Chapter 1

1

London,1813

The heat emanating from the cup of tea in Lady Calliope’s hands wasn’t enough to fight off the chill running up her spine. Nor was the warm June air in the sunlit yellow sitting room of her home, Sumhall Place.

William King, the Marquess of Huntingham, sat across the tea table from her, holding her captive with his cold glare. Even with her grandmama, her brother Preston, and his wife of two months, Penelope, present in the sitting room, her heart raced with a panic she hadn’t felt since she was twelve years old—the last time she’d seen William.

What a mistake it was to allow William’s visit, she thought. And yet, she couldn’t alert her family of his true nature, or it would expose her dirty secret. The secret William possessed.

“We all heard about your dear papa,” said Grandmama, cocking her perfectly styled, regal head of silvery-gray hair as she scratched behind the ear of a fluffy white Persian cat lying on her lap. Despite the caress, which Miss Furrington usually loved, the cat didn’t show a single sign of her usual bliss, instead staring at Huntingham with wide, dilated eyes. Calliope quite shared the sentiment. “How terrible for you. For your whole family, dear William.”

William, that was how she had known him then. Though her grandmama had used the name, this man was William no more. Gone from his face was the softness of a fifteen-year-old boy.

Instead, the pleasingly angular face of a grown man stared at her, with high cheekbones and big brown eyes framed with dark eyelashes. His wide, attractive mouth—lips tightly pressed together, a slight, ever-present curl in his upper lip—hinted at arrogance, and the lines around his mouth spoke of harsh judgment. His square jaw was shaved immaculately, and the whole was framed by thick, dark brown hair in a fashionable windswept style.

Though he was undeniably handsome, the immaculate surface hid a cold interior. Giving her much-needed strength of spirit, the memory of another man caused heat to rush through her. Only a few days ago, she was swaying in the arms of Nathaniel, the Duke of Kelford, at the Royal Navy ball. Golden-haired, tall, muscular, and gorgeous, he’d been striking in his navy uniform. She couldn’t help but feel like she was flying in his arms. Like her heart was full of butterflies fluttering their wings. She had burned under the intense gaze of his turquoise eyes, and her skin had tingled under his palms. If only that charming rake were sitting across the table from her now rather than this snake…

William’s broad shoulders showed his strength, and he had the muscular thighs of a horse rider. But Nathaniel was much larger, with bulky muscles under his uniform—not many gentlemen were built like him. Calliope’s eyes dropped to William’s large hands. One of them lay on the handle of the intricately carved chair, casual and relaxed. And yet she knew how cruel that hand could be. How much pain it could cause. A shiver ran through her at the memory.

And her eldest brother, Spencer, was not here to defend her honor like he had back then, the only one who knew anything about what had transpired.

“Grandmama,” said Preston with an apologetic smile. “It’s Huntingham now.”

“I know,” she said, petting Miss Furrington. “Huntingham, I hope you forgive my informality. It was meant kindly. Our families used to be great friends.”

Another shiver slid down Calliope’s back. All that was true…until their families fell apart—because of her.

Preston nodded his black-haired head, an expression of genuine sadness clouding his dark eyes. “I am sorry, too, Huntingham. Our fathers used to be great friends and neighbors. I remember him well.”

Sitting on the sofa by Calliope’s side, Penelope, who had quickly become one of Calliope’s best friends, narrowed her eyes as she scanned Calliope with concern. Penelope looked gorgeous with her pretty dark blond hair and immaculate purple silky dress worthy of the duchess she now was. But what made her even more beautiful was the happiness that practically radiated from her, just as it did from Preston.

Huntingham nodded without a twitch of grief. “Quite. Papa will be dearly missed.”

Grandmama opened her mouth to say something, but Huntingham wasn’t finished. “While we’re all still grieving, however, I cannot afford to wallow in my feelings for much longer.” He glanced at Preston. “Grandhampton, I’m sure you understand as you inherited your own title quite recently and know all the responsibilities.” He offered Penelope a shadow of a cool smile. “You found a wife very soon after your mourning period was over, as you should have.”

