Chapter One
Miss Lydia Prior slipped from her bedchamber and crept to the top of the sweeping staircase. She paused at the banister and listened. No voices drifted up from the Great Room. Her brother, Roger Prior, and his houseguests must have retired for the night.
Damn her brother to hell.
Or somewhere equally miserable.
Why had he moved from his London townhouse to Prior Hall? Couldn't he have stayed in Town? She couldn't remain under the same roof with him and his rakish friends. Never. The men, masquerading as gentlemen, had taken over the house, shattering the quiet dignity of the estate.
Chapter One
John Harcourt, the Earl of Brett, snatched the letter addressed to his sister from the silver tray in the entry hall. He was determined to discover the identity of her lover. Perhaps today's post would reveal the scoundrel's name.
Earlier that evening, while walking through the back garden, he had found Evelyn locked in a man's embrace—her gown askew, her hair tumbling from its pins. Before Brett could catch more than a glimpse of the fellow's face, the scoundrel fled into the darkness, clutching his clothes.
Brett unfolded the letter. The handwriting was nearly illegible—a tangle of flowery loops, slanting lines, and smeared ink. Most of it consisted of poetic declarations praising Evelyn's beauty and vows of everlasting devotion.
Chapter One
Lady Julia Ruth Emmett snapped her fan shut, strolled to the window, and gazed at the tombstones across from the vicarage. She turned to the vicar's daughter. “Madelyn, your life is in danger. Break off your betrothal, or you'll end up in the churchyard... beside my cousin.”
Madelyn stopped mid-step. Her blue eyes were wide. “My betrothed is a London baron—wealthy, of great consequence. Lord Cuthell would never harm me." Madelyn's face drained of color. She clutched the back of a chair."You cannot mean that," she whispered. "Lord Cuthell has shown me nothing but kindness."
Chapter One
Lady Amelia Reade paused outside the study door and peered inside.
The door stood open—odd in itself. Her father usually kept his study locked against interruptions. A flutter of unease stirred within her. He rarely summoned her and, whenever he stayed at his country estate, mostly ignored her.
What had happened?
Reluctantly, she stepped across the threshold into the cramped room. The walls were crowded from floor to ceiling with treasures her father had collected from every corner of the globe—polished vases, carved beasts, glittering gemstones, ornate jewelry boxes, and antique weapons displayed above his desk.
A chill swept through her.
Her father, the Earl of Fowle, with silver-streaked hair and gold-rimmed spectacles, looked every inch the respectable nobleman. It was an illusion. He belonged in hell. There was no one she despised more.