Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

T wenty years was a long time to wait for the sword to fall, but Lucien Harcourt, 6 th Viscount Everdene, could feel the cold blade of retribution against his neck.

The brigantine, Aurora , was sailing into London Harbor at long last.

He'd received the message soon after he arrived at his office near Whitehall that morning, a hasty note scrawled in his brother, Simon's, hand. From that moment, his world narrowed to the next hours and whatever waited on the other side.

He stared down at his desk, scarce seeing the sea of correspondence and notes on upcoming legislation. The missive seemed to have a life of its own. In the background, the sound of his best friend's voice had become a blur. Rhys Arkwright had arrived, God knew how long ago, and hadn't stopped talking since.

A sharp rap on his desk startled Lucien, and he looked up to see Arkwright's knuckles drumming the polished wood.

"Damnation, Luce," his friend complained. "Are you even listening?"

Lucien rubbed his temple. "I didn't sleep well."

"Do you ever? Your mind is like one of those infernal locomotives that are tearing across the countryside. I'm just never sure if it's careening into the future or ready to plunge off a bridge."

Arkwright shoved his hand through thick waves of tawny hair. "You are dashed disconcerting to us mere mortals. When we don't sleep, we look like we've been dragged behind a coach—but you don't even loosen your cravat. You could at least have the decency to look a trifle disheveled."

"I am never disheveled." Lucien knew his dark hair had not a strand out of place. His perfectly tailored coat was as pristine as when his valet had helped him into it that morning. Everything in its place, no surprises…

"You've not attended a social engagement all week. The ladies are in full rebellion."

Arkwright shoved a newspaper across the desk and Lucien looked down at the cartoon displayed there. Cruikshank was at it again, his latest offering a caricature that was unmistakably Lucien walking the plank while crocodiles in wedding veils snapped all around him. The print read: The Elusive Viscount E…

Once, Lucien had been amused by the sobriquet with which the famed cartoonist had christened him. But the cartoons had taken on a nastier edge of late, and his patience with it all had palled.

"I can't imagine why the chits are so damned determined."

Arkwright shrugged. "You've made it clear you never intend to marry, and men aren't the only ones who like the chase. You're the tiger in Blake's poem, burning bright. The ladies long to ‘twist the sinews of your heart.' But when they try to pet you, they realize just how dangerous you are."

Lucien's lip curled in disgust. "If I'm the dangerous one, why are all the women depicted as crocodiles?"

"Last night you didn't even show up at the club," Arkwright pressed him. "No potential bride would have troubled you there."

Which was why he'd all but lived at White's since he'd first come to London, partaking of its daily fare of cards, brandy, billiards, and conversation. The business of the kingdom was conducted there, and at political dinners in the homes of members of Parliament.

Once, he'd felt a surge of excitement, being sought after for the power of the Harcourt name, then, once he'd proved his own worth, for his sharp intellect and abilities.

But since his brother's renovation of the village at New Everdene, Tory landlords saw Lucien as a traitor to his class while the progressive Whigs were suspicious of his motives. Lucien couldn't blame them. His father, the Earl of Ravenscroft, was as ruthless a landlord as anyone had ever seen. Even now, confined to his secluded estate at Bitterne Tower, the old man was like Vesuvius looming over Pompeii.

"I decided to go to the fencing club instead," Lucien said. At least there he could see where an attack was coming from. The past two years had been a series of ambushes by shadows who disappeared into the dark.

He'd come home from the fencing salon with sweat dried on his skin, his arms and shoulders aching, so exhausted he'd thought he could sleep. He should have known better. Nights were too quiet. That was when the ghosts came. But they weren't ghosts, he told himself grimly. In truth, they never had been.

And now, they were coming home…

There was a flurry outside the office and it took all Lucien's will to keep his face impassive as the door burst open, revealing the tall form of his brother, Captain Simon Harcourt. Simon beamed with excitement, unrecognizable from the battle- scarred cavalry captain who had returned to England four years ago.

"Mother is waiting in the coach. They will be disembarking within the hour!"

Lucien rose, every muscle in his body tight.

"Who are ‘they?'" Arkwright asked.

"My sisters," Lucien said, his voice precise enough to cut diamonds.

"Sisters?" Arkwright laughed. "You don't have any sisters. I've known you since we were at Eton and you've never once mentioned them. Where have you been keeping them? In a dungeon somewhere?"

Lucien met his gaze in silence.

Arkwright looked from Lucien to Simon and back again. "Jesus, Luce," he said uncertainly. "It was a joke."

But Lucien was already walking out the door.

It was time for the sword to fall. He only hoped the blade was sharp.

Lucien sat still as stone across from his brother and mother as his luxurious coach jolted over the cobblestoned roads. Simon could scarce contain his excitement, his body twitchy as one of the race horses he bred, his hair tousled and cravat askew. Their mother, Lorena Harcourt, Countess of Ravenscroft, leaned against her younger son, her gloved hands trembling where she clutched them in her lap.

