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Prologue

“Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.”

Aristotle

AUGUST 1, 1821

Lord Aidan Abbott, the honorary Baron of Abbott and heir to Viscount Moreland, carefully wiped his riding boots before entering the family townhouse from the back garden. Riding Valor had been a boon to his recent turbulent thoughts, and his spirits had been lifted by the invigorating air.

Striding down the hall and contemplating whether he needed to change before going out again, he entered the entrance hall, where he found Lord Moreland standing rigid, staring at the letter in his hand while an unknown footman awaited a response.

Aidan frowned in consternation. His father was a composed gentleman of the highest order, and little could shake his exemplary demeanor, but his pale complexion spoke to troubling news.

“Father?”

The sound of Aidan’s voice seemed to jolt Lord Moreland from a trance. Drawing a deep breath, his father looked up at the waiting servant. “We will be arriving at Ridley House as soon as our carriage is readied.”

The servant nodded. “Yes, milord. I shall inform Mr. Michaels of your arrival.”

Once they were alone, Lord Moreland turned to Aidan. “It is your sister. One of the footmen at Ridley House held Lily hostage and attempted to abduct her after she uncovered his involvement in the late baron’s murder.”

Aidan’s knees went weak, and he grabbed for the banister. “Is she …” He could not bring himself to complete the sentence, overcome by the nightmarish images racing through his head.

Is she dead?

“Their butler informs me that she is well, but the servant is … no longer with us.” Lord Moreland waved the page in his hand, but despite his reassurance, he was still pale and distracted. His concern for his young daughter was evident.

Aidan drew in a shaky breath, unaware until that moment that he had ceased breathing entirely at the thought that his little sister might be harmed. A swirl of guilt clutched at his chest, because he had been a selfish cad and left her alone when he had promised his parents to take care of her.

“This is my fault!”

Lord Moreland shook his head, as if to marshal his composure. “Nonsense. This is the fault of the man who murdered Lord Filminster. I … must find your mother, so we may depart for Ridley House.”

Aidan nodded, but the words did little to absolve him. His selfish behavior on the night of the King’s coronation had left Lily alone. It was the reason she had witnessed Brendan Ridley entering the widow’s home across the street. Why she had fallen asleep in the drawing room window seat and later seen Ridley depart in the early hours. It was Aidan’s neglect that had made her feel compelled to step forward with a scandalous alibi to save Ridley from the hangman’s noose when the young man had been suspected of patricide. There was no denying it. Aidan’s actions had forced Lily into marriage to protect her reputation.

He stepped back, already moving toward the door.

“I am not waiting for the carriage. I shall see you at Ridley House.”

His father raised his brows in surprise, but Aidan ignored him, running out of the Abbott townhouse and leaving the door ajar as he headed down the street, away from Grosvenor Square, his long legs devouring the distance. He did not care if he appeared a lunatic, running as though the hounds of hell pursued him. He must see Lily with his own eyes, must confirm she was truly unharmed. Whatever had happened, however it had unfolded, this was his doing. And it was long past time he took responsibility for the part he had played in the risks his innocent sister had undertaken to save another.

This is my fault. This is my fault. This is my fault.

The litany echoed in his mind, beating in time with his thundering heart as Ridley House came into view. Without slowing, he vaulted up the steps and pounded on the heavy wooden door with his fist.

It swung open after a moment to reveal Michaels. The butler’s eyes flicked with cool disdain over the disheveled, breathless gentleman on the front step, but Aidan could not spare the moment to care about appearances.

“Where is she?” he demanded, his voice rough with urgency.

Michaels sniffed, but stepped aside with professional detachment. “The drawing room at the top of the stairs.”

Aidan entered without acknowledgment. Ridley House loomed around him like a mausoleum, anchored in time with its faded carpets and outdated wallpaper. Dark, brooding portraits lined the corridor. Former barons and their wives, their painted eyes severe and watchful, seemed to pass judgment on the uninvited intrusion.

He made for the dim staircase, the air heavy with age and silence. Etiquette did not even enter his thoughts. Only one thing mattered. Finding Lily. Seeing her. Reassuring himself that she still breathed, still stood upright in the world.

Bounding up the stairs two at a time, he reached the first-floor landing and swung his head from side to side, scanning the doors.

Where is she?