Preston’s eyebrows drew together, and the corners of his mouth turned downward, giving away the tension he was not supposed to reveal on his usually collected face. His and Penelope’s union hadn’t been a regular wedding as people believed. Preston had married her to avenge Spencer’s assumed death, thinking he was ruining her father. But the woman he had thought his enemy had become his greatest love.

“Quite right,” he said politely.

Huntingham continued. “Now that I am the next marquess and the mourning period is over, I must do the same as you and find a wife.”

As he said the word “wife,” his heavy gaze settled on her again, and an icicle was dragged down her back. Wife…she…to him?

This would be it; she would lose it right here. She’d jump to her feet, embarrassing herself and her family, and run out.

But she didn’t let herself fall apart.

Calliope had an odd sensation of stepping out of her own body, watching herself as if she were another guest. The cool and collected lady didn’t show a trace of distress that raged within her soul. Her pristine white teacup didn’t rattle against the saucer as she placed it back on the table. Her back was perfectly straight, her head was held high, and her legs didn’t fidget from the urge to jump to her feet and run. She even managed to suppress the need to breathe as deeply and as quickly as she could. The only indication of her turmoil may be the color of her cheeks, but Penelope was a little flushed, too, no doubt from the summer heat in the room.

Preston scanned the man quickly, his eyes estimating. “Forgive me for speaking so frankly,” said Preston, “but I must admit, I am surprised by your visit today given there was no contact between our families for years.”

The marquess’s upper lip curled in a fleeting expression of anger. He wouldn’t tell them, would he? No, surely he wouldn’t. But even if he kept his silence—as he had for all these years—he could still hold that information over her head like the blade of a guillotine.

“Yes, you were at that boarding school in Scotland,” said Huntingham, putting one long leg over the other. Heavens, he was tall. He may be even taller than her brothers; although, no doubt, not as well-built as them. “So you didn’t know that your deceased brother and I had a disagreement.”

From September, she and her family and the whole world had thought Spencer was dead. Then from June, they had searched for him for weeks never knowing if he really was dead or alive. If he really had been press-ganged or not. Calliope’s gaze fell on the large intricately carved chair by the fireplace, which Spencer favored, and her chest hurt from how much she missed her eldest brother. Had he been there, William wouldn’t have dared to show his face.

Spencer, who’d been eighteen then and had been practicing boxing for years, had, with only a few precise and masterful hits, split William’s lip, giving him a black eye, and, based on the speed with which William had run away holding his side, broken one of his ribs. The King family had never returned to Grandhampton Court.

“What was the disagreement about, if you don’t mind my asking?” asked Preston.

William’s warm brown eyes felt icy cold when they landed on Calliope once again. He didn’t reply, eyeing her, trapping her in the torturous memory of the day that had changed the trajectory of her entire life.

The day when long curtains had swayed as a warm summer breeze flowed between the open French doors in the library. The day when she had felt the smooth leather cover of the book she wasn’t supposed to go near at the age of twelve. The first day in her life when she had felt that way—burning, aching, and touching herself in the most intimate place as she imagined the brown-eyed boy doing things to her that she was reading about…

And then two strong hands had ripped the book out of her fingers… And the brown eyes staring at her weren’t only in her imagination anymore. Two fingers had stroked her neck, making her quiver in a wonderful surprise—

And then a hard, painful pinch at the base of her neck had wiped it all out in a cold, prickly shock. And the eyes had turned from warm to angry, disgusted.

And he’d uttered a single word that made her soul shrink and shrivel in upon itself.

“Whore.”

Calliope shuddered with the memory, clutching the skirt of her pastel-green muslin gown.

“The disagreement…” said William King slowly, his gaze like sharp claws digging under her skin. “I can’t recall. Can you, Lady Calliope?”

For the first time he addressed her, and her throat clenched tightly, her lips so rigid she couldn’t move them. This wasn’t her. No one did that to her. She was a strong, intelligent woman who planned to become an investigator, to fight crime and look for lost people. How could one person make her feel so dirty and insignificant?

