Many people would have considered Katherine Brooke to be an exceedingly fortunate young lady.

She was rich—rich beyond the wildest dreams of most. Her jewels were of a quality and a quantity even a queen would envy. Her gowns were made from the costliest fabrics. Her hats, gloves, shoes, stockings, shawls, pelisses, reticules, and parasols were delivered by the dozens. And her immense bedchamber had been modeled, without thought as to expense, after the neoclassical style currently made fashionable by no less a personage than the Prince Regent himself. It was a marvel of a room, with a high domed ceiling, large gilded mirrors, fireplaces artfully crafted so as to resemble the fronts of ancient Roman temples, pedimented window frames, half a dozen busts of eyeless long-dead emperors rendered in the purest of white marble, and walls painted Pompeiian red.

It was here that Katherine Brooke stood with her back against the closed door, looking at her maid Céleste. “Do you have it?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

“Give it to me, please.”

“Je suis désolée, mademoiselle, but it cost more than expected.” The maid’s narrow face was impassive, her voice respectful, but her attitude was nonetheless imbued with every bit of her usual sly, self-satisfied insolence.

Here we go again, Katherine thought. “How much more?”

“It came all the way from London, mademoiselle, and as you know, secrecy is difficult to maintain across so many miles.”

“I know it all too well. How much more?”

“Le coût total is one pound, eighteen shillings.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Mademoiselle is concerned about le coût?” Céleste shrugged, glancing around the luxurious room as if she didn’t, in fact, know exactly just how much pin-money Katherine received. “Quel dommage. Rest assured, I can easily dispose of it elsewhere.”

“I’m sure you can.” Katherine reached into the satin reticule hanging from her wrist, her fingers slipping past the downy, fragile marabout feathers with which it was lavishly ornamented, and extracted two golden guineas which she held out to Céleste. “Here.”

Céleste didn’t move. “Would mademoiselle like back les trois shillings?”

“Keep them.” With effort, Katherine kept her face bland. Oh, tedious, tedious, this final extraction of money on top of what was most certainly an inflated fee. She added, insincerely: “By way of a thank-you.”

“Mademoiselle is too kind.” Without hurry, Céleste took the guineas, then slid her hand into the pocket-slit at her waist and produced from within it a small rectangular bundle wrapped in cheap, plain paper.

Katherine snatched it from her, and Céleste smiled.

“It is always a pleasure doing business with mademoiselle.”

“You may leave.”

“But you are expected downstairs, prior to the dinner hour, and your hair is sadly ébouriffé.”

“Come back in twenty minutes, and fix it then.”

“I shall come back in five.”

“Ten.” Her hands, Katherine noticed, were shaking a little with anticipation. But then, they always did at a moment like this.

“Five minutes, mademoiselle. Or votre chère maman will notice your absence, and she may well chide me for your lateness. I do not wish to be chided.”

“Nor do I.” A scanty patch of common ground between herself and Céleste. She said, “Have you ever wondered what would happen if Mother found out about our—ah—transactions?”

“I would doubtless be let go at once, and sans reference,” replied Céleste coolly. “One can only speculate as to your punishment, mademoiselle. Too, you would lose my services as an intermédiaire, which would be a punishment in itself, would you not agree? It is not always so easy to find someone as resourceful, and as discreet, as I.”

This complacent assertion Katherine could not dispute. It had been six years since that humiliating debacle at the Basingstoke Select Academy and the maid Céleste had been forced upon her; the two of them had lived alongside each other locked into this vile dynamic, in which their antipathy was mutual but each benefited from their clandestine dealings. Céleste had been magnificently feathering her nest with all the money Katherine gave her; and as for herself—she very nearly brought the little package to her nose, to sample its heady fragrance, but instead said:

“Which reminds me. Where are the books I asked for?”

“The volume of Shakespeare’s plays is en route, I am told, mademoiselle, but the other—the Italian book—”

“La Divina Commedia.”

