Chapter One

Autumn, 1813

London

“The child is asleep now, Miss Birkenstock. You should put her into bed.”

The nurse’s curt voice dragged Agatha from her rebellious thoughts of running away to a simpler world where people kept their promises.

Wearily, she opened her eyes. “Yes, I believe you are right, Mrs. Bates.”

She looked upon tiny Betty Smith lying peacefully in her arms at long last, and her heart fluttered. No matter how tightly the babe clutched Agatha’s fingertip, or how much she longed to stay, she couldn’t remain at the Grafton Street Orphanage overnight to oversee the child’s care. The trustees would never stand for it. Nor would her grandfather.

Slowly, Agatha rose to her feet. The babe in her arms startled at the movement and Agatha pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Hush, sweetheart, all is well.”

Betty grumbled and, instead of giving the sleeping infant up to the nurse’s outstretched arms, Agatha carried the child to bed, tucked her snug into the linens, and then placed her favorite rag doll beside her. The nurse clucked her tongue in disapproval at the toy.

Agatha fingered the little girl’s pale curls and smiled that Betty rested easily. “Please send word if her night should be disturbed again, Mrs. Bates. I will be here early tomorrow morning to visit with her.”

“As you wish, miss.”

No matter how harmless the words, the old nurse’s tone hinted she’d rather Agatha be gone from the orphanage, never to interfere with her charges again. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Not a chance of it.

After smoothing her hand over the child’s pale curls one last time, Agatha straightened to look about the chamber. Six narrow beds hugged the imperfect walls of the chilly room, each containing a peeking set of eyes belonging to a child in need of warmth and kindness. She’d love to drag each of them from the covers, smother them with affection, and stay until they were all sound asleep. If she could take them from this depressing place and home with her tonight, she would be perfectly happy.

But her grandfather and the board of trustees wouldn’t allow that either.

Agatha paced the length of the room, doing her best to ignore the cheerless severity of the chamber. The children’s bodies under the frayed covers didn’t so much as twitch. A fear of Nurse Bates’ displeasure kept them still as statues, she was sure. Such strict adherence to rules saddened her. These children needed the freedom to run about on cool, green grass, to smile and be silly instead of being expected to appear perpetually grateful for the bed space they occupied.

She would promise them everything would be well, if she didn’t harbor a kernel of doubt that she could live up to her own promises. The sting of disappointment was the hardest emotion to conquer. She would promise them no more than she could vouchsafe: her time, her affection, and a game of cricket in the tiny, rear walled garden if the weather allowed.

Even though the children showed no sign that they were awake, she made a point of checking each one to be sure they would be warm enough for the coming night. As Agatha reached the end of the room where the drafts were at their worst, the nurse cleared her throat. Nurse Bates always appeared anxious for her to leave, but Agatha refused to hurry. She checked the remaining children and left the room when she was ready.

Her maid waited in the front hall, hands clenched over Agatha’s cloak. Nell rushed forward. “It be a frightful night outside, Miss Birkenstock. The fog is thicker than pea soup.”

Since Nell was such a fanciful creature, often prone to exaggerate the mildest of events into the worst possible calamity, Agatha disregarded her words. She donned her cloak, secured her reticule about her wrist, and then turned for the door. “It’s just a bit of fog, Nell. It hardly signifies. Come along.”

The butler opened the door for them and then stepped back. Pea soup, indeed. Agatha couldn’t see the street clearly from the top step. Her confidence slipping a little, she hurried down the stairs and turned right into the mist. The orphanage door closed with a heavy thud.

Rushed, light footsteps behind her confirmed that Nell was but one pace away. “People get lost in the London fog, miss,” Nell whispered.

“That shall not happen to us. I know my way home perfectly well.”

Nevertheless, Agatha clutched her cloak tightly about her and kept her eyes fixed on her path. She followed the high front fences along Grafton Street, ignoring the disturbing way nearby houses appeared out of the thick fog only to disappear from view a moment later. It was eerie and quiet and, with Nell crowding her left shoulder, Agatha’s heart raced in a foolish rhythm.

The maid’s nervousness tainted Agatha’s mood. She turned left at the corner of Dover Street, chiding herself that she knew this route like the back of her own hand. The landmarks between the orphanage and home were distinctive. If she paid the proper attention, instead of panicking as Nell appeared to be, they’d be home as quick as if walking about on a clear, sunny day.

As she approached the next corner, Agatha’s gaze drifted to the left. A faint glow burned from the windows of a tall townhouse, signifying that some amusement might be underway within.

A deep sadness gripped her. Could she hear laughter from Lady Carrington’s house? She slowed her steps. With the thick fog muting all sound but their breathing, it was impossible to tell with any certainty where the laughter came from. Perhaps there was a dinner party in progress. After all, Lady Carrington was very fond of entertaining, and she had her son’s position in society to maintain. The viscountess must be so happy that Oscar had secured such an advantageous match with an earl’s daughter.

The hot sting of jealously burned through her body. She pushed the sensation down, leaving only her teeth to unclench. Perfect Lady Penelope. Wealthy and titled Lady Penelope. Desirable attributes for the image-conscious viscount.

The front door of Lady Carrington’s townhouse opened. Dark shapes—a man and woman, judging by their attire—descended the steps and clambered into a waiting carriage. Agatha expelled a sharp breath. She should not be interested in the goings-on of the Carrington family. She was far removed from their business now. 

Determined to forget them, she started off again, but her eyes strayed to the departing grand carriage, and she wondered who it had contained.

Agatha stumbled off the pavement onto the Hay Hill crossing and pulled up sharply. Her steps had propelled her faster than she’d thought. Woolgathering on a foggy night was foolish in the extreme. She needed to keep her wits about her in order to avoid becoming turned around.

