Prologue

Spring, 1816, London

* * *

Miss Eliza Weston crossed to the window overlooking Piccadilly, removed her dark hat and veil, then pulled the black gloves from her hands, one finger at a time.

The thoroughfare below was busy with traffic, which was its normal state at nearly any hour of any day.

The early morning began with dust carts with their bells, along with milk carts, vegetable sellers, and all manner of vendors.

There were also servants going about and preparing for their day, and shopping for the households they served.

Then came those who enjoyed morning constitutionals and carriages making their way about town, followed later in the day by citizens out to enjoy a stroll on a pleasant day, or to visit Green Park, which was near, or making calls during the fashionable hour.

In the evenings, there were more carriages as those in Society traveled to and from routs, balls, the theatre, gentlemen’s clubs, gaming establishments, and likely brothels and mistresses as well.

This traffic continued well into the early morning hours. When there was silence, it usually came between three and five in the morning.

Many of those who stayed within the Pulteney Hotel, and had a set of rooms that overlooked Piccadilly, complained of the constant noise. But not Eliza. She enjoyed being in the center of life, and the cacophony that drifted up to her windows each day and night. Besides, it was not as if she required much sleep. Her mind was too engaged and rarely settled. If she was not seeking information or researching a favorite topic, or visiting bookshops and museums, she was writing. And being able to observe those who went about their day had inspired several characters.

She often stood at this very window, watching those below as she sipped her tea. When someone caught her eye, Eliza would observe, and write the story she imagined for them.

Eliza had authored many stories over the years. Some were novels, and others were serials that appeared in newssheets and magazines. Each story was more mystery than anything else though placed in a classic gothic setting and written to send chills down a reader’s spine. Or at least she hoped that was the effect.

Horrid novels of earlier decades were some of her favorite books, especially those written by Ann Radcliffe. Though Mrs. Radcliffe wrote under her own name, Eliza had chosen a pen name for herself: E. B. Westin. The initials were her own, though nobody knew, and with a simple change to one vowel in her surname, she had a pseudonym.

It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her name, she simply believed that with a name like Eliza as the author, no book would be taken seriously, unlike those written by a man. Her stories were for men and women and by not revealing her gender, more people read what she wrote, which led to her becoming financially independent.

When Eliza reached her majority and aged into spinsterhood, her father turned over guardianship of her financial support to her older brother because Eliza had not had the good sense to marry. As it was clear that Eliza would embrace being on the shelf, Isaac saw no reason why her dowry shouldn’t be used and allowed her access to those funds whenever they were needed. With her success as a novelist, she rarely had to call on him for financial assistance. Instead, she let her dowry be and increase under the guidance of her brother.

At the scratch on the door to her set of rooms, Eliza didn’t retreat from her window. Instead, she waited while her maid or footman answered. They were an older couple she had hired three years back who had never been blessed with children and enjoyed traveling when Eliza wished to visit a new city or town.

“The post, Miss Weston,” Saul announced and placed the silver tray containing missives and a package in the center of the table between two beige upholstered chairs. “Stella will return shortly with your tea service.”

“Thank you, Saul.”

While the Pulteney Hotel was where she lived, this was not the address she used. Any correspondence meant for E. B. Westin the author was sent to her publisher, and deliveries addressed to Miss Eliza Weston were sent to their family home in Mayfair, where her brother Isaac and his two sons resided. Those items were then forwarded to her. Only Isaac, her publisher, and two of their trusted servants knew where she lived and Eliza wanted to keep it that way. In fact, when leaving and returning to the hotel, she remained veiled, and her clothing was always nondescript so that she was not noticed. This was a habit that she had been forced to adopt in recent weeks and the reason she was no longer seen in Society.

Isaac understood why Eliza did not wish to reside with him in London or their parents at their country estate in Surrey. Further, he understood her need for independence. However, it was also his opinion that a miss, no matter what her age, should not reside in a hotel, despite her reasons for doing so. Yet, he was powerless to dictate what Eliza did or did not do.

Eliza opened the missive from her friend Olivia Westbrook as it was on the top of the stack of letters. Not even her dearest friends knew where Eliza resided. She was also quite shocked to read that it was an invitation to Wyndhill Park to witness Olivia’s marriage to Dr. Xavier Sinclair.

Eliza could not help but smile, knowing that she would finally be able to return to the estate that she had been banned from. Lucian Sinclair, Lord Garretson, certainly could not keep an invited guest from attending the wedding. And this time, Eliza would not leave Wyndhill Park until she found what she had been seeking ten years ago when Garretson had warned her to never return.

She was also happy for her friend, though rather confused. Olivia and Dr. Sinclair bickered far more than they conversed. At least that was the case last autumn and Eliza couldn’t wait to find out exactly what had occurred to bring about such a drastic change in their relationship.

Next, she opened the package from her brother, Oliver. He was always sending her items from his newest home, as he was fond of teasing her about believing in ghosts, vampires and witches. Last month it had been a set of beautifully hand painted tarot cards, which she intended to use in a novel once she learned more about the meaning of each card. This time he had sent her a voodoo doll, pin and a note of instructions and then suggested that all she needed to do was add something from her enemy, such as a lock of hair, then stab away.

Eliza laughed and set it aside before she reached for the remainder of the mail for E. B. Westin. There was a missive from an editor, and…she started shaking the moment she recognized the handwriting.

Worse, this letter was addressed to her at the Pulteney Hotel.

How had he found her? She slowly broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

There is no place you can hide from me.