Page 1 of In the Midnight Hour

Chapter 1

London, October 1819

Jeremy Sheffield, the Viscount Northwood, known to all by “North,” walked from the mews into Pemberton Square, which, as of last week, he now called home. His father, the Earl of Aylesbury, had convinced him it was time to move into a proper house instead of lodging at the Albany. He hoped it would encourage North to marry, especially since his twin had taken a wife some months earlier.

A change in residence would not prompt matrimony, but North appreciated this move would at least quiet his mother’s dismay that he was their last remaining unwed child. And he was the heir.

North had preferred to depart the coach at the mews to enjoy the dawn quiet of his new environs. He sought the exercise after a night of relative excess that included cards, wagers, drinks, and a visit to his favorite courtesan.

Inhaling the cool, crisp autumn air, he admired the yellow and orange leaves still clinging to the trees. There hadn’t been a good blow yet—in fact, they’d had fine weather and today looked to be no different. Though the sun was just rising, the sky was nearly cloudless.

Pemberton Square was compact and charming, with a variety of houses, a bookshop and lending library, a confectioner, and the Pemberton Club for the denizens of the square and by invitation only to others. North’s terrace sat on the south side where the smaller dwellings were located. The north side was made up of grander homes. North had no need of a house like that.

Someday, he would move into Aylesbury House on Mount Street. That was hopefully a long way off, as his father was in robust health.

A movement in one of the trees in the center of the square drew North’s attention. He thought it was perhaps a crow or magpie, but he discerned the dark outline of the square’s omnipresent cat. The black feline patrolled Pemberton Square better than any watchman, his green eyes conveying an intelligence that North suspected could rival any watchman too.

“Good morning,” North said. “I wish I knew your name. How about Nix?” He’d tried several other options—Midnight, Shadow, and Herbert on a night when he’d been foxed—but the cat hadn’t responded to any of them. “Would you even let me know if I guessed correctly?”

The cat abruptly turned his head toward the north side of the square. His ears perked.

A moment later, a young man wearing dark blue livery came running out of number twenty-four. “Help! We need a physician! We need the watchman!”

“Shall we investigate?” North asked the cat, but the animal had already leapt from the tree and was making his way across the street. “Wait for me,” North murmured as he hurried to reach the man who was still shrieking.

“Please, you must help,” the young man, who appeared to be a footman, pleaded.

“I’m Lord Northwood. I live on the other side of the square at number twelve. What’s happened?” North glanced up at the house, which was almost directly across from his terrace. He hadn’t met a great many people yet, but he’d become acquainted with Mrs. Lambton, the square’s eminent busybody, who’d eagerly told him about several of the residents. If North recalled correctly, this was the house of Sir Radnor Fieldstone.

North hadn’t met the man, but Mrs. Lambton had enthusiastically described him as a distinguished older gentleman with a surplus of charm and a keen wit. He was also known as a passionate book collector.

“Sir Radnor is dead,” the lad replied with great anguish, his face red and his brows drawn together. “I’m Amos. I’m—I’m a footman here,” the young man stuttered, his hazel eyes wide.

“I don’t think there’s any use in calling the watch as they’ve just concluded for the night,” North said, trying to be helpful. “May I come in and be of assistance? I can send for my brother. He’s the new coroner.”

The footman nodded. “Yes, please come in, my lord.” He gestured for North to enter through the open front door, above which was situated an ornate fanlight. The footman followed him in and led him toward the stairs. “This way.”

Sir Radnor’s house was one of the larger dwellings in the square, with three bays and four stories, in addition to the lower floor where the kitchen was located. The stone steps were cantilevered, and an oval dome overhead allowed the dawn light to spill over the staircase.

They did not stop at the first floor but continued up to the second. “The housekeeper found him a few minutes ago.”

“How unfortunate. Do you think there was foul play?” That seemed to be the case since Amos wanted to fetch the watchman.

“I can’t say,” Amos replied as they arrived at the chamber at the rear of the second floor. He stopped short and turned to North. “I don’t really know what happened.”

“That’s because you panicked.” A low but feminine voice snapped from inside the chamber.

Amos flushed. “This is Sir Radnor’s bedchamber.” He motioned for North to precede him.

Stepping into the masculine room, North saw a maid on her knees cleaning the carpet. Two buckets sat in front of her—one with clean water and the other dirty—and on the other side of them lay Sir Radnor on his stomach, his face pointed away from the maid. Or perhaps she was the housekeeper, for she was in her early fifties. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray strands and was pulled severely into a coil at the back of her head.

“What are you doing?” North demanded.

The woman lifted her head and met North’s stare. “I’m cleaning up the blood from Sir Radnor’s fall.”

North couldn’t see Sir Radnor’s injury, but the man was quite still. “Are you certain he’s dead?”

“Of course I’m certain,” the housekeeper replied sharply. “I had to move him a bit to clean the carpet. He isn’t breathing.”