Chapter One
London, 1871
“Sir Julian Dunstan?”a man called out in the cold downpour.
Julian startled at the honorific. Even at hearing his entire proper name. He’d beenJulioto the miners,El Cabroand sometimes its variations to the men he smuggled for across the Serra do Mar, the Mantiqueiras, and the Andes. For a decade, he’d crawled across the South American continent, nothing more than a sunburnt goat in a hat to the people he came across. And here was a man giving him a “sir” as if he were more than the dirt-slinging low life he knew himself to be.
And yet, to be in cold, bitter, dear-God-what-is-that-smell London was good. He couldn’t wait to show his maps to Rascomb, the only man in existence who would share his pure joy at a compiled topographical map. Well, the fellows at the Royal Geography Society would also be curious to see it, but he didn’t think they would appreciate that Julian took the data and collated it himself. He sent his numbers and calculations back in dispatches, as he was obligated to do, but it was Rascomb who told him to draw the map himself. Only he could verify if the measurements and math were correct in the end.
Julian waved at the porter who’d called his name, taking his time on the slippery gangplank. His maps were safely tucked in the long cylindrical case on his back. He’d replaced the strap a number of times, but he’d carried it thousands of miles just as he did now, slung over his shoulder.
The woman in front of him slipped, and he caught her elbow as she over-corrected.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, looking back at him with foggy blue eyes.
Cataracts, he thought immediately, as the shock of hearing English spoken so freely hit him. Still, he smiled broadly at her, wondering how much of his face she could make out. How much of the dark, disorganized stubble across his face looked a proper beard. “My pleasure, madame.”
Her elderly husband took that long to twist his own body around and see the predicament. “Strong young men means a strong country!”
Julian smiled at the compliment and tipped his hat, a gesture he barely remembered to make. He was practically feral. He knew he smelled, so he hoped whatever odor he added to the fumes of the Thames would be not accredited to him.
If he wasn’t covered in dirt, he couldn’t find it in himself to bathe. It was a waste of time that could be spent on compiling more of his data, more maps, finer details. Since he was only stopping in to see Rascomb, he wouldn’t bother cleaning up. The man would understand.
Pushing through the crowd of disembarked passengers, Julian made his way to the porter. Even staking his claim of space near the luggage, the crowd still surged and pushed into him. This would be something else to get used to again.
He arranged for his trunks to be sent to the rooms he had leased via correspondence, and set off in the general direction of the Rascomb townhouse. He knew the address after a decade of regular dispatches, but London felt changed and overflowing with people.
The traffic was obscene. Some of the main thoroughfares seemed an ocean of all manner of vehicles: broughams, hansom cabs, omnibuses, and wagons. Pedestrians streamed by on both sides of the street, ignoring the rain, their faces snugged down in their mufflers and hats.
Julian was proud he only got turned around once, but it did take him quite out of the way. Fortunately, despite the long sea journey, he was more than accustomed to a long walk. He wasn’t sure how he would manage city life, not trekking every day as he had.
But this metropolitan sojourn was to re-establish himself as an explorer and cartographer. He would write articles, give lectures, and then hopefully take on another commission from the Royal Geographical Society to some other part of the world. Rascomb had been unwavering in his support and enthusiasm for Julian’s career, and so like a schoolboy running back to his favorite teacher, Julian would not even detour to shave before presenting his work.
The rain thickened, nothing compared to the tropical afternoon storms he’d experienced in the jungles, although much more uncomfortable and quite cold. By the time he reached his friend’s home, the butler let him in out of pity.
Julian stood dripping wet in the marble foyer. He checked the map case—safe and dry. He pulled off his sodden cap to identify himself when he saw a woman descending the wide staircase. Her golden hair was loosely pinned, and it shone like lamplight. The nostalgia of his boyhood fancy for Rascomb’s wife hit him so hard he nearly staggered at the sight of her.
He swept into a gallant bow. “Lady Rascomb!” He watched the water drip from his hair down onto the floor. He kept speaking as he rose. “You likely do not remember me, though I remember you. Sir Julian Dunstan, here to see his lordship. I apologize for my appearance, I did not think I would encounter any ladies as I...”
The look on the woman’s face could be described only as pained. Julian stopped talking, glancing to the butler, who glared at him. There was something very clearly amiss. And that was when he noticed the woman’s black collar and dress.
“You wear black, my lady. Tell me, who has died?” His heart thudded hard in his chest.
And then another lady descended the stairs, this one with a clear limp and a cane in one hand. She too, wore black.
“Sir Dunstan,” the new woman called to him. “You mistake my daughter for me, but I thank you for the compliment.”
He bowed again, feeling foolish and heavy and bull-headed. “My apologies. I have been away for some time. I forget the world soldiered on without me.”
“We are in mourning for my husband. I regret to inform you so callously, but the previous Lord Rascomb passed away last summer, following an injury while attempting the Matterhorn.”
The breath swept out of him. His mentor was gone. The man who guided him, steered him, advised him, cheered him on, had died. But Julian had maps to show him. How could he have died without seeing the maps?
“I beg your pardon.” Julian felt the cold seeping into his bones and his teeth threatened to chatter. But it wasn’t just the cold rain. It was the shock of the news. The blow to how Julian saw the world. “My sincere condolences. I did not know.” He glanced around blindly, unsure of what to do. “I must go. Please, may I call on you tomorrow, when I am presentable?”
“At your convenience.” Perhaps she smiled or offered some other graceful gesture, but Julian couldn’t see it, blinded by panic and loss. He mumbled his goodbyes and stumbled back into the street. His chest felt as if it were caving in, and so he walked. He walked without direction, without seeing, without caring, sodden and cold.
Eventually, his inner compass took him to his rooms, the top half of a quaint townhome. The landlady, Mrs. Talbert, lived in the bottom half, and greeted him. She was a ruddy-faced pleasant-looking woman who promised him a bowl of stew with bread and butter and a pot of tea to be sent up right away.
