Chapter One
London
Monday, March 25, 1833
Marcus, Viscount Wolfton,walked the familiar streets between Grosvenor Square and Cleveland Row, his feet knowing every stone even when his mind lagged behind them. He did not look up. He did not hurry. He let his body take him where it had gone a hundred times before, trusting habit more than thought.
The morning market was already alive. A fishmonger’s boy sluiced water from a counter, the sharp scent of salt cutting through the air. Apples thudded into crates. Two seamstresses passed close enough that their skirts brushed his coat as they whispered together. Marcus registered each detail without responding, as though the city were performing for someone else.
Once, he would have met that closeness with a smile. A word. Some harmless charm drawn from reflex rather than effort. The memory surfaced and slipped away again, leaving nothing behind.
That man had belonged to another life.
The one who noticed women, trading easy smiles and careless conversation in crowded rooms.
Marcus had buried him with the rest of the past.
He kept walking.
A gentleman brushed his shoulder. Marcus heard himself murmur an apology, though he was not certain the words had been meant for anyone. A woman selling bread paused andwatched him as he passed, her gaze lingering as though she were trying to place him. Marcus did not meet her eyes. Whatever she thought she recognized was gone.
He had been known once.
The sun broke through a thinning veil of cloud, lighting the stones beneath his boots. Marcus felt it only dimly, as though the warmth belonged to someone else. He adjusted his coat higher at the throat, a reflex he did not question.
A carriage splashed through a shallow puddle. The horse snorted, tossing its head.
The sound slid down Marcus’s spine, sharp and unwelcome. His hand tightened at his side before he forced it still. He did not stop. He did not turn. The moment passed, leaving behind the faintest echo of something he refused to name.
A young man stepped abruptly into his path. “A moment, my lord—”
Marcus inclined his head. “Good morning.”
The words sounded flat to his own ears. The young man blinked, his smile fading. He moved aside with apologetic haste, as though he had misjudged something important.
Perhaps he had.
London carried on around Marcus, full and certain of itself. He moved through it as though separated by glass, hearing the city rather than belonging to it.
He had left Wolfton Hall before sunrise, before Richard St. John could arrive with questions Marcus was not ready to answer. Before Henry could wake and look at him with those solemn eyes, searching his face for some assurance Marcus was no longer certain he could give.
Four was too young to understand what had been taken from him. Too young to recognize the careful way silence crept into a house.
Marcus needed this walk alone.
Crossing Pall Mall, he stepped aside for deliverymen hauling crates toward shop doors. A horse and rider trotted past, hooves striking sparks from stone. Two years earlier, he would have strolled this street without thought, tipping his hat, trading barbs with Richard about wagers laid at the Lyon’s Den. He would have welcomed the looks, the easy acknowledgment of his place in the world.
Now each step felt measured, as though he carried something breakable beneath his ribs.
Cleveland Row came into view. The discreet entrance to the Lyon’s Den waited ahead, unchanged. Bessie Dove-Lyon’s domain. Once, he had crossed that threshold as easily as breathing.
Marcus slowed. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just long enough to admit how much time had passed since he came here as himself.
He drew one steadying breath and went on.
The brass lion’s head knocker gleamed with the polish of countless hands. Marcus lifted it, hesitated, then let it fall.
The door opened almost at once.
