Chapter One

October 12, 1817

Baselford House

St. James Place

London, England

Where the hell am I?

He exited the hired hack, nearly took a tumble to the street, for he was that disoriented. The townhouse in St. James Place where he'd been taken was quite impressive, and the address had surfaced from the jumble of his memories for some reason. Golden light shone from nearly all the windows that faced the street. Silhouettes and shadows of people—guests, no doubt—moved about. Someone within was entertaining.

Perhaps they have the answers I need.

Why he was in London, he couldn't say. Hell, he only knew himself as Adam because that was what they had told him his name was when he'd began his life in Cornwall five years ago as a woodworker. Beyond that, he had no memories. There was merely a large… black space, a fuzziness that was as unfathomable as a moonless, starless night.

Most disconcerting.

Yet the people he'd labored with in the small village in Cornwall had apparently heard enough of his ramblings brought on by nightmares and such. They'd taken up a donation and sent him to London with naught but his given name and the scribble of a gentleman's club on a scrap of paper, which they'd pinned to his lapel. That paper now resided in the pocket of his tweed waistcoat, for a reason God only knew.

"You goin' on, mate, or gettin' back in the cab?"

The sound of the driver's irritated voice yanked Adam out of his thoughts. He glanced at the man and nodded. "Yes, right. I am going in." Then he frowned. "Would you happen to know where the Rogue's Arcade club is located?"

"Are you daft, then?" The driver looked askance at him. "It's a block over from here, mate. Not far. Can't miss it. Opposite side of the street as White's." Then he slapped the reins against the horse's flank and the cab lurched into motion.

He might, indeed, be daft, and for the moment, he was a man without a country, so to speak. Since he couldn't very well linger on the street in the dark, he went up the short walkway, through a gate, and then he gained a red-painted front door, his knock was answered by a young footman, who pointed him in the direction of the ballroom.

Not that it was difficult to find; he merely followed the sound of laughter and music as well as the crowds.

Once inside the room, his gaze immediately fell to a couple that were no doubt the hosts of the affair. The woman with blonde-brown hair and the sparkling diamond tiara was quite striking, and he had an immediate reaction upon seeing her. A glimmer, a hint, a tiny buzz of recognition slammed into his chest, but he couldn't recall who she was or when he'd met her before. The golden satin gown she wore was certainly eye-catching, and showed her figure to perfection; the pale skin of her décolletage was familiar, but why?

Then he moved his regard to the handsome man in the requisite dark evening clothes who stood next to her. His black hair gleamed almost blue beneath the candles, and the width of his shoulders alone was quite impressive. He bent his head near to her, perhaps to catch something she said, and his lips curved into a half-grin as he nodded. Clearly, they were a couple.

Someone in passing mentioned the man's title—Earl of Starkington. It wasn't familiar to him, and he had no idea if it should be or not. Then he flicked his gaze back to the woman. She wore an expression of excitement that matched the earl's. They seemed a good fit for each other.

Then he became cognizant that gasps and whispers were flying about the room. Nearly everyone in the ballroom was staring at him, and he couldn't fathom why other than the fact he wasn't properly dressed for a society event let alone a formal ball. In fact, he wore the clothes of a common laborer, but surely that wasn't enough to cause the guests to murmur and stare.

He bounced his attention back to the blonde woman. Someone nearby referred to her as the Countess of Baselford. When their gazes locked, her face went as white as a sheet as if she'd seen a ghost. Perhaps she ate something that hadn't agreed with her?

"Dear God." She took a step toward him as the floor between them emptied of people, which formed a direct path to her. With a gloved hand to her lips, she stared at him with rounded eyes filled with both horror and hope. "Baselford, is that you, after all this time?" Her whispered inquiry sounded overly loud in the sudden hush of the ballroom. Her fingers moved to her throat where an impressive sapphire and diamond necklace rested, the blue gems in the shapes of teardrops surrounded by tiny diamonds. "You aren't dead after all." Shock propelled those words from her throat, he'd wager.

It was the same emotion currently tightening his chest and pounding through his veins. Sudden disorientation came over him. It didn't matter that she seemed slightly familiar. He had no idea who she was or who she spoke about, for he wasn't that man. As the gasps continued to tear through the gathering, Adam blinked at all the people, the candles in the crystal chandelier, the wild sparkling of the gemstones around the countess' neck.

"I… You…" It was too much. He shook his head, turned around and then plowed through the closest people near him. After that, he bolted from the room, for something about that woman had disturbed the demons within, and the murkiness of memories that had always been jumbled on a good day, suddenly scattered once more into something he couldn't make heads nor tails of.

Dear God, who the hell am I, and why did I feel compelled to come here?

Without recourse, he rushed out of the house and back into the night. What should he do now? For that matter, where should he go? Then he recalled the note inside his waistcoat pocket. If he went to the Rogue's Arcade would they have the answers he'd been searching for all this time? Could they help him with the nightmares that continued to plague him with alarming frequency and intensity?

