Prologue

PROLOGUE

" Psyche, of all mortals, is too beautiful to belong to earth. "

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

SUMMER 1810, LONDON

T he sun was low over the rooftops, igniting a glorious spread of oranges and pinks, while above the stars twinkled in the darkening firmament as if to mirror the joy in his heart.

Simon was home.

He walked across the back lawn to where he would find his lovely Psyche awaiting his arrival.

More than eighty years ago, the Aldritch brothers had built two freestanding townhouses side by side, after they had made their fortunes, sold off their businesses, and invested in property to join the gentry as newly minted gentlemen of leisure. And one of their first actions was to build monuments to their splendid success. The result had been two matching buildings of great beauty, with colonnades, ornate porticos, and statuary upon the roofs, all within verdant gardens. Yet it was the walled garden shared by the two homes which was the true jewel of their commission.

Forty years later, when Simon's father, Lord Blackwood, had purchased one of the properties, it had been with the stipulation that the garden would continue to be shared by the owners of each household, which some astute legal work had ensured. Lord Blackwood had gladly paid a small fortune for such a magnificent testament to the architectural arts, agreeing to the hidden garden between the connected properties.

The baron had come to regret the agreement. Much to his chagrin, in 1792, when Simon had been a babe toddling in the nursery, the adjoining property had been sold off to a common tradesperson. Not just any tradesperson—heaven forfend—a tradeswoman!

Simon knew the year of this terrible event because his father would speak of it often, lamenting the decline of the neighborhood. Personally, Simon thought that Eleanor Bigsby was beyond compare. The widow had moved to London after her husband died and had purchased a struggling artificial stone business. She had not wasted any time, building it into the preeminent stone manufacturer in England. Weather-resistant neoclassical statues, architectural decorations, and garden ornaments of great artistry had raised the enterprise to new heights under her leadership, with a client list boasting both King George III and the Prince of Wales. She held the only Royal Warrant for such a business.

Simon picked up his pace when he saw the archway leading to the secluded domain.

In his estimation, Eleanor Bigsby's greatest accomplishment was not her empire of moulded stone, but rather the twin daughters she had raised as a lone parent while conquering the high commerce of London.

He entered the garden, pausing to take in the exceptional beauty of the towering columns and lush vegetation that encircled the magnificent stone urn filled with a profusion of flowers. Along the border of the hidden area were silent sentinels—Roman gods and goddesses watched on as Simon rushed forward to greet the ravishing creature of grace seated on the bench positioned below the urn.

"Madeline!"

Her head rose, and her face lit with joy as she leapt to her feet. "Simon!"

They rushed into each other's arms, and Simon took in her beloved features. Madeline Bigsby had a delicate, heart-shaped face, a slender upturned nose, enormous eyes of lustrous amber, and arching eyebrows of honey brown to match her silky hair. She was dressed for dinner, ravishing in her silk evening gown, and he had dreamed of her often in his bed at Oxford.

More than dreamed, if he were honest.

He lowered his head on impulse to brush his lips over hers in a moment of heady passion, before composing himself. Just a year apart in age, they had been meeting in the hidden spot for as long as he could remember. Growing up next door to her made returning to London an event to look forward to. He thanked his good fortune that his father disdained the country and had rarely traveled there since his epic quarrel with Simon's older brother Peter, who had died many years ago. Lord and Lady Blackwood preferred the comforts London offered to rusticating, so he required his stewards come to London to meet him. Simon had no complaints because it had meant more time spent with Madeline.

"You are taller," she exclaimed in her sweet voice, thrilling him to his very toes. It was wonderful to be home after months of letters. To hold her in his arms and breathe in the scent of orange blossoms, which he liked to imagine her bathing in. Simon grunted as he pictured such an event. Madeline was a young lady, so she favored modest bodices, not least because of the men she worked alongside, but her creamy skin … He believed he would be unmanned when he eventually saw her naked.

"I put on muscle since I was last home."

