Free The Prodigal Daughter by Allison Lane

tenants. Her first action on returning from London had been to seek out Granny’s secret grave to mourn over it. When word of that swept round the area, people welcomed her back with open arms.
    But even beyond her earlier assistance, they knew Thorne and had watched for years as the man mistreated his eldest daughter. Few approved of that situation. When Amanda quietly returned as Mrs. Morrison and made no attempt to visit the Court or discuss its residents, the people knew that nothing had changed. They rallied behind her both in support and to repudiate Thorne, who was highly unpopular. And not just by turning to her for lessons and healing. To prevent any embarrassment, they closed ranks to protect her, refusing to discuss her background with anyone. She was Granny’s pupil. That was enough. As a result, those who were new to the area knew her only as a war widow who supported herself by teaching and who was knowledgeable about herbs.
    Her closest friends fell into this last category. She knew Major and Mrs. Humphries from the Peninsula. The major had retired at the end of that campaign, buying a modest manor in Middleford though he had no previous ties to the area. Their pleasure at meeting Mrs. Morrison again was a balm after Thorne’s cold antagonism.
    Another friend was Mrs. Edwards. She was also a war widow, her husband having grown up in Middleford. She had lived with his mother while he served on the Peninsula, remaining there after her mother-in-law’s death in 1811 and her husband’s death at Vittoria.
    But Amanda was not thinking of friends just now. Her mind was mired in frustration over Elizabeth Reeves. She had spent the morning at the squire’s house, teaching the pianoforte to his three daughters. The younger girls would probably become adequate musicians in time, but the eldest was hopeless. Already seventeen, Elizabeth lacked both talent and desire. It was unlikely that she would continue instruction once she left home. Rumors circulated that a betrothal was in the offing between her and Sir Michael’s youngest son. In the meantime, Amanda had accepted the challenge of improving the girl’s performance. And it was a challenge. Elizabeth reminded her too much of herself as a rebellious youth.
    The lane twisted sharply, topping a hill. As Amanda rounded the corner, she smiled. A patchwork of pastures, fields, and woods spread below her admiring gaze. It had always been a favorite view. The nearest meadow was a carpet of emerald that contrasted strongly with flanking stands of forest and the golden stubble of the newly harvested field beyond. Today it was even lovelier than usual. A shaft of sunlight stabbed through a break in the clouds to bathe only the greensward where a stag gracefully bounded, coat shining like flame as he raced toward the beechwood. A beautiful sight, but her admiration was immediately tempered by the riderless horse that followed in his wake. A patch of scarlet drew her eyes to the edge of the oak forest, the color quickly resolving into a motionless figure in a red hunting jacket. She thrust aside her first fear. There had been distant barking several minutes earlier but no gunshots that might hint at poachers. Yet the man did not move.
    It took but a minute to reach the bottom of the hill. Snubbing the ribbons, she jumped down. The victim had landed hard, his head hitting a rock before he rolled onto his stomach. His hat had lodged in a clump of gorse, mud now caking his black hair. A large knot was visible on one temple, though it was not bleeding. The rough, blood-soaked bandage on his right thigh explained how he came to be thrown.
    Satisfying herself that he still lived and that nothing was broken, she rolled him over so she could revive him. Her sudden gasp of recognition drowned out the soft sounds of the September morning. The Duke of Norwood. And his face was nearly as pale as the night he held down Fitch.
    He groaned.
    “Steady, your grace,” she admonished him,