Excerpt- Chapter One

Derbyshire, the spring of 1838

She was so engrossed in the book she was reading that she didn’t really hear the knocking on her door—until it became pounding. Ariella started, curled up in a canopied, four-poster bed, a book about Genghis Khan in her hands. For one more moment, visions of a thirteenth century city danced in her mind, and she saw well-dressed upper class men and women fleeing in panic amidst artisans and slaves, as the Mongol hordes galloped through the dusty streets on their war horses.

“Ariella de Warenne!”

Ariella sighed, the images finally receding. She was at Rose Hill, her parent’s English country home; she had arrived last night. She had been able to smell the battle as well as see it. She shook the last of her imaginings away. “Come in, Dianna,” she called, setting the history aside.

Her half-sister Dianna, her junior by eight years, hurried in—and stopped short. “You’re not even dressed!” She exclaimed.

“I can’t wear this gown to supper?” Ariella said with mock innocence. She didn’t care about fashion, but she did know her family, and at supper the women wore evening dresses and jewels, the men dinner jackets.

Dianna’s eyes popped. “You wore that dress to breakfast!”

Ariella slid to her feet, smiling. She still couldn’t get over how much her little sister has matured. A year ago, Dianna was still more child than woman. Now, she was so lovely—and it was hard to believe she was only sixteen, especially clad in the gown she was wearing. “Is it that late?” Vaguely, she glanced towards the windows of her bedroom and was surprised to see the sun hanging low in the sky. She had settled down with her tome hours ago.

“It is almost four and I know you know we are having company tonight.”

Ariella did recall that Amanda, her step-mother, had mentioned something about supper guests. “Did you know that Genghis Khan never initiated an attack without warning? He always sent word to the countries' leaders and kings asking for their surrender first, instead of simply attacking and slaying everyone, as so many historians claim.”

Dianna stared, bewildered. “Who is Genghis Khan? What are you talking about?”

Ariella beamed. “I am reading about the Mongols, Dianna. Their history is incredible and under Genghis Khan, they formed an empire almost as large as that of Great Britain. Did you know that?” Excitement arose. It was always hard to remember that no one, not even her father, seemed to care about the subjects which impassioned her.

“No, I did not. Ariella, Mother has invited Lord Montgomery and his brother—in your honor.”

“Of course, today they inhabit a far smaller area,” Ariella said, not having heard this last bit. “I want to go to the Central Steepes of Asia. The Mongols remain there today, Dianna. Their culture and way of life is almost unchanged since the days of Genghis Khan. Can you imagine?”

Dianna grimmaced and walked to a closet, pushing through the hanging gowns there. “Lord Montgomery is your age—and he came into his title last year. His brother is a bit younger. The title is an old one, the estates well-run. I heard Mother and Aunt Lizzie talking about it.” She pulled out a pale blue gown. “This is stunning! And it doesn’t look as if you have worn it.”

Ariella didn’t want to give up on her sister, yet. “If I give you this history to read, I am certain you will enjoy it. Maybe we can all go to the steepes together! We could even see the Great Wall of China!”

Dianna turned and stared.

Ariella saw that her little sister was losing patience. “No, I haven’t worn the blue. The supper parties I attend in town are filled with academics and Whig reformers, and there are few gentry there. I don’t want to overdress. No one cares about fashion.”

Holding the gown to her chest, Dianna shook her head. “And that is a shame! I am not interested in Mongols, Ariella, and I cannot truly understand why you are. I am not going to the steepes with you—or to any Chinese wall. I love my life right here! The last time we spoke, you were in a tizzy about the Bedouins—and that was as strange as this fervor for Mongols.”

“I had just returned from Jerusalem—and a guided tour of a Bedouin camp. Did you know that our army uses Bedouins as scouts and guides in Palestine and Egypt?” She smiled. “The Beduiins are not Muslim Arabs, either. The ones I visited were Christians.”

Dianna marched to the bed and laid the gown there. “It’s time you wore this lovely dress. Will you wear it tonight? With your golden complexion and hair and our infamous de Warenne blue eyes, you will turn heads in it.”

Ariella stared, instantly wary. “Who did you say was coming?” What, exactly, had Dianna said?

