Part I
The Present
Prologue
Haddon House, London, 1886
Concerning the matter we discussed on the eighteenth, I am desirous of moving forward. Reports which have reached me confirm my fears. There is only one solution for the problem in question, and I aim to pursue it to the greatest degree. The need to protect the future Dukes of Longleigh is paramount.
~letter from the Duke of Longleigh to The Honorable Mr. George Shaw
The Duchess of Longleigh had spent much of her marriage fantasizing about the means by which she might bring about the demise of her husband the duke.
Poison in his soup.
A pillow to the face as he slept.
A facilitating push down the stairs when he was bosky on gin.
An errant shot whilst he was hunting pheasants.
A footpad who stole his coin and then shoved him into the path of an oncoming train at just the right moment.
Fortunately for His Grace, his wife had long ago discovered she did not possess the capacity to plot and commit murder beyond the bounds of her desperate imagination. Unfortunately for His Grace, the fates had finally decreed that the Duke of Longleigh’s reign of terror on the terrestrial plane had come to an end. He had met his demise in the form of a capsized boat and an inability to swim.
The symbolism had not been lost upon Tilly. She had spent the last few years of her life—ever since making the mistake of wedding the despicable duke—feeling as if she were drowning.
But that was all coming to an end today.
Because this morning, the spring sun had been golden and warm, piercing the city’s fog. Her son had begun walking on his own, quite early from what she understood, and she knew a mother’s unique pride at his advancement. And her period of mourning—scandalously short, though she did not give a damn—was at an end. Life, in all its purest forms, was beginning.
Which was why she was standing in the midst of a masque ball—her very first as hostess at Haddon House, for Longleigh had never permitted merriment of any sort unless it was his own. She was also a trifle in her cups, but that was to be expected, thanks to the champagne she had consumed both during her toilette and after.
But this was a celebration. Her widow’s weeds were gone. So, too, almost every reminder of her odious husband. His portrait had been removed to the attics, as had the oils of the contemptible men and women who were his ancestors.
At least, Tilly assumed they were contemptable. What other sort of people would beget such odious, hateful spawn? Heartless monsters, each of them, she was sure. Thank heavens her son, sweet little Robby, did not have the same vile blood running through his veins. For the Duke of Longleigh was not her son’s father.
She fanned her face, which had grown hot beneath her gem-encrusted half mask, and allowed herself a moment to indulge in the misery of longing for the man who had shared her bed, stolen her heart, and sired her son.
Robin.
Her heart.
She had loved him. Fiercely, utterly, deeply. And then, he had disappeared. She swallowed the same bile that rose in her throat whenever she thought about what could have become of him. Longleigh’s doing, she had no doubt. One more mystery her loathsome husband had taken with him when he had died. One more manner in which she had been helpless and at his mercy.
No more.
“Alone at your own fête, Your Grace? What is this travesty?”
The rich, jaded baritone of the man suddenly at her side was familiar.
Tilly turned to the Marquess of Dorset, whose dark hair, dazzling eyes, and striking jawline gave him away despite his mask. He was a flirt and a rogue, but he was also something she recognized in herself—a kindred soul with nothing left to lose. She liked him for that.
“No longer alone, it would seem,” she returned, wishing for more champagne.
“I am more than happy to volunteer myself for the task of keeping you company this evening,” he drawled, leaving no doubt that he did not merely refer to the ball or to the supper which would follow, but to the night itself.
Longing skittered through her. Not for this man, but for another.
