Chapter One

Mayfair, London, 1815

O liver Harrington, 4th Earl of Knox, sipped his brandy and contemplated the finely crafted dining room table before him, the length of which seemed to stretch on forever. Sixteen high-backed, buttoned leather chairs stood at attention around the mahogany masterpiece, waiting in vain to be filled. It struck Oliver as absurd. Such a stately piece, laden with ostentatious dishes and attended by two footmen, all for one man. Preposterous.

He would laugh if he were still capable of doing so. But fate had been a cruel master and had stolen all his joy. First, it had robbed him of his ability to sire children, then it had snatched the love of his life from his arms, and today, he’d received word that it had eliminated his heir.

He hadn’t known the young man in question—a distant cousin he’d put off locating for years when he’d still clung to the hope of one day siring his own son and heir. But when his darling had died after a sudden and unexpected illness, that dream had ended. At the time, he’d barely been able to muster the strength to get out of bed, let alone locate the man who would take what should have belonged to the son he’d never have. That was two years ago—two years of his lawyers pressing him to act—even though he was only five and thirty and hardly at death’s door. But solicitors were persistent buggers, and they’d become relentless after he swore never to remarry, so he’d finally acquiesced and permitted the search to start. It had taken longer than expected to locate the man next in line to inherit his title and estate—apparently, the young man was somewhat of a roamer and had been on the continent for quite some time. But they’d finally managed to pin him down and deliver the good news. Only a few days later, tragedy struck.

My Lord,

It is with great regret that we inform you that shortly after locating your sixth cousin and heir, Mathew James Harrington, we received news that the gentleman is deceased. Mr. Harrington was involved in a fatal carriage collision in Nottingham earlier this week. The local magistrate has confirmed the identity of the deceased. As such, we will continue our search for whomever is next in line to inherit your title and estate.

Yours sincerely,

Huxley and Bailey

Solicitors at Law

Oliver sighed. The poor gentleman had only just discovered that he would one day inherit the esteemed title of earl. He’d hardly had the time to savor the news before his life had prematurely ended. Alas, it seemed that any unlucky soul attached to Oliver met with an early demise. Perhaps, he should put off searching for the next in line until after his death. Let the poor sod—whomever he was—live in peace. The lawyers could locate the chap when Oliver was gone and no longer posed a threat—and since he was still a relatively young man himself, that could be years away. This was not a problem that needed to be dealt with now. It was time to call off the legal dogs.

Oliver glanced at his plate. The succulent beef, delicate potatoes, and sauteed vegetables had grown cold. But that did not matter. He had little appetite. He closed his eyes and imagined an earlier, happier time. He saw his beautiful Beatrice sitting beside him as she used to—her brunette curls coiled atop her head, her dark, soulful eyes gazing into his, and her dazzling smile brightening the room. Guests filled the seats at their table, chatting and laughing as they ate, drank, and suffused his and Beatrice’s home with merriment. How happy they’d been. How wonderful life had been then.

At first, the ton had frowned upon Oliver’s choice of bride. Beatrice had been the widow of a successful merchant, and he, an earl, had been expected to marry within the peerage. Despite expectations, Oliver had followed his heart and married for love. And he’d made the right choice. Beatrice had won over the ton, spreading light and laughter wherever she went, despite what she had suffered.

Beatrice had not only lost a husband, but she’d also lost the babe she’d once cherished, and Oliver had wanted nothing more than to give her a new family. But a babe never came to them. Beatrice had not been to blame. She’d conceived and given birth to a healthy babe once before. The problem had lain with him. Perhaps, he’d been thrown from his horse too many times as a boy, or mayhap he’d injured himself climbing a tree. Possibly, there was no rational explanation. Perhaps, he’d simply been born impaired.

Month after month, for years on end, he’d witnessed his wife’s disappointment and suffering each time blood stained her sheets. But she’d been an eternal optimist and remained convinced they would one day conceive. After all, her husband was as virile as any healthy young man. There was a time that even Oliver believed, but as the years passed, and Beatrice’s womb remained empty, he lost all hope, and his failure weighed heavily on his shoulders. He’d wanted to be the perfect husband, but how could he have achieved that when he was an imperfect man?