Dianna beamed. “Lord Montgomery—and he is a catch! They say he is also handsome,” she added with a smile.
In confusion, Ariella folded her arms across her chest. “You’re too young to be looking for a husband.”

“But you’re not,” Dianna cried with a wide smile. Then it failed and she stared at her sister with worry. “You didn’t hear me, did you? Lord Montgomery has just come into his title, and he is both very good looking and well-educated. I have heard all kinds of gossip that he is in a rush to wed.”

Instantly Ariella turned away. She was twenty-four now but marriage was not on her mind. Ever since she was a small child, as long as she could remember, she had been consumed with a passion for knowledge, most of it coming from books. Books—and the knowledge contained within them—had been her life ever since she could remember. Given a choice between a library and a ball, she would always choose the former.

And because her father doted on her and encouraged her intellectual pursuits—and that was truly unheard of--since turning twenty-one, she resided mostly in London. There she could haunt the libraries and museums, attend public debates on burning social issues, usually formed by radicals like Francis Place and William Covett. But she had reached the point in her life where she wished for far more independence—she wanted to travel and see the places and people she had read about.

She was already well-traveled. She had been born in Barbary. Her mother had been a Jewess enslaved by a Barbary prince, and she had been executed shortly after Ariella’s birth for having a fair-skinned child with blue eyes. Her father had managed to have her smuggled out of the harem and she had been raised by him since infancy. He had become one of the greatest shipping magnates of the current era, but in those days, he had been more privateer than anything else. She had spent the first few years of her life in the West Indies, where Cliff de Warenne had a home, a base from which to pursue rovers. When he had met and married Amanda, his wife, they had moved to London. Her step-mother loved the sea as much as Cliff did, and by the time Ariella came of age, she had traveled from one end of the Meditteranean to the other, up and down the coast of the United States, and through the major cities of Europe. She had even been to Palestine, Hong Kong, and the East Indies.

Last year there had been the three month tour to Vienna, Budapest and then Athens. Her father had allowed her this trip, with the condition her brother escort her. Alexi, the son of a Russian countess, was following in their father’s footsteps—he was a merchant adventurer—and he had been happy to chaperone her and briefly detour to Constantinople, upon her request.

Her favorite land was Palestine, her favorite city Jerusalem; her least favorite, Algiers—wher her mother had been executed for her affair with Ariella’s father.

Ariella knew she was fortunate to have traveled a good portion of the world. She knew she was fortunate to have lenient parents, who trusted her implicitly, and were proud of her intellect. It was not the norm. Dianna was not educated; she only read the occasional romance novel. She spent the Season in London, the rest of the year in their country home in Ireland, and she lived a life of lesiure—as a lady should. Except for charity, her days were spent changing attire, attending lavish meals and teas, and calling on neighbors. It was usual for a well-bred young woman.

Soon, Dianna would be put on the marriage market, and she would hunt the perfect husband. Ariella knew her beautiful sister, an heiress in her own right, would have no problem becoming wed. But Ariella wished for a far different life. She preferred independence, books and travel to marriage. Only a very unusual man would allow her the freedom she was accustomed to and she couldn’t quite imagine answering to anyone, not when she had such independence now. Marriage had never seemed important to her. Yet she had grown up surrounded by great love, devotion and equality, exemplified in the marriages of her aunts, uncles and parents. If she ever did marry, she knew it would only be because she had found that great and unusual love, the kind the de Warenne men and women were infamous for. Yet at twenty-four, it seemed to have escaped her—and she didn’t feel lacking. How could she? She had thousands of books to read and places to see. She doubted she could accomplish all she wished to in a lifetime.

She slowly faced her sister.

Dianna smiled, but with anxiety. “I am so glad you are home! I have missed you, Ariella.” Her tone was now coaxing.
“I have missed you, too,” Ariella said, but not quite truthfully. A foreign land, where she was surrounded by exotic smells, sights and sounds, facing people she couldn’t wait to understand, was far too exciting for nostalgia or any homesick emotion. And in London, well, she could spend days and days in a museum and not even notice the passage of time.

