Prologue

As Benjamin Romilly, the fifth Earl of Furness, walked down Regent Street toward Pall Mall, tendrils of icy fog beaded on his greatcoat and brushed his face like ghostly fingertips. The rawness of the March evening matched his mood—cheerless and bleak. He couldn’t wait to leave London and return to his Somerset home. He’d come up on business, annoyingly unavoidable, not for the supposed pleasures of society. His jaw tightened. Those who complained that town was empty at this time of year were idiots. Even though walkers were few in the bitter weather, he could feel the pressure of people in the buildings around him—chattering, laughing, as if there was anything funny about life. It grated like the scrape of fingernails across a child’s slate.

Some invitations couldn’t be refused, however, and tonight’s dinner was one. His uncle Arthur was the head of his family and a greatly respected figure. Indeed, Benjamin felt a bit like an errant child being called on the carpet, though he could imagine no reason for the feeling. He didn’t see his uncle often. Well, lately he didn’t see anyone unless he had to. He walked faster. He was running late. He’d had trouble dragging himself out of his hotel.

He turned onto Piccadilly and was instantly aware of several figures clustered in the recessed entry of a building on the right, as if the light from the tall windows could warm them. Ladybirds, not footpads, Benjamin recognized, even as a feminine voice called out, “Hello, dearie.” One of them moved farther into the strip of illumination that stretched from the window, her appearance confirming his judgment.

Benjamin strode on. She hurried over to walk beside him. “A fine fella like you shouldn’t be alone on a cold night,” the woman said. “Look at the shoulders on him,” she called to her colleagues. “And a leg like a regular Adonis.”

“No, thank you,” said Benjamin.

She ignored him. “Such a grim look for a handsome lad. Come along, and I’ll put a smile on your face, dearie. You can believe I know how.” She put one hand on his sleeve to slow him and gestured suggestively with the other.

“I’m not interested.” Paint couldn’t hide the fact that she was raddled and skinny. Gooseflesh mottled her nearly bare breasts, on display for her customers. She must be freezing, Benjamin thought. And desperate to be out on a night like this one. He pulled out all the coins he had in his pocket. Shaking off her hand, he pushed them into it. “Here. Take this.”

She quickly fingered them. “Ooh, you can get whatever you want for this, dearie. Some things you haven’t even dreamed of, mayhap.”

“Nothing.” Benjamin waved her off and moved on. Some plights could be eased by money, he thought. There was a crumb of satisfaction in the idea. When so much misery was intractable.

“Think you’re so grand,” the woman screeched after him. “Shoving your leavings at me like a lord to a peasant.”

Benjamin didn’t bother feeling aggrieved. It was just the way of the world. Things went wrong. Good intentions got you precisely nowhere. And he didn’t blame her for resenting the position she’d found herself in. He pulled his woolen scarf tighter about his neck and trudged on.

Stepping into the warmth and conviviality of White’s was like moving into a different world. The rich wood paneling and golden candlelight of the gentlemen’s club replaced the icy fog. There was a buzz of conversation and a clink of glasses from both sides of the entryway. Savory smells rode the air, promising a first-rate meal.

Surrendering his coat and hat to a servitor, Benjamin was directed to a private corner of the dining room, where he found his uncle standing like a society hostess receiving visitors.

Arthur Shelton, Earl of Macklin, was nearly twenty years Benjamin’s senior, but he hardly looked it. The dark hair they shared showed no gray. His tall figure remained muscular and upright. His square-jawed, broad-browed face—which Benjamin’s was said to echo—showed few lines, and those seemed scored by good humor. Benjamin shook his mother’s brother’s hand and tried to appear glad to be in his company.

“Allow me to introduce my other guests,” his uncle said, turning to the table behind him.

Benjamin hadn’t realized there was to be a party. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have come, he thought. And then he was merely bewildered as he surveyed the three other men who comprised it. He didn’t know them, and he was surprised that his uncle did. They all appeared closer to his own age than his uncle’s near half-century.

“This is Daniel Frith, Viscount Whitfield,” his uncle continued, indicating the fellow on the left.

Only medium height, but he looked very strong, Benjamin observed. Brown hair and eyes and a snub nose that might have been commonplace but for the energy that seemed to crackle off him.

“Roger Berwick, Marquess of Chatton,” said his uncle, nodding to the man in the center of the trio.

This one was more Benjamin’s height. He was thinner, however, with reddish hair and choleric blue eyes.

“And Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton,” said their host.

Clearly the youngest of them, Benjamin thought. Not much past twenty, he’d wager, and nervous looking. Compton had black hair, hazel eyes, and long fingers that tapped uneasily on his flanks.

“Gentlemen, this is my nephew Benjamin Romilly, Earl of Furness, the last of our group. And now that the proprieties are satisfied, I hope we can be much less formal.”

They stood gazing at one another. Everyone but his uncle looked mystified, Benjamin thought. He felt as if he’d strayed into one of those dreams where you show up for an examination all unprepared.

“Sit down,” said his uncle, gesturing at their waiting table. As they obeyed, he signaled for wine to be poured. “They have a fine roast beef this evening. As when do they not at White’s? We’ll begin with soup though, on a raw night like this.” The waiter returned his nod and went off to fetch it.

The hot broth was welcome, and the wine was good, of course. Conversation was another matter. Whitfield commented on the vile weather, and the rest of them agreed that it was a filthy night. Compton praised the claret and then looked uneasy, as if he’d been presumptuous. The rest merely nodded. After a bit, Chatton scowled. Benjamin thought he was going to ask what the deuce was going on—hoped someone would, and soon—but then Chatton took more wine instead. All their glasses were emptied and refilled more rapidly than usual.

