CHAPTER 1
Twenty years was a long time to wait for the sword to fall, but Lucien Harcourt, 6thViscount Everdene, could feel the cold blade of retribution against his neck.
The brigantine,Aurora, was sailing into London Harbor at long last.
He’d received the message soon after he arrived at his office near Whitehall that morning, a hasty note scrawled in his brother, Simon’s, hand. From that moment, his world narrowed to the next hours and whatever waited on the other side.
He stared down at his desk, scarce seeing the sea of correspondence and notes on upcoming legislation. The missive seemed to have a life of its own. In the background, the sound of his best friend’s voice had become a blur. Rhys Arkwright had arrived, God knew how long ago, and hadn’t stopped talking since.
A sharp rap on his desk startled Lucien, and he looked up to see Arkwright’s knuckles drumming the polished wood.
“Damnation, Luce,” his friend complained. “Are you even listening?”
Lucien rubbed his temple. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Do you ever? Your mind is like one of those infernal locomotives that are tearing across the countryside. I’m just never sure if it’s careening into the future or ready to plunge off a bridge.”
Arkwright shoved his hand through thick waves of tawny hair. “You are dashed disconcerting to us mere mortals. When we don’t sleep, we look like we’ve been dragged behind a coach—but you don’t even loosen your cravat. You could at least have the decency to look a trifle disheveled.”
“I am never disheveled.” Lucien knew his dark hair had not a strand out of place. His perfectly tailored coat was as pristine as when his valet had helped him into it that morning. Everything in its place, no surprises…
“You’ve not attended a social engagement all week. The ladies are in full rebellion.”
Arkwright shoved a newspaper across the desk and Lucien looked down at the cartoon displayed there. Cruikshank was at it again, his latest offering a caricature that was unmistakably Lucien walking the plank while crocodiles in wedding veils snapped all around him. The print read:The Elusive Viscount E…
Once, Lucien had been amused by the sobriquet with which the famed cartoonist had christened him. But the cartoons had taken on a nastier edge of late, and his patience with it all had palled.
“I can’t imagine why the chits are so damned determined.”
Arkwright shrugged. “You’ve made it clear you never intend to marry, and men aren’t the only ones who like the chase. You’re the tiger in Blake’s poem, burning bright. The ladies long to ‘twist the sinews of your heart.’ But when they try to pet you, they realize just how dangerous you are.”
Lucien’s lip curled in disgust. “If I’m the dangerous one, why are all the women depicted as crocodiles?”
“Last night you didn’t even show up at the club,” Arkwright pressed him. “No potential bride would have troubled you there.”
Which was why he’d all but lived at White’s since he’d first come to London, partaking of its daily fare of cards, brandy, billiards, and conversation. The business of the kingdom was conducted there, and at political dinners in the homes of members of Parliament.
Once, he’d felt a surge of excitement, being sought after for the power of the Harcourt name, then, once he’d proved his own worth, for his sharp intellect and abilities.
But since his brother’s renovation of the village at New Everdene, Tory landlords saw Lucien as a traitor to his class while the progressive Whigs were suspicious of his motives. Lucien couldn’t blame them. His father, the Earl of Ravenscroft, was as ruthless a landlord as anyone had ever seen. Even now, confined to his secluded estate at Bitterne Tower, the old man was like Vesuvius looming over Pompeii.
“I decided to go to the fencing club instead,” Lucien said. At least there he could see where an attack was coming from. The past two years had been a series of ambushes by shadows who disappeared into the dark.
He’d come home from the fencing salon with sweat dried on his skin, his arms and shoulders aching, so exhausted he’d thought he could sleep. He should have known better. Nights were too quiet. That was when the ghosts came. But they weren’t ghosts, he told himself grimly. In truth, they never had been.
And now, they were coming home…
There was a flurry outside the office and it took all Lucien’s will to keep his face impassive as the door burst open, revealing the tall form of his brother, Captain Simon Harcourt. Simon beamed with excitement, unrecognizable from the battle-scarred cavalry captain who had returned to England four years ago.
“Mother is waiting in the coach. They will be disembarking within the hour!”
Lucien rose, every muscle in his body tight.
“Who are ‘they?’” Arkwright asked.
“My sisters,” Lucien said, his voice precise enough to cut diamonds.
“Sisters?” Arkwright laughed. “You don’t have any sisters. I’ve known you since we were at Eton and you’ve never once mentioned them. Where have you been keeping them? In a dungeon somewhere?”