Madeline's eyes dropped to his shoulders in shy appreciation as she squeezed his biceps. "I can tell," she whispered.

Simon shook his head to clear his thoughts, stepping back so they might sit. He could not continue to be a gentleman unless he unhanded her.

"How was your day?"

Madeline sighed heavily, twisting her fingers in her lap. "I wish Henrietta was interested in working with me at Bigsby's. She has gone off to be Uncle Reginald's private secretary, so it is official. I am to run Bigsby's when Mama retires while Henrietta plays hostess to the political elite."

"You will be excellent in any role you choose," Simon replied. It was true. Madeline was a gifted young lady of great intelligence.

"If I were choosing, I would continue to sculpt new pieces and work with the craftsmen! I have no wish to contend with the business dealings. Mama is imposing, but even she has to address the prejudices of small-minded men who think a woman's place is at home. I will learn to manage them as she does, I suppose … but it is not what I enjoy. I enjoy working with the craftsmen."

Mrs. Bigsby, indeed, cut an imposing figure—six feet tall with a firm jaw and determined nature. The thought of Madeline, who was far more dainty at five feet two inches, filling her mother's shoes in negotiations with clients and vendors was difficult to picture, but he knew she would find a way to do it if she willed it so.

"Then I shall learn the business dealings. When we wed!" Simon declared it in a cheery tone and, for a moment, they both considered the perfection of working side by side in the future as man and wife.

Eventually, the content expression on Madeline's face faded as reality set in. "Lord Blackwood will never allow it. One of his spares engaging in trade?"

Simon shut his eyes, the illusion rushing away like clouds dispersed by a tempest. "And Eleanor Bigsby would raise some objections, too, I believe."

They sat in silence, contemplating the future while watching the last rays of sunlight disappear. Mrs. Bigsby was not petty, in Simon's estimation, but Lord Blackwood's continuing campaign to wrest their communal garden from her had antagonized Madeline's mother beyond civility. His father had even attempted to blacken her reputation and drive clients away from her business, but the King's patronage had muted the effects of such endeavors, serving to fuel the feud between the two neighbors. Neither were willing to give up their beautiful homes or the landscaping gem that unified them in mutual animosity.

"I brought you a gift," Madeline announced. She reached into a basket on the bench beside her, then turned to present him with a small figurine carved out of stone.

Simon took it, careful with the fragile piece. "Did you make it?"

Madeline nodded, her pink lips stretching into an angelic smile that made his heart clamor with excitement.

Simon peered down at the wondrous work of art. It was exquisite—the detail of muscled arms and legs, the strands of hair, the gaze of the masculine figure staring out across the distance, and the quiver of arrows slung over its broad shoulders. In its curled fist was a bouquet of flowers carved in intricate detail. Madeline might be a proper young lady, educated by the finest tutors and business minds in London, but she knew about the human form. She had to in order to apprentice at Bigsby's Stone Manufactory.

"Eros."

"Gazing at their garden of flowers."

Simon chuckled. "Because he and Psyche found their happiness?"

Even in the gathering darkness, Simon could perceive that Madeline's eyes had grown misty. "I do not know what the future holds, but this will always be our place."

Simon reached out to take hold of her gloved hand beneath his. "We will find a way to be together, fair Madeline. I swear it."

Madeline watched Simon walk away into the night, his lean form cutting a fine figure as he exited the garden. Their garden.

He must have been about done increasing in size because he was no longer the boy she had grown up with, but instead a man of six feet with broad shoulders and narrow hips. His almost-white buckskins accentuated the musculature of his legs, reminding her of the statues that were carved at the manufactory by talented artistes. Earlier, she had thrilled at the intense blueness of his eyes as he leaned in to kiss her and had shivered at the slight scrape of stubble when he had released her.

Would there be a time in the future when they could court?

It seemed an impossibility given the state of affairs between her mother and the baron.

