Page 1 of The Worst of Them

PROLOGUE

A cottage in the English countryside, 1693

After Cecily Shoard buried her beloved father, a distant cousin came to claim their estate.

It wasn’t much—only a small cottage with a small yard and a small forge in their small village. Having never had a mother to mind her, Cecily had grown up tenderly cared for by her swordsmith father, and now that he was dead, her whole world belonged in the hands of a stranger.

Two weeks had passed since she’d met Mr. Redgrave, a plain man in his thirties with vacant eyes and an empty purse. He spoke little and seemed flustered when he did, like conversation and kindness were foreign, but he was determined to try them anyway. She only saw him at meals, when he deigned to leave the room that had once been her father’s.

Tonight, he sat at the head of the small dining table, and he did not look at her when she set a plate before him. He didn’t thank her as he lifted his fork, nor did he wait for her to sit before he dug into the meal she’d made.

Cecily settled at the opposite end of the table, as far as she could get from him, and eyed the short candles. They weren’t bright enough to light the tiny room, the decorative swords on the wall, or the little portrait of her mother on the mantle above the unlit fireplace. She could hardly see her dinner either, as their sputtering flames threatened to give out at any moment.

She’d bought those candles with her father.

The thought of him stabbed an icy shard of misery through her chest, and she might have cried had she not already spent two hours weeping at Mrs. Baker’s house that afternoon.

No matter how much Cecily poured out her heart, there was always more grief. Most days, she only missed her father, but sometimes she wrestled with guilt.

She hadn’t known he was dying when his chronic cough—which had always been ugly, but mild—suddenly progressed to fierce and frightful hacking. He had only been in his early forties, healthy, with so much life to live.

Ever a dutiful and loving daughter, she’d fussed over him, making soups and steaming teas to soothe him, and she’d bothered their kind country physician every other day for anything he might prescribe. Her father’s breathing only worsened, so labored that he hardly slept. For a month, she did all she could to help him until he passed one night, just before dawn.

Mrs. Baker told her that it wasn’t her fault, and there was nothing more she could have done. Cecily didn’t know if that was true, and though she tried not to dwell on unknowns, the pain of her father’s absence demanded she wonder.

Sometimes that was the most painful of all.

Though hours had passed since leaving Mrs. Baker’s, Cecily’s eyes were still swollen and red, but her cousin wouldn’t have noticed even if there was enough light to see.

“We’ll need more candles soon,” she muttered, more to herself because she doubted he cared as he focused on his dinner. She hoped the meal was as good as he made it seem. Even on days when she felt like eating, sorrow turned everything to ash in her mouth.

Redgrave lifted his eyes, brown as tilled earth, looking surprised as though he’d forgotten Cecily was there. He always looked at her like that, like he’d half expected her to disappear when he moved in.

“Ah,” was all he said, and then he turned back to his dinner.

She picked at the food on her plate. Tears rose, beginning as pressure at the back of her throat. One slipped free, ran down her cheek, and dripped to her simple black dress.

The Shoards had never been wealthy, but every year, her father would purchase her a new frock. This year, she’d hoped to buy one for her wedding, since she’d planned to marry once she turned eighteen—but she didn’t have anything black and hated the idea of mourning her father in anything remotely cheerful.

Her fiancé, Oliver Stinton, had seen it today, had recognized it as new and even told her she was lovely in it, though he knew exactly what it meant—what it should have been.

Oliver had been her friend since childhood, so he knew these kinds of things. His kind, jade-colored eyes had been cast with sadness as he spoke to her on the road by Mrs. Baker’s house, which he’d been traveling in the interest of coming to visit her. It was the third time he’d seen her since her father’s death, the first having been the day he died. Oliver had come with his father—a baron who had a long-standing friendship with Mr. Shoard after patronizing his business for several years—to impart their sympathies and bring her a basket of bread, fruit, and meat from their estate. The second time was at the short funeral service and burial, where they’d only greeted each other.

Cecily and Oliver weren’t in love, but they’d spent much of their childhood being teased about marriage until they were old enough to admit that a match between them was suitable, if not agreeable. Their fathers had been amenable to it—excited, even—and so they agreed the two would be married after her eighteenth birthday.

Her birthday had passed while her father was ill, and the Stintons were too kind to broach the matter.

It was marriage he’d come to discuss with her today, though they’d stood on the road to talk because she wanted any excuse to be away from Redgrave. She’d told Oliver so, and he’d taken her hand in his and said, “Come to our estate. You and I can be married by the end of the week, by the end of tomorrow, if you like. You won’t have to see Redgrave again.” He’d stepped close to her then, though not close enough to be improper if any of the villagers saw. “We don’t have to tell anyone until your mourning period is finished, but I’d rather you be with my family than with that man. Come, live in our home, mourn with us, and be where you belong.”

She might have done it. Her only hesitation was her father’s house and the memories still held within. For eighteen years, these walls had been her world. To leave them in the hands of a stranger felt like a betrayal. She hadn’t been ready to lose her father and wasn’t ready to let go of any piece of him, including the home where he’d raised her.

But she really didn’t like Redgrave and decided that could be enough to make her let go.

She watched her cousin from across the table, her heart pounding in warning about what she was about to do.

Your memories, it told her. Your father. If you wait only a little longer, until it won’t hurt so much to leave⁠—

“I’m leaving,” she said before her heart could convince her not to. Her voice was quiet and smooth and far calmer than her pulse suggested.