Chapter One
October 1897
London
Today was going to be James Pembroke’s lucky day.
Or at least, it might be.
This morning felt different. He sensed something stirring in the early morning air.
Thick fog had rolled in off the Thames and curled around the streetlamps like smoke, but as his hired hansom rolled west toward the city—delivering him to a mysterious meeting at the unusually early hour of eight in the morning—he spied a few streaks of pink and gold on the horizon. After days of drizzle, perhaps the sun would finally break free of the clouds, and that made him feel something very much like hopefulness.
The last six months had taught him the sort of lessons that chip away at one’s optimism. There’d been moments when he’d considered giving up. But he’d played innumerable games of chance and followed his instincts in business often enough to know that luck was changeable. A string of misfortunesmight be followed by an enormous victory, or a run of good luck could end with the flip of a card.
His own success had burned bright for so long he’d believed nothing could dim it.
Then one decision, one dreadful moment of placing his trust in the wrong person, and it had all been snuffed out. He’d lost his capital, been forced to sell his fleet, still owed money to a dodgy moneylender, and the shipping business that had made him wealthy beyond his wildest hopes was now little more than an office in Wapping with his name above the door. Even that would go soon. The lease he’d paid would run out at year’s end.
Yet hope flickered like a tiny, banked ember in his chest this morning. Perhaps he could revive Pembroke Shipping. It was long past time for good fortune to smile on him again.
Lady Luck? Come on, love. I’ve learned my bloody lesson.
If luck was coming, he needed to be ready. An anxious tension gripped his middle—the need to do something, to move, take action. When he sat still too long, his mind tended to run through his failures again, and rumination had never done him any good.
“Let me off here,” he called up to the cabbie.
James handed up payment, and the hansom rolled away into the fog.
After one look around to get his bearings, he started off toward a genteel London square withwhitewashed town houses and a manicured gated green at its center. It seemed an odd place for a solicitor to do business, but everything about the letter he’d received was unusual.
A solicitor he’d never heard of requesting a meeting at an ungodly hour, revealing nothing about what was to be discussed or who he worked for, was so strange that James had initially suspected some kind of flimflam. In many quarters, he was considered an easy mark after the debacle he’d made of his last investment scheme. But curiosity had always been part of his nature. The mystery of the letter intrigued him, and after a day of pondering, he’d decided there was little risk in discovering what the solicitor had to say.
That little ember inside him even dared to hope it might be good news.
Movements ahead drew his notice. Footsteps approached through the misty air, and a moment later two elderly ladies emerged. The tall one in front wore a gown with enormous sleeves that made it impossible for her companion to do anything but trail behind.
“Good morning, ladies.” He doffed his hat and offered them the hint of a smile. The taller of the two possessed a cool, untouchable elegance, and the way her chin jutted toward the sky told him she was likely titled or wealthy or both. “Can you tell me if I’m heading in the direction for Selfridge Place?”
“You are, sir,” the diminutive one told him.
“You’ve saved a lost man. Thank you.” He winked at the one who’d been helpful.
“So charming,” she whispered to her companion as they passed.
Thank God he still had his charm. Affability and a wink hadn’t saved him from financial ruin, but they might yet open a few more doors. Instincts had only been half his success. Reading others, gaining the trust of business associates—he’d been skilled in those ways too.
Five minutes later, he’d passed the neighborhood of whitewashed houses and entered an area of redbrick buildings. He stopped in front of an unassuming one on Selfridge Place and checked the address on the letter again. A lamp lit in a ground floor window gave the air outside a sickly yellow cast.
He might call it a bad omen if James believed in such balderdash.
The front door was unlocked, so James stepped warily inside. A man called out soon after.
“In here, Mr. Pembroke.”
The sound of a chair scratching wood and then rapid footsteps came before a stout, balding man appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Cathcart?”