Brushing her fingers over her lips where she could still feel the impression of his mouth brushing over hers in a fleeting kiss, Madeline gazed up at the star-studded heavens and fought back the feeling of dread that had been plaguing her these past months. Simon was adamant their future would be together, but he was so young. He had not even reached his majority yet, and she was a year younger than him. So much could go wrong in the next few years to drive them apart until they gained control over their lives.

Gathering her things back into her basket, she made her way inside.

As soon as she opened the terrace doors to enter the library, she knew her mother was in the room. Mama had a magnetic presence, one that filled spaces and attracted all eyes to her. As Madeline's eyes grew accustomed to the light, she looked about but could not find her.

"It will end in unhappiness." The pronouncement came from near the fireplace, which was empty, the warm nights of summer not needing the intrusion of its heat. After the initial fright, Madeline deduced her mother must be seated in one of the plump wingback chairs that dominated the room.

"Perhaps he will convince the baron," Madeline replied.

Silence followed her words, which even to her ear did not sound confident. Finally, her mother responded. "For your sake, I hope this is so. But you should prepare yourself, daughter. It may not come to pass."

"Simon will find a way. He loves me."

"The baron is a cruel man who does not consider the happiness of others, Maddy. He is persistent in his grievances, and it is unlikely he will relent on the subject of class ."

Eleanor Bigsby's tone was bitter as she emphasized the subject of their neighborly feud. Madeline could not protest; the baron remained unwavering in his rigid views on proper breeding. It would not help that Madeline herself was now involved with the trade that raised his ire so.

THE NEXT DAY, 1810

"You are to stay away from that chit next door, you hear?"

Simon had been summoned to his father's study for a setdown. It was not the first time, and he was resilient, so it did not perturb him. This had become a ritual—a litany about the terrible Bigsbys each time Simon returned home. It had not deterred him in the past, and it would not deter him now.

"I need a response, young man!"

Simon had learned that it did not do to quarrel with the old man. It was impossible to change his fixed ideas, and any attempt prolonged their altercations. "I heard you."

Lord Blackwood was a man from a different era. Now in his seventies, he had buried two wives before marrying Simon's mother twenty years earlier. Isla Campbell was a Scottish viscountess with a healthy appetite for status. She had been a girl of Madeline's age when she had wed the baron who had children older than herself. Imagining it was enough to make Simon nauseous, but it was the way of the noble classes.

Which was why he had a father who was a full two generations older than himself and an older brother who could have been his father for their age difference.

"It is your duty to marry well, and that Bigsby chit is a distraction. Dreadful bloodlines. You must focus on your studies. There are courtesans whom you can visit, but that Eleanor Bigsby will cry foul and trap you into marriage with her daughter just to spite me if you continue to meet with the flibbertigibbet alone!"

Simon bit back a retort. Debating made matters much worse, so he held his tongue.

His father slammed his hand on the desk, but it was rather ineffectual. The baron had not aged well. Too many years of cigars, rich foods, laudanum, and alcohol had worn him down to a hollow husk of his former self. He was emaciated, his wrinkled skin as pale as a whitefish with the translucence of aged glass. The wisps of hair he had left were white and sparse, and his bald pate was rife with blue veins visible beneath the skin. Lord Blackwood was a cautionary tale that convinced Simon to take care of himself lest he follow in his father's footsteps.

Simon repressed a shudder at the thought.

"Duty is important," he commented when he noticed his father was awaiting a response.

"Look here, son. I know I have told you this before, but you are a man now and you must face the future. It is obvious John will not have heirs, which means there is no longer any doubt that you will one day become the Baron of Blackwood."

Simon straightened up, a frown on his face as he considered this fresh declaration. He had not thought about it, but his much older brother John was now in his forties and remained childless. His wife was in poor health. After fathering two stillborns, John did not display any interest in pursuing another attempt at siring an heir to the Blackwood title.

Peter Scott, the baron's second son, had died in Italy when Simon was still a babe in the nursery. Simon had no recollections of his older brother, and it was entirely possible he had never met Peter, who had returned from his Grand Tour to quickly fall out with the baron in an epic storm over a young Italian woman before returning to Florence. War with France had broken out, making it difficult to reestablish contact before Peter had died from a fever fifteen years ago.