Nell clutched at her arm. “Are we lost?”

“No, of course not. I just stumbled.”

The maid yanked her fingers from Agatha’s upper arm. Agatha hadn’t meant to snap, but agonizing over past mistakes was a futile endeavor that no amount of tears or self-recriminations could fix. She was angry at her own foolish gullibility, not the maid.

With that thought firmly in mind, Agatha turned right and hurried along the deserted street, pleased to be almost halfway home. She turned right again and peered into the mist, looking for the next cross street on her left. The comfort of Berkeley Square should be very close.

~ * ~

If ever a man was in need of understanding and affection from his own woman, then Oscar Ryall, Viscount Carrington, was clear out of luck tonight. He stood amid the chattering gaiety of his mother’s drawing room, his breathing shallow and fast. For just a moment, he had imagined Bartholomew Barrette had entered the room. His pulse raced. His palms slicked with sweat.

But Barrette was dead.

Oscar had killed him himself.

Determined to again push the terror into the quiet recesses of his mind, he skirted the room, searching for better company. A bigger distraction than the inane chatter of the woman he would soon marry would restore his balance.

However, before he had gone too many steps, a hand caught his arm. “Lady Penelope will do very well for you, I think, Oscar. Once she and I become better acquainted, I would enjoy taking her under my wing to ensure she is accepted everywhere.”

“She’s an earl’s daughter, Mother,” Oscar murmured. “She is already accepted everywhere. She’s very agreeable to everyone else.”

“She might be accepted everywhere, but she must make a bigger impression if she is to rise with the cream as she should. And she should be agreeable to her future husband, too. Does she not please you son?”

The urge to blurt out the truth maddened him. “Of course she does,” he lied. “Forgive me. I am merely fatigued tonight.”

His mother, a shrewd and determined woman, peered hard at his face. “You said that yesterday, and last week, too, at the Belmont soiree. Are you certain you’re in good health, my dear?”

Again, he had the urge to blurt out the truth. Only this time he would scream it out loud. He didn’t trust himself not to cause an embarrassing scene in his present state of mind. He’d have to leave another entertainment early again. “There is nothing wrong with me that a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix. Leave me be, Mother. It will all come to rights in the end.” 

Oscar desperately wished that might be so. But the dreams, the remembrances of that fateful night, only grew in strength until he’d begun to fear for his sanity. When he closed his eyes, he imagined the slow slide of blood across Barrette’s forehead.

A light touch landed on his arm, and he startled.

Lady Penelope fluttered her long lashes at him. “Forgive me for the interruption, my lord, but Lady Prewitt desires to take her leave of your mother. She has developed a megrim and requires immediate rest.”

Oscar forced a smile to his face for his betrothed’s benefit. “Of course, Lady Penelope. It was good of you to come. I do hope your sister recovers swiftly. A sore head is a terrible affliction and can linger for days, I’ve heard.”

Lady Penelope’s lips turned up in a sudden smile. “They can, can’t they? I will pass along your good wishes.”

When his mother fluttered off to do her duty as hostess, Oscar scanned the guests. None paid him the slightest attention, so he slipped into the adjoining dining room and listened to the soft conversation in the hall. There seemed to be some debate over leaving. However, he wouldn’t interrupt to smooth their departure. He simply couldn’t face another tedious farewell with the woman he had to marry. Not tonight. Tonight he needed so much more than empty pleasantries.

Once his betrothed and her family had departed, Oscar slipped along the quiet hall, only noticed by the butler. Quite used to Oscar’s habit of stealthy escape, the butler retrieved Oscar’s hat and cane without a word. Just to be sure that his betrothed had truly left, he eased the front door open an inch and peered outside. Lady Penelope’s carriage remained below the stairs. Oscar snapped the door closed an inch and listened until it finally drew away. He let out a relieved breath and stepped out into the thick fog.

As if the cloying cheerfulness inside wasn’t bad enough, now he had to traverse through oppressive fog. Hopefully this experience wouldn’t add to his nightly dreams. As it was, almost every encounter, large or insignificant, blended into his oft-repeated dream of killing another man.

The fact that Bartholomew Barrette’s reason had slipped toward madness remained a cold comfort during Oscar’s lonely nights. He still wondered if there might have been another way to disarm Barrette without killing him. Yet his actions had spared his best friend, Daventry, and the woman he’d planned to marry, Lillian, from suffering any injury that might have resulted in death. He’d had to act quickly to save them. Although Daventry had later embraced him as a brother for his timely arrival and quick intervention, doubt over his actions still filled Oscar with dread.

Oscar descended the stairs, shoving his hands beneath his arms to calm the shaking. Such jitters caused people to stare and ask questions. Thank heavens he’d hidden his misery while inside his mother’s house. With so many influential members of society gracing her drawing room, any appearance of distress would turn into a fast-running rumor.

Soft sounds in the distance lifted his head. He peered forward and saw two slight forms moving away from his location. Two more people foolishly abroad on a night better suited to staying indoors and making love.

Oscar shook his head to dispel the yearning. He was a betrothed man, and as such, he’d committed to marrying Lady Penelope. Making love to her was well down on his list of desires. Perhaps he should engage a mistress.

Perhaps he should run away and avoid the marriage altogether.

But he was committed. The contracts were signed. The blessings of the ton had rained down upon his head. His future was set in hard, unforgiving stone.

He was to marry a woman he didn’t love.

Oscar set off toward home at a leisurely pace. He had nothing and nobody waiting, so there was no need to rush.

Ahead of him, the fast footfalls of the women moving toward Berkeley Square echoed off the buildings. Perhaps they were some of his neighbors. But being out on a night such as this was foolish. Dangers hid in the shadows of London.

A thrill of purpose thrummed through him, and Oscar lengthened his stride to catch up to them.