It was selfish of me to marry you. I am flawed .

You are perfection. You are all I desire. All I need. You are enough, she’d say, and make love to him with a fervor that reassured him and solidified their bond. Nothing else had mattered. They’d had each other. They’d had all they needed to be happy.

He opened his eyes to the stark emptiness and cold silence of the room, and a searing pain filled his chest.

Don’t mourn me forever. Promise me, you’ll be happy. Those were her last words to him as she lay on her deathbed. And he’d not even been able to fulfill his final promise to her.

The ache in his chest spread like a burning flame, scorching his throat, face, ears, and eyes.

“Enough!” He slammed his fist onto the table and stood up.

“My lord?” An alarmed footman rushed forward.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Oliver said, more to himself than the footman.

“I’m sorry. What do you mean, my lord?”

“The silence. I can’t take the silence.”

“Shall I arrange for music while you dine, my lord?”

“No!” Oliver barked. “Order my horse and carriage to be readied. I’m going out.”

“Yes, my lord.” The footman bowed and hurried out of the dining room.

Ten minutes later, Oliver strode out his front door toward his awaiting carriage.

“Where to, my lordship?” The driver asked.

“Cleveland Street,” Oliver said as he climbed inside his black landau, “The Lyon’s Den.”

Two Weeks Later

Yorkshire, England

“We were going to be married.” Kate Sheldon spoke in a deathly whisper as she crouched in the corner of her pink cushioned window seat and stared out at the lashing rain.

“Married?” Her aunt, tall and slender like Kate, sank onto the bench beside her niece. “He promised you marriage?”

Kate nodded. “None of this would have mattered if he’d lived,” she said, turning to her aunt. “He was going to speak to Papa as soon as he returned from his trip to London.” Fresh tears slid from her sore, puffy eyes. “How could I have known fate would be so cruel?”

“I can hardly believe this.” Aunt Jane swallowed. “I had no idea—”

“No one knew. Except for Emilia. It was our secret.”

“Emilia.” Her aunt shook her head “Such a sweet, polite young lady, and all this time, her brother was courting you in secret while your father and I remained ignorant. I should have paid you more attention, but I could never have guessed—never have dreamed you would give yourself away—Oh, Kate!”

“Theo loved me! And Emilia was a dear, loyal friend—my only friend. She wanted me to be her sister. She was so happy that we were going to be family.” Kate watched a tree branch whip violently back and forth. “Now they are both dead. My dearest friend and my only love.”

Aunt Jane reached for Kate’s hand. “Oh, my darling. It may very well be the shock and stress that has caused this delay in your bleeding. You’ve been so distraught since receiving news of the accident. You’ve hardly eaten a bite or slept a wink.”

“It’s not the shock.” Kate wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’ve known for weeks.”

“How many weeks, exactly?” Aunt Jane asked in a halting voice as if she were afraid of the answer.

“It’s a little over six now, but it was only four when I told Theo—just before the accident. I knew right away when I missed my monthly courses. It had never happened before. That’s when Theo proposed. He said all would be well. He had a way to make Papa let me go.”

“You might be wrong. It’s still very early. There’s still a possibility that—”

“I have been sick every day this past week. I swore my maid to secrecy because I didn’t want you or Papa to call for the doctor, but I cannot hide the truth from you any longer.”

Aunt Jane put a hand over her mouth as if to stave off her words, but her pained expression spoke volumes. How could you have been so foolish!

“I was foolish,” Kate admitted out loud. “But, put yourself in my shoes. I’m five and twenty and destined to be my father’s companion for the rest of my life. With two wives in the grave and three younger daughters available to make good marriages, Papa has planned for me to be his keeper in his dotage. That is why he never allowed me to debut into society.” Kate smiled to herself. “Theo made me feel like a woman. I couldn’t believe my luck. Finally, I’d met a man—a beautiful, caring man—who wanted to marry me. I’d found my own happiness, despite Papa’s determination to keep me for himself.”

“I feel terrible,” her aunt said. “I didn’t realize you felt so alone. I should have done more for you—my sister’s only child. I’ve been selfish. I should have come to Yorkshire years ago and insisted your papa let you come out into society. I wrote him about it, and I meant to visit in person, but time just slipped away. And now that I am finally here, it is too late.”