Which left Simon as the young spare, something he had not thought about. The declaration that he was not merely the spare, but was to be the future heir to the Blackwood title, was disconcerting.

The baron sat back with a pleased expression, evidently having noted Simon's reaction. "John has made it known that he will not attempt to have children again. You will be the future Lord Blackwood when your brother leaves this world."

Simon was not sure how to feel about that. Until now, he had always imagined that in the future he would marry Madeline, with or without his father's consent. Odds were that it would be without Lord Blackwood's consent, so Simon had always thought he would follow her into trade as they had talked about the night before. In the morning light, learning he had no choice in his future path, Simon felt the pressure of expectations pressing on him. A thundercloud threatening torrential rain to wash away his choices. How would Madeline feel about his revelation? Would she consent to be his wife if she was to become Lady Blackwood? What of her work at Bigsby's?

There would be much to discuss when he met her in their garden after dinner.

"Which is why I have instructed the servants to lock up the house during dinner. You shall not go to the gardens tonight to visit that Bigsby chit. She is not fit to be the future Lady Blackwood, and that mother of hers will not allow her to serve as your mistress. Your wife will bear my grandchildren, and she must elevate the family bloodlines, which is why … your connection is severed." The baron's tone was triumphant, his wrinkled face pulling into the caricature of a smug smile.

Simon jumped to his feet. "I am a grown man! You cannot lock me in the house!"

He had no intention of allowing the baron's interference to stand in his way. His father's declaration was outrageous, but it would not stop Simon from seeing Madeline. Nevertheless, he amplified his visceral reaction to the news in order to convince his father that his ploy would prove successful. It would make it easier for Simon to sneak out later that night if the baron believed he had won their little conflict.

Arguing ensued for another ten minutes before Simon found his cue to exit and departed the study. Entering the dim hall, he found his little brother, Nicholas, who must have been eavesdropping on their contentious conversation.

"When did you arrive?"

Nicholas was several years younger than him and had not yet had his growth spurt. The lad was half Simon's size, with a spindly body but large hands and feet that declared he would be a tall chap when he eventually grew into them. The boy's blue eyes were wide as he stared up at his brother, his dark brown waves of hair in need of a trim lest he be mistaken for a fop.

"Deuce it, Simon! How do you find the courage to be so outspoken with the old man?"

Simon laughed, bringing his hand down on his brother's shoulder to lead him toward the library, where their father would not overhear their conversation.

"Father will always bang on about duty and rules and proper behavior. It is important that you know what you want, and the rules be damned."

Nicholas shook his head in disbelief. "But … he is so … mean!"

"He is a bitter old man, so it is important that you do not care what he thinks. Be brave. Be your own man. Follow your own path. Father will never allow you to do anything interesting if you pay him mind."

His brother considered his advice, apparently mulling it over with careful thought. "I want to be like you. You are never afraid and everyone likes you. Father is always complaining about the state of the world, and the commoners next door."

Simon drew up, irritated at how his father's behavior might affect a young boy's perspective. "There is nothing common about the women next door. They are all exceptional, every one of them. Mrs. Bigsby boasts wealth to rival our family's, and she earned it through ingenuity and hard work. It is Father who is common with his obsession about bloodlines and appropriate conduct. Nay, do not pay heed to his sour concepts of right and wrong. You must seek your own path, Nicholas Scott!"

Nicholas nibbled on a fingernail, clearly thinking, then dropped his hand, raising himself to his full height. "I promise to be brave like you."

"Good lad." Simon reached out a hand to tousle his brother's hair. They were the youngest in the Scott home by far. It was important they stick together. "How was Eton?"

Nicholas groaned, his shoulders slumping before he dragged his adolescent body to flop onto a settee. "Latin is so difficult!"

