Prologue

Sydney, New South Wales. April 1825

"They're gettin' ready to put out the plank." Davey had been taut with excitement for the last half hour, anxiously tapping his boot against the wagon's toe board as he and Michael watched the brig, Jupiter , make its way to the wharf. Now he sprang into motion. Without a backward glance, he jumped down from the bench and forged his way through the melee of carts, people, and cargo that stood between them and King's Wharf.

Michael watched him disappear into the crowd.

For a moment, he contemplated following his friend. But for what? The scene at the public wharf was raucous, as usual. The stink of old fish and unwashed men stagnated in the heavy, hot air. Burly stevedores toted barrels and crates, shouting as they made their way through the crowd. An old mule waited patiently as three native laborers unloaded a mountain of baled wool from its wagon. Half-drunk and newly shaven, a pair of sailors on shore leave weaved across the dusty street, eyes bright with anticipation as they gazed up the hill toward the pubs and whorehouses of The Rocks.

As Michael watched, two street urchins and a dog scampered in front of a dockworker lugging a crate. The man teetered, cursing at the waifs, then righted himself and carried on. The children ran away laughing, one of them stuffing the contents of the man's pockets into his own.

Michael had no desire to wade through all that. Besides, Davey didn't care about his absence. Why would he? The man's wife and two boys were on that boat, and he hadn't seen them in five years. The only reason Michael was here was to lend his friend the wagon and an extra set of hands to bring the family's belongings back to the house.

He'd just get in the way of their reunion, anyway.

He pulled out his tobacco pouch and pipe, stuffed it full, then held his magnifying glass to the sun, focusing the white patch of light on the bowl until little curls of smoke began to rise. One puff, two, then a thick exhalation of billowing white smoke. He settled in for the wait.

After a time, Davey reemerged on the other side of George Street. He strode quickly toward the wharf, eyes never leaving the deck of the Jupiter . Michael took another pull on his pipe, but the sweet smoke turned bitter in his mouth. He was pleased for his friend, of course, but he didn't relish the idea of sharing the house, especially with a woman and children. He and Davey had settled into a routine, one that suited Michael just fine.

And yet, he'd promised Davey he'd give family life a try, as unpalatable as it sounded.

A grimy pair of stevedores began securing the gangplank, and Michael forced his attention away from his friend. He didn't come down here often, but the public wharf held memories—of that day, just over four years ago, when the Speke had docked in the same exact spot where the Jupiter now sat. The day he, Davey, and the rest of the men had been marched out of the darkness of its hold into the hot sun. Most of the people on this ship were convicts too, of course, still chained belowdecks. Once all the free passengers had disembarked, they'd be brought up the hill and mustered at the barracks, then sent to whatever fate awaited them. Poor bastards.

Michael had been one of the lucky ones. His education as a gentleman had paid off, though certainly not how Father ever intended. He'd been given a position at Cowper's warehouse, and, along with Davey, the privilege to live outside the barracks. He'd started as a bookkeeper, then risen through the ranks until he now oversaw all the goods coming in and out of the place. A fine assignment for a convict—and a rare, salaried one.

But it didn't feel like much.

In his mind's eye, Michael watched his old self emerge from that black hole of the ship, blinking into the dust and swelter of Sydney, irons biting his ankles with each step. One might think that four years in this miserable place would make a man wiser, more certain of the world. But the truth was, Michael felt no different from that lad coming off the ship. Older, perhaps, and harder. But just as worthless.

Finally, the dockhands stood clear, and the free passengers began to disembark.

First came a military man in a crisp, clean uniform, boots shining. He was holding tight to his young wife, who looked both frightened and intrigued by the scene before her. A few well-dressed gents, wide-eyed and pale, were next. Settlers come in the hope of acquiring land and finding riches. Michael's lips tightened. Good luck.

