Prologue

PROLOGUE

OCTOBER 13, 1803

“ M alcolm please! Don’t go, I beg you!”

Rafe shut his eyes against the sounds of his parents quarreling. He held his breath as he prayed he would go unnoticed in his hiding place at the top of the stairs. But he was no longer a tiny child, able to tuck himself away in a wardrobe or a cupboard. At ten, he was too tall, too lean, and too large to hide himself behind the railings of the stairs. Rafe forced his eyes open, reminding himself that he was old enough to face the truth—that the deep love his parents had once shared was withering away like flowers after too much sun and too little rain.

The Lennox townhouse was nearly dark, the candles and lamps extinguished for the night. The servants were already abed, and they knew it was not their place to interfere in such quarrels. Only the grandfather clock dared to chime in the midst of such an argument.

His father stood in the marble entryway, the light from the open parlor door showcasing his aristocratic nose and the ice of his blue eyes. Rafe’s mother stepped toward Malcom, one hand clasping his coat sleeve to halt him.

“Let me go, Reggie, damn you. I have debts to settle, and I must handle them tonight!” Malcolm hissed. Regina paled, drawing back from her husband as though he’d struck her. He had never hit her, but ofttimes words could be just as brutal. As could a callous disregard for those one was supposed to love.

“More debts? How much more? Malcolm, we cannot afford—” Regina’s soft voice quavered. His mother had always been a commanding force, and now she was afraid. Rafe wanted to go downstairs, to stop this, to put an arm around his mother’s shoulders and tell her all would be well. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t get between them and defy his father, a man he loved just as much as his mother.

“Don’t you understand? I lost it all. We can afford nothing ,” Malcom said, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve been a bloody fool, and now... it’s too late.”

What did he mean? Rafe’s stomach dropped and his mind blanked with dread. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

Regina covered her mouth with her hands for a moment. Then she tried to calm herself. “But my bride price... My father put it in a trust for me to use if we had need of it. We still have that?—”

Malcolm gave a harsh and broken laugh, and the sound dragged invisible claws over Rafe’s spine. He had never heard his father sound like that before.

“I wagered that too. I was sure I could win this time, Reggie. But Lord Caddington cheated. The bastard won every shilling. I’ve already withdrawn the money from your trust.”

Regina’s lips parted and her face drained of color. The silence between them, albeit brief, could have frozen the entire world.

“How could you? It requires my approval,” she said.

“I forged your signature, and your solicitor and trustee believed it to be genuine.”

“You . . . you stole my future, our children’s future! Malcom . . .”

“Reggie,” he said and reached for her this time.

His mother slapped his father across the face and then, clutching her hand, fled the entryway, leaving his father to stand there alone, his shoulders hunched.

Malcolm stared in the direction that Regina had fled. Then, with a sigh so weary that it seemed to carry the weight of his every sin, Malcolm walked out the front door.

As the door closed, Rafe’s stomach clenched. He was going to be sick. He bent double, his belly cramping, and he struggled to breathe until he calmed. Was it true? Were they without any money? Surely his father hadn’t spent everything in the gambling hells. Surely he couldn’t have...

Suddenly, Ashton exited their father’s study and rushed down the stairs, looking the way their mother had gone and then toward the front door. Then he looked up toward the stairs, seeing Rafe as if he’d known as he always did where Rafe liked to hide.

“What happened? Where’s Father? I heard shouting.” Ashton was only fifteen, but he already held an air of command. Rafe knew his brother could fix the break between their parents—Ashton could do anything.

“He left—he and Mother quarreled about money again.”

Ashton cursed softly. “Stay here, you understand? I’ll bring him back.” Then Ashton grabbed his cloak and rushed out into the night.

Gripped by a need to help his elder brother, Rafe raced down the stairs and out into the night. Ashton walked ahead of him, and their father was just beyond them, barely visible in the gloom, his pace brisk, his head bowed.

Rafe followed his brother and father along Half Moon Street as they wandered deeper and deeper into a part of the city he knew they should not go. The streets grew narrower, the muck on the road thickened, and the mingled smells of fear and despair emanated off the walls of the hovel-like structures they passed. Where was his father going? Surely the people living here were not anyone he would or should know. Yet without a backward glance, his father strode toward a tavern, unbothered by being in such a place as this.

