Chapter 1

T he house that the Cluetts had occupied while in London had always enjoyed a reputation for a kind of dignified stoicism. The Cluetts were an old family, one of the oldest in the land, and this had given them a sort of calm perspective whenever a calamity unfolded before them: They had endured before, they would continue to endure now. Family legend even had it that an ancestress, during the Great London Fire, had calmly and coolly stood in the doorway of her home as it burned down about her, her husband away fighting for the newly restored king, a switch in her hand to deter would-be looters.

There was naught of this trademark composure to be seen on this particular November day. The house was undoubtedly and unreservedly in what could only be described as an uproar . It had started with the arrival of the morning post, a letter from the Viscount Cluett written in a shaking hand setting off alarm throughout the household. He was either very ill, or the victim of highway robbery, or perhaps both. The maids whispered with wide, excited eyes about the possibility of pirates.

This was the first that Seth Cluett heard of it, snatches of whispers from housemaids and footmen who immediately stopped speaking when he entered the room. It was easy for those that did not know him well to assume that Seth was slow or dull-witted; the reality was that he did not particularly enjoy speaking, but he had a quick mind that absorbed all that he saw. There were a multitude of little things that tipped him off that things were not well, from the whispers to the way that the servants would not meet his eye.

He had just sat down to breakfast when a cry of distress went up from the upper floors of the house. Without a thought, Seth was up like a shot, for it could only have been Lady Cluett that had shown such distress. He took the stairs two at a time easily with his long legs, arriving just outside his mother's door.

He could hear her speaking within, issuing orders in distressed tones to her lady's maid, O'Toole. Seth had just lifted his hand to knock on the door when the maid in question opened the door, squealing and leaping backward at the surprise of seeing him.

"Did not mean to startle," he apologised, looking past her to his mother, who was sitting at her dressing table. Her hair was still half in curling papers, a banyan haphazardly wrapped about her. In one hand she held a letter, small and looking well-travelled; her other hand was about the base of her neck, her expression one of intense worry. Seeing Lady Cluett in anything less than immaculate form was enough to cause Seth's own mouth to go dry.

"Mother?" Seth asked, brushing past the maid. "What is it? What's happened?"

Lady Cluett's throat worked for a moment before she answered. "It's your father," she answered, her voice strained. "It seems that some calamity has befallen him, but I cannot read his writing," she said, lifting the letter and squinting. "You know what his hand is like at the best of times, and now I fear—look, the letter has become so smudged, I have been trying for an hour to read it, and all I can see is the word ‘attack'."

Lady Cluett stopped, lifting the letter to the light and attempting to read more of the words. Even from his position near the door, Seth could see that what she said was true; the letter was clearly blotched, the ink running down the page.

"Here," Lady Cluett said, waving the letter in Seth's direction, "see if you can't get further than I can with your young eyes."

Wordlessly, Seth stepped forward and gently took the letter from his mother, afraid that he might accidentally tear it. The paper was badly warped and buckling as if it had been thoroughly soaked. He turned toward the window, tilting the letter to try and catch what words he could. Lady Cluett was right, the viscount had always had abysmal handwriting, and it seemed that some unseen distress was causing his hand to shake.

"‘My dear Veronica," Seth began, reading slowly and carefully. "‘I am in—dine?—dire straits, and find that I have'—the next line is entirely illegible. ‘With favourable winds…but not before collecting what is owed…brought a fever—apron?' No, ‘upon me.'" Seth stopped reading, his eyes narrowing.

"Well?" Lady Cluett prompted, turned sideways in the chair before her dressing table. Her right hand gripped the back of the chair fiercely, her knuckles turning white. "Don't leave me in agonies of suspense."

"I'm sorry, Mother, it is not intentionally done. His hand becomes worse from this point, and with the blots and smudges…" Seth trailed off, tilting the letter toward the light again. "Wait," he said, bringing it closer to his face, "I can see more. ‘I have little expectation of laying my living eyes on my home again if relief is not found soon.'" Seth stopped reading, not really hearing the words as he spoke them. He looked up sharply, staring at his mother. "You don't think—should we go to him? Where even is he?"