“Oui. It is proving more difficult to locate in the original language. Rest assured, I have not forgotten.” Céleste smiled again, with a knowing sort of glimmer that made Katherine feel as if her skin was prickling with shamed embarrassment. “Shall I leave you now, so that you might enjoy votre petite gâterie?”

“Yes. Do.” Katherine stepped aside, and Céleste sauntered out of the room; the moment the door was shut Katherine leaned against it again and carefully, oh so carefully, unfolded the paper in her hands.

There. There they were. Saliva pooled in her mouth as she stared at the two dozen diablotins, the dark thin disks of chocolate covered densely with nonpareils, tiny, tasty white balls of sugar. For years Mother had forbidden her candy, insisting it made her hideously spotty, but still Katherine had found a way.

Diablotin.

It meant imp or gremlin in French.

A defiant little smile curved her lips and quickly she popped one of the disks into her mouth.

Oh, delicious. Delicious—exquisite—beguiling—magical—except that words couldn’t even come close to describing it. She closed her eyes, savoring. The taste was both bitter and sweet, the chocolate smooth and rich on her tongue; the little nonpareils crunched between her teeth, yielding up a tantalizing contrast of textures.

But one wasn’t enough. And time was short. Katherine opened her eyes and rapidly consumed three, four, five diablotins, waiting for the rush of pleasure that always came with eating chocolate. No wonder the ancient Aztecs believed that cacao seeds, from which chocolate was made, were a gift from the gods, or that they valued the seeds so greatly they used them as currency. She’d read that in one of her history books, at present hidden away in a locked box under her bed.

And speaking of books . . .

What excellent news that her contraband volume of Shakespeare’s plays was on the way. At school they could only read the Bowdlers’ version, The Family Shakespeare, edited—dissected was more like it—in a way that supposedly protected a maiden’s delicate sensibilities. All the really good parts had been removed, the bits having to do with bad people using bad words, no doubt, and doing bad deeds. Katherine could barely wait to read them all.

She smiled, really smiled. She was feeling it now. For a few precious moments she would feel happy. Good. Alive.

Until Céleste came back, and did whatever she was going to do with her hair, and she would have to go downstairs. Ugh. Another excruciating evening spent with her parents and their—what was a good way to describe them?

“Guests” didn’t quite do them justice. Katherine preferred “leeches in human form.” Hovering a few rungs below Society’s upper echelon, they doubtless had received no better invitations elsewhere, and so here they flocked, the best her parents could do. They ate, they drank, they borrowed money, they expected the Brooke servants to wait on them hand and foot, and for all she knew they were smuggling the silver into their trunks.

But their worst offense? Well, she’d be willing to wager that none of them had ever read a book from start to finish. And their conversation—if one could call it that—reflected this sad fact. Mealtimes were interminable.

But at least she would know, all throughout the next several hours, that concealed in her armoire, at the far end of a drawer underneath a pile of silk stockings, were eighteen more diablotins, waiting for her to come back.

Many people would have considered Captain Hugo Penhallow to be a man in trouble.

He had almost no money, and no income to anticipate; an old house was his only property. In addition, he had a large family to support: a widowed mother, a younger sister, and three younger brothers. His profession for the past eight years, in the Army, was no longer a viable one, for he had recently sold out. As the son of a gentleman, naturally he had no training for any other occupation. And, finally, several months ago he had badly broken his left leg and so now, when he was fatigued, he walked with an unmistakable limp.

Yet here was Hugo, riding north along the Longtown Road on this cool, cloudy afternoon, sitting his horse with casual grace and whistling cheerfully, giving all the appearance of a person without a care in the world.

This was, in fact, largely how he was feeling.

For one thing, he was on his way home, and he’d soon be with his dear and delightful family, whom he hadn’t seen once during those eight years, as he had been sent to the annoyingly obstreperous territory along the Canadian border. Letters had helped bridge the distance between himself and home, although he was fairly certain that not all of them were delivered or received, it being not uncommon to have placed in his hands a letter that looked as if it had been in a battle itself, so begrimed and bent was it.

