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He pushed open the heavy double doors that led to the conservatory and grimaced as a warm rush of air greeted him. Ian paused, getting accustomed to the heavy scent of freshly bloomed flowers.

This his father would have approved of. A grand glass structure that soared toward the sky, the high, vaulted ceilings adorned with delicate carvings, and the floor that was made of smooth marble, polished to a high shine.

Not that Ian cared about the earl’s approval anymore. But the occasional lapses in judgment, the failures had always reminded him of the disapproving face of his sire. And the little voice that lay dormant inside his mind found a way to the surface, whispering: You’re worthless.

Ian shook off the thoughts and strode to the center of the conservatory. He passed the fountain and slid behind the bushes that kept him invisible from the outside of the glass structure. He knelt and felt the dirt floor, looking for the trapdoor handle that was hidden among the dirt and rocks. He swung it open, revealing a narrow staircase that led down into the darkness.

Closing the door behind him, he descended the stairs, his hand trailing along the rough stone walls to guide him. The air was musty and stale, and he had to stifle a cough as he reached the bottom. He fumbled for a tinder box and lit the candles before picking up the candelabra off his desk and surveying the room.

It was small and cramped, with shelves lining the walls and a large wooden desk dominating the center. Papers and books were scattered haphazardly about, along with various trinkets and curiosities that Ian had collected over the years.

He made his way to the farthest wall where a wooden board hung with pieces of paper on it. The pieces were connected by pins and a thread. He raised the candles above the board so he could read the words on the paper.

On the left side, under the paper was the bold marked word Jacobites. The Jacobites were supporters of the exiled King James II of England and his descendants, who despised the current King and wanted to see him overthrown. The last major uprising happened almost thirty years ago, but now, all signs indicated that the rebellion was as alive and active as ever.

His gaze traveled lower, where there were a few names of the people who had vowed their allegiance to the rebel force. Most of them were blackmailed into doing so.

Ian’s mission was to find out who from the lords had crossed into the enemy lines, but he knew that a greater force was at play.

The Shadows’ secret society had been blackmailing lords to do their bidding for years. It turned out that now, they were playing with politics.

Ian’s gaze lingered on the pin that bore the name Hardgrove. He traced the thread that led from the pin to the name Erebus on the other side of the board, under the mark Shadows.

This side of the wall was almost empty with only two other names attached to it. Bradshaw, the first person who was known for certain to be a member of the elusive Shadows. His name was crossed out, however. Which meant that there was only one person, only one living link to the Shadows’ society that Ian had. He followed the thread lower still until his finger rested on a paper with another name on it.

Viscount St. John.

* * *

Helen entered the dining room which doubled as their breakfast room the next morning and noticed Olivia sitting and frowning at the paper. The sunshine played with her dark brown locks making it seem as though she was glowing. The pink in her cheeks helped support the illusion. She mumbled something under her breath, seemingly engrossed with an article in the paper so that she didn’t even notice Helen walk into the room.

“Good morning, dear Olivia,” Helen said cheerfully.

Olivia jumped in her seat before raising her head.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Helen rushed toward her friend, but Olivia grinned in response.

“Do not worry. I startle easily these days. And good morning! You’re up early.”

Helen smiled weakly as she settled into the chair next to Olivia. She turned toward the footman who held her chair. “I would like some breakfast, please.” As he tilted his head and walked away with rapid footsteps, Helen returned her attention to her friend. “I feel rested. I have probably slept for a few weeks, so now I feel like I need to catch up.”

“But the pain is gone, the weakness?”

“The pain is gone. Yes.” Helen looked down at the table. “Is there anything interesting in the morning paper?”

Olivia took the paper and stretched it toward Helen. “Nothing of interest, I am afraid, except for some gossip. A man was caught naked in a brothel, for example. Although, I do not know why anyone is surprised. What do they think people do in brothels?”

Helen raised her wide eyes toward Olivia, her mouth clamped shut to hold on to her smile. She did not expect the discussion of brothels first thing in the morning. But then again, she shouldn’t have been surprised either. The topics of conversation with Olivia differed from those that Helen was taught to keep.

She took the paper between her fingers and read the words.

Lord Ian McAllistair was made a laughingstock of the town. But it wasn’t just the fact that he was caught in a brothel, it was the kind of brothel he had been found in. The house of pain and pleasure—whatever that meant. And he was chained to a wall next to whips and other kinds of torture instruments.

Helen grimaced. The house of pain and pleasure… Now her mind was invaded by images of middle-aged lords, with pouched stomachs and loose skin, being whipped by harlots and finding it pleasurable.

That was not the image she wanted to have with her breakfast.

Just at that moment, a footman arrived with a plate of eggs and meat. Helen blinked at the food, her appetite already vanished.