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eyes, my lord. The Roundhead captain was a gentleman, my lord.” Becket refilled the duke’s tumbler, which was already empty.
    “Then my sister is the only person who can tell us all that happened here this morning,” the duke said slowly. He focused his gaze on Becket. “Your loyalty is appreciated, Becket, and you will, of course, assume Smythe’s position permanently. Have my wife’s women lay her out in her wedding gown. Have a grave dug in the family graveyard. We will bury her tomorrow. Inform me when my sister is conscious and able to speak with me.”
    “Yes, my lord,” Becket said, and then he withdrew.
    Alone, Charles Frederick Stuart put his head in his hands and wept. How could this have happened? The county of Worcester was a royalist enclave, a place of safety from Cromwell and his bloody Roundheads. Not any longer, obviously. And that fool, Billingsly, who had told him the Roundheads were headed in a different direction! Bess! His sweet Bess was dead and gone. He would never again hear her voice or lay with her in their bed. Never again would he caress her little round breasts that had always responded so well to their shared passion. Bess was dead. Taken from him in a war of rebellion that had seen his uncle murdered by the Parliament and his cousins in exile.
    He had avoided taking sides in this civil strife even as his mother had advised, even as his brother, Henry Lindley, was doing. The royal Stuarts had always loved him and treated him with exceptional kindness from the moment of his birth. Still, for his family’s sake he had remained neutral. Now, however, he had no choice. Now he would take sides, for with his wife’s murder the Roundheads had forced his hand. So be it, Charlie thought grimly, but no matter how many of them he killed —and he would kill— it would not bring back his lovely young wife. Bess was gone from him forever.
    He stood by her graveside the next day in an autumn rain, his three children by his side. His sister, however, had not yet been revived from her swoon, although she was showing signs of returning consciousness. Sabrina and Frederick were somber. Baby William did not understand what had happened. He would have no memories of Bess at all but those they gave him, the duke thought sadly. He took comfort in the fact that Bess was buried next to her great-grandparents, Adam de Marisco and Skye O’Malley. They would watch over her, he knew.
    Autumn Leslie finally revived the morning after her sister-in-law’s burial. Charlie came and sat by her side, taking her small hand in his.
    “Do you remember what happened, lass?” he asked her.
    Autumn nodded; then she told him.
    “Becket said the trooper was shot,” Charlie gently probed. “Did his captain execute him?”
    “Nay,” Autumn told him. “I did.”
    “You?” The duke was not certain whether he should believe her or not. It had been, after all, a terrible experience.
    “I said I wanted him killed for murdering Smythe and Bess,” Autumn explained. “Sir Simon laughed at me, but he handed me his pistol and told me to go ahead and kill him. He didn’t think I would, Charlie. He thought me a silly girl, hysterical with what had happened; but I took his weapon and slew the monster who had killed Bess and Smythe! Sir Simon was very surprised. I told him to arrest me, but he said the trooper was cannon fodder and would have died sooner or later. He said he accepted the responsibility for his death, for it had been he who had foolishly given me his pistol. Then he took the body and left. It was then that Sabrina came and saw her mother lying there. Oh, Charlie! I hate this Commonwealth, these Roundheads, and pocky Cromwell. I hate them!”
    He sighed deeply. “We buried Bess yesterday,” he said.
    “How long have I been unconscious?” Autumn gasped.
    “Three days,” her brother answered.
    “My God!” She was stunned by his revelation.
    “As soon as you are well enough to travel, Autumn, I will take