It was worth a try. At the very least, if they knew why he'd had the nightmares and snatches of memories that had bothered him the last few years of his life. When he'd started babbling about a life in London that had consisted of lavish affairs and jewels and of someone of importance, one of the men he'd worked in the wood carver's shop had put him on the mail coach from Cornwall with enough coin to get him through along with the note on his lapel. Once in Town, Adam had been instructed to find that club in Mayfair, but he'd been distracted by the lights in the windows of that townhouse which had seemed all too familiar but was lost in the jumble that was his broken mind.

It was slow going through that block in question, for it had begun to rain, and with those drops against his face, another series of nightmares rushed out of his murky memories, of a time on a battlefield in God only knew where, when it had rained, and the scent of mud clogged his nostrils. He'd been forced to pause by a streetlamp to catch his breath and wait until the terror and worry of that time left him.

Waited until he could breathe again.

What the hell is wrong with me?

By the time he'd entered the front door of the Rogue's Arcade club, he was very nearly insane, or so it had felt, and his tweed coat was quite damp. At some point, he'd lost his slouch-style cap and knew not where it had gone, but oddly enough, the cold autumnal rain on his scalp and cheeks had brought clarity and focus, as much as a man like him could have, so when he burst into the entry hall of the club, he gasped for breath as if he'd been wandering some forgotten plain for years.

An older gentleman Adam assumed served a role much like a butler looked him over with distaste clear in his expression. "I believe you are quite in the wrong place. This club is for members only."

"I…" He shook his head and glanced about as cold panic welled in his chest. "I cannot tell you who I am or where I am. I only know I might be supposed to be here, and someone within might have answers I desperately need." Clutching onto the older man's arm, he implored him with his gaze that felt rather frantic. "Please take pity, sir. Let me speak to someone in charge."

"Calm yourself." The man's expression softened. "Let me see who is available." Gently, but with force, the older man detached Adam's fingers from his arm.

"Thank you." Though he wished to drop from exhaustion and reaction, he called up every scrap of his willpower to remain standing while the older man went through a door that presumably led to the common room of the club.

Minutes later, the older fellow returned with another man who was tall and lean, and who walked with the assistance of a cane.

"This is the Duke of Strathfield. He is the highest-ranking peer in attendance tonight. Hopefully, he can assist you."

"Thank you." Adam nodded as he stared at the other man. Damn, how did one address a duke? It was almost as if he'd lived a whole life removed from London. Perhaps he had. "Uh, Your Grace." He hastily executed a sloppy half-bow from the waist. "I appreciate your assistance."

"Good God, man. No need to be formal. We are friends, or at least we were years ago." The duke gawked at him as if Adam had risen from the grave. "It's been an age; we thought you dead." Immediately, Strathfield slipped a hand about Adam's upper arm. "Come. There are men you need to meet, or at least see again, and we will have questions for you, no doubt."

Such relief poured down his spine that he nearly cried from the unexpected boon. He knew this man not at all, but he immediately had a sense of trust with him. "Thank you. I have been so lost…"

"I can just imagine." The duke led him through a couple of corridors and then finally into what looked like a private room with a large round table and a few leather, winged-back chairs and low sofas. A bookshelf made of the same dark wood as everything else reposed against one wall, while wall sconces guttered with gas light. Gathered around the table were three other men, and he didn't recognize any of them. "These are some of your fellow rogues."

"Mine? What does that mean?" He frowned as the men regarded him with varying degrees of shock and awe in their expressions.

Strathfield smiled. "You are a member of this club—the Rogue's Arcade—and what's more, you are the missing and presumed dead Earl of Baselford."

"What?" Shock once more smacked into his chest.

"It's true. You have been gone for at least five years."

One of the other men seated at the table nodded. "Your commission expired in the autumn of 1812, and though you wished to keep on—you were a reluctant field surgeon—your mind simply couldn't take on any more horror." He grinned. "I'm Baron Twinsfield, by the by. Served with you before you were sent to Portugal."

"Right." The duke nodded. "Those of us with you at the time decided that in order for you to remain with us in the living sense, you should retire." His eyes were kind as he looked at Adam. "You'd told us you couldn't wait to return to England and your wife, but first, you needed time to calm your mind and lay some memories from the war to rest, so you went on a hunting trip."

So many thoughts hurtled through his mind that he didn't know where to start. "Do I hunt?" He had no idea.

Strathfield shrugged. "Apparently. Your country estate is in Northern Dorset county. That's where you were headed when you left Portugal."

"Ah." He frowned. "What is my real name? For the past five years, I have been known as Adam, after the Biblical character because no one knew my real one, and I sure as hell didn't."

Another man with red hair snickered. "Firstly, I'm Viscount Winteringham. And your name is Evan Fairfax, and Strathfield is correct. You are the current Earl of Baselford."

When the duke showed him to one of the chairs at the table, he seated himself. "I expect you'll have many questions for us."

"Yes." At the moment, he couldn't settle on just one, but at least he knew his name—Evan. It felt inexplicably… right. "Uh, you said I was married."

