Chapter 1
Late spring, 1860
London, England
“Good afternoon, Simons,” she said, pulling off her gloves. “Is my father at home?”
“I shall inquire of His Grace, Lady Sarah,” the majordomo said, taking her gloves as well as the bonnet she removed. He placed them on a table she recognized only too well. Two months ago, it had been in the Winter Parlor at Chavensworth.
Lady Sarah surveyed herself in the mirror. She was presentable.
“Never mind, Simons,” she said. “You know as well as I that my father will probably refuse to see me.”
The majordomo didn’t respond. Simons was, if nothing else, exquisitely tactful.
Without waiting for him to precede her, she strode down the corridor. Her father was partial to emerald green, and it was obvious here in the dark carpet and the wallpaper. She felt as if she were in a lush cave made of leaves, the smell not unlike that of forest undergrowth, dank and dark. No doubt the result of the tobacco he smoked in his study.
“Lady Sarah,” Simons whispered, following her.
Deliberately ignoring the rest of what the man was saying, she halted in front of the study door, then resolutely grabbed the latch and opened it.
“If you send Mother to Scotland, she will die,” she said, entering the room.
A second later, she halted, stunned into silence by the presence of the man seated on the other side of her father’s desk, a man even now rising from his chair. A look of surprise marred his features. The expression was infinitely preferable to the frightening look on her father’s face.
The words needed to be said, and even though they’d exploded from her with none of the tact or grace she’d been taught, they were the truth.
“She is dying,” she said, ignoring the stranger in favor of her father who, unlike the man opposite him, still remained seated. His square face was florid, his blue eyes narrowed as they stared at her without a glint of recognition. “She won’t survive the journey.”
He didn’t say a word, merely inclined his head, a gesture that inspired Simons to put his hand on her arm. She shook it off, determined not to be moved from the room.
“Why Scotland? Why now?” If she was going to be punished, she might as well truly deserve it.
The stranger glanced at her father, then over at her. She deliberately didn’t look in his direction. What on earth would she do if there was pity in his glance? She’d dissolve into tears, pleasing her father and shaming herself. So she did what she always did in her father’s presence, blocked out the emotions she was feeling. Instead, she concentrated on the reason she was here,in London, in her least favorite place on earth—her father’s home.
“She’s weaker each day. Why send her away?”
Nothing altered his expression—not sorrow, or regret, or any type of remorse. If anything, his expression steadied and solidified, human flesh taking on the impression of stone.
He looked down at the papers in front of him, suddenly pushing them away with one finger.
“You say you need investors, Eston?” he asked, addressing the man standing in front of him. “But you believe this invention of yours to be profitable?”
Was she being dismissed? With no word at all?
Sarah forced herself to remain in place, hands clenched together in front of her. Simons stood behind her, implacable and silent.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Her father stared down at the blotter, picking something up between two fingers and stretching them toward the stranger. The other man extended his hand, palm up, to receive something small and glittering in the afternoon light.
“You can replicate it, then? And make them larger?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Her father glanced at her then, and Sarah realized he’d not forgotten her presence at all.
“You’ve asked for a great amount of money, Eston.”