Then a dark-haired woman appeared, the same woman who'd been waving at Davey from the rail as the ship approached. Two boys stood tight behind her. She shaded her eyes with her hand and peered into the bright sun.

"Emily!" Davey's shout echoed above the din. He waved frantically.

The woman's head swiveled toward the sound, and even at a distance, Michael could see her face light up. In two strides, she was clear of the gangway, her feet safely on the wooden planks of the wharf. Gripping her children's hands, one on each side, she broke into a run.

She didn't have far to go. Davey rushed forward, and there was a collision of sorts. Davey's arms wrapped around his wife as he kissed her long and hard.

Michael's hand tightened on his pipe. The sight repelled him somehow, yet he couldn't look away.

It struck him suddenly that he'd never seen Davey with a woman. Perhaps that's why it galled him. Michael had been with plenty. The salary he took at Cowper's gave him access to the best whores in the colony. Now he even kept a woman of his own, Lucy, in a small room behind The Black Dog , one of the grog houses in The Rocks. Davey could have afforded the same with his clerking position in the secretary's office, but he'd always elected to stay home alone, sober and chaste. When Michael turned up in the wee hours, stumbling drunk, he'd find Davey waiting for him, ready to help him to bed.

The younger of the two boys squirmed up between his parents, wedging them apart. The lad was blond like his father. It must be Ewan, the one who'd been just a babe when Davey had been transported. Davey lifted him and tossed him in the air, and the boy's shrill laughter wafted in on the sea breeze. The older lad, dark-haired like his mother, stood awkwardly to one side until she pushed him forward. Davey embraced him, too, then pulled back to look at his face. That would be Luke, Michael supposed. Nine years old now.

Davey held fast to his wife's hand while the family stood talking for what felt an eternity. About the voyage, no doubt. Four months at sea seemed an eternity when you were in the middle of it, though in Michael's experience, it wasn't much to remember. Just day after day of the same, broken up only by a few stops at foreign ports. Of course, Davey and Michael hadn't had the satisfaction of getting off the ship at Madeira or Rio. They'd hardly seen the light of day even when they were out at sea, as they'd been stuck in the hold with all the other prisoners. Even now, Michael shuddered at the memory: the rank smell of the men and their waste, the endless dark, the clanking of chains, and the feeling of crawling out of one's skin. Davey's hammock had hung next to his, and the man had taken ill at the start of the voyage, the roll of the waves too much for him. Michael had made sure he got his share of food and water, though he kept precious little down. And somehow, in all of it, they'd become mates. The fact that he didn't deserve such a friendship still nagged at Michael. But the truth was, he'd have gone mad without it.

After a time, Davey's illness improved, and over many games of whist, he'd told Michael his story. Like Michael, he'd been sentenced to seven years in New South Wales, but that was where the similarities between them ended.

Davey was unlike anyone Michael had ever met—the kind of man Father had taught him to despise, to fear, even. He'd been convicted of sedition, a radical. But as he told Michael of how he'd devoted years to the fighting in France, only to come home to Glasgow to find his livelihood as a weaver destroyed by the factories and his family in poverty, Michael had found himself wondering how he'd ever accepted the view that radicals were a scourge to be stamped out by whatever means necessary. Davey had only wanted what was his due. The right to vote and provide for his family, to give his children a future worth living. Where was the evil in that?

And then came the realization that nearly shattered Michael completely. The unavoidable fact that the man his father had been, the man Michael had strived his whole life to become—a gentleman so concerned with privilege and wealth and maintaining the order of things—was nothing but a damn fool.

Worse than a fool, really. A villain.

He hadn't given Davey his real story. Just a garbled lie about a wealthy farmer's son and a forged banknote. Thankfully, his friend hadn't pressed for details.

Michael's eyes darted down the cove to Cowper's store, where a merchant ship was docked. The men would finish unloading her soon, and Michael would be needed to check their work and tally up the cargo. The bloke he'd left in charge, Bixby, was the best of the lot, but Michael didn't trust him. And Cowper had been in a foul mood lately. The construction of his newest warehouse was behind schedule. It had been hard enough to convince the old man to loan him the wagon and grant him a few hours' leave. To be late would do Michael no good.