Simon chuckled, following suit to take his own seat and catch up with his brother. He and John were the only family Simon enjoyed spending time with, so it was a pleasurable respite to provide advice for Nicholas's troubles at school.

After he left Nicholas to spend time with their mother, the day proved uneventful. Long and boring, but finally the sun was setting. It was time to join his Psyche in their garden of flowers.

Simon peered out from his window on the third floor, enjoying the wash of colors on the horizon before leaning out to consider the trellis that was attached to the wall near his window. It was a good three feet from the ledge he leaned from, but it was fortunate that his bedchamber happened to be on the side of the house that had a sturdy vine climbing the wall. The moment his father had announced the house would be locked, Simon had decided he would use the trellis to climb down. Madeline would be waiting for him even now in the gathering night.

Reaching out an arm, he grabbed hold of a wooden slat and shook it to test its strength. It was sturdy and fastened to the wall securely. Simon climbed out onto the stone ledge that passed beneath the windows. He had considered climbing down in his stockings but decided to wear his riding boots to protect him from the sharp stems sure to poke out of the branches of ivy. They were well grown, as thick as his forearm, and had been creeping up the wall for more decades than he had been on this earth. It was sure to be uncomfortable to descend. Much easier to scale when he returned than to climb down, was his guess.

Grabbing hold of the trellis, he committed, allowing it to take his full weight and soughing in deep relief when it held. He began to gingerly make his way down, surprised by how much it worked the muscles in his shoulders, back, and arms. It took longer than he expected, until he was a few feet from the ground. Using the wall to push off, he dropped down, bending his knees as he hit the ground to dissipate the shock, and then rose up to straighten himself, brushing twigs and leaves from his clothing. When he knew he was all together, he strode along the side of the house to the hidden garden, careful to duck down under the stone balustrades so no one would see him from one of the windows.

Entering the secret garden, he saw Madeline jump to her feet with joy. She must have been wondering where he was?—

A terrible scream rent through the evening, causing Simon's heart to beat painfully within his chest.

His jaw dropped in horror as his mind attempted to process what was happening. Madeline stared back at him with a flabbergasted expression.

Within a second, he recognized the voice.

"Nicholas!"

He turned on his heel to race back to the side of the house that his window faced, and as he turned the corner, his worst fears were realized. Far beneath his window was the crumpled heap of his little brother, a tiny pile of clothing and limbs, and Simon knew—he knew exactly what had happened.

Rushing forward, he dropped to his knees beside his lifeless brother and ripped off his own gloves. Checking for a pulse, Simon almost fainted with elation when he felt the flicker beneath his fingertips. Sitting back on his haunches, he assessed his brother's condition, noting that the boy's leg was twisted at an odd angle.

"It is broken," announced Madeline, who had approached behind him.

Simon was fighting back tears, guilt wrenching his gut. "You must go home. I must take care of him."

As he gently scooped Nicholas up in his arms, her soft touch brushed over his shoulder, but by the time he was on his feet and turned around, Madeline was nowhere to be seen. But Simon had no time to consider his Psyche at that moment. Nay, he must take responsibility for his negligence.

His brother weighed almost nothing, still but a child, as Simon made his way with care to the front of the house. Taking most of the boy's weight with one arm, he managed to knock on the door, which was opened within a few moments by their butler, Walter MacNaby. MacNaby was a most proper upper-servant, with a round face and a ready smile, but the moment he saw Nicholas, his blood drained to leave him pale.

"Send for a doctor," commanded Simon, stalking past the retainer. As he reached the staircase, his mother was coming down.

"MacNaby, did you hear that dreadful scream?—"

Lady Isla Scott was an ageless beauty of not quite forty years of age, with dark brown hair and striking blue eyes which spotted the limp form in his arms.

"Nicholas?" she shrieked.

Simon watched in despair as she swooned, crumpling into a heap on the stairs, but was helpless to catch her while he had his brother sheltered in his arms. He leapt forward to use his legs as a barrier lest she tumble down.

"Mother?"