"Yes. Your wife's name is Vivian. You are one and forty, just turned last week, and your wife is ten years your junior," Winteringham said in a matter-of-fact voice. "From all I can remember, you have been married to her for eleven years, snapped her up in her second Season, married her when you had leave that same year after a whirlwind courtship and subsequent engagement."

"I'm married." The knowledge almost tore a hole through his chest. "Oh, God. That blonde I saw before coming here…"

Twinfield stared at him. "You visited your wife?"

"I didn't know that's who she was." Evan shrugged. "I was trying to find this club. Through St. James Square I saw a townhouse ablaze with light and revelry. I had the hack stop and when I went inside…"

"Damn." Strathfield shook his head. He took a sip of brandy. "You should have eased into it, man. There have been rumors about Town that your wife consented to a courtship from Starkington, but I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." His eyes were still kind but there was a trace of pity in them now. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you." Though in the moment, Evan didn't quite know how he felt about any of it. "I apologize if I'm not good company. I am… overwhelmed."

"No one expects you to appear as perfect in this situation, Baselford." Winteringham gave him an encouraging grin. "However, we are glad you have returned." When the other men around the table nodded, he continued. "How did you spend the past five years?"

"It wasn't all that exciting, I suppose." When the duke offered him a glass with a measure of brandy in it, he took it but had no idea if he enjoyed such a drink. In Cornwall, most of what he imbibed was ale or the occasional glass of wine. "I was a wood worker. That is to say I crafted furniture as well as toys. Apparently, I had an affinity and a talent." He shrugged. "I have no idea why or how, but I particularly enjoyed creating cradles, armoires, and decorative trunks, the kinds that ladies keep in their bedchambers and fill with things to take into their married lives."

"That is quite fascinating," Twinsfield said, and he still regarded Evan as if he wasn't quite certain he was there. "I always wondered if working with one's hands would be enough to stave off the ravages of war."

"It certainly occupied my mind, but it only filled so much time. I was content enough with my life. Lived in rented rooms over a tavern. Every once in a while, I'd go with some of my friends and visit the seashore; it was rather a chore getting there." He paused for a sip of brandy, and finding a liking for it, he took another. "In my leisure, I would read any book I could get my hands on, but literature was difficult to come by. But about six months ago, that was when the dreams began."

Strathfield frowned. "What about?"

"Disjointed things." Evan shrugged. "Fields of battle in unnamed places. Blood, loads of it. For some reason, I was tending to the wounded. Men screaming."

"Ah." The duke nodded. "That is because you also had an affinity for being a makeshift surgeon or a field doctor." Nothing but honesty shone in his eyes. "Such men are few and far between during battle. Some are killed. Some go mad, but that position was thrust upon you, and you accepted it without complaint."

Both Twinsfield and Winteringham nodded in agreement.

"But… why? Those things haunt me. I cannot imagine that I enjoyed it."

"There are times when men are called for a higher purpose, and no one knows why." The duke sipped his brandy. "If it matters, you were good at the position. It's no doubt why you're skilled in woodworking."

"I'm afraid I will never become used to such things." And he certainly didn't remember any sort of medical skills. "Along the way, I dreamed of brighter things as well." He frowned into the contents of his brandy glass. "There was an overwhelming feeling of belonging. Of feeling safe, with a blonde woman, the one I saw tonight. I remembered the outside of the house a bit…" Heat sneaked up the back of his neck. "A few times, I dreamed of being in bed with her…or someone. Perhaps it wasn't her."

Twinsfield snickered. "Did you take lovers while living your life as a woodworker in Cornwall?"

"No. I lived a simple life. None of that included a woman. There wasn't time and I didn't have the inclination." For he was much too broken of a man to involve a partner in his mess. "There was this, too." He dug the note from his pocket and gave it to the duke.

"Who gave you this?"

"One of the men I worked with." He shrugged. "I suppose they were tired or disturbed by me babbling about my dreams, figured someone here could help. I… I never felt as if I belonged in Cornwall."

"Because you didn't," Winteringham said with a grin. "You are a bloody earl, my friend. You belong here, and what is more, you are married. It makes sense you would have dreamed of your wife."

"But I don't know her. Don't know anything about this life!" In desperation, he drained the brandy from his glass. "What am I supposed to do? How can I resume a life I know nothing about? I'm a stranger in every aspect of this existence, and…" He swallowed hard then glanced at each man in turn. "I am frightened. What if I am slowly going insane? What will happen to me then? To my wife?"

"You can stay here." Strathfield tossed back the remainder of his drink. "At least until you have acclimated yourself sufficiently enough to go back to your life." His grin was one of sadness and encouragement. "We will all help you in that regard, give you primers on your history, the causes you patron, various things you will need to know in order to become the earl again."

"To say nothing of ordering a wardrobe fitting for your station," Winteringham added with twinkling eyes. "By the time you feel confident to resume your life, you should be above reproach."

Slowly, he nodded. "And what of my wife letting another man court her?"

Strathfield shrugged. "One challenge at a time."

Let us hope I don't fail.