His father disappeared into the building, whose faded sign read, “Devil’s Spear.” A minute later, Ashton carefully crossed the road and entered the building as well. Rafe kept a watchful eye on the men around him who passed through these cramped streets. The men who lived in this part of London had hard and dangerous faces. Rafe had always been able to read a person by their expressions, even the most minute ones, and he could usually read a person’s intentions. These men would slit his throat without a second thought.

Rafe stepped deeper into the shadows of the mews across the street until he could decide what he should do. He cursed the light hue of his hair, fearing the shine of it might reveal him in the dark just as his bright-blue eyes so often did. If his father or Ashton saw that he was here, he would never hear the end of it.

Rafe squared his shoulders as he crossed the street and took hold of the door handle to the Devil’s Spear. When he opened it, he found a boisterous taproom filled with gambling tables and drunk men. The building was a ramshackle maze of rooms and corridors so crowded that it was hard to see where his elder brother had gone.

Women with bared breasts sat atop the laps of several men as they offered tankards of ale. Serving wenches wandered through the room with trays, handing out yet more ale. At one table, in full view of everyone, a man had a woman’s skirts up over her bottom and was...

Rafe’s face flushed at the unexpected intimate sight. Where the devil was his father and Ashton?

He wove his way through the chaotic din of rooms, seeking the familiar faces of either his father or his brother in the crowd. Finally, in the farthest corner of the room, he spotted a square table with three men speaking, their voices drowned out by the din. One of the men was his father. Letting out a sigh of relief, he decided to risk his father’s displeasure and show himself and beg him to come home. Rafe navigated his way through the room, feeling the menacing stares of the men and the wistful smiles of the wenches. One woman even grasped his arm as he walked past.

“My, my, ain’t ye quite the lad...” She batted her lashes at him and leaned forward, letting him see her bountiful bosom.

Rafe’s face flooded with heat as he pulled away from the woman. He was frightened by the way she looked at him.

The men around her sneered, and laughter broke out as one man slapped the woman’s bottom hard. She yelped, but then she started laughing too. Rafe took the opportunity to escape and moved even more quickly toward the table in the back.

When he reached his father, he stood behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Malcolm flinched and whirled, as if expecting a fight. He gaped when he saw it was Rafe.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“I came to take you home, Father.” Rafe didn’t dare look at the other two men, but he could feel their eyes on him. He didn’t mention that Ashton was somewhere in this awful place—that might well make his father even more furious.

“I’m in the middle of something important, Rafe. Go home .” His father’s voice held a warning that terrified Rafe. His father was a strong man, and Rafe had always believed he could do anything. Now, for the first time in his life, he saw a different side to the man he had idolized.

“Go home, my boy, please .” His father grasped Rafe’s arm, giving it a hard squeeze. “Take care of your mother and sister. I will be home soon.”

Rafe wished desperately that his elder brother was there. Ashton always knew what to do, what to say. Where was he? How had he not found their father as quickly as Rafe had?

Rafe finally summoned the courage to look at the other two men at the table. One was stout but looked strong. He wore the fine coat of a gentleman, but cruelty lined his features in deep grooves. The second man was massive, a brute with a heavy, pockmarked face. He sneered at Rafe. This was the sort of man one would never dare wager against in one of those underground boxing rings he wasn’t supposed to know existed.

The gentleman eyed Rafe with frighteningly dark eyes. “Introduce us to your welp, Lennox.”

“I...” Malcom hesitated, but finally relented. “Rafe, this is Lord Caddington and his associate, Mr. Phelps.” His tone was so full of woe that Rafe immediately feared what lay between his father and this man.

Caddington swept a cold gaze over Rafe. “How old are you, boy? Ten, twelve?”

“Ten, my lord.” Rafe’s tone was steady, even though he was shaking inside. Something about this man felt terribly wrong. Rafe couldn’t read him like he could other people. He had no tells, no quirks, no slight expressions to indicate what he was thinking or feeling. The man’s eyes were empty .

“Pretty lad, aren’t you, boy?” Caddington mused and stroked his chin. “Lennox, perhaps your boy can work off your debts by attending me in my household.”

Malcolm shot to his feet. “No!”

The bellow was so loud and unexpected, the entire room quaked with the rumble of Malcolm’s shout. A hush fell across the drunken crowd until they resumed their activities like nothing had happened.

