Chapter One

England, 1860

S affron Summersby's breath formed a cloud of mist as she searched the murky night for a spray of peacock feathers or a flash of pale yellow.

A perfectly manicured lawn stretched out in front of her, bisected by a white, stone path. To her right, twin onyx lions guarded the entrance to a hedge maze. To her left, the path wound around a circular structure with a domed top.

A cool wind brushed across the terrace, bringing with it the mixed perfume of flowering plants. She rubbed her gloved hands over the exposed skin of her upper arms. Had she known she would be chasing her foolish younger sister around in near-freezing temperatures, she would have worn a shawl over her brown, wool gown.

The last time she had seen Angelica, the Duke of Canterbury had collected her for the dance he'd claimed, a quadrille. The thought of her sister wrapped in the elderly duke's arms made her insides squirm, but they were running out of options.

She pried her chilled fingers from the balustrade and returned to the cloying warmth of the ballroom, where couples twirled and stomped to the tune of a simple country dance, illuminated by candles set in low-hanging chandeliers. Paintings covered the walls, from brash depictions of horses stampeding to war to gentle landscapes in hues of green and brown.

Each lady wore a unique color, their hair decorated with bobbing feathers or sparkling gems. All the colors blurred together in Saffron's vision, like she was spinning in circles, and it made her nauseated. Sweat dripped down her back, but she forced herself to keep moving.

She managed three steps into the refreshment room, the last notes of the orchestra still hanging in the air, before the Dowager Duchess of St. Clair caught her.

"Oh, Miss Summersby," the woman said. She fluttered her fan, causing locks of silver hair to float away from her face. "I did not know you would be in attendance. How kind of Lord and Lady Jarvis to invite your family, despite your… unfortunate circumstances."

Saffron forced a pretty smile. She could not respond to the taunt without giving the society matrons another reason to shun her. She dipped into a curtsey. "Your Grace."

The dowager clicked her tongue. "Come, let me look at you. I have not seen you for ages. We're discussing the newest production of The Brides of Garryowen at the Adelphi."

Against her wishes, she joined the entourage surrounding the duchess. To do otherwise would have been rude. She would have to hope the woman would tire of her company quickly. "I have not seen it, Your Grace."

"Why, you must. It is a splendid time." The dowager helped herself to a fruit tart from her serving plate. She had crammed her ample bosom into a crimson gown of jacquard-woven silk, the neckline pulled so low that half the gentlemen surrounding her had trouble keeping their gaze on her face.

Saffron envied the duchess and her independence. As a titled woman of wealth and power, she was above reproach. She could ride a white stallion around the park in a Grecian toga and still receive invitations for every major event of the Season.

"I might lend you my private box," the dowager added, brushing crumbs from her bosom. "You could watch it with your aunt, and that darling sister of yours."

Her sister would love that. Angelica hid her disappointment well, but the sadness in her eyes every time they had to sell another piece of their mother's precious jewelry made Saffron feel like a monster. Soon they would have nothing of their mother but a handful of faded portraits and the one item Saffron refused to part with, her mother's diamond broach.

At least they hadn't yet sold the books. When that day came, they would both cry.

"It would be an honor." She bowed her head.

"Where is your sister, my dear?" Rouged lips curved into a devious smile. "I have not seen her since dinner."

A cold needle of fear pierced her heart and she used the first lie that came to her mind. "She is suffering a megrim. She has not been feeling quite herself lately."

The dowager made a humming sound. "Yes, the two of you are quite the pair. One strange, the other flighty. I pity your aunt."

Saffron's cheeks burned. As the eldest, it was her responsibility to guide her sister through the shark-infested waters of society. Unfortunately, keeping Angelica out of trouble was like trying to cage the wind.

This would never have happened if Basil were still alive.

Everything had changed after her brother's death. With no male heirs, the Crown had awarded the baronet title to a distant cousin, who cared not one whit for his estranged family. The funds that had once seemed endless had rapidly dried up. They had scrimped and saved every penny, but the small pension her widowed aunt, Rosemary, had received from her first husband couldn't support them. Then the newly widowed Duke of Canterbury had arrived in town like a white knight and immediately set his sights on Angelica. His wealth meant a lack of dowry was of no consequence, but he had insisted upon an old-fashioned, lengthy courtship. That would not have been a problem, except that they had missed the last payment on their townhouse, and the two prior payments had been short. It would not be long before the bank ran out of patience.