And yet, the place at the base of her neck where William had pinched her burned. It was as though she was in shackles she couldn’t break.

He likely sensed her distress, the corners of his thin lips moving up in a barely noticeable, satisfied smile.

“I can’t recall, either,” she said finally. Her voice had never sounded so quiet.

William nodded, his shoulders dipping as he visibly relaxed. A triumphant look on his face showed her he knew he owned her. One word of what he’d witnessed, one word and he’d cause a scandal that would forever blacken her name and the name of her family.

“Must have been a simple misunderstanding,” William concluded. “What does it matter, anyway? I believe our families can be friends again like we once were. In fact, I wonder if our families can be bound by ties deeper than friendship.”

Silence fell on the room. Calliope could hear the clock ticking in the hallway. From behind the open windows, a horse trotted, and the wheels of a carriage rattled against the cobblestones. Grandmama stilled, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open. Penelope’s hand stopped, her teacup midway to her mouth. Miss Furrington raised her head, her ears erect and directed at William. Preston’s dark eyes widened in an expression of pleasant surprise. He’d been searching for a husband for her for weeks.

Preston straightened in his chair, his lips stretching in a smile. “I quite wonder the same. The line of the Marquess of Huntingham is old and respectable. Sister, don’t you agree?”

A husband was the last thing Calliope wanted. Any husband would completely disapprove of the plans she had for her life. Even her brothers were convinced that starting a sleuth agency was dangerous and had to be stopped.

But William was worse than just any husband. If he had pinched her for reading a dirty book, what would he do to her when he owned her as a husband?

She had to defend herself. She couldn’t let herself be trapped into marriage with someone like him.

Calliope’s throat felt as dry as paper. She swallowed what felt like a rock and tried to force herself to speak. Losing control for the first time since seeing William, she shifted her leg, knocked the tea table, and her teacup and the saucer went flying to the floor. William made a sharp movement towards her to grab it.

The teacup shattered with a tinkling crash.

Miss Furrington leapt to her feet, arched her back, and hissed fiercely at William, then sprang at his hand—the very same hand that had pinched Calliope—biting it, digging her sharp claws into it.

He jumped up and screamed, waving his hand, Miss Furrington’s white coat and tail swaying like a large fluffy muff.

“Miss Furrington!” cried Grandmama, darting forward to retrieve the cat.

“Oh no!” cried Penelope, jumping to her feet, as well.

“Damnation!” muttered Preston. He grabbed the cat, who clung tighter to William’s hand, still hissing. When Miss Furrington was finally coaxed to release her claws, bloody scratches covered William’s hand, and he clutched it to his chest, his brown eyes wide and dark. With a guilty satisfaction, Calliope thought he looked quite as he had back then, after Spencer had beat him up.

Miss Furrington leapt from Preston’s arms, leaving white fur on his pristine dark coat, and curled up on Calliope’s lap, watching William with a warning.

“I am ever so sorry, Huntingham,” Grandmama said as she rummaged in her reticule and retrieved a handkerchief. “Miss Furrington is never like this. She must be in distress as Sumhall is her new, temporary home until Lady Calliope marries.”

When Richard—Calliope and Preston’s brother who had been living at Sumhall with Calliope—had married and left for his honeymoon two days ago, Grandmama and Miss Furrington had moved in to ensure propriety for an unmarried young lady.

William took Grandmama’s handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand, staring at Calliope with barely hidden anger.

“You must have your physician look at your hand,” said Calliope, staring at him directly and stroking the warm, soft fur of her little defender. “Right away.”

He didn’t look away, drilling her with a now positively murderous gaze.

“No,” he said, taking his seat. “Something as minuscule as a cat’s scratches won’t dissuade me from my mission.”

“I do apologize, Huntingham,” said Preston, going to the servants’ bell and pulling it.

“Nonsense,” said William. “Do not think twice of it.”

Grandmama took her place as well, her sharp gaze on Calliope and on Miss Furrington. “That cat surely does love you, dear,” she murmured.