“I am so glad you have met us at Rose Hill,” Dianna said. “Tonight will be so amusing. I met the younger Montgomery, and if his older brother is as charming, you might very well forget about Genghis Khan.” She added, “I don’t think you should raise the Mongols at supper, Ariella. No one will understand.”

Ariella hesitated. It was time to be frank with her sister. “In truth, I wish it were just a family affair. I cannot bear an evening spent discussing the weather, Amanda’s roses, the last hunt or the upcoming horse races.”

“Why not?” Dianna asked. “Those are suitable topics for discussion.” She hesitated. “Will you promise not to speak of the Mongols—and the Steppes—or supper parties with academics and reformers?” She smiled, but uncertainly.

Everyone will think you’re a Radical—and far too independent.”

Ariella balked. “Then I must be allowed absolute, ungracious silence.”

“That is childish.”

“A woman should be able to speak her mind. I speak my mind in town. And I am somewhat radical—there are terrible social conditions in the land. The penal code has hardly been changed, never mind the hoopla, and as for parliamentary reform—“

Dianna cut her off. “Of course you speak your mind—you aren’t in polite company—you said so yourself!” Dianna stood, agitated. “I love you dearly. I am asking you as a beloved sister to attempt a proper discourse.”

Ariella groused, “You have become so conservative—but you are clever. Fine. I won’t discuss any subject without your approval. I will look at you and wait for a wink. No, wait. Tug your left ear lobe and I will know I am allowed to speak.”

“Are you sulking? Or are you making a mockery of my sincere attempts to see you successfully wed?’

Ariella sat down, hard. Her little sister wished to see her wed—it was simply stunning.

And Dianna smiled coaxingly. “I also think you should not mention that Papa allows you to live alone in London. No one will ever understand.”

“I’m rarely alone. There is a house full of servants, the earl and aunt Lizzie are often in town, and Uncle Rex and Blanche are just a half hour away at Harrington House.”

“It is shocking, really, no matter who comes and goes at Harmon House, and everyone will think so. You live like an independent woman—our guests would be shocked—Lord Montgomery would be shocked!” She was firm. “Father really needs to come to his senses, where you are concerned.”

“I am not entirely independent. I receive moneys from my estates, but Father is the trustee.” Ariella bit her lip. When had Dianna become so proper? Was she narrow minded? When had she become exactly like everyone else her age and gender? Why couldn’t she see that free thinking and independence were states to be coveted, not condemned? And it was time to set her sister straight about Lord Montgomery. “Dianna, please don’t think to match me with Montgomery. I don’t mind being unwed.”

Dianna smoothed the gown down on the bed. “Father is so smitten with you, he can’t see straight. There is some gossip, you know, about your residing in London, without family.” She looked up. “I love you. You are twenty-four. Father isn’t inclined to rush a match, but you are of age. It is time, Ariella. I am looking out for your best interests.”
Ariella was dismayed.

“If you don’t marry, what will you do? What about children? If Father gives you your inheritance, will you travel the world? And for how long? Will you travel at forty? At eighty?”

“I hope so,” Ariella cried, smiling and excited by the notion.

Dianna shook her head. “That’s madness!”

They were as different as night and day, and Ariella didn’t know when this had happened—or how it had happened. “I don’t want to get married,” Ariella said firmly. “I will only marry if it is a true meeting of the minds. But I will be polite to Lord Montgomery—I promised you I won’t speak of the matters I care about, and I won’t—but dear God, cease and desist. I can think of nothing worse than a life of submission to some close-minded, proper gentleman. I like my life just as it is.”

Dianna was incredulous. “You’re a woman, Ariella, and God intended for you to take a husband and bear his children—and yes, be submissive to him. You must give Montgomery a chance—even if he is proper! And what do you mean by a meeting of the minds?” She cried. “Who marries for such a union?”

Ariella was shocked that her sister would espouse—and believe—such traditional views—even if almost all of society held them. “I do not know what God decreed for women—or for me,” she managed. “Men have decreed that women must marry and bear children! Dianna, please try to understand. Most men would not let me roam Oxford, eavesdropping on the lectures of my favorite professors, sometimes in the guise of a man.” Dianna gasped. “Most men would not allow me to spend entire days in the archives of the British Museum,” Ariella continued firmly. “I refuse to succumb to a traditional marriage—if I ever succumb at all.”

