Prior Hall
Bentley, Suffolk, England
1820
Miss Lydia Prior crept to the bannister overlooking the main hall of Prior Hall. No voices, loud laughter, or music. Finally, her older brother and his rakish friends had retired for the night. The men, disguised as gentlemen, had taken over, disrupting the quiet dignity of Prior Hall.
Lydia leaned forward and looked down into the main hall. Tables were upended, cushions tossed to the floor, and red wine stains streaked the white carpets. Ashes were scattered across the hearth rug. Half-burned segars, empty bottles, and mugs littered a table beside a deck of cards. The reek of stale tobacco and opium stung her eyes.
She could not continue living under the same roof as Roger and his rakish friends. Her brother was cruel, callous, and heartless. A son shouldn’t host a house party to celebrate his father's death. All her brother cared about was inheriting Prior Hall and the title of baron.
Lord Brett's Mansion
London, England
1821
John Harcourt, the Earl of Brett, seized the letter addressed to his sister from the silver tray in the entrance hall. He was desperate to learn her lover’s name.
Earlier that evening, while strolling through the back garden, he had found Evelyn in a man’s embrace—her dress askew, her hair unpinned.
The scoundrel had fled, clutching his clothes, before Brett could catch a proper look at his face. Perhaps this letter was from the man who seduced his innocent sister.
He turned up the lamp on the table beside him, dropped into a chair, and unfolded the letter.
Weybridge, Surrey
England
1830
Lady Julia Mary Emmett snapped her fan shut, strolled to the window, and gazed at the tombstones across from the vicarage. She whirled around and glowered at the vicar’s daughter. “Madelyn, your life is in danger. You must break off your betrothal, or you will end up in the graveyard. Like my cousin.”
Madelyn stopped her pacing mid-step. Her blue eyes were wide. “My betrothed is a London baron—wealthy, of great consequence. Lord Cuthell would never harm me.”
Fowle Hall
Brentwood, England
1831
Lady Amelia Reade paused outside her father’s study. Reluctantly, she stepped across the threshold into the cramped room, its walls crowded from floor to ceiling with her father’s treasures brought from the Continent.
Her father, the Earl of Fowle, stood at the back of the room near a shelf filled with ornate jewellery boxes. Beside them lay his dagger. She shuddered, remembering when he had used it to cut off the hand of a thief—right in front of her.