Prologue

PROLOGUE

K ingston-upon-Thames, Surrey, 1814

"You missed."

"I rarely miss," Lady Lora Hawkesbury countered. Hawkesburys seldom blundered, but her brother Nicholas, the Earl of Norbiton, enjoyed testing her patience.

"Could it be that your luck has run its course?"

"Shake a cloth in the wind!" If she didn't love her brother immensely, she might have given him a sound thrashing. Although, it was not in her demeanor to quarrel. Witty banter was a staple of giddy glee and the bread of life, also a result of their highly competitive natures, and assurance that she wasn't like other young women with sugary sap flowing through their veins, sickening sycophants who wasted the prime of bloom dreaming of balls and parties. "Continue to bray like a donkey, Nicholas. I will make my own luck."

Indeed, a will of iron coursed through Lora's veins, filling her with a determination to excel in sport and intellectual pursuits that were denied to proper young women schooled to run households. Target shooting and the exhilaration of a pleasant ride across an open meadow fueled her spirit. Papa had encouraged her, allowing her to ride astride and to come and go at will, especially because she didn't have a mother to constrict those activities. In fact, it could be said that her father doted on her, failing to differentiate between the sexes. He'd taught her skills—she was informed—that would never benefit a lady of the ton or win her a prospective husband.

Pshaw. What did she need a husband for? She had Papa and Nicholas. She lived in a large country house with plenty of farmland, tenants, and beauty to sustain her passions. And while their father was currently recovering from a hunting accident, Papa still encouraged them to go on hunting expeditions into the wild, declaring himself the happiest of men as he watched them ride off together.

"Father taught you well," Nicholas said. "But I have more years on you, sprite. More practice. Patience. Which means I have got more training."

His taunt only fueled her desire to win their five-pound bet. "Bah!" She laughed. "The only thing you have achieved that I cannot aspire to is you are a marquess-in-waiting. Which reminds me. Were you not equally taught to do the honorable thing—and at all times—in the presence of a lady?"

He harrumphed. "Lady? Show me the lady and—"

"Concede," she said, forbidding him to mock her. "I won this round."

"I never yield." A truth universally acknowledged as he was one of the most formidable young men in the district, and much sought after by the female sex. His sharp mind and exceptional morals promised compassion and constancy. She could not help but admire him as he turned to stare at her. Sunlight glinted off his handsome face and green eyes. "But, when it comes to you, I am defenseless." He widened his arms. "I rebuke the orders of Society. And, were it possible, I would restructure the whole of it for you. But as with any hunt, there are expectations, strategies in place. For you. For me. And Father's accident hastens the trajectory of the inevitable beat of the drum. Unless he recovers, I will have to take his place. And when I do, expectations will be harder to ignore."

"Yes. I know," she said, admiring his integrity all the more as he sat tall and lithe in the saddle. They were both determined to carry on their father's legacy, come what may, haunted by possibilities and the ramifications of what-ifs. "Anticipation rules many a heart, but I know you will never abandon me. You are good and honorable." Warmth of the moment filled her and she beamed. "Papa's doing."

Their bond was strong, her brother's bluntness his most admirable trait. True power came from honesty. Truth buckled the knees of lofty men and prospective suitors in pursuit of weighty dowries. Verity protected women from letches who haunted ballrooms in search of easy prey, while civility protected them from scandal and gossip. In turn, courtesy recommended both men and women alike, and Nicholas rose above them all. He would never desert or enslave her to a man she did not love and respect. That fact sustained her.

"He taught us well. Life is a game, and Society does not play fair."

"Then you and I must strive to change the system," Nicholas said, smiling.

The futility of it all pitched in her stomach. How did one alter the path of the stars or the course of the moon? "You cannot defeat a charging bull."

"No," he said, gazing off in the direction of their estate house—Winterbourne. "We cannot hold back the hands of time, though many try. No." He shook his head and met her stare, a strange look transforming his face. "There is only one constant in life, Lora. Change. And it will come to us whether or not we desire it. We cannot keep the world at bay for long."

She tsked. "That is easy for you to say. If anything happens to Papa, you will take his place, and I . . ." A ridiculous solution entered her mind. "I will enter a convent and provide sustenance for hungry nuns."

Nicholas burst out laughing. "We're not Catholic."

"You are right," she said with a straight face. A dark harbinger of doom settled over her. Few opportunities were in a woman's favor, other than marriage, a position as a governess, or becoming a doting aunt. Therefore, she had decided not to marry unless a man proved himself worthy. That disqualified their cousin, Samuel. The barbaric man was determined to make her his. "But no battle has ever been won without alteration."

" ‘If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.' "

"And there you have it." She giggled softly. "You forget that I have studied Sun Tzu and understand exactly what to do. If I cannot join a convent because I am not Catholic, I will simply have to convert."

