Chapter One

Summer 1852

S olomon Grey journeyed to Greenforth Manor the old-fashioned way.

This was not through any mistrust of the railways but rather of his own restlessness. He disliked feeling trapped or dependent on either railway schedules or the goodwill of his hosts in supplying transport to the nearest station. So, although it took him two days rather than a few hours, Solomon traveled in his own comfortable, well-sprung carriage, secure in the knowledge he could come and go as he pleased.

He rather enjoyed the slow drive through the countryside to the soothing beat of his horses’ hooves. He had shut himself up among the crowds and bustle of London for so long that it was lovely to see greenery again. There were no dramatic hills or lush forests here in Norfolk, but gentle undulation, glinting waterways, and space to breathe. So far from the day-to-day concerns of ships and cargoes, staff, and money, he could have relaxed completely were it not for the pulse of excitement within him, the nagging hope that at last he might learn something, and inevitable fear of what that might be.

The carriage swept through ornate gates and along a driveaway lined by beech trees, to a large, rather pretty manor house. In the afternoon sun, its stone glowed and the windows gleamed in apparent welcome. A shadowed side of the building hinted at another wing not visible from this angle.

He wasn’t sure he liked the house—too neat and enclosed, somehow, in its manicured grounds. But it was old enough to be the keeper of many secrets. Like his hosts, perhaps.

The servants were certainly well trained and clearly expecting him, for two footmen ran from the front door, the first to hold the horses, the second to open the carriage door and let down the steps.

As he alighted in leisurely fashion, his hostess emerged to greet him, smiling in welcome. If she regretted inviting him, she gave no sign of it.

Deborah Winsom was a pretty, appealing woman, perhaps still on the right side of forty, neat in appearance and shy in manner, from his recollection. He did not know her well, just as an occasional presence on a hospital board of which he was a member.

“Mr. Grey!” she greeted him warmly. “How delightful to see you again.”

He took her hand, bowing over it. “My thanks for inviting me, Mrs. Winsom.”

She smiled, with a sudden, brilliant coquettishness that took him by surprise. Although dressed much as he remembered her from London—plainly and modestly, with none of the excesses of recent fashion—she exuded a slight feverishness that he had not noticed before. Perhaps she did not like parties and this was how she dealt with them.

Looking back, she had certainly latched on to him with something approaching relief when he expressed interest in meeting her husband, the Norwich banker. He had imagined she felt comfortable with him and was glad.

“Come to Greenforth!” she had invited him. “We are having a few close friends and family join us there for a week next month. My husband will be charmed to meet you. He often speaks of his time in the West Indies. I shall send you an invitation.”

She had, and he had accepted for his own reasons, though now he began to wonder if he had mistaken hers.

She took his arm in a somewhat proprietary grip, drawing him toward the house. “You are just in time for tea, so you will meet my husband and our other guests. How was your journey?”

Their polite small talk was interrupted as they entered the house to find a distinguished and handsome man striding across the hallway. He turned toward them saying, “Deborah, where—” then broke off, smiling in welcome.

Although he must have been approaching fifty, he had the demeanor and the energy of a man twenty years younger. He possessed a full head of dark hair, only graying slightly at the temples, and a firm-featured countenance with gleaming blue eyes. The man almost crackled with vitality—one of those larger-than-life characters who drove their own success.

He advanced on them, holding out his hand to Solomon. “You must be Mr. Grey. You are very welcome at Greenforth, sir, very welcome indeed.”

“My husband, Mr. Winsom,” Mrs. Winsom murmured. “And yes, Walter, this is indeed Mr. Solomon Grey, lately of Jamaica.”

Mr. Winsom shook his hand vigorously. “Wonderful! I look forward to reminiscing with you. Come and join us for tea! Unless you would rather go to your room first and make yourself comfortable?”

“I am perfectly comfortable, thank you,” Solomon said, and received another beaming smile.

Mr. Winsom led the way into a sunny room at the side of the house, from where French doors led out onto a terrace. Tea was clearly about to be served there, for a white cloth had been spread over a round table, with teacups, saucers, and plates awaiting distribution.

