{"product_id":"the-nightingale-legacy-isbn-9780515116243","title":"The Nightingale Legacy","description":"\u003cb\u003e An exhilarating Regency romance from the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The second novel in Catherine Coulter's acclaimed Legacy trilogy.\u003cb\u003eCatherine Coulter\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the FBI Thrillers featuring husband and wife team Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock. She is also the author—with J. T. Ellison—of the Brit in the FBI series. She lives in Sausalito, California.ST. AGNES HEAD, CORNWALL\u003cp\u003eAUGUST 1814\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFREDERIC NORTH NIGHTINGALE looked down at the huddled\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewoman at his feet. She was bowed in on herself, her knees\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edrawn nearly to her chest, her arms over her head, as if she’d\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etried to protect herself as she fell from the cliff above. Her\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eonce stylish pale blue muslin gown was ripped violently\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebeneath her arms, the bodice and skirt stained and filthy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne blue slipper dangled by twisted and torn ribbons from\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher right foot.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe came down to his knees beside her and gently pulled\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher stiff arms away from her head. She’d been dead for\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esome time, at least eighteen hours, for her muscles were\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebeginning to slacken again, the rigor lessening. He lightly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epressed his fingers to her dirty neck, where the collar of her\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egown was ripped away. He didn’t know why he was feeling\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor a pulse, perhaps he was hoping for a miracle, but of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecourse, there was no beat, just cold flesh and death.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer pale blue eyes stared up at him, not calm with acceptance,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut bulging with the terror, with the knowledge\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat death was here and this was her last instant of life. Even\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethough he’d seen too many men die in battle or after battle\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom infection, this touched him differently. She wasn’t a\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esoldier wielding a sword or a musket. She was a woman,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethus frail by a man’s standards, helpless in the face of a fall\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas violent as this one. He closed her eyes then pressed\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eagainst her jaw to close her mouth, open wide on a last\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003escream. It wouldn’t close, and her terror was there to see if\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enot to hear. It would remain there until she was no more\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethan stripped white bone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe rose slowly and stepped back, not too far back or else\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe’d go careening off the narrow ledge into the Irish Sea\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esome forty feet below. The smell of the salt water was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estrong, the sound of the waves striking against the ageless\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etumbled black rocks was loud, but the rhythmic tumult was\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estill curiously soothing to him. It had been since he’d been\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea boy, bent on escape.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe was no stranger to him. It had taken him a moment\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto recognize her, but he’d soon realized it was Eleanor Penrose,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe widow of the now long-dead Squire Josiah Penrose\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof Scrilady Hall, just three miles or so north, very near the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTrevaunance Cove. He’d known her since she’d arrived in\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe area from somewhere in Dorset and married the squire\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen North had been a boy of ten years or so. He remembered\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher as a laughing young woman with big breasts and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea bigger smile, her soft brown hair falling in ringlets around\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher face that bounced about when she jested and poked the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estaid squire in his ribs, drawing a tortured smile even from\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat pinched mouth. And now she was dead, drawn in like\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea baby on a narrow ledge. He told himself she must have\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efallen. It was a tragic accident, surely that was all that it\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas, but he knew in his belly that it wasn’t possible. Eleanor\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePenrose knew this land as well as he did. She wouldn’t have\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebeen strolling out here by herself, far from home, and simply\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eslip and fall over the cliff. How had it happened?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe made his way slowly back up the cliff, some thirty\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efeet to the top, his fingers fitting into the familiar handholds,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis feet slipping only twice. He pulled himself over the top\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eonto the barren jagged edge of St. Agnes Head, rose and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elooked down as he dusted off his breeches. From this height\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe again became the patch of bright blue that had caught\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis attention and drawn him down in the first place.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSuddenly a clod of loose earth crumbled beneath his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebooted feet. He jerked back, arms flailing. His heart thudded\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emadly until he was back a good three feet from the cliff\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eedge. Perhaps that was what had happened to Eleanor Penrose.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe’d walked too close to the edge and the ground had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esimply given beneath her and she’d not fallen all the way\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto the spuming waves below but onto that protruding ledge\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einstead. And it had been enough to kill her. He dropped to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis knees and examined the ground. Only the chunk he’d\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust dislodged seemed to have broken off. He just looked at\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe ground, then down at the ledge, barely visible from his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003evantage point. He rose and dusted off his hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNorth strode to his bay gelding, Treetop, a horse that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estood over seventeen hands high and thus his name, who\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas standing motionless, watching his master’s approach.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTreetop didn’t even look up at the flock of lapwings that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewheeled low over them. A dragonfly lighted on his rump\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand he gently waved his tail. North would have to ride to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esee the magistrate. Then he realized he was the magistrate.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis wasn’t the army, no sergeants to do what he told them\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto do, no rules or protocols. ‘‘Well,’’ he said as he swung\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeasily onto Tree’s broad back, ‘‘let’s ride to get Dr. Treath.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe should look at her before we move her. Do you think\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe fell?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTree didn’t snort but he did fling his mighty head from\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eside to side.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNorth said slowly as he looked back at the cliff where\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe’d gone over, shading the brilliant noontime sun from his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeyes with his hand, ‘‘I don’t think she did either. I think\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esome son of a bitch killed her.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e* * *\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e ‘‘Lord Chilton! Good God, my boy, when did you return?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s been over a year since you’ve come home. Just here for\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyour father’s funeral, then back again to the interminable\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewar that’s finally over, thank God. Now all our fine English\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elads can come home again. Come in, come in. You always\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edid knock at my surgery entrance, eh?