Prologue
The bitter tang of smoke greeted Thaddeus Harrow as he entered the club. He rolled his shoulders, tense from the long day, and peered through the smoke and the low lights for Henry and Cassian.
He’d sent them ahead while he’d seen his mother and sister home after the funeral. His mother had told him it wasn’t necessary, but he’d insisted.
The funeral had been hard for all of them, and he wanted the reassurance of seeing them home safely.
The dimness made it difficult to find his close friend and his younger brother, however.
“Harrow!”
Cassian’s voice cut through the smoke and his own pensive thoughts, and he looked toward the voice to find his friend waving him toward a table. He waved back in acknowledgment and started approaching them.
Just as he got to them, a shout went up from a nearby table. Thaddeus glanced over, and Benedict Crowley caught his eye.
His brown hair was a mess, and his face was predictably flushed with drink. He was speaking to another man at the table, an older gentleman whose red face matched Crowley’s. Thaddeus squinted at the second man, trying to place him.
“I suppose it was too much to hope for a quiet evening at the club,” he said ruefully as he settled into the seat next to Henry.
“Fighting to see who can lose their most money the fastest. Fools,” Cassian said, disdain dripping from his voice.
Thaddeus threw another glance at the table. Crowley’s father had died recently as well, and Crowley had inherited his viscount title and the wealth that presumably came with it.
The Crowley that Thaddeus had known at school had always had more entitlement than sense, and from the look of the tableau in front of him, nothing had changed.
“I can’t seem to place the other man,” he said to Henry, nodding at the other man at the table. The sense of familiarity was nagging him.
“Viscount Fairchild,” Henry replied. “Their estate runs alongside ours, along the meadow.”
The pieces slotted into place, and Thaddeus had a sudden memory of a girl with auburn hair and bright blue eyes, sitting under a tree and smiling at him. She was Fairchild’s oldest, a girl several years younger than Thaddeus. He furrowed his brow, trying to recall her name.
“You’ve got nothing more to bet with,” Crowley was sneering at Fairchild, clearly enjoying himself.
“I have,” Fairchild slurred. “I’ll bet my eldest daughter’s dowry.”
A murmur rippled through the room, and Henry muttered, “Surely he’s not serious,” but Thaddeus hardly heard him. He felt a rush of anger at Fairchild’s recklessness, and underneath that, a more poignant emotion, a sense of kinship with Fairchild’s daughter.
It had been years since they’d met, but he remembered feeling that perhaps she was as trapped in her house as he was in his. His heart sped up, and suddenly he was on his feet, moving toward the table.
Crowley was perhaps not as drunk as he seemed, for now he was leaning forward with a sharp look in his eyes.
“To have your daughter’s dowry, I’d have to have your daughter. Is that what you’re betting, Fairchild? Your daughter Isolde’s hand in marriage?”
Isolde. That was it. The full memory rushed back to him, as if her name had unlocked it. He had been running away from his tutor, sick of history, the stuffiness of his room, and the man’s droning voice.
He’d snuck away after lunch and gone racing through the meadow, enjoying the sun on his skin and the fresh air. He’d nearly fallen over her, lying in the grass looking up at the sky.
He’d stammered out an apology, and she’d only laughed. He remembered how she seemed as bright as the sun.
His tutor had come out of the house at that moment, shouting his name. She’d looked him over carefully and then grabbed his shirt sleeve. “This way,” she whispered, and pulled him further through the meadow to hide behind a huge oak.
They’d dropped down behind the tree, their shoulders brushing together, bark pricking their skin through the fabric of their clothes.
They’d hidden there for a long moment, not saying anything, just grinning and enjoying getting away with a small rebellion as only children can.
The sound of a young girl calling her name had broken the spell. Isolde had stiffened, suddenly looking older and more serious. “Oh! That’ll be my sister, I must go!” she’d said and hurried away.
Even now, years later, he could still keenly feel the warmth of the day and the disappointment at watching her run away from him.
