Page 1

Chapter One - Amy

(October 19, 1813. London.)

What use are London windows? Reminders that even sunlight regrets making the journey? Might as well open the house to the evening chill and let the wind carry me away...

Amy Sunderland traced the window latch, lingering at the simple hook holding the panes closed while tears rolled down her stinging, swelling cheek. At home—the manor in Wallingford—the windows framed forever-changing gardens rioting through their seasons, whether rich spring-promising soil or pristine snow blankets. Its ancient, wavy glass blurred the outside world into a misty fairyland where anything might happen. She might even be free. The London house’s soulless windows showed tidy, immutable bricks or a tidy garden of orderly hedges trimmed into perpetual symmetry—neither landscape offered much hope for Amy. And tonight’s heavy fog denied even that scenery, reducing the night to Amy’s own ghostly reflection. Her brown eyes shone with tears against a foggy-pale complexion, and the blooming shadow across her cheek. Amy drew a line through the clinging dew just across her reflection’s throat.

Not tonight, Phantom. You can’t come in tonight.

Maybe tomorrow.

It wouldn’t be long before the frost. Another couple of weeks. She set her burning cheek against the icy pane, sighing at the gentle relief from the stain of her father’s palm.

I shouldn’t have reminded him about the Mitford ball.

Releasing a trembling breath, she straightened and examined her reflection in the mirror on the dressing table at which she’d been sitting for ... too long, probably. Her eyes had heavier red rings than the lying window indicated. Her left cheek shone with more unsightly colors—a full spectrum of blues, reds, and purples—but Amy’s features were otherwise soft, her complexion clear and prone to rosy cheeks. A great deal like Mother’s.

Half a dozen portraits of Mother and none of the boys or me...

She shut that thought away.

The tenth Baron Sunderland loved Lady Charlotte by universal account. And his children owed atonement for her death. Amy had been two when her father’s judgment fell upon them, and it seemed something much more important than her mother and infant brother had been locked away in the crypt.

A creak from the hallway straightened Amy’s spine. She watched the door’s reflection, heart pounding through her sternum. She hunched forward, dark blond curls falling around her face. A feeble shield, but all she had. The noise of the house faded behind the approaching footsteps. Light. Quick. A short stride. Not Father’s.

Thank God. Not Father’s.

The door moaned open, and a stoutly curved figure bustled through. Amy’s Aunt Leah wore a severe expression, enhanced by an equally severe black mob cap. Since birthing her last child some seventeen years ago, she’d never entirely shed the excess around her hips and chest, but it hadn’t softened her marble-cut features, nor her reason.

“Hello, Aunt.” Amy’s breathy voice carried across the tiny room.

Leah paused, her kind blue eyes belying the impatience in her thinned, disappointed lips—a look perfected over two decades of motherhood and sixteen years of running the Sunderland household. She’d stepped up as the de facto hostess of Sutherland House a few months after Amy’s mother passed, bringing along her daughter. Portia still resided with them, preparing for her debut season. Her sons, Isaac and Charles, were still somewhere in the Peninsula. Amy’s youngest brother, Edward, had come back already to enjoy his rest in the crypt close by their lady mother.

“Where is Staunton?” Leah asked as quietly as Amy.

“You just missed her. She brought the basin and said she’d return soon.” Amy pointed to the vanity where a wooden bowl filled with water waited.

Leah clicked her tongue impatiently, dropped her hands to her side, and glided toward the vanity. “Come away from the window. You’ll catch a chill.”

“Inconveniencing nobody—”

“Amelia.”

“I apologize. I am ... tired.” Amy rose to her feet but stood in place.

“The bed is more convenient to help you.”

Amy’s eyes widened. “You don’t have to—”

“Bed. This instant.”

Whatever argument Amy could muster died the second her cousin rushed through the open door. Portia’s wide, sapphire eyes fixed on Amy. She hurried closer, arms outstretched. “Staunton told me what happened.”

Leah pursed her lips. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear the ruckus.”

“I was in the stables, working out what to do about Uncle’s latest lame horse. Especially since he’s being a miser about everything.”

Leah winced at that reminder. “Well, your Season isn’t without a cost, dear. Nor is Amy’s.”