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDr. Treath, tall and straight as a sapling under a bright\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esun, and slender as a boy of eighteen, and as smart a man\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas North had ever known, pumped his hand and ushered\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehim through his small surgery replete with its shining metal\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einstruments and cabinets filled with carefully labeled bottles.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was a mortar and pestle on the scrubbed table just\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebeneath the cabinets. He led North into the drawing room\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof Perth Cottage, a cozy, warm room with a fireplace at one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eend, too much furniture throughout and messy with strewn\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enewspapers and journals and now-empty cups on every surface\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat, North remembered, had held tea liberally laced\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith smuggled French brandy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNorth smiled, remembering that when he was a boy Dr.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTreath had seemed a giant of a man. The doctor was very\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etall, but now that North was a man full grown, Treath’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eheight no longer seemed so extraordinary. Of course, North\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas bred from a line of tall men, of a height to intimidate\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eif they were of a mind to do so.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDr. Treath’s smile was warm and welcoming.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘It has been a long time, sir. But now I’m home again,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto stay this time.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Sit down, North. Tea? A brandy?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘No, sir. Actually I’m here as the magistrate to tell you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat I just found Eleanor Penrose on that outcropping ledge\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebeneath St. Agnes Head. She’s dead, and has been for some\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etime, at least a day, for her limbs were still rigid but were\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003erelaxing again.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDr. Benjamin Treath became rigid as Lot’s wife, becomTHE\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eing pale and paler still until his face was as white as his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emodest white cravat. He suddenly looked immeasurably\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eolder, all the vitality sucked out of him in that single instant,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen, just as quickly, he was shaking his head. ‘‘No,’’ he\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esaid, ‘‘no, that can’t be right. You’ve forgotten what Eleanor\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elooked like. No, not Eleanor. It’s some other woman who\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eresembles her. I’m sorry for the other woman but it isn’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEleanor, it can’t be Eleanor. Tell me you’ve made a mistake,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNorth.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘I’m sorry, sir, but it was Eleanor Penrose.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut Dr. Treath was still shaking his head, violently now,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis eyes darkening, his pallor more marked. ‘‘Dead, you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esay? No, North, you’re mistaken. I just dined with her two\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eevenings ago. She was in fine fettle, laughing as she always\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edoes, you remember that, don’t you? We ate oysters at Scrilady\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHall and the candlelight was very soft and she laughed\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat my stories about the Navy, particularly the one about how\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewe stole that bag of lemons from a Dutch ship in the Caribbean\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enear St. Thomas because our men had scurvy. No,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eno, North, you’re wrong, you must be wrong. I can’t let\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEleanor be dead.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDamnation, North thought. ‘‘I’m sorry, sir, truly. Yes,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe’s dead.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBenjamin Treath turned away and walked slowly to the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrench doors at the back of the sitting room that gave onto\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea small enclosed garden, flowering wildly now in middle\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAugust, roses interlaced with bougainvillea and hydrangeas,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe colors vivid reds and pinks and yellows. One old sessile\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eoak tree was so thick, its heavy leafed branches covered one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eentire corner of the garden, and its trunk was wrapped round\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand round with ivy. Blue agrion damselflies hovered over\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe ivy, making it appear to shimmer and shift in the lazy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esunlight. North heard the croak of a bush cricket.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDr. Treath just stood there, his shoulders rising and falling\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCatherine Coulter 6\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003equickly, and North realized he was fighting down tears.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t know you and Mrs. Penrose\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewere close. You must come with me, sir. Also, there’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esomething more you must know.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDr. Treath turned slowly to face him. ‘‘She’s dead, you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esay. What else is there? Come, North, what is it?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘I don’t think she just fell from the cliff. I think someone\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epushed her. I didn’t examine her or touch her except to feel\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor her pulse. You should do that.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Yes,’’ Dr. Treath said at last. ‘‘Yes, I’ll come. Wait,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhat did you say? Someone pushed her? No, that’s not possible.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEveryone liked Eleanor, everyone. Oh Jesus. Yes, I’ll\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecome.’’ He called out, ‘‘Bess! Come down, please. I must\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ego out. Jack Marley is coming soon. Bess? Hurry, woman.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBess Treath appeared suddenly in the doorway of the sitting\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eroom, out of breath, her hand clutched to her chest. She\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas a tall woman, slender, with hair darker even than\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNorth’s. There was a great resemblance between brother and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esister. She saw North, quickly curtsied, and said with pleasure,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘My lord, you’re home. How like your papa you look,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut then all Nightingale men resemble each other from father\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto son and so it’s always been, at least that’s what Mrs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFreely says and what her mother before her said. Oh dear,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esomething’s wrong, isn’t it? Why are you going out, Benjie?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat has happened? Someone at Mount Hawke is ill?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDr. Treath just looked at her, actually beyond her, gone\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom Perth Cottage, from his sister and North, who stood at\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis side. He shook his head, as if to give himself direction.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Jack Marley has a boil on his neck. See to it if you want\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto, if not, then tell him to come back. Be sure to use the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecarbolic liberally to clean him up first. He never washes his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eneck, you know.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Yes, I know, Benjie. I’ll deal with him.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNorth said only, ‘‘There’s been an accident, Miss Treath.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe must go now.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘An accident? What happened? What’s wrong, Benjie?’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDr. Treath just kept shaking his head. He pushed past his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esister, head down, North following.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305252114661,"sku":"NP9780515116243","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780515116243.jpg?v=1767740730","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-nightingale-legacy-isbn-9780515116243","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}