Two ladies in elaborate, wide-skirted gowns were chatting together. One stood with her hands on the balustrade, her back to the window. The other, seated at the table, was an attractive woman, who broke off her conversation to turn toward them.

“Ladies, meet our newest guest, Mr. Grey,” Winsom said, bowing his wife and Solomon through the doors ahead of him. “Sir, Mrs. Bolton, one of our oldest friends.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Bolton?” Solomon murmured, bowing to the lady at the table.

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Grey,” Mrs. Bolton replied. She did not offer her hand. More reserved than her hosts, she was beautiful in a cool, detached kind of way. Solomon knew she was the wife of Winsom’s banking partner, Thomas Bolton.

“And this is Mrs. Goldrich, one of our newest,” Winsom added.

The second lady turned unhurriedly, and Solomon forgot to breathe.

By any standards, she was dazzling. Thick, golden-blonde hair with just a hint of red, like an early sunrise, framed a face of distinctive yet delicate beauty. Large, direct eyes of an unusual shade, more green than blue. Almost translucent skin, and sensual lips that seemed to have an extra, delicious upward curve when she smiled. Which she did now as she advanced on him, stretching her hand gracefully toward him.

“How do you do, Mr. Grey?” she said in a low, perfectly modulated voice. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A lie. Two lies, in fact. She could not possibly have been pleased to see him, and she was not making his acquaintance for the first time, even if she had never actually spoken a word to him before. Moreover, her name, to the best of his knowledge, was not Goldrich, and she was a most unlikely guest in such a respectable house.

She was Constance Silver, London’s most notorious courtesan.

Did she know he could denounce her?

Oh yes. Her eyes were bold, and yet contained a spark of something that might have been defiance or plea or some mixture of the two. Without doubt, she recognized him.

Solomon did not need Constance Silver’s favor. He did, however, wish to ingratiate himself with his hosts. Surely, Winsom had not brought her here under his wife’s nose?

Solomon took the courtesan’s soft fingers and bowed over them. “Mrs. Goldrich. Enchanted.”

Something in her eyes changed. Before he could analyze it, a quick, impetuous footfall interrupted them, closely followed by an irritable sound that might have been a growl.

Like a dog watching another cur steal his bone, Solomon thought with amusement. Releasing Constance Silver’s hand, he turned to face the new arrival—a young man of surely no more than twenty years, black haired like his father and just as dramatically handsome, although his looks were somewhat spoiled by his sulky mouth, which veered toward petulance, and by the unfriendly glimmer of his eyes.

“Our son, Randolph,” said Mrs. Winsom proudly. “Randolph, meet Mr. Grey, who completes our party this week.”

Randolph nodded curtly, retaining enough manners to mutter, “Pleased to meet you,” before almost barging between Solomon and Constance Silver and handing her into a chair beside the one he had clearly chosen for himself.

So that was it, Solomon thought cynically. Constance had found a gullible youth to sink her claws into. He wondered what the boy’s parents thought of that. No wonder she had changed her name.

He was given no time to dwell on the issue, however, for the rest of the party arrived and had to be introduced before they sat down.

“I gather you are just come from Jamaica, Mr. Grey?” Mrs. Bolton said as everyone sipped their tea.

“Not just . I settled in London some five years ago.”

“I understand the climate in Jamaica is insalubrious.”

“To some. I was used to it, being born there. But I wished to spread my wings a little.”

“Mr. Grey is modest,” Winsom interjected. “He owns a large and successful shipping empire. I imagine London is the most obvious headquarters for you, Mr. Grey.”

Solomon inclined his head.

“And are you happy there?” Mrs. Winsom asked.

“It suits me for now,” Solomon replied, and casually turned the subject. “Is Greenforth your ancestral home, Mr. Winsom?”

“No, but it is my family home. My father was a man of the church, so I made my own way in the world. Acquiring Greenforth, almost fifteen years ago now, was my reward.”

