Nobody's Darling

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For my grandfathers, John Hatcher and Clarence Dame, who always appreciated a good western yarn. Wish you were still around to read this one.

For Zerelda James and all the other outlaw mothers who loved their boys.

And for Michael, whom I will always adore for making me watch McLintock! seven thousand times.

London, 1878

The duke of Wyndham’s outraged bellow echoed through the cavernous halls of Wyndham Manor, throwing his household into utter chaos. Two underfootmen came rushing through opposite doors in a blind panic, colliding with a painful thud. In the basement kitchen, a startled cook threw a tray straight up in the air, raining fresh biscuits down upon her head. One of the parlor maids dusted a priceless Ming vase right off of its terra-cotta pedestal while old Brigit, who had served the lords of Wyndham for longer than anyone still alive could remember, crossed herself as if she’d just heard the wail of a banshee arising from an open grave.

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