Chapter One
London
April 1816
Glorious spring sunshine beamed through the open curtains, and the raised window let in courting birdsong. Nearby, people chattered amid their busy lives, and wheels rattled as a horse and cart hurried down the back lane.
The golden light danced on the disheveled hair and ravaged classic features of a young man lolling in the faded armchair beside the window. It glinted off half-lowered lashes and golden stubble that suggested a night without sleep or orderly waking, and dug deep into a jagged scar down one cheek that told of more dangerous adventures in the past.
His legs, in breeches and well-worn boots, stretched before him, and a half-full wineglass tilted in his lax, long-fingered hand.
On a round table by his elbow stood a decanter with an inch or so of pale amber wine, and a plain, practical pistol.
He raised the glass and sipped, seeming intent on the garden outside the window, but in fact Lord Vandeimen’s gaze was directed at nothing close or visible. He looked at the past, both recent and far, and with increasing, slightly fretful curiosity, at the future.
Switching the glass to his left hand, he placed two fingers on the cold metal of the pistol barrel. His father’s pistol, used for the same purpose nearly a year before.
So easy.
So quick.
So why was he waiting?
Hamlet had had something to say about that.
In his case, he decided, he was pausing to enjoy this particularly fine wine. After all, he’d spent nearly all his last coins on it. He must be careful not to drift away under its influence and waste this moment of resolution. One bottle hadn’t put him under the table since he was a lad, though.
So long ago, those days of wicked youthful adventures. Was it really less than ten years since he’d been a carefree youth, running wild on the Sussex Downs with Con and Hawk?
No, not carefree. Even children and youths have cares. But blessedly free of the weightier burdens of life.
The three Georges. The triumvirate.
His drifting mind settled on the day they’d tired of having the same patriotic name and rechristened themselves. Hawk Hawkinville. Van Vandeimen. It should have been Somer Somerford, but Con had balked at such a effete name. He’d taken a variation of his second name, Connaught. Con.
Con, Hawk, and Van. They’d grown up like brothers, almost like triplets. Back in those days they’d not imagined a time when they’d be so apart, but Van was glad the other two weren’t here now. With luck, they’d hear of his death when it was history, the pain of it numbed. They hadn’t seen each other since Waterloo.
Con had returned home directly after the battle, but Hawk and Van had lingered awhile. Hawk was still with the army now, tidying up Europe. Van had been in England for four months, but he’d carefully avoided his home and old friends.
He drained the glass and refilled it, his hand reassuringly steady. It was strange that Con hadn’t hunted him down. Any other time, that would have worried him, but not now. If Con didn’t care, that was good.
No friends. No family.
Once, in another life, there had been so much more. When he’d left at sixteen to join his regiment, mother, father, and two sisters had waved farewell. Ten years later, all were shades. Did they watch him now? If so, what did their ghostly voices cry? Wouldn’t they want him to join them?
“Don’t protest to me, old man,” he said to his ghostly father. “You took the same way out when you were left alone. And what have I—? Oh, devil take it!” he snapped, slamming down the glass and seizing the pistol. “When I start talking to ghosts, it’s time.”
Impelled by some mythical urge, he picked up the glass and poured the remaining wine to stream and puddle on the waxed floor. “An offering to the gods,” he said. “May they be merciful.”
Then he put the long cold barrel into his mouth and with a final breath and a prayer squeezed the trigger.
The click was loud, but a click didn’t kill. He pulled the gun out and stared at it with wild exasperation. A flick showed him the problem. The flint of the old-fashioned pistol had worn and slipped sideways.
“Shoddy work, Van,” he muttered, desperately trying to think whether he had a fresh flint anywhere in his rooms, his hands trembling now. If he had to go out and find one, the moment might pass. He might try again to pull his life out of the pit.
He knew he didn’t have a fresh flint, so he poked out the old one, sweat chilling his brow and his nape, and tried to fix it so it would work. He’d drunk enough to make himself clumsy. “Plague and tarnation, and hell, and damnation, and—”
“Stop!”