He turned back to the ongoing reunion and willed Davey to snap out of his trance. To get moving.

Thankfully, just then a sailor emerged from the ship, a trunk balanced on his shoulders. He dumped it at Davey's feet, then Davey nodded and handed the man a coin. He motioned toward Michael and the wagon, explaining things to his wife.

That trunk looked heavy. Michael should help. That was what he was here for, after all. He set his pipe aside and forced himself to stand, but before he'd even jumped to the ground, Davey and Luke had each taken up one side of the trunk and were forging ahead, both of them grinning broadly.

Michael sat back down, mutely watching as father and son made their way toward the wagon. They hoisted the trunk high, then dropped it onto the bed, and the conveyance shuddered under the weight.

"You're strong, lad." Davey tousled his son's hair, and Luke beamed. Then they turned toward Michael. "Mikey, meet Luke. And Emily—Mrs. Flemming." He drew his wife close, his arm circling her waist. "This is Michael Dunn," he told her.

Michael nodded. "Mrs. Flemming. A pleasure." She was pretty. Not what he'd imagined somehow. Though now that he thought of it, he wasn't sure what he'd imagined.

The woman wiped her eyes. "Mr. Dunn, I've heard so much about you. We're to be house-mates, I understand?"

"Aye, madam."

As Michael spoke, Mrs. Flemming's eye caught her husband's, and a flicker of concern crossed her face.

She didn't want to live with him. Why would she?

"Ewan." she shouted to her youngest son, who stood a few paces away, eagerly watching the traffic on George Street. The boy ambled over reluctantly. "This"—she caught hold of him by his shirt collar—"is Ewan."

"You're Michael?" Ewan Flemming peered up at him, eyes wide with wonder. "You're a convict too, like Da, right? And we're to live with you? What did you do to—"

"Ewan!" Mrs. Flemming rebuffed. "Mr. Dunn is your father's friend. And a gentleman."

"He's a toff, all right," Davey agreed, a twinkle in his eye. "But a good sort. You'll get along just fine." The last was directed toward his wife.

Michael ignored them and took up the reins. "We'd best be off. I've work to attend to."

Michael rolled over, pulled the blanket over his head, pressed his pillow tight against his ears. It did no good. Nothing could block out the rhythmic thumping and the low, guttural groans that filtered through the thin wall between his and Davey's bedrooms.

Of course Davey would be making love to his wife. He hadn't seen her in four bloody years. Five if you counted the time he'd spent in prison. And he'd managed to keep himself chaste all that time. Michael couldn't imagine that kind of pent-up need.

But it wasn't just rutting, was it? There'd been that look—the look they'd been giving each other all day, as if, at long last, they'd both been made whole again. It was a look Michael had never before seen on Davey's face. And he'd be quite content if he never saw it again.

He'd hoped to avoid this. He'd not gone home at dinnertime, opting instead to meet Lucy at the Dog . He'd come home late, spinning with drink.

But not late, nor drunk enough.

"Uhh. Uhh. Uhh." The noise grew louder as the rhythm sped up, now accompanied by the sharp knocking of the bedstead against the wall.

Bah. Couldn't they just finish already? Michael squeezed the pillow hard against his ears. He had to be up early, otherwise he'd be back at the grog shop now, or, even better, sleeping soundly in Lucy's bed.

"Uhh. Uhh." With each second, his anger grew, the blunt frustration bashing him over the skull again and again and again.

Then, finally, one last moan, louder than the rest, and all was still.

Michael exhaled and released the pillow, but his ears were still ringing. That look between Davey and his wife continued to stick in his mind.

He couldn't do this. Promises be damned, he had to leave. The room he rented for Lucy was small and dirty. But it was better than this.

