Prologue

The outskirts of the sleepy village of Prudhoe, England

Late August 1828—almost midnight

Breath coming in heaving gasps and holding one bruised arm across his throbbing ribs, Captain Layton Westbrook grasped the fencepost with his badly lacerated free hand.

Cursing and grimacing against the lancing pain, he dragged his foot onto the wooden fence’s lowest rail. The effort cost him mightily, and a wave of dizziness threatened to send him to his knees.

Again.

Nearby, an owl’s haunting hoot rent the air.

Almost immediately, the sounds of a not-so-small animal thrashing about in the hedgerow slightly behind and to Layton’s left muted the booming call. Heaven help him should the creature be a female badger returning to her burrow and cubs.

Motionless and holding his breath, Layton strained his ears until the scurrying and crackling in the underbrush abated. Only then did he dare raise his sweaty, blood-caked face and draw in a handful of shallow breaths.

Steady on, old chap.

You have been in worse scrapes .

Though an officer in the army for two decades, except for the explosion that blinded him in one eye, Layton had not. He shoved the memories of that trauma to the back of his mind. This was not the time to reflect on his dead wife’s perfidy.

Right now, concentrating on surviving and evading capture must be his sole focus.

And, of course, getting word to his family that he was alive, if not particularly hale and hearty.

Not a single doubt beset him that the Earl of Highbury’s henchmen still pursued him. The earl could not afford for Layton to escape and tell the world what the blackguard had done.

What Layton did not know, however, was how quickly his abductors had discovered his absence and followed him. Or, if they had been fooled by the false trail to Henshaw he had laid, delaying his flight by several precious minutes.

He prayed his ruse had worked.

Not that he deserved God’s grace, but mayhap the good Lord had deigned to show him favor, just this once.

The thin silvery crescent suspended in the heavens did little to illuminate the night, but at least no clouds blurred the millions of sparkling stars.

Darkness did not bother him.

In fact, he usually found it soothing and peaceful.

This was not one of those times.

As a captain in His Majesty’s Army, Layton had engaged in stealthy nocturnal assignments in blackness darker than the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat and as dangerous as encountering the devil himself.

Compared to those life-threatening adventures, tonight was simply a jaunt to Vauxhall or Covent Garden.

Or so he kept repeating to himself as he had slogged onward toward Hexham.

It was a colossal lie, of course.

No one had ever held him prisoner or tortured him before.

An enormous shadow passed overhead; its great wings outstretched.

The eagle-owl he had heard calling earlier.

With considerable effort, Layton levered his other foot onto the low rail.

A ragged groan tore from his throat as pain radiated throughout his body with the movement.

Besides more than one broken rib, fingers, knuckles, multiple lacerations, and a fractured nose, his foggy brain, blurry vision, and the crushing pain in his head suggested he had sustained a concussion too.

Not before he had given as good as he’d received, by God. If his mouth was not so bloody and battered, his lips chapped and scabbed, he might have summoned a triumphant grin.

His throat dry as ash, he swallowed.

Devil it, he was deuced thirsty.

A fulminating wave of weakness and dizziness cascaded over him.

I cannot do it .

I cannot go on .

Fighting faintness, which could prove deadly should he succumb, he lowered his forehead to the highest rail and, resting his head there, sucked in shallow rasps of cool air.

You must, Layton Alexander Vale Westbrook.

Cassius’s and Beatrice’s lives might well depend on it.

Other Westbrooks’ lives too .

But the truth was, Layton had already failed Cassius.

Pain scoured him.

A dagger impaling his heart could not have hurt worse.

He had promised his youngest brother that he would return for him and Beatrice after leaving them in the forest glen to seek help at Hefferwickshire House—their familial home and the duchy’s grand country estate.

That had been two—no—three days ago.

He scrunched his forehead.

Or had it been four?

Layton honestly did not know.

Everything had become a blur.

With his mind befuddled from the beatings he had endured, as well as lack of food and water, he could not recall the passage of time with any certainty.

One thing he did know, however, beyond any doubt.

The peer responsible for his abduction had no qualms about killing anyone who stood in his way, including the Earl of Highbury’s niece, Beatrice Fairfax.

Not in the habit of praying, Layton sent up a silent plea for divine intervention, nevertheless .

God, help me.

Please let Cassius and Beatrice be safe.

Four tries and as many tumbles later, amidst a bevy of curses that would have caused a seasoned sailor to blush crimson, he finally flopped onto his back in the foggy meadow on the other side.

Staring at the twinkling stars in the jet-black sky, Layton fought to remain conscious, each breath lancing him with burning pain.

The chilly ground permeated his clothing, and a shiver shook him.

Wounded and utterly spent, he could not continue much farther.

How much distance had he put between himself and the men the mad-as-a-hatter, Earl of Highbury, had hired to abduct him?

Layton guessed he had traveled three, mayhap, four miles.

Not bloody far enough to be safe.

A horse would have been most welcome, but there had been no sign of his gray bay gelding. Likely, the animal had been sold. Besides, Layton was not positive he could have saddled or mounted a horse.

Even with his arms wrapped around his torso for support, his broken ribs made running impossible. He could only manage a rapid, faltering walk. He hoped anyone glimpsing him through the vapor rising from the meadow would have mistaken him for a drunken tippler, stumbling his way home.

Eyes squeezed shut and grinding his teeth together against the agony coursing through every pore in his body, Layton rolled over, pushed to his knees, and then used the sturdy fence to pull himself upright.

More rustling sounded from the hedgerow, and a chorus of field crickets chirping to attract mates filled the air.

Sagging against the structure, he squinted at the misty meadow.

Just a little farther.

Enough to ensure he had eluded his captors.

Before dawn’s glow lit the sky, Layton hoped to find a place to rest and seek help in Hexham.

In the distance, several manor houses dotted the horizon, their grand chimneys lined up like proud, shadowy sentinels against the midnight sky. Surely amongst the residents, someone knew of his father, the powerful Duke of Latham.

One mention of his adopted father’s name, and Layton was confident aid would be forthcoming swiftly. Especially if he hinted at a generous reward for discretion and speed.

Hunched over, a fresh trickle of blood oozing down his forehead into his one good eye, Layton stumbled forward, forcing his legs into a clumsy trot. He had only traveled a few yards before he tripped over a grass-covered rock and crashed to the ground, striking his injured head.

Sweet Jesus .

Nausea swirled in his belly, and he released a ragged moan.

It was too much.

His mind and spirit were willing, but his broken body had forsaken him.

The burbling of a nearby brook soothed his tortured soul.

I am sorry, Cassius.

Blackness and despair enshrouded Layton as he sank into oblivion.