Page 1 of A Family Of His Own
PROLOGUE
AUGUST 11, 1863. ON BOARD A TRAIN PASSING INTO FRANCE FROM LUXEMBOURG
Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.
The repetitive rattle of the train’s wheels played, mantra-like, in Toby Cynster’s mind.
Previously, the goading spur had complemented his innate inclination to rush ahead, his eagerness for adventure, yet today, as he sat by the window with his gaze fixed on the fleeting scenery, he didn’t appreciate the constant reminder of time whisking past.
He’d been informed that this was to be his last mission for Drake Varisey, Marquess of Winchelsea, the nobleman who managed a slew of British agents deployed in pursuit of the empire’s interests around the globe. Drake also happened to be Toby’s cousin-in-law—second cousin-in-law to be precise—and therein lay the rub. Much to Toby’s disgust, mounting pressure from the ladies of their combined families, all of whom were hell-bent on seeing Toby suitably wed, had forced Drake’s hand.
As a gentleman of impeccable breeding, a junior scion of a minor branch of a ducal house and blessed with every advantage that came with such standing—the right schools, the right connections, and the entree into any social or recreational circle—as well as being independently wealthy and free of dependent ties, Toby was tailor-made to be a covert agent for the state, something Drake had recognized many years ago. Toby’s loyalty was beyond question, and his abilities had only grown in response to the challenges he had encountered over the years.
Toby knew Drake valued him, that he was, in fact, Drake’s most-experienced and most-trusted agent. That only testified to the degree of pressure that had been brought to bear to make Drake bow to it and declare Toby’s career as a covert agent at an end.
I’m only thirty-eight!
Toby suppressed a jaundiced grimace. In reaching thirty-eight years of age unwed, he’d avoided the parson’s mousetrap for longer than any of his familial peers. All of them—male and female—were now married and busy establishing families of their own. But he had never seen such a future in his cards and still didn’t. He’d always been content alone, dependent on no one; he didn’t need anyone but himself in his personal life.
With his three siblings plus all his cousins wed, his parents and their generation had more than enough grandchildren to keep them amused; they didn’t need him to add to the tally. As for his sisters’ insistence that he needed children of his own, he had theirs to play uncle to, and he rather fancied being the sole unmarried gentleman of the Cynster clan.
Surely, every large family should have one bachelor uncle per generation, and with his compulsion to pursue adventure and his liking for the thrill of the chase—a constant throughout his life—he couldn’t see himself “settling down;” he’d be bored within a month and itching to be off somewhere, doing something exciting.
Action and adventure had been the essence of his life for so long, the craving for them was steeped in his blood.
In that respect, this final mission wasn’t likely to bring him much joy. Collect a doctor and his daughter along with a packet of critical dispatches the Germans had misplaced and babysit the lot back to London; the prospects for excitement seemed slight.
Toby stirred. He rearranged his long legs, uncrossing and recrossing them, and glanced at the only other occupant of the first-class compartment.
Seated diagonally opposite at the corridor end of the well-padded bench seat, a grizzled gentleman wrapped in a thick overcoat with an Astrakhan collar was perusing a newspaper and frowning.
Businessman, possibly Bavarian, traveling to a meeting, most likely in Lyon.
That was Toby’s experienced assessment, and he would wager he was right.
He returned his gaze to the scenery outside. He, too, appeared to be a businessman. He’d adopted the look—expensive coat, elegant suit, gloves, hat, and cane—as soon as he’d reached Antwerp. Drake had arranged passage from Ipswich to Bruges, one of the less frequented cross-Channel routes. Toby had intended to quietly make his way to Vienna via Cologne, Frankfurt, and Nuremberg—a more or less direct route—but his contact in Antwerp had strenuously advised against it. Apparently, the Germans were seriously exercised over the loss of their dispatches and were keeping a heightened watch for any known foreign adversaries entering their lands.
Toby was definitely “known” to the Germans. Consequently, he’d opted to travel by Liege and Luxembourg and was currently on his way to Strasbourg and thence to Basel and Zurich. From there, he would travel via Innsbruck and approach Vienna by the less obvious route.
He tipped his head back against the leather-covered squab. The longer he remained unnoticed by the Germans, and the Austrians, too, the better for all concerned.
* * *
August 12,1863
Vienna, Austria
Diana Locke satbeside her father as he lay on his back on the bed in his surgery, and she gently held his hand and waited for the now-rapidly approaching and utterly inevitable end.
While one part of her—the lonely little girl who had been the apple of her father’s eye for all of her life—roiled with emotion, inwardly railing and ranting against the nearing separation, the experienced nurse who over the years had sat beside more deathbeds than she cared to count catalogued the minute-by-minute changes with an almost-detached air.
Her father was sinking, his breathing growing shallower and shallower, his color—what little remained—leaching with each slowing heartbeat. The end would come soon.
In that moment, as her eyes traced the craggy, beloved face, she was supremely conscious of being both the little girl fearful of losing the single solid anchor in her life and the trained nurse, watching to see if there was anything she might yet do to ease her patient’s passing.
At this point, death was inescapable; the nurse knew and accepted that. Over the past three days, her father had steadily worsened, his previous robust health draining before her very eyes despite her best efforts and those of his clinic partner, Dr. Rudolph Herschel.
Two days ago, at Herschel’s suggestion, they had moved her father from his bedroom upstairs to the hard, narrow bed in the parlor he had used as his surgery—the room in which he’d treated countless patients over the thirteen years that he and Diana had lived in Vienna. She’d hoped that being surrounded by the atmosphere in which he’d spent most of his waking hours would be of some comfort as well as making it easier to care for him.
