Prologue

September 23, 1826

White"s Gentlemen"s Club

St.James London

Every year he steeled himself against the memories. Every year he failed. As he stepped through the doors of White"s, Derek Welkirk, Earl of Framlingwood, swore he would not allow the simple things to drag him back into the dark place to which he strayed far more often than he cared to contemplate. He stayed away all year long, visited the other clubs to which he belonged, and prayed the things that brought that day back in a cavalry charge of unwanted emotion had faded. His prayers went unanswered.

The scents of cigar smoke, news sheets and fresh ink, crisp linen, and expensive drink wrapped around him like a wraith the moment he stepped into the Morning Room. The wraith clung to him as he sought a high-backed leather chair at a table in the corner next to the hearth. Here he would spend his one-night-a-year visit and drink to the glorious Celeste, the woman who...got away. Forever.

A footman appeared in the doorway as if by magic, bearing a tray with Derek"s customary tipple--a bottle of French brandy, a bottle of Scotch whisky, and a large heavy crystal glass. Such was the efficiency of the staff at White"s that he did not need to ask, even when he only showed up on the same evening once a year.

"Have you need of anything more, my lord?" the footman inquired softly.

Derek filled the glass with whisky and studied the colors as they swirled and changed from amber to brown to gold. "Nothing, John. Thank you." The footman bowed and left the room as silently as he had entered.

As the evening waxed on gentlemen came and went, some left to enjoy the ton"s evening entertainments. Some stayed to read the news sheets. Some adjourned to the card room to try their hand at whist or vingt-et-un. None came near him nor spoke to him. Only a few acknowledged his presence with a brief nod.

He"d made headway on a third of the whisky when he drew the faded, crumpled note from his waistcoat pocket. There was no need for him to open the brief missive, scrawled in a bold masculine hand. Derek had memorized the words six years ago to the day, the night a footman had entered this very room and delivered this note on a silver salver like an invitation to a ball or a message from the House of Lords concerning the next bill up for a vote.

Framlingwood,

Celeste Swan was found this morning. It is with deepest regret I must tell you that her body was drawn from the Thames by the River Police at half past eleven. Carrington-Bowles and I identified her not an hour ago. Her throat was slit. Upon further investigation I discovered her rooms were stripped of every possession sometime in the night. Please advise.

Archer Colwyn