"You will do nothing of the sort."

"Whyever not?"

"I do not need to give you a history lesson. Catholics face the challenge of existing without prejudice in a modern world, being forced to worship in secret. No, indeed. Converting will only submerge you into deeper depths." He singled out a target and raised his bow, nocking an arrow and stretching back the string until the shaft kissed his cheek. Like Robin Hood of old, he was magnificent, posing before her, muscular, majestic, and magical, his profile a delight to behold before he let loose. After a moment's hesitation, he exclaimed, "Bullseye!"

"Are you certain?" She peered into the wood to verify he'd hit the mark. "I think your arrow hit to the left of mine."

"Oh, Lora," he said, ignoring her taunt. "This is the moment, isn't it? The two of us. Riding together just like we did when we were children, racing and laughing, a fire in our bellies and our blood boiling to be the best."

"Truly." She nocked an arrow in one swift motion and let it fly, knowing no other enjoyment than being by her brother's side. Nicholas lifted her spirits. His assurances and companionship had kept her going since Papa's accident. "This is all that I live and breathe for. If moments like these could go on forever, I should be the happiest of women."

"I do desire for you to be happy, Lora." His current seriousness fled when he added jovially, "But opportunity begs me to inform you that you missed again."

"Impossible!" Making a show of it, she rose in the saddle and peered through the trees, pouting playfully. "How can you tell?"

"It is the way of things," he responded drily. "Men are far superior to women, you know."

"I do not! In fact, I distinctly heard your arrow hit to the left of mine and fall haplessly to the forest floor. Was that not the crackle of defeat disturbing our serenity?"

"No." His dubious laughter highlighted the absurdity of her statement, even though she had heard something in the wood. "Come. There is no better time than now to find out who is the better shot."

Kicking in his heels, he set off for the trees, leaving her gawking at his mount's hindquarters. Determined not to be second best, she slapped the reins and followed. "Gee up!" The great black beneath her bolted, its swift hooves and her light weight heightening her chances of catching him up.

"Isn't it time to admit defeat, brother?" she shouted. "Admit it. I am a much better shot."

He glanced back over his shoulder, egging her on. "On. What. Day?"

Two-hundred yards. One-hundred-and-fifty yards. She was almost upon him.

Then, contrary to anything she comprehended, Nicholas arched, whipping back in his saddle unnaturally, seizing. The rush of excitement filling her lungs instantly congealed, and her world capsized as her brother slipped from the saddle to the cold, inflexible earth.

"Nicholas?" Heart pounding wildly, she raced to him, dismounting before her horse came to a stop. She sprinted to his side, skidding to the ground beside him. Nightmarish images of her father's hunting accident flashed before her eyes as she carefully turned him over. The motion brought her up short when she stared at a short, well-placed bolt from a crossbow sticking out of his heart. His former jubilance reverberated between her ears. ‘Bullseye!' A violent sob wracked her body. "Nicholas!"

Death deafened her cry. His clear green eyes stared blankly skyward, the severe turn of his lips deforming his once happy mouth.

"No!" She gripped his shoulders. "This cannot be!" She shook him to rouse him back to life. No. No. No. "Don't go. Don't leave me! Not now. Not yet!"

But nothing could be done. Nicholas was dead.

How?

Sanity returned as the reality of what had just happened slapped her in the face. Someone had murdered her brother right before her eyes! Slowly, she lowered his shoulders and reached behind her for an arrow. Nocking her bow, she searched the wood line, conscious that a dark veil of hatred and vengeance had descended over her, a hate so deep it sentenced any notion of convents into hellish oblivion.

Warily, she watched and waited for a sound, a movement.

Birdsong quieted and wind whistled through the trees, the breeze ruffling the feather in her bonnet, tickling her cheek. And then she heard it, the sound of feet shuffling through the underbrush.

There! A man stopped every few feet to peer at the carnage. Their eyes locked, and in that instant, she let loose, targeting the orange cloth about the man's neck, the color distinct and completely foreign to the winter terrain. But Nicholas's murderer anticipated her actions, easily avoiding the shaft, which sank unpardonably into the tree trunk where he'd stood seconds before. She withdrew another arrow from her quiver and aimed again.

The man taunted her, aiming his crossbow, then laughed maniacally before slipping away.

"I will find you!" An unrecognizable shriek of anguish possessed her, taking her by surprise. She looked down at Nicholas and stared at his unseeing eyes, sinking to the earth to cradle his limp form, this new reality, so foreign and foul, branding her brain. "No matter what it takes. No matter how long." Tears coursed down her cheeks, inexplicable loss and sadness marring what was, what would be. "I will hunt down your murderer and make him pay. No path will be too long, no deprivation too great. So help me, God."