Dianna moaned. “I can see the future now--you will marry some radical socialist lawyer!”

“Perhaps I will! But I cannot see the future, and I simply don’t know. Can you truly see me as some proper gent’s wife, staying at home, changing gowns throughout the day, a pretty, useless ornament? Except, of course, for the five, six or seven children I will have to bear, like a brood mare!”

“That is a terrible way to look at marriage—and family,” Dianna said, appearing stunned. “Is that what you think of me? Am I a pretty, useless ornament? Is my mother, is Aunt Lizzie, is Margery? And bearing children is a wonderful thing. You like children!”

How had this happened? Ariella wondered. When had they become so opposed in viewpoints? “No, Dianna, I beg your pardon! I do not think of you in such terms. I adore you—you are my sister—and I am so proud of you. None of the women in our family are pretty useless ornaments!”

Dianna stared. “I am not stupid,” she finally said. “I know you are brilliant. Everyone in this family says so. I know you are better-read than just about every gentleman of our acquaintance. I know you think me foolish. But it isn’t foolish to want a good marriage and children, and all women, except you, like pretty clothes. To the contrary, it is admirable to want a home, a husband, and children.”

Ariella backed off. “Of course it is—because you genuinely want those things.”

“And you don’t. You want to be left alone to read book after book about strange people like the Mongols. It is very foolish to think of spending an entire lifetime consumed with the lives of strangers and the dead! Unless, of course, you marry a gentleman for his mind! Has it ever occurred to you that one day you might regret such a choice?”

Ariella was surprised. “No, it hasn’t.” She realized her little sister had grown up. She sighed. “I am not ruling out marriage, Dianna. But I am not in a rush, and I cannot ever marry if I will compromise my happiness.” She added, mostly to please her sister, “Perhaps one day I will find that once-in-a-lifetime love our family is so notorious for.”

Dianna grumbled, “Well, if so, I hope you are the de Warenne to escape the scandal so often associated with our family.”

Ariella smiled. “Please try to understand. I am very satisfied with my unfashionable status as an aging spinster.”

Dianna stared grimly. “No one is calling you an old spinster yet. Thank God you have a fortune—and the prospects that come with it. I am afraid you will have a great many regrets, if you continue on this way.”

Ariella hugged her. “I won’t. I swear it.” She laughed a little. “You feel like the older sister now!”

“So now you can predict the future?” Dianna asked.

Ariella sobered. “Of course not. “

“I am sending Roselyn to help you dress. We are having a very early supper; I cannot recall why. I will lend you my aquamarines. And I know you will be more than pleasant with Montgomery.” Her parting smile was firm, as was the fact that she had not changed her matrimonial schemes.

Ariella smiled back, filled with tension, her face plastered into a pleasant expression. She intended it to be the expression she would wear for the entire evening, just to make Dianna happy.

***

Emilian St Xavier sat at his father’s large, gilded desk in the library, unable to focus on the ledgers at hand. It was a rare moment, as his life was the estate. But an odd gnawing had begun earlier that day, a familiar restlessness, and it might have been a Rom’s mad urge to wander, but it made him aware of a terrible emptiness. He hated such feelings, and was always determined to ignore them, and on days like this one, the house felt larger than ever, and it even felt empty—when he kept a full staff.

He leaned back in his chair, objectively looking around the luxurious, high-ceilinged library. The room bore almost no resemblance to the room he had so often been chastised in as a sullen boy, when he had been determined to cling to his differences with his father, pretending absolute indifference to Edmund’s wishes and Woodland’s affairs. But that indifference had been a pretense, for even when he had first arrived at the estate, his curiosity had been as strong as his wariness. He had never been inside an Englishman’s home before, and Woodland had seemed palatial—not decrepit and run- down. Raiza had insisted he learn to read English, and he had stared at the books in the bookcase behind his father’s head, wondering if he dared steal one—so he could read it. He had stolen book after book, and in retrospect, he knew Edmund had known he was secretly reading philosophy, poetry and love stories in his bedroom. And even though his mother had wanted him to leave the kumpa’nia and go to his father to live with him, he would never forget her tears and her grief. Edmund had broken her heart by taking him away from her, and he had hated Edmund for hurting Raiza. He had known that he would not be at Woodland if his first born—pure blooded—son had lived. His Rom pride, which was considerable, had demanded that he remain detached and indifferent to the life his father offered him.