Today would provide the last puzzle piece in the mystery that had begun to unravel two years ago when a carriage accident had nearly cost the Earl of Ravenscroft his life, drawing Simon back to the estate he hated. That act of fate had thrown the Harcourt family into a spiral that had ended in the revelation of secrets buried for twenty years, and a marriage of almost-unbelievable happiness for Lucien's brother. Lucien was still uncertain which of these events had infuriated their father the most.

What he did know was this: The impending reunion would mean healing for Simon and their mother.

For Lucien, it was shattered glass, cutting deep.

The instant the coach shuddered to a stop, Simon flung open the door, leaping out before a footman could attend them. He reached up and swung their mother down as if she were a young girl instead of a grandmother past her fiftieth year. Her gown of cornflower blue swayed like a bell.

"There it is, Mama," Simon exclaimed, wrapping an arm around the countess and pointing to the forest of ships that thronged the harbor. "I can see the Italian flag from here!"

Lucien waited for a footman to lower the step then alighted from the equipage.

The countess turned to Lucien. "The wait is almost over." Her hand moved toward him, then she let it fall to her side. She had been missing from their lives until three years ago. But even since their reunion, his mother hesitated before she touched him.

He put distance between them, sparing them both the sudden awkwardness. "We'd best hurry before they ferry passengers ashore," Lucien said. "I'll lead the way."

It was no effort to forge a path through the crowd. People from the lowliest dock worker to the high born gave him wide berth, motivated by equal parts awe and fear.

"Know who that is, ducky?" he heard a skinny sailor say to a doxy. "That toff all the fine ladies keep tryin' to snare."

Lucien leveled the pair a glare.

The doxy went goggle-eyed and they scurried off into the crowd.

When the Harcourts neared the brigantine, Lucien squinted into the sunlight. It was all a blur, people leaning over the ship's rail, searching for familiar faces. Women held gloved hands to their bonnets, gowns of every color rippling in the wind. Men stood like sentinels, sheltering them from the wind off the Thames as they waited for sailors to help them into the wherries that would bring them ashore. A drop of sweat trickled down Lucien's spine.

Could Cassandra see him from wherever she stood at the rail? Could Jane? All he knew was that his sisters were somewhere in that crowd.

Simon broke into his thoughts. "I wonder what they'll look like. I keep picturing Jane with jam on her chin, and Cass hiding that ratty blanket of hers from father. Do you remember, Luce?"

God yes, he remembered. She'd been clutching what remained of that blanket the night their world had fallen apart.

The image tightened around Lucien's chest like a vise until it was hard to breathe. His father's voice echoed in his head.

What do you imagine will happen when your sisters return? A heartwarming reunion? I don't suppose I will be included.

No.

Family…the tie that binds...Or chains you can't kick free.

His father's ugly laughter haunted Lucien as Simon spoke. "Look!" his brother enthused. "They're helping passengers onto the wherries to row them ashore!"

"So many lost years." Their mother's voice quavered. "I haven't seen the girls since they were in the schoolroom. I feared...prayed…" She clung tighter to Simon's arm, tears shimmering on her cheeks. Lucien's jaw ached.

The mocking voice echoed again in his head. You think your sisters will welcome you with open arms? After what you did?

A touch, tentative as butterfly wings, brushed Lucien's arm. He looked down to see his mother's gloved hand. She smiled up at him, something hopeful, vulnerable in the curve of her mouth. "I can't believe we'll all be together again."

The vise twisted tighter, crushing his chest.

I can't. Lucien thought. I can't be here...can't do this …

He pulled away from his mother's touch, scrambling for some reason, any reason, to get away. When he glimpsed a familiar figure disappearing into the customs house, he seized his chance.

"That is Sir Fred Whitby just returned from France." Lucien was already stepping away from Simon and their mother. "It's imperative I speak to him without delay."

His mother tipped her head to the side, bewildered.

Simon flushed. "What the devil?"

"You heard what I said. It's imperative—" that I get away from here, away from this. I can't breathe... Somehow he kept his voice level. "Simon, take mother and the girls in my coach and head to Everdene while I tend to business here. I need to discern what is happening on the continent. There are barricades once more in Paris, uprisings in Italy and Germany."

"I—I don't understand why you're bringing this up this now," his mother stammered. "That's still all far away."

"We've already had rioters in Trafalgar Square and flooding down Pall Mall, breaking windows. How much closer do you want riots to get?"

"You can deal with that tomorrow," Simon insisted. "Jesus, Luce. This is your family . You haven't seen them for twenty damned years."

Damned ...Did his brother know just how apt that description was?

"I will come to Everdene Hall once Parliament lets out. I will see Jane and Cassandra then."

Simon grabbed his arm. "How the blazes are we supposed to explain…"

"It's been twenty years," Lucien said. "A few more weeks will hardly make a difference."

He caught a glimpse of his mother's gentle face beneath the brim of her bonnet, life's hardships etched deep. Their gazes met. Held.

Her lovely eyes filled with a deep knowing. His mother said gently, "Simon, let him go."

Simon's hand fell away, and Lucien felt a knife twisting in the hollowed-out shell where his heart used to be. Was some part of his mother relieved to be rid of him? Could he blame her?

She knew better than anyone who he really was.

The one who had betrayed them all twenty years ago.