Chapter One
A mile west of World’s End, Chelsea
Few men could stand at the gate of a graveyard at night without feeling the chill of dread. Fewer still would look upon old stone and unkempt gardens and find a measure of peace. But Gabriel knew the dead did not lie, deceive or disappoint.Thatwickedness belonged solely to the living.
Yet his thoughts were not on those resting beneath the hallowed ground. Every thought since turning his horse onto this lonely road centred on a woman still very much alive.
A stranger, all things considered.
A stranger with a secret.
Was that what fed this unwelcome obsession? The mystery. The puzzle. Or was it the enigma herself, with hair of burnished copper, and a mind like a labyrinth of hidden passages he longed to explore?
He tethered his horse to the post, his gaze straying to the quaint cottage next door, its red brick choked by creeping ivy. Faint candlelight slipped through a gap in the curtains, proofMiss Woolf was not yet abed. The graveyard pressed close, as though death kept watch over its solitary mistress. Yet something compelled Gabriel to intrude. If he could help her unravel the riddles of her life, perhaps he might forget his own.
He moved to the rickety garden gate, noticing the length of string tied to a strip of rusted metal, a makeshift alarm. Sensible for a woman living alone in the wilds of World’s End, though it spoke of fear rather than foresight. He lifted the latch with care, the faint rattle carrying into the night like a warning bell.
The curtain twitched.
Doubt gripped him. He should have sent a note, but he wanted to catch her unawares and see her unguarded reaction. Why the devil had she moved here? Why had he, a marquess with unlimited resources, struggled to find her address?
The reason became clear when she wrenched open the door, levelled a pistol at his heart, and drew back the hammer. Trust Miss Woolf to greet him with steel in hand. He ought to have been alarmed. But some dark part of him admired her nerve.
“Raise your hands, sir. High enough so I can see them.” She firmed her grip to banish the tremble and stared down the barrel. “State your name and your business. Be quick. Out here, we shoot trespassers.”
He raised his hands to shoulder height. “Gabriel Montague Saville. Marquess of Rothley. Friend, not foe. And fellow lover of morbid poetry.”
Her gasp sliced through the cool air. He suspected she had known all along and only wished to prove she could defend herself.
“Lord Rothley?” Her voice carried doubt as she steppedto the threshold, scouring the gloom as if unwilling to take him at his word. “Most men look the same in the shadows. Tell me something about yourself, something I would know.”
He bristled, torn between offence and amusement.
He was nothing like other men.
That she could not recall the subtle edge of arrogance in his voice, or recognise that no other man in London bore shoulders as broad as his, frankly, grated.
“We accompanied friends to Cheltenham last month and stayed at the Duck and Dog. We witnessed a duel in the walled garden. Afterwards, I escorted you back to your bedchamber.”
The moment was seared into his memory. Nothing short of death would eradicate the image of her copper hair tumbling in waves about her shoulders, and the knowledge she wore nothing but a nightgown beneath her pelisse.
“Good heavens. What are you doing here?” Miss Woolf didn’t lower her pistol or offer him a gracious welcome. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. Do you make a habit of calling uninvited after dark?”
“Madam, I could knock on any door in town and people would be tripping over themselves to let me in. Must we have this conversation on the doorstep?” He glanced at the graveyard, certain no gossips lurked behind the headstones. “Surely you’re not concerned about your reputation. There’s not another living soul within half a mile.”
The lady angled her pistol towards the shadowed cottage beyond the hedgerow. “I’m not entirely alone here. Mrs Hodge was the housekeeper at Canfield Manor before she retired. She’s used to dealing with intruders.”
The woman also had a loose tongue. While his friendGentry treated her chest ailment, Mrs Hodge had gossiped about her new neighbour.
“I’m struggling to think what would bring you charging out here on horseback.” Her gaze shifted to his imposing black stallion. “Is there trouble at The Burnished Jade? Is Joanna unwell?”
“The countess is fine.” Which was more than could be said for his nerves. “Miss Woolf, I’m not a pedlar hawking brushes door-to-door. Might we speak inside?” He stepped closer, daring her to deny him. “I wouldn’t be here were it not important. Now?—”
“Fetch the master!” came a shrill voice from inside.
“She’s got a pistol!” came another.
“Ah, your feathered footmen.” He ought not be surprised. He’d heard Miss Woolf had acquired two African grey parrots to serve as protection. But protection from whom? “I hadn’t realised you meant to train them for sentry duty.”
