Prologue
Lord Rockwell Waresat in the leather-worn carriage, hoping this wasn’t a wasted trip. He was traveling to a small village called Malahide outside of Dublin, Ireland, in very temperamental weather. He glanced at his companion and prayed the weather would hold. He closed his eyes and memories of a previous trip filled his thoughts, when he’d sat in a dingy tavern in Dublin a few weeks ago, sure he was seeing a ghost.
The man had been seated in shadows, his back to the room, but something about the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head as he bent over his ale, had sent ice through Rockwell’s veins. When the stranger had turned slightly, offering a profile view, Rockwell had nearly choked on his drink. The beard was fuller, the face more weathered, and a vicious scar ran from forehead to cheek, but those features…
Lucien.
His best friend since childhood. His brother in all but blood. The man who had vanished into the chaos of the Irish Rebellion five years ago and never returned. The man they had buried in an empty grave at Danvers Parish Church while his father, the Earl of Danvers, had wept, and his sisters had worn widow’s weeds for their lost brother.
He shook the images away. He’d arrived in Ireland again a few days ago to look for the man he’d seen in that tavern on hisprevious visit. He had to know if it had been Lucien and if his friend was alive. He’d made good progress. After a few days in Ireland, he’d managed to learn from a market trader and brothel madam, the name of a man who could be Lucien.
“Aye, that’d be John Collins. Lives up near Malahide. Good man, John. Keeps to himself mostly, but he’s helped many a neighbor with their crops.”
John Collins. The name had tasted like ash in Rockwell’s mouth.
And so here he was, in a carriage driving toward Malahide with Lady Farah Perrin at his side—another impossible complication in his increasingly complicated life. She had been injured while hiding in his trunk, and she’d found herself shanghaied on his ship bound for Ireland to find Lucien, another long story.
On top of looking for a friend everyone thought was dead, he now had to contend with figuring out how he would sneak Lady Farah back into London without anyone being aware of her absence. Otherwise, she’d be completely compromised, and he’d find himself married to her. Currently, Farah was pretending to be his sister, Ashley.
Unfortunately, Farah was as invested in this mad journey as he was. Perhaps more so, given her tender heart and romantic notions about lost loves and second chances.
“There,” Farah said softly, pointing toward a collection of cottages. “That must be Malahide.”
Rockwell squinted against the sun, making out the cluster of whitewashed cottages that dotted the coastline like scattered shells. Somewhere among them lived the man who might be Lucien, Viscount Furoe, and heir to an earldom, living as a simple Irish farmer named John Collins.
The impossibility of it all struck him anew. How could Lucien—brilliant, educated, aristocratic Lucien—have survived all thistime in such circumstances? How could he have simply vanished from his former life without a trace? And why had he never returned home or even let anyone know he was alive? Why John Collins? It just couldn’t be him. Could it?
“What if we’re wrong?” Farah asked, as if reading his thoughts. “What if this John Collins is simply a man who resembles your friend?”
“Then we will have taken a very tedious journey and risked your reputation for nothing,” Rockwell replied, though his gut told him otherwise. That glimpse in the tavern, brief as it had been, had ignited a certainty in him that defied logic. “But I don’t think we’re wrong.”
As their carriage approached the village store, Rockwell’s mind raced through the implications. If Lucien was indeed alive, what had happened to him? Why had he stayed in Ireland, living under an assumed name? And what of his family—his father and sisters who had mourned him these five years? What of Lady Courtney, who had worn black for a full year and still, four years later, remained unmarried, claiming no man could compare to her lost love?
The questions multiplied with each shuddering wheel turn, but Rockwell forced himself to focus on the immediate task. First, they had to find this John Collins. Then they had to determine if he was truly Lucien. Only then could they begin to unravel the mystery of what had happened during those missing years.
The village was quiet in the early afternoon, with only a few fishing boats preparing for work on the shoreline. Rockwell helped Farah from the carriage and then stood for a moment, taking in the peaceful scene. It was so different from the London they had left behind—the frantic pace, the constant noise, the weight of social obligation that pressed down on every interaction. Here, the air smelled of salt and seaweed andgrowing things. Gulls cried overhead, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the lowing of cattle.
If Lucien had indeed been living here for five years, Rockwell could understand why he might have found contentment. There was something deeply appealing about the simplicity of it all, the connection to land and sea that was absent from their London lives.
“Where do we begin?” Farah asked, adjusting her simple traveling cloak. They had both dressed as plainly as possible, hoping to blend in among the locals rather than announce themselves as English nobility.
Rockwell, scanning the coastline, replied, “We’ll start walking and ask as we go.”
“Let’s split up. I’ll find the vicarage. Surely the local vicar will know everyone.”
“Good idea. I’ll ask in the village.”
Unfortunately, his clothes could not hide his accent and he got very little information from the suspicious and anti-English villagers. So he made his way up the hill toward the graveyard and vicarage to meet Farah. He pushed open the rusty gate and began to walk through the gravestones when he heard Farah talking. As he rounded the corner he saw her—and then—oh, my God—Lucien.
The next minute, Rockwell found himself barreling toward his friend. But Farah caught him, pulling hard on his coat and pulling him away from Lucien. “He doesn’t know who you are, let alone who he is. He’s got amnesia.”
Rockwell stumbled backward, shock and then relief on his face.
“Lucien,” Rockwell breathed.
As if hearing his name spoken, the man straightened and looked him in the eye. Rockwell’s knees nearly gave way. The beard was fuller than it had been in the tavern, and that scarwas even more prominent in the daylight—a jagged reminder of whatever violence had befallen him. But the eyes, the shape of the face, the way he held himself…
There was no doubt. This was Lucien, Viscount Furoe, lost heir to the Earl of Danvers. Alive.
