Prologue
Ashford Estate, one week before Christmas…
Before the clockstruck nine that December evening, the Ashford children would find themselves quite alone in the world, though at half past eight they concerned themselves only with the likelihood of suitable sledding weather.
Snow adorned the topiaries in the garden beyond the tall windows of Ashford Manor’s grand drawing room, where the scent of cinnamon biscuits lingered, mingling with the crackle of a warm fire. Sebastian lounged on the hearth rug, the rough weave scratching against his elbows as he balanced a book on his chest. Sophia lay beside him, half asleep, her silky hair tickling his arm as she shifted closer, one hand clutching the soft ear of her favorite stuffed rabbit.
James, always restless, stood at one of the drawing room’s impressive windows, his breath fogging the glass as he peered out at the falling snow across the estate’s vast grounds. “Think it’ll stick enough for sledding tomorrow?”
“Only if it keeps falling,” Sebastian said without looking up from his book.
Their father chuckled from his leather armchair, though Sebastian noticed him glance toward the window with a slight frown before returning to his newspaper. Papa had seemed distracted all evening, his usual easy laughter coming a beat too late, his fingers drumming against the chair’s worn leather arm.
“You boys will find any excuse to ruin your trousers,” Papa said.
“Ruin them gloriously,” James replied with a grin.
This was their sanctuary—the one hour each evening when Papa set aside his duties to simply be with them. Other fathers of his station left their children entirely to nurses and governesses, but Papa had insisted upon this ritual ever since Mama’s death. Sebastian had always felt safe here, surrounded by familiar warmth and the sound of Papa’s voice reading aloud or answering their endless questions about everything from Latin conjugations to why stars shone.
Papa set down his newspaper and leaned forward, carefully adjusting Sophia’s stuffed rabbit so its worn velvet ears lay just so against her cheek. “You’ll catch a chill, poppet.”
Sophia stirred, nuzzling deeper into the rabbit’s fur. “M’not cold. Just sleepy.”
“I’ll put you to bed soon,” Papa said, his voice soft as worn silk.
A sharp knock echoed through the manor’s grand entrance hall. Then another. Louder, more insistent.
Papa’s hand stilled on Sophia’s hair. The drumming of his fingers against the chair arm stopped entirely.
The children all looked up at once. Mrs. Ellsworth appeared in the doorway, her face drained of color, her usually steady hands trembling as she clutched her apron.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice stretched thin as wire. “There are constables at the door. They say they must speak with you immediately.”
Sebastian watched his father’s face carefully. Papa’s expression remained outwardly calm, but Sebastian caught the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders went rigid. As if he’d been expecting this.
“Did they say why?” Papa asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.
Mrs. Ellsworth shook her head. “Only that it’s urgent, Your Grace.”
Papa rose slowly, his movements deliberate and controlled. Hesmoothed his waistcoat with hands that barely trembled, then looked at his children with eyes that held too much knowledge, too much sorrow.
“I’ll return shortly,” he said, but the words sounded hollow even to Sebastian’s young ears.
The moment Papa stepped out, the peace of their evening shattered like ice on a pond. James pressed his palms against the cold window glass, his breath coming faster. Sophia curled tighter against Sebastian’s side, her rabbit’s fur growing damp with sudden tears she couldn’t name.
Sebastian lay frozen on the hearth rug, his book forgotten, listening to the muffled voices from the entrance hall. Papa’s voice, measured and careful. Other voices, harder, more demanding.
Then a clatter. A sharp, angry shout that made Sophia whimper.
The drawing room door burst open with such force that it struck the wall.
Their father stood in the doorway, flanked by two uniformed constables. His face was pale as the winter sky, his shoulders rigid with barely contained emotion. One constable held a piece of official parchment; the other kept his hand resting meaningfully on the hilt of his weapon.
“By order of the Crown,” the first constable declared, his voice cutting through the room’s warmth like a blade, “Edward Ashford, Duke of Ashford, you are under arrest for the murder of Lady Eleanor Wentworth.”
It was as if ice water had been thrown in his face. Sophia bolted upright with a strangled cry that seemed to tear from her very soul. James spun from the window and stepped protectively in front of his siblings, his young face twisted with confusion and dawning rage.
Sebastian went utterly still, his book sliding forgotten to the floor with a dull thud. The fire’s warmth no longer reached him. The scent of cinnamon biscuits turned sour in his mouth.