We will make it , Saffron thought. If I must become a governess, we'll make it.

But first she had to prevent her sister from ruining herself.

She clenched her jaw and, with a prayer for luck, took a half-step back as a young man laden with drinks passed behind her. The sound of tearing cloth split the air, sending her sprawling. Two glasses of lemonade shattered against the marble floor. Servants descended upon the broken glass, ushering them away.

The young man stared at Saffron in horror. "Dreadfully sorry." His ears turned a bright red, the same shade as his curly hair. He dabbed at a wet spot on his brown wool jacket. "I did not see you."

"Enough of that." The dowager waved her empty plate in the air. "The deed is done. Off with you. Accompany Miss Summersby to the retiring room."

With that dismissal, Saffron took the boy's arm. He stammered apologies as they cut their way around the carnage. Fans snapped open as they passed, but not quick enough to obscure grinning faces. The whispers and tittering laughter made her fingers curl.

Society loved drama. Especially when it was at her expense. It felt as if the whispers and giggles were only ever directed at her, even when Angelica and Rosemary were present.

When they were out of sight of the dowager, she patted her chaperone's arm and murmured her thanks, then gathered her bulky skirts and dashed through a gap in the crowd and into a hallway. Her slippers caught on a bunch in the thin carpeting and sent her sprawling to her knees. After struggling to her feet, she discovered that the delicate French lace on her collar had torn.

A small bit of damage that she could fix in an hour sitting by the fire with her sewing kit, but it was enough to send her spiraling.

She pressed her fists over her eyes. She could not have a fit. Not yet. When she was safe in her bed, then despair could overtake her. But not yet.

She adjusted her collar to hide the damage and continued down the hallway, pausing at each closed door to listen before peeking inside. The first two she checked were silent and empty, but when she stopped at the third, she heard a faint crackle of fire.

Preparing for the worst, she pushed open the door to see Angelica curled up on a horsehair sofa near the fireplace, a book resting open on her chest, her eyes closed in slumber. Her golden curls shone in the firelight and her yellow-and-cream gown spilled over the chair and onto the floor. She had inherited their mother's beauty. Saffron's dark hair and stubborn chin were gifts from their father.

Saffron gripped the doorframe and took a deep, calming breath, letting the familiar smells of the library envelop her. Varnished wood, old books, and the sweet, ashy undertone of cigar smoke. Then she charged forward and swiped the book from her sister's arms. When she turned it over, she huffed.

Wuthering Heights.

Angelica's eyes fluttered open, and her lips curved in a sleepy smile. "Is it time to go home?"

"It's time to return to the ballroom." She waggled the book. "You won't find your Heathcliff hiding in here, sister."

Angelica straightened her dress and stood. "I apologize. My toes could not take another pounding."

The reprimand on Saffron's tongue flitted away when she saw the tears glittering in her sister's eyes.

"Was it something the duke said?" she asked softly. If the man had insulted Angelica or done anything else even slightly inappropriate, she would confront him and demand he leave Angelica alone. All she needed was an excuse.

"No." Angelica grabbed the book and crushed it to her chest.

Saffron sighed. So much for her opportunity. "Then what is the matter?"

Angelica's lower lip trembled. "I've read every book in our library three times. Lady Jarvis won't notice one book missing, would she? The dust on the shelves is an inch thick."

Greif clotted in Saffron's throat. Her sister had resorted to theft.

"I-I'll buy you a new one," she lied. She would have said anything to wipe the desperation off her sister's face.

Angelica opened her mouth, then frowned and tilted her head. "Do you hear that?"

It was the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by bubbly laughter. Saffron grabbed her sister's arm and dragged her behind a bookshelf. The copy of Wuthering Heights thumped to the ground in front of the fireplace.

"Who is it?" Angelica whispered.

She shushed her sister and peered through the cracks in the books. The door creaked open, and Lady Jarvis stumbled inside, her arms wrapped around the neck of a man who was not her husband. The sounds coming from the pair made her want to slap her hands over Angelica's ears. They had to get away before their gossiping host caught them spying on the amorous encounter.

She searched the room for alternative exits and caught the outline of a door halfway hidden behind a drape. She tugged her sister's fingers to get her attention, then whispered, "Follow me."

