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  When he heard the harsh words behind him, “Ye filthy bloody bastid!” he turned only fractionally. When the knife struck him in the back, deep and smooth in one single thrust, he had no idea what had happened. He felt a sharp chill and shivered, quickening his pace. Then, horribly, he heard another voice and recognized it as Monk’s, low and mean and frightening as hell. “Awright, boyo, ye’ll pay, but first, what ’ave ye done with the sparklers?”

  Tristan couldn’t believe his ears. He turned slowly to face his erstwhile partner, Monk Busch, a man who had the look of an early-eighteenth-century pirate, dark and ugly. “Monk,” he said.

  “Where, damn ye, Tris? Boy, get over ’ere. I got ’im but good now!”

  Suddenly Tris stumbled and Monk saw the red stain spreading over his back. “Boy, ye damned fool! Ye’ve stabbed ’im in the back! Idiot, I told ye to be careful.”

  “Eh! Arrêtez! Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

  Monk cursed. It was the damned Brussels watch. Tristan shouted at the top of his lungs, first in English, then in French. “Help! Help! Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi!”

  A whistle blew sharp and loud.

  Monk and Boy looked at each other, cursed in unison, and fled. Tristan stared after them, then slowly, very slowly, fell to his knees. He wished he could see his children and Lily just one last time. “Lily,” he whispered as he collapsed to the ground. He realized suddenly that he had to tell her about his coup. He had to reassure her that there would always be enough money for her and the children if she could only bring herself to be less pristine in her notions. God, he wanted to see her one more time. But it wasn’t to be. He couldn’t tell her where to look—The last face he saw was that of the young watch bending over him.

  DAMSON FARM, YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND

  OCTOBER 1814

  Lily sat with her feet tucked beneath her on the narrow bed, Theo, Sam, and Laura Beth grouped around her. They were in her small bedroom on the third floor of Damson House, one of the servant’s rooms. She was no longer shaking with fear from Arnold’s assault; she was no longer quivering with rage; she was at last calm and coolly thinking about what she and the children would do now. They couldn’t remain here at Tris’s sister’s home. Gertrude’s husband, Arnold, had made that impossible. Gertrude tolerated the children, disliked Lily heartily, and was spiteful enough to enjoy making Lily feel like an upper servant. Gertrude would discover her husband’s amorous activities soon enough, and it wouldn’t be Arnold who would be shown to the door, it would be Lily, and the children wouldn’t be allowed to leave with her.

  What a mess. All because Arnold couldn’t control himself, had whimpered and begged her to let him take her, then had turned nasty, as only a petty little bully could. Theo, her protector, her nine-year-old overly serious and overly responsible little adult, had prevented Arnold from raping her on the stairs, against the wall.

  “I’ll kill him, Lily,” Sam said and thrust out his chin. “Theo should have.”

  “Shut your mouth, Sam,” Theo said to his six-year-old brother in his surprisingly stern adult voice. “You won’t do anything. I stopped him, but I don’t trust him, Lily. He isn’t a wise man, nor is he at all honorable.”

  Trust Theo to phrase things the way a vicar would, Lily thought as she leaned over to pat his arm. Actually, Arnold Damson was a fumbling, vicious beast and bully. Theo had saved her, clearing his throat loudly, his hands fisting at his sides. Arnold had stepped back from Lily, realizing that he had no other choice at the moment. He couldn’t rape her in front of a boy, and his nephew to boot.

  Lily looked at each of the children in turn: Theo, tall for his age and too thin, his eyes the pale blue like his father’s, and bright with a formidable intelligence; Sam, compact and fierce, independent and restless, an imp who loved life and excitement and hadn’t a thought for tomorrow; finally, little Laura Beth, only four now, quiet and so beautiful that it made Lily ache just to look at that small face, at that small mouth with a thumb now firmly stuck into it. Laura Beth looked like her mother, so Tristan had told Lily, and Lily knew that Elizabeth must have been beautiful, fragile, petite, and delicate, with silky black hair and eyes so dark a blue that they appeared black in certain lights.

  She cleared her voice, encompassing all of them with her calm smile. “We’ll leave, that’s all.”

