Prologue
Two hours beforedawn on a warm summer night, Dominic Thorne, Earl of Redcliffe, entered Berkley Square on foot. A full moon rode the cloudless sky and lit his way from the hackney he’d left at the corner. The streets around the square were quiet, the carriages and link boys gone.
A suspicious shadow moved among the trees in the garden in the center of the square. Ruing the snug fit of his evening coat, Dominic took a good hold of his cane. He’d imbibed a gallon of champagne during the evening and was too mellow to search for footpads bold enough to enter Mayfair and rob a gentleman. Not entirely in his cups, apparently, for his gait was steady and his thoughts clear. Fortunately, when he had taken another few steps, a man vaulted the fence and emerged onto the moonlit road.
Dominic held his cane in both hands. “Who goes there?”
“I’ll have your watch and wallet if you wish to live, me lord,” came the coarse reply, as he crossed the distance between them.
He looked gaunt and hungry. Dominic slid the sheath of steel from its bed within his cane. “And if I don’t wish to give them to you?”
The thief hesitated, then he advanced, the knife flashing silver. No match for Dominic’s blade unless he threw it at him, but Dominic was ready for it. Years in the army had taught him some useful skills.
As the thief raised his arm, Dominic was already moving. His cane deflected the knife, which missed him by a whisker and clattered to the ground.
Dominic took a step closer, sheathing his swordstick. “Want to take your chance? I’m happy to oblige. I haven’t had a good fight since I returned from the war.”
Taking in Dominic’s pugilist stance, his attacker’s eyes widened with sudden awareness. He backed away, then turned and ran. The slap of his shoes echoed around the square for several minutes, then nothing.
“A fellow isn’t even safe in his own street,” Dominic muttered. He snatched up the man’s knife and mounted the steps to his front door, then fished the key out of his waistcoat pocket, having instructed the staff to go to bed.
Lord and Lady Crompton’s ball, being the last of the summer before the heat drove thetonfrom the city, inevitably ended close to dawn. And, as usual, it was still in full swing when he and his cousin, George Yardley, bade goodnight to their hosts.
Dominic had spent the evening trying to cheer George up, who was in despair because the lady’s father had refused his offer of marriage. “It’s bloody when a fellow’s judged by his bank balance,” he’d said gloomily. “And by a fellow who makes his money in trade.”
“Did you love her, George?”
“No, but Miss Willingdale loved me, and her dowry was splendid,” George said regrettably. He glanced at Dominic, anger and disappointment darkening his brown eyes. “I would have done my duty by her.”
“I’m sorry, George.” Dominic had expected it. Willingdale would never have agreed to the suit. George had a reputation as a gambler. Dominic had given him money in the past and knew if he did so again, it would go the way of the rest at the gaming tables.
“If only I’d inherited the earldom,” George murmured into his wineglass.
Dominic chuckled. “I would have had to die for it to happen.”
George looked stricken. “Lord! Sorry, old fellow. Didn’t mean it.”
“Apparently, the estate comprises an old house and lands miles from anywhere. I dread traveling such a distance in the coach.”
“Dashed unpleasant on a horse,” George remarked. He threw back the last of his drink and put the empty glass down.
“Best we go to our beds, George.” Alarmed at his friend’s despondency, Dominic took his arm.
“Watch out for highwaymen when you go.” George staggered and slurred his words. To Dominic’s knowledge, there hadn’t been highwaymen on the Great North Road for years.
George leaned against Dominic as he assisted him into a hackney. He tipped the jarvey to ensure George reached his digs safely.
It had shocked Dominic when the family solicitor advised him his father’s elder brother, Uncle Alberic, had passed away, and he was now the Earl of Redcliffe. Alberic’s two sons assured the lineage. But all that changed with startling swiftness. His heir, Miles, succumbed to a fever, and then, not more than a year later, the younger son, Adrian, died during a duel on Hampstead Heath. Now, George Yardley, although a remote connection, stood next in line after Dominic.
The change of rank and the resulting Redcliffe estate meant little to Dominic. His carefree existence in London after the grueling years of war satisfied him, and he’d been happy to continue living it. But as the Earl of Redcliffe, his life was altered in ways he couldn’t ignore. At balls, debutantes’ mothers went to outlandish lengths to throw their daughters his way. Shopkeepers and tailors, bootmakers and hatters sought his patronage. Doors previously only slightly ajar, opened wide to him. While his new position made no difference to old friends because they knew him for who he was, fair-weather friends now invited him to all manner of affairs, as if being in his company might improve their position in society.
Life became intolerable when an article in a scandal sheet mentioned how many women the new earl had squired around London and speculated on his choice of bride. Another, far worse, followed, written in more lurid and inaccurate detail. They accused him of being a rakehell, and produced the testimony of three women, only one of whom Dominic had met but declined to bed, who declared they’d engaged in a night of riotous lovemaking.
A caricature of him as the new earl wearing his coronet and carousing naked in a bed with the three women was displayed in a print shop window, where people gathered to look. Friends spoke out in his defense, and one or two laughed and slapped him on the back. But there were also some who cut him. And as a bachelor who was seen to enjoy the company of women, it was impossible to defend. He disliked that the image of him as a rakehell tarnished his reputation, when only a few years previously, Wellington had hailed him as a hero after the battle of Waterloo. He’d been proud of that, as had his father, and he was glad his parents were no longer here to learn of this slander.
Dominic groaned. And now, attacked by some cutthroat a few steps from his house. London had lost its charm for him. It made him wish he could conjure up a magic carpet and fly away.
As he passed the hall table, he picked up the post awaiting his perusal from the silver salver and went into the library. Candlelight from the hall sconces guided his way to the desk. He put the knife in a drawer, noting it was expensive and finely made. The thief had likely stolen it. Lighting a candle, he picked up the pearl-handled letter opener and slit the missive from his sister, Evelyn, Lady Trelawny, a keen correspondent. Their three-year-old son, Gerald, had developed hives, but the doctor assured them it wasn’t serious. Was her beloved brother in good health and spirits? Could they expect him at Christmas? How fortunate that their neighbor, Viscount Gillingham’s delightful daughter, Marianne, had not yet become engaged. She was pretty and excelled at the pianoforte. Evelyn felt sure Dominic would approve of her.
