with polite incredulity, and dismissed the
deputation with a warning not to do it again.
Next morning I was very queer, a large lump having formed in my
groin. This is a very common complaint in East Africa and Uganda,
supposedly due to over-fatigue and walking, though I think climate
and diet have something to do with it. George had two very bad ones
on his way down from Uganda. It was my second experience of
them, and the oftener I suffered from them, the less I liked them, as
they are exceedingly painful. The only cure seems to be complete
rest, and hot fomentations applied to the swelling.
We did not travel that day in consequence, but occupied ourselves
in buying a little food and getting what further information we could
about the road ahead. There were not many natives or villages about
—a fact easily explained by the contiguity of the M’bu border. The
place where we were camped was a sort of neutral territory, or “no
man’s land.”
Next day, soon after daylight, we set out for the Shelangow, which
was reached after a couple of hours’ march over very steep country.
It proved to be merely a mountain torrent, which we easily crossed.
On the other side rose a very steep hill, to the top of which we
climbed, and found ourselves at last in the country of the dreaded
Wa’M’bu.
 CHAPTER IV.
FROM M’BU, ACROSS EAST KENIA, TO ZURA.

First sight of Kenia—Hostile demonstrations by the M’bu people—We

impress two guides—Passage through M’bu—Demonstrations in
force by the inhabitants—Farewell to M’bu—The guides desert—
Arrival in Zuka—Friendly reception by the Wa’zuka—Passage
through Zuka—Muimbe—Igani—Moravi—Arrival at Zura—
Welcome by Dirito, the chief of Zura.
In order that there should be no misunderstanding on the part of the
Wa’M’bu as to our calibre, El Hakim determined to pursue an
aggressive policy, without, however, committing any overt act. We
accordingly pitched our camp in the middle of one of their shambas,
and helped ourselves freely to anything we fancied in the way of
muhindi, etc. Their natural line of reasoning would be that a safari
which had the effrontery to act in that way must be very powerful,
and should therefore be approached with caution.
The result entirely justified our action; which was only what we
expected, as with bullying natives, might is always right.
No natives came into our camp—a bad sign, though we saw many
skulking round in the bush. They seemed very morose and sulky, but
so far showed no signs of active hostility. We put on a double guard
for the night, and went to sleep in our clothes; but we were not
disturbed.
We did not travel the following morning, as we were without
guides; and as no natives came into camp we resolved to capture
one on the first available opportunity. At sunrise we got our first
glimpse of Mount Kenia, and a wonderful view it was. Kenia is called
“Kilimaro” by the Swahilis, and “Donyo Ebor” (Black Mountain) and
“Donyo Egere” (Spotted Mountain) by the Masai; so called because
of the large black patches on the main peak, where the sides are too
precipitous for the snow to lodge.
 Thompson[2] describes his first impressions of Kenia thus:—
“As pious Moslems watch with strained eyes the appearance of
the new moon or the setting of the sun, to begin their orisons, so we
now waited for the uplifting of the fleecy veil, to render due homage
to the heaven-piercing Kenia. The sun set in the western heavens,
and sorrowfully we were about to turn away, when suddenly there
was a break in the clouds far up in the sky, and the next moment a
dazzling white pinnacle caught the last rays of the sun, and shone
with a beauty, marvellous, spirit-like, and divine; cut off, as it
apparently was, by immeasurable distance from all connection with
the gross earth. The sun’s rays went off, and then, with a softness
like the atmosphere of dreams, which befitted the gloaming, that
white peak remained as though some fair spirit with subdued and
chastened expression lingered at her evening devotions. Presently,
as the garish light of day melted into the soft hues and mild
effulgence of a moon-lit night, the ‘heaven-kissing’ mountain became
gradually disrobed; and then in its severe outlines and chaste beauty
it stood forth from top to bottom, entrancing, awe-inspiring—meet
reward for days of maddening worry and nights of sleepless anxiety.
At that moment I could almost feel that Kenia was to me what the
sacred stone of Mecca is to the Faithful, who have wandered from
distant lands, surmounting perils and hardships, that they might but
kiss or see the hallowed object, and then, if it were God’s will, die.”