“Winsom and I are partners in banking and other business ventures,” said Mr. Bolton, a slight, dapper man who appeared to have a quieter, less ebullient nature than his partner. “Both in Norwich and in London.”

“I see,” said Solomon, who was well aware of the fact, having made it his business to find out.

“Perhaps we may find a way to work together,” Bolton said, “to our mutual advantage.”

“Yes, but we shall not be discussing it at the tea table,” his wife said tartly.

“Indeed, no,” Winsom said, with a laugh that made sure his partner was not embarrassed. “Such bad form to bore the ladies.”

Solomon caught a look, then, on Bolton’s face that he could not quite read, but surely it contained a glint of malevolence, almost instantly smoothed into shared humor, and the moment passed.

The company was courteous and friendly, though he intercepted a few curious, searching glances in his direction as he drank his tea and conversed. He looked forward to getting to know everyone better—people interested Solomon—although it was Walter Winsom he really wished to speak to.

His biggest surprise, as the tea party was breaking up, was when young Randolph invited Mrs. Goldrich to “come and look at the garden.”

“Not right now,” she replied casually. “I’m talking to your sister.”

Randolph, already on his feet, scowled in annoyance. “Oh, Ellen doesn’t mind, do you, Ellie?”

Ellen’s eyes danced with mischief—she was the Winsoms’ youngest child, a very young lady, surely no more than sixteen summers.

Before she could speak, Constance said mildly, “ I mind.”

And across the terrace, Mr. and Mrs. Winsom’s eyes met, very briefly, and parted.

It was another small incident, overheard by no one else, but interesting all the same. Solomon was almost sorry to leave the terrace and be shown to his bedroom by a most haughty and stony-faced butler called Richards.

He discovered his bags already unpacked by the Winsoms’ well-trained servants. Dropping his smart morning coat on the bed, he went to the partially opened window and gazed out over the gardens and fields that rolled over a gentle hill toward a narrow, winding river. Pretty. Very pretty.

A knock sounded on the bedroom door.

“Come in,” he said. Expecting a servant, he glanced around without much interest. But it was Constance Silver who whisked herself inside, closed the door, and leaned against it. She smiled, just as if she were delighted to see him.

“Well met, Solomon.”

*

Constance was, in fact, appalled by the arrival of Solomon Grey. Any faint hope she might have harbored of his failing to recognize her was dashed the moment their eyes met. Nor was she relieved by the fact he had not given her away. Yet. He could still do so at any time.

They were hardly on first-name terms. She had never even spoken to him. Their entire acquaintance consisted of one admittedly memorable evening in Coal Yard Lane, when a man had tumbled off a tall roof in dank fog and almost landed on top of her. That she still lived was due to Solomon Grey’s hurtling out of the mist and shoving her to safety. It was hard to say which of them had been more shocked.

At the time, Constance had merely inclined her head in gratitude, too stunned by her narrow escape to speak. At least, she assumed that was the problem, although it persisted into the motley party that had then gathered at the house of Lady Grizelda Tizsa. There, Constance had continued to ignore Solomon Grey while being more aware of him than any of the other dashing, noble, and beautiful people in the house.

Strangely tense and off balance, she had left after only half an hour, in her own carriage, offering no one a seat.

She knew who he was, of course. And he clearly knew her. To ensure his silence, it did no harm to imply a fictional intimacy and the damage any hint of it could do him with her hosts were he foolish enough to give her away.

So she said, “Well met, Solomon.”

Oh, but he was a handsome devil, tall and elegant and lean, with cheekbones to die for, eyes to drown in, and a mouth…

“Is it?” he asked mildly. “I can’t imagine you are remotely pleased to see me.”

“That rather depends on your discretion.”

“I am notoriously discreet. When I choose to be. Is it your plan to marry Mr. Randolph Winsom?”

“God, no,” she said.

“Then what the devil, Mrs. Silver, are you doing at Greenforth?”

“I was invited. You find me unworthy to mix with so respectable a family?”

“That might depend on whether or not there was ever a Mr. Goldrich.”

