Prologue

ENGLAND, 1870

Prospero Harrington hated the dawn. It brought too many regrets, too many thoughts of a life too short, a life he hadn't even had a chance to live. As he watched the purple velvet of what might be his final night alive fade, he wished this dawn would never come.

The field he stood on was quiet. Only a few songbirds dared to sing as the pink and red hues of the sky became striated with gold light and wisps of vaporous clouds. He drank in this sight and burned it into his mind, knowing that in just a few short minutes that mind might go dark forever.

The trail of darkened footprints behind him where he had disturbed the silver netting of dewdrops in the grass was the only evidence of his trespass. What else would be left of him as a legacy when this dawn had passed to sunny midday? Would he be buried in a lonely field far from a churchyard, or would his parents see his body laid to rest in the family tomb? The thought of being alone, resting in a quiet place where no one could find him, made his throat ache.

I wanted so much more from life than this, he thought bleakly. I'd only begun to taste the joys and pleasures of this bright and beautiful world...

"If we're caught participating in an illegal duel and Jackson dies, you'll be facing a murder charge… Are you sure about this?" Nicholas Hughes, the Earl of Durham and one of Prospero's closest friends, asked as they stood waiting for the pair of men coming toward them from the opposite end of the field.

"I'm not sure about anything anymore," Prospero muttered. The weight of his pistol felt as heavy in his hand.

Nicholas squared his shoulders and cleared his throat as the other two men reached them.

"Morning, gentlemen," Nicholas greeted solemnly.

Prospero said nothing. He simply stared at the one who had caused all this trouble.

"Mr. Jackson, your pistol please." Nicholas held out a hand to inspect the weapon.

Aaron Jackson handed his gun to Nicholas. John Gower, the man beside Jackson, held his hand out to Prospero.

"Your weapon, Harrington," Gower demanded, and Prospero handed his gun over to Jackson's second. The pistols were carefully examined and returned. Prospero wanted to toss his to the ground, tell the other man he never planned to fire, but he held silent. Jackson wouldn't let him off so easy, not when he believed in Prospero's guilt.

"Are we certain this matter cannot be settled in another way?" Nicholas asked. Jackson had been the one to initiate the challenge of the duel, and he could stop this at any point and consider his honor satisfied.

"No. Harrington compromised my beloved sister and will not marry her."

Prospero gritted his teeth. "If someone slipped into your sister's bed, it wasn't me. I know she's set her cap for a countess's coronet, but I'll be damned if I give it to her like this when I've done nothing to her."

He had nothing against the lady. She was pretty and had seemed like a nice enough lady when he'd danced with her. But Prospero was barely twenty-two. He didn't want to settle down and marry yet, so he'd been damned careful around any young lady who was on the hunt for a husband. As an earl's son, he was considered quite a catch. He had stolen some kisses since he'd been let loose upon London, but none of those kisses had been with Jackson's sister, and he'd certainly never gotten a woman with child. If it wasn't so embarrassing to admit, he would have told Jackson he was still a damned virgin.

"The bastard won't admit it, so I demand satisfaction for my family's honor." Jackson's tone was icy.

"Very well," Gower said. "You will stand back-to-back, take forty paces apart, and then you will turn and face each other. On the count of three, you will fire once."

Prospero turned his back on Jackson, and they each counted their paces. Then they turned. Despite the fact that three other men stood in the field with him, Prospero felt utterly, completely alone.

Prospero drew in a deep breath as he angled his body to make himself as slender a target as possible. He tried not to think about his parents, about how this was all a terrible mistake. Why couldn't the Jackson girl have told her brother that someone else had taken her to bed? Why the devil had she said it was him? He had done nothing wrong, yet he might perish today for a man's pride. He did not raise his weapon, however. He wanted no death on his conscience or blood upon his hands.

"On the count of three, you will fire," Gower called out. "One... Two..."

Prospero once more filled his lungs with air and prepared himself to meet his end. He tried not to think of the regrets he had of things he'd never done, cities he'd never seen, women he'd never kissed.

"Three!"

Crack!

Pain lanced through Prospero's upper arm, but he didn't believe the wound to be fatal. He grimaced as Nicholas ran toward him.

"How badly are you hurt?" Nicholas asked.

"It hurts like a damned devil, but I believe I'll live." His shoulder felt numb, which must be the shock from the wound, but he was alive. It was over.

"You made it," Nicholas murmured. "You made it." His friend was grinning with relief as he touched Prospero's good shoulder with a shaky hand. "Thank Christ. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't."

Good old Nicholas, he thought as his knees buckled a little. It was going to be a long walk back to the coach, but if his friend helped him, he'd make it.

Suddenly, Jackson cursed loudly at him. "Fire your weapon, Harrington!" he bellowed.

Breathing hard, Prospero simply tossed his pistol on the ground and turned his back on the other man. He was done. He wasn't going to stay here. Honor had been satisfied. Now he could go home and return to his life, to the future he'd so longed for.

"Blood has been drawn, my friend. Let him go," Gower counseled Jackson. "You had your chance."

"It's not enough!" The sudden rush of footfalls was Prospero's only warning as he spun to face the other man.

Jackson had picked up Prospero's pistol from the ground and had the barrel aimed at his own chest.

The relief he'd basked in so briefly was now drowned by a sudden wave of rage. How could this fool think to force him to fire when it wasn't his honor that had been damaged? He wasn't going to do anything to ruin his life, not when he just wanted to leave this damned field. Jackson's lip curled in a contemptuous sneer.

"You're a coward, Harrington. Face me and take your shot!"

Coward? He was no coward. Prospero slowly walked back toward Jackson and stopped when they were almost toe to toe.

"What the bloody hell do you want from me, Jackson? I'm bleeding and your honor has been satisfied," Prospero snarled as he clutched his wounded arm.

"Take your shot, Harrington," Jackson growled. "Or I will. Either way, you'll be damned."

"You're mad."

"Take it, or there will be consequences for everyone you love," Jackson warned.

"Are you threatening me?"

"I am. Now take your shot," Jackson said, his voice so cold it could have frosted the air between them.

Prospero pushed the pistol's handle, trying to turn the barrel away from both of them, and something happened in that instant he had not expected. The pistol fired, and birds shrieked in the distant woods. Jackson's face drained of color and blood bubbled between his lips as he coughed. Then he grunted and the pistol fell to the ground between them.

Jackson groaned and sank to his knees. "You've... killed me..."

"No, no, I didn't!" Prospero protested, but as his opponent fell onto his back, he saw a hint of a smile lingering on the dying man's lips.

This was a trap. Jackson had wanted this all along... but why? Why would he want to be killed? It didn't make any sense. How could he want to destroy someone bad enough to... to kill himself?

"We've got to go—" Nicholas grabbed his arm and pulled him back from Jackson. "Gower will tell everyone you killed him."

"But I didn't. You saw what happened."

"I did, but you were both struggling with the gun. It still looks bad. Even if you don't face charges for dueling, you will still be a pariah in society for participating." Nicholas dragged Prospero away from the field. "We must go, now."

Gower shouted after them, but they were running fast and they heard no sounds of pursuit behind them.

Dawn now bathed the trees in golden fire. A flock of starlings banked and turned in the air, and the sudden flutter of a thousand wings made an eerie sound in the previously serene landscape. As the birds flew toward the east, he had the sudden desperate urge to follow them, to be free of the storm that was coming his way.