It wasn’t simply good manners or English reticence, Benjamin concluded. Uncle Arthur’s innate authority and air of command were affecting these strangers just as they did his family. One simply didn’t demand what the hell Uncle Arthur thought he was doing.

Steaming plates were put before them. Eating reduced the necessity of talking. Benjamin addressed his beef and roast potatoes with what might have appeared to be enthusiasm. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could excuse himself from this awkward occasion, he thought. He was about halfway through when his uncle spoke. “No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve invited you—the four of you—this evening. When we aren’t really acquainted.”

Knives and forks went still. All eyes turned to the host, with varying degrees of curiosity and relief.

“You have something in common,” he went on. “We do.” He looked around the table. “Death.”

Astonishment, rejection crossed the others’ faces.

The older man nodded at Benjamin. “My nephew’s wife died in childbirth several years ago. He mourns her still.”

In one queasy instant Benjamin was flooded with rage and despair. The food roiled dangerously in his stomach. How dared his uncle speak of this before strangers? Or anyone? All Benjamin asked was that people let him be. Little enough, surely? His eyes burned into his uncle’s quite similar blue-gray gaze. Benjamin saw sympathy there, and something more. Determination? He gritted his teeth and looked away. What did it matter? The pall of sadness that had enveloped him since Alice’s death fell back into place. He made a dismissive gesture. No doubt his tablemates cared as little for his history as he did for theirs.

Uncle Arthur turned to the man on his left. “Frith’s parents were killed in a shipwreck eight months ago on their way back from India,” he continued.

The stocky viscount looked startled, then impatient. “Quite so. A dreadful accident. Storm drove them onto a reef.” He looked around the table and shrugged. “What can one do? These things happen.”

Benjamin dismissed him as an unfeeling clod, even as his attention was transfixed by his uncle’s next bit of information.

“Chatton lost his wife to a virulent fever a year ago.”

“I didn’t lose her,” this gentleman exclaimed, his thin face reddening with anger. “She was dashed well killed by an incompetent physician and my neighbor who insisted they ride out into a downpour.”

He looked furious. Benjamin searched for sadness in his expression and couldn’t find it. Rather, he looked like a man who’d suffered an intolerable insult.

“And Compton’s sister died while she was visiting a friend, just six months ago,” his uncle finished.

The youngest man at the table flinched as if he’d taken a blow. “She was barely seventeen,” he murmured. “My ward as well as my sister.” He put his head in his hands. “I ought to have gone with her. I was invited. If only I’d gone. I wouldn’t have allowed her to take that cliff path. I would have—”

“I’ve been widowed for ten years,” interrupted their host gently. “I know what it’s like to lose a beloved person quite suddenly. And I know there must be a period of adjustment afterward. People don’t talk about the time it takes—different for everyone, I imagine—and how one copes.” He looked around the table again. “I was aware of Benjamin’s bereavement, naturally, since he is my nephew.”

Benjamin cringed. He could simply rise and walk out, he thought. No one could stop him. Uncle Arthur might be offended, but he deserved it for arranging this…intolerable intrusion.

“Then, seemingly at random, I heard of your cases, and it occurred to me that I might be able to help.”

Benjamin noted his companions’ varying reactions—angry, puzzled, dismissive. No one, not even his formidable uncle, could make him speak if he didn’t wish to, and he didn’t.

“What help is there for death?” said the marquess. “And which of us asked for your aid? I certainly didn’t.” He glared around the table as if searching for someone to blame.

“Waste of time to dwell on such stuff,” said Frith. “No point, eh?”

Compton sighed like a man who despaired of absolution.

“Grief is insidious, almost palpable, and as variable as humankind,” said their host. “No one can understand who hasn’t experienced a sudden loss. A black coat and a few platitudes are nothing.”

“Are you accusing us of insincerity, sir?” demanded Chatton. He was flushed with anger, clearly a short-tempered fellow.

“Not at all. I’m offering you the fruits of experience and years of contemplation.”

“Thrusting them on us, whether we will or no,” replied Chatton. “Tantamount to an ambush, this so-called dinner.”

“Nothing wrong with the food,” said Frith, his tone placating. He earned a ferocious scowl from the choleric marquess, which he ignored. “Best claret I’ve had this year.”

Benjamin grew conscious of a tiny, barely perceptible, desire to laugh. The impulse startled him.

“Well, well,” said his uncle. “Who knows? If I’ve made a mistake, I’ll gladly apologize. Indeed, I beg your pardon for springing my idea on you with no preparation. Will you, nonetheless, allow me to tell the story of my grieving, as I had hoped to do?”

Such was the power of his personality that none of the younger men refused. Even Chatton merely glared at his half-eaten meal.

“And afterward, should you wish to do the same, I’ll gladly hear it,” said Benjamin’s uncle. He smiled.

Uncle Arthur had always had the most engaging smile, Benjamin thought. He suddenly recalled a day twenty years past, when his young uncle had caught him slipping a frog between a bullying cousin’s bedsheets. That day, Uncle Arthur’s grin had quirked with shared mischief. Tonight, his expression showed kindness and sympathy and the focus of a keen intellect. Impossible to resist, really.

In the end, Benjamin found the talk that evening surprisingly gripping. Grief had more guises than he’d realized, and there was a crumb of comfort in knowing that other men labored under its yoke. Not that it made the least difference after the goodbyes had been said and the reality of his solitary life descended upon him once more. Reality remained, as it had these last years, bleak.