I

London, February 1875

Winter in London always had a merciless air. The cold seeped into every corner of the city, coating everything with an invisible, yet persistent, layer of frost. The dampness penetrated to the bone, and the leaden sky seemed to press down on the ground with its weight. Marcus Baxter, the Marquess of Westlin, returned to his home after visiting the city's dens. He had been searching for any trace of the woman responsible for his father's death, but he still hadn't uncovered any news about her. t was as if the earth had swallowed her whole since the Earl of Hesse had been sentenced to death. Where could she be? What part of the world had she hidden herself in?

As he crossed the threshold of the mansion, a sense of emptiness washed over him. The tall, solemn walls seemed to breathe in the silence accumulated over the years. Each step he took on the marble floor elicited a faint creak, as though the house itself protested his absence. With a sharp gesture, he shrugged off his heavy coat and left it on a nearby chair. The wind that had accompanied his entrance echoed faintly in the distance, dragging with it the fading shadows of the afternoon.

Ryder, his faithful butler, appeared immediately, picking up the coat with the efficiency that only years of service could provide.

"Welcome home, my lord," he said with a slight bow, extending a sealed envelope on a silver tray. "This has arrived for you."

Marcus took the envelope without much interest. nvitations to social events were a nuisance he had learned to ignore. The weight of responsibility on his shoulders was already enough without adding the expectations of aristocratic mothers eager to marry their daughters to a man of his station. Yet, the handwriting on the front made it clear it was from his steward. Though curious about its contents, he set the letter aside, in no hurry to read it.

"Thank you, Ryder. 'll look at it later."

The servant withdrew silently, with the precision and discretion that were his hallmark. Marcus remained alone in the vast hallway, where portraits of his ancestors hung on the walls, watching him with stern and unchanging expressions. The largest of all was that of his father, Klaus Baxter, the late Marquess of Westlin. For years, that image had been a constant reminder of what he had lost and the burden he now had to bear.

As he passed by the portrait, he paused for a moment, letting his father's painted gaze meet his own. Klaus's face was frozen in an expression of authority and determination, an image that contrasted with the last words he had spoken before his death. "Hesse…" That single name had been enough to change the course of Marcus's life. From that moment on, he had dedicated every minute, every resource, to an unrelenting pursuit of justice—or vengeance, as he preferred to call it.

After a few moments of silent reflection, he continued towards his study. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in around him, filled with memories that followed him like shadows. Upon entering the room, the smell of leather and wood greeted him with a warmth he didn't feel anywhere else in the house. He collapsed heavily into the chair that had once belonged to his father, feeling the exhaustion of the past months weighing on his shoulders.

He looked at the pile of letters on his desk: invitations to parties, gatherings, and social events, none of which held any interest for him. They were constant reminders that, having passed the age of thirty, society expected him to marry. But he had other plans. The idea of marriage, of starting a family to secure the Baxter legacy, was something he would consider… once he had fulfilled his revenge. First, he had to find the woman who had destroyed his family: the Countess of Hesse. Only then could he think about the future.

"Has all this effort been in vain?" he muttered, looking with disdain at the letters before him.

Paris had been a failure. He had spoken to people who claimed to know the Countess, but none of the leads had proven conclusive. The Countess of Hesse remained a mystery, an elusive shadow in his mind. He clenched his fists in frustration as his thoughts returned to the same conclusion as always: he would not rest until he saw her fall.

He rose from the armchair, feeling the weight of his responsibilities pressing down more heavily than ever. Moving to the window, he gazed out at the expanse of London before him, cold and unforgiving. The wind howled through the cobbled streets as the gas lamps flickered intermittently in the darkness. Westlin had always had a conflicted relationship with the city; he both loved and hated it. t was the place where he had grown up, but also the backdrop of his pain. And now, he was preparing for another chapter in that long story of suffering.

Just as he was about to retire to his chamber for the night, a knock on the door broke through his thoughts.

"Apologies, my lord," Ryder's voice came cautiously. "A footman from Lord Hantersey has just arrived and insists you prioritise reading his master's missive."

Marcus frowned, debating whether to heed the interruption. After a few moments, he sighed and picked up the letter he had set aside earlier. He broke the wax seal with a sharp motion and unfolded the paper. As he read the first few lines, tension began to build in his chest.

"What the devil...?" he muttered as his eyes scanned the contents.

t was an invitation. His childhood friend, Cassian Hantersey—though everyone called him Symes, despite not yet holding his father's title—was to present his fiancée at a grand party. But what truly disturbed Marcus wasn't the invitation itself, but the name of the bride-to-be: the Countess of Hesse.

"The Countess of Hesse?" he repeated quietly, in disbelief.

Ryder, still standing near the door, observed him with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

"s there a problem, my lord?" he asked softly, careful not to overstep.

Marcus tightened his grip on the letter; the paper crinkled under the pressure of his fingers as a wave of confusion and fury surged through him. None of this made any sense. The Countess of Hesse must be over forty years old—how could his friend, a man barely in his thirties, be engaged to her? What was going on?

"This doesn't add up," he muttered, trying to make sense of what he had just read. "t can't be... he can't marry her. t's impossible!"

The image of the Countess of Hesse had haunted him since his father's death. She was the key, the piece of the puzzle that tormented him. Why was she resurfacing now? And more importantly, why was Cassian becoming involved with her? Something about all of this didn't fit, something he needed to uncover.

He turned to his butler, who still waited patiently by the door.

"Prepare my things," Marcus ordered, his voice suddenly filled with renewed determination. "'ll be attending that party tomorrow."

The servant nodded with the silent efficiency that had always defined him.

"As you wish, my lord."

Marcus turned back to the window, but this time he wasn't seeing the lights of London. His thoughts were far away, immersed in the shadows surrounding the Countess of Hesse. He couldn't let this opportunity pass without investigating it. He had to discover the truth behind this madness.