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Prologue

The outskirts of the sleepy village of Prudhoe, England

Late August 1828—almost midnight

Breath coming in heaving gasps and holding one bruised arm across his throbbing ribs, Captain Layton Westbrook grasped the fencepost with his badly lacerated free hand.

Cursing and grimacing against the lancing pain, he dragged his foot onto the wooden fence’s lowest rail. The effort cost him mightily, and a wave of dizziness threatened to send him to his knees.

Again.

Nearby, an owl’s haunting hoot rent the air.

Almost immediately, the sounds of a not-so-small animal thrashing about in the hedgerow slightly behind and to Layton’s left muted the booming call. Heaven help him should the creature be a female badger returning to her burrow and cubs.

Motionless and holding his breath, Layton strained his ears until the scurrying and crackling in the underbrush abated. Only then did he dare raise his sweaty, blood-caked face and draw in a handful of shallow breaths.

Steady on, old chap.

You have been in worse scrapes.

Though an officer in the army for two decades, except for the explosion that blinded him in one eye, Layton had not. He shoved the memories of that trauma to the back of his mind. This was not the time to reflect on his dead wife’s perfidy.

Right now, concentrating on surviving and evading capture must be his sole focus.

And, of course, getting word to his family that he was alive, if not particularly hale and hearty.

Not a single doubt beset him that the Earl of Highbury’s henchmen still pursued him. The earl could not afford for Layton to escape and tell the world what the blackguard had done.

What Layton did not know, however, was how quickly his abductors had discovered his absence and followed him. Or, if they had been fooled by the false trail to Henshaw he had laid, delaying his flight by several precious minutes.

He prayed his ruse had worked.

Not that he deserved God’s grace, but mayhap the good Lord had deigned to show him favor, just this once.

The thin silvery crescent suspended in the heavens did little to illuminate the night, but at least no clouds blurred the millions of sparkling stars.

Darkness did not bother him.

In fact, he usually found it soothing and peaceful.

This was not one of those times.

As a captain in His Majesty’s Army, Layton had engaged in stealthy nocturnal assignments in blackness darker than the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat and as dangerous as encountering the devil himself.

Compared to those life-threatening adventures, tonight was simply a jaunt to Vauxhall or Covent Garden.

Or so he kept repeating to himself as he had slogged onward toward Hexham.

It was a colossal lie, of course.

No one had ever held him prisoner or tortured him before.

An enormous shadow passed overhead; its great wings outstretched.

The eagle-owl he had heard calling earlier.

With considerable effort, Layton levered his other foot onto the low rail.