  Theo sighed. “I suppose we have no choice now. I can’t be certain to be around all the time to protect you.”

  Lily wanted to fling her arms around too-grown-up Theo and hug him until his ribs creaked. “No, you can’t,” she said, her smile a bit wobbly.

  “He’s ugly,” Laura Beth announced, taking her thumb out of her mouth. “So is Aunt Gertrude. And fat.”

  “That’s true,” Lily agreed. She took Laura Beth’s small hand in hers, hoping to keep the thumb out of the child’s mouth for a few minutes anyway. Laura Beth allowed it and gave Lily a look that made Lily know that she was allowing it.

  “I want all of you to listen to me,” Lily said. “You know that before your father died—indeed, several months ago in fact—he told me that if anything happened to him I was to bring you here, to his sister, Gertrude. You also know that we had no choice but to do so. There was no money. Now that Ugly Arnold has shown his horrid true self, we will leave. Your father had a cousin. This cousin’s name is Knight Winthrop, Viscount Castlerosse, and he lives in London most of the time. We were to go to him second if things didn’t work out with Gertrude.”

  “Is he ugly?” asked Laura Beth. She pulled her hand from Lily’s, and her thumb settled back into her small mouth.

  “I have no idea. I think your father left him as the last resort because he is a bachelor.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Theo. “He just might try to hurt you, Lily, like Ugly Arnold did.”

  “Arnold’s a toad,” said Sam. “Filthy blighter.”

  Lily blinked. Where had Sam learned those words? They were, however, exceedingly accurate and descriptive. “Yes, that’s true,” she said easily. “Perhaps, Theo, but we have no choice. I have just enough money to get us to London. To this cousin. If he has any sense of duty at all, he will provide for the three of you, at least.”

  “We won’t leave you,” said Theo and Sam, and Laura Beth nodded solemnly. He continued thoughtfully after a moment. “I don’t think, though, that you should tell this new gentleman that you were Papa’s betrothed, like you did with Aunt Gertrude and Ugly Arnold. They thought you were an impostor and not a lady.”

  “You can’t be a governess either,” said Sam. “That would be worse. This cousin could make you leave us or he could hurt you.”

  “Sam’s right,” Theo said in his judicious voice. “You’ve got to be something else.”

  “You’re my mama,” said Laura Beth, the thumb coming out only long enough to deliver this startling statement.

  Lily stared at the child, but Theo said, “I say, that’s just the thing. No, really, Lily, you can’t be Sam’s mother—or mine, for that matter; you’re by far too young. But if you were married very early to Papa, you could be Laura Beth’s mama. That way this cousin couldn’t make you go away. He’d have to take care of all of us. And since you’re a widow, he would have to treat you with respect.”

  “Mama,” said Laura Beth again and moved over onto Lily’s lap, snuggling against her breasts, her thumb in her mouth and her other hand clutching Czarina Catherine, her doll.

  And that, Lily supposed, was that.

  One

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  OCTOBER 1814

  It was eight o’clock on a rainy Thursday evening. Knight Winthrop, Viscount Castlerosse, was at home at Winthrop House on Portland Square, seated in his favorite leather chair in his high-ceilinged, thoroughly masculine library. Voltaire’s Candide lay facedown on his thigh. He was looking into the flames that were sluggishly throwing off embers, a snifter of French brandy in his hand. The wainscoted room was dim and shadowed, the only splash of light from the branch of candle
s near his right arm. It was a cozy setting, and Knight felt appropriately coddled and relaxed and pleasantly tired.

  He grinned at the memory of Sir Edward’s face when Allegory, Knight’s chestnut Barb, bred at Des-borough Stud, had left him and his nag in the dust only halfway to the finish line marked by the Four Horse Club on Hounslow Heath. Knight had placed a healthy bet on Allegory’s speed and indomitable spirit, and on his own skill, and had come away with a thousand pounds in his pocket, at Sir Edward Brassby’s expense.

  Allegory hated to lose even more than he did, he thought. The chestnut got that mean look in his eyes when he saw another horse drawing close. Knight wondered if the gelding had gotten his mean look from him or from his famous sire, Flying Davie.

