Page 1 of Four Promises to Love

Prologue

Fog shrouded the night, a light mist clinging to Owen Harrington’s face. The cool evening was typical of spring in London. The gentlemen spilling out of the Haymarket theatres were swaddled in greatcoats, the ladies in furs and velvet. Owen hadn’t bothered to don a layer over his frock coat. He’d known true cold: snow dumping over mountain passes, winds that sliced like an icy knife. He’d endured a deep freeze that became desperation, then defeat, causing stalwart soldiers to sink to their knees and surrender their last breath.

Resisting the tug of the past, he focused instead on his surroundings. He felt the slickness of the cobblestone beneath his leather soles, listened to the clattering of carriage wheels, and smelled the pungent mix of horses, coal smoke, and floral perfumes. He counted the gas lamps along the street until his pulse steadied. These were tricks he’d taught himself over the years, and their effectiveness brought grim relief.

Unclenching his fists, he took a breath and strode on.

As he passed the grand façade of Her Majesty’s Theatre, where well-heeled patrons mingled beneath the portico, he no longer questioned his own purpose. At first, his journey to London had felt like a failure—like a capitulation to the past he fought to keep locked away. He shouldn’t need to be here. He should have control over himself and his vices.

Yet he’d learned it was best not to ignore the feeling building inside him. He knew what had triggered it: he’d tried to save a drowning man—and failed. While the dead man had been a bounder who’d threatened Owen’s family, Owen couldn’t stop dreaming about those last moments when he’d been sprawled on the muddy, dissolving bank of the stream, his muscles straining as he tried to pull the man to safety. He’d felt the other’s slick fingers slip from his grip and stared into the man’s terrified face the instant before water closed over it.

Some nights, he was pulled under too.

Those nightmares and others stalked him. He couldn’t sleep and felt constantly on edge. Out of nowhere, he would feel a cold drop in his stomach—the same sensation he’d had as a child falling from a tree. The chill would spread from his gut to his chest, becoming a ball of ice lodged behind his breastbone, crushing his heart and lungs. He couldn’t breathe…yet that was still better than the alternative. That terrifying feeling of slipping out of his skin. Of losing control over his senses and feeling nothing.

In those early years after returning from war, he had sought comfort with drink and dice. His gut clenched as he thought of his despicable behavior and how his family—his brother Ethan in particular—had paid the price. He had hurt those closest to him, wronged them in the worst possible way, and although he could never make amends, he was determined to try.

In the last two years, he’d abstained from his vices. With a few notable slips, he’d been successful. Yet he had to do something about his present state. Since drinking and gambling were out of the question, he had one path left to temporary relief. A way to distract him from the nightmares, slake his restlessness, and anchor him in the present. He wasn’t proud of it, but a visit to Mrs. Maudy’s discreet establishment felt more like a necessity than a choice.

He arrived on Panton Street, just off Haymarket. The tidy lane boasted a mix of inns, public houses, and shops. A gentleman might come here to visit a tavern or a bootmaker—or one of the shuttered second-story businesses that catered to patrons who wanted more refined pleasures than those found in Covent Garden. Owen wanted a clean experience with no fuss or surprises, and for that, he was willing to pay Mrs. Maudy’s premium prices. He navigated past a boisterous group outside a chophouse and was a block from his destination when a voice startled him.

“Good evening—oh, beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

He waited for his heart to stop ricocheting against his ribs before turning toward the voice.

“You didn’t,” he said.

It wasn’t entirely a lie. The woman’s voice was well modulated and as soft as petals; it wasn’t her fault that he was a madman who reacted as if he were perpetually under fire. The glow of the streetlamp revealed that she was in her early twenties and exquisitely pretty. Silver-blonde curls dangled around her heart-shaped face, and she had full lips and cat-like eyes that tipped up at the corners. The frock she wore was modest for her profession, although it did show off her trim ankles and slender figure. Her build was his personal preference: sleek and subtly curved, she looked deliciously…pliable.

When she smiled at him, he felt a hot stirring in his loins.

“My name is Sarah,” she said. “I was wondering if you would like company?”

He considered her proposition—specifically, the risk it involved. He patronized reputable businesses like Mrs. Maudy’s for good reason. Porters dealt with troublemakers, French letters were provided, and the rooms were clean and well-appointed. Most importantly, there would be no surprises.

Owen hated unpredictability.

Yet Sarah pulled at him in a way that none of Mrs. Maudy’s girls ever had. It wasn’t just her physical charms, but the way she was assessing him…directly and without embarrassment. She was taking his measure while he was taking hers. When she smiled, entrancing dimples peeped out, her eyes taking on a lively glint.

She had an air of honesty about her, he decided. While she was obviously no innocent, there was a freshness to her—a resilience of spirit that suited him. He looked for partners with sturdy dispositions and whose appetites matched his. Fragility was the one quality he avoided like the plague.

Looking around, he saw the group by the chophouse had disbanded, and there were few passers-by. No one was paying him and Sarah any mind. Even if they were, the sight of a man bartering with a prostitute was hardly remarkable.

He made his decision. “I would enjoy company. Of a specific sort.”

“Do I fit the bill, sir?”

She fluttered her darkened lashes. The coquettish gesture was accompanied by a cheeky grin. Flirting was part of her job—and she knew he knew it. In fact, she was inviting him to play the game with her.

His wariness gave way to appreciation. “You do indeed.”

“Then it’ll be fifteen shillings for the hour. Room included. I’ve lodgings up there”—she waved at the upper floor of an adjacent tavern—“guaranteed to be as clean and accommodating as I am.”

“The price is agreeable. I require discretion and no fuss.”

“Discretion comes gratis with the service. And I won’t throw up a fuss, unless your tastes run to the exotic. In which case, we ought to discuss the menu now, as there will be additional costs.”

At her blunt reply, he felt his face heat.