This is the fourth in The Infamous Arrandales mini-series, and Wolfgangâs story is the one that started everything off for me. The Arrandales are a wild family, but Wolfgang Arrandale has always been the worst of them allâa rake and a rogue who fled to France after murdering his wife. His story is like a cloud on the horizon of the other stories, faint but always there, and finally in this book I have the chance to bring Wolf home.
In The Outcastâs Redemption Wolf returns to England to clear his name, and in the process falls in love with a good woman. A very good womanâbecause Grace is the daughter of a clergyman. She has lived a blameless life, a world away from Wolfâs own experiences. Grace has suffered heartache, but her belief in justice and goodness have never yet let her down. However, saving Wolfgang Arrandale proves to be her greatest challenge.
I do hope you enjoy Grace and Wolfâs adventure. In the process of discovering the truth of what happened at Arrandale Hall ten years ago they discover each other, and if they can overcome all the obstacles in their way they might even find their happy ending.
Enjoy!
Chapter One
March 1804
The village of Arrandale was bathed in frosty moonlight. Nothing stirred and most windows were shuttered or in darkness. Except the house standing within the shadow of the church. It was a stone building, square and sturdy, and lamps shone brightly in the two ground-floor windows that flanked the door. It was the home of Mr Titus Duncombe, the local parson, and the lights promised a welcome for any soul in need.
Just as they had always done, thought the man walking up the steps to the front door. Just as they had done ten years ago, when he had ridden through the village with the devil on his heels. Then he had not stopped. Now he was older, wiser and in need of help.
He grasped the knocker and rapped, not hard, but in the silence of the night the sound reverberated hollowly through the hall. A stooping, grey-haired manservant opened the door.
âI would like to see the parson.â
The servant peered out, but the stranger kept his head dipped so the wide brim of his hat shadowed his face.
âWho shall I say is here?â
âTell him it is a weary traveller. A poor vagabond who needs his assistance.â
The servant hesitated.
âNay, âtis late,â he said at last. âCome back in the morning.â
He made to shut the door but the stranger placed a dirty boot on the step.
âYour master will know me,â he stated. âPray, take me to him.â
The old man gave in and shuffled off to speak to the parson, leaving the stranger to wait in the hall. From the study came a calm, well-remembered voice and as he entered, an elderly gentleman rose from a desk cluttered with books and papers. Once he had passed the manservant and only the parson could see his face, the stranger straightened and removed his hat.
âI bid you good evening, Mr Duncombe.â
The parsonâs eyes widened, but his tone did not change.
âWelcome, my son. Truscott, bring wine for our guest.â Only when the servant had closed the door upon them did the old man allow himself to smile. âBless my soul. Mr Wolfgang Arrandale! You are returned to us at last.â
Wolfgang breathed a sigh of relief. He bowed.
âYour servant, sir. I am pleased you remember meâthat I have not changed out of all recognition.â
The parson waved a hand. âYou are a little older, and if I may say so, a little more careworn, but I should know you anywhere. Sit down, my boy, sit down.â He shepherded his guest to a chair. âI shall not ask you any questions until we have our wine, then we may talk uninterrupted.â
âThank you. I should warn you, sir, there is still a price on my head. When your man opened the door I was afraid he would recognise me.â
âTruscottâs eyesight is grown very poor, but he prefers to answer the door after dark, rather than leave it to his wife. But even if he had remembered you, Truscott is very discreet. It is something my servants have learned over the years.â He stopped as the object of their conversation returned with a tray. âAh, here we are. Thank you, Truscott. But what is this, no cake? Not even a little bread?â