“I feel sure there must have been, though fortunately never married to me. But then, you know, there was never a Mr. Silver either. My titles are honorary. Like the cook’s.”

He blinked, as if he didn’t know cooks were always addressed as married women, whether single or not. “They’re likely to be different titles with no honor at all if you are discovered in my bedchamber.”

“While you could dine out on the story for years.”

Amusement lurked in his eyes. “You think to make me more exciting than I am?”

“That rather depends on why you are here at Greenforth.”

“I was invited, too.”

“Solomon Grey, the great shipping magnate, obscenely rich philanthropist, associate of dukes and friend of baronets. What the devil do you want with such small players as the Winsoms?”

“You exaggerate,” he said mildly. “Though again, I could ask you the same question.”

His eyes were steady, his body still. He had poise of the kind she had seen in fighters, in people confident of their own physical safety in any environment. She had seen it that foggy night in the alley. And yet his long, shapely hands were smooth and manicured, belying the hardness beneath. She reserved judgment about violent tendencies. She knew people who liked him, who thought he was a good man. She wasn’t sure she trusted her own judgment where he was concerned.

“I am not here to hurt anyone,” she said. “My change of name is simply explained—I would never have been invited with my own.”

His brow twitched, and for a moment, she thought he would question her further. She wondered how much to tell him, how much he would understand, if any.

He walked to the bed and picked up his coat, shrugging it on with easy grace. “I was about to explore the house. Perhaps you would care to join me?”

She watched him stroll toward her, lithe as a large cat and probably just as lethal. “Why?”

“Because I need to know my way around, and I would value your insight.”

She chose to step aside, and he reached beyond her to open the door. Though even as she moved out of his way, she wondered if he would have taken advantage of her closeness, or just taken flight. Most men could be divided into one category or the other.

For a moment, he blocked the open doorway, then stood aside for her to precede him. If he was protecting her reputation by making sure she would be unseen, it was so subtly done that she could not be certain. She sauntered out, moving unhurriedly along the passage to the stairs.

“The public rooms are all on the ground floor,” she told him as they descended the staircase. She pointed to the left of the front door. “I believe that is the reception room where callers are asked to wait, and along that little passage next to it is the billiard room. Do you play billiards, Mr. Grey?”

“I have been known to.”

“Would you like a game?” She was teasing, but he answered without hesitation.

“Why not?”

However, the billiard room was already occupied by Ellen Winsom and one of the guests, a local entrepreneur called Ivor Davidson. They appeared to be enjoying a rather hilarious game. Ellen glanced up, and despite her recent confidences during tea, her smile died and her eyes held a hint of desperate doubt.

Davidson’s expression, on the other hand, was one of unalloyed pleasure. He was a young-ish man, too well aware of his own attractions. He straightened, letting one end of his cue slip to the floor, while his eyes devoured Constance. His gaze barely flickered dismissively in Grey’s direction.

“We shan’t be long,” Davidson said, smiling at her. “Ellen is beating me to flinders. Who wishes to play the winner?”

“Not I,” Grey returned, already turning aside with an amiable nod. “Please carry on. I am merely looking around… Who exactly is Davidson?” he asked when Constance had led him out. She walked next into the garden room, which opened onto the terrace where they’d earlier had tea.

“Some business associate of our host’s,” she replied, walking across the room to the French windows. “Unpretentiously in trade, not interested in gentility. Or so he says.”

“You don’t like him,” Grey observed.

“Not particularly. On the other hand, I don’t truly dislike him either. Many of the rooms, as you will see, open directly onto the garden. Like the formal drawing room next door. Let me show you.”

Mrs. Albright and Mrs. Bolton were discovered comparing needlework in the drawing room. This was a large, gracious apartment, also with a French window onto the garden, and containing a handsome piano and some elegant, older pieces of furniture. A glass cabinet displayed fine oriental porcelain.

The ladies smiled in welcome, clearly curious about Constance’s companion. Constance knew how they felt.

But again, Grey merely bowed and, after a polite exchange with the ladies, declined to linger.