“Let us return to the question your brother had asked, Lady Calliope,” insisted William. “What are your thoughts on renewing the friendship between our families?”

“Friendship is one matter,” Calliope said. “As of ‘deeper ties,’ brother, don’t you think we should wait until Spencer is back before considering such decisions?”

The shadow of Preston’s smile fell off his face. Of course, it wasn’t clear if Spencer was ever going to be back. It was the spoken agreement within the family that they were treating him as if alive but lost and were doing everything in their power to retrieve him. Should Spencer return, Preston would remain the duke, as the title wasn’t reversible, but their family without Spencer was like a body without a limb.

Besides, knowing what had transpired all those years ago, Spencer would never let William marry her.

William’s face paled, and the intense clawlike gaze was wiped from his face. “Is your brother not…dead? Forgive me for such an indelicate question.”

“We’re sure he’s alive,” said Calliope, giving William the coldest stare she could muster. “And we’re looking for him.”

“So you do not know if he is alive or dead? Or where he is?” asked William.

“We do not,” said Preston. “But, as my sister said, we’re doing everything we can to retrieve him. And, Calliope, I don’t think we need to wait for Spencer’s return to make decisions about your future. I know you don’t wish to find a husband, but Huntingham is not a stranger. You’ve known him your entire life. Were you not friends before?”

Calliope raised her eyebrow at William. “Indeed, we were. Every year we spent summer months all together, given that the marquess is the same age as Richard.”

“Then I am sure I could persuade you to change your mind,” said William, his stare on her again. “To be friends again. To forget the misunderstanding.”

He was lying. She could practically smell the judgment, the resentment, the mocking amusement. She could not understand for the life of her why someone like him, a marquess, rich and noble, would want to marry a girl he’d once called a whore.

Calliope swallowed hard, refusing to allow herself to show any weakness to him, despite her blazing cheeks.

“For instance,” continued William slowly, “we could once again connect over our mutual love of books. Is your library here at Sumhall as well stocked as in Grandhampton Court?”

Calliope’s throat was suddenly so parched it hurt. Her cheeks were ablaze.

“I didn’t realize you were interested in books,” said Preston. “Did you know that, Calliope?”

Calliope’s back was drenched in sweat. The weight of Miss Furrington on her lap didn’t feel reassuring anymore.

“No,” she said. “I never knew Huntingham was interested in reading.”

“Are you quite all right, darling?” asked Penelope quietly. “You look so pale.”

He made her this paling, cowardly person she was not going to be. One word spoken by him at the most intimate and vulnerable moment of her life had broken her. Could he still have such power over her fourteen years later?

She wouldn’t let him. She had control over her life, and she wouldn’t allow him to rob her of it.

A little too abruptly, she removed a protesting Miss Furrington from her lap. Free of the little protector, she stood up, hating herself for being unable to confront William, and resorted to flight.

“Indeed, I am unwell, sister,” Calliope said. “You must forgive me, Huntingham. I will be quite busy in the next weeks. In fact, I will probably leave London. I wish you every success with your search for a wife who, sadly, will not be me.”

Feeling like she was a witch being chased away by the Holy Inquisition, and under the shuffle of Preston’s and William’s feet as they leapt up, she hurried out of the drawing room and up the stairs to her bedroom.

This was serious, she thought as she pumped her legs, climbing the seemingly endless stairs to the next floor. She couldn’t tell Preston about William’s behavior in the past as she couldn’t face him thinking so poorly of her for reading such a book at a young age.

Her only option to avoid William and ensure he wouldn’t blackmail her into marrying him was to find Spencer as soon as possible. Not only to protect her, but also to save Spencer from whatever mortal danger he may be facing.

And to locate him, she needed to go to Nathaniel at the Admiralty and ask him to help her find information on where Spencer could be and what could have happened to him.

And she needed to do that right away.

She stopped on the stairs and looked down. What better time than when she felt “unwell” and they would leave her alone to recover? She turned around and descended the stairs, sneaking out of the house before even Teanby, their butler, would notice.