As for the financial difficulties, Hugo wasn’t ignoring just how dire they were, but he was taking action: he had decided to capitalize on his two chief assets, both intangible but clearly of significant value in certain circles.

One—he was a Penhallow. It was an old and illustrious name that loomed large, disproportionately large, among the haut ton. The first Penhallow, so it was said, had long ago come to England with the great Conqueror himself, and the Conqueror had humbly deferred to him. Hugo had gone straight from Eton into the Army, and so hadn’t spent any time in Society; he’d therefore never personally observed the effect of his hoary surname upon even the loftiest dukes and earls. Nonetheless, he was fully aware of the cachet which enabled any Penhallow—even a straitened member of the cadet branch such as himself—to walk about trailing, as it were, clouds of glory. All rather comical, in his opinion, but there it was.

Two—the female sex evidently found him attractive, which would make his task easier. For years he had heard himself compared left and right to a Greek god which, as a modest fellow, he found extremely silly. He was one of those tall, fit sort of men, an attribute for which of course he was appreciative, but still, one couldn’t help being born the way one was, and it was decidedly uncomfortable to be stared at as if one were an exotic beast on display.

Yet if his appearance assisted him in his quest, so much the better. And that quest was to marry into money. He had evaluated his limited options carefully, and all in all this seemed to be the best and most expeditious way to solve the problem.

He could have continued to accept assistance from his older cousin, Gabriel Penhallow, who several years ago had not only generously purchased his commission but had also provided him income in the form of an allowance (most of which he’d had diverted to his stalwart mama, holding the fort back in Whitehaven). No, that sort of thing—charity—was all well and good for a single-minded, Army-mad youth, but he was done with that now. That bullet in his midsection back in April had resulted in a serious, lingering infection, which ultimately had his kindly commander forcibly putting him onto a ship bound for home, and there was nothing like a long sea voyage when one was weak as a damned cat to inspire an extended period of introspection.

While Gabriel’s assistance—which also included sending an additional cheque to Mama once or twice a year—was gratefully received by both himself and the mater, the plain truth was that it wasn’t sufficient to see the children adequately established in life. With Gwendolyn now fourteen, the twins Percy and Francis thirteen, and Bertram twelve, the issue had become considerably more urgent. But he had no intention of asking Gabriel for anything more. Never in a million years could he imagine himself saying, Thanks for all that you’ve done, Coz, and now could you give me many times that sum over again.

It was, Hugo had concluded, a perfect time in which to take destiny by the shoulders and give it a good hard rattle.

And as luck would have it, a tremendous storm had blown up as the ship neared the western coast, forcing them to divert from Liverpool to Bude, where, his wound having reopened in spectacular style, he’d decided to hotfoot it to Gabriel’s estate in Somerset, as it was much closer than Whitehaven and the last thing he’d wanted to do was horrify his family by staggering home as a moribund invalid.

Once he got to Surmont Hall, he had—in an embarrassingly dramatic fashion—toppled off his horse like a sack of turnips and nearly bled to death on Gabriel’s enormous graveled carriage-sweep.

Some might have thought this a bad thing, but really, when you looked at it another way, it had all worked out beautifully. He’d been able to recuperate at his leisure, attended by a very capable doctor as well as by a veritable horde of servants offering a tempting array of food and drink multiple times a day. Too, it gave him the opportunity to thank Gabriel in person for his generosity and insist that he both accept repayment for the commission and terminate the allowance; to write home alerting them as to his arrival upon terra firma; and to receive in return a buoyant letter from his mother which contained along with her usual fond, rambling report of his siblings’ health and activities a tidbit of neighborhood news which had instantly caught his eye.

Now here, to be sure, was another great piece of luck. An unwed heiress practically on his doorstep! What could be more convenient?

