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Chapter I
December 1844, outside London
The storm had passed only hours before, blanketing the countryside in half a foot of snow. Moonlight and torch flame glittered and sparked off the icy garden, and the sight called to Emma Jensen through the hard cold of the window. Nature had reclaimed the tamed bower, swept in and buried the pathways, softened the stark angle of hedges cut to precise corners. This garden, painstakingly shaped by man, now lay hidden under gentle hills and deep drifts of snow, and Emma wondered how it would feel to be so effortlessly smothered. So still.
Her deep sigh fogged the glass and blanked the stark scene. Straightening, she glanced back to the bright whirl of the ballroom. Boredom had set in, and when she grew bored her mind turned to useless melancholy. Her life was not so bad, after all, or someday wouldn't be.
"Lady Denmore!"
Emma angled her chin, set a smile on her face, and turned toward the half-drunk voice.
"Lady Denmore, your presence is greatly desired in the hall."
"Why, Mr. Jones, whatever for?" Emma forced the words to come light and pretty.
"Matherton and Osbourne have arranged a race and they wish you to start it."
A distraction. Good. Emma smiled more genuinely and took the arm the thin young man offered, leaving behind the cold escape of her daydream.
Giggles and loud voices filled the cavernous front hall of Wembley House. All heads were turned toward the sweeping staircase and the impossible sight at the top. There, perched atop the landing, were Lords Matherton and Osbourne, peers of the Realm, each crouching down to sit on what looked to be huge silver platters. The men, once seated, began to slide gingerly over the Persian runner, easing themselves closer to the edge of the top stair.
"This is a race?" Emma laughed, but she didn't let her amusement distract from a quick study of the men. "Fifty pounds on Osbourne."
The noise around her paused, as if the whole room drew a breath, then exploded in a flurry of betting. Emma took the bottom step with a smile, meaning to climb to the top to start the race, but a loud shout stopped her.
"Ho there! The starter can't bet on the race!"
Emma only shrugged and stepped aside with a flourish of her hand, letting another woman take the starter's position, a woman not so cursed with the need to gamble on the outcome of every contest.
A moment passed, then a handkerchief dropped and the men burst from the landing, gaslight glinting off silver as the trays tilted and shot down the stairs with surprising speed. Emma gasped—everyone gasped—and the crowd parted in the face of imminent danger.
She almost closed her eyes, afraid to see the crash that surely awaited both men, but she did have fifty quid riding on this, so she watched the men fly down, watched as Osbourne's greater weight proved its advantage. She nodded in satisfaction as Osbourne shot past her perch, then grimaced as he crashed with drama, a cacophony of metal and wall and groaning man.
The crowd dispersed almost immediately, back to their drinks and gossip, and Emma wound her way between the guests, working toward Osbourne to see how he'd fared. Matherton, she saw, had already righted himself and stood laughing with his friends.
"Osbourne," she called past a small crowd of attendees, "are you injured?"
"Just my elbow," he wheezed.
"Oh, Lord Osbourne," Emma sighed at the sight of his flushed face. "Tell me you haven't broken it?"
"No, no. Just banged it up a bit."
"Thank God. Lady Osbourne would have my head if I'd encouraged your injuring yourself."
"Mine as well."
"Come, my lord, let's see if there is ice—"
"Henry!"
"Oh, no," the earl breathed.
"Oh, no," Emma echoed. "Well ... if Lady Osbourne is coming to help, I'll just leave you to her care."
"But—"
"Henry! Have you lost your mind?"
Emma ducked away, not willing to be caught between a tipsy old man and his loving, outraged wife.
Mr. Jones caught her arm and presented her winnings with a grin. Seventy pounds. Not as much as she'd hoped for. Her reputation for good hunches had begun to cut into her profits, as people often bet with her instead of on the wager. Luckily, the tables still proved profitable.
Tucking the bills into her glove, Emma craned her neck, looking past the soggy smile of Mr. Jones for Matherton. She spotted him moving away, toward the card room, waving friendly acknowledgments to those he passed. Emma followed, though she was waylaid for a moment by an agitated Lady Matherton who was sure her Persian carpet must have been damaged. After much patting of hands and sympathetic murmurs, Emma edged away from her hostess and moved swiftly toward the card room.
She couldn't help but smile when she spied the familiar shock of white hair glowing in the dim light at the end of the hallway. Lord Matherton would play the wounded party well. No doubt he planned to accuse her of treachery and betrayal for placing her bet with Osbourne. Perhaps she would let him win a round of piquet to help heal his wounded pride.
Emma drew a breath, meaning to call out to him, but just as her lips parted, he stepped aside and revealed the face of the man he spoke with. Emma froze. Someone plowed
into her back.
"Oh, my dear girl. I'm so sorry."
Emma steadied herself against the wall as the man tried to help her stand upright. But she didn't take her eyes off the black-haired stranger just ahead. "No need to apologize, sir. 'Twas my fault, after all."
"Still, I should have been watching."
