Prologue
Brandon Radcliff, Viscount Harlowe’s head pounded from the inside out with the power of a medieval torture device. There was an incredible, sick need for something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place what it was he craved. Through a squint he tried to assess his surroundings. He recognized nothing. The large bed, the canopy overhead, the surrounding bedcurtains. What he did recognize was the fact there was no air. “Open the window.” His voice was a raspy gravel from lack of use. It took too much effort to keep his eyes open.
“That is quite impossible, sir. It’s much too drafty for the infirm.”
The infirm?Was she speaking of him? Who was this paragon of health? Her voice was staid and matter of fact. There was nothing infectious or flirtatious or remotely inviting about it. Neither could he place it.
“Who are you?” he groused.
“Mrs. Bark.”
How apropos. Brandon would have laughed if his body didn’t feel as if he were already in the grave, awaiting the shoveled dirt to hit him in the face. His limbs, his muscles, his bones were just too heavy to move. “I need air, Mrs. Bark. Now,” he growled.
“I’m your nurse, sir, and I must insist the window remain closed, lest you catch a chill.”
He wanted to ask where he was, but the effort was too great; he only knew he needed air or he would die. He vaguely remembered being hauled up a flight of stairs, and gruel being spooned to him as if he were a child. There were nightmares—screams that shot out of a stark, bleak darkness. The soothing touch of a cool hand on his brow. Though not much more came to mind. He had no idea of the day or the time of year.
The door creaked open. “It there a problem, Mrs. Bark?” This voice he recognized. It was soft, familiar, and caring.
“Lore? Open the window.”
“Please, do as he asks, Mrs. Bark.”
Mrs. Bark huffed and her heavy footsteps stomped over the carpet across the room.
“Please take yourself off for some tea, Mrs. Bark. I’ll sit with my brother.”
“Yes, milady.” The heavy steps clomped back across the room and out the door. The door latched softly.
“How do you feel?”
“As if I’ve been flattened by a barouche with a team of six. Where am I?”
“Home. Bran. You’re home. Kimpton Manor in London. You’ve had quite the ordeal. You’ve been missing for a year. It’s been terrible.” Her voice trembled, and a sense of nostalgia hit him that was so intense, a sting pricked behind his eyes.
“How long have I been here?”
“You can’t remember?”
He tried, but his mind was a blank slate.
“Three days. Thorne, Lord Brockway, and Baron Ingleby found you and Lady Maudsley’s daughter in the hold of a boat in Southampton.”
A memory hit him along with a sense of relief. A girl’s voice, seeping through. “She said she wasn’t good with adventure and that she thought I was dead.”
“Lady Irene is not prone to dramatics like her younger sister.” Brandon heard the smile in his older sister’s voice, and some of the tension eased from his body. “She’s quite the proper miss. I’ve received a note from her twice a day, demanding—nicely, of course—a detailed précis on your progress.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Well, admittedly, I was less than honest with her. I didn’t wish to worry her.”
A cool breeze touched his face, and he was able to draw in a breath.
“Do you remember anything?”
“For example?”
“Anything before you went missing.”