To own the truth, Hugo hadn’t thought of Katherine in years. It was well over a decade since he’d last seen her. He had been thirteen at the time, and had come home from Eton for Father’s funeral. The Brookes, then, had lived next door, and more than once had little Kate—six years younger than himself, yet even so they’d been good friends—slipped between the line of bay trees separating their houses and come to console him.

He’d been grateful for her visits, for a hard time it was, very hard indeed: first the shock of Father’s sudden death, and then its painful aftermath, with his three siblings so little, still in leading strings, and Mama pregnant with Bertram.

Their man of business, Mr. Storridge, had laid it out plain: the late Anthony Penhallow, always more interested in science than in money, had left behind very little for his family aside from the modest sum of eight thousand pounds invested in the five percents and their big old house overlooking the wide sandy shore that gave way to the blue-green depths of the ocean.

If the remaining Penhallows practiced the strictest economy, Mr. Storridge had said in his dry, precise voice, they would manage to get by. Hugo had immediately declared his intention to withdraw from Eton and spare Mama the expense of his keeping there, but this she had, in her gentle way, forbidden.

Oh, my dear Hugo, she had said, smiling through the tears which seemed to flow almost continuously during those dark days, it was your papa’s dearest wish that you receive the same education he did. He was so very proud of you! And wasn’t it clever of him to pay your fees in advance? Almost—And here she had paused to hold back a pitiful sob—almost as if he knew something would happen to him.

Yes, Mama, he’d replied, school’s not a bad thing, but what about Gwennie, and the twins, and the baby? I’ll make the headmaster give you back the money. And I’ll find a job. I could become a sailor.

And a marvelous one you’d be, too, darling Hugo. I can just picture you climbing a rigging like a monkey! But you’re to keep on your path, go back to school, and not to worry about the children. Everything will be fine.

Somehow he had managed to swallow a great lump in his throat, and say, How will it, Mama?

It simply will, she had answered, confidently. And look, I’ve just today received a letter from dear Anthony’s cousin Henrietta Penhallow, with an invitation to spend the summer holiday with her and her grandson Gabriel in Bath. You and Gabriel will travel from school together. Isn’t that kind?

He would have infinitely rather have come home, but had only said, If it will save money, Mama, I’ll do it.

That’s my brave boy, she’d said, and at that moment he had felt that any sacrifice, large or small, was worth it, if it could but lighten her load. It was a feeling that had never left him, and now Hugo smiled a little, noticing with pleasure the familiar tang of salt air, and the faintest hint of the ocean’s restless breeze.

Not much further now.

With luck, he’d be home by dinnertime.

Whistling again, gently he pressed his heels into his horse’s sides, urging it to go just a little faster, and obligingly it picked up its pace.

Actually, by the time Katherine reluctantly made her way downstairs, there were only fifteen diablotins hidden in her armoire, as she had managed to quickly eat three more before Céleste had returned.

A light rain had begun to fall, and dusk was settling its mellow hand upon the streets, buildings, and gardens of Whitehaven, lingering softly upon the broad expanse of sand and sea, as Hugo came to the old stable that stood upon a corner of their property furthest from the beach. He dismounted and thrust the horse’s reins into the hand of the aged groom who had cautiously emerged from the stable, and was now staring in evident amazement at the master upon whom he’d not set eyes in quite some time.

“Hullo, Hoyt!” said Hugo amiably, “you’re looking exactly the same, I’m happy to see. Trust all is well?”

At the other’s dumbstruck nod, Hugo went on, “Splendid! I say, take care of this nag, will you? She’s held up wonderfully all the way here, bless her, and I’m no featherweight, am I? Well, I’m off to the house—hope I’m not too late for dinner. Good night, then.”

He had already unstrapped from the saddle his neat leather rucksack, and so, after a friendly nod to the still-speechless Hoyt, walked with eager steps toward the large, rambling old house which looked, even to his own affectionate eyes, considerably more dilapidated than he remembered. The reddish clay bricks with which it was constructed were crumbling in places, the sloping slate roof looked extremely weather-beaten, and several windows on the uppermost story had been clumsily boarded up.

