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Authors: Michael J. Sullivan
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Chapter 1: Stolen Letters
Archibald Ballentyne held the world in his hands, conveniently contained within fifteen stolen letters. Each parchment was penned with meticulous care in a fine, elegant script. He could tell the writer believed that the words were profound and that their meaning conveyed a beautiful truth. Archibald felt the writing was drivel, yet he agreed with the author that they held a value beyond measure. He took a sip of brandy, closed his eyes, and smiled.
He sat by the fire, savoring the moment and appraising his future. As Earl of Chadwick, he already possessed ample wealth, a modest position at court, and of course, his exceptional good looks. Most ruling nobles were potbellied, gout-ridden, old bores. He, on the other hand, was in his prime: fit and tall with a full head of auburn hair, chiseled features, and piercing blue eyes. Archibald was proud of his appearance. He could obtain wealth and fame through any number of means, but to be born handsome was a gift for the deserving. He accentuated his natural virtues by wearing the finest imported fashions made with expensively dyed silks, embroidered linens, and feathers from exotic birds. His fellow nobles admired him for his elegant style. Soon his prestige would be elevated to the same enviable level.
“M’lord?”
Reluctantly, Archibald opened his eyes and scowled at his master-at-arms. “What is it, Bruce?”
“The marquis has arrived, sir.”
Archibald’s smile returned. He carefully refolded the letters, tied them in a stack with a blue ribbon, and returned them to his safe. He closed its heavy iron door, snapped the lock in place, and tested the seal with two sharp tugs on the unyielding bolt. He then headed downstairs to greet his guest.
When Archibald reached the foyer, he spied Victor Lanaklin waiting in the anteroom. He paused for a moment and watched the old man pacing back and forth, and it brought him a sense of satisfaction. While the marquis enjoyed a superior title, he had never impressed Archibald. Perhaps he was once lofty, intimidating, or even gallant, but all that was lost long ago, shrouded under a mat of gray hair and a hunched back.
“May I offer you something to drink, your lordship?” a mousy steward asked the marquis with a formal bow.
“No, but you can get me your earl,” he commanded,” or shall I hunt for him myself?”
The steward cringed. “I am certain my master will be with you presently, sir.” The servant bowed again and hastily retreated through a door on the far side of the room.
“Marquis!” Archibald called out graciously as he made his entrance. “I am so pleased you have arrived—and so quickly.”
“You sound surprised.” Victor’s voice was sharp. Shaking a wrinkled parchment clasped in his fist, he continued, “You send a message like this and expect me to delay? Archie, I demand to know what is going on.”
Archibald concealed his disdain at the use of his childhood nickname, Archie. This was the moniker his dead mother had given him and one of the reasons he would never forgive her. As a youth, everyone from the knights to the servants had used it, and he always felt demeaned by its familiarity. Once he became Earl, he made it law in Chadwick that anyone referring to him as such would suffer the loss of his tongue. Archibald did not have the power to enforce the edict on the marquis, and he was certain Victor used it intentionally.
“Please do try to calm down, Victor.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” The marquis’ voice echoed off the stone walls. He moved closer, his face mere inches from the younger man’s, and glared into his eyes. “You wrote that my daughter Alenda’s future was at stake and you had evidence of this. Now I must know—is she, or is she not, in danger?”
“She is most certainly,” the earl replied calmly, “but nothing imminent, to be sure. There is no kidnapping plot, nor is anyone planning to murder her, if that is what you
Archibald Ballentyne held the world in his hands, conveniently contained within fifteen stolen letters. Each parchment was penned with meticulous care in a fine, elegant script. He could tell the writer believed that the words were profound and that their meaning conveyed a beautiful truth. Archibald felt the writing was drivel, yet he agreed with the author that they held a value beyond measure. He took a sip of brandy, closed his eyes, and smiled.
He sat by the fire, savoring the moment and appraising his future. As Earl of Chadwick, he already possessed ample wealth, a modest position at court, and of course, his exceptional good looks. Most ruling nobles were potbellied, gout-ridden, old bores. He, on the other hand, was in his prime: fit and tall with a full head of auburn hair, chiseled features, and piercing blue eyes. Archibald was proud of his appearance. He could obtain wealth and fame through any number of means, but to be born handsome was a gift for the deserving. He accentuated his natural virtues by wearing the finest imported fashions made with expensively dyed silks, embroidered linens, and feathers from exotic birds. His fellow nobles admired him for his elegant style. Soon his prestige would be elevated to the same enviable level.
“M’lord?”
Reluctantly, Archibald opened his eyes and scowled at his master-at-arms. “What is it, Bruce?”
“The marquis has arrived, sir.”
Archibald’s smile returned. He carefully refolded the letters, tied them in a stack with a blue ribbon, and returned them to his safe. He closed its heavy iron door, snapped the lock in place, and tested the seal with two sharp tugs on the unyielding bolt. He then headed downstairs to greet his guest.
When Archibald reached the foyer, he spied Victor Lanaklin waiting in the anteroom. He paused for a moment and watched the old man pacing back and forth, and it brought him a sense of satisfaction. While the marquis enjoyed a superior title, he had never impressed Archibald. Perhaps he was once lofty, intimidating, or even gallant, but all that was lost long ago, shrouded under a mat of gray hair and a hunched back.
“May I offer you something to drink, your lordship?” a mousy steward asked the marquis with a formal bow.
“No, but you can get me your earl,” he commanded,” or shall I hunt for him myself?”
The steward cringed. “I am certain my master will be with you presently, sir.” The servant bowed again and hastily retreated through a door on the far side of the room.
“Marquis!” Archibald called out graciously as he made his entrance. “I am so pleased you have arrived—and so quickly.”
“You sound surprised.” Victor’s voice was sharp. Shaking a wrinkled parchment clasped in his fist, he continued, “You send a message like this and expect me to delay? Archie, I demand to know what is going on.”
Archibald concealed his disdain at the use of his childhood nickname, Archie. This was the moniker his dead mother had given him and one of the reasons he would never forgive her. As a youth, everyone from the knights to the servants had used it, and he always felt demeaned by its familiarity. Once he became Earl, he made it law in Chadwick that anyone referring to him as such would suffer the loss of his tongue. Archibald did not have the power to enforce the edict on the marquis, and he was certain Victor used it intentionally.
“Please do try to calm down, Victor.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” The marquis’ voice echoed off the stone walls. He moved closer, his face mere inches from the younger man’s, and glared into his eyes. “You wrote that my daughter Alenda’s future was at stake and you had evidence of this. Now I must know—is she, or is she not, in danger?”
“She is most certainly,” the earl replied calmly, “but nothing imminent, to be sure. There is no kidnapping plot, nor is anyone planning to murder her, if that is what you
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