“No, Caddington,” Malcolm said more quietly, but with no less menace in his tone. “You have the necessary papers to acquire the funds I owe you, and that should be enough. My son has nothing to do with this.”

Caddington toyed with his glass of brandy as he assumed a contemplative expression.

“It may be enough for now, but you can’t avoid the tables forever, Lennox. We both know you will be back. And when you are, I will claim that boy as payment.” Caddington flashed Rafe a grin that promised dark and terrible things should he and Caddington ever meet again.

Rafe backed up a step. He wanted to leave, he wanted to turn tail and run, but he was a Lennox. He wouldn’t abandon his father to this man.

Malcolm grasped Rafe’s arm. “It’s time for you to go home, son.” They both headed for the door of the gambling den and stepped outside into the night.

“I’ll call a hackney for you,” his father muttered, refusing to look his son in the eye as he raised his hand and called a coach to come toward them. When the driver stopped before them, Malcolm paid the man and gave him the address of the Lennox townhouse.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Rafe asked his father in a quiet, scared voice.

“No, there is something I must do... I will be home by morning.” His father’s voice had an odd sound to it, and Rafe didn’t like the strange look upon his father’s face.

Rafe shuddered and glanced back at the doorway of the tavern and gambling hell. A dark shadow blocked out the light coming from the open doorway. Rafe recognized the shape of the man. It was Mr. Phelps.

“He wants the boy, Lennox,” Phelps said. “Give him to me.”

“Never,” Malcom snarled. The beast of a man started toward Malcolm, a dark, glinting object in his hand. A knife.

“Father, look out!” Rafe cried out.

Malcolm spun and placed himself between Rafe and Phelps. His father, once a prizefighter at Jackson’s salon, swung and planted a facer on Phelps’s chin, catching the man off guard. The man grunted and then swiped the blade at Malcom’s chest. Malcolm dodged back. The men swung at each other, punches landing on flesh in sickening sounds. Rafe was forced to step back to stay out of the way. It was clear his father was winning the fight—Phelps was outmatched, even though Malcolm smelled strongly of ale.

“Get in the coach now, son!” Malcolm shouted at Rafe and pushed him into the waiting hackney his father had summoned. Rafe fell back against the stiff coach cushions as the hackney started to move, but he didn’t want to go home alone—he wanted to bring his father back with him. Before the coach could pick up any more speed, Rafe opened the door facing the opposite side of the street and jumped out onto the ground, his feet sinking into the dirt and muck upon the road, momentarily catching him in place.

A sharp clatter of hooves and a coach driver’s sudden shout startled Rafe. He had stumbled into the path of a passing carriage. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe as the horses bore down upon him.

Something slammed into him and Rafe hit the ground, rolling over and over until he landed on the other side of the street. His head collided with hard stone, and everything went dark.

Malcolm cursed as he watched that bastard Phelps stalk back into the tavern. It had been a close one tonight, but Phelps couldn’t win and they both knew it. Rafe was bound for home, he was safe... for now. But that wouldn’t always be true. Malcolm had made the mistake of tying his fate to Andrew Caddington’s when he’d started losing money to him, but he’d never dreamed that it would put his young son’s life in danger.

Caddington had a dark side, a side that liked to hurt people, especially young men. He had a fondness for beating men senseless, and it was rumored he’d killed more than one young man at his estate through his love of brutality. He was a devil, a devil whose darkness knew no limits, and now he’d set his sights on Rafe.

But Malcolm was sober enough tonight to know that he had a choice—let his child’s life be in danger, or do the thing that would damn his soul forever but would save his child. When he viewed the situation from that perspective, he knew there was but one course of action to take.

He must kill Caddington. Even if it brough ruin to his family in society, even if he faced the gallows for the murder, it must be done. Caddington could not be allowed to live. Malcom stepped back into the Devil’s Spear and glanced around, seeking out Phelps and Caddington.

“What now, dearie? Care for a ride?” one of the whores who frequented the brothel in the back asked him as he stepped inside. He’d made the mistake more than once of taking them to bed, when he should have gone home to his beloved Reggie, but he couldn’t bear the shame of seeing her pain, her disappointment in him. So he sought solace where he could, with who he could.

“No, not tonight. Where is Lord Caddington?” he asked the woman, knowing she would be well aware of where one of the good “marks” were in the establishment.