“Mrs. Albright is the Winsoms’ elder daughter?” he said. “Married to the vicar, if I recall.”

“To a vicar,” Constance corrected him. “Not the local incumbent.”

“Somehow, I imagined Winsom would be more ambitious for his children.”

“Ah, well, Albright is an ambitious clergyman,” Constance said wryly. “They tell me he will be a bishop one day.”

He smiled faintly. “Did Mr. and Mrs. Albright tell you that?”

“Oh, no. I assure you, I have a vast array of sources.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She crossed the hall to the front of the house again. “This is the breakfast parlor, where breakfast is served from eight o’clock onward. Next to that is a very fine library, if you are interested.”

“I am.”

Mr. Winsom himself was discovered in the library, writing busily, although, the perfect host, he beamed at the interruption and immediately laid down his pen and rose to his feet.

As always on seeing him, Constance felt her heart give a little flurry of doubt and hope and possibility. There was never any warmth in his eyes, let alone recognition. He could not have liked his son’s inviting her here, and yet since her arrival yesterday, he had shown her nothing but courtesy.

“Forgive the interruption,” Grey said in his soft-spoken manner. “Mrs. Goldrich is being kind enough to show me around.”

“I always find it helps to orient oneself in a new house,” Mr. Winsom agreed. “Although at least Greenforth is hardly large enough to lose oneself in! You must feel free to borrow any book you wish from these shelves, Mr. Grey. I am rather proud of my collection, from the classics to the flora and fauna of the West Indies. And I have several very rare volumes which are my weakness. What is your greatest interest, sir?”

“My interests are catholic and depend largely on my many moods. I shall certainly be grateful to peruse such a fine collection. Thank you.”

“Join us in the drawing room for a glass of sherry before dinner at seven,” Mr. Winsom invited them. “You’ll hear the gong.”

It was an amiable dismissal.

Grey’s eyes seemed to burn into her carefully serene face as they walked to the formal dining room.

“He intimidates you,” he said.

She smiled. “No. He eludes me, which is unusual for a man.”

“You expect us all to fall at your feet?” He sounded amused, damn him.

“No, I expect you to be easily read. Most of you are, you know. He is not. What is your interest in Mr. Winsom?”

The sudden attack was merely her form of defense, but unexpectedly, it struck home in this other unreadable man. His eyes pulled free and he shrugged as if he would not answer. Then, abruptly, he said, “Information.”

She glanced at him, searching his serene, averted face. Curiosity prickled, but perhaps his quest deserved the same privacy as hers. Instead of asking what she really wanted to know, she said, “Over there is Mr. Winsom’s study, where he goes when he does not wish to be interrupted. No one but he and the maid who cleans are allowed in. Ever. Next to it is the gun room, I believe.”

“And where does this lead?” he asked, indicating the stout, ancient-looking door on the right.

“To the old wing,” she replied, “disused and strictly forbidden, since as a boy Randolph put his foot through an upstairs floor and fell through to the one below. It was a miracle he was not more badly hurt. He landed on a sofa, apparently. Now the doors are always locked, since the wood is rotten and even the masonry unsafe. Although it looks solid enough from the outside.”

They walked on, past the baize door to the servants’ quarters. “There is a ballroom right at the back of the house,” Constance said, “together with a supper room, and an orangery. Shall we look? Mrs. Winsom is holding a ball at the end of the week. Do you enjoy dancing, Mr. Grey?”

“I do. Perhaps you will save me a waltz?”

“Oh, no,” she said, just because it was so dangerously tempting to accept. She remembered the strength of his arms, his hard body… Why did only he have this effect on her? But at least now she was prepared. She opened the double doors of the ballroom and stood back to let him look. “I do not dance, Mr. Grey.”

He looked at her rather than at the blank, empty space beyond the doors. “Whyever not?”

She smiled. “Because I am a widow, of course, and still in mourning.” She curtsied, with more than a hint of mockery. “I shall see you at dinner, sir.” And she flitted away from him, disappointed she could not see his expression. But his breath of laughter made her smile, and then his footsteps echoed into the distance toward the orangery.