They carefully maneuvered between the bookshelves, serenaded by Lady Jarvis's increasingly loud moans, then slipped through the door. "Hello," a male voice said, making Saffron jump.

A man sat in a chair in the corner of the antechamber, holding a cigar in one hand. He wore dark, form-fitting trousers and a frock coat of the same color, unbuttoned, and parted on either side to reveal a black, satin shirt beneath. His wavy, blond hair was unfashionably long and untied, so it rested on his shoulders like the mane of a great lion.

Heat flushed through her body when she realized the man wasn't alone. A woman in a blood-red evening gown crouched before him, the inky-black fall of her hair obscuring her face. As Saffron stared, frozen in shock and horror, the woman rose to her feet and pulled her hair back to reveal bright-green eyes and full, pouty lips. She had the kind of painful beauty one imagined when reading Homer's description of Helen of Troy.

"Thank you for the entertaining interlude, darling," the woman said. She pressed a kiss to the man's cheek, eliciting a squeak from Angelica, then stepped back into the darkness and vanished. There was a creak of a door opening and then thudding shut.

"Who was that?" Angelica whispered.

The words broke the spell that had frozen Saffron in place, and she jerked her head in the direction the woman had gone. "I don't know, but we should follow her."

Then the man laughed, startling them both.

"The Misses Summersby, isn't it?" The man took a long draw of his cigar, tilted his head back, then blew a trail of smoke. "Leopold Mayweather, at your service."

She clenched her teeth on a gasp. She'd heard his name before, whispered by ill-natured women who congregated near the wallflowers to whisper stories about dangerous men. Viscount Briarwood, Leopold "Leo" Mayweather, was one of the worst, a confirmed rake and despoiler of innocents. Rumors held he had ruined a dozen debutantes and survived twice that many duels with angry fathers and brothers.

"Sister, who is that man?" Angelica whispered. "He looks like a devil."

Saffron hoped he hadn't heard that.

He chuckled. "A devil, is it? And you have stumbled into my lair." He gestured to an oil painting on the wall depicting a group of naked women feasting on the slaughtered remains of a goat, their hands and faces covered in blood.

Fear pulsed through Saffron like a living thing. With every second they remained alone with the man, the risk of ruin increased. She knew she should follow the woman out whatever exit she had taken, but her legs refused to move.

Lord Briarwood was dangerous, but he didn't elicit in her the scattered, nervy sensations she was used to feeling around strange men. He looked like a lion and had the reputation of a scoundrel, but something in his posture spoke of a tenderness beneath the surface. He didn't lounge in the chair so much as he curled his body into it, like a housecat perched on top of a pillow.

"What are you doing here, Lord Briarwood?" she asked.

Angelica uttered a quiet gasp at his name.

"I'm searching for something." He unfolded his long legs and stalked from the shadows. The flickering firelight cast an orange hue over the sharp planes of his cheekbones, wide lips, and slightly crooked nose, making him appear even more devilish. She stood her ground, her hands buried in her skirts, heart thundering in her chest. She tilted her head up and met his gaze.

"Searching for what, my lord?"

"Something that doesn't belong." His lips twitched. "Rather like you, Miss Summersby. You do not belong here, dressed like…" He trailed off, running his gaze down her body.

Her stomach churned and for a fleeting moment, she wished she'd chosen something other than the plain but serviceable gown of brown wool unadorned with lavish ribbons or ruching. Combined with her coal-black hair and pale complexion, she probably looked more like a scullery maid than a lady.

Angelica glided around her and dipped into a curtsey, a picture of grace and beauty. "It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Lord Devil."

Briarwood's eyes crinkled at the edges. Then Angelica rose from her curtsey and smacked him in the chin with the crown of her head. Saffron tensed, expecting an outburst, but as the viscount staggered back, rubbing his chin, he laughed. "What is in that head of yours, my dear? Rocks?"

The tension that had seized Saffron's lungs drained away. She turned to her sister to examine her escaped curls and clucked her displeasure. "You must have more care. If you lose another curl, I will not forgive you." She dug her fingers into the tangle of her own hair and pulled out a pin. A lock of black hair tumbled free. Before she could tuck it behind her ear, cool fingers brushed her temple.

"I have it," Lord Briarwood said, his voice soft. "Don't worry."