  He took another slow sip of brandy, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Life was well-nigh perfect. He had no complaints, no suggestions to the powers-that-be for improvement. He was content. He was healthy, his teeth were white and straight and strong, he was in no danger of losing his hair, he currently mounted a mistress who met his every sexual whim, and no one save an occasional new stallion ever disturbed his very fine existence. No, there was nothing more he could ask for.

  He picked up his book and thumbed negligently through the pages.

  “My lord.”

  Knight cocked open an eye at the sound of Duckett’s soft voice. It could be quiet as a vicar’s closet and still one wouldn’t hear Duckett approach. Just five feet tall, round as his nearly bald head, Duckett was blessed with an abundance of perception, knew his master better than did even his master’s valet, Stromsoe, and endeavored to smooth away any rough pebble that found its way onto his path.

  “What is it, Duckett? Nothing dire, I trust.”

  “That I cannot say, my lord.”

  Knight opened both eyes at that and looked at his butler. “I beg your pardon?”

  “There are a Young Person and three Very Young Persons here to see you, my lord. The Young Person wishes to see you first.”

  “The Young Person, as opposed to the Very Young Persons?” Another thing about Duckett, Knight thought, he had no sense of humor. Not even an echo of one. “Well, tell this person I’ve left the country, tell her—him?”

  “A she, my lord.”

  “—I’ve fallen into the North Sea, tell her—who the devil is she anyway?”

  “She says she is your cousin’s widow.”

  “My cousin’s what? Tris?” Knight stared at Duckett blankly. Tristan dead? Knight paused a moment, trying to remember the last time he’d heard from him. Lord, it had been five years at least. He rose to his feet and straightened his clothes. “Bring her in, Duckett. As for the three Very Young Persons—I assume they are Tristan’s children—give them over to Mrs. Allgood. She’ll feed them, or whatever it is that very young persons require at eight in the evening.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Tristan dead. He felt a wrenching sadness, deep inside him, for the Tristan he’d known as a boy. Tris had been his senior by ten years, and on the rare occasions Knight had seen his uncle’s son, he’d worshipped him. Gay, devil-may-care Tris. A man who fascinated women, from what the fifteen-year-old Knight had observed when Tris had visited Castle Rosse and gathered every young girl about him with scarce any effort.

  His widow was here with three very young persons who had to be Tris’s children. Why? Knight turned to face the door. It was opened by Duckett, who stepped aside and said in hushed tones, “Mrs. Tristan Winthrop, my lord.”

  A female, covered from the top of her head to her booted feet in a serviceable brown wool cloak, came into the library.

  “How do you do,” Knight said politely.

  “Hello,” said Lily, and he heard the fatigue in her voice. “My Lord Castlerosse?”

  “Yes. Please come in. Let me take that cloak. You can warm yourself at the fire. It is not a pleasant evening, is it?”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t. However, you are home, and that is a relief.”

  Knight assisted her out of the cloak and immediately wished he’d left her as covered as a package. He stared at her a moment, then forced himself to offer her a chair close to the fireplace. She looked pale and very weary; her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, her gown was wrinkled and not of the best quality, and she was so beautiful it made his toes ache just to look at her. He realized he was staring and said quickly, “Please, sit down and tell me how I may help you.”

  Lily sat down gratefully.

  Perhaps it was the dim lighting, he thought. No woman could look like that, at least not in the harsh light of day. “I shall order up some tea. Are you hungry? Some sandwiches and cakes, perhaps?”

  “I should like that. Thank you.”

  “I told Duckett to give the children over to Mrs. Allgood. She’ll see to them.”

  But Mrs. Allgood hadn’t been able to see to a thing. At that moment there was the sound of scurrying footsteps outside the library door, agitated voices too high and shrill to belong to an adult; then the door was flung open and three very young persons ran into the room. Lily was on her feet in an instant. “Good heavens” was all she had time to say.

  “Mama,” Laura Beth bellowed and flung herself against Lily’s legs. Theo and Sam took up protective positions on either side.

  “Are you all right?” asked Theo, his eyes scanning her face.

