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Chapter One
SeventeenYears Later
Now that Nemesis had gotten a taste for killing, a plan had begun to form. The list of names, upon whom the murderer wished to get revenge was long. Five gentlemen, all of whom had wronged the murderer over the past few years.
Since most of the gentlemen on the list were comfortably ensconced at their country estates for the summer, the murderer planned. No one had reported the first gentleman even missing, much less dead.
The murderer had spent the last few hours of dwindling light, scrawling letters to all of them. Threats, which would soon prove to be more than idle. The murderer wanted them all to be afraid, knowing that they were targeted.
My Lord,
You know who I am. You wronged me, severely. You will not see me coming, but you will feel my breath on the back of your neck, cold as January wind.
By winter’s end, you will be dead.
Regards,
It was easy enough to send a letter by post. Then, when winter came, all of the gentlemen would be there, in London—where the murderer would hunt them down, picking them off one by one.
The murderer wrote the letter’s recipient, Robert Follett. Duke of Tiverwell.
* * *
A butler stepped forward, to open the door to the carriage. Charles stepped out, looking around at the grand façade of Tiverwell Manor. It was a large country estate, with a massive, multi-story house of sandstone.
He was dressed in his best suit—he wanted to make a good impression on the Duke. He straightened his dark blue jacket, then pushed his top hat back a little. Charles had been invited out to the country by the Duke of Tiverwell, in order to arrange his affairs. Since he had never before worked for a gentleman of this caliber, he had agreed immediately.
The family stood out in front of the house, awaiting his arrival. Charles beamed at them as he stepped forward—Robert Follett, the Duke of Tiverwell cut a rather imposing figure. He was a gentleman of fifty, with salt and pepper hair.
“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, bowing a little. Charles bowed low.
“Your Grace. Thank you for sending the barouche-landau,” he said. “It was most kind of you.”
“It was the least that I could do, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, “since you agreed to come all the way out here to help me with my estate planning.” Charles had been referred to the Duke by the Earl of Danbury, another of his clients, who were mostly members of the ton.
The Duke turned to the lady at his side. “This is my wife, the Duchess of Tiverwell.”
She curtsied—she was an elegant lady, with her reddish-brown hair pulled back in a low chignon. She was dressed simply, in a cream and blue striped silk dress.
“Welcome to Tiverwell Manor, Mr. Conolly,” she said.
“You are most kind, Your Grace,” Charles replied, bowing again.
“And this is our daughter, Lady Arabella,” the Duke said. The Duchess moved, and then Charles saw her. He had heard much about Lady Arabella of late. She had debuted just the past winter. When it was found out that she rode astride, like a gentleman, and participated in archery and fencing, the whole of London had been talking about it.
“Please to make your acquaintance, My Lady,” he said. She was dressed in fencing gear, and was, at that moment, tugging off her gloves. A fencing foil—a sabre, to be exact, was tucked under her arm. She regarded him with intelligent honey-toned eyes.
“Pleased to make yours, as well,” she said, curtsying.
He bowed. When he raised his eyes, she was studying him closely, her head tilted to the side. She smiled.
“I imagine that you’re wondering why a lady is dressed in breeches?”
“Not at all, My Lady,” he replied, taking in her brown curls that framed her face, the freckles—cinnamon flecks across the cream of her skin. “I’m wondering at your use of the sabre over an epée, actually.”
“It’s a more solid weapon,” she replied, a look of pleasure crossing her pink, bow-shaped lips. “An epée is too flimsy for my taste.”
“It’s certainly a different fighting style,” he agreed.
