"At the end of the day, it isn't where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I'm going and never have been before." Warsan Shire

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II.

The deepest glory for all gentlemen, titled or otherwise, is to sire a son. An heir. A namesake for which to pass on their legacy, to carry the family name into the next generation, and to keep land, fortune, and titles within the family.

But ... what if tragedy struck? What if smallpox spread through the estate? What if fever took hold? What if he fell from a horse? What if he ate spoiled game at suppertime and succumbed to poisoning?

The death of a son could spoil a legacy, just as much as it could spoil a family.

And thus, someone, somewhere, had coined the term "spare". The spare. The second son. The insurance. Should anything tragic happen to the first, the second was there.

It was not from his own parents that Jack Beresford had first heard himself called a spare, though it was not difficult to surmise why onlookers viewed him in such a way.

Adam was the first, the eldest, and his parents had spent much of his life preparing him for life as a duke. Adam was educated, drilled, lectured, and almost married to fulfil the role he was born to play. Jack, of course, was educated as well. Should he ever need to inherit, he ought to know how to read and write. Though Jack was not educated to inherit. Jack was kept, supervised by teachers, before he could take his place in one of the few options available to mere second sons.

Jack had been a naturally boisterous child. He had been energetic and playful, and not the sort of quiet spare his mother had hoped for. Jack hadn't known exactly the moment his mother had tired of him. Perhaps she had never really warmed to him. They were very different people, and Cecily Beresford liked things her way. Jack was not a boy who could be easily moulded.

His father had been kinder, though as warm as a father of his status could be. Peregrine was not the type of man to play with his children. But Jack had loved him, and perhaps even more so seeing as he never really found middle ground with his mother.

Cecily had meant Jack for the church from a very early age. Jack had soon got into the habit of doing the exact opposite of what his mother wanted. As an adult, Jack realised, that in rebelling, it really was the only time that Cecily paid him any attention.

Jack was clever, but reckless, and was often the student with the best marks and the most welts from the cane. The letters from his mother, scolding him for being an embarrassment, had once amused him, encouraged him to go further. But when he reached university, the amusement waned quite quickly.

Being only two years younger than Adam, Jack did spend quite a bit of time with him while they were at Cambridge. The differences he noticed between them began to really affect him or take its toll. They had always affected him. The letters Adam received from their mother were full of hope and plans. Cecily spoke of his future, the ladies she wanted him to meet, to ask when he would be home to see Susanna.

The letters Jack received were often short, curt, scolding him for one thing or another.

One could only read I am so disappointed in you so many times before it became a part of their identity. He was a disappointment, and he had been from the moment he could talk. Jack was the spare, and that was all he ever would be.

Second best and second place.

Rebelling, as his mother saw it, was no longer humorous to Jack. At nineteen or twenty, a time in a young man's life when they were truly becoming men, Jack realised that he had never really known what it was like to feel wanted, to be valued, to be loved. He had never been held before, never been comforted by someone. He had never known what it was to make a mistake and not be called a fool. He had never known a place where he belonged.

And Jack had spent the next five years of his life trying to feel something. Oh, had he made mistakes, and oh, was he reminded and scolded for them. He had drunk himself in oblivion on countless occasions. He had bedded numerous women, hoping that one of them would be able to make him feel whatever it was he'd been craving for a quarter century.

But every day he woke up, and he still felt the same. At the core of his being, he was just a spare.

When Jack's father had died, he had felt a kind of pain he hadn't thought possible. And it was not a pain he could endure in that house. Not with his mother there. Cecily had a gift when it came to putting Jack in his place. And so, he had run away to London.

Jack had been searching for a feeling and some sort of purpose but had found neither. He had spent the last few years drinking, gambling, and spending time with whatever woman would pay him attention. It was no surprise that his vicious circle of bad habits drew him no closer to how he longed to feel.

To be certain, the only semblance real pleasure he had ever found in his life was books. Perhaps it was because the library at Ashwood House had often been a sanctuary for him. His mother never seemed to venture in there. Jack adored the written word and envied the talent of those who had the power to take a reader to another place. More often than not, those places he had visited in books had been his saving graces.

Jack had lost count of how many books he had read years ago. When all the world was crumbling around, in a complete inferno, it was easy to be transported to another place in a book. Especially in the last few years, it had been necessary.

Jack truly wished he was back in London, nose deep in a book, or in a bottle of whiskey, rather than standing outside of the enormous walls of his childhood home.

Adam had travelled to London several times over the last few years, and Jack truly had enjoyed his brother's visits. It would be easy to assume that Jack would have resented Adam, or had a cool relationship with him, owing to the differences in their positions, but it was not the case. Jack greatly admired his brother, and never forgot all the times Adam had intervened on his behalf.

Perhaps what Jack admired most about Adam was his loyalty, his constancy. He was loyal to a fault. To Jack, to Susanna, to their mother eventually, and to, of course, his beloved wife, Grace.

A small smile hinted at Jack's lips as the memory of marrying Adam and Grace popped into his mind. What could have been a childish joke was never forgotten by Adam. How on earth he had managed to convince their parents of the match with Grace, Jack would never know.

Adam had begged Jack to return to Ashwood, guilting him with a miniature of their now two-year-old daughter, Perrie, whom Jack had not yet met. Jack had tried to convince Adam to bring Perrie to London, but a thirty-mile journey was not ideal for a girl of her age.

And so now Jack found himself ascending the steps of Ashwood House, not knowing how on earth he would need to prepare himself for his mother's remarks. Perhaps a stronger man could take them, but Jack had been put down one too many times. He was certain Cecily would know all that he had gotten up to in London. She always knew.