  Lily laughed; she couldn’t help it. “I’m perfectly all right. Now, what is the matter?” She saw an older woman standing in the doorway, consternation obvious on her face, and said quickly, “Mrs. Allgood? I’m sorry, but the children, well, they don’t like to leave me alone with strangers—that is, with strange men, and—”

  “That,” Knight said, cutting her off, “is perhaps understandable.” Did the very young persons believe him a ravening beast? He considered the looks of the Widow Winthrop and found himself in general agreement with their protectiveness. “You may leave us now for the moment,” he said, and Mrs. All-good withdrew, Duckett just behind her.

  Lily drew a breath, placed her hand lightly on Theo’s arm, and said to Knight, “This is Theo, Tris’s oldest child.”

  The thin boy was staring at him with the most assessing look imaginable. “Sir,” he said, his young voice clipped, “forgive our impetuosity. We don’t like to leave our mother alone with strangers.”

  “Theo,” Knight said, “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either.”

  Lily quickly said, “And this is Sam. Sam, this is Viscount Castlerosse, your cousin.”

  “Sir,” Sam said, his voice not at all balanced toward the civil end of the scale. It was as aggressive and pugnacious as his small chin, which was stuck forward. The compact little body was tensed, ready for a fight.

  “Hello, Sam,” said Knight easily. He looked down at the little girl, who was sucking her thumb and clutching a doll to her chest. She was pressed tightly against one of her mother’s legs.

  “And this is Laura Beth. She’s just a bit clingy now. It has been a long trip and we weren’t certain just how you would, well, that is, we weren’t altogether sure that your temper would—” Lily’s voice dropped off. She couldn’t seem to phrase a proper sentiment or make a logical explanation.

  “Believe me,” Knight said, “I do understand. Hello, Laura Beth.”

  Laura Beth turned to face the tall man. “You’re not very old,” she said, staring at him with unblinking eyes.

  “Laura Beth,” Theo said. “Mind your manners.”

  “Theo, that, I believe, should be taken as a compliment.” Knight saw Sam shoot a quick glance at his brother. Neither of them looked like Tris. But side by side, their features together—the resemblance to his cousin was striking.

  “Together, standing there, they remind me so much of their father,” he said.

  Lily turned to Theo. Laura Beth kept her hold, and as a result, pulled Lily’s dress tightly against her thigh and hip. Knight swallowed. This was absurd, for God’s sake. Here he was, experiencing old-fashioned
lust for a woman who was the mother of three children. No, he thought, that was impossible. She was much too young. He shook his head, listening to her voice. With the children, it was soft and filled with sweetness.

  “—so, Theo, if you and Sam will help Laura Beth into bed. Are you still hungry? No? Well, then, let me call the nice Mrs. Allgood and—”

  Sam said in a loud whisper, “We don’t want to leave you alone with him, Mama. Laura Beth’s right. He’s not old at all, not even close to Ugly Arnold and look what he did—”

  “Tried to do,” Lily said firmly, wanting to strangle her two overly vocal protectors. “That is quite enough.” She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so embarrassed. She opened her mouth to apologize, to say something—anything—but the viscount interrupted her smoothly.

  “I swear upon my honor as a gentleman and your cousin that I shan’t behave inappropriately with your mother. Please go with Mrs. Allgood. Your mother will follow you shortly.” He paused, then gave Lily a faint smile. “I would let her be with you now, but, you see, I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on. It’s not that I believe any of you are dangerous footpads or villains bent upon robbing me, but you certainly can understand my caution.”

  “So,” Lily continued, “it is only fair that I explain things to the viscount. Theo, please. Laura Beth, let me go now. Sam, you would like a biscuit, wouldn’t you?”

  “He’s right,” Theo said. “We could be villains for all our cousin knows. We’ll go with the woman—”

  “But,” Sam interrupted, his small fists on his hips, “we will look at the clock. Mama mustn’t be too long.”

  “I shall keep her no longer than I must to ensure that she isn’t one of Napoleon’s remainder spies.”

  “All right,” said Sam, a trace of approval showing through in his tone.

  Mrs. Allgood was duly fetched. Laura Beth was pried loose and was convinced to accompany her. Laura Beth put her hand into the older woman’s and smiled up at her. “Sam and I would like a biscuit.”