His Rom blood had dictated suspicion and hostility. He had lived with gadjo hatred and prejudices his entire life—he knew his father had to be like all the other gadjos. It had taken him years to realize he was wrong—and that had been as he stood over Edmund’s fresh grave.

He had just graduated Oxford with the highest honors, and he had been traveling with the Roma. It had been his first visit to his mother, whom he hadn’t seen since his father had taken him from her, ten years before. He had spent most of that decade looking forward to the day of his reunion with his people and Raiza, with the nostalgia only a decade of separation can bring. And knowing that, Edmund had been afraid that he might never come back to Woodland. Perversely, Emilian had not reassured him. For theirs had been and remained an adversarial relationship, as he could not live up to his father’s English standards, no matter his success at Oxford. Every supper party and ball, every clandestine affair, every paramour, had proven that. To the gadjos, even those warming his bed, he was a gypsy—and no amount of manners, education or wealth would ever change the fact that his inclination was to steal horses and cheat his neighbors.

He had been on the road with Raiza and his half sister that summer, and even though the days had become too long and too idle for his taste, even though the adventure he had dreamed of had never materialized, he had refused to write Edmund a single letter. But Edmund’s estate manager had written him. And upon learning of Edmund’s sudden death in a hunting accident, Emilian had instantly rushed home. It had not occurred to him to do otherwise.

Shocked that his father had died without his having had the chance to say goodbye—or anything else--he had gone from his grave directly to his desk. He told himself he would not grieve for the man who had uprooted him from the Roma way of life for his own selfish ends, but all he could think of was his father teaching him how to ride, explaining every aspect of the estate to him, insisting that he go to Eton and then Oxford, and when home, forcing him to join him at every country affair, whether a tea, a supper party or a country ball. He had sat down at his father’s desk and begun pouring over every account and ledger until his tears had made it impossible to read the pages. And in the end, a very English duty had triumphed. He had been aware of his father’s failures as the viscount; he had always known he could do far better. And know he intended to set Woodland straight.

And he had. In three years, he had managed to erase all debt from Woodland’s accounts. The estate was currently making a handsome profit. There were new tenants, and their produce was being exported abroad as well as sold at local markets. He was a partner in a freight company. There were profitable investments in a Birmingham Mill and a national railway, but the coup de grace was the St Xavier coal mine. The export of British coal grew in tonnage annually and he was cashing in on it. He was the wealthiest nobleman in Derbyshire, with one exception--the shipping magnate, Cliff de Warenne.

Emilian pushed the ledgers aside. He did not know de Warenne personally.

How could he? He had scorned society ever since coming into the title and the estate. They had whispered about him behind his back, whenever he stepped into a room, from his first advent into society as a boy at Edmund’s side, and nothing had changed except that he now expected it—and he was so wealthy, it didn’t matter. He preferred avoiding all social intercourse, as it was nothing but a vast and dull pretense for everyone involved. When he did sit down to a meal with Englishmen and their wives, it was with the men important to him—the managers of his mine, his partners in the freight company, those who wished for him to invest in other ventures.

“My lord, sir?” His butler, Hoode, paused on the library’s threshold. “You have callers.” Hoode handed him a small tray containing several cards.

Emilian was surprised. Callers were obviously rare. His last caller had been a widow with four sons. Her family had blatantly informed him she was a good “breeder.” He had survived that encounter, and now, as he took the cards, he refused to cringe. As wealthy as he was, it was inevitable that, from time to time, marriage prospects were pressed upon him. They were all excessively unmarriageable daughters. The crème de la crème were sent elsewhere to look for blue-blooded English husbands; he didn’t give a damn. He didn’t want children. Childhood was synonymous with misery and fear—and therefore he had no need of a wife, English or not.

He glanced at the cards and became still. The third card belonged to his cousin, Robert.

