Prologue
THE PAST
May 1806
At long past midnight, Ryder Street was near empty. Louisa Picard crossed the road to avoid a few drunkards stumbling along the pavement, their arms around each other as they sang a bawdy drinking song. If they noticed her, they gave no indication, for which she was thankful. Only desperation could have prompted her to make such a dangerous journey across London at this time of night.
She searched for the house she knew to be Henry Beaumont’s, keeping to the shadows cast by the wayward moon. There were few around to see her, but even so, she tugged her bonnet down still further to hide her face. The hem of her dress dragged in a puddle, and she scooped her skirts a little higher. This was her first time visiting his home, but she trusted he would see her.
If he did, all would be lost.
Finally, she saw it, and slipped down a side alleyway, rapping on the side door reserved for the servants and deliveries. After a few moments of silence, she knocked again. Then again.
Eventually, a sleepy-looking manservant opened the door, a candle in one hand and a scowl on his face. It deepened when he saw her. “What do you want?”
“I wish to speak to Lord Eynsham.”
“His lordship is asleep.”
“Then please wake him.” She slipped past him and down the narrow corridor that she could only assume led to the main portion of the house. “Tell him Miss Picard is here to see him,” she said over her shoulder. “He will receive me.”
At least that was something she was confident of.
The servant glowered at her, but she had already escaped into the hallway, and stood with her arms wrapped around herself, looking around the dark house. It was small and shabby, and although she had not been to many bachelors’ houses, she suspected most were more salubrious.
“Remain where you are,” the servant said, and ascended the stairs with a flickering candle in one hand.
“I have nowhere else to go,” she said. The aptness of the words sent a shiver through her. She held her cloak more firmly around herself and tried to think past the fog of hopelessness that had settled over her since her disastrous dinner with Lord Bolton.
Henry would help. He had to. If he did not, all would be lost.
It felt as though hours passed before light made its way back down the stairs, this time accompanied by Henry. He was wearing a robe loosely tied around his waist, and when he approached, she noticed that his eyes were sleepy yet fierce, as though he would defend her against the ills of the world.
Her hope rose, and her heart gave a childish leap. Relief bloomed. She would be all right now.
“Louisa,” he said, holding out his hands. She put hers in them at once. “What brings you here at this time of night?”
“I need your help,” she told him. “I’m sorry for waking you, but there was nothing for it.”
“How did you escape?”
She gave him a contemptuous look. “I climbed out of my window.”
The hint of a smile touched a dimple in one cheek, and he ran a hand through his messy hair. “Of course you did. What is the matter that couldn’t wait until the morning?”
“It would be too late by then.”
“Whathappened, Louisa?”
“Bolton,” she said, and his expression tightened.
“He offered for you?”
“Not so directly.” She snorted and moved away, needing the space in which to organise her thoughts. “He arranged the whole with my mother, and has gone as far as procuring a special licence. We are to be married tomorrow.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Tomorrow?”
“Mama will not listen to reason. She thinks that his wealth is the only thing that matters, never mind that he—” She broke off at the angry glint in Henry’s eyes. Probably best that he didn’t know the way Bolton had ogled her as though she were fresh meat, a new delectable flavour he intended to sample. “Well, I have tried pleading with her to no avail, and you may be sure that she fully intends to drag me to the altar if I do not go willingly.”