Lord help him if the baroness was injured, too. Simon had much to answer for as it was, and he did not need any more added to the substantial burden of culpability he was fighting off as he took care of his current duty. He must see to his brother, and there was no time for his emotions.

Roderick, one of their footmen, appeared in the hall, breaking into a run to bound up to the baroness. He assisted her to sit up, her expression dazed. Simon took it as his cue to run Nicholas up to his bedroom, which was next to Simon's on the third floor.

Placing the boy into his bed, Simon removed his shoes and breeches, leaving his small clothes in place as he carefully rolled his stocking off the injured leg. Hissing in anguish, Simon stepped back to stare at the limb with a hand clamped over his mouth lest he cast up his accounts at the overwhelming shame of what he had done. The break was bad, bone poking through the skin, and Simon had no knowledge of what to do to help Nicholas while he awaited the doctor's arrival.

Behind him, the sound of someone entering the room startled him from his misery.

"What is this?" demanded his father, his alarm clear.

"Nicholas fell from … the window." Simon knew his secret departure was about to come to light, but he could not quite bring himself to admit the truth.

"I do not understand … the window is shut?"

Simon swallowed. The time had arrived faster than he had expected. "My window."

"Why would he fall from your window?"

"He … was … following me." Simon knew it. He had encouraged Nicholas to be more like himself. The boy must have come to visit him in his room and seen the window Simon had left open. The window he had left open so he might sneak back in. And Nicholas had decided to be brave, so he had followed Simon to join him on an unknown adventure. But he was a small boy who had misjudged the distance to the trellis.

Lord Blackwood grunted, approaching the bed to reach out a trembling hand toward the leg. "Is he …" For the first time in his life, Simon witnessed his father overcome.

"He lives yet. MacNaby has sent for a doctor."

The baron nodded, his eyes moist as he stared down at his youngest son. Simon wished the old man would rage at him, blame him for what he had done in leading his little brother astray. Lord Blackwood must have realized what had transpired, but instead he plopped down on the edge of the bed and panted in shock, as if his emotions were attacking his aged body.

The next few hours were a blur. The doctor arrived, his face grim as he examined the boy. Eventually, he set the leg. Nicholas mumbled a little when the bone was pushed back in place but did not awaken despite what must have been agonizing pain. Once the leg was set, the doctor stepped out into the hall to discuss the situation with Lord Blackwood. Simon joined them.

"There is bruising on the boy's head, but little that can be done. It is a matter of time before we know his condition. The hope is that he awakens in the next few hours. If he does not … there is no method to predict head injuries, I am afraid. It is a matter of time."

His father nodded at the news, his expression distant. "What of the leg?"

"A very bad break. It is certain the boy will have a limp, but it is the head injury that worries me most. With a situation like this … you should prepare yourself for the worst, my lord."

Simon's stomach clenched into a tight knot, but he kept his wits about him, noting the doctor's instructions with great attention to detail, including the administration of the laudanum he provided. He was battling with a dark tide of emotion threatening to drag him under, but he had to be present and take care of Nicholas, and he could not afford the luxury of lamenting his role in his little brother's downfall. His tiny brother who looked up to him.

His mother arrived to see her youngest boy but became hysterical when she saw he had still not awakened, so Lord Blackwood led her away. "Come my dear, perhaps a little laudanum would do your nerves some good."

Some hours later, in the early hours of the morning, Simon sat alone beside Nicholas's bed to keep vigil. His brother was pale and vulnerable beneath the covers. Full of life and energy just hours earlier—Simon would give anything for the boy to open his eyes and say something.

He thought about how he had encouraged his little brother to break the rules and buck authority and, without warning, his guilt resurfaced as he bowed his head to weep, his shoulders shuddering with the force of it. If Nicholas died, it would be his fault. He had done this!

I am a selfish bastard.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Simon got down on his knees, clasping his hands together to pray.

Please, Lord! I am sorry for my hubris! I promise to do my duty if you allow Nicholas to live!