Sarah Mallory – The Outcast's Redemption (страница 1)
Meet the Arrandale family—dissolute, disreputable and defiant! This infamous family have scandal in their blood, and wherever they go their reputation will
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This is the fourth in The Infamous Arrandales mini-series, and Wolfgang’s story is the one that started everything off for me. The Arrandales are a wild family, but Wolfgang Arrandale has always been the worst of them all—a rake and a rogue who fled to France after murdering his wife. His story is like a cloud on the horizon of the other stories, faint but always there, and finally in this book I have the chance to bring Wolf home.
In
I do hope you enjoy Grace and Wolf’s adventure. In the process of discovering the truth of what happened at Arrandale Hall ten years ago they discover each other, and if they can overcome all the obstacles in their way they might even find their happy ending.
Enjoy!
The Outcast’s
Redemption
Sarah Mallory
SARAH MALLORY was born in the West Country and now lives on the beautiful Yorkshire moors. She has been writing for more than three decades—mainly historical romances set in the Georgian and Regency period. She has won several awards for her writing, most recently the Romantic Novelists’ Association RoNA Rose Award in 2012, for
For TGH.
Thank you.
Contents
March 1804
The village of Arrandale was bathed in frosty moonlight. Nothing stirred and most windows were shuttered or in darkness. Except the house standing within the shadow of the church. It was a stone building, square and sturdy, and lamps shone brightly in the two ground-floor windows that flanked the door. It was the home of Mr Titus Duncombe, the local parson, and the lights promised a welcome for any soul in need.
Just as they had always done, thought the man walking up the steps to the front door. Just as they had done ten years ago, when he had ridden through the village with the devil on his heels. Then he had not stopped. Now he was older, wiser and in need of help.
He grasped the knocker and rapped, not hard, but in the silence of the night the sound reverberated hollowly through the hall. A stooping, grey-haired manservant opened the door.
‘I would like to see the parson.’
The servant peered out, but the stranger kept his head dipped so the wide brim of his hat shadowed his face.
‘Who shall I say is here?’
‘Tell him it is a weary traveller. A poor vagabond who needs his assistance.’
The servant hesitated.
‘Nay, ’tis late,’ he said at last. ‘Come back in the morning.’
He made to shut the door but the stranger placed a dirty boot on the step.
‘Your master will know me,’ he stated. ‘Pray, take me to him.’
The old man gave in and shuffled off to speak to the parson, leaving the stranger to wait in the hall. From the study came a calm, well-remembered voice and as he entered, an elderly gentleman rose from a desk cluttered with books and papers. Once he had passed the manservant and only the parson could see his face, the stranger straightened and removed his hat.
‘I bid you good evening, Mr Duncombe.’
The parson’s eyes widened, but his tone did not change.
‘Welcome, my son. Truscott, bring wine for our guest.’ Only when the servant had closed the door upon them did the old man allow himself to smile. ‘Bless my soul. Mr Wolfgang Arrandale! You are returned to us at last.’
Wolfgang breathed a sigh of relief. He bowed.
‘Your servant, sir. I am pleased you remember me—that I have not changed out of all recognition.’
The parson waved a hand. ‘You are a little older, and if I may say so, a little more careworn, but I should know you anywhere. Sit down, my boy, sit down.’ He shepherded his guest to a chair. ‘I shall not ask you any questions until we have our wine, then we may talk uninterrupted.’
‘Thank you. I should warn you, sir, there is still a price on my head. When your man opened the door I was afraid he would recognise me.’
‘Truscott’s eyesight is grown very poor, but he prefers to answer the door after dark, rather than leave it to his wife. But even if he had remembered you, Truscott is very discreet. It is something my servants have learned over the years.’ He stopped as the object of their conversation returned with a tray. ‘Ah, here we are. Thank you, Truscott. But what is this, no cake? Not even a little bread?’
‘Mrs Truscott’s gone to bed, master.’
Mr Duncombe looked surprised. ‘At nine o’clock?’
‘She had one of her turns, sir.’
‘Pray do not worry on my account,’ put in Wolfgang quickly. ‘A glass of wine is all I require.’ When they were alone again he added drily, ‘Your man does not want to encourage dubious fellows such as I to be calling upon you.’