He took this in, and went lightly up the front steps onto the wide, welcoming portico.

He was home at last.

From inside he could hear dogs barking—they’d doubtless heard him come onto the portico, and he took a moment to wonder if he would know any of them after all this while—along with odd screeching noises and then, not waiting to bang the old iron knocker, Hugo opened the door and let himself in, into the chilly, ill-lit entry hall, large and high-ceilinged, shabby and familiar, and quite possibly the nicest place on earth. As he dropped his rucksack onto a bench, a pack of mongrels, all unfamiliar, surged down one of the halls toward him, barking fiercely, even as a maidservant scuttled in from the kitchen passageway, looking alarmed and gasping out:

“Oh! Sir! Was you expected? I’ll just get the mistress, if you’ll wait here, please—”

“Not to worry, I’ll go to her,” answered Hugo over the cacophony of barks, yips, nails madly clicking on wood flooring, and loud hostile panting. “Are they all at dinner?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“What’s your name, then?”

“It’s Eliza, sir, but—”

“Quiet!” said Hugo to the dogs who, recognizing the genial tone of authority, instantly subsided and sat on their haunches, wagging their tails and casting up at him looks of servile adoration. He counted them. There were only five, after all, although from their collective volume one would have thought there were at least a dozen, and altogether a motley lot—one was missing an ear, another seemed to have the head of a poodle set upon the body of a dachshund, and still another had eyes of a milky opacity which suggested severe vision problems if not actual blindness.

Hugo patted the biggest of them, an enormous white and brown Great Dane whose front legs were noticeably crooked, and said to Eliza:

“Tell Robinson to set another place for me, would you? I’ll go in directly.”

“Oh, sir, but Robinson’s not here.”

“Egad, not dead, is he?” Hugo hoped not, as he had been very fond of their old butler; he’d loyally stayed on after Father had died, despite having his wages drastically reduced.

“Oh no, sir, he’s alive, but his palsy got so bad that the mistress pensioned him off, you see, and he’s living with his daughter Nancy and her family, up on Roper Street. Very happy he is, sir. Takes a pint every day at the pub, and sings in the choir on Sundays.”

Hugo was pulling off his greatcoat and hanging it on a peg. “Well, that’s excellent news. I’ll go see him later this week. See here, Eliza, I’m hungry as a bear. Can you set a place for me?”

“To be sure I can, sir! But—but—if you’ll forgive me asking—who are you, sir?”

“Good God, didn’t my mother tell any of you I was coming? No wonder poor old Hoyt looked as if he’d seen a ghost!” He laughed. “Never mind. I’m the prodigal son, Eliza! The eldest, you know—Hugo.”

Eliza looked astonished. “Oh! Sir! You’re Mr. Hugo? We was all afeared you was dead!”

“Dead! Why?”

“Because the mistress said you’d been shot by a Frenchy, Mr. Hugo, and that you was laid up in your cousin’s house—and then there wasn’t any more letters from you! Cook says them French bullets have a special poison in them, sir, that drains the life right out of a person!”

Blast it all, he’d deliberately trivialized the nature of his illness when writing home, not wishing to worry them—and why hadn’t Mama received the letter he’d written from Gabriel’s house a fortnight ago, informing her that he was fine, and would soon be on his way? Well, he could allay their anxieties right now.

“I was shot,” he said to Eliza, “but it would take more than some beastly Frenchman to kill me, that’s for certain! Go on, now, and bring me some supper, that’s a good girl.”

She bobbed a curtsy and Hugo, favoring his left leg ever so slightly, went down the long dim hallway to the dining-parlor, the dogs trotting behind with the same pliant obedience the children of Hamelin were said to have displayed while following the Pied Piper. The oak-framed double doors to the dining-parlor had been left open and so Hugo strolled right in and paused just inside the threshold. “I say, I’m home.”

Five golden-blond heads swiveled in his direction, five pairs of wide blue eyes displayed shocked surprise, and then pandemonium erupted.