February 1, 1814
London, England
It was a universal truth that no matter her background, face, or charms, a widow in possession of a fortune would be targeted for theft. In my circumstance, I’d been cheated of everything, even my greatest gift. Now was the time to defy authority, to strike and win.
I’d almost been caught.
My breath came in waves as I leaned against the closed nursery door. I squeezed my stomach tight, as tight as my shut lashes, and waited for someone to push inside.
So close, only to be captured . . .
My heart ticked, numbering the follies of my life. So full of memories—sliding down a sloping banister, the chatter of silly sisters, a stranger’s whisper at sunset, a blur of signatures on a marriage contract, then a well-written note of love . . . of suicide—my soul was about to explode.
Laughter filtered beneath the door, then the haunting footsteps moved away. Maybe a maid entered a bedroom down the hall. I swallowed the lump building in my throat. The knot of bitterness went down slow. It burned.
This was my house. Those servants once worked for me. Now, I was reduced to sneaking inside Hamlin Hall.
With a shake of my head, I stopped thinking of my failures and focused on my mission, my sole purpose, my Lionel. Feet slipping in my borrowed boots, I tiptoed to his crib and peeked at my baby.
His wide hazel eyes seized me.
Tiny hands lifted, but he made no sound, no cooing or crying. I pacified myself thinking my smart boy didn’t want more trouble dropped on my head, not that he’d learned to soothe himself from
neglect.
Pity my heart knew the truth, that Lionel was a prisoner. And these circumstances were my fault. I stole a breath and pinned a smile to my lips. I was grateful to see my boy’s face.
“My little man. Hungry?”
I unbuttoned the placard of my borrowed nankeen shirt, then unwound the bandage I’d wrapped about my bosom. This made my charms appear flat, manlike.
Scooping up Lionel, I put him to my breast. “Hamlin Hall is different tonight, Master Jordan. Is that your doing?”
My little man’s suckle was so strong. Those distant concerns about how often he’d been fed crept forward.
My insides broke into more pieces. “I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t smart, and now my Lionel suffered.
He made an extra slurping noise as if he’d spooned runny porridge.
The funny notion calmed my frets . . . for now. “Tonight, you eat big.”
Our change was in the offing. I felt it. I knew it would be so.
“Your mama’s a spy again. But tonight, I was almost discovered trying to retrieve my trust documents. I had to scurry back to the catacombs, running at top speed through the secret door at the stairs. The old butler was too drunk—”
Something heavy dragged outside in the hall.
The new carpet? It would be ruined.
Hushed whispers bubbled.
Did I hear something about ruin or ripping?
That carpet was imported from the East Indies.
My hands flushed. My cheeks followed.
The fine tapestries of woven rust and gold silks I’d installed to give this two-hundred-year-old house new life would be torn up, discarded . . . like me.
A loud curse soared, then a clear complaint about a guest—a Rep? Reynolds? Remington?—his arrival, the servant said was imminent.
Was this a constable from London?
A magistrate from Bow Street?
Or an administrator from the lunatic asylum?
Any of these men could be coming for me.
I shook from the sole of my boots to the collar of my coarse shirt.
They dragged me, the mistress of Hamlin Hall from this place, from Lionel. My jet bombazine mourning gown, once so proper and refined, was wrinkled and stained as they hauled me away.
The servants and Markham, my late husband’s uncle, said I looked crazed, a yellow-eyed loon. I remember sobbing like a lunatic, but the hope in my heart said, Cooperate, all would be well.
All lies. All tricks. All meant to crush me.
I wasn’t going this time, not without a fight.
