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CHAPTER ONE
Renwick, 1869
SOPHIA EULALIE RUSSELL SLIPPED silently out the back door of Nanny Gruen’s tiny cottage. She had bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth—her own bread, and a magnificent loaf, if she should say so herself—and for the next few hours she could do exactly what she wanted. Nanny Gruen had settled herself for what she called “a little lay-down,” and the old woman fondly assumed that her one-time charge would obey the rules.
Nanny had forgotten that Sophie never obeyed rules when she deemed them ridiculous, or inconvenient, and today she had every intention of giving in to temptation. After all, it wasn’t as if anyone would notice, or even care.
Nanny Gruen’s cottage was on the very edge of the massive estate of Renwick, not far from the town of Basking Wells. The ancestral home of the Griffiths family, it had come into the hands of Sophie’s father, Eustace Russell, shipping magnate, in a card game. The wastrel heir, the second Viscount Griffiths, wasn’t able to deed the land over legally, but Russell had won life rights to the place, and it was there he’d brought his bride, raised his three daughters, and lived most of his life. When the girls’ old nanny retired he gave her a cottage and a small living on the edge of the estate.
That, of course, was before he’d been murdered, Sophie thought grimly, making her way through the thick bushes toward the path that led up Beekman’s Tor, the high ledge overlooking the valley and the estate of Renwick that had once been theirs. They’d lost it when their father died, as well as the house in London, and the three sisters had been tossed out on their own, their father’s reputation in disgrace. Not only had he died in a suspicious carriage accident out on Dartmoor, where he never should have been in the first place, but he’d embezzled every penny he could from Russell Shipping, the business he’d started and made thrive.
The sisters had huddled together in a miserable flat on the edge of the slums in London, until her eldest sister, Bryony, had come up with a brilliant ide
a. They would each enter the household of one of the men they suspected of destroying their father. Well, in truth, Bryony had thought she might be the one to enter each household, but Sophie’s bossy middle sister, Maddy, put a stop to that. Bryony became housekeeper to one of their father’s major investors, Adrian Bruton, the Earl of Kilmartyn. Maddy, losing patience, crossed the countryside to become a maid in the household of a former pirate and sea captain who’d once served their father.
And Sophie had been left behind while her sisters had adventures. She had absolutely no interest in changing beds or counting linens. She’d forgotten how very boring it could be, left as a social pariah on the edge of the estate. The Griffithses weren’t even aware of her presence, and Nanny wanted to keep it that way. Not that Sophie could blame her. The Griffithses had no obligation to honor Eustace Russell’s bequest, and they could have turfed the old woman out at any time.
So Sophie crept through the bushes and kept a sharp eye out for anyone who might interfere with her secret indulgence.
It was a rough climb to the top of the tor, and Sophie’s sturdy black shoes slipped on the rocks again and again, but she was used to it and knew the best footholds and places to stop and rest. By the time she reached the top she could see all over the fertile valley that had once been theirs. She could see the crystalline blue pool of water in what used to be the rose garden. In a few moments, with luck, she’d see the man who swam in that cool, clear water, back and forth.
It had been a sheer accident when she’d first spied him. Bryony had just written that she had married her suspect, Kilmartyn, and she was presently somewhere on the Continent, keeping abreast of the overzealous police inquiry into the death of Kilmartyn’s first wife. Maddy was incommunicado, presumably still dealing with their ancient suspect. There was one more name on their short list of suspects, and that man was about to come into view.
Alexander Griffiths, the new viscount, had a reputation that was far from stellar. His first wife had died under mysterious circumstances more than a decade before, and he’d lived far to the north, never venturing into society, presumably haunted by guilt. He was certainly haunted by something, Sophie thought, dropping down to her favorite spot of grass on the ledge and taking out her cheese and bread. The one thing no one had ever told her was how exquisitely beautiful he was.
She’d had one season in London; she’d seen any number of handsome young men, been pursued by them. She’d been blessed by a combination of physical perfection that had left her the toast of London for a brief, glorious period, but unfortunately she had found all of those handsome young men shallow and boring. And then her father had died and everything had changed.
Alexander Griffiths was a far cry from the pretty young men of London, though he was physically quite stunning. She’d always thought of him as the Dark Viscount, a man of mystery, of deep secrets, perfectly in line with the gothic romances she devoured. She had a great fondness for maniacs in dungeons, and until she’d seen Alexander Griffiths she’d had every hope he’d kept a madman or a reanimated corpse in a laboratory.
But no one who looked like that was likely to be a brooding maniac, though she still persisted in thinking of him as the Dark Viscount. After all, his coloring was dark, and he still had a mysterious background.