While I am unable to rise to the dizzy heights of rhetorical
description, or revel in the boundless fields of metaphor so
successfully exploited by Mr. Thompson, I fully endorse his remarks.
The first sight of Kenia does produce a remarkable impression on
the traveller; an impression which does not—one is surprised to find
—wear off with time. Kenia, like a clever woman, is chary of
exhibiting her manifold charms too often to the vulgar gaze. One can
live at the base of the mountain for weeks, or even months, and
never get a glimpse of its magnificent peak.
We, however, could not stop to romance, as the enemy were even
now clamouring without our gates; and we were reluctantly
compelled to turn our wandering attention to a more serious
business. It appeared quite within the bounds of possibility that we
should “die” without even “kissing” the “hallowed object” so ably
eulogized by Mr. Thompson; as the irreverent Wa’M’bu were making
hostile demonstrations in the thick bush surrounding our camp,
regardless of our æsthetic yearnings. They were apparently trying
our temper by means of a demonstration in force, and such awful
howlings as they made I never previously heard.
Our men became very nervous, and fidgeted constantly with their
guns, looking with strained gaze into the bush without the camp. El
Hakim was, as usual, quite undisturbed, and George and I
succeeded in keeping up an appearance of impassive calm, and
condescended even to make jokes about the noise, an attitude
which went a long way towards reassuring our men, who watched us
constantly. Any sign of nervousness or anxiety on our part would
have been fatal, as the men would have instantly scattered and run
for the border, with a result easily foreseen.
The morning passed in this manner, the Wa’M’bu continuing their
howling, while we went through our ordinary camp routine with as
much nonchalance as we could command.
We had lately lived largely upon vegetables, and now determined
to give ourselves a treat, so we cooked our only ham, and made an
excellent lunch on ham and boiled muhindi cobs. During the meal
the war-cries of the Wa’M’bu increased in volume, and our men were
plainly very much disturbed. They kept looking in our direction as if
for orders; while we appeared as if utterly unaware that anything
untoward was happening.
Presently Jumbi came up with his rifle at the shoulder, and
saluting, stood a yard or so away from the table. El Hakim was busily
eating, and studiously ignored him for a moment or two. Presently he
looked up.
“Yes?” he said inquiringly.
Jumbi saluted again. “The ‘Washenzi,’ Bwana!” said he.
“Well?” interrogated El Hakim again.
“They are coming to attack us, Bwana, on this side and on that
side,” said Jumbi, indicating with a sweep of his arm the front and
rear of the camp.
“All right,” said El Hakim, “I will see about it after lunch; I am eating
now. You can go.”
And Jumbi, saluting once more, went off to where the men were
nervously waiting. His account of the interview, we could see,
reassured them greatly. They concluded the “Wasungu” must have
something good up their sleeve to be able to take matters so calmly.
At the conclusion of the meal we instructed our men to shout to
the enemy and ask them as insolently as possible if they wanted to
fight. There was a sudden silence on the part of the Wa’M’bu when
they realized the purport of the words; but in a little time a single
voice answered, “Kutire kimandaga” (We do not want to fight). We
then invited their chief to come into camp, an invitation he seemed
very slow to accept, but after long hesitation he mustered up
sufficient courage, and walked slowly into camp, accompanied by
one other old man.
He was a fine-looking, grey-haired old chap, and carried himself
with great dignity. Negotiations were opened with a few strings of
beads, which after a moment’s indecision he accepted. We then
talked to him gently, but firmly, and asked the reason of the
unseemly noise outside.
“Do you want to fight?” we asked aggressively.
He replied that the old men did not want to fight, but the young
men did.
“Very well,” we said, still more aggressively, “go away and tell the
young men to come on and fight us at once, and let us get it over.”
He then added that the young men did not want to fight either.
This was our opportunity, and, seizing it, we talked very severely
to him, intimating that we were much annoyed at the noise that had
been made. We did not consider it at all friendly, we said, and if there
were any more of it, we should not wait for the young men to come
to us, we should go to them and put a stop to their howling.