Chapter One
London, May 1814
Phillip Grayson was on his way to a ball, and not just any ball, a ball where all the attendees believed he was dead. He sat inside a luxurious carriage belonging to his friend, Viscount Clayton, as the conveyance pulled to a stop in front of the Cranberrys’ town house. The Season had begun barely a fortnight ago, but this was the first event Phillip had attended. Indeed, it would be the only social event he’d been to in well over three years. He glanced out the window at the groups of finely dressed partygoers making their way toward the Cranberrys’ front door.
Phillip swallowed hard. That was a lot of people. There would be even more in the ballroom. He hadn’t been in a crowd in nearly a year. And the last one hadn’t been filled with beautifully dressed partygoers laughing and sipping champagne. Far from it. It had been on a battlefield in Spain. And he had lain dying on the packed earth, the screams of his countrymen ringing in his ears, the smell of gunpowder burning his nose while his blood soaked into the soil, and the world around him went black.
Phillip clenched his jaw. Such thoughts wouldn’t help him tonight. He must focus. He’d spent months preparing for this moment. And he was ready. He was. He needed all his wits about him. There was no telling how everyone would react to the proof that the rightful Duke of Harlowe was very much alive and (seemingly) well.
“Ready?” Clayton’s wife, Thea, asked, giving him an encouraging smile from the opposite seat. Thea was as kind as she was beautiful, with her dark hair and inquisitive gray eyes.
Phillip nodded. “I’m thankful to have you two at my side tonight.” While Phillip and Clayton had been friends since childhood, Phillip and Thea had become close while he’d recovered from his injuries over the last year. She’d reintroduced him to his horse, Alabaster, who Clayton had purchased at auction after the Arabian was returned to London from the Continent…from the war.
“Don’t worry,” Clayton said. “Follow me.”
A footman opened the door to the coach and the viscount alighted first, turning to help his lady. Phillip soon followed, smoothing a hand down his white shirt front and black waistcoat. It had been an age since he’d been dressed in such fine evening attire. His clothing had been much more casual at Clayton Manor, and before that, as a captain in the army, he’d worn a uniform for years.
“I never expected to be back here,” he said as he took a deep breath and stared up at the town house as if it were a ghost.
“The Cranberrys’ house?” Thea asked, her brow slightly furrowed.
“London,” Phillip clarified. He expelled his breath and gestured to Clayton to lead the way. “Shall we?”
Clayton started toward the front door while a hundred possible scenarios played through Phillip’s mind. How would everyone react to his arrival? He’d gone over each scenario during the last months to prepare himself, but nerves were still getting the best of him tonight. He must tamp them down. They had no place in his performance this evening. He’d spent the better part of the last year at Clayton’s estate in Devon, hidden away from London and Society, recuperating both physically and mentally from the shots that had knocked him off Alabaster in battle and nearly taken his life. He’d been planning tonight for months. It was time to take his rightful place in Society.
His wounds had healed quickly, but the worst pain had come a couple of months afterward, when he was strong enough for Clayton to inform him that his older brother, Malcolm, was dead. Not only that, but Clayton’s good friend the Marquess of Bellingham—a spy for the Home Office—had reason to believe that Malcolm had been murdered.
Until today, the only people who knew Phillip was alive were Clayton, Thea, Bellingham—known as Bell to his friends—and Bell’s superior officer at the Home Office, General Grimaldi. Grimaldi had finally allowed Phillip to quietly inform his mother just this afternoon. The poor woman had believed all this time that both her sons—her only children—were dead.
Without telling her why, Clayton had asked Phillip’s mother to visit him at his town house earlier today. The look on her face when Phillip had walked through the doors of Clayton’s drawing room had nearly made Phillip weep. She’d collapsed against the settee while Phillip had rushed over to hug her. “I’m sorry, Mother. I couldn’t tell you till now.”
Thankfully, Mother hadn’t asked many questions and had agreed to keep the news of Phillip’s return a secret until he revealed himself to Society tonight. She had reacted with pure joy this afternoon, hugging him and smoothing his hair as if he were still a boy and not a man nearly thirty years of age. The memory made Phillip smile.
There was only one other person whose reaction he cared about as much. And she was most likely standing in the Cranberrys’ ballroom right now. The thought sent both a frisson of awareness and a tingle of apprehension through him.
Phillip took another deep breath. Why, again, had Grimaldi and Bell thought this was the way to do it? Oh, yes. The element of surprise. They had several operatives stationed about the ballroom tonight, watching for reactions from certain guests. Guests who might have had reason to want Malcolm dead.
Phillip, Clayton, and Thea made their way up the steps to the town house as carriages continued to drop off more guests behind them. Thankfully, no one appeared to have noticed Phillip yet. He was wearing a hat and coat and was shrouded in shadows. But it would only be a matter of moments before he entered the house, then the ballroom. He would doff his outerwear and the butler would call out his name. And then…
All hell would likely break loose.
Phillip swallowed and kept his gaze trained on Clayton’s back. There was no better man than his friend. Clayton and Thea would ensure that Phillip made it through this night in one piece.
At the front door, an underbutler allowed them in, barely giving Phillip a second glance. He breathed a sigh of relief. After doffing their cloaks, gloves, and hats, the three of them continued up the grand staircase to the ballroom. They paused in front of the carved double doors to the enormous room.
“Ready?” Clayton said this time, giving Phillip an encouraging grin.
Phillip lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders. “As I expect to be.”
Thea gave him a quick smile and a reassuring squeeze on his elbow. “You’ll be magnificent,” she said. “And we’ll be with you every step.”
Clayton pushed open the double doors. The butler stood just inside the entrance. As Clayton leaned over and whispered in the butler’s ear, Phillip kept his gaze trained directly in front of him at the blur of light and sound that made up the crowded ballroom. It was loud and bright and filled with people. His throat began to close. But he did what Forrester—the man who had helped him recover—had told him to do. He concentrated on one moment, one breath at a time. Breathe in. Breathe out. Three. Two. One.
“Lord and Lady Clayton, and…the Duke of Harlowe,” the butler intoned. The man’s voice was clear and strong, but there had definitely been both a pause and an emphasis on his title. Phillip’s jaw clenched. Breathe in. Breathe out.
A pin hitting the polished parquet floor would have made a racket. The chattering ceased. The music stopped. All eyes in the ballroom turned to stare at the three of them.
Lady Cranberry, in dark-red skirts that aptly matched her name, came rushing toward them from her spot in the receiving line.