“It was one excuse after another, starting with the death of my stepmother. Year after year, Papa kept finding excuses until I was too old to debut. But it’s not your fault. You had your own grievances to cope with—”

Aunt Jane pressed her lips together as if to suppress her inner pain, and Kate felt instantly guilty. Her aunt had lost three babes during her marriage—before her husband tragically passed on—and it had caused her years of anguish.

“I’m sorry,” Kate said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned—”

Aunt Jane straightened her shoulders and inhaled deeply. “That is all in the past. There is nothing we can do to change what has already occurred. What we need to do now is solve the problem at hand.”

“There is only one thing to be done,” Kate said. “I must leave the country before the truth comes to light or risk my sisters’ futures.”

“Leave the country?” Aunt Jane raised her eyebrows. “And where do you think you will go? A woman in your condition alone?”

Kate shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps to the continent.”

“Yes, that is one option.” Aunt Jane twisted the wedding ring on her finger. “There are families desperate for children who will gladly take you in until you birth the child.”

Kate jerked her head up. “That’s not what I’m saying. I won’t give my babe away. I can pose as a widow and find work.”

“Oh, my darling, Kate.” Aunt Jane brushed a long chestnut strand from Kate’s face. “How naive you are. How protected you have been from this cruel world. What you say is impossible. Both you and your babe would starve to death if you went out in this fierce world alone. And I, for one, will never let that happen.”

“Then what can be done? If I stay, we will all be ruined. If it were only my reputation at stake, then I could remain and face the consequences of my actions, but my sisters are innocent. Why should they be punished for my mistake? If the truth comes to light, they will never make a good match. Our family’s reputation will be irreparably tarnished.”

“I know.” Aunt Jane turned to the mullioned window and tightened the shawl around her shoulders as she gazed at the storm raging outside. The rain had joined forces with the wind, making it more powerful. Together they assailed the windowpane, shaking and rattling it with the anger of a jealous god.

Kate flinched. Her aunt was right. The world, which had seemed so bright and full of hope a few weeks earlier, now seemed cold and frightening. But how could she give up her innocent babe to strangers? How could she dishonor Theo’s memory by abandoning his child? She could not—would not. She’d die first.

“We must find you a husband before it’s too late,” Aunt Jane’s voice cut into Kate’s thoughts.

She turned slowly from the windowpane to face her aunt, wondering if she’d imagined the words. “Whatever do you mean by that? Who would marry me in my condition?”

“It’s early yet, and you will likely not show for the next month or two. If we find you a suitable match and you marry within that time frame, he will believe the babe is his.” Kate blinked. Her aunt sat upright, her back straight and her face determined. It was as though she’d transformed into an entirely different being.

“You will tell Papa to arrange a marriage for me under false pretenses?” Kate could hardly believe such a thing was possible. “He will never agree.”

“Not your papa.” Aunt Jane formed a steeple with her hands as she often did when deep in thought. “There’s only one person capable of arranging such a marriage.”

“Who?” Kate stared at her aunt.

“The Black Widow of Whitehall.” Aunt Jane rose from her seat.

“The what?” Kate gazed in bewilderment at her aunt, wondering if she’d gone mad.

“Instruct your maid to ready your bags. We leave for London tomorrow morning.”

“But what will you tell Papa?” Kate stood.

“Oh, do stop worrying about your papa so much. He is a selfish man and tired of your tears, so he won’t object to my taking you to London for a few weeks as long as I promise it will cure you of your melancholy. And before he has a chance to complain that we’ve been gone too long, you’ll be married and free of him forever.”

Kate creased her forehead. “But I don’t understand—”

“Bags, Kate,” her aunt said firmly. “And remember, you are not to mention anything about the Black Widow of Whitehall to your papa.”

Kate nodded in bewilderment as her aunt, seemingly energized by her bizarre plan, hurried out of the room.

Who on Earth is the Black Widow of Whitehall? The name sounded rather frightening and sent shivers down Kate’s spine. Still, if Aunt Jane believes so strongly in this widow, then she must be a miracle maker. At least, she’d better be one because only a miracle can help me now.