The door was opened for him, and the house was abuzz with guests, as was evidenced by the stationary carriages and carts outside the house.

Jack had hoped to slip inside, to remain unnoticed so that he might subtly meet with Adam and Grace, but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind, their old butler, Cole, announced, "Lord Jack Beresford has arrived!"

Jack practically winced and looked away from the surprised gazes of the guests who were gathered about the house. "Cole, how are you?" he murmured quietly.

"Well, thank you, milord. And you?" replied the butler politely.

"Loving every minute," he muttered. "Where is my brother?"

No sooner had asked the question, did a flash of blonde hair streak towards him, and a pair of arms flew around his neck in a vice grip.

"Jack!" cried Susanna.

Jack felt his heart settle as he returned his sister's hug. It had been June, perhaps, since Susanna had last visited him while in London for the Season. She looked a little taller, though every bit the lady Cecily raised her to be. Though, at two and twenty, he was surprised that she had managed to ward off the potential husbands their mother was no doubt throwing at her. Jack wondered for a moment just whom would persuade Susanna into matrimony.

"I really did not think you would come!" Susanna continued, pulling away so that she could look up at him. She cupped his face with her hands, feeling to make certain he was real, no doubt.

Ever since he had agreed, albeit reluctantly, Jack had not been certain himself. It had been a constant battle to ward off the temptation to send Adam a cancelation note.

But Jack had a niece, a niece whom he had never met, and that had never sat right with him. He was looking forward to meeting the young Lady Perrie Beresford.

"I've missed you, Susanna," Jack said earnestly. "Are you well?"

"Yes, now that you are returned," she declared.

Jack did not like the finality in the word "returned". It was highly likely he would be returning to London in the morning depending on how this day went.

"Where are Adam and Grace?" he asked.

Susanna frowned and looked around. "Oh, I did see them before. I think they were in the dining room. I think Mother and Mrs Denham have Perrie if you would like to see her."

Jack felt the colour drain from his cheeks. He wanted to avoid that confrontation for as long as possible.

Susanna suddenly hugged Jack again, tighter this time, as if it were possible. "Oh, Lord, it is good to have you home," she said quietly. "Please don't leave again."

"Susanna ..."

"Jack!"

Jack looked up in the direction that he had heard his name, and watched as his brother walked proudly towards him, arms extended and a bright smile on his face. Adam looked every bit a duke with his fine, tailored coat and breeches, his golden pocket watch, and the very fact that people bowed and curtseyed to him as he passed.

"You came!" Adam beamed as he received Jack in a hug, Susanna stepping back.

"Did you doubt I would?"

"Absolutely," confirmed Adam, chuckling, "but I am glad to be wrong. Welcome home."

It felt oddly normal to be standing, conversing with his siblings again. In them he had allies and friends, though he knew it would be too good to be true. Twenty-five years of history told him that.

"I feel odd telling you to come into your own house, but come in," urged Adam. "Grace is anxious to see you."

Adam pulled Jack towards the dining room, and Jack found himself forcing smiles at the people he had once been acquainted with years ago. Some he did not know at all.

The dining room itself was extravagant, laid out with every possible refreshment and treat imaginable. Poor Mrs Reynolds must have been cooking for days on end. Jack did, however, notice several of his favourite dishes on the table, and he did not think it at all a coincidence.

As soon as he had stopped staring at the food, Jack realised that he had been led over to Grace. The last time Jack had seen Grace was the summer before she had given birth to Perrie, and she had not changed very much since then, except for the fact that she was not harbouring a melon under her chemise. She was still small in stature, and elfin in appearance, with the same eyes that Adam had once obsessed over. She was draped in an elegant gown that was certainly not a housemaid's uniform and was wearing quite a few pretty baubles. Perhaps the only real difference was the way in which she carried herself. She stood with a posture of pride, something one certainly needed in a crowd of aristocracy.

"Grace," uttered Adam tenderly, placing a soft hand on the small of her back.

Such a simple gesture, Jack noted, and one that affected him. Adam had not been free from their mother's criticism as a boy and young man. But the difference between them was right here. Perhaps that was what Jack truly envied. What his brother had found with Grace. She was the reason he had survived their mother's pressures. With her by his side, anything was possible.

Grace turned around, and her blue eyes widened when she looked upon Jack. She smiled, though not fully, and Jack could see concern upon her face. Adam saw it, too. "Jack!" she gasped. "Oh, one moment, please!" She held up her finger to hold him, before turning around again, and it was then that Jack realised that Grace had been talking to someone, someone trying to conceal herself on the fringes of the dining room.

Her dark hair was pulled up in a twist, though several tendrils had come loose and were curling naturally in a charming disarray. The skin on her heart-shaped face was pale and her full lips were the colour of a pink rose. Her dress was white, and suited her slender silhouette well, though he could see slight staining on the skirt, as though she had fallen, or been kneeling on the ground. But her eyes ...

The minute he saw her eyes, Jack understood why Adam had been so obsessed with Grace's. Her eyes were beautiful. A violet blue so unique, and yet so haunted, filled with emotion that made Jack feel on edge.

Jack knew her immediately to be Claire Denham.

"I need a moment," Claire murmured to her sister, hurrying out of the dining room before Grace had a chance to protest.

Grace huffed; her brows furrowed as she looked up at Adam. "She won't tell me what's wrong," she uttered. "She looks terrified! What could have happened to her?"