“Lord Caddington is in the back. Want me to show you?” She hooked her arm through his and led him past the main gambling room. They stopped at the door to one of the rooms at the end of the corridor and she opened it. “He’s just in there...”

As Malcolm stepped inside, something struck his head hard from behind. He stumbled and caught himself on the edge of the empty bed in the room. Everything in his vision spun wildly and he collapsed onto the bed, trying to catch his breath. He was vaguely aware of the whore searching his pockets for money. When she pried his pocket watch from his chest, he struggled to get it back but she shoved him hard and he fell back onto the bed, clutching his head.

The door to the room slammed shut, leaving him in darkness. Then the door suddenly whipped open and someone was rushing toward him.

“Father!” Ashton’s voice came through the haze too late as Malcom struck out, hitting his son across the face.

“Leave me, boy!”

Ashton put a hand to his face, and Malcolm hated the look of hurt in his eldest son’s eyes. He had never struck his son before.

“Father, please,” Ashton begged. “Come home. Mother needs you. We all need you.”

Lord Lennox stumbled to his feet. “Damned whore took my coin purse.” He patted his pockets. “Pocket watch too.”

“Father...”Ashton still touched his face where he’d been struck, but Malcom wasn’t listening.

He left the room, tripping over his feet into the hall. He had to find Caddington, had to make sure that man never had a chance to hurt Rafe or anyone ever again. Ashton hurried after him, dodging the gaming tables.

Several men shouted and cursed as Malcolm bowled into them. The blow he’d taken to his head was doing far more damage to his balance than the alcohol he’d consumed.

“Careful, man!” Someone shoved Malcolm toward the front door, trying to get him out of their way.

Have to find Caddington . . . have to . . .

Malcolm’s thoughts abruptly stopped as he reached the curb to the street and spotted something on the sidewalk across from him.

Rafe... his dear, sweet boy was sitting on the sidewalk, covered in street filth and holding a hand to his head as though he’d been hurt. Had Caddington tried to get to him again? Please, God, no...

“No,” Malcolm gasped and started across the street toward his younger son.

“Father!” Ashton’s shout from behind him came far too late.

After what felt like an eternity trapped in darkness, Rafe opened his eyes. His body hurt everywhere, and he lay on the stone walkway beside the road, his head throbbing.

Where was his father? Rafe struggled to sit up and looked around in confusion.

His father was across the street staring directly at him, shock and fear on his face. There was no sign of the frightening Mr. Phelps he’d been fighting with. Rafe stared back at his father as his father took a step off the curb and entered the street, not seeing the coach bearing down on him. Everything seemed to slow down, and Rafe could not move, could not blink or even cry out.

Horses screamed and Rafe lifted his head to see them frantically treading upon a lump in the road before the carriage wheels followed, thumping over the shape and crashing back down. A woman who’d been walking down the sidewalk by Rafe screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the mass upon the ground.

“Father!” Ashton’s shout caught Rafe’s attention as he saw his elder brother running after their father, who’d stepped into the street.

“Dead! The man is dead!”

The woman’s words caught Rafe’s heart in an icy grip and squeezed, making it impossible for him to move, to breathe.

Ashton raced down the steps and skidded to a stop a few feet away from their father’s crumpled body.

“Who is it?” the driver demanded as he climbed down from his perch on his coach.

Ashton cleared his throat, but the word still came out broken. “He’s my father.”

“He was your father,” a dark-haired young man with a cane said as he stopped by Ashton, along with others who’d been near the tavern and witnessed the accident. “Drunken fool.” The man walked back into the club, but Ashton remained still, staring at their father, his face utterly white.

Rafe stood up, brushed his bloody scraped hands on his trousers, and walked on shaky legs toward his elder brother.

Ashton lifted his head and stared at Rafe for a moment, his eyes unseeing, then rage and fury filled them.

“What the devil are you doing here? What have you done, Rafe?”

What had he done? Rafe’s lips parted, but he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t remember. They’d been ready to leave, his father had been sending him home, and then that terrible man Mr. Phelps had come after them, and they’d fought. But Father had been winning the fight, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? Rafe’s mind ached and he shut his eyes briefly, trying to think, but he couldn’t remember.

“I . . . don’t know . . . Ashton. I don’t know . . .”

