1
England, 1814
Dominic Stevens, Baron Warwicke, was no hero—no matter what the newssheets printed or the whispers claimed. He had survived not through valor, but because braver men had fallen in his place. The world called it luck. He called it a curse.
The jagged scar slashing down his right cheek was a testament of what he had endured. Beneath his clothing lay other wounds, healed poorly and aching still, but even they were shallow compared to what war had carved into him on the inside. If the damage to his soul bore visible marks, no one would have been able to recognize him at all.
Even now, he could feel the weight of their stares—the curious, judgmental gazes of passersby as he walked the cobblestoned pavement of Town. He was dressed as a gentleman, but people didn’t look away. They never did. Some halted mid-step, others diverted their paths entirely, crossing the street as though his very presence might soil their day. Itdidn’t matter to him. Their discomfort couldn’t reach the part of him that had died overseas.
He had returned from war with his life, modest fortune, and a title granted by the king in recognition of valor and loyalty. A grand honor, they had said. Yet to Dominic, the title felt like a cruel reminder that he had survived when so many others hadn't. That he had failed in the one thing he had been ready to do—die beside his comrades.
From the shadows of a nearby alleyway, movement caught his attention: a boy, rail-thin and unkempt, his clothes threadbare, watched him with sharp, calculating eyes. Dominic recognized the look instantly. It was desperation disguised as confidence. The boy had pegged him for an easy mark.
Dominic almost smiled. The child was in for a disappointment.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the dark-haired, freckle-faced boy slip from the alley, feigning nonchalance as he moved closer. The crowd didn’t notice. Most wouldn’t. Dominic kept walking, making no move to discourage him. He felt it then—the faintest tug at his jacket pocket. Try as he might, the boy wasn’t very good at picking someone’s pockets.
He stopped mid-stride and turned swiftly, grasping the small wrist. “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”
The boy’s face drained of color. “I… uh…”
“You were… what? Straightening my coat?” Dominic pressed, tightening his grip just enough to remind the boy he had been caught. “No, I believe you were trying to rob me.”
The boy jerked his arm back. “What’s it to you?” he snapped, voice trembling with defiance. “You’re flush with coins.”
“That I am,” Dominic said. “But I earned every one. What have you earned?”
The boy didn’t run. Instead, he stared at his worn shoes, then looked up again, defiant still, but something vulnerable in his voice. “Could you spare some, Mister? Just a few coins?”
Dominic had been ready to walk away, to teach the boy a lesson about consequences. But the request wasn’t snarled or slick with manipulation. It was quiet. Honest, perhaps.
“And why would I do that?” he asked.
“My mum’s sick,” the boy said, eyes flickering with hope. “She needs a doctor, but we’ve got no money.”
Dominic studied him. There were always ruffians spinning lies to tug at a mark’s conscience. But this one… this one didn’t feel like a lie.
He found himself asking, “What’s your name?”
“Tristan, sir.”
“Well, Tristan,” Dominic said with a flick of his wrist, “take me to your mother.”
Tristan’s eyes widened. “You mean it?”
Dominic gave a single nod.
The boy turned without another word and threaded his way through the throng of people with a speed and ease born of experience. Dominic followed close behind, noting the way Tristan looked back every few steps to make sure he was still there. They stopped at the edge of the alleyway, the same one where Dominic had first spotted him.
“This way,” Tristan said, slipping inside.
The stench hit him immediately—sour rot, filth, and something worse beneath it all. He hesitated. It could be a trap, a lure into some ambush. He’d seen worse ploys during wartime. But something about Tristan had pierced through the armor he wore around his heart. He pressed on.
At the far end of the alley, Tristan stopped beside a worn blanket draped over a broken crate. He pulled it back, revealing a woman slumped against the brick wall, her chest rising withshallow, uneven breaths. Her hair was a dull chestnut, plastered to her forehead, and her face pale as moonlight.
Dominic knelt beside her, ignoring the pungent odor that drifted off her person. “Miss?” he asked in a gentle tone. “Are you all right?”
The woman didn’t open her eyes, but her lips moved. “I will be, Tristan,” she whispered. “Just need a moment.”