“This is rich,” he murmured. There was only one reason why his cousin was calling, as they could not stand one another.

"Send Robert in, Hoode.” He stood, stretching his tall, muscular frame. He intended to enjoy the ensuing encounter, very much the way a basset would enjoy being locked in a small room with a mouse.

Robert St Xavier appeared instantly, smiling obsequiously, hand outstretched. Blond and plump, he boomed, “Emil, my God, it is good to see you, eh?”

Emilian folded his arms across his chest, refusing any handshake. “Shall we cut to the chase, Rob?”

Robert’s smile faltered—and then he dropped his hand, realizing Emilian would not grasp it. The two men did not look at all alike—Robert looked like a St. Xavier, being so fair, while Emilian had an olive complexion and dark, rich brown hair shot through with hints of gold. “We are passing through,” Robert said in a jovial tone, “and I had hoped we could share a good bottle of wine. It has certainly been some time. And we are cousins!” He laughed, perhaps nervously, or perhaps at the absurdity that any familial affection lay behind the claim. “We’ve taken rooms at the Buxton Inn. Will you join us?”

“How much do you want?” Emilian said coolly.

Robert’s smile vanished. “This time I vow I will pay you back.”

“Really?” He lifted a brow. Robert had inherited a fortune from his father. He had spent every penny within two years. His life was dissolute and irresponsible, to say the least. “Then it would be a first. How much, Rob, do you need this time?”

Robert hesitated. “Five hundred, perhaps?”

“And that will last for how long? Most gentlemen can live off that sum for a year.”

“It will last a year, Emil, I swear it!”

“Don’t bother swearing to me.” Emilian bent and reached for his checking book. He should let him starve as he owed him nothing. Too well, he recalled how Robert and his father had scorned him as “that gypsy boy.” They had called him a dirty savage. But it was only gadjo money—and it was his gadjo money. He ripped the note from its pad and handed it to Robert.

“I can’t thank you enough, Emil.”

He smiled with disdain. “You owe me. Have no fear—I will never collect anything from you.”

Robert’s smile never wavered—it appeared plastered in place. “Thank you,” he said again. “And would you mind if we spent the night here? It will save us a few pounds—“

Emilian waved at him dismissively. He didn’t care if the trio stayed, for there was plenty of room at Woodland, enough that their paths would hardly cross. His gaze strayed to the French doors. He stared past his gardens at the rolling wooded hills that etched into the gray, fading horizon. He had a terrible sense that something was about to happen…But it must be his imagination, he thought. Still, he looked at the sky again. Not even a thunderstorm was rolling in.
He turned and glimpsed Robert and two of his equally disreputable friends. Robert was showing them the draft. His friends were laughing and slapping him on the back, as if he had just excelled at some terrific feat.

“It pays to have a rich cousin, eh? Even if he is half gypsy.” The man laughed.

“God only knows how he does it,” Robert grinned. “It’s his English blood, of course, that makes him so wealthy.”

The third man leaned close. “Have you ever had a gypsy wench?” He leered. “Because they’re at Rose Hill—I heard it from a houseman.”

Emilian stiffened in surprise. There were Roma nearby. Had he sensed them all this time?

And suddenly a young Rom, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, stepped onto his flagstone terrace, staring at him through the French doors.

His surprise vanished. Emilian moved forward. “Wait!”

The young Rom whirled and started to run.

Emilian ran after him. “Don’t go!” he cried. Then, in Roma, “Na za!”

The boy froze at the sharp command. Emilian hurried forward. Continuing to speak in the Romany language, he smiled and said, “I am Rom. I am Emilian St Xavier, son of Raiza Kadraiche.”

The boy appeared relieved. “Emilian, Stevan sent me. He must speak with you. We are not far—an hour by horse or wagon.”

Emilian froze. He was stunned. Stevan Kadraiche was his uncle and he had not seen him in eight years. Raiza traveled with him, as did his half-sister, Jaelle. But they did not travel farther south than the Borders. He could not imagine what this meant.

And then he knew. There was news--and it could not be good.

“Will you come?” the boy asked.

“I’ll come,” he said, lapsing into English. And he steeled himself, but for what, he did not know.