Prologue
NOVEMBER 1893, WHITE’S GENTLEMAN’S CLUB, ST. JAMES'S STREET, LONDON
Young Lord Salisberypushed his hand back through his hair and restored his disheveled appearance with a lopsided grin as he made his way past the entrance of the card room and waved to those still at the tables. He then made his way somewhat unsteadily down the central staircase to the front hall of the club.
It was near three in the morning, and he’d been there since the early evening, gambling at cards. He then bet on who could finish a decanter of brandy first. Along with another bet when the first rain of the night might fall. He had lost that bet by an hour’s time. And then took himself, along with another decanter of brandy to a chorus of crude remarks, up to that private third story chamber where another sort of game awaited.
She was experienced and might have been twenty or thirty. It didn’t matter. She wore a costume and a mask, her dark hair loose about her shoulders.
Others had spoken of her talents. No need for the usual drugs, she was creative and willing.
It didn’t bother him that others had been with her, it made the liaison all the more exciting. Equally exciting as the rumorthat she was a well-known member of society. Hence the mask, which remained as she removed everything else she wore.
The raucous cheers of the others faded as he reached the main floor hall with that gallery of portraits on the walls that included esteemed members past and present, including the portrait of his own father.
He’d requested a coach as he left that third floor chamber, the footman at the club disappearing ahead of him to make certain it was done.
After all, he could hardly use a coach with his family crest to return to his townhouse. The neighbors would surely gossip regarding his late—or rather early morning return, depending on how one looked at it, and the fourth night this week. That would certainly bring on a lecture from his father.
He gave a mocking salute to the man in that portrait as he carefully guided his footsteps toward the main entrance.
The doorman greeted him. “A coach awaits you, sir.”
He nodded, then descended the steps to the waiting coach. One of the club’s footmen held the door open for him and he almost made it inside without assistance.
Young Salisbery laughed, the effects of brandy and other enjoyments still there as he finally seated himself and gazed across the inside of the coach. He gradually focused on the figure seated there in the shadows.
“Oh, very well,” he said with an alcoholic chuckle as the coach moved off. “We shall share as long as you are going the same direction.”
Another chuckle turned to a sudden gasp as the light from the streetlamp they passed flashed on the blade of a knife.
It was quickly done, so quick that Salisbery stared with surprise, then disbelief at the front of his linen shirt as a dark stain slowly spread. He looked up through an alcoholic haze as he realized what had just happened. He tried to speak, but nowords came out, only a startled gasp as he stared at that figure who sat across from him.
His guest tapped on the roof of the coach. It slowly rolled to a stop. His fellow passenger stepped down onto the cobbled street, then closed the door.
A nod to the driver and the coach moved on.
Young Lord Salisbery slumped against the seat of the coach, staring sightlessly into the night, an envelope left behind, tucked in his dying hand…
One
#204 THE STRAND, LONDON
I stepped downfrom the coach upon our arrival at the office, somewhat gingerly. That cautious step, however, was quite enough to set the pounding at the back of my head off once more as the tall, dark-eyed man beside me gently clasped my arm.
“Are ye all right?” Brodie asked with more than a little amusement as he stepped away to pay the driver.
“Of course,” I assured him, not about to let on that I was suffering somewhat from the previous evening, the birthday celebration that I shared with my great aunt.
Aunt Antonia has always considered it quite remarkable that we were born on the same day, November 9th, albeit sixty years apart. That number—sixty—I am sworn not to reveal.
She had adopted a scheme several years before, for when she became a year older, she simply chose to subtract two years if anyone asked. She had been using that scheme for so long that in no time at all, it would put her at my age sometime in the future.
“We shall be twins!” she had exclaimed when I pointed that out. “How marvelous!”
In that regard, it did seem as if it would be necessary to postpone her final voyage in a Viking longboat until well into the next century, a delay I approved of most heartily.
I adored her, and it did seem that we were much alike in temperament according to our horoscope.