“You’ve killed him, that’s what you’ve done, because you couldn’t stay home where you belonged,” Ashton snarled. “You killed him...” The last words choked from his brother as Ashton looked at Rafe in a way he never had before. With scorn—with hatred.

“No, he can’t be dead. Father . . .”

Pain throbbed in Rafe’s shoulder and head, where he’d fallen against the pavement. But none of that mattered. He knelt down and lifted his father’s head, trying to cradle it on his lap. Blood coated Malcolm’s lips and his body was bent at unnatural angles. His eyes were open, but his expression was dazed. Rafe didn’t want to think about how much pain his father was in. He’d broken his arm once, falling from a tree a few years ago, but his father was... beyond repair.

Malcolm licked his lips, his gaze slowly moving between Rafe and Ashton, who’d knelt down next to Rafe. Ashton’s face was white as marble. His lips were parted but he didn’t speak, didn’t move—it was as though he was frozen.

Rafe turned his focus back to his father. His hands shook as he gently touched his face. “Father.”

“My boy.” The words escaped Malcolm’s lips like a soft sigh, and then the glimmer of life in his eyes faded away.

Rafe held his father’s head in his lap, tears streaming down his face as he met Ashton’s gaze. His older brother didn’t move, he simply stared at their father... utterly broken.

“Someone help us! Anyone! Please!” he shouted at the bystanders who looked on with mingled sorrow and pity. But there was no help, not for Lord Malcom Lennox. It was far too late. Not even his elder brother could help their father now. He was gone—and Rafe had been the cause of it.

Rafe wiped at his eyes, a strange numbness creeping through his limbs as he saw Mr. Phelps and Lord Caddington staring at him from a short distance. They were more wraiths than flesh and blood. Rafe’s eyes burned with a hatred so strong that, for a moment, it filled the emptiness that his father’s death had left. They were responsible for this.

Someday he would kill them both. Even if he had to wait a lifetime. His steel would taste their blood and his father would be avenged.

Regina Lennox stared at the burning embers of the fire in the drawing room. Every bone in her body ached as her worry for Malcom deepened. She pulled her plaid shawl tighter around her shoulders. They had quarreled before, but never like this. And she’d never struck him before. But he’d done the unthinkable. He’d betrayed her trust in a way he’d sworn he never would.

That money, the dowry her father had given her, was to be a gift to their children someday. And he’d gambled it away without a thought... because he hadn’t bothered to think of her at all as he’d lingered over those tables full of vice. Her throat tightened as she struggled to keep herself from crying. Tears would do no good. She had to be strong, for herself and for her children.

It was two o’clock in the morning and still Malcolm had not returned. A hard clacking of the front door’s brass knocker pulled her from her thoughts. Malcom! She abandoned her seat in the drawing room and rushed into the entryway, flinging the door open.

“Malcolm, where have you?—”

Her voice died as she saw a stranger on the steps facing her. The man removed his hat and held it in his hand, his face solemn.

“Lady Lennox?”

“Y-yes.” She could barely speak. Her throat closed as a sudden inescapable weight pressed down on her chest, threatening to choke her. She knew what this was. She knew.

“I regret to inform you that your husband has died.”

A ringing started in her ears as she saw two figures step out from behind the man speaking to her. Rafe and Ashton. Their faces were ash-white, and Rafe’s clothes were covered in mud. When had her sons left the house?

“My lady?” the man asked. “Did you hear what I said? I said, your sons witnessed the accident.”

“Accident?” Regina had never fainted before, but right then the world spun dizzily around her. Her legs gave out.

Rafe dove to catch her, but Ashton shoved him out of the way and held their mother tenderly to him. “Mother!”

“How... how did it happen?” Her voice was breathless, but the man still heard her.

“He was run over by a carriage, my lady,” he said as he knelt close to Regina. “I was the constable on duty. I will need to ask you some questions about your husband’s movements this evening and?—”

Regina stopped listening to the man. She stared into her sons’ faces and read the pain in their eyes, the pain and... in Rafe’s face, guilt . Her beautiful little boy’s face was twisted with grief. Ashton shot Rafe a look of pure rage that Regina couldn’t understand. Her sons loved each other, they never fought... they never...

Something had happened tonight to change that.

She clutched Ashton’s arms, her heart shattering and her voice breaking as she stared at her youngest son.

“Rafe, what have you done?”