Prologue

From the Journal of Viscount Langdon

It was not an easy thing to be born the son of the Earl of Claybourne—the Devil Earl, as those of influence referred to him

in whispers. My mother worked diligently to redeem his unsavory reputation in order to ensure he and his children were accepted

by those who mattered. But few could forget, or were willing to overlook, the fact that he’d once killed a man.

I found it difficult to reconcile that facet of his past, as I knew him to be a kind and protective father. Although he taught

me things that few sons of noblemen knew. How to secretly pull a card from the bottom of a deck. How to deftly pick a pocket.

How to accurately measure a man’s worth.

But of most import, he taught me to wholly embrace and enjoy my passions.

I was six years of age the first time he took me on a journey via the railway. I fell instantly in love with the motions of the coach, the speed. I marveled at how this machine could unite the world, equalize the masses, and quickly take me on adventures. I could spend the day at the seaside and be back home in time for dinner. I could travel places with hardly any bother at all.

And I did. Often. Whenever I had the chance.

Then on a dark and stormy June night, in the year of our Lord 1878, the railway that I loved taught me that, with no warning

whatsoever, life could drastically change between one heartbeat and the next.