Lady Cluett turned away, speaking crisply. "Egypt, though whether he is really there is anyone's guess."

"You don't know for certain?" Seth asked, putting his back to the window.

"I never know for certain," Lady Cluett said, applying a cream of some description to her neck with vigorous motions, barely concealed anger simmering just below her carefully controlled fa?ade.

"What was he even doing in Egypt?" Seth asked, the letter in his hand growing heavier by the minute.

Lady Cluett made a face of disdain at herself in the mirror for just a moment. "What he always does, I would imagine: Investing our fortune in some fool scheme or another, contriving how to drag more pieces of rocks and statues home."

Seth said nothing, but pressed his mouth into a tight line. It was no secret that his parents' marriage had not been a love match, but one of strategic alliance. He knew realistically that this was the pragmatic choice that many made; love was frequently seen as an impediment to a successful marriage, at least at first. It was assumed that fondness would bloom from time and familiarity, but this had not been so for the Cluetts.

It was not really anyone's fault, Seth supposed. They were simply two very different people, with little enough in common. The Viscount Cluett was an adventurer by nature, rarely content to sit still. He was one of the most widely travelled men in England, seemingly only home long enough to pack his trunk and be off again. The viscountess, by contrast, firmly held that her place and duties were at home, and should be the highest priority.

It did not help that Lady Veronica had brought a sugar plantation of considerable wealth to the marriage in the Caribbean as her dowry. To her great consternation, the viscount had sold it sight unseen, reasoning that the scandal and strife surrounding the sugar industry would only be a taint on the family name. Lady Veronica felt that she had been slighted in some manner, particularly when the fortune that the sale brought in was used to fund the viscount's capers across the sea. This slight turned into a gulf that only widened between them as the years passed by.

Much like his mother, Seth had never shared his father's predilection for travel. He much preferred spending his time at his family's estate, with the occasional sojourn to London. In truth, Seth was happiest when he was left to his own devices, able to tinker with the tenants' farm machinery, or the large clock in the hall. The estate manager had once taken Seth as a boy to see the mill in action, which had been an almost religious experience for him. His tutors may have despaired at his ability to recite Ovid or Plato, but Seth never faltered when it came to working with his hands.

"I suppose we shan't know more until the afternoon post," Lady Cluett said, breaking into Seth's reflecting. Seth watched her for a few moments, her movements still agitated, her face lined. She caught him looking at her in the mirror, and she waved him off. "Don't linger, Seth. My earlier outburst was only due to—I am fine now. Go and find some useful occupation."

Seth said nothing, merely continuing to stare at his mother. He could tell that she was irritated, angry even, but this was a cover for another emotion. It seeped through the cracks of her annoyance when she wasn't aware that anyone was watching her: fear and perhaps even a twinge of sadness. Her eyes met Seth's again, and she made a shooing motion at him.

Sighing, Seth made his way back downstairs. His breakfast was long forgotten, gone cold by now. He made his way down through the hall to the library, stopping to stare up at one of the portraits on the wall. It was his grandfather, larger than life, astride a grey stallion with rolling eyes that pawed the ground. His grandfather stared out confidently, one hand on the reins, another pointing far in the distance to a battlefield foggy with distance. He had led troops for Queen Anne as a young man, before he was married. Like other Cluetts of old, he was bold and brilliant, a man of deeds.

Seth couldn't help but feel his wide shoulders slump a little. His father, his grandfather, all the men of clan Cluett going back to the time of the Conqueror had been men of decisive action. By comparison, Seth was contemplative, cautious even. He had no lust for battle, no urge to plant a flag in some wild and unknown land. His ancestors stared down at him from the walls, and to Seth, it seemed they judged him and found him wanting.

Where do I fit in among these giants? he thought sadly. Who would ever see me in their company? I am invisible compared to them.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was one person that saw him, truly and without guile…