Prologue
January 1880
Lucien Strathmore, the fifteen-year-old Earl of Hawkesmere, stood in front of a dusty, full-length mirror in a forgotten corner of his stepfather’s cavernous attic. With trembling hands, he lifted a bone-white mask and placed it over his face. His younger brothers, Morgan and Adrian, settled a heavy cape of crushed crimson velvet around his thin shoulders.
All three of them stared at his mirrored reflection, which transformed him somehow from a gawky young lad into a rather fearsome masked vigilante.
“You’re tall enough,” Adrian said. “No one would ever know that it’s you.” His face, scarred on the left side from the fire that had burned Hawkesmere House and killed their father, lit up with awe and pride.
“Swirl the cape around a bit,” Morgan instructed. “It doesn’t look like I made it out of old drapes, does it?”
Lucien did as his brother requested, impressed by the way the fabric ebbed and flowed about him. He had to admit he looked rather dashing. “You did a wonderful job; you both did.”
“When do we move on to the next stage of our plan?” Adrian asked, his quiet voice vibrating with intensity. “When do we make that bastard pay for what he’s done to us?”
For the past few weeks, they’d been utterly focused on their plan to create a masked persona called Prometheus to somehow stop their stepfather’s abuse. They’d fantasized that they could terrify and hurt him, the way he had them. They’d found an old sword, and they’d imagine the fear on the old bastard’s face when Prometheus confronted him with it.
“Together, we can do anything,” Morgan reminded him. The words had become their mantra.
“Yes,” Lucien said. “Together we can do it.” Except it wouldn’t be the three of them who went after Winters and their stepbrother Roger. It would have to be Lucien because the twins were too short to pull it off. And despite all the planning they’d done, he wasn’t at all sure that Winters and Roger wouldn’t laugh in his face and then beat him within an inch of his life. Neither man was easily frightened, and a man in a mask might just amuse them.
The weight of his brothers’ expectations suddenly seemed crushing, and he ripped off the mask, struggling to draw a steady breath. Ever since his father’s death, everyone expected so much from him, and he felt completely unworthy and unready. He was still a boy, but he had to be a man, an earl, and now Prometheus.
“I’ll be back,” he muttered, flinging the mask away. “I need some fresh air.”
Ignoring his brothers’ concerned protests, he strode quickly from the attic. By the time he hit the second floor, he was running, the cloak fluttering behind him. He burst out of the house into the chill air, then headed for the woods. It wasn’t until he’d run for nearly an hour, crashing through bramble and tripping over roots, that he admitted where he was going.
The remains of Hawkesmere House lay only four miles from the Earl of Winters’ estate, but Lucien hadn’t been there even once since the night his life had changed forever. What was the point? The tenants had all left, and the house was a burned-out shell. The only one left was the gamekeeper, a drunk who wasn’t worthy of the job. Lucien had let him stay on simply because it was one of the only things he could control. As his guardian, Winters was going to run the Hawkesmere Earldom into the ground long before Lucien reached his majority.
Gasping, he finally reached the ruins, and the sight of them, the stones starkly black and twisted against the bright green grass, brought him to his knees. The house mirrored his life, broken and hopeless. He couldn’t imagine that either one could ever be repaired. He pulled the heavy cloak tighter around him, feeling the cold for the first time.
As he struggled to breathe, blinking against the stinging tears that filled his eyes, he slowly became aware of a silent presence behind him. He slowly turned, half-expecting it to be the ghost of his father, half-hoping it would be, so he could ask for help, beg the old earl to tell him what to do.
Instead, a slip of a girl, who couldn’t be more than ten, rounded the crumbling wall, her large green eyes locked with his. She wore a white dress with grass stains on her knees and a threadbare coat. Tangled, moon-spun blond hair fell to her hips.
He blinked, uncertain whether he had imagined the ghostly image.
She moved forward, stopping just in front of him. Though he was on his knees, she was still a bit shorter than he was. Biting her bottom lip, she reached out her hand and touched the painful bruise on his cheek. Winters had put his entire weight into punching him yesterday. Lucien’s only crime had been trying to keep him from hurting Adrian, who, with his scars and silence, was the monster’s main target.
The tears he’d been suppressing for so long spilled over at the girl’s sweet, gentle touch. Her icy fingertips felt like a ghost’s would, he thought, on the verge of madness. Embarrassed and ashamed, he dipped his head, but she took his hand and pressed it to her own face. To his shock and horror, he looked up to see she bore a nearly identical fading bruise of her own. Empathy filled her large green eyes.
Realizing that she was not judging, that she had endured similar treatment by someone who was supposed to take care of her, filled him with a sudden fierce affinity for her. He wrapped his arms around her slim body, pulling her beneath the warmth of his cloak and crushing her against him as his tears started in earnest, huge wracking sobs that would have humiliated him if not for the fact that she cried just as hard.
He had not cried when his father died, remaining strong instead for his mother and brothers. He had not cried when his mother had rushed into marriage with Winters, then became so cold to her own children, as though they were last Season’s gowns, to be donned and then discarded. He had not cried when he’d discovered that Winters had been abusing Adrian while Lucien and Morgan had been away at school. He had not cried when Winters and Roger had begun to turn their abuse upon him. Instead, he’d tried to be strong, tamping his emotions down so fiercely that now that he’d let them loose, he feared he’d never be able to stop them.
“It’s all right,” the girl whispered, her voice hoarse with her own tears, stroking her hand up and down his back. “It’s going to be all right.”
He drew in a shuddering breath, the sudden storm of emotion slowly abating. He wondered who she was and how she knew how to be so comforting, but he was so exhausted he couldn’t find the energy to ask. From her manner of dress, he knew she was a commoner, someone far removed from his own unwanted lofty status. Somehow though, he felt closer to her at this moment than he’d ever felt to anyone.
They remained that way, holding each other beneath the heavy cloak, drawing comfort from their similar circumstances, swaying slightly to and fro for what seemed like an eternity, as though they were being buffeted by a storm. She smelled of lavender and sweetness, and the scent calmed him. He breathed deeply, wondering if lavender would always remind him of the peace he’d found in this moment.
Suddenly, she drew away and looked over her shoulder, as though she’d heard something. Turning back to him, she shyly pressed her lips against his forehead in a sweet benediction. “Be well, my friend. I will never forget you.”
Then she scampered away, disappearing through the trees, leaving him dazed and confused, wondering again if he’d imagined her.
“Be well,” he whispered, belatedly, wishing he’d said more, wishing he’d said anything.
Whoever she was, she’d made him feel a little less alone. She’d made him feel that it was all right to let down his guard for a while. And he’d needed that. He’d needed it desperately. He would never forget her, either.
Sinking all the way down to the ground, he lay on his back and looked up at the gray sky, letting himself remember his father, and the happy childhood he’d had before the fire had taken it all away. He mourned his losses, and then managed to count a few blessings.
After a long while, he got back to his feet, squaring his slim shoulders as he once again took the weight of the world back upon them. He would be strong and take care of his brothers. He would be the earl. What other choice did he have?