CHAPTER
ONE

The fanciful cupola-topped pavilion languished in desolation on the frozen marshes south of the Thames, a gaudy ruin, with a gray February sleet blowing against its rusty, fake turrets and boarded-up windows. Some said the place was haunted. Others claimed it was cursed. All that His Lordship's unassuming little man-of-business knew, however, was that if his glamorous patron did not soon arrive, he was sure to catch his death in this weather.

Clutching his umbrella over his head, Charles Beecham, Esquire, stood wrapped in his brown wool greatcoat, his beaver hat pulled low over his receding hairline, and a look of abject misery on his face. He sneezed abruptly into his handkerchief.

"God bless ye." Mr. Dalloway, standing nearby, slid him a greasy grin.

"Thank you," Charles clipped out before turning away from the unkempt property agent with a respectable humph.

Dalloway was the opposition in this matter, determined to bilk His Lordship out of three thousand pounds for the dubious privilege of owning the godforsaken place. Charles meant to advise his patron against the purchase in the strongest possible terms, not the least because it would fall to him to explain the mad expenditure to old Lady Ironsides. Stealing another discreet glance at his fob watch, he pursed his lips. Late.

Alas, his staid life as the Strathmore family's solicitor had become alarmingly interesting since His Lordship's return from his high adventures on the seven seas and elsewhere.

Though barely thirty, the viscount had done the sorts of things Charles preferred to read about from the safety of his favorite armchair. Her Ladyship had oft regaled Charles with tales of her dashing nephew's exploits: battling pirates, chasing down slave ships, living with savages, fending off mountain lions, surveying temples in the wilds of Malaysia, crossing deserts with the nomad caravans of Kandahar. Charles had thought them a lot of cock-and-bull tales until he'd met the man. What on earth could he want with this place? he wondered, then rehearsed a diplomatic warning in his head: This, my lord, is precisely the sort of rash adventure that drove your uncle into dun territory….

Ah, but thinking a thing and saying it to Devil Strathmore were two different matters entirely.

Just then, a drumming sound approached from behind the wintry shroud of pewter fog and needling rain, like thunder rumbling in the distance. Barely discernible at first, it swiftly formed into the deep, recognizable rhythm of pounding hoofbeats.

At last. Charles stared in the direction of the pleasure grounds' great iron gates. The ominous cadence grew louder—driving, relentless—reverberating across the marshes, until it shook the earth. Suddenly, a large black coach hurtled out of the indistinguishable gray, barreling up the graveled drive that offered the only safe course through the boggy waste.

The quartet of fine, jet-black horses moved like liquid night, their hooves striking sure over the mud and ice, steam puffing from their nostrils. Stationed fore and aft on the shiny body of the coach, His Lordship's driver, groom, and two footmen stared straight ahead, impervious to the weather. They were clad in traditional Strathmore livery, a sedate dun color with smart black piping, stiff felt tricornes on their heads, and frothy, white lace jabots at their throats.

Charles looked askance at his opponent as Mr. Dalloway ambled down from his shelter atop the flamboyant curved steps of the pavilion. His wily stare was fixed on the approaching vehicle. Noting the gleam of greed in Dalloway's eyes, Charles fretted with the unhappy premonition that his rival would win the day, and then what on earth would he tell Her Ladyship? He could only cork his terror at the thought of the formidable dowager's displeasure by reminding himself of her stern orders seven months ago, upon her nephew's return to London.

"Send all of Devlin's bills to me," the old dragon had instructed in no uncertain terms. When Charles had tactfully questioned the command, seeking only to protect the elderly woman, Her Ladyship had pooh-poohed his hesitancy. "It is enough that he has come home at last, Charles. My handsome nephew must cut a dash in Town! You will send his bills to me."

And so, obediently, Charles had.

His Lordship's bills, like a flock of ink-smudged doves, had winged their way to the dowager's elegant villa in the Bath countryside: the handsome house on Portman Street and all its elegant furnishings, Aubusson carpets, French damask drapes, Classical paintings and nude marble statues; the wine cellar; the staff's wages; the coach, the drag, the curricle; the horses; the clothes; the boots; the club dues for White's and Brooke's; the opera box, the parties, the jewels for himself and a number of unnamed women; even the IOU's from a few unlucky hands at the gaming tables. Dear old Aunt Augusta had paid them all without a peep. But three thousand quid for an old, abandoned pleasure-ground? It seemed excessive even for him.

As his coachman pulled the team to a halt in front of the pavilion, Charles swallowed hard, his heart beating faster. The footmen jumped down from their post in back of the coach and marched forward like soulless clockwork automata, one opening the carriage door, the other producing an umbrella, which he held at the ready.

Dalloway cast Charles a nervous glance, no longer looking quite so cocky.

"You haven't met His Lordship yet, have you?" Charles murmured under his breath, feeling a trifle smug.

Dalloway did not answer. He looked again at the coach, where the footman knocked down the folding metal steps and then held the door, staring forward in stone-faced efficiency.

The first person to climb out of the coach was the amiable Bennett Freeman, a neatly dressed, young black man from America who served as His Lordship's gentleman's gentleman, had followed him on his journeys around the globe, and attended the viscount in much of his day-to-day business. Behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, Mr. Freeman's intelligent brown eyes scanned the bizarre location with a perplexed glance, but when he saw Charles, he waved affably and dashed toward the pavilion to escape the weather.

Copyright © 2004 by Gaelen Foley.