The feather-light touch on her scalp sent pleasurable tingles down her back and a wild part of her wondered what it would feel like to have his fingers on other parts of her body. She imagined his long fingers trailing up her inner thigh and untying the ribbon holding her stockings in place. She thrust those wayward thoughts aside and grasped her sister's head in both hands, twisting the curls that had come free around the length of the pin and tucking them away. That done, she released her sister and inspected her work. It would not pass muster in daylight, but in the dim light of the ballroom, it would suffice.

"Now that we have been introduced, albeit in a highly unusual manner," Briarwood said, "please allow me to accompany you back to the ballroom. Perhaps we will find what I have been searching for along the way."

She hesitated. What was worse—walking in on Lady Jarvis in flagrante delicto , or entering a ballroom on the arm of a rake?

The viscount's lips twitched. "Propriety. Of course." He cleared his throat. "Marie? If you will."

A short, gray-haired woman wearing the uniform of a servant separated from the shadows and curtsied. "I will accompany you, my lord."

"Marie is one of Lady Jarvis's servants," Leo explained. "Our generous host assigned her to attend to me tonight. I required a servant's perspective."

The tightness in Saffron's shoulders eased, and she held out her hand. Warm fingers enveloped her own and drew her closer. The intensity in his face should have sent her scurrying away. She knew what men like him wanted, had felt their lecherous gazes lingering on her in every ballroom she'd graced since her brother's death. It was as if they could sense her imminent fall from grace and were waiting to claim her as their mistress. Those looks always made her long for a bath. Not Lord Briarwood's. His gentle gaze caressed her skin like the finest silk and made her long to slip into his arms and bury her nose in his neck.

She had never felt such wild impulses with any other man. She felt like a character in one of the romance novels she'd read.

His wicked smile would haunt her dreams for months.

"Let us return before anyone raises a fuss," Briarwood said. He pushed back a heavy drape from the wall and revealed another door. They passed through the doorway and into a wide hallway, Angelica and Marie following behind.

He squeezed her hand. "I thought you might flee rather than take my arm. I sometimes forget how imposing I must seem." He waved his free arm up and down his body.

She kept her lips shut and her gaze focused on the swirling shapes at the end of the hall. Her traitorous mind, which recalled facts and figures with ease but forced her to write down her daily tasks no matter how many times she repeated them, had already memorized every line of his body.

"Why do you wear the black?" Angelica asked. "Did someone you know die?"

"My sister." His tone had a brittle edge.

"We lost our brother, too," Angelica said. "He left us to go traveling and they found his body washed up on the shore. Aunt Rosemary says it is his fault that we must marry for money and not for love."

Hearing her sister speak of their bleak future in such a fashion twisted Saffron's heart. She pulled away from the viscount to place a hand on her sister's arm. "I don't think the viscount wishes to hear about our troubles."

As the man smothered a laugh, Saffron noticed a painting behind her sister's head. Something about it called out to her and she stepped closer, taking in the scene of a ship. The hull was primarily black, with a line of white near the top and a hint of red beneath the waves. A bearded figure graced the front of the ship, holding a round shield in one arm and a sword in the other, facing forward as if charging into battle.

It can't be.

A man stood on the deck, wearing brown, cotton overalls. One hand was on his hip, and the other buried in his mass of chestnut curls.

"Sister, no!" Angelica cried.

She jerked her hand back. Without realizing it, she'd touched her fingers to the canvas. "Look at this," she said. "Do you see it?"

Her sister crowded in beside her, but Saffron kept her gaze on the man on the deck of the ship, afraid if she looked away, he would disappear, as he had vanished from their lives nearly three years prior. She hadn't believed he was dead until a body was found wearing her brother's clothes.

"Ravenmore," Briarwood said, uttering the word like a curse.

The back of Saffron's neck prickled. She'd been so focused on the painting, she hadn't noticed him moving to stand behind her. If she took a step back, she would bump into his chest. Would he be as warm and solid as he looked? She ached to find out but didn't dare move.

Angelica peered at a metal plaque mounted on the wall beneath the painting. "He's right. It says, ‘Ravenmore.' What does it mean?"

Saffron didn't respond, having noticed the slanted, silver print near the corner of the canvas.

It's only a few days old.

The world slanted on its axis as several years' worth of grief churned inside her chest.

One thought rang clear in her mind.

She had to find the artist and ask how he had painted a picture of a ghost.