He'd tell them tomorrow.

Mrs. Flemming prepared breakfast the next morning, which, on the face of it, shouldn't have been a problem. It meant less work for Michael. Davey liked to sleep until the last possible minute, so Michael had taken up the habit of building the fire and setting the kettle to boil, then putting a pot of porridge on to cook.

But not today.

He lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the woman cooking, of the boys and Davey waking, while in his mind he rehearsed the upcoming conversation. No offense intended, ma'am, but it's high time I get a place of my own.

The family was already eating by the time he came into the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, feeling like an intruder to the cozy scene.

"I dinna understand," Mrs. Flemming was saying. "You can be assigned to me? Like my servant?"

"Aye." Davey chuckled. "‘Tis common enough for a married man. I'd be able to find a position that pays more, or even open up a shop of our own." He grinned at his wife. " If you allow it."

Mrs. Flemming blushed. "I might." Her lips tightened into a coy smile.

"I've a salary now at the office, but ‘tisn't enough," Davey went on, serious again. "Not to send the boys to school and feed us all."

"I could take in laundry until then, if you think it would help— Good morning, Mr. Dunn." She smiled brightly at Michael. "Do sit down."

Michael sat, and Mrs. Flemming poured him a cup of tea. "Davey tells me you've been doin' the all the cooking ‘til now."

"Yes."

"Where did you learn?"

"I . . ." Michael hesitated. He'd not been taught to cook, if that's what one called boiling porridge or stew in a pot. The only thing he'd been taught to do was be a gentleman—an earl. "I picked it up. It's not that difficult."

Mrs. Flemming shot him an amused smile. "Well, the kitchen is spotless and well organized. I'm impressed." Her tone was sweetly condescending, as if she were trying to coax a grin from a child. "You'll be glad to be done with all that now, though, I'd expect."

"Yes."

A long silence followed. Mrs. Flemming stole a worried glance at her husband, but he just smiled back at her. Michael hadn't seen Davey so carefree in . . . well, ever.

He'd just opened his mouth to make his announcement when Mrs. Flemming finally spoke. "I've been meaning to ask you . . . your surname. Dunn ."

"Yes?" Michael stiffened.

"Do you know Lord Banton, by chance? Cameron Dunn? Or his sister, Jane? They're Scottish, and you're—well, I believe you're English. But you're a gentleman, and I thought perhaps—"

"No," Michael choked out. How did this woman know his cousins? She was a weaver's wife from Glasgow, and Cameron—Cameron was the bloody Earl of Banton.

"Who's Lord Banton?" Davey's interest perked up. "I've not heard of him."

"A friend of Will's," Mrs. Flemming replied. "He was one of the group who found him that day, after your arrest."

"Of course." Davey nodded. "I remember Will sayin'. I dinna recall any Dunn though . . . and certainly no lord. The man was a doctor, wasna he? And there was another man, I think . . ."

"He wasna a lord then," Luke took up the conversation. "Mr. Sommerbell told us about it. Lord Banton himself didna even know he was an earl. He was in trainin' to be a doctor, but he had an evil cousin who tried to steal his title."

"An evil cousin?" Davey smiled in amusement, obviously assuming his son was exaggerating.

"Aye. He locked Mr. Sommerbell in a dungeon . A real one. For weeks."

"‘Tis true," Mrs. Flemming confirmed. "But that was years ago now. All's well that ends well. I'm sure—"

"I'm going to be leaving." Michael's heart was pounding so hard in his throat he was amazed he'd managed to speak. "Moving to new rooms."

Mrs. Flemming's eyes widened. "Oh, but Mr. Dunn. There's plenty of room for us all, and it's no trouble to cook your meals. I'm sure there's no need—"

"No offense intended, ma'am," Michael parroted the words he'd rehearsed, forcing himself to sound calm. "I've a place in mind. And you—you all deserve a home of your own."